of life.
‘Pathaan‚’ Ghulam said‚ turning to him. ‘Do we have any sleepers in the vicinity?’
‘We have one. Based in West London‚ a few kilometres from Heathrow Airport‚’ Pathaan replied. ‘In close proximity to Qasim.’
‘Is he capable?’
Pathaans blinked. A vision of a scared child‚ held tight in his arms‚ flashed behind his eyelids.
‘Qasim is the son of Abdullah bin Jabbar‚’ Ghulam continued. ‘Regardless of his treachery he deserves the respect of a clean death… By our hands.’
‘He is capable‚’ Pathaan said.
‘It is time our sleeper went active. Make contact and inform him of the fatwa.’
Al-Bhukara was still shuddering‚ his sobs coming in quick staccato beats. Ghulam’s intention was not one of forgiveness‚ there would be no second chances‚ but the knowledge that al-Bhukara had been acting directly under the orders of their leader troubled him. Could he punish a man for that?
Ghulam’s eyes landed on Ihsan and Talal who had inched closer to the door‚ wearing expressions as though they had been caught peeping through a keyhole. He remembered why he had invited them. It was to illustrate to them that a mistake like this could never happen again.
‘Pathaan‚’ he said‚ finally coming to a decision. ‘Please‚ show al-Bhukara the respect that he deserves.’
Al-Bhukara lifted his head and exhaled a sharp breath of relief. Still crying hysterically‚ he opened his mouth and searched for words suitable for the huge gratitude he’d felt towards the Sheikh. From the corner of his eye he could see Pathaan rise from his armchair. Al-Bhukara turned his head towards him‚ just in time to see him cut the distance between them in two long strides and then raise his gun‚ shooting him point blank in the side of the head.
‘Two of the greatest teams the world has ever seen‚’ Shaz said‚ knocking back the last of his drink. ‘With an abundance of attack and creativity at their disposal‚ and it ends up being a soulless‚ goalless draw.’
Shaz and I had spent the best part of the night cursing the so-called spectacle that it was billed to be. Between us we’d cleaned a litre bottle of Jameson‚ coupled with a few joints‚ and then went one-on-one in my living room with a plastic football.
A little past midnight and one broken lamp later‚ we bumped fists as Shaz‚ who still lived with his parents‚ went home. I did not envy him one bit‚ knowing what he was about to go through. The journey home after a heavy night was never straightforward. I knew this as I’d been in the very same situation on many occasions when I lived with Khala.
First‚ it used to involve a detour to Heston Services to use their facilities and scrub my face clean. Then I’d spend five pounds on strong mints‚ bottled water and eye drops. Two in each eye‚ ten minutes to take effect. Knocking back the bottled water to help sober up‚ and popping mint after mint until I arrived at my front door.
Then the hard part.
Trying to re-enter my own home‚ hoping I didn’t wake Khala. Slowly taking one tiptoed step at a time upstairs‚ then creeping past her bedroom‚ a quick glance to make sure she’s asleep. Edging closer to my own room‚ avoiding the squeaky hot spots on the plastic carpet protector‚ before finally pushing my bedroom door open‚ tantalisingly close to my single bed. Fifty percent of the time I would succeed‚ the other fifty…
‘Imran.’
Silence. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Hope that it passes.
‘Imran‚ is that you?’
The jig is up. Double back‚ lean against her bedroom door frame to stop from wobbling. On would come the lamp‚ then would come the questions. Her words‚ as always‚ running into each other at pace‚ her English better than ever before but still broken in places.
‘Where were you?’
‘Khala‚ sorry I’m late. Go back to sleep.’
‘Sleep? You think I sleep? I wait for you. Why your eyes red?’
‘I was on my phone most of the night.’
‘Astaghfirulah.’ She would always say Astaghfirulah when she was annoyed. Similar to how Christians use Jesus‚ but with more drama. ‘You and your phone. You’re going to ruin your eyes‚ how many times I tell you? You want to go blind‚ Imran? Do you? Well‚ do you? Because you know what is going to happen? You’re going to go blind!’
‘Yes‚ Khala.’
‘It is two in the morning‚ you not have work tomorrow? You know how difficult it was to ask Kumar to give you job? You humiliate family name.’
‘It’s fine. My first viewing is at ten.’
‘Why do I smell smoke? You smoke‚ Imran?’
‘No‚ it was Shaz‚ he was smoking around me.’
‘He is a stupid boy. I do not like him.’
‘Goodnight‚ Khala.’
‘Shall I make something to eat?’
‘Goodnight‚ Khala.’
She sounds like a ball breaker. She isn’t. She is the sweetest person I have ever known. She took me in at sixteen‚ and a damaged sixteen at that‚ and knocked the damage right out of me with her overbearing brand of love. It didn’t matter that I was now in my mid-thirties‚ I was fine with her treating me like I was still that sixteen-year-old. Now that I was away from her‚ in my own place‚ she was very much still part of my daily life. One phone-call a day‚ numerous texts and three visits per week‚ minimum.
It was fine.
After the death of my parents I’d spent the remainder of my childhood in Afghanistan as a man. One with order‚ discipline and responsibilities. A way of life drilled into me from the age of ten until the age of sixteen when I was sent to London‚ to Hounslow‚ to live with my Khala. Now I’m of age‚ the hardness has softened‚ but it’s still within me and I pray that it doesn’t see the light of day. My life‚ if I’m honest‚ is easy. I feel love for and loved by those close to me. All I want is to live carefree for a little longer before I settle down with Stephanie and Jack.
I realise‚ though‚ that my destiny is not in my hands. One day‚ somebody may come calling and try to turn me back into that violent‚ angry boy. Dangling revenge as my motivation‚ reminding me who I really am and what I owe.
