East of Hounslow. Khurrum Rahman

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