Chapter 160: Ibrahim's childhood - Part six

Ibrahim knocked sharply, the sound echoing in the hallway. A gruff voice called out, "Come in."

They entered, the heavy door swinging shut behind them. The principal, a portly man with a perpetually surprised expression, looked up from his paperwork. He was about to ask why they came but stopped as Ibrahim reached into his backpack.

Born to Witnessing their father's world, Ibrahim pulled out a weapon – not a bulky handgun, but a sleek silver pistol, a Beretta M9. It was pointed directly at the principal's head.

He held it steady, his arm surprisingly unwavering for a boy his age. His finger hovered above the trigger, not yet making contact. One could easily understand that he wasn't unfamiliar with firearms. He had received rudimentary firearm training from a young age, enough to handle the Beretta with a confidence.

Principal's eyes widened as he saw the gun pointed directly at his head. Speech momentarily failed him, and he could only stammer, "B-Boys? What… what are you doing?"

Little Samir stepped forward. "We want to talk, teacher. But if you don't agree…" he trailed off, gesturing towards the gun in Ibrahim's hand.

"Alright, alright," the Principal stammered again, gesturing towards the chairs in front of his desk. "Sit down, boys. Let's talk calmly."

Ibrahim lowered the gun, but kept it close at hand. He and the principal spoke for a few minutes. The surprise was evident on the principal's face. Apparently, even the school's headmaster wasn't aware of Zafar's third child.

The principal finally sighed and reached for a blank sheet of paper. "Alright," he conceded, "Let's get your sister enrolled. Just fill out her details here."

But Ibrahim surprised him again.

"We don't write details on loose paper," Ibrahim said calmly, a hint of his family's ruthlessness peeking through. "Give us a proper admission form. We'll fill that out."

"The forms haven't arrived yet," The principal explained. "Enrollment opens next month. You can enter her details here for now, and we'll transfer them to the form later."

Ibrahim considered this for a moment, "Alright. We'll come back next month with Zainab herself. But remember, this information stays between us. My father can't know about this."

The principal readily agreed and both Rahman brothers left. He slumped back in his chair, a sigh escaping his lips. Ofcourse he had lied. Admissions were indeed open. 

While Ibrahim's threat had been effective, the principal couldn't simply admit Zainab without Zafar's approval. Bypassing protocol for a Rahman child, especially a daughter whom Zafar clearly wished to keep hidden, was unthinkable for him. 

Memories of the Habiba incident years ago were fresh in his mind. He'd witnessed firsthand Zafar's ruthless streak, and the thought of incurring his wrath was terrifying.

He couldn't risk Zafar's wrath, but defying the boys seemed equally dangerous. He had to find a way out, a solution that wouldn't anger either side.

Flipping through the worn pages of a student notebook, he found a scribbled phone number – Zafar's private line.

Principal dialed the number on the telephone sitting on his desk. It was 2002, a time before mobile phones were ubiquitous, and landlines were still the primary mode of communication. He yearned for a clear line. But as the phone rang, a silence greeted him. No dial tone, no ringing – just a dead air. He tried again. Still nothing. Confusion morphed into cold dread as he noticed the culprit – the phone cord. It lay limp on the floor, severed clean. Someone had cut the line.

The door creaked open before he could even process the cut wire. Ibrahim stood there, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

"Who were you calling, Principal?"

This time, Samir was absent. And in Ibrahim's hand was the same Beretta M9.

The pieces clicked into place in the principal's mind. The cut phone line, Ibrahim's solo appearance – it all clicked into place. Ibrahim had outsmarted him, ensuring the call to Zafar wouldn't go through. But when did Ibrahim cut the line? "I... I was just calling a staff member," he stammered. 

Ibrahim's gaze locked onto the gun in his hand. He flipped it expertly but didn't point it at the principal, "Oh really? Seems like you were trying to reach someone else."

The principal could feel sweat trickling down his back. He rose slowly, hands raised in a placating gesture, "No, no. It's not what are you thinking." 

Closing the door with a soft click, Ibrahim walked further into the office. There was no anger in his posture, no outward display of rage. It was his calmness that sent shivers down the principal's spine.

He stopped directly in front of the principal's desk, towering over him. Then, in a voice so quiet it was almost conversational, Ibrahim spoke. "You spend all year lecturing your students about honesty, Principal," he said, each word laced with disappointment. "Yet here you are, caught red-handed in a lie."

Principal's throat constricted. He wanted, desperately, to explain, to plead for understanding. But Ibrahim's quiet condemnation felt heavier than any shout. He calmly attached a silencer to the gun. 

Before the principal could even gasp, a single, choked shot rang out in the enclosed office. The principal slumped back in his chair, lifeless. It was the first time Ibrahim had taken a life, "Don't lie to me again, Principal."

For Zainab, for his beloved sister, he wouldn't hesitate to do it again. In the world he was raised in, taking a life wasn't a big deal, just another consequence of defying the Rahman family. It was a small price to pay for his sister's future, a testament to how far he was willing to go to protect Zainab and her future...

But a coldness crept into his stomach as he realized his plan wasn't perfect. Even if Zainab got into school, the secret wouldn't stay hidden forever. They all lived in the same house. Sooner or later, Zafar would find out that Zainab attending the same school as her brothers. And when that happened, he'd pull her out. 

Now, a new, even bigger problem loomed before him – the principal's body. The school bustled with students and teachers, any one of them could walk in at any moment. 

At fourteen, Ibrahim knew how to handle a gun, how to fight, how to take a life. But no one had ever prepared him for this – what to do with the dead body. Disposing of a body, however, was uncharted territory. He hadn't been trained for this. Fear pricked at his eyes. He was in way over his head. He needed help. There was no way he could involve Zafar in this mess.

Ibrahim wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. With a shaky breath, he stuffed the gun back into his backpack. Then he spun the principal's chair around. The chair, luckily, had wheels, allowing him to position it facing the wall. If someone peeked through the office door, they wouldn't see the lifeless body slumped over. They might thought maybe Principal is resting or sleeping. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it would have to do for now.

Opening the door, Ibrahim peeked out. The hallway was clear, except for a group of students chatting and walking towards the opposite end. His gaze snagged on a familiar figure amongst them – Amir Osman.

Amir was more than just a classmate; he was Ibrahim's closest friend. Pushing against the door, Ibrahim slipped out, closing it softly behind him. He hurried over to Amir, his steps echoing on the polished floor. Grabbing his friend's arm, he pulled him aside, away the other students.

"Amir," Ibrahim rasped, "I… I need your help."

Amir frowned. "What's wrong, Ibrahim? Is everything alright?"

Ibrahim's gaze darted nervously towards the closed office door. Taking a deep breath, he spoke in a hushed tone. "Amir," he began, "I… I need to tell you something. But you have to promise to listen carefully and not freak out, okay?"

Amir's frown deepened. This wasn't like Ibrahim. His friend was usually calm and collected, even under pressure. "Alright," he agreed cautiously. "What is it?"

Ibrahim stared at Amir, his eyes filled with a desperation Amir had never seen before. "It's about the principal," he finally blurted out. "He… he's dead. I killed him. And I don't know what to do with the body."

Amir's jaw dropped. For a moment, he stared at Ibrahim. Then, a flicker of amusement crossed his face. "Is it April Fool's Day again, Ibrahim?" he chuckled, "April 1st was weeks ago!"

Ibrahim stared back. His expression was dead serious. "I'm not joking, Amir. It's real."

Back in the office, the smell of blood hit Amir first. Then, his gaze landed on principal. The man slumped lifelessly in his chair, back to the door as Ibrahim had positioned him. A single bullet wound marred his forehead, a dark blossom blooming red against his pale skin. Blood trickled down his temple, staining his face in a horrifying mask.

"This... this motherf**ker died?!" Amir stammered, "What?!?"

Ibrahim watched him, " Yeah, tell me what to do with the body."

Amir gaped at him. "What do you mean 'what to do'? You're asking me like I'm some kind of serial killer? Do you think I have a Ph.D. in decomposing bodies?!"

Frustration etched itself onto Ibrahim's face. "I'm not kidding, Amir," he snapped. "This is serious."

Amir threw his hands up in exasperation. "Neither am I, Ibrahim! I'm the son of a politician, not some gangster with a body disposal team on speed dial!"

Ibrahim's jaw clenched tight. "So you're just going to leave him here? Someone's bound to find him!"

Amir told, "No, no way. Zafar Uncle will be the first one to know about this mess. We can't leave him like this."

"Then stop yelling and think !" Ibrahim pleaded.

Amir reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. "Here," he said, tossing the pack towards Ibrahim. "Light one up. You look like you could use it."

Ibrahim caught the pack. Smoking wasn't a regular habit for him at that time, more of a social activity shared with his friends on occasion. Amir, on the other hand, had a more established smoking habit.

Taking a cigarette from the pack, Ibrahim fumbled slightly with the lighter Amir offered. Just as he managed to light the cigarette and take a drag, a sound cut through the tense silence – a soft, almost hesitant knock on the office door.

Both boys froze.