Out of the Silence

by Owen Mullen

  Quasim watched me from beneath heavy eyelids.

  ‘Your first reaction will be to say no. Perhaps if you look harder you’ll find something, some circumstance that could provoke this level of violence?’

  ‘No one deserves what’s happened to me.’

  I disagreed but then I’d been told how this man had treated his wife. ‘As I say, only you could know that.’

  Footsteps echoed in the house and a woman in her late twenties wearing a stylish maroon sari with matching earrings and make-up came into the room. The nose and eyes were the same as her brothers’, her face frozen in the same imperious look.

  ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘I’ve told you already. No.’

  ‘I’m not listening. I’m going.’ She stormed away. Quasim sighed. Chandra would be sorry for humiliating her brother. He said, ‘You see, Mr Buchanan, it isn’t easy to protect those you love.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  A servant carrying a tea-tray appeared in the doorway, the air around her hardly stirring. Her arms suggested a skeletal frame beneath the shapeless clothes. It was impossible to guess her age, so little of her face was visible. I wondered how long this one had been in the house. How soon had this monster replaced his first wife? I pictured the poor undernourished soul climbing the stairs to the cold box every night, too tired to undress, too exhausted to cry: this was the new Afra.

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Yes.’ The comparison with his sister shocked me; he saw it on my face. ‘You were married before. Afra, wasn’t it? Where is she now?’

  ‘I divorced her. Ask your questions.’

  Quasim didn’t hide his antagonism. I’d shocked the brute and that pleased me. ‘The crimes aren’t random. I think we can agree on that. So where’s the connection? What’s the link?’

  ‘The police ask the same. My answer remains unchanged. I have no idea. Some madman has singled out my family. Believe me, if I knew, the matter would be dealt with. It would end today. I’m a respected figure in my community, maybe my success is too much for someone to stomach?’

  ‘Have the police made progress?’

  ‘The police are imbeciles. They’ll solve nothing.’

  ‘Any warning or threat?’

  Dilawar Hussein shook his head; he had little time for this.

  ‘Did the killer leave any clue?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Fingerprints, fibre, anything?’

  The man dismissed the notion with his hand.

  ‘Okay. I see security guards outside, so you must think you need them.’

  ‘Mr Buchanan, if some maniac was attacking your family, wouldn’t you do everything in your power? When this is over they’ll be gone. For now, they stay. My mother lives here as well as my sister. Women need to be protected.’

  The tea stayed in the pot. ‘What surprises me is how similar this place is to where I’m from. Murders and success stories, side by side. I’m working on a piece about Lahore’s Businessman of the Year, Jameel Akhtar Hafeez, do you know him?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Well, if you think of anything, anything at all.’

  Quasim ignored me.

  -------

  Simone wanted to call him, and he’d come, she was sure of that. But not yet. She’d taken on more than she could handle. Her conscience had backed her into a corner. To continue filled her with dread, yet stopping was unthinkable. Her behaviour worried her; she was becoming bolder. Reckless.

  She’d made a deal with herself. When the morning came she’d end it. Contact Ralph and start again. If he’d have her. She turned the key in the ignition. The doctor’s hands felt cold. And when he asked, what would she say?

  Would she begin a new chapter of her life with a lie?

  Yes, she’d lie.

  Compared to other wrongs, lying was such a little thing.

  Chapter 32

  Slipping the guards and breaking the window at the rear of the house was a lot less difficult than it should have been. But the danger wasn’t over. The floorboards cracked and groaned under the weight of slow footsteps. The noise boomed through the house. At this hour, the building was a living thing, breathing quietly, more at peace than those who slept here. As it cooled, it sighed, and when it did the intruder waited.

  Progress was slow, not because the house was a stranger, but because capture was unthinkable. The figure found the staircase, measuring every tread on the bare wood, testing how far to trust the non-planed timber. It took fifteen minutes to complete the climb. Sweat ran down the face beneath the hood. Minor discomforts were filtered out, all that mattered was the next step, and the next, and the one after that.

  There was no attempt at hurry. To act in haste was to lose. Will power governed every muscle, controlled sinews and held fear in check.

  A vanilla beam passed across a downstairs window. Voices grumbled, torchlight played against the glass and disappeared, returning the house to darkness.

  Three steps, two. One more.

  At the top, the interloper listened. Nothing. Fingers caressed the night like the tendrils of a weed, searching for the door handle. It scratched against its fittings and released. Shapes formed. The figure knelt beside the iron bed-frame and let the hood fall back. The next moments decided their fate.

  Under a single tangled sheet the girl slept, unaware she wasn’t alone. Air rattled in her lungs, rasping to escape. A palm cupped her mouth. She writhed and turned, fighting against the surprise attack, and tried to scream. If she succeeded they were lost.

  The rescuer bent close and whispered. ‘I’m a friend.’

  She stopped struggling. ‘Don’t make a sound, not a sound.’

  The hand withdrew, reluctant to trust. ‘Get up, and dress. Quick.’

  Daliya hesitated. Who was this? What was happening? ‘Now.’

  The girl threw back the cover. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Someone who knows. Here, take my hand.’ Daliya did as she was told.

  The stranger stepped to the door with the bewildered girl clinging to her and made the slow descent. They waited for the guards to pass, then they were over the wall and running, stopping when they reached the shadows. Daliya fell, retching and vomiting. Her rescuer rubbed her back.

  ‘Who are you?’ Daliya searched the face for an answer, found none and began to weep.

  ‘Come on, a little further.’

  Her saviour pointed across the street. ‘Look. Over there. Go. You’ll be safe. People are expecting you. I’ll see you tomorrow. Go. Be a brave girl for me. Can you do that?’

  Daliya replied through tears. ‘I’ll try.’

  They embraced and started in different directions – one to freedom, the other back to the house.

  -------

  Chandra woke with a start. She wasn’t alone. Her heart beat against her chest. She cast round in the darkness, trying to locate the danger and heard a noise just before the blow struck. When she regained consciousness the room was pitch black.

  The pain hit. Chandra roared against it, her mouth on fire. She passed out again and came to screaming. Suddenly, the room filled with light. Help had arrived. Rough hands lifted her from the soaked bedcovers; her nightdress was a crimson rag.

  ‘Who was it? Did you see?’

  The words wouldn’t come. In their place, mangled grunts. Quasim appeared in the doorway, wild and dishevelled. The guard nearest Chandra stepped back.

  ‘What?’ Chandra tried to ask. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Quasim didn’t reply. He didn’t understand the question.

  ‘What! What!’

  Chandra heard her voice. Her hands went to her mouth. She looked at Quasim, asking him to save her. His eyes told her it was too late.

  It began as a low whine deep in her stomach and rose to an anguished cry that rooted everyone to where they stood. She threw herself on the bed and wailed. No one noticed the carved circle by the pillow.

  Chandra Dilawar Hussein told a lie, she woul
d never tell another.

  Chandra had no tongue.

  -------

  During his years as a policeman, Detective Asmet Rana had made his share of mistakes. He didn’t chastise himself too much, his was a difficult job. Occasionally, his instincts let him down. The truth was hard to see when it laughed in your face. He could empathise with victims and think like a criminal, and his determination to see justice done never wavered. Now and then, he got it wrong.

  Rana was unconcerned by his fallibility. What he couldn’t tolerate was being made to look a fool, and Quasim Dilawar Hussein had made an ass of him. From their first meeting at the smoking warehouse, he’d lied. The policeman had put up with his arrogance because of the man’s loss. His brothers had been brutally murdered and his business destroyed. Rana assumed he was in shock. People worked out grief in different ways. The elder brother had acted like a cold bastard. That was Rana’s error. It wasn’t an act. Dilawar Hussein was a cold bastard.

  ‘Stay with it, Rafee. Don’t let anyone in, understand?’

  The detective went to look for Quasim. Time for some straight talking. In the main room, he found a very different man from the one who had snubbed him at the fire. ‘Mr Dilawar Hussein, what happened tonight is as evil a thing as I’ve ever seen. I pray for your sister’s recovery.’

  Rana might have spoken in Japanese. Quasim leapt to his feet and pointed to the empty cage. ‘The bird, it’s gone. Can’t you understand what that means?’

  ‘No. What does it mean?’

  Quasim roared. ‘Daliya! Guards! Guards! Daliyaaa!’

  No one answered. No one came. The guards had left before the police arrived. It was too much for them, more than they’d bargained for, and besides, they hadn’t been paid.

  Dilawar Hussein’s eyes bulged, veins stood thick against his skin. The gold robe he was wearing fell open – he didn’t notice – all he knew was his fear. The change in him took Rana by surprise. He’d witnessed every emotion under the sun, or thought he had, but never terror like this. The man was on the point of mental collapse. He fell back onto the couch, exhausted.

  ‘Where’s Daliya?’ Rana was inured to his pain, unmoved by his distress. He smoothed his moustache. ‘Check the house, Rafee. Find his wife. Bring her here.’

  He turned to Quasim. ‘Mr Dilawar Hussein, every time we meet some awful crime has been visited on your family. I ask the same questions and receive the same answers. You tell me you’ve no idea what’s going on. You ask why me?’ He paused. ‘I’m only an underpaid public servant, but even someone as limited I am must wonder the same: why you? What would make your family the target of so many brutal acts? So I ask again, except this time I need to hear something I can believe.’

  A trace of the old arrogance appeared in Quasim’s eyes. Rana wasn’t intimidated. ‘Why you, Mr Dilawar Hussein? What have you done to deserve this?’

  Quasim screamed. ‘Daliyaaaaaaa!’

  ‘Daliya? Where is she?’

  ‘You don’t understand. The bird – ’

  ‘Are you telling me Daliya has taken the Blue Rock?’

  ‘Not Daliya.’

  ‘Then who?’

  Quasim slumped in his seat.

  ‘Where should Daliya be?’

  The reply was a long time coming. ‘Upstairs.’

  Rana met Rafee returning from the basement ‘Wait here,’ he said, and climbed the stairs. At the top he steadied himself, sensing a different horror from Chandra waited for him. The room was tiny, dank, ice-cold and empty: an iron bedstead filled the space, a tap dripped into a stained sink. This was where the wife slept. Animals were treated better.

  Downstairs, Dilawar Hussein hadn’t moved. He sat, staring at the floor with his gold robe carelessly gathered round him, his chin on his chest. The detective knelt beside him, inches from the stricken man’s face. ‘She’s gone. Your wife’s gone. I found this.’

  Rana held up a bangle. ‘Mr Dilawar Hussein, all that stands between you and your fate is me.’

  Quasim shrank like a cornered beast, his eyelids fluttered, sweat washed his forehead. The disgust Rana felt for this thing was only just under control. ‘No more games. I want the truth. How long have you been married? And don’t lie. In the morning, I’ll have that information without your help. How long?’

  Quasim put his head in his hands and cried. Rana watched, unmoved. ‘How long?’

  ‘A year.’

  ‘To Daliya?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your first wife?’

  Quasim hands covered his face. Behind them a tale was being born. ‘No, my second. My first wife is at the heart of this. She was from the Punjab. We married years ago. At first, we were happy – at least, I thought we were – until I caught her. Then I knew I’d been a fool.’

  Rana couldn’t picture this man caring for another. ‘Caught her doing what?’

  ‘With her lover.’

  ‘You found your wife with another man?’

  ‘One evening, I saw her at the gates with a man. He ran when he recognised my car. Afra – that was her name – fled to the house and locked herself in our bedroom. I pounded on the door for hours. She wouldn’t open it, afraid of what I might do, but I wouldn’t have hurt her. I loved her.’

  His tears flowed. He wiped them away, embarrassed by his weakness. Rana wasn’t convinced.

  ‘For days she stayed there. I didn’t know what to do. My wife was unfaithful. I was lost. Finally, my brothers persuaded me.’

  ‘Persuaded you to do what?’

  ‘That Afra had dishonoured the family. They said she had to leave our house. Even my sister Chandra spoke against her. I’d trusted this woman and she’d betrayed that trust. Reluctantly, I turned my heart against her. It was the saddest moment of my life.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Then? Then I made the error that has cost me everything. I called out three times ‘I divorce you’. That was my mistake. My brothers broke down the door, took her away and I never saw her again. I tried to put her out of my mind. I remarried, in necessity this time, not love. My love left with Afra.’

  ‘And how does this explain what has gone on here?’

  ‘Detective, my brothers lied to me. They had no intention of taking her back to her village. They killed her, them and that reptile, Bilal.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘So if your wife is dead who is responsible for these crimes?’

  ‘Her lover, of course. The man I saw run away. Somehow he has discovered what they did and thinks I gave them my blessing. They’re dead and I’m still here, Detective, doesn’t that tell you something?’

  ‘And the wooden jewellery?’

  ‘The bangles belonged to Afra. She must have given them to him. He leaves them to mark his motive as well as his crime. He’s the one you should be looking for.’

  ‘And Daliya, what about her?’

  ‘He’s taken her to punish me. Maybe he’ll demand money for her return. With the business gone, where would I find it? He’s the one. He’s the killer.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

  ‘I couldn’t be sure. When I asked, they told me lies. Besides, how could I give up my flesh and blood? What they did, they did for me, for the family, for honour. Don’t you see?’

  The detective didn’t see. Pakistan was a country of strange notions about all kinds of things. Rafee knocked on the open door. ‘We’re finished in the bedroom, sir.’

  His boss nodded and spoke to Quasim. ‘I want everything you’ve told me in writing. I need you to describe this man, this lover. Tomorrow, at the police station.’

  Quasim bowed under the weight he had carried too long.

  ‘Of course, Detective. Of course.’

  -------

  In the car, Rafee said, ‘Do you believe him, sir?’

  ‘How much did you overhear?’

  ‘Most of it.’

  ‘Mmmm. And do you?’

&
nbsp; ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Rafee, if you saw where his second wife lived. Not lived,’ he corrected himself, ‘was kept. That man is a scorpion capable of sacrificing anyone to save himself.’

  ‘But is he telling the truth, sir?’

  ‘I wish I knew, Rafee, I wish I knew.’

  Chapter 33

  I sat my laptop on the table. People on airplanes, in taxis, everywhere, could balance them on their knees, not me. To work I needed quiet. I marvelled at war correspondents who managed to get their pieces together with bombs going off all around. Now that was award-winning stuff.

  Onscreen was the beginning of something. I typed everything I could remember; facts, notions, suspicions, possibilities, and set up a three-file system, another trick Chic Logan taught me. The first was ‘What do I know?’ The next saved as ‘What do I need to know?’ and the final one, the all-important ‘So what?’ file.

  The challenge was to make enough from the first two to have something to put in the last. It required a degree of creative thinking. And the story had to stand on its own. Everything needed to check out, but, as Chic had said, “Facts don’t stop being true because you can’t prove them.”

  .

  * * *

  What do I know?

  The heading waited for me to bring it to life. I typed in a two-fingered tippy-tappy that filled the screen with statements in no time.

  * * *

  Jameel Akhtar Hafeez, 28yrs old.

  Source – JAH.

  Adopted son of Gulzar Hafeez.

  Source – public record.

  MD of Ravi Restaurants.

  Source – ditto.

  Businessman of the Year.

  Source – ditto.

  Originally from Mundhi village, Punjab. [Afra’s village.]

  Source – JAH/ Simone.