Читать книгу Ride or Die - Khurrum Rahman - Страница 11

Flat on my backside, arms flopped to my side, laid out on a sun lounger with one of those big umbrella things above me, protecting me from the blazing sun, with nothing but another lazy day ahead of me. On the small plastic table next to me, a bottle of water sat upright on top of a book. Yeah, a book! Seemed like a good idea at the time. Seemed like a holiday thing to do, but really I could not be arsed. Give me some credit, though, I attempted it, ripped through a few chapters, but it just felt way too much like homework. Fuck, man, I barely did homework at school, I sure ain’t doing homework on holiday! Next to the book was my phone, also taking a well-deserved rest, and some loose change that amounted to either a fortune or jack-shit. I don’t know, I still hadn’t sussed out the exchange rate.

I sighed the sigh of a man who had finally sat down. I accompanied it with a noisy stretch which turned into a big fat yawn. Good times, that may just get better from what I could see in front of me.

Through the tango tint of my replica designer shades I glanced across the pool and the brunette who was giving me the eyes yesterday was doing so again. I wasn’t surprised, I’d hit the weights twice in the last couple of weeks, and possibly this attention was a result of that. I crossed my arms across my chest, hoping that the curve of a bicep might make an appearance. I lifted my shades onto my forehead, and gave her the elevator eyes. I decided against a wink, instead giving her the smallest of smiles, no teeth, not yet, just one side of my lips curling a touch. That’s enough for today. I’d played this game before, with varying results. I’d keep it cool. With a flick of a finger I slid my shades down my forehead, but they fell too far down my nose and I had to quickly readjust. Great! She’d turned her attention elsewhere.

A member of staff approached. Unlike me he was showing teeth and smiling wildly. He towered over me, blocking my view. His too-tight shorts too close to my face, he handed me an already dripping lemonade ice-lolly that I’d forgotten I’d ordered, and didn’t feel like anymore, and started jabbering on about some excursion or another, thrusting flyers in my face. I reached across to the table and picked up a couple of coins and held them up to my face, squinting, trying to figure out how little of a tip I could get away with. I handed him one Qatari Rial and took a flyer from him and waved him away with it as I considered jumping in the pool.

This had been my spot for the last two weeks, with another two weeks to come. And I didn’t have the inconvenience of waking up at fuck-off-o’clock in the morning to come and plant my towel on the lounger, as is the international method of reservation. No, man, this was my mum’s joint and she called the shots. It was actually the Marriott Hotel in Doha, Qatar, and Mum worked there on reception. She had a word with one of the lifeguards to keep the shaded lounger reserved for me during my stay, because she knew better than anybody how sensitive my skin was to the sun.

I had finally managed to get out to Qatar to visit Mum and Andrew, her now fiancé. His proposal was a long, convoluted story which I lost interest in pretty quickly when they told me, but there were dolphins, a hot air balloon and a lost shoe involved. He was alright, Andrew, made Mum smile and laugh. He made her happy. Even though they were settled in a Muslim country, nobody questioned their so-called interfaith relationship. It would have been worse in Hounslow!

Yeah, man, life was good, you know. Well, it was good right then.

In a couple of weeks, I’d fly back home to an empty house and an empty life. I’d sit on my trusty armchair and face up to the fact that I was quickly running out of money, currently unemployed and had jack-shit to fill my days with. It crossed my mind that I should go crawling back to my old IT Helpdesk role at the London Borough of Hounslow. I mean, I never officially left. I just hadn’t been in for the last eight months. I didn’t even phone in my absence. I mean, what would I tell them? How would I explain the death in the family? That my old man was tracked down then shot down as part of a large-scale government operation that I was central to.

Can you imagine that conversation?

So instead I ignored the emails and phone calls from my team leader, then I ignored the emails, phone calls and letters from HR. I just couldn’t be arsed to go back, figured that I had too much to sort out. Turns out I didn’t have jack-shit to do. Abdul Bin Jabbar was dead and MI5 had no use for me. I should’ve been glad. It’s what I wanted. What I thought I wanted.

My life came to a standstill and the world continued to spin without my interference.

It gave me time to reflect. Eight months of sitting in my armchair watching Piers, Lorraine and Holly and those crazy Loose Women, as I tried to work out what matters and what fucking doesn’t. I was done with doing the right thing in the wrong way, and I was done thinking about those that didn’t deserve my fucking attention. But, you know, sometimes your mind betrays you.

The fuck, man! Stop with this self-pity bullshit.

I had Christmas in the sun with Mum to look forward to. I realised that my nails were digging into my palms. I flexed my fingers and shook my head clear of that shit. Those demons could take a back fucking seat.

I lifted my head and peered over the rim of my shades across the pool to see if I could re-establish eye contact with my soon-to-be holiday romance. I watched her carefully, still perfectly poised, one leg stretched, the other bent at the knee looking like an Instagram post. She was no longer looking in my direction. She was chatting merrily away to a copper.

He had gallantly picked up her towel, which had dropped to the floor, and handed it to her. She smiled and flirted her way through a show of gratitude. I had been about to make my move on her, tomorrow or the day after. But I had no chance with him knocking about.

I laughed to myself in disbelief. If I’d had a pen and a pad, I’d have been taking notes.

I took him in. He wasn’t in police uniform. In fact, he’s wasn’t wearing a stitch, apart from a pair of barely-there lime-green trunks that he’d probably borrowed from his ten-year-old nephew. He gave her a Sheriff’s nod and sauntered away, her eyes tracking his movement as he rounded the pool and approached me with a perfect smile on his stupid face.

My best mate, and Hounslow’s finest detective – his words, not mine – Idris Zaidi. I hadn’t seen him in, I don’t know, a couple of months? A few? A long time considering that we once lived in each other’s pockets. Despite the fact that he’d got in the way of what could very well have been The One, Idris was just what I needed.

‘They’re letting anyone in here now, are they?’ I beamed up at him. ‘This is supposed to be a five-star joint.’

‘They dropped a star as soon as you walked in,’ Idris replied. ‘You going to get up and greet me properly or do you want to do this horizontally? You know I’ll do it!’

I laughed and straightened up, and we bumped fists before bumping bare chests. It was as awkward as it sounds.

‘Mum?’ I asked.

‘Yeah,’ he said, using a straight hand to shield the sun from his eyes. ‘She called me, said you might need some company, so you know, thought I swing by.’ He smiled and ruffled my hair. The girl from across the pool was laughing like a cheerleader as though the jock had just kicked sand in the nerd’s face. I knocked his hand away.

‘Swing by?’ I said, fixing my hair with a flick of my hand. ‘It’s a six-and-a-half-hour flight.’

As sunny as my disposition allowed me to be, Mum had read me inside and out. She recognised that I was at war with myself. She’d made the right call to the right person. It was just what I needed. I’d never tell Idris this, but he was just what I needed.

In the evening Mum and Andrew joined us for a meal at one of the many bars at the Marriott. This one, can’t remember the name, something corny, turned into a nightclub late on and I could already see it filling up with young hungry holiday-makers and well-dressed hookers looking to clean them out for a slice of dirty heaven.

‘We should call it a night,’ Mum said, joined at the hip to Andrew, opposite us in a booth.

Idris glanced at his watch. ‘It’s only just gone nine. Can I tempt you with a nightcap?’

Idris always did that, always spoke like that around certain company, a little hoity-toity for my liking. Who says tempt you with a night cap? Like he’s just stepped out of a black-and-white flick.

‘I wouldn’t mind an early night, actually,’ Andrew said, making eyes at Mum.

I wanted to believe that age was catching up with them, and that they were heading up to rest their old bones and not… you know. I made a face. Mum noticed, smiled beautifully at me, and they shuffled out of the booth. Idris stood up and gave Mum a cuddle, and shook hands heartily with Andrew, and told him what an immense pleasure it was to meet him. Seriously Idris, keep that shit real, man!

Mum beckoned me over to one side, away from Andrew and Idris, and softly asked me the same question that she had been asking for the last two weeks.

‘Are you okay, Jay?’

It was a double-barrelled, fully loaded question. We both understood the meaning of it, but neither of us was willing to mention or even acknowledge the fact that my dad, her husband, was dead. We just had to read it in each other’s eyes.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Are you?’

Mum smiled and replied. ‘I am.’

I watched her watch me for a moment before landing one on my cheek and then rubbing off the lipstick with her thumb. She stepped away and linked arms with Andrew, then with a joint smile they walked out of the bar.

‘Right.’ Idris rubbed his hands together like he was trying to start a fire. ‘Drinks?’

‘Yeah, go on,’ I said. I didn’t have to tell him my order. He knew.

Idris went off and ordered the first round of alcoholic drinks of the night. It wasn’t like we were hiding it from Mum, I think she knew, but I would never feel comfortable drinking around her. I did quit for a while, possibly due to the company I was keeping, but I was back on it. It helped, other times it hindered, but each time it numbed and clouded what I didn’t want to see.

My stomach rumbled at the thought of drinking on empty. Once again, my choice of meal had been poor. I’d bent two knives trying to cut through the steak, so I gave up. The potatoes were too squishy, so I left those. The vegetables I didn’t touch, because they were vegetables.

‘Here,’ Idris said, handing me my drink, a bag of crisps, and some sort of health bar. ‘Figured you might be hungry,’ he said, taking a seat opposite me.

‘The hell is this?’ I said, holding up the health bar, all raisins and berries.

‘You don’t want it?’ he said. ‘I’ll have it.’

‘No. I’ll have it,’ I said, taking a bite out of it. ‘So, what’s new?’ I asked, through a mouthful.

‘Honestly, I needed to get out of Hounslow. That place is starting to depress me.’

‘Yeah, it’s not what it used to be. Lost some of its charm.’ I split open the bag of crisps longways and nodded at Idris to help himself. He shook his head. ‘Gone are the days when you could sort out shit with a good scrap. Now it’s all blades and shooters.’

‘It’s worse than that, Jay.’

‘Drugs?’ I nodded. Idris worked for the Met’s Drugs Directorate; he was basically a Narc. It was a role that had taken its toll on him. ‘Fucking junkies are taking over Hounslow.’

‘Worse than that, Jay.’ Idris took a sip and watched me over the rim. It was starting to become clear that he hadn’t just flown over to work on his tan.

‘What’s happened, Idris?’ I said, shifting my drink from one spot to another for no apparent reason.

‘I’ve been meaning to chat to you, but I couldn’t get hold of you at home. You could’ve mentioned that you were flying off on holiday.’ Idris took his time clearing his throat. ‘So when your mum called, I thought, I’m due time off work, so why not. I’ll fly over.’

Stalling…

‘What’s happened, Idris?’ I asked, again.

He took a sip of his drink, and dropped his gaze. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and evenly and eventually, he asked, ‘The name Imran Siddiqui mean anything to you?’

I sat back in my chair and measured the question. Yeah, that name meant something to me, but I wasn’t quite sure what. Imran, or Imy as I knew him, used to knock about with this stoner, Shaz, and on occasion when I was juggling, they’d pick up off me at the back of the Homebase car park, Isleworth. Some shit-talk and that was it, everyone on their merry way. Once I quit dealing, I didn’t see much of either of them.

Until one day Imy tried to fucking assassinate me.

From what little I found out, Imran Siddiqui was a sleeper agent for the terrorist cell, Ghurfat-al-Mudarris, and when said terrorist cell slapped a fatwa on my head, it was on him to carry it out. He couldn’t go through with it, though. Living in London, in Hounslow, had softened him, I guess. The fuck do I know!? All I know is that I was looking down the barrel of a gun and then I wasn’t.

‘What about him?’ I asked, drained all of a sudden. All that optimism dissipated out of me.

‘Do you know him?’ Idris said, one fucking word at a time, like I was a child.

‘I’ve seen him around,’ I shrugged. ‘Way back when, when I was hustling, he used to pick up a little weed off me… You going to tell me what’s on your mind, Idris?’

‘You haven’t seen him since?’

I wasn’t about to give it up that easily.

‘Yeah, knocking around town, probably. Fuck, man, what’s with the questions?’

‘He got married… Last week.’

I shrugged. ‘Yeah?’ The lights dimmed above me as the DJ took his place behind the booth, a ripple of excitement from the few early ravers. ‘Good for him,’ I said. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

The DJ spun his first track, a Christmas classic remixed with a jaunty Euro-trash beat. Idris leaned in over the table so he could be heard over the music. I didn’t know what he was going to say but I had a feeling I didn’t want to hear it. I moved back even further in my seat and crossed my arms as I willed my knee to stop hammering under the table. He inclined with his head for me to join him at the middle of the table. I sighed, leaned in and met him there, our foreheads almost touching.

‘Ten days ago, there was an attack at his wedding reception,’ he said. ‘A bomb went off,’ he fucking said.