Читать книгу Ride or Die - Khurrum Rahman - Страница 19

It wouldn’t bring back my family, but pulling the trigger felt right. I didn’t entertain the idea of disposing of the bodies. I left them where they fell and walked out of their home. The immense feeling of satisfaction was fleeting and I was overcome with an almighty tiredness as I struggled through the now torrential rain. Burying my wife and my son, followed by the long drive to Blackburn with nothing on my mind but avenging my family, had consumed me. I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten. Slept. The adrenaline that pushed me was gone, leaving me feeling more exhausted than I’d ever been.

The rain hindered my vision as I swayed and staggered and once stumbled to my knees as I tried to remember where I’d parked my car. I eventually found it after walking obliviously past it, before recalling that I had stolen Kumar’s company Mondeo and not travelled in my own Prius. My mind and body, that had worked together perfectly to exact my revenge, had deserted me and the sharpness was replaced by a mist.

I turned up the heating the moment the car came to life, and held my hands close up to the vents, the seat beneath me shaking in rhythm to my body. I hunched over the steering wheel for support and gripped it tightly as I drove out of Parkland Avenue. With my phone at home and the absence of a satnav I drove aimlessly from one empty street to another until signs led me to the M6.

Thirty minutes on the motorway and I was startled back to alertness as headlights filled my car. I looked in the mirror, and saw a big BMW X5 with fluorescent markings. My heart thumped in my chest. They flashed again. What had I done to give myself away? I looked down and saw that the needle was hovering at forty-five mph, which on a motorway is almost as dangerous as speeding. I put my foot down, taking the car to sixty and beyond, hoping they wouldn’t feel the urge to pull me over and ask me any questions or search my car.

The car slipped into the middle lane. Their eyes on me as they moved past. I noticed then that it was a Highways Officer – plastic police, not the real thing. Even so, I was shaking long after I lost sight of their tail-lights.

I released a sigh of relief which turned into a yawn. The heavy patter on my windshield was hypnotic, and yet again I found my eyelids starting to betray me. My body flagged and my shoulder moved towards something to lean against, causing the car to veer into the middle lane. The blare of an SUV shook me. I pulled back hard and the car swerved before settling back into its lane. As I straightened up in my seat I caught a glimpse of a young family, eyes wide and faces white with fright. I threw up a hand in apology.

There was no way I could complete the four-hour journey in that state. I had to take a risk before I became a risk to other drivers. I had to get off the motorway before somebody got hurt.

I managed to stay alert for the next five miles, and pulled into the first service station. I kept my cap low and my head down as I walked across the forecourt and followed the inviting light through the automatic doors. Despite it being the early hours of the morning, it was busy with families and groups of friends coming or going. Living a life that I would never have. I headed straight to the bathroom and splashed and scrubbed my face with cold water. I ran a wet hand through my hair, letting the water drip down my back.

Leaning against the sink I stared at myself in the mirror. The black suit I wore to bury my family. The same black suit I wore to kill another. I squeezed my eyes shut and questioned my actions. That of judge, jury and executioner.

I had no regrets.

Without making eye contact I purchased a black coffee, a chicken sandwich, and picked out the coldest bottle of water from the back of the cooler. I took a seat alone at a round table and tried not to focus on the two empty seats across from me. I removed the lid and emptied three sachets of white sugar, then took a sip of hot coffee followed by a bite from the sandwich, and then another before I’d swallowed the first. As I broke it down in my mouth I watched from under the peak of my cap. Two kids – brothers, judging by their features – were messing about at an internet kiosk under their parents’ watchful gaze. Their eyes were darting between their children and me, as though they sensed a threat. As though they could sense that I had a gun tucked into the waist of my trousers.

I placed the cold bottle on the back of my neck and it sent an icy shiver down my spine as I glanced up at the security camera at the entrance. There were two more cameras on each side of the food court, plus the three that I noticed in the car park, that would have picked me up as I drove onto the forecourt. I had no choice. The state I had been in, I couldn’t have stayed on the road.

Regardless of my carelessness, I would’ve been the obvious suspect. It was inevitable that the police would knock at my door. But I wouldn’t be the only suspect. There had been numerous threats made to Saheed Kabir and his family. Vile threats, cowardly threats of death and rape and ruin from behind a keyboard by those looking to place the blame on them. It was a release of aggression, venting, trying to put the world to rights, but ultimately they were empty threats. Nobody was going to touch them. That right belonged to me.

The two brothers left their station at the internet kiosk and I watched them join their parents. They walked out of the food court, the father turning to look at me one last time. I held his gaze until he turned away, a protective arm around his wife.

I picked up my coffee and bottle of water and approached the internet kiosk. I slipped in two pound coins which allowed me thirty minutes of internet time and opened up a search engine. Sweat covered my back as I typed in his name. I hit enter.

The rage that had led me to kill Saheed Kabir and his family in cold blood was a different rage to how I felt about him.

He had social media accounts on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram but his activity was minimal. The only recent activity was two photos that he’d posted on Facebook. The location was tagged – Qatar.

The first photo was in a restaurant. Him and his mother in conversation, their hands meeting at the middle of the table, unaware at the time that their photo was being taken. She was looking at him like Khala had once looked at me. Like a mother looks at a child.

The second photo, he was in a swimming pool, his elbows resting on the edge next to a colourful drink with a small umbrella. He was smiling broadly behind orange-tint sunglasses. Like a man without a care in the world.

I looked at the date stamp – 3rd December. It was the date that I was married. The date where I’d lost everything.