East of Hounslow. Khurrum Rahman
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‘So‚ you helped out‚ right?’
‘Yeah‚ course. I was there most of the day. I don’t recall seeing you there.’
‘I was at work‚ you twat. What I’m saying is‚ you’ve done your bit. What is there left to do?’
I shrugged. I was an accomplished shrugger. I had a shrug for every occasion. This one was slight‚ barely a movement‚ a little lift of the shoulders. A shrug that said‚ maybe something‚ maybe nothing.
‘Are you going to track them down with the rest of the Brothers?’ He said‚ and I could just feel the cynicism dripping in his tone. ‘And then what‚ you going to give them a good beating? Maybe someone would be kind enough to stab one of them‚ so this will never happen again.’
‘Look‚ calm down‚ Detective Inspector! Chill‚ man. Take your copper’s hat off for a minute and put on your Paki hat and see it from our point of view. Something like this happens‚ people just need to vent and be around others akin to them.’
I hadn’t realised until I’d finished that I’d raised my voice.
Idris looked at me with elevated eyebrows. ‘Akin?’
‘Yeah‚ fucking akin. I can throw down an akin when the moment takes me. Or do I need a diploma?’
‘All I’m saying‚ Jay… Find another way to help. Sitting in a room full of angry Muslims isn’t healthy. You want to help‚ do it another way.’
‘What other way?’
‘I don’t know‚ Jay. Just another way.’
‘I’m not you‚ Idris‚’ I said.
He looked out of the passenger window‚ I fiddled with the temperature controls on my dash. Silence filled the car. It wasn’t awkward. We were tight enough not to feel the need to fill the airwaves with inane chatter. Silence sat comfortably with us. After a spell I broke it.
‘Is there any heat on me?’
‘No‚ Jay. Not heard any whispers. Just keep discreet and don’t make any stupid moves‚’ Idris said‚ eyes roving all over my car.
‘It’s under Mum’s name. Asian parents are always buying cars for their kids‚ right?’
‘Yeah‚ maybe‚’ he said.
‘What?’
‘What? Nothing!’
‘I know you wanna say something. Say it.’
Idris sighed. Then he shrugged. His shrug wasn’t as good as mine. It was exaggerated‚ shoulders touching his ears. Then he sighed some more.
‘Fuck’s sake. What‚ Idris?’
‘Jay. We go back a long way‚ right? Me and you‚ we’re like brothers. Fuck that‚ we are brothers and I know you better than you know yourself.’
‘Yeah. And?’
‘So‚ I know that you can’t be happy with what you’re doing. You’re smart‚ Jay. You’re one of the most creative guys I know. You can do better than this. Yes‚ you’re making some money but is this what it’s going to be like for the rest of your life? You’re not on our radar because you’re low level but inevitably—’
‘I can’t be doing a Dolly Parton‚ Idris. Starters‚ I got no qualifications. So what are my options? Burger King‚ security guard‚ baggage handler? Nah‚ you’re alright‚ mate. Not for me.’
‘Start a business… A legit business.’
I wasn’t about to tell him about the rented one-bedroom flat in Cranford. Fluorescent lamps‚ bags of skunk seeds and soil‚ the fucking lot. It was a rash decision‚ a moment of grandeur delusions‚ one I realised that I could not have gone through with. I planned to clear it out at my first opportunity.
‘You must have some savings by now‚’ he continued. ‘You’ve been doing this forever.’
I shook my head.
‘What? Nothing?’
‘You’re sitting in it‚’ I said‚ sheepishly.
‘You spent it all on the car?’ He sounded incredulous. I felt stupid. He smiled at me.
A smile laced with sympathy.
Kingsley Parker sat alone in a large conference room at the head of the table. He twirled aimlessly in his chair and wondered how many decisions had been made in this very room? How many lives saved and how many lives destroyed? Which number was greater? Parker looked up at the clock and then at his phone‚ which was sitting face-up on the huge table. It rang as he knew it would. He answered on the first ring.
‘Tell me‚’ Kingsley Parker said. ‘How’s our boy?’
*
At Thames House‚ 12 Milbank‚ MI5‚ his colleagues referred to him as Chalk. Parker had earned the nickname in 2003 when he was part of – in his view – the huge joke that was the invasion of Iraq and the search for weapons of mass destruction. A joke with a devastating punchline.
He had been travelling late one night or early in the morning‚ by himself‚ against orders‚ in search of some company. It was a road often travelled by others within his regiment‚ soldiers who missed the touch of a loved one. But it was also a road that‚ at this time of the night‚ was deemed too dangerous to travel. There had been sightings of Iraqi insurgents‚ various reports of kidnappings‚ some which led to the beheadings that were broadcast by the local news stations and online across the world.
It didn’t matter to Parker. He was so strung out from battle that he welcomed the risk. Craved it. He told himself it wasn’t just the sex but the need to be held tight‚ to be embraced‚ and to alleviate the frustration and anger and guilt that consumed him at having to fight such a shitty war.
Parker had drunk deeply but hadn’t quite arrived at drunk. He was singing along to Elvis Costello when his headlights picked out the body of a young girl lying across the road. He smiled to himself as he slowed down. The girl looked to be no older than seven or eight but it was hard to establish as she was curled up into a ball with her back to him. Never had he seen such an obvious set up‚ the body placed just too perfectly. He stopped the car forty yards short and pulled the freshly cleaned Browning handgun from his shoulder holster.
He watched the shadows on either side of the road and from his combats he slipped out a flask and took a generous sip. Parker knew he could continue driving‚ there was enough room either side of the girl to manoeuvre through. But he was tired. Tired of fucking Iraq. Tired of being part of something that had such sharp teeth but no intelligence. The loss of so many homes and lives. The women and the children and the livelihoods. Tired of the trigger he himself often had to pull. Parker knew he had taken out important high-value targets‚ but at what fucking cost? His sleep was punctuated with nightmares and a recurring dream of a nameless‚ faceless boy watching his father mowed down‚ his mother obliterated and his home redecorated. It was waking from that nightmare which had propelled him into a government-issued vehicle‚ down a dangerous track‚ in search of the warm embrace of a warm body.
Parker switched the headlights off‚ and disabled the interior lights which would have illuminated him when he opened the door. Even half-cut he wasn’t going to be anyone’s target. He rolled out of the vehicle and as soon as his boots found purchase on the floor his adrenaline kicked in. He spun away from the vehicle into the dense shadows at the side of the road‚ cocooned by darkness. In his fast-beating heart he knew that this could be the time and place where it all ended for him‚ but maybe that’s the way it had to be. God’s will. Parker was not