by S. M. Hall
Then a moment later another voice told her, ‘You can’t run out on Khaled. Omar has to trust him. That’s the only way to stop the bombs.’
‘And you have to rescue Pam. You have to finish what you started. You haven’t come this far to give up without a fight.’
On and on the voices hammered. She’d never felt so lonely. Finally, with relief, she slipped into an uneasy sleep.
* * *
Sounds from the busy street filtered into the bedroom. Maya woke with a sense that something was wrong, something was pressing down on her. Her limbs were stiff, her muscles tight, her hands clamped together. She sat up, stretching, wiping the sleep from her eyes.
Everything is Allah’s will, nothing happens by chance.
It was as if somebody in the room had spoken the words – they resounded inside her head, calming, comforting. She didn’t know where they’d come from, she wasn’t sure if she believed in any god or prophet or spirit, but suddenly she was filled with hope. After all, hadn’t she accessed the Red Moon file, found the bookshop, made contact with Khaled, escaped Omar, found refuge with Mariam? All these things had happened, and had brought her closer to finding Pam. She must stay strong, she must have faith – everything would work out.
Rolling over, she sat up, rubbed at her sore shoulder and swung her legs out of bed, then, grabbing her jeans and T-shirt, she went across to the bathroom. Although she’d have loved a long, hot shower, she made do with a quick splash; she had to be alert, waiting, listening.
Out on the landing, she stiffened as the door from the shop opened below and footsteps rapped on the stairs. Relief flooded through her when Mariam appeared.
‘Ah, you’re awake. Come, I’ve made some lemon tea.’
In the corner of the kitchen a small TV flashed out news – a Hollywood actor getting divorced, environmental protesters arrested at a power plant, and in a moment they were going to bring viewers up to date with the latest on the search for the kidnapped Security Chief and her daughter.
Mariam and Maya watched and waited while adverts for soap powder, cars and toys flashed across the screen.
‘With all my heart, I’m hoping they’ve rescued her,’ Mariam said.
Maya could hardly speak. Gripping the warm mug with both hands, she watched as pictures of Special Forces wearing breathing apparatus and body armour came up on the screen. A full assault on the farmhouse was taking place: officers advancing with guns and riot shields, billowing smoke, buildings ablaze and two men running out of the burning house, holding up their hands and fleeing towards the camera. A close-up showed one of the men with a blackened face being seized by an officer, his hands forced up his back and handcuffed.
‘Bomb-making equipment was found at the farmhouse, but there’s no news yet of Counter Terrorism Chief Pamela Brown, who was taken hostage by terrorists two days ago, or of her fifteen-year-old daughter. The raid by Security Forces did not reveal their whereabouts and intelligence sources now believe that Ms Brown and her daughter are being held by another cell of the Allied Brotherhood in the Leeds area.
Suddenly she was aware that Mariam was speaking to her and she hadn’t heard a word.
‘Sorry?’
‘I think you should let somebody know where you are,’ Mariam repeated, switching off the TV. ‘You have to let people know you’re safe.’
‘They know,’ Maya said. ‘The ones who matter know.’
Mariam reached into a cupboard, took out a big mixing bowl and set it on the worktop. She gave Maya a warm smile. ‘I think your mother is close by. You’ll be reunited, I’m sure of it, and until then you’re welcome to stay here.’
Maya thanked her. She watched Mariam’s careful unhurried movements, pouring flour and water into the bowl, her hands moving swiftly and surely, mixing and moulding until she’d formed a smooth ball of dough. It would be easy to leave, escape while Mariam was busy. The thought almost carried her away, but she didn’t move. Gripping the edge of her chair, she watched Mariam break off a small piece of dough and shape it into a ball; her hands went through practised patterns, patting and rolling. She created a circle of calm around her as she worked. The dough became a smooth, flat circle.
‘What do you know about Omar?’ Maya asked.
‘He’s from an old and much-respected family,’ Mariam replied.
‘Does he have a wife?’
The dough circle spread wider and grew thinner. ‘He has a wife and five children,’ Mariam answered. Then, with a wry smile, she added, ‘All girls.’
‘What’s he like?’
Mariam picked up the circle of dough and turned it over. ‘Omar loves money and power. The first he has – he’s very wealthy – but in his mind, a man with five daughters is a weak man. He has to prove himself.’
‘Do you think I could reason with him?’
Mariam’s big brown eyes told Maya what a ridiculous notion that was.
‘Omar doesn’t listen to anybody.’ She lifted the board and took the rolled dough over to a griddle. As she slapped down the creamy circle, she said over her shoulder, ‘Only his father. He lives with him, and everything Omar does is to impress his father.’
‘Why?’
The dough sizzled and turned golden.
‘His father is a learned man, much revered in our community. Omar wants what his father has – respect – whatever way he can get it.’
Maya’s mind was ticking as Mariam turned over the baking bread. ‘So even though Omar’s rich, his father thinks he’s a failure?’
‘Yes,’ Mariam said, lifting the bread from the griddle. ‘But his father is also very angry. It’s a case of mistaken identity. His favourite son, Omar’s brother, was arrested and is being held in jail. Majid is a well-respected teacher – an academic. I’m sure he has nothing to do with terrorism. I understand now, they arrested the wrong man.’
‘Where does Omar live?’
‘In Queen’s Street, near his warehouse.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Mariam stopped what she was doing and gave Maya a warning glance.
‘Don’t try and oppose Omar. He’s a cruel man. Wait until Khaled gets back. He’ll have some news.’
Maya nodded, but her mind was working fast. Maybe there was another way.
Holding out a plate, Mariam offered her the bread. ‘Roti – it’s fresh and very good. You must eat.’
Maya managed a smile. ‘Thanks, I will, but I need to go and wash my hands.’
In the bedroom, Maya crossed to the dressing table and took a quick look in the mirror. Picking up a brush she smoothed down her hair, then she caught up the scarf to make her hijab. Bending down, she looked for her trainers. They weren’t under the bed where she’d left them. She looked everywhere in the room, opened a cupboard and searched inside, but couldn’t find them. They’d gone. She went back across the landing and poked her head into the kitchen.
‘Mariam, have you seen my trainers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where are they?’
Mariam was stirring some sauce. She put the spoon down and went over to Maya. ‘Khaled asked me to keep your shoes. He was afraid you might run away.’
Maya backed away from her. ‘What did he say?’
Mariam smoothed back her hair with a floury hand. ‘He said you might try to tackle Omar by yourself.’
Maya forced a smile. ‘Oh no, that would be suicide.’
Trying to make her movements seem as natural as possible she picked up a warm roti and broke off a piece. It was delicious, fresh and light. She ate it quickly.
‘Can I take a shower?’ she asked Mariam.
‘Of course you can. Help yourself to clean towels, they’re in the bathroom cupboard.’
‘Thanks.’
Going into the bathroom, Maya turned on the shower, then – shoeless – she tiptoed to the top of the stairs. Just before she went down to the shop floor, she snatched a pair of Mariam’s beaded slippers and, holding them in her
hand, peeped through the door into the shop where Uncle Ali was serving customers. When he turned his back, she flashed through the shop and out into the street.
Chapter Nineteen
Omar’s wife Shameen carried a big pile of neatly-pressed clothes and distributed them amongst the huge suitcases spread out in the sitting room. She was grumbling, a steady stream of complaints issuing forth against the hastily planned trip.
‘Why didn’t I have more notice? The girls have studying to do. They don’t have suitable clothing. I haven’t had time to buy presents.’
Omar was sitting on the sofa, studying a map. He looked up. ‘You’re taking enough presents to fill a bazaar. The charge for excess baggage will be more than my business is worth.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ Shameen replied.
Omar folded the map. ‘I thought this would be a happy event for you – to see your family, an opportunity for the girls to see their cousins.’ He pouted. ‘I’m a thoughtful husband. How many times have you said that you miss your family?’
‘But you’re not coming with us.’
‘I can’t spare the time.’
His wife looked disgruntled. ‘For some reason, you want us out of the way.’
‘That’s not true.’
At that moment Jasmina, their youngest daughter, ran into the room holding some shorts. ‘I want to take these, but Mila says they’re not suitable.’
‘She’s right. You won’t be wearing those, they’re far too short. Give them to me,’ Omar ordered.
Shameen snatched them from her daughter, screwed them up into a ball and threw them onto an armchair. ‘I wish your father was coming with us,’ she said to Omar. ‘He’d be so helpful.’
‘He doesn’t have good memories of his final days in Lahore,’ he said loudly.
‘That was a long time ago. Things have changed now,’ his wife answered.
Omar’s father, who was in the next room, heard their conversation. He came through and stood in the doorway. ‘The authorities have long memories,’ he said. ‘Anyway, how can I return home when my son’s in prison?’
‘Omar glared at his father. ‘You always bring that up.’
‘It’s not a small matter. My eldest son has been wrongly arrested and detained. His children are without a father.’
Omar turned away. ‘It’s not my fault. What have I done? If you want to blame anyone, then blame the security services, the kafirs with their unfair practices, detaining people without evidence.’
His father’s face flushed with anger. He shook his fist. ‘You were responsible for those inflammatory leaflets. Violence is not the answer to anything.’
‘Leave me alone,’ Omar snapped, and, with a face like thunder, he picked up the remote and switched on the TV. His wife continued trying to stuff six sets of clothes into six different suitcases, and his father unfolded a newspaper. Omar seemed to be very interested in a programme about the Chinese economy, but grew more fidgety and agitated as he watched. Several times he looked at his watch.
‘Where is it?’ he muttered.
‘What?’ his wife asked.
‘Be quiet,’ he snapped.
He stood up, and then sat down again, turned the volume up, then down, sat back, then sat forward on the big sofa.
‘Please can you move your feet?’ his wife asked.
‘Shush!’ Omar ordered. The TV screen flashed. He turned up the volume again and sat forward, his body rigid, his eyes intent on the screen.
‘We’ve just received a statement reportedly made by the hostage Pamela Brown. Ms Brown, who is Head of the Counter Intelligence unit Viper, was seized by terrorists two days ago. The statement was delivered to the BBC this morning. This is what it said:
“I have recognised the just cause of the Allied Brotherhood and deplore the damage inflicted by Western powers on Muslim countries. In my role as Head of the Counter Intelligence unit Viper, I was in a prime position to aid my Islamic brothers. For two years I’ve worked as a double agent and have passed crucial information to the Brotherhood to help them plan attacks on Europe. I have converted to Islam and am committed to fighting the Holy War in the name of Allah, may His name be praised. No street or building in Europe will be safe until all Muslim prisoners are released and Western armies are withdrawn from Muslim lands.”’
Omar rubbed his hands with a broad smile on his face. ‘Spot on,’ he said.
* * *
The pink beaded slippers were not the most practical footwear for running away in, but at least they fitted. As Maya slipped them on outside the fruit shop, she glanced up and down the street, unsure which way to go. Not towards the bookshop – she should steer away from that direction. Across the road there was a dingy-looking café; she dodged through the traffic and ducked inside.
The man behind the counter eyed her without a smile. When she ordered coffee and toast, he told her to sit down and he’d bring it over. The air was thick with steam. Two men with bushy moustaches were bending over tiny coffee cups, speaking passionately in a language she didn’t understand. Maya went quietly to a table by the window which gave her a good view across the street to Mariam’s shop.
Shoving a streaked plastic menu aside, she planted her elbows on the table and pretended to study a faded poster of the Blue Mosque in Istanbul, but her eyes darted constantly toward the street. She became aware of the two men watching her; she couldn’t actually see them, but when they stopped talking she felt the heat of their gaze.
What if they were Omar’s men? What if they recognised her? How stupid she was to have gone into a café, she should have got clean away while she had the chance, but now she was trapped. If she left too soon, she’d arouse suspicion. The sensible thing to do was to sit tight.
The coffee was black and bitter, the toast like white cardboard, a slick of grease glistening in the middle. Maya nibbled at the edges, checked the street again, and saw Khaled walking fast. Behind him were three men, among them she recognised Nazim. Swallowing hard, she almost choked, dry crumbs spluttering over her hand. Omar’s thugs were marching to capture her, disappearing into the shop. So Khaled had carried out his threat, but he wouldn’t have his moment of glory. With a shaking hand she set down her coffee cup – now her plan had to work.
Leaving some pound coins on the table, she shot to the door. Looking neither left or right, she dashed down the street. If anybody was following her, she didn’t want to know. No time to pause, no time to look back, she hurried towards the crossroads, weaving her way through a group of mothers, toddlers, pushchairs and children.
She rushed blindly down two more streets, anywhere just to get away. Into a street lined with terraced houses, a newsagent’s shop on the corner. Schoolchilden on their lunch break were shouting, grasping at crisps and chocolate, a friendly man behind the counter looked unfazed by the clamour.
‘Queen’s Street? Yeah, I know it, but, it’s a walk. Go down this road to the bottom, past the infants’ school, carry on over the next two junctions, left at the traffic lights and you’ll see it over the roundabout – lots of old buildings and warehouses.’
Maya thanked him, pushed past the school kids and hurried out. Walking fast, she glanced at the traffic. Would Khaled guess where she was heading? Would Omar’s men come after her? It was a risk she had to take. Throwing caution aside, she started to run. It was madness to make herself so visible but, as her feet pounded the pavement, excitement flooded through her – it was positive action, real action. She was putting distance between herself and Khaled and, with hope in her heart, running towards her mum.
At the roundabout she skidded to a halt. There was no missing the sign on the opposite side of the road – Omar’s Carpets, Rugs and Antiquities – white letters on a huge purple banner. She slowed down, stopped and stared. There was a big entrance on the corner, then the building stretched a long way down the road; on the lower part, the old stone walls were blank, but the upper storey was lined with tiny leaded windows. Was her mum inside
the building? Was she behind one of the barred windows or crammed inside an underground cell? Maya sent her a mental message: Hold on, Mum. If you’re in there, I’ll rescue you. I can’t, I won’t fail.
As she crossed the road, the huge banner burnt a hole in the sky. Underneath it she stepped onto the pavement, just as a black car with tinted windows cruised past. She had the distinct feeling she was being watched as it drove slowly down the road. A shiver ran through her. Was it one of Omar’s soldiers, or Simon’s spies? She could trust neither.
Making sure it was all clear, she hobbled into the warehouse entrance. Her feet were sore, the pink slippers were not good running shoes. A notice on the door informed her that the warehouse was closed for the weekend. She tried the door – it was locked.
Leaning back against the wall, she tried to think logically but found it hard to focus.
One step at a time, she told herself, take one step at a time. You have to get inside the building before Omar arrives to open up – if you do this, you’ll have a chance. There has to be another door into the warehouse – a back door.
Ducking out of the front entrance, she tracked down the side of the building. When she rounded the corner she saw a black furniture van. It was backed up to the warehouse loading bay and the doors of the bay were wide open. Beside the van were a silver Mercedes and a red truck. Was Omar here? Was he inside the building?
Maya dodged behind the wall when she heard footsteps. Two men came out through the loading bay and climbed into the back of the furniture van. After a few moments, she peered round the corner and scanned the scene. Muffled voices and heavy dragging sounds were coming from inside the van. Silent as a shadow, she darted to side of the van and slid along it; the back of the van yawned wide. She glanced up, but couldn’t see the men. She had to take a chance. Standing up, she braced herself and dashed through the delivery bay and into the warehouse.
Rolls of carpet, rugs and furniture blocked her way. She plunged into the middle of them, crouching low, weaving through them, her heart hammering. Behind her, she heard the men dragging something down from the van. She threw herself onto the floor next to a giant roll of carpet as they came closer, their footsteps stamping, their breathing loud; they were carrying something heavy. Blood crashed in her ears, the footsteps paused and then continued. A loud voice split the air.
