Leave No One

By Adrian David

Toronto — June 2017

The summer breeze caresses the park, making the birch leaves rustle. Clouds scud across the afternoon sky, and birds flutter from bough to bough, their dulcet chirps filling the air.

A tall man saunters across the grass, glancing left and right, eyes narrowed and shrewd. He lowers himself onto an empty bench and adjusts his white-knitted skullcap. One hand strokes his long, scraggly beard while the dark pockets under his eyes highlight his recent string of sleepless nights. He digs his smartphone out of his jeans pocket and swipes right, intent on whatever piqued his curiosity.

Observing the man from behind a tree, Trevor abandons his daily run. Although the bearded man is a regular in the park, Trevor has considered him odd since the first time he caught his attention.

The bearded man’s irregular yet predictable routine makes him a target for scrutiny. Every day, without fail, this man sits on the bench and fiddles with his prayer beads while reciting some incantations. Often, he makes a series of phone calls, one after another, looking anxious but determined.

The ‘not-so-normal’ behaviour he exhibits is why Trevor watches him.

Others in the park enjoy the scenery, have a doughnut or a cup of coffee while reading the morning paper, or run with the sun beaming down on them. The man on the bench eats nothing—drinks from no cup, not even a bottle of water.

Above all, the most striking detail about the man is that he’s one of them. And Trevor harbours a deep dislike for them. He feels they ruin his dear Canada, one of the best—no, the best—country to live in on the planet. A blemish in an otherwise beautiful painting. Just a week back, they orchestrated a terrorist attack on the London Bridge, killing eleven.

Trevor could feel the apprehension in the air. The living dragon of terror breathing down his neck.

The world is in danger. Trevor is watching out for them for the sake of his country. But despite clearly being ‘dangerous’, employers seem to prefer them for the plum jobs, turning him down. Life has been tough since Trevor’s dishonourable discharge from the Canadian Armed Forces two years back. Three reprimands due to anger management issues prompted his abrupt change of career. He’s been struggling to find a proper job and make ends meet ever since. He always blamed the root cause of the problem—the immigrants, especially them, who have become an expanding statistic in their workforce, making the life of the average Canuck harder.

Trevor gathers his thoughts and focuses on the bearded man. Anytime now, he expects him to make a phone call. So far, his attempts to eavesdrop on the man’s conversation have been fruitless. Today, however, Trevor is hell-bent on finding out what’s going on. With bated breath, he turns on the voice recorder app on his phone before activating silent mode. He pulls out a rolled newspaper from his jacket and slips the phone inside, concealing the device.

All set for the mission, Trevor jogs at a casual pace towards the target so as not to arouse suspicion. His sneakers hit the ground in a smacking rhythm.

Eyes narrowed, he reaches the other side of the bench, stopping under the guise of tying his shoelace. As the bearded man fidgets with his phone, Trevor places the newspaper on the seat and tightens his shoelace before slowly jogging back to the tree.

As he reaches the tree, the bearded man’s phone rings, making Trevor’s nerves fray. Rapid-fire Arabic erupts from the man’s lips; he barely breathes as he listens to the person on the phone. He hangs up after a few minutes, eyes bright with determination. The man rubs his palms in anticipation and begins leaving the park swiftly. He has to be up to something.

Trevor rushes to the bench, retrieves his phone, and slips the newspaper back in his jacket. He looks around in panic when he realizes the man is nowhere to be seen. How did he move so quickly? Trevor runs past the gate.

There he is! He catches sight of him, relief flooding through his body.

The bearded man climbs into a black SUV and drives away. Not wasting another second, Trevor gets into his sedan and turns the key in the ignition. He slams the car into drive and tails the man from a safe distance. He switches on his Bluetooth headset and plays the recorded audio. Shallow breathing accompanies his racing heart.

The bearded man’s hoarse voice resounds in his ears, starting with the quintessential greeting, ‘As-salaamu alaikum.’ The rest of the back-and-forth conversation between him and the mystery caller is unintelligible to Trevor since he doesn’t understand Arabic. Nevertheless, he listens to each word with intense focus. He slams the steering wheel with the heel of his hand as the name ‘Trinity Bellwoods Park’ comes through loud and clear.

The recorded conversation is on the verge of ending. The bearded man breathes heavily and says, “Allahu Akbar!” before disconnecting.

As the last phrase lands in his ears, Trevor’s face flushes with recognition, and his heart pounds. What the hell!

Sensing something wrong, he dials Carl, his friend and fellow veteran.

“Hey, Carl. There’s this guy who’s acting weird.  I need you to do something real quick.”

“What happened?” crackles the voice over the Bluetooth headset.

“You served in Libya and Iraq, right? How good is your Arabic?”

“Well, I get by. Not fluent though.”

“Cool. Good enough.” Trevor bites his lip, steering his car. “I’ll send you a voice recording. Text me what you can translate pronto.”

“No sweat, Trev. I’m on it.”

Hanging up, he takes a right turn and follows the suspect. The black SUV travels through the quiet streets, eventually coming to a halt in front of a low-terraced building. An equally suspicious bearded man, one of them, walks towards the car from an alley, carrying two large black bags. He opens the trunk and heaves them inside. He then shuts the trunk and clambers into the passenger seat. The car is in motion once again.

A notification alarm rings. With one hand on the steering wheel, Trevor reads the text from Carl.

Translation:

Hello, it’s me Ayoub. I am ready for today’s mission.

All this is nothing new to us.

It is the same thing we did back home in Damascus.

God willing, we will do it again over here.

Don’t forget the time and location.

Trinity Bellwoods Park. 2 PM.

I will pick up the bags soon.

We will finish our work and quickly leave for the next spot.

Last time, we couldn’t target many people.

This time, God willing, we will leave no one.

Remember, we are doing this for the greater good.

Let us pray our plan runs smoothly without complications.

God is great.

Trevor’s eyes widen as he finishes reading the text. Shit, he’s Syrian. Bet he’s ISIS. A chill runs down Trevor’s spine. Before he can plan his next step, he receives a call from Carl.

“What the fuck?! This is crazy as hell!”

“You’re telling me!” Trevor bares his teeth.

“Trev, you gotta call the cops before shit hits the fan.” Carl’s voice shakes.

“Don’t worry, Carl.” Trevor tightens his grip on the shifter and accelerates the car. “I’ve got this.”

The black SUV pulls in front of the Hamza Mosque, about three kilometres away from Trinity Bellwoods Park.

The bearded man gets out along with his ‘accomplice’. They enter the mosque and disappear into a sea of skullcap-sporting heads. The call to prayer resounds through the loudspeakers.

Trevor sucks in a breath, his mind recalling that fateful day in October 2014 when his fellow soldier, Nathan Cirillo, became a victim of a terrorist attack at Parliament Hill. Trevor could still hear the news anchor’s voice echoing in his ears. ‘Breaking news. Gunman storms Parliament. Soldier standing guard at the National War Memorial shot dead. Sources say the perpetrator is suspected to be an ISIS supporter.’

This could be the same; he could stop this. He could be the one who saves everyone. He could have a purpose in life; he could feel something real again.

He would do it for Nathan and all the other casualties of radical terror that had been brought onto his native land by them.

He pulls out a cigarette and lights it. A plume of smoke wafts from his lips. Ottawa, Paris, Copenhagen, London, and now, they are targeting Toronto. I won’t let this happen. Not in my lifetime. Blood feels hot in his cheeks, his nostrils flare like a raging bull. He contemplates calling the cops and busting the terrorists, but he brushes away the idea. No, I’m gonna bring these fuckers down myself and make them regret coming to this country in the first place.

His eyes catch hold of the rolled copy of the Toronto Sun near him. He shoots a death stare at Justin Trudeau, who’s smiling on the front page. “All this is because of you and your fucking policies. We should never have elected a pretty-boy drama teacher like you,” he fumes. Taking a drag, he stubs his cigarette on the Prime Minister’s face. “You allowed the Syrian refugees into our country in hordes. Now, they’re showing their ‘gratitude.’”

As he gazes at the street, he sees a crowd of worshippers leaving the mosque. The bearded men he’s been following break off from the throng and make their way to the black SUV.

Foot on the accelerator, Trevor follows the large vehicle, staying back two car lengths to avoid being seen.

The SUV stops a block away from Trinity Bellwoods Park. The bearded man exits the car and signals to the trunk. His accomplice opens it and retrieves the heavy black bags.

They each throw a bag over their shoulders. With an affirmative nod, they walk towards the park with short, quick steps.

Trevor steels himself for the inevitable. He opens the glove compartment and pulls out his licensed handgun. He loads the magazine with bullets and clenches his jaw. Now, even Allah can’t save you from dying at my hands.

He conceals the gun inside his jacket and exits his car. Blowing a series of quick breaths, he follows the bearded men.

Heat flushes through his body, and the tendons rise in his neck. Leave no one, huh? I’m gonna kill you both and leave your bones for the dogs, you sick fucks.

The bearded men enter their target location. The park is filled with people—walking, running, rollerblading, biking—perhaps fifty, maybe more, if the homeless are included.

After walking deeper into the park, the men come to a stop. So does Trevor, who’s standing a few feet behind them.

The bearded men look at each other and nod with confidence. They unsling their bags, on the verge of opening them.

This is the moment Trevor’s been waiting for. He feels his handgun inside his pocket, finger on the trigger. Any moment now, a bullet will pass through their immigrant heads as soon as they get their weapons out. He takes a stance, balancing his weight carefully.

Beads of sweat slide down his forehead. His heart races, and his muscles stiffen as he watches them without batting an eyelid, determined to prevent the terrorists from wreaking havoc. He doesn’t care about the consequences. After all, he’s doing it for his country.

The bearded men unzip their bags and—to Trevor’s utter surprise—take out Styrofoam food containers.

The tall man walks towards the homeless and distributes the containers along with plastic cutlery, flashing a wide smile. The other man helps him pass the containers from the bags. He chats with the homeless people as he passes out the food containers.

A homeless man’s eyes light up with gratitude. People take the containers and nod, then press them to their chests protectively as if it’s manna from heaven.

What?! Disappointed, Trevor kicks the grass. He stands right there, incredulous at the scene before him. He sighs and shrugs. A jumbled stream of thoughts distracts him until he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Good afternoon,” comes a voice with a thick Arab accent.

Trevor turns back to find the man he despised all this while.

“I am Ayoub.” He extends his hand. “Dr. Ayoub.”

Trevor surrenders and clasps his hand. He feels two inches tall.

“I noticed you standing here and observing us. So, I thought of saying hi.” The man, who he had suspected of being a terrorist, disarmed him with his politeness.

Trevor fumbles through his next words. “Err… I was… I was just seeing what you were doing,” he blurts out.

A streak of sunlight lands on Ayoub, accentuating his olive-skinned face. “Ramadan is a time we remember those who are without shelter or food.” He points to the food containers. “We are privileged because we know for certain we shall have food prepared for us when we have iftar. But not them. They never know when their next meal is coming or where from.”

“Oh!” A tsunami of shame crashes over Trevor, threatening to drown him. A lump forms in his throat. His eyes, heavy with guilt, face the ground.

“Excuse me.” Ayoub turns back and motions to his friend, who’s distributing the remaining food containers to the homeless people thronging around him. “Yakub, remember what I said. Leave no one. Inshallah, no one goes hungry.”

Yakub flashes a thumbs-up and resumes handing out the food.

Ayoub turns back to face Trevor. “Where are my manners? I totally forgot to ask you.”

“Ask me what?” Trevor rubs his chin.

Ayoub says something to Yakub in Arabic, and within seconds, a food container is in his hands. He smiles at Trevor. “You look tired. Here, have some food.”

“No, thank you.” Trevor shakes his head and clears his throat. “I’ve already got enough food for thought.”

“Please.” Not paying heed, Ayoub pushes the food container into his hand. “It is cooked by ummee. I mean, my mother. Really delicious.”

“Thank you.” Trevor reciprocates with a tight-lipped smile, trying hard to fight back tears. “And keep up the good work.”

Giving a courteous nod, he walks away with a container of food and a change of heart.

***

If you do good, you do good to your own souls.

Surah Al-Isra 17:7,

The Holy Quran

 

Adrian David writes ads by day and short fiction by night. He dabbles in genres including suspense, psychological drama, slice-of-life, and everything in between, from the mundane to the sublime.