The Khan

by Saima Mir

  A mobile phone began to hum persistently somewhere in another room. Jia left the comfort of her couch in search of it. It was rare for her to receive calls this late.

  She stepped across the scattered clothes in her bedroom and moved towards the bed. She had undressed quickly, not caring where things landed. The maid would pick them up and hang them and send them to the dry cleaners in the morning. Cheeks to the carpet, the red soles of her work shoes chastised her. A skirt lay in a heap next to the kingsize bed, along with a soft silk blouse. Its mate, the Savile Row jacket, was neatly placed on top of the covers; beside it sat a pebble-coloured Birkin handbag. It was vibrating. It was fair to say that Jia Khan was a gently vain woman.

  The phone stopped ringing as soon as she found it. ‘Baba jaan’ flashed up on the missed call log. She was about to put it down when it rang again. He knew she was avoiding him. ‘Jia Khan never whines,’ she’d overheard him saying to her mother once, ‘she protests in silence.’ He was goading her to hit ‘decline’, and so she did. A minute later the phone buzzed, signalling he’d left a voicemail.

  Akbar Khan’s message was as concise as his relationship with his daughter: ‘The car will be with you at 6.00P.M. I am sending my personal driver, Michael. Do not be late, and don’t make him wait.’ The sound of his voice made her bristle, almost pushing her back to teenage strop and pout. She was tempted to call him back and tell him she wasn’t coming. But far too many years had passed for her to act that way. And besides, she’d made a promise to her little sister Maria.

  ‘Don’t fall down that rabbit hole of rage when Baba jaan calls.’

  ‘I don’t do that. Do I do that?’

  ‘I won’t get married if you don’t come. I will send the baraat away.’ And although Jia knew Maria’s threat was empty, she had agreed. After fifteen years away, she was going back to Pukhtun House. Now was as a good a time as any to face old foes, even ones that were family.

  She put the phone down on the bedside table and returned to the warm sofa. She tried to get back to the podcast she’d been listening to but found herself unable to concentrate. Her mind kept wandering back to the call; something about it wasn’t right. Her father’s voice, normally strong and decisive, had sounded worn. She had never known Akbar Khan to waver. It was one of his countless strengths; it was how he controlled a room. As she picked over his words and pauses, someone walked over her grave and she shivered. She remembered something he’d said to her a long time ago: ‘Heaven, hell, present, past and future are all dimensions that operate in the same space. What you experience depends on how you see the world.’ She wondered which of the dimensions he was caught up in today and what he was planning for her.

  CHAPTER 3

  Though Jia Khan had not visited her parents in fifteen years, the wedding wouldn’t be her first time back in the city where she was raised. A court case had taken her there less than a year ago. It had felt strange to be back and not stay at her parents’ place, but she hadn’t been ready for a family reunion then, so she’d stayed in a hotel across from the Crown Court, venturing into neighbouring streets only to grab some lunch and return. She’d eaten dinner in the hotel and spent her evenings in her room, poring over case files. It had been a relief, therefore, when the trial came to a close, and not just because it meant she could return to London, but because the case had been an unsettling one.

  Jia remembered that last day in court well. Windscreens were iced over, chins buried deep in scarves, any escaping breath turning to mist, as she crossed the courtyard from the hotel to the Crown Court. Buttoned up, her boots warm and her leather gloves protecting her from the bitter wind, she’d felt calm and controlled, ready to demand justice for her client.

  The court dates had been issued earlier than expected, as her client had predicted. ‘My cousin will make some calls,’ he’d said. But Jia hadn’t taken him seriously. She’d heard clients drop the names of people they said would get them off or out of their predicament too many times to believe it. She’d learnt to recognise it as a last-ditch attempt at bravado, one that rarely proved true.

  But in this case it did, so it was lucky that Jia had been ready – although those who knew her well understood that luck had little to do with it. A seasoned barrister, Jia Khan prepared for her cases earlier than most. ‘Be twice as good as men and four times as good as white men.’ This had been the mantra of her mentor. She’d picked it up early on in her career and it had served her well. Shortcuts and fast tracks came with the culture she had inherited. Meticulous, methodical planning came gift-wrapped from the country she was born and educated in.

  Pulling strings in law courts was not unheard of. Lawyers, barristers, legal attachés and judges were no strangers to nepotism, but for it to be this blatant had surprised even Jia Khan, and not much surprised her these days.

  She saw her client climbing out of a supercar as she approached the building. She guessed that his cousin and benefactor, and the man responsible for arranging the early court date, was sitting in the driver’s seat, behind the blacked-out windows of the car. She’d met him briefly at a meeting. Her client tipped his head at her before heading to the back of the courthouse for a cigarette.

  Jia took the stone steps to the front entrance. The security guard greeted her warmly, stepping up to lift her case on to the X-ray machine. She’d been here two weeks, during which time she had made it her business to get to know everyone who worked in the court. Learning about the people who oiled the machinery of the judicial system was part of her process.

  ‘How’s your wife today, John?’ she asked the guard.

  He attempted a smile but quit, knowing that his tired eyes betrayed him. ‘The weekend was hard,’ he said.

  Jia took a clean handkerchief from her bag. ‘You call me when you’re ready to take this to court,’ she said, handing it to him.

  The guard wiped his eyes, reining in his emotions. Kindnesses were hard to come by in court, and he made a mental note of Jia Khan’s.

  ‘It’s your last day, then?’ he said. ‘Good luck.’

  Jia thanked him, though she didn’t need the luck. She knew she had this. What the guard couldn’t know, however, was that she had no desire to win this case, not since Jimmy Khan had come to see her.

  ‘Why are you representing this guy, Sis?’ he had asked, his voice filled with emotion.

  Khan was a title, a name given to rulers from China to Afghanistan and on through to Turkey; it belonged to the Tatars and the Mongols. It represented honour and valour, leadership. This Khan shared her surname but was not related to her by blood, so when he referred to her as ‘sister’ it was as a sign of respect. It had stopped her, that word ‘sis’. It was a term she had left behind in her past. This white world she inhabited felt no place for the ties and honour that came with simply calling someone ‘sister’. She had softened at its sound. Maybe it was because this was the first time her past had crossed her present; maybe it was because someone had traversed the north–south divide to ask for her help; or maybe it was simply a question of timing. Whatever it was, it triggered the domino effect that would change Jia Khan’s life and eventually take her home and into the arms of the Jirga.

  Jimmy had taken his phone from his pocket and held it out to her, insisting she flick through his photographs. Images of his daughter filled the screen, a wide-smiling little girl, her first day at school, bike rides, Halloween costumes, pretty cakes with candles, laughing with her daddy, arms around her mummy, on and on, image after image until smiles turned to blank expressions, and blank expressions became a tiny child in a hospital bed, surrounded by machines. ‘That’s what he did. That’s what he does,’ Jimmy had said, and Jia had taken his hands in hers to stop them trembling.

  The world no longer shocked her. She’d represented violent repeat offenders, rapists, and men and women who had committed heinous crimes. There were some who would say, being the daughter of Akbar Khan, she had even lived in the company of one. She knew monsters existed
in the guise of friends and behind smiling faces.

  But the photographs triggered something in her. Maybe it was because the little girl reminded her of her own sister, Maria. Or maybe it was because she knew that this kind of thing would never have happened ten years ago, that her father would have prevented it.

  ‘It’s bad, Sis. These bhain-chods have been tryin’a cause trouble. But…t’be honest, it’s been comin’ for a while. The Jirga han’t been listenin’ t’us younger folks, y’know? Times have changed an’ some kids have got degrees and shit. Our people, they never hurt children or women. Akbar Khan would never allow it. He would skin us alive before we even considered it, but these Eastern Europeans have no honour. Our children mean nothing to them, and our women are fair game, Sis. They have no izzat.’ His words had taken her by surprise; they were sharp and burning, like acid, and seeped into her skin. She had little to do with her father’s business, and hardly any knowledge of what it had become. According to Jimmy Khan, the edifice that was her father’s castle was crumbling, and with it, it seemed, was the protection it had afforded people who looked like her.

  ‘I was high when I got the call,’ Jimmy had said, the words reluctant to leave his lips, his shame evident. ‘I’m not high any more. I’m never high now.’ He’d shifted, his voice navigating emotion like a new driver, his accent thickening with every bend. ‘I’m here because of your dad. Out of respect for what he’s done for me and my family. My wife…she took our daugh’er to her homeland to see ’er family. We needed money. An’ the kuttee listened to some shit her cousin said.’ The disbelief was still written large on his face.

  His daughter had been admitted to hospital with severe abdominal pain. Doctors found half a kilo of cocaine in her stomach. ‘I wanted to fucking kill my wife, but your dad and Idris convinced me to go to the police. Fat lot of good that did – arrested some stooge of Nowak’s on bullshit charges. But then I heard you were representing him and I had to come and see you.’

  Andrzej Nowak, the man she’d supposed was at the wheel of the supercar. When Jia had met him that one time with her client, most of his questions had been posed with the assurance of a public schoolboy. At times he had turned to his cousin, appearing to reassure him in their mother tongue. He’d been charming, dapper, young – his silver hair, like his money, was inherited. Jia remembered being struck by how soft his hands were, and how tapered his fingers. He was not used to getting his hands dirty.

  ‘Jimmy, I wish you’d come to me sooner,’ she’d told him. ‘You know I’d do anything to help you. But you should know that Andrzej Nowak is not my client.’

  ‘Nah, but his fall guy is.’

  Jia hadn’t been able to argue with that: she was representing one of Nowak’s henchmen. She had thought something was off about the case and seeing Jimmy had confirmed it. She’d been a barrister for almost two decades. Some people were obviously guilty, some obviously innocent, and then there were those who fell into the grey, people like her own family. She had initially read law to arm herself, to be better equipped than those who tried to use it against her and those she loved. But once she’d turned her back on her father, she came to believe in the justice system. She’d liked that the lines were clean and clear. If you stepped over them you deserved punishment, but only if it could be proved you’d done so. The law, unlike men, was dependable. It was easy to navigate; you always knew where you stood with it.

  Jimmy had begged her to do something. He knew her client was a pawn and that the actual man responsible for what happened to his daughter was paying for his defence. When he’d heard that Akbar Khan’s daughter was representing the guy, he had come to her in the hope of a better, cleaner kind of justice.

  But Jia Khan was not ready to deliver.

  ***

  Andrzej Nowak sat in the gallery, watching as the barrister looked through her notes, placing them face down after finishing each argument. He noted her every movement, every flicker of emotion. She was striking, not as tall as they’d said, but steeled, like the exterior of an armoured vehicle. He watched her hands, her lips, her long, olive-skinned neck, and wondered what it would take to break it. He parked the thought. It interested him. Very little did nowadays. Boredom had set in. He leaned forward to listen as she questioned the officer responsible for the operation that had brought in his man.

  ‘Just a few questions, Officer Swan,’ said Jia.

  This was the first time the officer had given evidence since returning from maternity leave. Her baby was teething, and she hadn’t had much sleep. Adjusting to work again was proving harder than she had anticipated. The laddish culture of the drugs division was well known across the force. She didn’t want to give them any excuse to judge her.

  Jia smiled gently at the woman. ‘Can I get you some water?’ she asked. The police officer nodded. The sign of solidarity from the only other woman on this side of the court allowed her to exhale.

  Jia looked up from her place at the defence desk and ran through some general questions about the investigation, putting the officer at ease. Then she seemed a little straighter, her eyes clearer: ‘Were you sleeping with the defendant’s wife, Officer Swan?’ she said.

  The police officer looked confused, as if she’d been reading from a script and lost her place. She’d prepped for procedural questions. She was unprepared for this line of questioning. She stared at Jia Khan, her groggy head wondering what had just happened.

  ‘How do you know the defendant’s wife, Officer Swan?’ Jia pressed.

  The officer stammered over her words, before managing to cobble a sentence together. ‘We met at a mother and baby class,’ she said.

  ‘And how soon after you met did things become sexual between you?’

  ‘They didn’t.’

  Jia took off her glasses and picked up a sheet of paper: ‘I miss you so much, and can’t wait for us to be together again,’ she read out. ‘David doesn’t understand me the way you do. I love you so much.’ She put the paper down and her glasses back on. ‘I’m afraid the evidence speaks to the contrary,’ she said.

  The witness looked from Jia Khan to a woman sitting at the back of the gallery, her eyes lowered.

  ‘We’re just friends. That’s all,’ said the policewoman, her media training kicking in.

  The freelance court reporter scribbled furiously in the press gallery. Salacious copy was lapped up by newsrooms. ‘Married mother-of-two police officer in lesbian love tryst with defendant’s wife,’ he wrote.

  Text messages were a dangerous thing, especially between women. The absence of nuance, coupled with emotional vulnerability and the tendency to overshare could be twisted. Jia knew this.

  The defendant’s wife had come to Jia with the allegations of impropriety on the part of the officer a few weeks ago. Jia didn’t know if they were true or not; she didn’t know if their meeting at the mother and baby class had been genuine or contrived. All she knew was that it was her job to defend her client to the best of her ability, and to this end she needed to plant a seed of doubt in the mind of the jury. All it took was sullying the reputation of an officer. She would get over it.

  The jury listened intently. Nowak watched each one carefully, leaning in again as Jia Khan put forward her closing arguments. He knew each one of them from the photographs his men had taken after the first day of the trial. He was not troubled by defeat and he cared little for the defendant, despite him being family. Family, in his experience, was only ever a burden. He would ordinarily have left by now, but Jia Khan interested him. ‘Who is she?’ he’d asked his men after the first time they’d met.

  ‘She is the daughter of the man who runs our rival operations: Akbar Khan,’ he was told.

  ‘So that is what it is,’ he had said, more to himself than to his men. He had recognised something in her; he had seen himself.

  The closing arguments done, they waited for the decision. The clock ticked slowly on to lunchtime and recess. When Jia left the courthouse, Nowak followed. She c
rossed the street and headed towards the parade of restaurants on the other side, walking past shops bathed in orange light and filled with pretty pastries and cakes. She chose the nondescript café at the corner of the terrace of shops, and took a seat in a booth at the back, ignoring the menu and ordering from memory. She removed the multiple layers she was wearing to protect her against the elements. She was scrolling through her emails, when he interrupted:

  ‘Could I join you?’ he said.

  She looked up to see Andrzej Nowak standing beside her booth. The fragrance of bitter almond, lavender and tobacco wafted towards her, and she registered his Penhaligon cologne, the same as the one worn by her most disliked tutor at university. Images of Jimmy Khan’s little girl flashed before her like an Instagram story.

  ‘Thank you, but no,’ she said.

  He didn’t move, but continued to stand and stare, as if the very act of looking would bore into her brain and change her mind. She felt his eyes on her, willing her the way owners will their pets when establishing a hierarchy. The silence remained thick, neither of them needing to fill it or knowing what to do. Jia picked up her fork as her lunch arrived, hoping Nowak would understand the signal and leave. But he didn’t. He stayed there, his gaze never straying from her face. She began to feel porous, as if he could see straight through her. She pushed her salad slowly around her plate.

  Eventually, he spoke. ‘What happened to you?’ he said. Despite his slim frame, he was blocking the light, and his presence felt more and more oppressive. ‘What happened to make you this way?’

  She looked up, hoping to catch the eye of a waiter, but the café was busy and all the staff dealing with customers.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, I’d like to continue with my lunch,’ she said.

  ‘You are not afraid. Most people are afraid of me. Unless they are stupid. And you are not stupid.’