by Owen Mullen
Afra was forced to marry Quasim Dilawar Hussein.
Source – Afra.
7 years later Afra called out ‘Jameel’.
Source – Simone.
Quasim DH doesn’t know JAH.
Source – QDH.
QDH has a new wife.
Source – QDH.
Bangles [6] no longer on JAH’s desk.
Source – witnessed myself.
The Dilawar Hussein family members met mutilation and violent death.
Source – public record.
Afra had the bangles given to her by Jameel.
Source –Afra.
A wooden bangle is left at each crime scene.
Source – D Meiklejohn.
* * *
It was a start.
* * *
What do I need to know?
Why is this happening?
Bangles gone from JAH’s desk [why?]
Does JAH have an alibi for the murders?
Is Jameel working alone?
What’s Simone up to? Is she involved?
What’s Quasim DH doing about it?
* * *
So what?
Someone is destroying the DHs
Bangles are symbolic of motive. [revenge?]
Murderer is ruthless, driven by passion.
Old boyfriend?
* * *
I looked at the evidence on the screen. Promising maybe but far from conclusive. This story would send me back to the top. McArthur would love it if I brought it home.
Jameel Akhtar Hafeez, Businessman of the Year and killer.
-------
Ten o’clock in the morning and Simone was still in bed. Not asleep. Thinking. She lay on her back staring at the ceiling, more confused than she’d ever been. Ralph had stopped calling. No messages either. If she’d lost him she knew who to blame.
So far she hadn’t been caught, though it hadn’t brought the peace she imagined. Nevertheless, it was the right path. Her life had changed with the first words.
my name was Afra
The knock on the door crashed through her lethargy. She scrambled off the bed and dragged on jeans and a T-shirt. In the mirror, she saw herself. What a mess. The hammering came again, louder and more insistent. Somebody was short on patience. She opened the door and he was there. The grizzled face and slept-in clothes were no more. A reversal had taken place. She was the lost soul now.
‘Simone.’
She froze.
‘Ralph. Come in, come in. Sit down. Can I get you something to drink?’
‘Nothing, thank you.’
They sat, as awkward as teenagers. ‘You didn’t call back.’
‘I’m sorry, I meant to. I’ve been so busy. I meant to, really.’
‘Busy doing what?’
She didn’t reply.
‘Simone, I’m here because I need to hear you say you don’t want me in your life. If there’s no future for us I’ll go, but I want you to say it.’
‘I could never tell you that. You look different, Ralph. You look good.’
It was a compliment, not an answer.
They met in the centre of the room and kissed. She said, ‘Ralph, sit down, we need to talk. I want us to be together. No lies, no secrets. Do you understand?’
‘No secrets.’
‘I told you I’d been busy. I have to tell you why.’
None of it mattered. He listened because she wanted him to listen, fearing he’d be appalled, horrified when he knew.
‘Ralph, Ralph, let me speak, please. It began that night in the Punjab but the rally tipped the scales. I was angry. At everyone: my father, this country. Even you. You see me as Simone, there’s more. I wish there wasn’t.’
‘Nothing you can say will alter anything, Simone. I love you.’
‘And I love you. Remember we’ve agreed. No secrets.’
‘No secrets.’ He repeated it to satisfy her.
‘Well, I have a secret. One that may make you change your mind about me.’
He took her hand. ‘Impossible.’
‘We’ll see.’
-------
Quasim pulled the car into a space down a side street. It had taken an hour to find somewhere to park. In better days he would have had the vehicle stop outside wherever he was going and expect Firdos to be waiting for him when his business was complete.
Those days were gone.
He slammed the door without locking it. Why bother, what was left to steal? The western suit, shirt and tie had been replaced by a kurta and pyjamas. The other clothes were symbols, marking him as different, successful. He wouldn’t wear them again.
Two boys played football in the busy street; one of them kicked the ball against the car. It struck the chassis with a dull thud. Quasim went wild. Another indignity. Even street urchins disrespected him. The children weren’t more than eight or nine years old. He roared at them; they grabbed the ball and ran.
He was on his way to an important meeting, one he’d been putting off since the warehouse fire. At first, he’d refused to take the calls. Then the letters arrived. He’d opened the first few, after that they piled up on the floor by his bed.
Bad news. Every meeting was bad news.
In the end, his accountant had come to see him. He spoke frankly. ‘It’s no use, Mr Dilawar Hussein, these problems have to be faced and decisions made. In the long run, it will happen anyway, with or without you, it would be better if you were involved. That way perhaps you can influence what’s left.’
‘There will be nothing left.’
‘Then maybe you can delay, buy yourself some time. Relocate your mother. Find a partner. Begin again.’
Quasim answered like a spoiled child. ‘I don’t want a partner.’
‘Whatever.’ The accountant’s job was to give advice, the client could take it or not. At the end of the day, it wasn’t his problem.
-------
In a room across the city, there was no anger or fear, only regret. Jameel Akhtar Hafeez was saying goodbye to his father.
He had been at the bedside for six hours, listening to the laboured breaths, studying the wrinkled face. This was not the Gulzar he would remember. The one that would live in his heart was a strong, wise man who’d learned the lessons life had taught him and passed those truths to his son. Gulzar’s eyes fluttered and opened. He turned his head and tried to smile.
Neither spoke, there was no need, they had made each other complete in their different ways. In another place that would be again. The dying man’s lips were dry. Jameel poured water from a jug into a glass and held it to him, supporting his head. Gulzar took a sip. It was enough. He saw the pain Jameel was going through.
Gulzar’s last words on earth were more important to him than any he had ever spoken. ‘Jameel Akhtar Hafeez,’ he said, and was gone. Hot tears rolled down Jameel’s face.
“Death is always sad. Life must not be the same.”
Thanks to his father, Jameel could meet life on life’s terms and survive. What a gift.
He stayed, praying quietly, then placed the chair against the wall and walked into the sunny day.
-------
Nurse Idris Phadkar hurried along the hospital corridor. Many of the staff were strangers. SHL was a teaching hospital; people came and went all the time. There was always so much going on. Six months since she’d moved to the city and it still excited her.
Working in the Punjab had served her well. She’d learned, come to terms with nursing in a way she wouldn’t have anywhere else. Her colleagues had been the same age, had joined the profession at the same time. They’d struggled together and were bonded by common experiences: they were her friends. Her memories of them and the little medical outpost were good memories, but she’d always known she would move on. It thrilled her to have actually done it. The work was no different. Her day began at 7am. Now it was past mid-day. Nurse Phadkar filtered the sounds around her and concentrated on her duties. Often when someone called to
her she wouldn’t hear, a form of deafness which most of the staff developed.
She passed reception. For once her brain wasn’t taken with other things. Even so, she would’ve missed it if she hadn’t noticed the man talking to the woman at the admissions window and heard him say ‘….anyone called Afra?’
Nurse Phadkar stopped.
‘From Lahore, or perhaps from a village called Mundhi?’
The receptionist stared at the screen, made a face and shook her head. He turned round and almost bumped into the pretty nurse. ‘Oh, sorry!’
‘That’s all right. I was standing too close. I overheard. You’re looking for a woman called Afra?’
‘Yes. Admitted sometime in the last year. This is the fourth hospital I’ve tried today. No luck.’
‘I met a woman in the Punjab. Her name was Afra.’
Ali held his breath.
‘About a year ago. She’d come to the city.’
The hairs on his neck bristled.
‘From a village called Mundhi.’
‘Do you know where she is?’
‘Yes, I know.’
He put his head in his hands. ‘Thank God.’
The search was over.
Chapter 34
She forged a path through the crowded streets. I followed, just like the day of the rally. My destiny was to go where she led. In the car, Simone had been quiet, speaking only to give directions through a part of the city unfamiliar to me. I parked and we walked through empty streets. It was hot, the sky had clouded; a change in the weather was on the way. There was tension between us that wasn’t coming from me.
no lies no secrets
She stopped in front of an old door with a metal ring attached and looked to make sure we hadn’t been followed. I’d no idea what to expect. Simone put her hand on the ring and struck it four times against the door. The sound of someone on the other side loosening bolts filtered through the thick wood. It opened. An eye appeared and judged us. We hurried inside and the door was bolted.
It was clear Simone was no stranger here. A woman in her sixties, wearing white shalwar and kameez embraced her, delight in her eyes.
‘Doctor Jasnin.’
Simone turned to include me. ‘This is my friend from Scotland.’
The woman’s hair was grey under her headscarf, her skin smooth and unlined except for a few wrinkles round the eyes and at the corners of her mouth. She was small, not more than five feet. Energy radiated from her and I guessed she’d been beautiful in her youth. Simone introduced her. ‘This is Priya, my second mother.’
The women held hands.
‘Salam,’ Priya said.
They spoke in Urdu. Priya patted Simone’s arm. ‘Pareshan nahi hon, don’t worry.’
The house was a warren of rooms with women everywhere. I was the only male. Our guide moved swiftly, Simone behind her. I trailed them, forgotten, wondering why I was there.
The woman stopped, embraced Simone again and disappeared. She faced me. No smiles now. ‘This is what I’ve been doing. Working here. Helping.’
A female passed in the airless corridor, her hands were bandaged and her face was bruised. She drifted by without making a sound. Someone used to being invisible.
Simone knocked on the door and entered. A girl sat on a bed. When she saw Simone she rushed to her, threw her arms round her and started to cry.
‘There, there. It’s all right. I told you, you’re safe now. They’ll never find you.’
She held the terrified creature, whispering reassurance. Whenever she made to leave, panic returned that needed more hugs and more words to calm it.
Simone had those words.
And I began to understand.
-------
Simone visited a dozen women, each time replacing fear with hope. There was no need to explain. After two hours, she said, ‘Only one more.’
As a man, I had nothing to contribute. I stood in the narrow corridor; awkward and self-conscious while women hurried past, their eyes averted. Silent women who’d suffered more than I could imagine. Perhaps there was a way to help. Simone said the refuge and others like it survived without government assistance. Publicity was the key. The world was awash with money looking for a home. If I wrote about it, shone a spotlight, surely people would respond?
Across the corridor, a door was open. A female with her back to me held a sobbing girl, patiently wiping her tears.
‘How long can I stay?’
‘As long as you like.’
‘Forever?’
‘Forever is a long time, Daliya’
The name struck a chord and made me give her a second look. Quasim’s wife huddled on the edge of the bed – the thinnest person I’d ever seen. Dead eyes in an emaciated face. Dangerously undernourished. Anaemic, like 97.4 percent of her sisters in Pakistan. She was frail and wasted, but the mute Chandra Dilawar Hussein would have traded places with her. This was the long game Simone’s father had believed in and I’d discovered how true that sometimes was. At least Daliya could have a life.
The comforter gave her a hug and left, pausing to glance into the room where Simone knelt with yet another victim. She heard a frightened voice ask ‘Why are you here?’ and stopped to listen to the reply.
‘To make certain you’re all right.’
‘And am I?’
‘You will be. In time.’
‘Are you a doctor?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Just call me Simone.’
-------
‘So now you know, some of it anyway.’
‘There’s more?’
‘A lot more.’
The car edged through the late-afternoon traffic. Lahore was like any city; it took patience to survive it. ‘My first thought was to offer my services as a doctor to the refuge.’ Simone pulled cigarettes from a pocket, lit one and exhaled a blue cloud into the air. ‘That was the plan, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. When Priya asked me, I didn’t hesitate.’
‘What did she ask?’
‘To become more involved. To make a difference.’
‘How?’
‘By helping to free those who were in chains. Sometimes the chains actually existed. Sometimes they were psychological, though just as binding.’
I marvelled at her courage, awed by her commitment. ‘What did you do?’
‘What I’ve been doing for more than two months. Helping the fortunate few make their break for freedom. I’ve been a part of it.’
She stopped talking. Outside Lahore passed, gaudy and noisy. ‘It’s dangerous, very dangerous. If we’re caught…’
Simone let the consequences stay unnamed.
‘I’m afraid. Terrified. I can’t do it anymore. I told Priya I can’t go on. I feel I’ve let them down. All those women. There has to be another way to help.’
Tears welled in her eyes. ‘I’m a coward, Ralph. I talk – oh yes, I can talk – but when it comes to really giving…’ She looked away, ashamed.
I took her hands in mine. ‘Simone, there are other ways. Let’s find them together.’
-------
The last months had aged Jameel. He was travelling early towards middle age. His friend saw the change. Gulzar’s death had been a blow, and his fears and hopes for the girl he loved and lost were too much to bear. He conjured a welcome from nothing.
‘Ali. Good to see you. How are you? How’s everything?’
Ali hadn’t seen his friend since the funeral and hid his surprise at the difference. Jameel’s eyes were dull, his skin was lined and there was grey in the hair. Grief was a terrible thing. ‘Fine, Jameel. And you?’
Jameel lied. ‘Better.’
‘Well,’ Ali braced himself, ‘I had an idea Afra may have been injured and asked at the hospitals in the city. A nurse overheard.’ Jameel tensed. ‘Her name is Idris Phadkar. She met a woman called Afra a year ago.’
‘Afra’s a common name. It may not have been the same one.’
Ali leaned closer: this was hard for him. ‘Her name was Afra. From Mundhi village. Jameel. The woman she met was your Afra.’
we must have the world the way we wish it and when we find it isn’t we’re disappointed
afraid like you are now
‘She was brought to Lahore. Her path was very different from yours.’
Jameel closed his eyes, his lips trembled. ‘Tell me.’
-------
No one noticed the woman walking towards the vehicle. Her dress was like many in the city, from head to foot in black. One hand held her niqab in place so even her eyes were veiled. In the other hand, a sack drawn together by string dangled from her fingers. She approached the car and opened the back door. It wasn’t locked. She placed the sack on the floor behind the driver’s seat and pulled the drawstrings apart, then swept a hand down her arm and tossed a bangle on the back seat.
In moments, she was swallowed by the crowd.
-------
‘Fucking accountants.’ Quasim fumed. What did they know? What had they ever risked? Nothing.
‘The house will need to be sold, Mr Dilawar Hussein. The insurance doesn’t begin to cover the loss.’
‘My mother lives in that house. She’s old and ill.’
Quasim was ashamed to hear himself pleading with this fool.
The accountant was unmoved. ‘No matter, you’ll have to find alternative accommodation for her, your creditors will demand the property be released.’
The Dilawar Hussein family had dealt with this firm for years. Today, that counted for little. Quasim’s frustration crystallised into hatred for this man, so calm, laying the unpleasant reality of his life before him. ‘Mr Dilawar Hussein, do you have any idea how high your debts are?’
‘No’
‘Neither do I. That’s how bad the situation is. Your creditors are baying like wolves.’
Quasim spat. ‘Jackals!’
‘You owe them money. In some cases, a lot of money. The property will be sold, sooner rather than later. I’m sorry.’
