“No; a pair was probably set free a few years ago and have bred in the wild.”
“Ah.”
“You’ve travelled a bit, what’s the most unusual bird you’ve seen?” Barry asked.
“I’ve seen lots. I think that I like the Abyssinian Roller best.”
“What’s that like?”
“Sort of like your Magpie in size and shape, but with blue and turquoise colouring. The male has a long tail.”
“Where did you see that?”
“West Africa; Ghana.”
“I didn’t think we got them this far north.”
So began a conversation pertaining to birds. Barry turned out to be a real twitcher, belonging to no less than three clubs in the area. His favourite one was the Chiltern Ornithological Society (COS) that operated out of Chesham Bois in Buckinghamshire. He told Ben about the various hides they had dotted around the region, plus shelters and other facilities for the members.
One weekend, while Shamin was committed to a family function, to which Ben was neither invited nor welcome, Ben accompanied Barry on a day out. This time it was to watch the Red Kites in the Chiltern Hills.
The red kites were a success story verging on a disaster. Back in the 1970s, it was discovered that the red kites were vanishing from the UK.
A few breeding pairs were introduced to the fringes of Buckinghamshire and Oxfordshire, along the ridge that marked the western fringe of the Chiltern Hills.
Forty years later, the numbers had grown phenomenally to the point that the local farmers were threatening to shoot them, despite them being protected.
They were spectacular birds, looking like large birds of prey. In fact they were scavengers, normally after carrion rather than live prey. However, they were not adverse to taking young rabbits or the young of other birds straight from the nest.
One of the hide/shelters they visited was in the middle of woodland in which the kites were known to nest and breed.
Ben remembered the route and that there were no houses or farms anywhere near the shelter. The land was owned by the Forestry Commission, managed by Forest Enterprise, and given over to the local people for their restricted usage by bird watchers, a few horse trails and some public footpaths upon which dog-walkers and ramblers would walk. The actual woods in which the COS birdwatchers had access, were not given over to other groups, as the breeding pairs of Red Kites were protected and therefore public access was restricted.
It was a simple matter of opening an unmarked gate and driving down a passable track through the woods to get to an isolated shelter that was rarely visited by anyone other than a few bird-watchers. The Forestry Commission were not going to get round to harvest these woods for another ten years at least.
This was an ideal location to store stuff until they needed them. If found, then there was no way of linking them to the evidence, so it was safer than any garage in London where there was always a possibility of being watched from some building. Here there were no witnesses.
He visited the spot three times, on random days at random times. He never saw a soul. On the third time, he brought a spade and dug a pit, using a piece of plywood he found in the garage as a lid. He covered it over and left it.
A week later, he borrowed a van from a friend who ran a small grocers shop, promising to have it back before work on the next day. He and Shamin moved the fertiliser and drove out in the middle of the night to hide the containers in the pit. He noted that nothing had been disturbed, so he felt this was a foolproof location.
He arrived back at the flat, feeling very tired. To his dismay he saw a familiar Mercedes parked in the road outside the shops.
Omar, Shamin’s father, had a personalised number plate, so it was an easy car to recognise.
Sure enough, as he went up the stairs at the back, he saw Omar standing at the top waiting for him. He was a tall man, wearing a smart grey suit and silk tie. He was also overweight, and wore tinted spectacles. He wanted to look like a mafia boss, but looked like the fat shop owner that he was.
“Omar,” he said, not certain what to expect from the man
“I need to speak with you.”
This was the longest speech Omar had ever had with Ben.
“Come in then,” he said, opening the door to the flat.
The flat was neat and tidy; Shamin saw to that.
“Tea?”
“No.”
Ah, it’s going to be like that.
“What do you want?” he said, playing the same game.
“I want you to leave my daughter.”
“Why should I do that?”
“While you are with her, she will never reach her full potential.”
“Why don’t you allow her to judge that?”
Omar ignored him.
“How much will it take to persuade you to leave?”
“More than you’ve got, or ever likely to get. I’m not interested.”
“You must understand that I am serious. I do not want you around my daughter.”
“She’s an adult, and in this country as well as most other countries, what you want or don’t want is irrelevant.”
“I am prepared to give you fifty thousand pounds to leave her today. What do you say?”
“Go away.”
“Sixty.”
“If you went up to a million, I’d still tell you to fuck off. This is not up for negotiation.”
“You will find that you might regret saying that to me. I have friends.”
Ben went very still.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, a dangerous edge crept into his words.
“I have friends who can make things very difficult for you.”
“Are you threatening me, old man?”
Omar looked uncertain for the first time in the exchange.
“Not at all, but if the word gets out that you are, how shall we say? A person who is not honourable? Then accidents happen.”
Ben looked away for a moment. The anger inside of him grew. He knew the feeling, and tried to control it. He watched as his hand began to shake.
He stayed silent, not daring to move. He could easily kill this man, but that could be disastrous.
“Well?”
When Ben replied, his voice was that of someone different. It was a cold voice, devoid of humanity.
“For every friend you have, I have a legion. Only my friends are not fat shop keepers, or business men in fancy cars and silk ties. My friends are warriors, fighting for the cause. Mark me well, old man, if you see me coming, you would be advised to walk in the opposite direction. The last man who threatened me was found in a well in Syria with his genitals in his mouth.
“For me, there is no such thing as an accident. They do not just happen. If I want someone to die, then I make it happen. I do not threaten, I make promises. There is a difference. Do you understand old man?”
“You can’t speak to me like that!”
“I will not speak to you again. Shamin is my woman. That is the end of the matter. I seek no blessing from you, but know that if you move to try to take her from me, you and all your family will die. That is my promise, not a threat. Now, go to your fancy car and don’t come back here again.”
Ben turned his back on Omar. He did not watch as the man left, but turned and closed the door quietly.
Omar sat in his car for many minutes, feeling his heart rate racing. He waited for it to slow, and for himself to calm down.
Omar had not been as frightened as that, ever. Finally, he started the car and slowly drove away. He did not see Ben watching him go. He drove past the police station, heading into London. Ben smiled and went to bed.
The constable was bored, but was trying not to show it.
“What makes you think your daughter’s boyfriend is a terrorist, sir?”
Omar had gone into his local police station in Ealing, as he was passing. He stated that he wanted to report someone as being a suspected Al-qaeda terrorist.
PC Ronald Fisher took all the details, including contact details and told the man he would pass it to those who dealt with such things.