East of Hounslow: A funny, clever and addictive spy thriller, shortlisted for a CWA Dagger 2018

As Idris approached I surreptitiously checked him out. A dark blue casual blazer‚ with a crisp blue shirt. Wrapped around his neck in a loose knot was a lightweight black-and-white polka-dot scarf designed for design rather than to serve purpose. A pair of tight skinny grey trousers which made me wonder how the fuck he was going to give chase if the occasion occurred. Nice shoes though‚ black suede Fila hi-tops.

We shook and I nodded for him to jump in. I waited nonchalantly for him to acknowledge my new whip.

‘Nice‚’ Idris said‚ smirking at me knowingly. Always knowingly.

‘Yeah‚ it’s alright. Gets me from A to B.’

‘Look at you trying to act cool with your new ride‚ you crack me up.’

‘So‚ what’s the latest? You don’t call‚ you don’t write. Bad guys keeping you busy?’

‘Yeah.’ He smiled. ‘Something like that. Keeps me in a job.’

My phone rang again‚ I looked at the display and frowned. ‘Shit. Parvez!’

‘The Preacher? That Parvez?’ Idris asked.

‘Yep. One and the same‚’ I said‚ weighing up whether to answer it or not. ‘I better get it. It’s the second time he’s called in the space of a minute. Hang on.’

‘He loves you‚ you know that‚ right?’ Idris said‚ poking me in the ribs. ‘He lurves you!’

‘Fuck off.’ I swiped my screen and answered. ‘Yeah‚ Parvez. ’Sup?’

‘Aslamalykum‚ Brother.’ Parvez said. ‘Thanks for helping out today.’ Helping out? I didn’t like the way he said that. He didn’t mean to say it in that way‚ but it came across as a touch patronising and it wound me the fuck up.

‘Of course.’ I said. ‘Thank you for helping out today.’ Yeah‚ that’s right! How you like me now? Two can play that game.

Parvez comes back with. ‘Please‚ Brother. It was my duty‚ my Farz.’

Oh‚ I give up. He played the Farz card. Fine. Whatever. You’re a better Muslim than me. Sanctimony is not becoming. I inserted the key into the ignition and the Bluetooth immediately kicked in and the technology gave me a small thrill as I placed my phone down on the centre console. However‚ my thrill was short lived as Parvez’s voice was now emanating through my Blaupunkt speakers‚ sounding twice as annoying.

‘Am… Am I on speaker?’ Parvez asked‚ at the change in transmission.

‘Yeah… So‚ what’s going on?’

‘Right. So some of the Brothers are assembling at Ali’s Diner at eight tonight.’

‘And?’

‘We need to talk about what happened at the Masjid. Discuss best way forward. Security and that. You know?’

‘Yeah‚ I know‚’ I sighed. I looked at Idris who was predictably shaking his head at me. I turned away from him. ‘What time?’

‘Eight‚ Brother. I’ll see you there‚ yes?’

‘Yeah‚ cool. In a bit.’ I ended the call.

‘Really‚ Jay?’ Idris exclaimed.

‘Uh… Did you not hear what happened at the mosque?’ I asked‚ sounding defensive. ‘I’ve just come from there. It was a state. I helped with the cleaning. Man‚ we turned that place inside out.’

‘So‚ you helped out‚ right?’

‘Yeah‚ course. I was there most of the day. I don’t recall seeing you there.’

‘I was at work‚ you twat. What I’m saying is‚ you’ve done your bit. What is there left to do?’

I shrugged. I was an accomplished shrugger. I had a shrug for every occasion. This one was slight‚ barely a movement‚ a little lift of the shoulders. A shrug that said‚ maybe something‚ maybe nothing.

‘Are you going to track them down with the rest of the Brothers?’ He said‚ and I could just feel the cynicism dripping in his tone. ‘And then what‚ you going to give them a good beating? Maybe someone would be kind enough to stab one of them‚ so this will never happen again.’

‘Look‚ calm down‚ Detective Inspector! Chill‚ man. Take your copper’s hat off for a minute and put on your Paki hat and see it from our point of view. Something like this happens‚ people just need to vent and be around others akin to them.’

I hadn’t realised until I’d finished that I’d raised my voice.

Idris looked at me with elevated eyebrows. ‘Akin?’

‘Yeah‚ fucking akin. I can throw down an akin when the moment takes me. Or do I need a diploma?’

‘All I’m saying‚ Jay… Find another way to help. Sitting in a room full of angry Muslims isn’t healthy. You want to help‚ do it another way.’

‘What other way?’

‘I don’t know‚ Jay. Just another way.’

‘I’m not you‚ Idris‚’ I said.

He looked out of the passenger window‚ I fiddled with the temperature controls on my dash. Silence filled the car. It wasn’t awkward. We were tight enough not to feel the need to fill the airwaves with inane chatter. Silence sat comfortably with us. After a spell I broke it.

‘Is there any heat on me?’

‘No‚ Jay. Not heard any whispers. Just keep discreet and don’t make any stupid moves‚’ Idris said‚ eyes roving all over my car.

‘It’s under Mum’s name. Asian parents are always buying cars for their kids‚ right?’

‘Yeah‚ maybe‚’ he said.

‘What?’

‘What? Nothing!’

‘I know you wanna say something. Say it.’

Idris sighed. Then he shrugged. His shrug wasn’t as good as mine. It was exaggerated‚ shoulders touching his ears. Then he sighed some more.

‘Fuck’s sake. What‚ Idris?’

‘Jay. We go back a long way‚ right? Me and you‚ we’re like brothers. Fuck that‚ we are brothers and I know you better than you know yourself.’

‘Yeah. And?’

‘So‚ I know that you can’t be happy with what you’re doing. You’re smart‚ Jay. You’re one of the most creative guys I know. You can do better than this. Yes‚ you’re making some money but is this what it’s going to be like for the rest of your life? You’re not on our radar because you’re low level but inevitably—’

‘I can’t be doing a Dolly Parton‚ Idris. Starters‚ I got no qualifications. So what are my options? Burger King‚ security guard‚ baggage handler? Nah‚ you’re alright‚ mate. Not for me.’

‘Start a business… A legit business.’

I wasn’t about to tell him about the rented one-bedroom flat in Cranford. Fluorescent lamps‚ bags of skunk seeds and soil‚ the fucking lot. It was a rash decision‚ a moment of grandeur delusions‚ one I realised that I could not have gone through with. I planned to clear it out at my first opportunity.

‘You must have some savings by now‚’ he continued. ‘You’ve been doing this forever.’

I shook my head.

‘What? Nothing?’

‘You’re sitting in it‚’ I said‚ sheepishly.

‘You spent it all on the car?’ He sounded incredulous. I felt stupid. He smiled at me.

A smile laced with sympathy.

4

Kingsley Parker sat alone in a large conference room at the head of the table. He twirled aimlessly in his chair and wondered how many decisions had been made in this very room? How many lives saved and how many lives destroyed? Which number was greater? Parker looked up at the clock and then at his phone‚ which was sitting face-up on the huge table. It rang as he knew it would. He answered on the first ring.

‘Tell me‚’ Kingsley Parker said. ‘How’s our boy?’

*

At Thames House‚ 12 Milbank‚ MI5‚ his colleagues referred to him as Chalk. Parker had earned the nickname in 2003 when he was part of – in his view – the huge joke that was the invasion of Iraq and the search for weapons of mass destruction. A joke with a devastating punchline.

He had been travelling late one night or early in the morning‚ by himself‚ against orders‚ in search of some company. It was a road often travelled by others within his regiment‚ soldiers who missed the touch of a loved one. But it was also a road that‚ at this time of the night‚ was deemed too dangerous to travel. There had been sightings of Iraqi insurgents‚ various reports of kidnappings‚ some which led to the beheadings that were broadcast by the local news stations and online across the world.

It didn’t matter to Parker. He was so strung out from battle that he welcomed the risk. Craved it. He told himself it wasn’t just the sex but the need to be held tight‚ to be embraced‚ and to alleviate the frustration and anger and guilt that consumed him at having to fight such a shitty war.

Parker had drunk deeply but hadn’t quite arrived at drunk. He was singing along to Elvis Costello when his headlights picked out the body of a young girl lying across the road. He smiled to himself as he slowed down. The girl looked to be no older than seven or eight but it was hard to establish as she was curled up into a ball with her back to him. Never had he seen such an obvious set up‚ the body placed just too perfectly. He stopped the car forty yards short and pulled the freshly cleaned Browning handgun from his shoulder holster.

He watched the shadows on either side of the road and from his combats he slipped out a flask and took a generous sip. Parker knew he could continue driving‚ there was enough room either side of the girl to manoeuvre through. But he was tired. Tired of fucking Iraq. Tired of being part of something that had such sharp teeth but no intelligence. The loss of so many homes and lives. The women and the children and the livelihoods. Tired of the trigger he himself often had to pull. Parker knew he had taken out important high-value targets‚ but at what fucking cost? His sleep was punctuated with nightmares and a recurring dream of a nameless‚ faceless boy watching his father mowed down‚ his mother obliterated and his home redecorated. It was waking from that nightmare which had propelled him into a government-issued vehicle‚ down a dangerous track‚ in search of the warm embrace of a warm body.

Parker switched the headlights off‚ and disabled the interior lights which would have illuminated him when he opened the door. Even half-cut he wasn’t going to be anyone’s target. He rolled out of the vehicle and as soon as his boots found purchase on the floor his adrenaline kicked in. He spun away from the vehicle into the dense shadows at the side of the road‚ cocooned by darkness. In his fast-beating heart he knew that this could be the time and place where it all ended for him‚ but maybe that’s the way it had to be. God’s will. Parker was not a religious man but too often recently he had woken petrified that when the time came he really would be cast down into the dark depths of a volcanic hell‚ because he hadn’t used his own God-given mind‚ and instead had just followed orders. The orders that left him looking at shattered bodies.

There was no easy way to do this so he just walked confidently towards the girl. His eyes adjusted to the starry night‚ and with the light of a quarter moon he could see the girl’s shoulders rise and fall ever so slightly. The way she was laid looked as though she had been placed comfortably in bed and had drifted off to sleep‚ after her father had told her a sweet bedtime story‚ about how he would protect her from all the evil soldiers.

Any small doubt that Parker might have had about this being a set-up vanished. Any thoughts he had about this girl being genuinely injured‚ vanished.

Parker closed his eyes and said a simple prayer. Not a rehearsed prayer‚ ripped out of a book‚ but a genuinely heartfelt prayer. He asked to be forgiven. He asked for his family to be protected. But most of all he asked for peace. Parker opened his eyes.

The body had gone.

The girl was now standing on the side of the road glaring victoriously at him. He smiled warmly at her and nodded and then he turned his attention to the three men who were standing in front of him.

The first thing he noticed was that they were all carrying Kalashnikov automatic rifles‚ but it wasn’t this that disturbed him. It was their footwear. They were all wearing US military issue heavy-duty desert boots. Trophies. Were they stolen or crudely removed from a still-warm body? Parker’s eyes travelled up away from the boots and to the bright white cotton shalwar and kameez speckled in fresh dirt which they would have picked up as they lay on their stomachs in the grass‚ hiding and waiting for him to step out of the jeep. Each face was covered tightly with red and white chequered ghutrah scarves.

Three sets of nervous eyes accosted him. Angry‚ accusing‚ reckless. One of them spoke. Parker couldn’t tell which one as the mouth was trapped behind the ghutrah and the sound came out muffled but unmistakeably audible.

‘Put your hands up… Now! Hands in the air.’ The accent heavy and guttural.

Parker slowly put his hands up in the air‚ bent at the elbows. Okay. So this is what death’s door looked like. His life didn’t flash before his eyes‚ instead he thought with regret that he wished he wasn’t wearing his military fatigues. If he’d had a choice he would have wanted to die clean‚ and not covered head to toe in the clothes in which he had shed so much blood.

‘Throw your weapon to the ground. Slowly… Do it now!’ another voice‚ younger‚ instructed.

Rather than do as instructed‚ Parker reached down with his right hand and removed the Browning from the small of his back and brought it down to his side. Gun pointing to the floor‚ his finger caressing the trigger. Three pairs of eyes widened‚ their plan to take him hostage and execute him on film no longer an option. Kalashnikovs moved into shooting position‚ the safety switch notoriously cumbersome to operate.

Kingsley Parker lifted his holding arm and shot the one to his left in the neck and blood sprayed out towards Parker’s face‚ but before the blood had reached him Parker had put a bullet between the eyes of the man in the middle. A burst of fire came from the last man standing but Parker was already moving. He dropped low‚ and as he rolled away his left hand joined his right and steadied the Browning. A quick double tap to the chest dropped the third man.

Parker swung left and trained his gun at the girl. Only her eyes were on him. No risk there. He swivelled back to the men just as they were falling‚ bodies overlapping and twitching momentarily. At first glance it was impossible to establish who the tangled limbs belonged to. Parker covered them with his gun but they were no longer a threat. Just dead men. Fighting a cause.

Somebody’s husband… Somebody’s brother… Somebody’s father.

The fight went out of Parker as quickly as it had arrived. He turned his attention back to the girl. She took a tentative step towards him‚ and another‚ moving faster with each step‚ almost running towards him. Parker holstered his piece and opened his arms knowing she needed him and he needed to hug her‚ that this was the embrace he had been craving‚ the embrace which just for a minute would make him forget where and who he was‚ and would dispel the nightmares.

He felt tears spike his eyes. The little girl ran towards him‚ and with as much force as a child could muster‚ kicked him in the shin and continued running. It was bloody agony and Parker hopped on one leg‚ trying to hold his shin‚ and then stumbled onto the ground on his back.

He laid in the dust and laughed loudly and didn’t care who heard him‚ didn’t care about the fact that there were three dead bodies alongside him with their eyes open staring up into the beautiful night.

It turned out one of the men that he had killed was a high-value target‚ according to the deck of playing cards he carried with him at all times. 9 of Clubs. Mahmud Al-Aziz. When this story did the rounds back at headquarters‚ how he took out three Kalashnikov-carrying Iraqi insurgents with only a Browning‚ his nickname was born. Quick on the draw. Chalk.

That was the last time Kingsley ‘Chalk’ Parker had fired a weapon in anger.

*

A little over a decade later‚ after heavy counselling‚ and after resigning his commission‚ Parker found himself working for MI5.

Demons compartmentalised.

It was due largely to the one man that Parker trusted without question‚ that he had allowed himself back into an ongoing war. Major General Sinclair Stewart had played a big role in convincing Parker and‚ in some part‚ convincing the Director of Counter Terrorism at MI5‚ that Parker would be key in locating and capturing The Teacher‚ their highest target and the leader of the terrorist group Ghurfat-al-Mudarris.

Not much had been known about The Teacher but he was assumed to be responsible for a number of attacks that had taken place‚ solely against the West. Many of those who worked under his command‚ who were involved directly in the attacks‚ were British Muslims‚ based in Luton‚ Blackburn‚ Coventry and London. Some died in the name of religion‚ others were detained. But none spoke. That was the respect that The Teacher commanded from his pupils.

*

‘Some activity‚ sir‚’ said the voice on the phone. His name was Teddy Lawrence. He was new to the job and already pissed off with the bullshit of the no-value‚ no-purpose surveillance he was tasked with. ‘You know about the attack on Sutton Mosque?’

‘I do‚’ said Parker. ‘Our boy was there?’

‘That’s affirmative. For almost five hours. Cleaning operation‚ started small but escalated quickly.’

‘I can imagine… Who do we like for it?’

‘I’m not sure‚ sir. It’s being looked into. Just vandals I guess‚ sir.’

‘This is more than that‚ Lawrence. This could get nasty. It will get nasty. The Muslim community will without doubt take action.’

‘I agree‚ but whatever happens will be domestic. It’s not our place… Not yet.’

‘Anything else?’ Parker asked.

‘There’s a meet tonight at twenty-hundred hours at Ali’s Diner in Cranford‚ West London. Not far from Heathrow Airport.’

‘Keep eyes on our boy. He may make an appearance.’

Hesitation. A barely heard sigh. ‘Yes‚ sir.’

‘What is it?’ Parker asked.

‘We’ve been on him for twenty-one days. He’s low key. Just another dealer. I don’t know what to tell you. Nothing to report‚ nothing sticks out.’

‘Stay on him‚’ Parker instructed. ‘He’s the one.’

5

Ali’s Diner is a place where everyone knows your name. And your business. It’s not often that you see an unfamiliar face in there. Mosque goers‚ students‚ Aunty-Jis and Uncle-Ji’s‚ the Somalis‚ the small Irish contingent that operate out of the neighbouring estate agents‚ all frequent visitors. There are other eateries close by‚ but between Ali’s famous Volcano Burger and the Tawa Chicken Wrap they have no chance of long term survival.

Shishas‚ normally lined up against every wall‚ had been removed and replaced by more chairs and tables. Ali knew it was going to be a busy one‚ and Ali wasn’t one to miss a trick.

He was right‚ the place was rocking. Packed to the rafters. Ali usually flies solo but that day he had a small team of three assisting him. The stench of grease and meat attacked my senses and put me off my fried chicken. It hadn’t even turned eight and there we all were. United. And evidently hungry. The door opened with a jaunty chime‚ all eyes moved in sync towards it and the draught blew in the self-titled badass that is Khan Abdul. He was flanked by two equally mean-looking characters known as The Twins. They weren’t actually twins. In fact they couldn’t have looked more different. It was just a moniker that sounded vaguely cool based on the fact that they did everything together. Khan stood at the door and waited for everyone to take him in. Some of the older lot got up and heartily shook his hand and the younger lot looked up at him in awe‚ not yet having earned the respect to approach him.

Personally‚ I thought he was a twat. I wanted to share that thought with Parvez‚ who was sat opposite me‚ but with the way his mouth was open and his eyes twinkled‚ it was as if a Paki Father Christmas had just walked in.

Khan approached the counter and Ali greeted him with a masala chai. He took it in his meaty hand and sipped from it‚ scoping the room over the rim‚ ready to address his audience. The three of them were dressed almost identically‚ black baggy clique jeans and market-bought black leather jackets. There was enough leather to offend the Hindus and embarrass McDonalds. They looked like they had just stepped out of the nineties. That was my problem with Khan. He had never quite left that era‚ he had never quite grown up.

Around maybe the mid-nineties‚ Khan Abdul was part of the SL1 Crew. A gang mainly comprised of Muslim youths‚ some students and others on the dole. They operated out of Langley‚ Slough. The Holy Smokes and the Tooti Nungs‚ who ran Southall at that time‚ were comprised mainly of Sikhs and Hindus. So‚ not to be outdone‚ some dumb Pakis formed the SL1 Crew and like some fucked up Robin Hood and his Muslim Men‚ they got up to all sorts. But unlike the Smokes and the Nungs‚ they had no agenda. Well‚ no‚ that’s not true. The SL1 Crew did have an agenda. Trouble and Strife.

Local Muslim business encounters non-Muslim competition.

They stepped in.

Mixed relationship between a Muslim and a non-Muslim.

They stepped in.

Racially motivated attacks‚ protection rackets‚ joyriding‚ stabbings. You name it‚ they indulged in it. With pride.

Almost twenty years later‚ in his late forties‚ married with kids‚ Khan is still at it‚ desperately trying to hold on to his reputation. The SL1 Crew had long been forgotten about but Khan still waved the flag for thug mentality. Idiot.

The only reason why Khan is still respected‚ and will be until his days end‚ is because he stabbed the leader of rival gang who had raped a Muslim girl. Instant fucking hero status. It came to light after that it was actually consensual‚ and she only cried rape because she didn’t want her parents to find out. But that’s just details.

I watched him as he stood in front of the counter at Ali’s Diner‚ larger than life and twice as ugly. Ready to hold court.

‘Brothers‚’ Khan started and the room was excited.

‘Soldiers‚’ he continued and the room just about exploded.

I scoped the room and all around me people were hyper‚ some on their feet‚ thumping their chests with their fists‚ others thumping the table. Parvez shouted ‘Allah hu Akbar’ and that just seem to rile them even further and it was continuously repeated and echoed off the walls. This was the kind of reaction you would expect at the end of a decent speech not after two words. I could tell Khan was trying his hardest not to display a shit-eating grin. With open hands he requested for the room to quieten.

‘Our way of life has been compromised. Our religion has been attacked‚’ Khan said‚ clearly pleased with his obviously rehearsed opening gambit. He scratched the side of his stubbled face. ‘So‚ what do we do?’ Khan looked around the room‚ milking it. The question was clearly rhetorical‚ so no suggestions were forthcoming but the anticipation was palpable. ‘Do we continue our peaceful existence and hope that it doesn’t happen again? Or do we send a message out‚ loud and clear? All we want is to abide by the five pillars of Islam. We don’t want any trouble‚ we don’t want to bother you. We just want peace.’

What the fuck did Khan know about the five pillars of Islam? I bet he couldn’t name them. The closest Khan had ever got to Mecca was driving past the Mecca Bingo Hall in Hounslow High Street. I wanted to stand up and challenge him. Embarrass him. But I didn’t because I had grown fond of my teeth.

Idris was right‚ I should have stayed away. I looked at Parvez who was hanging onto every word‚ every letter that was coming out of Khan’s mouth. I looked at my watch‚ aware that I had to see Silas in a few hours. With time to kill‚ I sighed to myself and sloped down in my seat as Khan continued.

‘It wasn’t us that flew into the Twin Towers. We were sitting at home watching Jeremy Kyle or whatever when that shit happened. But yet they continue to blame anyone of colour. That is our bleak future and that is now. This will never end‚ we must stand together side by side‚ hand in hand and build an unbreakable chain. The power of Allah reigning through us‚ and if any of those fucking pig lovers try to penetrate us‚ we will drop them where they stand. Without fear and without consequence‚ because we are protected by the Almighty. No one can touch us. We will no longer be governed by rules and by laws which are designed by the Kafir for the Kafir… So my message to them is simply this: You touch us… We’ll touch you back.’