by Owen Mullen
‘She’s a woman, Zamir.’
The brothers nodded.
‘How can we help, Quasim?’
‘Is it possible this wife has betrayed me?’
Firdos said, ‘Absolutely. Where she’s from everything is possible.’
Zamir reinforced the lie for his own selfish purpose. ‘A few weeks ago I thought I saw her talking with someone near the road. I would’ve spoken earlier but I couldn’t be sure. The evidence wasn’t enough to justify such a serious accusation, so I stayed silent.
Though it wounds me to say it, I believe she plays you false.’
Quasim placed a hand on his shoulder, Zamir bowed his head. ‘You’re a friend as well as a brother. I appreciate your reluctance to cause me pain.’
Quasim was resigned to a truth that suited all of them. Zamir seized his chance and pressed for the action that would redeem him. ‘She needs to be gone. Tonight would not be too soon.’
Firdos was eager. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Quasim is head of our family, this isn’t work for him. We’ll take care of her. The world will hear she ran away after her husband told her three times he was divorced from her. I’ll be a witness.’ He turned to Quasim and took his hand. ‘I’ll swear she was no longer your wife. You’ll be free of her. The family will be free of her. Dishonour needs an answer. Say the word, and it’s done.’
Quasim was touched by their loyalty. How often he’d been quick to judge them. How often it passed him by. They were good. In that moment of twisted solidarity Quasim was certain. ‘Do it,’ he said. ‘Do it.’
Chapter 15
Zamir came to the kitchen where Afra was drying pots. ‘Come with me.’
She knew better than ask why, this man wouldn’t explain. His brother was waiting in the car. Zamir opened a door. Afra got in. Firdos engaged the gears, let out the clutch and drove through the gates. Soon, traffic thinned and the streets were quiet.
Afra said, ‘Where are we going?’
The brothers didn’t reply, their silence told all she needed. By luck she was wearing the gift from Jameel, held on her stick-thin wrist with string. An unnatural calm settled over her. Her breath came soft and even. Afra was ready, more composed than the beasts with her. She saw release.
Firdos eased the car into a yard.
‘Out.’ Zamir spat the instruction, in control at last. The girl did as she was told. Behind her she heard Zamir, impatient for his brother to open the door. Firdos found the key and let them in.
The corrugated building was crammed to its high roof with metal islands of shelving, packed with sacks of fertiliser, pipe, shiny spades, forks and other equipment she didn’t recognise. Drums and containers, too many to count, hugged one of the walls; different shapes and sizes of black tanks capable of holding thousands of litres of water huddled together deeper into the store. Near the door, wooden posts, metal fencing, rolls of chicken wire and iron supports – new arrivals that would be sold before long to make way for other loads of the same. When the men left after breakfast every day this was where they came. Afra was seeing what the world saw: the respectable face of the Dilawar Hussein family. Zamir pushed her into the warehouse. It was cold. Afra didn’t mind. The trials of seven years would end tonight in this place.
They watched her like jackals, confident the kill belonged to them. Each had a score to settle because, in different ways, she’d humiliated them. These men meant to murder her. They didn’t know she’d died the night Jameel closed the door on her.
One sorrowful note rang in her heart.
as long as we believe the bangles will not fail us
It had all been untrue. Just a story about love for a silly girl.
-------
Zamir stepped away from the woman on the ground. ‘Bring her here, Firdos.’
His brother dragged her across the floor to a coil of rope. They laid her backwards over the wheel. ‘Get something, wire, anything to tie the bitch.’
Zamir panted instructions, eyes blazing with his triumph. He’d overcome his difficulty, violence had brought his desire to an irresistible height, and in victory, he was more cruel than he’d ever been in defeat.
He punched the helpless form, casual in the way he wounded her. Firdos added blows of his own. Then Afra’s final ordeal began in earnest.
‘Do you want her again?’
Firdos shook his head. Unlike his brother, he liked his women to know what he was doing to them. This one was a piece of bloodied meat. It had been fun an hour ago but he’d had his revenge, now he was tired.
Zamir rested his hands on his thighs. Banging on the roller door interrupted the silence. ‘Bilal. Let him in.’
Zamir had called his cousin before they left the house, told him what he wanted and offered him money. Bilal, always anxious to ingratiate himself with his more successful relations, had been happy to oblige, and money was never unwelcome. Firdos unlocked the door. A smiling Bilal stepped into the light. One look told him everything. Zamir ignored him. The Dilawar Hussein family didn’t rate this man – he was a low-life peasant, lazy and crude. But useful for what had to be done.
Bilal imagined himself part of the plan. ‘Where do you want me to take her?’
‘Away. One-fifty, two hundred miles south, into the Punjab. The further from Lahore the better.’
‘Is she dead?’
‘Not yet,’ Firdos said. ‘She will be. Soon.’
‘And if she isn’t?’
‘You’ll see she is, Bilal.’
‘Quasim?’
Zamir remembered why he disliked his cousin. ‘Quasim knows nothing except that yesterday he spoke three times to divorce her. I heard him myself. In the morning, he’ll discover she’s run off in the night.’
Bilal had known Zamir all his life; he was as cold as a cobra. Concern wasn’t in his nature. ‘Get her into my car. I’ve a long drive ahead of me before morning.’
‘Bring it as close as you can. Anyone might be watching.’
Bilal left. Firdos said, ‘Can we trust him?’
Zamir laughed. ‘Of course not. The Bilals of this world can’t be trusted. His involvement is our guarantee otherwise we’d be in his power. I can think of little worse than allowing that scavenger, who unfortunately has our blood, to have something on us. He’ll kill the woman, take his money and remember that we hold his secret just as he holds ours.’
Firdos didn’t share the loathing and mistrust of Bilal but his brother’s logic convinced him. While they slept in their comfortable beds, Bilal would be miles away.
Zamir went into the shadows and returned with a beaker. Firdos saw his brother and blanched. Zamir strolled to the unconscious woman tied to the rope drum, looked at her bowed head, sighed and spoke, gently shaking her shoulder as if he was rousing her from a deep sleep. He whispered. ‘Afra. Afra.’
She didn’t stir.
‘Afra.’ He slapped her cheek. ‘Afra, wake up.’
A moan came from her bloodied mouth. Zamir slapped her again.
‘It’s time to say goodbye.’
Zamir waited for her to raise her head. Bilal stood at the door, fascinated. Firdos didn’t try to interfere; he looked away.
‘Goodbye, Afra.’ Zamir threw the contents of the beaker in her face.
Her scream echoed off the metal walls. More followed. She tried to tear herself free, writhing and pulling at her bindings. Zamir stayed where he’d been, he didn’t retreat an inch, even with the stench of burning flesh in his nostrils. His view of her suffering was unsurpassed. Eventually, the screaming stopped and Zamir turned to the others, satisfied with his work.
-------
One hundred miles south of Lahore, Bilal realised the risk he was taking. If he was stopped, how would he explain his passenger? Zamir and Firdos could deny any part in it and he would be left to suffer the consequences alone. Like the shallow villain he was, Bilal processed events only as they affected him. He travelled unfamiliar roads, cursing himself for not asking for more m
oney, especially from that family.
Sprawled in a heap over the back seat lay what was left of the woman. She hadn’t made a sound. Bilal wondered if she was dead. The car filled with the smell of acid and scorched flesh; he rolled down a window to let it escape.
One hundred and forty miles.
Bilal looked over his shoulder at the bunch of rags in the back and felt no pity. He remembered her in his house, years ago. She’d been something then; young, beautiful, spirited, too. But this was now. The only thought in his creature mind was whether she had anything worth stealing. Bilal decided to cut the journey short. Thirty miles later and more than one hundred and seventy-five from Lahore, he pulled over on a deserted country road and hauled her onto the grass verge. The moon broke through and he saw her face. What a waste. How he’d wanted her when Nadira cleaned for him. Now a new one made breakfast and warmed his bed when he wished. But this woman had been special.
Bilal rummaged through her clothing. On a wrist he felt jewellery. Bangles. Wooden and worthless. He took the slender neck in his hands and squeezed as hard as he could. It changed little as far as he could tell. She was dead.
The car accelerated into the night. The despised cousin had only one regret about the black deed he’d joined in.
He should have asked for more money.
-------
An hour after Bilal headed back to Lahore, a farmer keen to make an early start drove by and noticed the bundle at the side of the road. Whatever had happened, he didn’t want involved. The nearest hospital was twelve miles away. He took the woman to it, dumped her outside, and went about his business.
His conscience was clear.
-------
Nurse Idris Phadkar had almost completed her walk round the grounds. There were times she just had to escape. Nursing was satisfying except on long nightshifts like tonight when everything was routine. She was ready for a change, a move to the big city, Islamabad or Karachi, maybe. Somewhere like Lahore, less than two hundred miles but a world away. Lahore. She could be happy there. Then she heard it.
Part III
Honour Killing
Chapter 16
Pearl Continental Hotel, Lahore
I turned in my seat and looked out into the foyer, empty except for straight-backed uniformed staff on their way to attend some well-heeled guest. I’d go soon. With these prices, I’d go very soon.
A woman was rearranging the huge fresh flower centrepiece of the marble and glass atrium, selecting long-stemmed exotics from a shallow wicker basket, building them into a floral masterpiece. In the morning, guests would admire the ostentatious show without wondering how or when it got there.
Pointless.
I was done with pointless endeavour. During the last three years in Pakistan – the politically-volatile arse-end of nowhere – I’d been pretty much done with any kind of endeavour. At a shave off six feet tall, dark hair and dark eyes, there was just enough to hint at the man I’d been before life started stealing from me. My tan lightweight suit, crumpled at the front and crushed in a thousand lines at the back, complemented the stubbled jaw and bloodshot eyes.
But so what?
My finger moved, a gesture no more strenuous than a bidder at Sotheby’s, and George, the bow-tied barman, responded as fast as any auctioneer. Another Johnnie Walker Red Label, amber through the heavy cut glass, arrived on the cork coaster in front of me. George wasn’t his real name. I had no idea what it was. In my head, I called him George. And George understood the needs of a drinker like me. More than once poor service had forced me to take my troubles elsewhere.
At thirty-eight I’d ceased worrying how I looked or what impression I made. Fuck it! It was all I could do to file my twice-weekly report to London and rarely checked to see if any of the stuff was used. I didn’t care. I’d become a brooding introvert, very different from before.
Before. I didn’t go there anymore.
At the end of the bar, ‘George’ was polishing glasses. Almost time to go. No problem. Time to stop drinking here – not time to stop drinking, that was another couple of hours away. The voice cut through the silence of the deserted lounge. ‘Ralph! Ralph Buchanan! Well I’ll be…’
A man, casual in jeans and polo shirt, was standing three yards away, wearing a pleased-to-see-you smile. ‘Ralph Buchanan,’ he said again in soft disbelief. ‘What’re you doing out here?’
I didn’t reply. I had no idea who I was talking to. Wait it out my brain told me: all will be revealed. ‘You don’t know me, do you? ‘Course you don’t, why would you? Eden, John Eden. The Guardian. On my way back from Hong Kong.’
Was this supposed to mean something to me? I played along with the two journeymen meeting on the road charade. ‘Hi John, what you doing here?’
‘Stop off. Friends I haven’t seen in an age. Didn’t think it was through choice, did you, Ralph?’ He laughed. ‘Even the locals aren’t here through choice. So what brings you to Pakistan, of all places?’
I’d had my story ready before I even arrived. Time to try it out. ‘Al Qaeda,’ I said, and went into my act. ‘Got recruitment stations and training camps in the north. The military will get the camps, satellite will tell them where they are. Recruitment’s done where those birds don’t go – on the streets, in the communities. I want to find out how they do it and how much the government knows about it. They’ve got a pretty pro-western public face. The thinking is, there’s another agenda. Not everyone’s a friend, that’s a given, and how friendly the friends are is unknown. It’s a large canvas, lots of potentials, loads of interest. No breaks yet. When it does, it’ll be a biggie. I’m in for the long haul.’
Fantasy. Eden lapped it up.
‘Wow! But why am I surprised? We used to call the front page Ralph Buchanan’s page. No change there.’
The smile missed my eyes. I wanted this meeting to be over. The barman was turning lights out one at a time. Eden wanted to talk. ‘D’you know the last time I saw you? Four years ago at the Dorchester. You must remember. You were the star of the show.’
The night at The Dorchester: hard to connect it with who I was now – a guy in a crumpled suit, hugging the bar.
‘Well, great to see you. Maybe we’ll bump into each other at another gong-giving.’
I forced out a positive. ‘Could be.’
He headed for the lifts. Eden was someone who’d probably never done anything more than report what was already known and cruise on the company’s expenses. Funny how a chance meeting could spoil your evening. ‘George’ had gone, slipped away during the conversation, back to his real life as George the husband or lover, the son or the friend. Good old George, getting out of this place at the double. Quite right, too.
There was a time I would’ve enjoyed the interlude with John Eden and the opportunity to bask in another’s admiration. Things were different these days. I toyed with the last of my drink.
you must remember, you were the star of the show
And I did remember; of course I remembered.
-------
Four years. Only four. My drinking was a problem even then.
The main function room of The Dorchester was laid in tables of twelve. Men in dinner suits and bow ties with ladies wearing months of agonising and planning. The room filled with the steady hum of conversation. When you boiled it all away, most industries were tight little communities, islands in the stream, where everyone knew everyone else, with relationships, good or bad, going back years. The newspaper business was one of those islands.
Award ceremonies became parodies of themselves, it was unavoidable. The original intention – to recognise achievement – is lost in soul-searching acceptance. Everyone from God down gets a mention. Winning affects people, changes them. The sincere seem unstable, the unstable are seen as tortured talents, and the vain morph into models of humorous self-deprecation, and usually make the best speeches.
The occasion was heavy with the pomposity everyone in the room claimed to abhor. A couple of
martinis in my room [four was a couple but who was counting?] relaxed me enough to enjoy the car ride to Park Lane. I watched the city pass by through rain spattered windows. It was a long way from Glasgow, and before that, the local newspaper that had given me my start. Ambition had driven me south to the capital. And I’d made it.
The speech would be short and sweet. No fake humble. No self-important rambling. I’d won and I’d deserved to win, that was all there was to it.
The liveried concierge opened the car door with one hand, an umbrella in the other. I got out and walked the dozen or so steps to the busy lobby. The Dorchester hosted functions 365 nights of the year; they ought to be pretty good at it by now.
‘Good evening, sir.’ The uniformed sentinel accepted my embossed invitation and crossed off my name against the room-setting pinned on a board.
‘Have a good evening, Mr Buchanan.’
The standard line. Welcoming and personal. Unless you’d heard it a thousand times. The table was near the stage, just far enough to allow some palaver on the way up; overacting was allowed, after all, it was an awards ceremony. My colleagues were already there. They beamed, pleased to see their golden boy.
Even in the best hotels, the task of feeding hundreds depends on logistics and process, rather than the silky nuances of a teaspoonful of sauce. I wouldn’t remember a thing I tasted that night, but I’d remember sitting next to Christine Douglas, the paper’s political commentator. Christine: vivacious and sharp; petite and dark-skinned, with a toned-down afro. I’d had a thing about her for years. She was too savvy to go for my kind of charm. No matter, there were plenty who did.
Her hazel eyes were warm above high cheekbones. ‘Looking forward to your moment in the sun, Ralph?’
‘I suppose I am.’
‘You suppose?’
