by Owen Mullen
At the car, there was no sign of the young footballers. Quasim started the engine and pulled away, too preoccupied to notice the bangle on the back seat, or anything else.
-------
The telephone rang. I was expecting the call. It was McArthur.
‘Ralph?
‘Hi, Andrew.’
‘Hey Ralph, got the copy. Love it, really love it.’
‘Thank you.’
In spite of everything, McArthur was a fan. He’d okayed most of my requests and backed my judgement when others wouldn’t. Apart from the final few episodes, he’d rarely been disappointed. ‘Behind the Veil. The truth’s the truth. Right?’
‘The piece – ’
‘Series.’
I compromised. ‘What it’ll highlight is barbaric behaviour.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just keep it coming, Ralph, that’s all.’
‘I intend to.’
‘And what about the killings? How’s that going?’
‘A work in progress. Bit like myself.’
‘Ok. Good. Maybe it’s time you came back to London, eh?’
‘I’ll think about it, Andrew.’
Early evening in Pakistan is a beautiful time. In the kitchen, Simone cooked dinner wearing one of my shirts over blue jeans. She looked wonderful. I’d told McArthur I’d think about a move. Maybe I would. But not yet.
Chapter 35
Quasim sat in traffic trying to make some sense of what his life had become.
Things had never been better until that woman reappeared. He should have dealt with her himself instead of trusting his idiot cousin. An image of Bilal hanging from the ceiling got no sympathy from him, only a deepening disgust that their blood was in any way the same. And his brothers, Zamir and Firdos, could they really have been cut from the same staff? He needed a plan. A plan for Quasim.
To begin, his mother and sister required care. For certain, he wouldn’t be involved, he’d find another Daliya – one of the first things he’d do.
Loneliness settled over him. But he wasn’t alone.
The bangle stayed where it had been left, it didn’t move.
The sack on the floor did.
-------
The city crowded in on him. He had to get away, even for an hour or two. He needed to think. There was a way. Of course, there was a way. He reminded himself that he was the one who had taken the small business his father left and built it into an enterprise worth something.
do you have any idea how high your debts are?
Quasim smiled; his confidence grew. Traffic thinned. He had told the buffoon of a policeman he’d see him at the station – a waste of time – he couldn’t be bothered. Soon he’d be in the country, away from his troubles.
Zamir had lived consumed with resentment. Quasim, on the other hand, had made his own opportunities, took risks, rode his luck and grown the business beyond anything his father ever dreamed. That was the part his jealous brother missed. Quasim had been given a chance. He was the one who’d capitalised the inheritance, manipulated the openings, worked long and hard, until he owned what his brother would never own.
And he could do it again.
When the car cleared the outskirts of Lahore, Quasim pointed it south, passing fields where families tended crops. The afternoon sun shone on them; they seemed content. Some were meant to toil. Others – like him – were fitted for better things. Quasim Dilawar Hussein started to feel better. He was enjoying himself.
The big vehicle hovered over the highway and glided across the rougher surfaces of the minor roads. Why hadn’t he done more of this, just for the freedom of it? When fortune returned, as it surely would, he’d set aside time for Quasim.
He drove on, across the fertile plains. It was warm in the car, Quasim felt pleasantly tired: a good feeling. On the passenger seat something caught his eye. A minute later a movement on the edge of his vision made him look again. Nothing. He took his attention back to the road. What a peaceful scene, what a marvellous country to live in, and less than an hour from the city.
The snake appeared from behind the upholstery, as if it was playing hide and seek with the driver. A black tongue darted in its mouth. Cold eyes studied Dilawar Hussein.
Daboia. The Lurker.
The brake met the floor and the car slid on squealing rubber, painting a dark streak on the road. Quasim was frozen with fear. The snake slithered on the seat next to him and prepared to strike.
The BMW juddered to a halt. Quasim groped for the handle and jerked the door open. Before he could get out, the second snake rose between his legs, head weaving from side to side. He saw the three rows of dark brown patches bordered with yellow, the flickering tongue and the fangs.
He tried to scream. A strangled gurgle was all that came. His chest tightened. He couldn’t breathe. His eyes bulged.
The Russell’s Viper and the heart attack struck together. With lightning speed, the other snake added its venom. But Quasim Dilawar Hussein was already dead.
* * *
-------
A fatality on a country road, miles from the city, couldn’t be expected to concern detective Jan Asmet Rana in Lahore. It became his business when the identity of the driver was established. And when a policeman at the scene found the wooden bangle in the back of the vehicle, his involvement was guaranteed.
-------
I looked at the writing on the screen in front of me. Words, lots of words, beginning with the eye-catching heading Revenge in Lahore! and the strapline Someone Knows. But words weren’t the same as the truth and the proof, the absolute proof, was missing. What I had was enough to make trouble, to create a stir, though it wasn’t enough to go with. It was also libellous, I was certain of that.
A work in progress, that’s what I’d told McArthur, and I was right. Somewhere along the way, I’d traded my humanity for a place in the sun. Except that was the old Ralph. The new me treaded more carefully, the reason I hesitated signing off on the article. I read the text and the edits, thinking about Jo-Jo, and Tony Fascionni, Stanley Dow, Lonnie Harper and all the people I’d let down chasing “the story”.
The article was in four parts. One and two majored on the crimes. Three and four suggested a prominent Lahore businessman was the killer. But Hafeez wasn’t a bad man, and there was justice to the murders.
I hesitated. McArthur wanted me home, this was my ticket. Back in the game. Back in the black. Everybody’s favourite guy. Would that be so wrong?
you must remember you were the star of the show
I could have it all. The same as before. Better than before. My finger hovered above the keyboard. The e-mail address was up, the attachment a little icon at the bottom.
Back in the black. How nice that would feel.
...the star of the show
My hand trembled. Decision time.
Simone called from the kitchen. ‘Ralph! Dinner! Remember, we’re going out!’
How would I react if she had been abused like Afra? I closed my eyes and stabbed delete.
-------
Jameel was behind his desk when Ali knocked and entered. He looked better today, that pleased his friend. Still no wooden jewellery. ‘Ali. Sit down.’
‘No I won’t. I just wanted you to know, Quasim Dilawar Hussein was found dead in his car sixty miles south of Lahore. They think it was a heart attack. A wooden bangle was found on the back seat.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Shakil called to tell me. He’ll know more after the autopsy. Want me to call him back?’
Jameel played with the pen in his hand. ‘No, leave it. We’ve got a business to run.’
-------
The room was packed with people, most of them smoking.
‘All I can tell you is what I know about myself. Nine years in the Fellowship and life is great. But I have to be careful and never forget. I may’ve got the monkey off my back’ he tapped his temple ‘but the circus is still in town. Know what I mean? Glad to be here.’
He hesitated before accepting the handshake and didn’t tell me his name. ‘First meeting?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘What did you think?’
‘Don’t know,’ the stranger said.
‘Well, don’t judge us on just this one. It worked for me.’
The newcomer eyed me up and down. ‘I can see that.’
I took his hand again. ‘Keep coming back. Just keep coming back.’
Chapter 36
It was cold in the bus station before sunrise. A dozen diesel engines growled in neutral under a dark sky, waiting to begin the daily exodus from the city. An old couple struggled with two overfilled bags; wherever they were going their world was going with them. The young woman made for the back by the window. Soon after a man got on and sat next to her. They didn’t speak. No one did; it was too early for conversation. The burly driver dropped behind the wheel, closed the doors and the bus crept into what remained of the night.
A few drifted to sleep, heads lolling, mouths open, gently tossed by every bump in the road. The woman watched the shadowy landscape pass. The man said, ‘Where is this bus going?’
‘I don’t know. South, I think. It doesn’t matter, does it?’ She squeezed his hand and whispered. ‘Wherever you are I am.’
He whispered in return. ‘And wherever I am, you are too.’
They silently watched daylight give form to the world outside. After a while, she reached into her coat pocket and brought out sheets of paper, split and cracked where the folds had been. The doctor’s letter lay on top.
Doctor Simone Jasnin had been in the refuge – she’d heard someone ask her name. Strange their paths should cross so close to the end. Fatima wanted to speak, wanted to thank her, but the danger of discovery was too great, and Shafi needed to be protected.
Her eyes moved over the pages, reading words she knew by heart, savouring the contact with the past...
my name was Afra
...following the clean, clear writing through to the end, then, brushing tears away. There would be no more. She had no more. Her companion was asleep. How good he’d been and how brave though the last months had been difficult for him.
When the letter arrived he’d agreed to everything she felt they must do. The idea had been hers, even the awful symmetry – the acid thrower burned, the strangler hanged, the liar made dumb, and all the gory rest. She’d been driven by revenge, his commitment had a different stamp: to her, always to her. At times, when she’d despaired and lost her nerve, it was his courage that kept them going. And, when there was something no sane person would do, he did it, not her. The day he returned holding the sack with the draw-string top she realised he’d die for her. That thought made her humble, and sad. At night, she heard the price he paid for the bloody violence she had conceived. What had she forced him to become?
But it was over. It had to be.
Yet it had almost ended too soon in Heera Mandi. Hearing Jameel’s voice made her want to rush into his arms, beg him to protect her and her brother as he had when the rabid dog threatened them. Instead, she hid, and later, overwhelmed with the past, she’d cried.
Fatima opened the bus window and remembered the cage bird. Freeing it had been a good thing. Afra would have wanted that. Creeping through the Dilawar Hussein house had been frightening. Outside in the street, she imagined she heard it call; a beautiful sound on the midnight air. Perhaps her mind playing a trick.
Her trembling fingers held the pages. The paper, once so clean and fresh, was dirty and worn. Fatima folded the sheets and tore them into ragged squares. Beside her, her brother woke with a start from another bad dream. She stroked his hair to comfort him. He was her responsibility, just as he’d always been.
‘I’m sorry. I fell asleep.’
‘That’s all right, that’s okay.’
He shuddered. ‘When I close my eyes, I see their faces.’
‘I know.’
‘What can we do?’
She touched his cheek, feeling him soothe because she was near. ‘Accept. Accept, find the shade and live on. We live on, Shafi.’
Fatimah cupped her palm and held it up, opened her hand and released the little cloud of confetti. Fragments fluttered in the draught of the racing vehicle, rising at the beginning of their separate journeys to earth. Some floated longer than the others, riding the current, reaching back towards the city. Back to Lahore.
Afterword
1998
National Press Awards,
The Dorchester, Mayfair
When the press finds a hero it doesn’t hold back. The president’s description had me somewhere between a warrior and a saint, praising my commitment to a difficult and dangerous job. I thought of the rally and the woman who set herself on fire; that was commitment. Next thing, I was headed for the stage and everyone was on their feet. Strangers shook my hand. One of them scolded me. ‘Should’ve known you were up to something,’ he said. It was the guy from the Pearl hotel, and I still couldn’t remember his name.
you were the star of the show
I looked out at my peers and felt a lump in my throat. McArthur led the applause, grinning like the cat that got the cream. Simone clapped and smiled. Surely to Christ I wasn’t going to cry?
If I’d learned anything from my last speech it was to keep it short. I thanked my editor for his faith and said I hoped Behind The Veil would raise awareness of the plight of women in Pakistan. No mention of Simone – I’d been warned – and a wise husband listens to his wife.
The next few days would be shopping, a West End show and back to work. McArthur was making noises about my future in London. He was going to be disappointed.
An old pro gave me good advice at the start of my career – the story is always underneath he told me – and he was right. Sometimes at night, I wonder. Did Jameel’s mother make up the tale to console her son? Or could the bangles really have the power to help lovers find each other?
Then Simone stirs in her sleep beside me, and I know.
Epilogue
Shakil handed his friend a brown paper package held with string.
‘You do realise this could cost me my pension, Ali?’
‘In another country perhaps, not here in Pakistan. The case is closed and won’t be reopened. The detective who investigated it has retired.’
‘Evidence is still evidence.’
‘Are they all here?’
‘Yes. The whole set.’
‘Not quite the whole set. But you’ve done a good thing, tonight.’
--------
The car drove through the open gate and up the hill towards the brow. When it stopped, a man got out and walked the few steps to a raised mound of earth no different from many others. He bent and placed a faded red and grey square tied in a parcel next to the simple headstone some unknown hand had etched with a word.
Afra.
Idris had been right, the cemetery behind the hospital was deserted; there were no flowers. Nobody came here. No one cared about this place, so far from Lahore.
He whispered his prayer and returned to the car. As the vehicle pulled away, from the back seat, Jameel spoke to the driver.
‘Thank you, Ali. Thank you.’
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Acknowledgments
Out Of The Silence arrived unexpected and unannounced in my life. We were in the Thar Desert, our comfortable bed in the castle at Jaisalmer, left behind. In the distance with the sun setting, nomads raced camels across the dunes like medieval raiders. Nearby, a woman dressed from head to toe in black had set up a rickety wooden table on the sand. What on earth could she be selling in the middle of nowhere? As it turned out, salt. A veil covered her face making it impossible to tell her age, but she moved like a girl in her teens. Christine bought a small bag from her, carefully weighed against a grubby collection of old spark plugs in the other pan of a rusty scale. When she paid, the girl’s almond eyes lit up; underneath her niqab she was smiling. That was the first time I met Afra. But it wouldn’t be the last.
Back in Scotland with winter knocking on the door, we often remembered the galloping silhouettes against the never-ending sky and the lone salt-seller, quietly going about her business, asking ourselves what became of her. Had the camel race been a performance by some young man to impress her? Were they in love? Perhaps they were still there – poor but happy. Or was she destined to abandon her stall among the dunes for a different future? The idea for the book sprang from one such conversation.
Out Of The Silence is unlike anything else I’ve written. The story came to me almost whole, how it would end as clear as the Rajasthan horizon that day: a harrowing account of twisted notions of honour answered with pitiless revenge delivered from the heart. Over time India became Pakistan, the Great Thar Desert morphed into rural Punjab and the city of Lahore, and I realised Out Of The Silence was more than just a murder mystery.
