Kitabı oku: «Homegrown Hero»
Born in Karachi, Pakistan in 1975, KHURRUM RAHMAN moved to England when he was one. He is a west London boy and now lives in Berkshire with his wife and two sons.
Khurrum is currently working as a Senior IT Officer but his real love is writing. He has a screenplay which has been optioned by a Danish TV producer but is now concentrating on novels.
Khurrum’s first novel, and the first book in the Jay Qasim series, East of Hounslow, was shortlisted for both the CrimeFest Last Laugh award and the CWA John Creasey New Blood Dagger award.
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Khurrum Rahman 2018
Khurrum Rahman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © November 2018 ISBN: 9780008229610
Version: 2019-02-19
PRAISE FOR KHURRUM RAHMAN
‘Told with striking panache. Announces the arrival of a fine, fresh new thriller writer.’ Daily Mail
‘Combining humour and tragedy is one of the hardest literary challenges, but Khurrum Rahman succeeds.’ TLS
‘A very funny but tense thriller ... think Four Lions meets Phone Shop.’ Red
‘As much a coming-of-age story as a full-on action thriller, East of Hounslow is thought-provoking and entirely gripping.’ Guardian
‘Sweary, funny and, above all, an absolutely cracking thriller that you’ll tear through, this is the anti-James Bond that the 21st century needs.’ Emerald Street
‘East of Hounslow, in which a young Muslim finds himself forced to become an MI5 plant in a group of jihadists, is as British as Nelson’s Column. A superb and exciting debut novel.’ Telegraph
ISBN: 978-0-00-822960-3
‘Clipped dialogues, staccato sentences and the hilariously brilliant prose set the pace of this excellent unputdownable crime thriller. The climax will leave you breathless.’ New Indian Express
‘A brilliant thriller. You’d be mad not to buy this.’ Ben Aaronovitch, Sunday Times bestselling author of the Rivers of London series
‘Excellent book. Phenomenal writing.’ B A Paris, Sunday Times bestselling author of Bring Me Back
‘I loved it. More please.’ Mel McGrath, author of Give Me the Child
‘Builds to a heart-constricting climax.’ Times Crime Club
‘The best thriller I’ve read in ages.’ Stephen Leather, author of the Spider Shepherd series
SHORTLISTED for the CrimeFest Last Laugh Award 2018
SHORTLISTED for the CWA John Creasey New Blood Dagger 2018
To my very own Mischief & Mayhem,
and the one I call Jaan
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
PRAISE
Dedication
Prologue
PART 1: TWO DAYS EARLIER
1. Imran Siddiqui (Imy)
2. Javid Qasim (Jay)
3. Burj Al Arab Hotel, Dubai
4. Thames House
5. Hounslow High Street
6. Imy
7. Burj Al Arab Hotel, Dubai
8. Imy
9. Jay
10. Imy
11. Jay
12. Jay
13. Heathrow Airport: Arrivals
14. Imy
15. Derelict Building Site, South London
16. Jay
17. Isleworth and Syon School
18. Imy
19. Imy
20. Jay
21. Imy
22. Jay
23. Imy
24. Jay
25. Imy
PART 2
26. Jay
27. Imy
28. Jay
29. Imy
30. Jay
31. South London
32. Imy
33. Jay
34. Kingston, Southwest London
35. Jay
36. Imy
37. Jay
38. Imy
39. Jay
40. Maimana‚ Afghanistan
41. Jay
42. Imy
43. Jay
44. Hounslow Police Station
45. Imy
46. Jay
47. Imy
48. Jay
49. Imy
50. Jay
51. Heston, West London
52. Jay
53. Imy
54. Jay
55. Lampton Park, Hounslow
56. Jay
57. Imy
58. Jay
59. Imy
60. Afghanistan-Pakistan Border
PART 3
61. Heston, West London
62. Jay
63. Port Gwadar, Pakistan
64. Hounslow Police Station
65. Jay
66. Hounslow Police Station
67. Jay
68. Imy
69. Hounslow Police Station
70. Imy
71. Jay
72. Imy
73. Derelict Building Site, South London
74. Jay
75. Derelict Building Site, South London
76. Jay
77. Derelict Building Site, South London
78. Derelict Building Site, South London
79. Jay
80. Derelict Building Site, South London
81. Derelict Building Site, South London
82. Jay
83. Derelict Building Site, South London
84. Jay
85. Imy
86. Jay
87. Hounslow, West London
88. Jay
89. Imy
90. Jay
91. Imy
92. Jay
93. Abu Dhabi
94. Jay
95. Eight months later…
Extract from East of Hounslow
Acknowledgments
About the Publisher
Prologue
Parking my Beemer in my driveway‚ I killed the engine and took a deep breath. Leaning back‚ I sank into the driver’s seat and closed my eyes‚ enjoying the cool evening breeze coming in through the car window.
In the distance‚ I heard the low growl of a diesel engine. At first barely perceptible‚ the sound moved closer‚ louder‚ the vehicle picking up speed then humming idly as it came to a standstill close by.
A car door opened‚ and closed.
I opened my eyes and turned.
He was standing beside me‚ smiling down through my open car window. Like seeing a ghost.
‘Hello‚ old chum‚’ he said‚ ‘I haven’t seen you in ages.’
I barely had time to catch a glint of something before his arm snaked through my window and‚ in perfect silence‚ sliced my throat from ear to ear.
PART 1
TWO DAYS EARLIER
Fatwa: A pronouncement of death by a higher authority.
1
Imran Siddiqui (Imy)
I’d never before come across a person like Jack. I had him tightly strapped in the backseat as I drove him to the location. He knew just as well as I did‚ maybe better‚ that I only had a small window to extract the information out of him. Because once we’d reached our destination he’d be protected to the hilt and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. He just needed to hold tight. But he’d made a mistake. He didn’t know about me‚ about my past. I’d get the information I needed from the devil if it was the last damn thing I did. I was confident of it. I had to be careful‚ though. I couldn’t get physical. If he turned up with so much as a mark on him‚ it would be me that suffered.
‘Jack... C’mon‚ mate‚’ I started with the soft approach.’Where is it?’
‘I’ve told you‚’ Jack glanced outside the window at the buses lit up within Hounslow Bus Garage. ‘I’m not telling you.’
I inhaled through my nose and gripped the steering wheel tightly. Even if I drove slowly I had maybe five minutes left of the journey. I loosened the grip and dropped my shoulders. He was observant‚ and I did not want him to see me tense. I turned the volume up on the CD player. In an effort to break him I had been playing Yellow Submarine on repeat‚ a song that he hated and one that I loved. It hadn’t worked though; I was beginning to despise it; I took a quick glance in the rear-view mirror and he was singing along.
‘Put it higher. This is my jam!’ Jack squealed‚ and I immediately killed the sound.
‘Jack. Listen... J-just listen.’ I stammered and realised that I was about to plead. I’ve never before bent over for anybody and I wasn’t going to start now. I pulled up at a red light and slipped the gear into neutral. I closed my eyes and tried to gather my thoughts and focus on my training. It seemed like a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago. A blare from the car behind broke me out of my thoughts.
‘It’s green‚’ Jack said.
His tinny voice echoed in my ears and I found myself grinding my teeth so hard that my temples started to rhythmically pulse. I slipped into first and set off with a stutter. I slid the window down and allowed the cold evening air to hit me‚ to jolt me into action‚ but I was fast running out of time and ideas. Jack sneezed. Gotcha! I moved my hand over the control panel and slid down every window. I eyed him through the rear-view and I could see Jack physically curl up into a ball‚ his shoulders hunched and his chin down to his chest. His bottom lip quivered. I almost‚ almost felt for him but instead I turned the air conditioning onto cold.
‘You okay in the back‚ Jack?’ I said‚ and with his chin still dug into his chest he lifted his big blue eyes at me and sniffed.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Bet you wish you wore a jacket now.’
‘I’m fine.’ He said‚ his face getting paler‚ angry goose pimples appearing on his arm.
‘You ready to tell me or do I go higher?’ I said‚ my hand hovering over the AC control.
‘Do what you like. Go higher.’
I could not believe it. Why was it so hard to break him? When had I become so terrible at this? All my training‚ all my discipline had left me. As always‚ at times of stress‚ my scalp started to itch‚ as though a thousand little spiders were dancing through my hair and it took all my will not to scratch the hell out of it.
‘You’re sweating‚’ Jack said. His chin was now raised and pointing at me in defiance. My hand was at my forehead wiping away the sheen of sweat. He smiled‚ goofy and mocking and I dropped my hand immediately to the gear stick and gripped it.
No more Mr Nice Guy. This ends now. I closed the windows and killed the air con.
‘I’m going to count to ten and if you haven’t told me where the remote is then I am pulling over and going to work on your fingers until you do tell me. Is that what you want‚ Jack? Do you want me to chop off your fingers?’
‘Why would I want you to chop off my fingers?’ He blinked lazily at me.
‘Because‚ you’re asking for it.’
‘I don’t remember asking to have my fingers chopped off.’
It was an empty threat‚ an ill-judged bluff‚ one that we both knew that I would never go through with. I could never harm a single hair on his dumb side parting. I had lost‚ convincingly. The night that I had waited so long for‚ ruined. All the planning‚ wasted.
I pulled my Prius up to the location a broken man. There she was‚ stepping out of her Golf‚ a stack of files balanced in her hands. She was wearing a fitted grey trouser suit with Adidas sneakers‚ her heels knocking around somewhere in the confines of her car. She kicked the door shut and turned to us just as I was getting out of my car. She smiled at me and as frustrated as I was I could not help but smile back at her. It held for a long second as our smiles had a silent conversation.
Her name is Stephanie Mills‚ and every part of me is in love with every part of her.
I opened the back door‚ my smile replaced with a snarl‚ and unstrapped Jack out of the car. I gripped the back of his neck and frogmarched him down the path. He shrugged his shoulders away from my grip and ran to her. His protector. His Mother.
‘Mummy‚ Imy opened all the windows and then he put the cold air on and I wasn’t even wearing a jacket and... And... And...’ He spurted in one breath‚ as I took the stack of files from her. She kneeled down and embraced Jack whilst giving me that look from over his shoulder. ‘And he said he’s going to chop my fingers off‚ Mummy.’
The look I delivered to Stephanie insinuated that it was all true. She stood up and smoothed down her suit as Jack scuttled behind her legs in mock fear.
‘I swear it’s like having two kids. Why do you two always have to fight so much?’
‘Ask him!’
‘I’m asking you‚ you’re the grown up.’
‘He’s hidden the remote control. El Classico is on tonight.’
‘El what? Forget it‚ I don’t want to know.’
‘It’s a silly football match‚ Mummy‚’ Jack said‚ poking his head around her legs. Stephanie shot a look at him and he retreated back.
‘So you’re not staying tonight?’ Stephanie asked. ‘You can watch it here.’
‘You can give me a bath‚ too and a bedtime story‚’ Jack chipped in.
‘I’ve made plans with Shaz tonight‚ kid.’
She placed the palm of her hands on my chest and patted it once‚ twice. Her hands lingered as she planted an overdue kiss on my lips and whispered. ‘Tomorrow? I’ll cook.’
‘Definitely‚’ I whispered back‚ my voice catching. Nearly three years together and her touch still made me want to forget the world and follow her voice‚ her smell. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Say hi to Shaz from me. And Imy...’ Stephanie inclined her head towards Jack who was now sitting cross legged on the front lawn picking clumps out of the grass. I nodded at her and with a too quick peck she turned and walked into her house.
‘Alright‚ kid.’ I sat down opposite him‚ legs crossed‚ mirroring him.
‘Can’t you stay?’ His eyes everywhere but on me.
‘I would love to. But I’ve got things to do. I’ll come early tomorrow‚ we’ll have lunch together.’
‘I’m at school tomorrow‚’ Jack said‚ whine creeping into his voice.
‘How about I swing by after? Take you to the park or we can go on a bike ride. Your choice.’
‘Both… Can we do both?’
‘How about you ride your bike to the park. How’s that sound‚ kid?’
His eyes finally met mine and he nodded excitedly. ‘Are you doing sleepover tomorrow‚ too?’
‘I’ll bring my PJ’s. Let’s make a camp and sleep in there‚’ I said. ‘Now come on‚ bring it in‚ give me the good stuff.’ He stood as I got to my knees and gave me a hug that only a five-year-old could possibly give‚ nice and tightly fitting into my body. I kissed him on the head and hissed in his ear.
‘Where’s the damn remote?’
‘I’m not telling you‚’ he replied‚ whilst his hand snaked into my shirt collar and released damp grass down my back before running off inside laughing manically.
I sat in my car and watched them for a moment. Stephanie in the kitchen‚ steaming mug in one hand – coffee‚ one sugar‚ no milk. In the other hand she held a Spiderman beaker – hot chocolate‚ microwaved‚ one minute medium. Jack stormed in and clumsily climbed up onto the stool in front of the breakfast bar.
I said a silent prayer. Warmth‚ health and happiness.
But I knew that as much as I loved them‚ inevitably it would be me that took all those things away.
2
Javid Qasim (Jay)
The phone rang again‚ chirpy and incessant‚ desperate to be held. I looked across at the two other operators sitting either side of me. To my left Dave‚ or Davey as he liked to be called‚ a middle aged man who dressed way too young and smelt like tangerines. To my right‚ Kelly‚ a cute‚ geeky girl‚ the type who turned up transformed to the school prom and surprised the hell out of everyone‚ and ended up sleeping with Jason‚ the captain of the swimming team. Probably‚ I don’t know. I just wanted to go home.
Kelly and Dave were busy on calls and the phone was still screaming in my face. I sighed loudly‚ my irritation clear to Carol‚ the team leader from hell. She glanced over at me just as I glanced over at the clock. Two minutes to five. Two minutes before I could get the hell out of this place for a few hours before it all starts again. I knew if I answered the phone I’d be stuck here past five. I can just about make it to five‚ but keeping me here any longer is tantamount to taking the fucking piss‚ especially on a Monday. I locked eyes with Carol and ventured out a hopeful smile whilst inclining my head towards the clock‚ the smile wasn’t reciprocated‚ instead she nodded down her long beak at the phone. I huffed and puffed a little‚ just enough to have made my point‚ and then I answered the phone.
‘IT Helpdesk‚ how can I help you?’
*
On the short drive home‚ I mentally pictured the inside of my fridge‚ it didn’t take long. I couldn’t be arsed with a big shop‚ I could do that later on my iPad‚ from the comfort of my armchair‚ but I did need a quick fix for the night.
I ducked into the newsagents at the end of my road and browsed the ready meals‚ picking myself out a prawn curry and a litre of milk. At the till‚ my eyes fell on the Daily Mail. On the front page a painfully familiar image was staring back at me. One I had seen many times‚ an image fast on its way to becoming as iconic as the plane flying into the twin towers on 9/11 or the devastated London Bus with its top blown on 7/7. My neighbour‚ my friend‚ Parvez Ahmed‚ laid out on his back atop a police van. His eyes open and lifeless‚ a sawn-off AK47 hanging around his neck and a Glock 19 handgun gripped in his dead hands. I picked up the newspaper‚ knowing full well that it was going to spoil the rest of my evening.
I placed the prawn curry in the microwave and read the article at the worktop. I was expecting inaccuracies‚ and it didn’t disappoint. It had been around three months since the failed attack and the media just would not let it fucking go. It’s exactly this kind of journalism that prods and provokes and burns an imprint into the public’s consciousness. Not letting them move on‚ not letting us move on. Not a spare thought for those who suffered‚ whose families suffered. Parvez‚ who had died for a belief that many would never even contemplate understanding. Now they celebrate his death‚ parade the images like a badge of fucking honour. A constant reminder of the victory for the West. British intelligence working for the people.
But I knew better. I knew the truth.
Nine jihadis‚ four holding points‚ Oxford Street. All armed with automatic rifles and handguns‚ the objective to block in thousands of shoppers on Boxing Day‚ one of the busiest days of the year‚ and shoot at will. Parvez was one of the nine jihadis.
I was another.
I had been drafted into the Secret Service to spy on those that looked like me. My job was to uncover a terror plot and to establish what I could about the terrorist cell‚ Ghurfat-Al-Mudarris. My career had been short-lived. I was no longer part of MI5‚ I no longer wanted to be. They had taken my life and hung it upside down‚ and people that I cared about had tumbled out. I’d given them the intelligence to prevent an unthinkable level of carnage‚ and they fucking rinsed me‚ man. Bent me over and fucked me and left me in a collapsed heap on the floor‚ sucking my thumb and crying out for my Mum. I gave them my all‚ flew half way around the fucking globe to a hell hole training camp where they knew that a certain somebody would want to see me. That somebody being Abdullah Bin Jabbar‚ better known to MI5 as The Teacher. A man shrouded in such mystery and myth that MI5 had to resort to using me – a small-time nickel and dime dope dealer from the streets of Hounslow – to ascertain information pertinent to national security. I gave them a name‚ I gave them locations‚ I gave them a description and in the process I found out that this fucking Bin Jabbar character‚ with the stupid fucking moniker‚ was my fucking father‚ who‚ until then‚ I had never before met.
And what did they do with that information? Jack-shit. The Teacher was still bouncing around between caves and mountains and safe houses somewhere in Afghanistan or Pakistan or who gives a fuck. I’d done my part.
Fucking MI5 and their fucking half-arsed operation. They didn’t achieve shit‚ though they happily took credit for narrowly avoiding an attack on Oxford Street – never once mentioning that it was a stroke of freak luck that one of the jihadis had a last-minute change of heart and put a spanner in what would have made the 7/7 attacks seem like a teddy bears’ picnic.
I sound angry. I know. I am. Fucking fuming.
MI5 referred me to a shrink to help me understand my feelings and recognise that my actions helped with a big result.
So‚ how did you feel when your friend Parvez was shot in front of your eyes?
It felt like shit.
He was about to start shooting innocent members of the public? He was going to be responsible for hundreds of lives? Women? Children?
Still felt like shit.
Why?
Parvez was my friend.
He was a terrorist.
They didn’t have to kill him.
Don’t you feel it was necessary? We’re fighting a war on terror.
At that point I laughed in her ignorant face. War on fucking terror! The hypocrisy was mind-bending. Instead of helping me understand my feelings‚ it just vexed me further.
It was around then‚ a couple of months after the attacks‚ that MI5 sent me packing. They made me sign a lot of confidentiality documents‚ swearing me to secrecy‚ as if I would want anybody to know that I was a part of that organisation. They patted me on the back as though I was a child and gave me a briefcase full of gold coins‚ you know‚ services rendered.
Then what? I tell you then what. I did what I never thought I would do‚ I got myself a nine to fiver. Yeah‚ man; a white shirt‚ itchy black trousers and a fucking tie that was out to kill me. Hounslow Council‚ Helpdesk Operator! I zombied in there five days a week and spent my time sitting on a chair that stopped twirling around the same time as Fred and Ginger‚ surfing the web and talking on the phone to people dumber than I am‚ and then I zombied my way out of there. I didn’t have to do it‚ I had money thanks to my shut the fuck up pay off from MI5‚ but I had decided that my life finally needed structure.
I scoured the rest of the newspaper‚ my eyes darting from headline to headline. There wasn’t any news on my father. I knew there wouldn’t be as I’d already checked on-line earlier that morning. And then later that afternoon. I hated myself for doing so and resolved not to do it again‚ knowing full well that I have no fucking resolve. I folded the newspaper tightly and whacked it hard against my thigh to snap me out of an approaching slump. The microwave pinged but my appetite had skated and replaced with thirst. I opened the fridge and sipped straight from the carton of OJ as my eyes landed on a Qatar fridge magnet that my Mum had sent me. Underneath the magnet was an old flyer.
All Muslims Welcome.
Heston Hall Community Centre.
Every Tuesday and Thursday – 7pm onward – Workshop and Group Discussion.
Bring with you a smile.
I’d been attending the Tuesday sessions for the last couple of months. Maybe after the attack I wanted to be around normal‚ moderate‚ modern Muslims and not those who had ideas of devastating the West. They held talks for young Muslims‚ ranging from those facing ‘issues’ in the current climate‚ to those struggling to gain employment‚ or those who just wanted an environment where they were able to vent without judgement.
I could gauge the opinion of Muslims up and down the country just by spending an hour or two in that room‚ bouncing from person to person‚ all of whom had justifiable reason to be full of anger‚ but had the good sense to just get on with it. Unlike that popular minority‚ these Muslims wanted a place to express‚ and not to take extreme action.
This wasn’t about that.
We shared stories‚ drank masala tea and munched on Jaffa Cakes. Once in a while‚ normally after an atrocity‚ we would be riled up at the media coverage or the lack of it‚ at our Brothers‚ or at the two patrol cars taking turns in cruising up and down outside the hall‚ just in case we all balled out wearing suicide vests and waving rifles‚ shouting Allah hu Akbar!
My life‚ truth be told‚ wasn’t great. But a crappy office job and the Community Centre gave me some purpose. I didn’t have to report to MI5 anymore‚ I didn’t have to play spy‚ a role that I was fucking blackmailed into‚ coerced‚ as those bastards would call it. The only good thing that came out of it was that a nasty motherfucker named Silas who I owed a lot of money to was tucked away safely in jail thanks to a statement that I had given. Ten G I owed him; instead he got ten years. I was aware that when he was eventually released he would come looking for me.
Until then‚ I couldn’t be touched.
