Out of the Silence

by Owen Mullen

  Suddenly she realised she wasn’t alone.

  Zamir stood in the doorway. He grinned. The girl was unafraid, past the point where her safety concerned her. It was all too clear. Zamir hadn’t been unwell, that had been a ruse. ‘Can I help you, Zamir?’ Her voice was clear and strong.

  The brother couldn’t know death held no threat for her. All he saw was a way to redress the injustice of his life. When he dominated her he’d be asserting his place in the family.

  And at last, a battle he could win.

  The thought inspired his sickness. His brother’s wife would pay for the pain of being the second son. He took a step forward, his mouth dry. For Afra, here was something to lash out at after the abuse borne without protest. When the brother crossed the line he’d find her waiting.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  He moved further into the room and lunged at her. Rather than escape, she met his force with her own. The weariness fell away in a rush of anger. They struggled in the middle of the floor. Afra’s fingers tore skin from Zamir’s arms. He howled and hauled her off her feet. Opposition was unexpected, his assault needed to leave no sign otherwise he’d be unmasked. They fell, Afra on top. He lost his grip. She struck him on the side of the head. Hard blows.

  Zamir had the most awful thought of his life. Could this kitchen waif defeat him? He mustn’t let that happen; the last scraps of his self-worth screamed against it. His tortured mind drove strength back in a crazy rush. He threw the emaciated body across the kitchen’s stone floor, scampering after it like an animal. Afra’s head hit the ground. Zamir tried to strangle her but she broke free. Her eyes fixed on her attacker, filled with rage equal to his own.

  Desperate souls struggling to square the inequality of their lives.

  He straddled her exhausted, semi-conscious body, panting and sweating and ripped her underclothing away. Zamir had won. Afra lost her strength as victory brought him a fresh supply. He dragged his clothes off. She searched for the place she ran to when Quasim towered above her and fled in her mind to a dusty village in the Punjab.

  tomorrow, then?

  She whispered to a nervous boy kicking stones. ‘Tomorrow.’

  Zamir didn’t hear, he was where he was feared and respected, where his word was law. The rise and fall of the girl’s breasts told of the battle she’d fought and lost. Zamir’s success coursed through his veins, filling the emptiness in him. He was the winner, a hero with the strength of ten. A god.

  He forced his victim’s legs apart. Afra waited for the final degradation.

  Nothing happened.

  She opened her eyes. His arms tied her to the ground but his face showed pain greater than her own; contorted and lined, fractured by a dawning humiliation worse than any he could inflict on her. Zamir cried, helpless, childlike. He buried his face in her shoulder and wept against her neck. The winner had become the loser. His life-force shrank away unspent.

  Afra realised she could be in greater danger. When the monster put aside his self-pity he’d cast around to find an outlet for his rage. She squeezed from under his body shuddering with the shame of impotency. Zamir continued his lament, more alone than the friendless slave running from the room to hide in the heights of the house.

  Next morning, when Afra brought the breakfast to the table she was afraid to look at Zamir. She needn’t have worried. Her husband’s brother was just as reluctant to acknowledge her, using a newspaper to shield himself. The failed abuser melted into the family group, content for the moment to bide his time and nurse his hatred, husbanding it the way others kept odd buttons, for the day it was sure to be needed.

  Chapter 14

  Gulzar heard his son on the telephone to the bank and realised it was time to step aside. Jameel spoke with the confidence of someone who knew his business. And he did; from the bottom to the top.

  He’d arrived in Lahore, a dreamer of small dreams: a broken-hearted refugee with an ambition to be a dishwasher in his great uncle’s restaurant. After six months, he’d achieved his modest goal. During the day, he studied with Pir, while at night he washed dishes, mopped kitchen floors, and fell into bed dog-tired. Hours later the process began again. From there he progressed to peeling potatoes and preparing vegetables, boning chicken breasts and carefully shelling prawns.

  He asked no special treatment and got none. Nobody toiled harder than the young man from Mundhi.

  It took Pir three and a half years to complete his work. One day he announced himself satisfied and left. Then the real learning began with a less-forgiving master. Gulzar lived and breathed his empire and insisted his protégée do the same. His philosophy – Jameel was to discover he had one for every occasion – was simple, and he voiced it again and again. It was his mantra: “Attention to detail. A thousand small tasks done well. Anyone can be mediocre. Let’s be proud of what we do, eh?”

  In the fifth year he became Gulzar’s deputy. They went on walks together round the city, sampling food, discussing problems with the managers and experiencing the customers’ experience. Gradually the older man faded into the background as Jameel’s stronger younger hands took the reins.

  The call ended, Jameel replaced the receiver.

  ‘Congratulations. You’re ready. At the end of the month you’ll become the MD. I won’t be hard to find if you need me. I’m certain you won’t. It’s all yours, now.’

  Jameel wasn’t as surprised as he appeared, he’d seen this coming but was shrewd enough to play his part. ‘Are you sure I’m ready?’

  ‘More than ready. I’ve gone as far as I can. The business needs fresh blood. I’ve watched you thinking, scribbling away. Time to let whatever’s going on in your head out into the world.’

  His son nodded. ‘I’ve been waiting for the right moment to say it. We should move into the hotel sector. We’d need a partner of course. Vertical expansion it’s called.’

  Gulzar smiled: this from the boy who only a few years ago hadn’t eaten in a restaurant. ‘Is it? No rush. Put your proposal on paper and we’ll discuss it. Anything you need, just ask.’

  ‘As a matter of fact there is something. Someone.’

  -------

  Mohamed Abdul Quadir’s smile was warm. He came towards his visitor and shook his hand. ‘Jameel. Gulzar talks about you all the time. How is the old rascal?’

  ‘He’s fine. I want to speak about Ali.’

  ‘Really? Let’s sit down and you can tell me.’

  ‘Ali’s been with you a long time. He’d never leave if he felt he was letting you down. I’d like to ask him to work with me – he’ll say no of course. Unless he has your blessing.’

  ‘And what can you offer him that I cannot?’

  ‘You have a large family. Ali won’t rise above his present position. I intend to make him my right hand. Not just an employee, an important part in an expanding business.’

  ‘Does Gulzar know?’

  ‘Yes. He supports my decision as long as I haven’t risked your friendship.’

  ‘You and Ali are close. You’ll make a great team. He’s the best manager I’ve ever had. I’ll be sorry to lose him.’

  ‘You won’t be losing him, you’ll be helping him. And me.’

  Ali appeared and embraced Jameel. ‘Come for some decent food for a change?’

  Jameel laughed. ‘I want more than that. Walk with me.’

  His friend didn’t ask where they were going, as always he just grinned. When they came to the heavy dark wood door with the gold plaque in the centre Jameel bowed and opened it. ‘Where it began, remember?’

  ‘I remember all right.’

  They sat at a table and ordered vegetable pakora. Ali became serious. ‘Why have you brought me here?’

  ‘Can’t you guess?’

  ‘I’d rather you tell me.’

  ‘Okay. How often have we talked about how great it would be to work together?’

  ‘Very often. But that’s all it is, talk. It isn’t going to happen and we both know it.’

/>   ‘Wrong. I’m offering you the chance to make it happen. There’s a job with your name on it. Come and work for Ravi Restaurants.’

  Ali shook his head. ‘I already have a job, Jameel.’

  ‘Not like this.’

  ‘I’m flattered of course but Mr Quadir depends on me.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Mohamed. We have his approval if you’re willing.’

  ‘I’d love to manage one of your places, who wouldn’t?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not what I have in mind.’ He heard himself and was reminded of Gulzar shaking him awake on his first morning in Lahore.

  plans for your new life, my boy

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I have an idea, a big idea and you will be part of it. We already have enough restaurants. I intend to go into the hotel business. How does assistant general manager for the group sound?’

  -------

  The air was cool, cold even; winter was on its way. Afra shivered, fully-clothed under the single sheet. Her teeth chattered; her feet were stone. If she didn’t fall asleep soon, she’d creep downstairs and spend what remained of the night by the kitchen stove.

  In the darkness, the creak of the floorboard was like a gunshot. Someone was climbing the staircase, testing each step. Not Quasim, he had no reason to conceal his approach or his intentions.

  Her mind searched for an alternative and shuddered. Zamir. She’d been lucky the first time. She pulled the cover away, dog-tired and hopeless. There was no window in the room, otherwise Afra would’ve opened it and jumped.

  The floorboard groaned again. An unlocked door was all that stood between her and the madman, come to complete what he’d started. This time, he’d make no mistake.

  No fury raged through her now, that torrent had passed, but when Afra fled the kitchen she’d taken something with her, and kept it near. The footsteps stopped. Zamir stood on the other side. The rusted handle turned. She crouched to meet the intruder, her hand closed round the kitchen knife.

  Afra sensed rather than saw him and drove the short sharp point into the dark as hard as she could. He screamed. Steel sliced flesh a second time. He screamed again. Zamir fought to find the door, panicked by the pain his attacker had inflicted, fearing more and worse. He crashed out of the room and down the stairs with no thought of stealth. Afra ran her finger along the blade and smiled. It was wet.

  In the morning, she washed the knife and put it with the others. Twice she’d repelled Zamir, perhaps there was a force watching over her after all. Maybe the power Jameel had spoken of. She carried the breakfast plates into the dining room. Everyone was there. Zamir ignored her.

  Thirty minutes later Mrs Dilawar Hussein left, then Quasim. Neither knew anything of the second son’s ambitions. If they had, Afra would be deemed as guilty as her attacker. Both would suffer for dishonouring Quasim.

  Zamir and Firdos were last to go. The youngest son was reluctant to put weight on his left leg. Afra had been mistaken, it hadn’t occurred to her the attacker might be Firdos. Her situation was worse than she had imagined. Better to have it ended. These men wouldn’t forget. And where there had been one smarting animal, now there were two.

  -------

  Seven years after Afra’s mother sold her into slavery, Chandra told a lie. Not a new experience for the Dilawar Hussein daughter, but what it brought couldn’t be undone.

  One evening Afra strolled in the garden between the tall palms and frangipane. The staccato racket of a broken exhaust made her look towards the traffic. At first, she didn’t see Chandra or the man talking by the gates. When the couple registered with her weary brain she dismissed them. Whatever the daughter did was nothing to do with her. She lifted the cage – the bird had been silent today; the taste of freedom hadn’t been enough to make it sing. Afra took a last look at the sky and reluctantly went inside to begin the final preparations for dinner. Chandra’s companion was tall like her, dressed in western-style clothes. They spoke in animated whispers, his eyes never leaving her face. She was as taken with him. They gave their attention to each other, relishing their status of fascinating and fascinated creatures.

  They stood inside the open iron gates, so involved they failed to notice Quasim’s car edging through the traffic. When Chandra saw it she ran to the house and the man walked away before the head of the Dilawar Hussein family turned into the drive. The vehicle braked at the front door, screeching tyres spraying gravel. Quasim jumped out, looking to where the stranger had been. ‘Chandra! Chandra! Here! At once!’

  Quasim stormed into the main room, impatient for his sister to obey. Waiting stoked his anger. Chandra appeared, surprised and perplexed. She faked concern. ‘Quasim, what’s wrong?’

  Her brother wasn’t a man for games unless he made the rules. ‘Who was that man? Don’t lie, I saw him. Who is he?’

  Chandra was at the crossroads. The fork chose itself. ‘What man? There’s no one here but me.’

  ‘I saw him.’ Quasim spoke with quiet certainty. ‘At the gate, I saw him.’

  Chandra knew his volcanic temper, and understood the need to take care. She answered with respect. ‘Brother, you saw someone but please believe me. I know nothing about a man. Where was this person?’

  ‘In the garden.’

  The head of the family was unused to being questioned. Chandra was smarter than her brothers but they wouldn’t discover that from her. ‘I haven’t been in the garden today. It’s too hot.’

  ‘There was a man.’

  ‘What did he look like?’ She used the question to distance herself.

  ‘He was tall. Well-dressed. I didn’t see his face. He made off as soon as I arrived.’

  His sister realised she was safe; he’d witnessed nothing.

  ‘How strange,’ Chandra said, playing the role of Quasim’s partner in solving the mystery, covering her tracks by hiding in plain sight. ‘What business could anyone have in the garden? Unless – ’

  ‘What? Unless what?’

  His sister shook her head knowing her next words would set her free. ‘You saw a man in our garden. You assumed he was there to meet me.’

  Quasim listened. His sister smiled. How easy he was to manipulate. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What if this stranger was meeting someone else?’

  ‘Who? There’s no one here.’

  Chandra let him get there by himself, that way he’d stay convinced. Quasim struggled to the obvious conclusion. She helped him, and watched his lip curl in distaste.

  ‘No one? Not no one, brother.’

  -------

  The water churned in a rolling boil; the vegetables were almost ready to drain.

  ‘Afra.’

  She jumped, startled, and turned to see an unusual sight: Quasim. He never came to the kitchen. Apart from their mother, none of the family did.

  ‘Quasim. I didn’t hear you.’

  He pointed to the pots crowding each other on the stove. ‘Busy, I see. Always so busy, eh?’

  Afra knew better than reply, she detected anger in him and saw it in the tightness of his jaw. Quasim surveyed the scene. ‘It’s a beautiful day outside. Sunset is such a relaxing time, so comforting.’ He paused. ‘And so romantic.’

  He ran a fingertip over the kitchen table inspecting it for dust; from a man as cruel as Quasim Dilawar Hussein it was a terrifying gesture. This was not the Quasim who used to creep into her bed for five minutes.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s romantic, Afra?’ His tone made her sick with dread. Her husband rarely called her by name. She stood fixed to the spot, not certain what the right answer might be. He moved closer and glanced at the spluttering water.

  ‘Were you in the garden earlier?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I often walk there; it washes the tiredness out of me.’

  Quasim wanted to kill her.

  He closed the few feet between them, grabbed a handful of her hair and dragged her to the stove. Afra’s cries echoed in the kitchen as a hundred shafts of pain cut into her head
. He forced her face into the largest pot. Water boiled inches from her face. Tiny droplets stung her cheek. She felt her skin blister. ‘Quasim, please! What have I done?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He tightened his grip. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Nothing, Quasim! Nothing!’

  The head of the Dilawar Hussein family calmly tortured his wife. Her cries, her pain, left him unmoved. He pushed her head lower. ‘Who was the man you met in the garden?’

  She screamed. ‘No one! No one! I met no one!’

  As fast as the attack began it stopped. Afra collapsed on the stone floor, her body rocking in anguish. Quasim towered over her, emotionless; indifferent to the damage he’d inflicted. His polished shoes were covered in a film of dust. ‘I believe you,’ he said, and left.

  At the end of dinner he spoke to his brothers. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  Zamir and Firdos didn’t ask why, they’d know soon enough. Fear crawled through both of them and for the same reason. They’d heard the screams, the crying and the pleading, and worried their assaults had been revealed. Only Chandra was detached. She felt nothing for the woman’s trouble and had already forgotten she was the cause.

  The men moved into a room of couches and divans. Quasim said, ‘Brothers, I have a dilemma and I need your help. Tonight a man was inside the gates. I saw him and he ran. At first, I was certain he was meeting Chandra. She claimed no knowledge of this stranger and I believed her, I still do. But there was a man. He was meeting someone from this house.’

  ‘Who, Quasim?’

  ‘He may have been meeting my wife. You heard me question her.’

  ‘What did she tell you?’

  ‘What I expected – that she saw no one, met no one.’

  He shrugged at the obviousness of the defence. Zamir saw an end to his anxiety. ‘You don’t trust her?’