Ride or Die. Khurrum Rahman
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?’
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 caught myself smiling as his name appeared on the screen.
I wouldn’t say we were friends; he was once my customer and I was once his dealer, that was the extent of our relationship. But I liked him, he was funny as fuck, mostly unintentional as he muddled through life like I once did. He and Imy were close, like only stoner-buddies can be. If anyone could point me in the right direction, it’d be Shaz.
My finger hovered over the screen. I swallowed the guilt at getting him involved and jabbed at his name. The phone rang through my car speakers, and eventually a small voice that I didn’t recognise came through.
‘Hello.’
I turned the volume up a touch. It didn’t sound like Shaz at all. His token greeting had always been a jovial ‘What’s cracking, Jay?’ followed by an inexplicable laugh and a smoker’s cough.
‘Shaz?’ I asked, unsure.
‘Yeah. Alright, Jay?’ he said through a sigh.
‘It’s been time, man.’
‘It has. Look, I’m not looking to score at the moment.’
‘That’s cool,’ I replied. ‘I’m not looking to deal.’ I laughed unnecessarily. He didn’t, unnecessarily or otherwise. I cleared my throat. ‘I wanted to chat to you about some next thing.’
I heard him sniff, as though he’d been crying or maybe he just had a seasonal cold.
‘I haven’t got long, Jay,’ he said softly.
‘What’d you mean?’ I said carefully, wondering if he was ill, as I tried to recall the last time I’d checked my testicles.
‘I’ve got a coach to catch in an hour.’
‘Oh,’ I said, relieved. ‘I just need, like, five minutes, ten, tops.’
He didn’t answer, and whatever he had said up to that point didn’t seem like the Shaz that I knew. Considering the sensitivity of the situation, and the sensitivity coming off him in droves, I figured it would be better to meet him rather than chat about it over the phone. That way he wouldn’t be able to cut me off.