Читать книгу Ride or Die - Khurrum Rahman - Страница 18

The hotel room phone trilled in my ear. Shut the fuck up! I lifted the edges of the pillow tightly over my ears. The trill dimmed but just would not quit. Defeated, I reached out to it, blindly knocking a bottle of water off the side table as I located the phone.

‘Good morning, Mr Qasim,’ the smoothest of voices said. ‘This is your eight-thirty wake-up call.’

‘Yeah, I’m up, man. I’m up,’ I slurred. My tongue felt as though it was wearing a fur coat and my breath bounced back at me off the phone. I turned my face away in disgust and noticed that the bottle of water that I had knocked over was actually a bottle of beer, steadily dripping onto the carpet. That damn minibar had broken my defences.

‘Fuck’s sake!’ I groaned to myself as I straightened the bottle. That was going to cost me about seven quid in Qatari money!

‘Excuse me?’ the voice said, losing a little smoothness.

‘No, not you… Thanks. Bye.’

I replaced the receiver and stared up at the ceiling, waiting for my vision to clear, trying to piece together my movements before sleep had eventually found me at… who knows when. The last time I had glanced at the clock, it was four something, closer to five.

The thought of meeting Imy had twisted me up inside, and I just wanted to forget about him, just for a minute. I think I had a moment of madness. Me. On my own. Wanting to let the fuck loose with total abandonment before I faced up to my responsibilities.

Not sure what happened after that.

I lifted my heavy head off the pillow and took in the state of the room as it sadly recounted the story of my night.

Yeah, it was coming back to me.

I remember wanting a drink but being too mentally drained to leave my bed. Rather than walk the three steps, I’d crawled to the foot of the bed and reached out to the minibar, which was just tantalisingly out of reach. I hung halfway off the bed, stretching, my shoulder screaming at me as I managed to pull open the door. The light illuminated my face and the miniature bottles neatly lined up greeted me like a surprise party. I started with a vodka.

I’d stayed at the foot of the bed, on my back, my head hanging off the edge as I watched the brilliant Mean Girls upside down, whilst knocking back drink after drink, unable to get Imy out of my head.

I’d pictured standing in front of him, meeting his eyes and letting him know, in no uncertain terms, that I recognised my part in his loss. I’d welcome whatever he threw at me. I’d fucking take it all.

Oh man, I got so wasted. Dotted around the bed were empty miniature bottles lying sadly on their sides, as though they’d been abused. I dropped my head back on the pillow, the pounding in my head taking the attention away from the ache in my stomach caused by all the food that I’d ordered from room service!

I knew that I should be getting up and packing, but I gave myself five more minutes just to get myself together. It’s always five more minutes – How many times had Mum said that to me? Feeling sorry for myself, I turned on my side and curled up in a ball. Beside me was a chocolate gateau, some eaten, some spread across my pillow. I rubbed the side of my face. Some there, too.

I turned my back to it and flopped to the edge of the bed. I thought about how much of a tip I should leave for housekeeping to clean my mess. Next to the bed was a bin, that I’d placed there in case I vomited. Next to that, a pool of vomit!

I groaned loudly and shot myself out of bed and went about carrying out a pre-emptive clean before housekeeping clocked on and, through Chinese whispers, Mum found out. I couldn’t have that.

Satisfied, with the room looking semi-respectable, I spent record time brushing the crap out of my teeth and tongue whilst hopping around in the unpredictable shower. I had used the bath towel to soak up the vomit, so with an impossibly small hand towel wrapped around my waist I set about packing my holiday clothes before getting into my shitty-weather England clothes.

I had a flight to catch.

There was no way I was calling a bell-boy. I had already spent a small fortune on tips, so I belled Idris and asked him to help me with my luggage. He was at my door a few minutes later, looking annoyingly fresh and rested in his shorts and lairy Bermuda shirt. The total opposite of me.

‘You sure you don’t mind me staying on a few days?’ he said, entering my room, sniffing and making a face. There was nothing I could do about the smell, but crack open a window. Idris took me in, jeans and Jordans where shorts and flip-flops should have been. A hoody on the bed to carry onto the plane, and my parka jacket in my hand luggage. Prepared for the wet, windy, vicious weather back home, back in Hounslow.

‘Here, grab that,’ I said, pushing my trolley his way.

‘I still don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Why’d you have to rush back?’

Why? A man’s family had burnt and perished and I had a part to play. I had to find out how far a simple sorry would take me in easing the fucking guilt that I was drowning in.

‘I just have to, that’s all, Idris,’ I said, knowing how unfair it was to keep my closest friend in the dark. It wasn’t the first time, and I’d started to realise, the way my life was turning out, that it wouldn’t be the last, either.

‘Obviously, this is about Imran Siddiqui,’ he pressed, and I couldn’t deny it but I could ignore it. I handed him my rucksack. ‘Okay, fine! Be like that. Least tell me what bullshit you told your mum, just so we’re on the same page.’ Idris couldn’t keep the frustration out of his voice, or maybe he didn’t want to.

‘Told her that…’ I hesitated, knowing how it was going to sound.

‘Go on. Told her what exactly?’

‘Told her that I’d received an email inviting me for a job interview and that I really couldn’t afford to miss the opportunity,’ I said, looking suitably sheepish at the lame excuse.

‘What job?’ Idris asked.

‘What’s it matter what job?’

‘Jay!’

‘Project manager,’ I mumbled.

‘And she believed you?!’ Idris scoffed, clearly not convinced that I could be a project manager.

‘The fuck’s not to believe?’ I said, more than a little offended that he didn’t think I could be a fucking project manager. I could easily be a project manager. Give me a project and I’ll fucking manage it. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or the hangover, or the prospect of flying back home and into fuck knows what, but Idris was getting on my last nerves. He always found a way – I know not on purpose – to make me feel a lot less important than him. As though being a Detective Inspector puts him on some elite level.

The fuck’s he know!? I’ve done a shit load more than manage fucking projects. You ain’t the only one making a difference. I did, too. A big fucking difference. Global. Fucking international! Not just plodding around after junkies in Hounslow.

I wanted to tell him just to shut him up.

‘What is it?’ Idris sensed. He edged closer, eyes on high alert.

It would have been for the wrong reason. Just so that I could prove to him that I was somebody, and I was worth something, and not just the fuck up he clearly thought I was. I shot him a look that said, Sorry mate.

‘Alright.’ He sighed, then like a friend he smiled. ‘I’m coming to the airport with you.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, looking back at the room where I’d spent the last couple of weeks pretending all was okay. ‘I thought you might be.’

The lift doors opened and I saw Mum before she saw me. She had taken position behind the reception desk and was dealing with a hotel guest. She’d already told me, on the phone the night before, that she wouldn’t be able to accompany me to the airport as she couldn’t get the time off at such short notice. It was better this way. I tend to get overly emotional at airports.

I moved myself in her eye line and gave her a small wave, she beamed when she saw me and I recognised the sadness behind it. She palmed off the guest to a colleague, picked up a large boxy paper bag and hurriedly walked around the reception desk. She placed the bag by her feet and threw her arms around me, one hand cupping the back of my head, the other hand lightly gripping my shirt.

I was going to miss Mum so fucking much, but I was determined not to show it. The last time we had said goodbye it was a cocktail of tears and snot and uncertainty. I couldn’t show her that I was still that person. She had to know I’d be alright.

‘It’s cool, Mum,’ I said, as she released me, my smile coming easily as she straightened my hair. ‘I’ll come visit soon.’

‘Or I can come and see you in the New Year.’

And see the mess that my life has become.

‘I’d rather come back to be honest, Mum. Keep the sun going for me.’

‘Andrew is going to drive you to the airport, Jay. He’s just bringing the car around.’

‘He didn’t have to do that,’ I said. The last thing I needed was stilted conversation, but at least it would stop Idris from interrogating me further.

‘If you need anything, anything, I’m here, Jay. I’ll be here.’

I know what she meant. She would always be there just as my father wasn’t.

‘Oh, almost forgot.’ Mum picked up the boxy bag and handed it to me. ‘I popped into the mall this morning before my shift and got this for you.’

I snaked my hand into the bag and pulled out a smart, sandy coloured mac. I nodded dumbly at it.

‘For your interview, Jay. You can’t turn up in your parka.’ Mum smiled and in that moment the hard fought determination not to cry threatened to crumble as my bullshit lie gained momentum. Not wanting Mum to see me break, I moved back into her, holding her tightly, releasing a deep breath over her shoulder, as Idris averted his gaze to the floor. I steeled myself and released her as she planted goodbye kisses all over my face. I took it all in, the smell, the touch, the comfort. A weird feeling swept over me – I couldn’t shake it off – that a time was coming when I would desperately need to reach out and recall this moment.