Ride or Die. Khurrum Rahman

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СКАЧАТЬ a lifetime ago.

      Across the road I could see workmen pulling temporary traffic lights from the bed of a truck, and I knew I was going to get stuck in traffic on the flipside. I pulled up on the opposite side of the road to The Chicken Spot. The strong smell wafting from there and through my open window made my stomach moan in anticipation, and I tried to recall the last meal I’d had. I’d never had the privilege to eat there before. According to the locals, the chicken was fried to crispy perfection, but I’d always been loyal to Aladdin’s and their Inferno Burger. Either way, I wasn’t there to eat.

      Above the chicken shop was Imy’s flat. The curtains were drawn. I watched intently for a moment, but couldn’t make out anything other than that the curtains were drawn. I imagined Imy behind there somewhere, mourning. Or maybe he was past mourning and was intently plotting. Could be that plotting was his way of mourning. I could picture him sitting in an armchair staring at a wall covered with photos of all those who had wronged him, with maps and locations and bits of different coloured string connecting them. I wondered if I was on that wall. I wondered if he was waiting for me, watching me from a great height through the telescopic sight of a high-powered rifle.

      I shuddered, killed the engine and stepped out of my car, not knowing what to expect. It could be anything from a slap in the face to adios, Jay. Whatever! I had to make my presence felt. I owed him that much. I looked both ways before jogging across the road and then slowing to a walk. I glanced inside The Chicken Spot and wasn’t surprised to see customers queuing for a speciality heart-attack breakfast. I approached the door just to the side of it and pressed the buzzer. It sounded muted, like the batteries needed replacing, but probably Imy wasn’t ready for household chores. I knocked on the door, respectfully at first, and then a little louder. I took a couple of steps back and looked up, shielding my eyes from the sun, which had made a surprise appearance considering the time of year. The curtains were still drawn. It got me thinking.

      Imy had just got married. Would he have planned to live here with his wife and son, above a chicken shop? Doubt it. But in the absence of any other options this was as good a starting point as any.

      I doubled back and stepped into The Chicken Spot, the smell of grease and onions and the hunk of doner meat smelt divine, and my stomach grumbled at me: Fill me the fuck up! I ignored it and leaned my arms on the counter.

      ‘Mate,’ I said to the guy with the greatest moustache in the world and a food-stained apron that I could easily have licked.

      ‘Help you?’ he said. Heavy accent, could have been from anywhere. I’m not hot on accents.

      ‘Yeah,’ I said, trying not to talk to his ’tache. ‘Have you seen Imy? He lives upstairs.’ I pointed up at the cracked, yellowing ceiling.

      He took me in, paying special attention to my sandy mac, his eyebrows banging into each other in bemusement, maybe because I’d accidentally mistaken a chicken shop for the missing persons bureau. He leaned over the counter and his moustache was almost as close to my face as it was to his. ‘You look like journalist,’ he growled.

      I gasped; I’d never felt so offended in my life.

      I ventured out a smile. ‘I’m a friend,’ I said, playing fast and loose with the truth.

      He snorted through his nose and something flew out. ‘Where you from, boy?’ he said from somewhere under his moustache.

      ‘Here, Hounslow.’

      ‘From newspaper!’ he said, not letting it go. He picked up a meat cleaver in one hand and a blade sharpener in the other. ‘I tell you what I say to all newspaper people. Get out of my restaurant!’

      Restaurant! Probably best not to correct him. But I did need to convince him that I wasn’t a journalist. I think it was my new sandy mac, it made me look exactly like a fucking hack. I assumed I was being judged by association. This shop had probably seen its fair share of reporters attempting to dig up dirt on Imy so they could write an inaccurate article.

      ‘He’s my friend, I just want to know where I can find him.’

      He stared me down before turning his sizeable back on me and going about his business. I was losing him, and it made me do something I’m not proud of. Something which contradicted my friend status, and cemented that I actually was a fucking journalist.

      I cleared my throat loudly. He turned back around to see near ten pounds, in coins, neatly stacked on the counter. I looked at the bribe and then at him. He looked at the bribe and then at me. His jaw tightened and his eyebrows collided. I swallowed and lowered my gaze, realising quickly what a shit idea it was. I had no choice but to abort mission and improvise.

      ‘Can I have three pieces of chicken, fries, and a can of Coke, please?’

Chapter 12

       Jay

      I blasted the heat to max, dropped the gear and pulled away from The Chicken Spot towards London Road, only to drive into a standstill. Ahead of me were unnecessary road works galore. I was temporarily defeated by temporary traffic lights. I shifted the gear into neutral and checked my mirrors for the cops before firing up the web browser on my phone, hoping for some inspiration. I typed Imran in the search bar and Google ominously auto-filled Siddiqui. I ran my eyes down the first few hits.

      Racially motivated bomb attack at wedding party.

      Five dead. Many injured. Husband survives.

      Ten-year-old Jihadi targets interfaith marriage.

      Hostile reception for Prime Minister as she visits Osterley Park

      Hotel amidst protests.

      Calls for tighter immigration laws.

      Nah, I ain’t reading any of that shit.

      I shut down the browser and exhaled dramatically as traffic crawled slowly in front of me. It was killing me to be so stationary. Frustrated, I slipped the car into gear and pulled a daring U-turn and I was on my way. I glanced in the rear-view mirror, wishing away the suckers stuck in traffic, when I noticed a slimy green Merc pull the same manoeuvre.

      There was no way that there were two of them in Hounslow. Not in that fucking colour. I’d seen that car twice in the space of a couple of hours.

      Okay, so rationalise. It’s not exactly unheard of to pull out of traffic and head in the opposite direction. The earlier appearance at the car wash was a little strange, though, considering the car already looked squeaky clean. But then again, if I was rolling around in a motor like that, I’d be getting it washed daily. I shrugged it off. I didn’t have the time or the energy for paranoia. I put my foot down and put some distance between my Beemer and the Merc and took a turn and slipped down a quiet residential road.

      Finding Imy was turning out to be a proper mission. There was one person who could help me in my search, but I really, really did not want to go there. The last thing I needed was for a next man to get involved, but with fuck all in the way of options, I had to consider it.

      Using the dial on the centre console I scrolled through my phone book and stopped at S.

      I СКАЧАТЬ