Countdown to Terror

Chapter 23

On the way back to the house, Samir took careful note of where they were going. He missed the actual street name, but it was off the Mile End Road towards Newham. If he could get to a phone he could describe their whereabouts in much more detail. The overcrowding problem was solved that day when all transferring occupants from the first house, save for the trio, were shipped out. To where was not explained. This did reduce the tension and propensity for rebellion, but the trio still had no idea of what their mission was to be. All requests for information on the subject were met with a bland reply of ‘you will be advised soon’, which wasn’t very helpful.

They ate reasonably well that night after the shopping trip, with fresh chicken in a curry made by one of the minders who had once worked in a restaurant. It was complemented with salad and poppadums’ with all the trimmings. The original occupants even began to converse with ‘them from up North’, as they were termed. 

There was still no mention of names in the press, and they wondered how long this would continue. It was indeed strange that the Sword of Allah incident had hardly been discussed between them, as though by not being mentioned it had not actually happened. They were all homesick by now, and missing their families. Ali was the more reflective and emotional, and first talked about his mother and aunt and how they could not speak English, before voicing his opinion on the continued subjugation of females in their culture: lack of education, marriage opportunities, etc., which ensured that they remained trapped like moles communicating via tunnels from one section of their community to the other, with little interaction to the world outside.

Ali and Abdullah continued to speculate on the mission and discuss bomb strategy and kidnap techniques. They were still revolutionaries and jihadists. The word ‘terrorist’ was never used among them, and they strangely skirted around the potential of dead bodies as though this could not be a result of their actions.

The next day, Hussein came back to the house, having visited the mosque, and advised that Ibrahim Abelgadar was preaching on Friday and would want to meet with them afterwards. This exciting news pervaded the atmosphere and lifted spirits for the rest of the week.

Unfortunately, history was about to repeat itself. Inevitably in a closeted, all-male situation, the lack of female company had been raised. Unbeknown to the trio and Hussein, one the minders, who was part of a trafficking gang, had arranged for a couple of their girls to be brought round for the night. They were white, obviously underage and vulnerable – probably runaways from care homes, and well drugged up. Both were giggling and appeared tipsy as well, one carrying an alcopop drink. They were spirited into a back room.

There was a mixed reaction. Some of the men were interested and were only too eager to participate in what was the organised rape of underage girls, while the more zealous occupants were angry and astounded that there were such thugs and low-life in their midst. Tension was mounting, and the most pious were baying for blood. No one had seen Hussein – he was out the back and must have heard the commotion. He came storming into the main room, and the trio were automatically drawn to his side. It only took seconds to assess the situation, and the battle lines had already been drawn.

Hussein screamed, ‘Out, you infidels and whoremongers, defilers of children, into the street!’

The two thugs posing as minders stood their ground. The trio had no weapons, although Samir could rely on his martial arts, Abdullah was a bear, and Ali grabbed a folding chair. Curses were made, fingers pointed, and grappling ensued and spilled out into the street. One minder drew a knife and that was it: Hussein roared, an erupting volcano, and the Sword of Allah was drawn again. It was no metaphor: there was blood on the street, and neighbours called the police. It was over in minutes, and the girls were placed in the care of two of the more pious ones until the police arrived. Fortunately, no one was killed but the casualty department at the local hospital would be busy that night.

They regrouped and there were groans all round as Hussein advised them that they were on the move again. Blood was seeping through his shirt from a gash on his sword arm, Samir was limping from a kick to the thigh, and Ali had a cut to the head where his own weapon, the metal chair, had been wrestled from his grasp and used against him.

The next house was not far away. Samir in particular wondered who owned all these houses and why there were so many single young men needing short-term accommodation. The wondering didn’t last long: concerns about how he could extricate himself from the mess he was in quickly came flooding back. He had to get back to his uncle somehow