Out of the Silence

by Owen Mullen

  Jameel pictured it: Afra, fresh and lovely, young Fatima, and little Shafi. Even Uncu the donkey. And their mother, terrified of an old age she would never know. People spent their lives longing for moments in the past so rarely appreciated at the time. Jameel had realised he was with a special person. His mistake had been to think it would never end. And one day, without warning, it had, leaving him alone and unsure of his worth. But it was his worth he questioned, never Afra’s.

  He ached for her. ‘She’s here, Ali. I know she’s here in Lahore.’

  ‘Maybe, but where? Not in that house.’

  And it was true. For days, Jameel had watched from the street and saw no sign of her. ‘Somewhere in this city. Heera Mandi, maybe.’

  ‘Heera Mandi; a bazaar of diamonds.’ Ali dismissed the description with a snort. ‘Heera Mandi is for fools and lost souls. Do you really believe she could be there, Jameel? Can you really see Afra in that place? Where would she hide?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You think she’s the killer because of the bangles. She may have been forced to sell them.’

  ‘No, Afra would never sell them, I’m certain of that.’

  ‘I’m suggesting they could have had many owners by now.’

  ‘And what about the murders?’

  ‘Who can say? The violence speaks of more than a common crime. Two from the same family. Except what do we know of these people? How they lived, who they crossed, what enemies they made? We don’t know them at all.’

  Jameel wanted to be persuaded, he wasn’t. ‘So where is she?’

  ‘Divorced or separated. Or maybe she ran away.’

  ‘And why leave a bangle at each scene? It’s her, Ali, it’s Afra,’

  ‘Why does it need to be her?’ His friend didn’t reply. ‘You think of Heera Mandi because of what happened there, where’s the proof? Afra probably ran off, perhaps she wouldn’t go to her village for fear of being rejected, or worse, forced to return to her unhappy life.’

  Jameel looked away. ‘I can’t explain why.’

  His voice was small and far away. Ali was wise enough to let him speak. ‘These crimes are horrific. The Afra I knew was gentle and kind, the most gentle person I’ve ever met. If she’s at the heart of this she must be ill. I shudder to imagine what she endured with those people. Her mind must be broken to have any part in these hellish acts. And the bangles? They’re a sign, all right. But not to the Dilawar Husseins. She’s telling me she’s out there and is calling on me to save her.’

  ‘How could she think you’d know anything about them? The police haven’t released that information. If it weren’t for Shakil, we’d read what’s in the newspapers and be no wiser about the bangles.’

  Jameel smiled. ‘You don’t understand, my friend. She trusted in their power to bring us together. They’ve been left for me. You’re forgetting, they reunite people in love.’

  Ali ran his fingers across his brow. ‘Jameel, that’s only a story, a romantic tale. To believe some force, some mystic power is at work …’

  He didn’t finish, there was nothing more to say.

  ‘Do you have something better for me to believe in?’

  They were as far from the truth as they had ever been and there was one more thing to tell. Ali pursed his lips. ‘The woman I spoke to in Mundhi told me something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The day before, a man asked about Afra.’

  ‘Who? What did he look like?’

  ‘Just a man’

  Jameel’s fears were written on his face. ‘That means the Dilawar Husseins think she’s involved. They think Afra’s the murderer and, God help me, so do I.’

  Chapter 29

  Bilal eyed the guards with all the suspicion he could raise, his expression saying he wasn’t fooled for a moment. They were uncertain how to respond to their new boss. He barked questions, enjoying his power. ‘Why are both of you here? Does it take two to open the gate? What if an intruder decides to use the back door? Who’d be there to stop him?’

  Bullying others was his special gift, honed to perfection on a succession of scrawny women lifted from the streets of Lahore. Easy prey.

  ‘You! Make a circuit of the garden every half-hour. Stay at the rear of the building and keep to the shadows. Who would approach through the front gate?’ He scowled at their incompetence. ‘Think man, think.’

  The guard hurried away. Bilal loved it. At last he’d found his place in the world and it felt good. He strolled, watching for movement in the trees edging the compound. Tonight he was superior to his fellow man and it showed in his posture, the way he pulled back his shoulders, the measured purpose in his step and the set of his jaw. He knew now why Quasim had acted as he had; a leader was a man apart. Before he allowed himself to be devoured by fear. Bilal suffered no such fear. When the killer came, he’d end it once and for all, whoever it was. Simple as that.

  Everything was quiet, nothing stirred. His cheap watch told him it was ten minutes to one. If the murderer was coming, it would be soon. And something else. Out on that lonely road he’d strangled her, he was sure of it. She may have already been dead. Bilal flexed his fingers, remembering his hands round the unresisting neck. Yes, she was dead all right.

  Inside the house, Quasim slumped on one of the big couches. Above the fireplace, an ornate gold clock ticked its way through the hours and every few minutes he checked the time. Night was passing, though not quickly enough for him. Bilal coughed to announce his arrival. Quasim jumped. Bilal collapsed into a chair. ‘No sign of her.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Not yet.’ The cousin’s new station sat well with him. ‘Where are the women?’

  ‘Upstairs in their rooms.’

  ‘Good, keep them there.’

  With every hour terror grew in Quasim, leaving him paralysed. He was appalled at the change. Only days ago, he’d relished the confrontation. With each night, his confidence ebbed away a little more until he welcomed having even vermin like Bilal around. Incredible, but true. The danger he imagined lurking in every shadow revealed him to himself. Shame warmed his face: Quasim realised he was a coward.

  Bilal spoke with authority. ‘From now on no one leaves the house after dark.’

  He saw his cousin in a new light and wondered how he could have been afraid of him. Bilal was enjoying the drama, Quasim was petrified by it. Dread lay on him like unwashed linen. Bilal reassessed the future. Fifty/fifty was too generous, sixty/forty was nearer, or maybe seventy/thirty. He’d think about it when this was over; it was a delicious prospect. He wouldn’t be just a player, he’d make the rules. The slights and insults Quasim had dealt him jostled in his head. He dismissed them. For now.

  ‘The police were here again trying to find a connection between Zamir and Firdos. Questions, questions. Who did they both know? Could I think of a common enemy?’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘What could I tell them? They left no wiser than they arrived.’

  ‘Well done, cousin. We’ll handle this, you and I. You’re protected, and tonight, tomorrow, whenever, she’ll show herself. I’ll finish it and life can begin again.’

  He spoke of ‘she’ because his cousin was convinced it was the woman. Let him.

  It was impossible to tell if Quasim heard Bilal’s encouraging words. A girl came into the room. Quasim dismissed her with a weary hand. Bilal said, ‘I must go, the men you hired are useless without me.’

  He followed the woman to the kitchen. She didn’t hear him approach. His hand closed round her bony wrist. She cried out. There was no one to hear. ‘What’s your name?’ Bilal tightened his hold, twisting her round to face him. The woman smelled his breath and recoiled. ‘Daliya.’ Her voice was a monotone.

  ‘Daliya.’ He savoured his power a moment longer and pushed her away. She stumbled and fell to the floor. Bilal lived alone now – something else that would change. Maybe he’d take this woman with him. Quasim was done with her. Soon, he�
�d take whatever he wanted whether Quasim was done with it or not.

  * * *

  -----

  * * *

  Chandra stared at herself in the mirror. She was bored.

  The fire and Zamir’s murder had upset her life, more so since Firdos was killed. Before, she’d come and gone as she pleased. Now she was afraid to go out, especially at night. The first death left her unmoved. Brother or no brother, Zamir had been a strange one. Chandra didn’t like him and he’d had no interest in her. She was a woman. Zamir was afraid of women.

  There had been nothing that might exist between a brother and sister, even as children. They received no guidance from their mother and grew up strangers under the same roof. Not so Firdos, he’d had his good side but he’d been stupid. To have your life-blood washing the gutter trash in Heera Mandi was a fool’s death.

  She lay on the bed and drew her legs up tight. Like her cousin, Bilal, Chandra judged the tragedies that had befallen her family the way she judged everything: by how she would be affected. Quasim didn’t discuss things with anyone, least of all his sister. His order not to leave the house was as close as he got to brotherly concern.

  She turned on to her stomach and leaned on her elbows. She should’ve left when she’d had the chance. There had been opportunities – she’d turned away more than one suitor. Quasim could have insisted she marry someone of his choosing; he never had. Though it meant she was a burden on her family, Chandra had no intention of marrying. She’d witnessed the lives of too many married women in Pakistan to want any part of it. She preferred things as they were. This way she stayed in control. Her decision – one she hadn’t regretted – was to use men, rather than be used by them.

  And the sister hadn’t been short of company or sex. All it required was discretion and ruthlessness. Discovery wasn’t an option, not in this country. In the garden, it had been easy to put the blame on Quasim’s wife. Chandra’s lover, a married man older than her, foolishly loitered too long at the gate. Chandra blurted out her denials without malice, concerned only in escaping her brother’s wrath. The consequences didn’t occur, and if anything came of the lie, what was that to her?

  The servant left the house. Chandra hadn’t seen her from that day. No one mentioned her. She was only a wife; nothing really.

  She sighed, turned on to her back and stared at the ceiling. Her mother slept next door. The deaths had aged her, the fire in her dimmed to an ember. She had even lost weight. Most days, Mrs Dilawar Hussein stayed in bed while Quasim visited her, at first every day. Then he stopped and she was alone with her memories. The past: vivid and alive – her husband and her life when the children were young. Good times. Happy times. The car journey through the night with Quasim’s wife-to-be came to her in dreams. Too late the matriarch realised bringing the girl to Lahore had been a mistake.

  -------

  Since the rally, every hour was filled with the fear of capture and punishment. Weeks ago, she’d been Doctor – a far cry from the path she was on now. Ralph Buchanan had called and called, finally he’d given up. Not how she wanted it. In his voice she heard something different, something not there before: strength.

  Simone wished he would come and get her, talk her out of what she was doing and take her from the hellish mess. More than once, she found herself day-dreaming about them together, living a life away from here. But if he asked her to go with him tomorrow she’d refuse.

  She didn’t dwell on it. It was difficult enough without taking on more doubt. However strong her faith in what she was doing, she’d be glad when it was done. Buchanan would oppose her actions with good reason. For the moment, there was nothing else. Simone pulled the hood over her head and stepped into the night.

  -------

  ‘Stop!’

  They were outside Bilal’s house. Quasim hadn’t been here in years. It looked exactly as he expected; rundown, ramshackle, the exterior a warning of what to expect inside. ‘Come with me.’

  Last night had been the worst of his life. Despite his promises, Bilal hadn’t shown up. Quasim spent the entire time sitting in his chair, dying a little at every sound. Around dawn, he’d fallen asleep. Now, he was angry enough to kill, furious with himself for believing anything Bilal said. Talking big talk was all he was good for, doing was a different matter. In all his worthless life, he’d done nothing, achieved nothing. He wasn’t dependable. How much simpler things would be if people delivered on their words instead of impressing themselves with what they were going to do. The bodyguard knocked on the door. No one answered. Quasim barked an order. ‘Again, harder this time.’

  The fist beating on the door went unanswered.

  ‘Break it down.’

  The man threw his weight against the frame. The door cracked, the wood was weak and old and resisted hardly at all. A final contact with the bodyguard’s meaty shoulder was enough to make it splinter in jagged pieces. The hinges collapsed and the door flew open. A fetid stench rushed out. Quasim paused before going inside. A few steps were enough for him to see the evidence of his cousin’s detestable life. Peeling paint and patches of damp made him wonder whether anyone could really stay in this place. He moved cautiously down the passage into the first room on his right. A scene of dereliction greeted him.

  Cardboard boxes and old newspapers covered the uncarpeted floor, dark brown marks stained the floorboards. Quasim didn’t stop to guess what might have caused them; his disgust was stretched to the limit. There were no curtains or blinds on the windows, and the glass was covered in grime. Bilal lived alone, that was obvious. Quasim was careful not to touch anything. ‘Bilal. Bilal. Are you there?’

  His question echoed in the dank interior. While he checked the other rooms on the ground floor, the bodyguard remained silent; he wasn’t paid to speak. Quasim looked at the narrow staircase and started to climb. ‘Follow me.’

  The bare wood boards creaked under every step and the smell was worse. Only an animal could live like this. Quasim screwed up his face against the foul odours. This wasn’t a house, it was a lair. He stopped on a landing at the top and waited for the guard to join him. Hard to believe that outside the sun was shining and the sky was blue. Three doors offered themselves to him. He turned the handle on the first and pushed. Nothing apart from an unmade bed and a cheap cabinet marked with cigarette burns. The second door was ajar. He pushed. It swung open. For a moment, he’d been the Quasim of old – in command and unafraid. What he witnessed ended that.

  Bilal hung from the ceiling, the rope round his neck secured to a cast-iron radiator against the wall and threaded over a hook above the centre of the room. One of his hands was trapped inside the noose; a futile attempt to escape the pressure crushing his throat.

  A chair lay on the floor. Bilal had been forced to put the rope round his own neck. How he would have cried and begged and pleaded. Pitiful. The killer had kicked the chair away and sent him into a death dance.

  On the floor under Bilal lay a polished wooden circle, clean and new against the dirty boards. Quasim almost fell down the staircase in his haste to get away. His stomach emptied, bile burned his throat as he staggered to the car, bathed in sweat.

  He was going to die and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Chapter 30

  I followed the figure cutting through the crowds, holding back for the right moment to interrupt the businessman and speak to him face to face. Jameel Hafeez and his weekly tours were famous. Every article written about the man mentioned how his father had taught him to stay close to what was going on. Catching up with him hadn’t been difficult.

  Ridiculous but it needed to be done. The receptionist had been immoveable. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hafeez is unavailable today.’

  I’d heard that so many times it might have been a recorded message. Mr Hafeez was very definitely out to Ralph Buchanan.

  Hafeez stopped at two small restaurants and stayed twenty minutes at each. Then it was back to the street. Once upon a time I’d been a patient man
able to wait for things to break. Patience – one of my lost talents – was coming back. What was worthwhile in me was returning and it was like meeting an old friend. Hafeez went into another restaurant. I crossed the busy road, through slow-moving traffic. The doorman smiled and pushed it open for me. ‘Good evening, sir, have you a reservation?’

  ‘No, no I haven’t. I’m meeting someone. Ah! There he is.’

  I breezed past. Jameel Hafeez was alone at a table towards the rear. I made straight for him. ‘Mr Hafeez, may I join you?’

  His face showed his displeasure. I didn’t care, I needed to talk to him; there was something I had to know. ‘You’re a difficult guy to get hold of, Lord knows I’ve tried. That receptionist’s as good as a guard dog. Keep her.’

  ‘I intend to. What can I do for you Mr…?’

  That made me smile. This man made it his business to remember names.

  ‘Buchanan, Ralph Buchanan. I need a little more background for my piece. We hardly touched on your early life at all. Things changed, you told me, you didn’t say how or what. That part of your story could use some expansion.’

  ‘Mr Buchanan, now isn’t a good time. I’m working.’

  ‘Oh, sorry! Okay, what about later, when you’ve finished?’

  ‘No, that isn’t possible. I’m too busy.’

  ‘All night?’

  ‘All night.’

  I considered the rejection. ‘Mr Hafeez, I can’t get past your frontline defence. I don’t need much time, just a few questions.

  ‘Not tonight, I’m sorry.’ Hafeez was resolute.

  ‘Tomorrow then? Twenty minutes, tops.’

  tomorrow then?

  Hafeez looked away. ‘All right, eleven at my office. Twenty minutes, no more.’‘Eleven, I’ll be there and thank you.’