The Khan

by Saima Mir

  The young woman had come to him in confidence, frightened that speaking up would spell the end of her career. But Elyas had spent enough years as a journalist to know the truth from a lie. She’d broken down when he’d said he believed her.

  ‘She’s a fucking liar,’ his partner said to him as he was about to leave. ‘You and your fucking feminist rhetoric. You always were a pussy.’

  ‘Daniel, you’ve mistaken my kindness for weakness again,’ Elyas replied, taking a breath and turning round. ‘I’ve already spoken to our lawyers and instructed them to begin the process of dissolving the company.’ His voice was as calm as still waters. ‘Or I can buy you out. It’s your choice.’

  It was decided: the company would fold. It was a blow that Elyas would accept willingly. His life was built on knowing when to duck and when to take the hit. He would start over. His reputation was intact, and that was all he needed. He tucked ten pairs of identical black socks into his suitcase before closing the zip. Single fatherhood had made a practical man out of him. That eternal problem of the disappearing sock was not one he had time to deal with.

  He was about to spend six months at the paper where he had started out as a trainee. It was a world away from documentaries, but the memories of his first proper job in news were so strong that he was unable to turn down the offer to guest edit the paper. Returning as the boss was something his younger self could never have imagined. In a city where white media dominated, a brown editor was an interesting proposition, even if the paper was failing.

  It was more than twenty years on from his first day, but he remembered well the smell of freshly inked news-sheets, the hard-won camaraderie of old school hacks. The sound of news editors pouring curse words over grammar and the whine of highly strung sub-editors still filled his dreams.

  It had been a tough place to be but a great place to be. In a city of brown ghettos, it was a white enclave, but that made the victories, when they came, even sweeter. He’d not found anything to match those highs or those lows, except Ahad’s mother.

  Losing her had driven him to the edges of war-torn Afghanistan and the fringes of Pakistan. He’d fought hard to make sense of his loss and understand the ways of her family. His Urdu, Punjabi and Pashto had come in handy and he had found himself spoken of with respect among locals and journalists alike.

  The awards had come and so had the women, but they meant little to a man who was hiding from life. Elyas Ahmad had the kind of face that betrayed him, a face that held no secrets. Some said it was because his heart was pure, and he liked that idea, but others saw it as a weakness: a man unable to control his feelings was a liability. His eyes invited admiring glances and whispered wants, his olive skin kept time at bay. But success and admiration did little to fill the loneliness left by his wife’s departure.

  The guest editorship at the paper in West Yorkshire was a well-timed excuse to spend time with his son. Taking Ahad out of London would give them an opportunity to reconnect, away from the place they had come to call home, away from his friends and from the trouble that seemed to seek him out there.

  They lived in a terraced house on a south-west London street lined with cherry trees. It was a quiet neighbourhood, full of ‘French Grey’ doors and Guardian readers. The kind of place that was home to people Time Out referred to as ‘intelligentsia’. As idyllic as it seemed, this middle-class existence wasn’t without its problems, and the absence of brown people had troubled Elyas.

  At the back of his mind, flowed a steady stream of concerns. Some were the sort that all parents have about their children, things like falling in with the wrong crowd, dabbling in illicit substances – and Ahad had given him reason to be worried. But there were other, more niche concerns, to do with raising a brown son, and one who was Muslim. He worried about Ahad’s self-esteem and how he saw himself. He hoped that being around youngsters of similar racial background would help him make sense of his place in the world.

  In a couple of months Ahad would be starting sixth form at one of the best colleges in Yorkshire. Ahad was bright – bright enough to have been bumped up a school year at the age of thirteen – one of those kids who gave the impression he avoided learning all year but always came out with excellent grades. Elyas had never been that kind of student. Elyas had had to work hard for everything in life.

  The early years of raising a child alone had been particularly challenging, but once Ahad started school Elyas discovered that, under the surface of the world of paid work, there was a network of fellow parents, people who raised you up on tired days, picked your child up when meetings overran and offered understanding words when you felt yourself failing at every step. He could hardly believe his son was now a teenager: in a few years Ahad would swap their home for university digs. That time would fly fast on the wings of A levels and campus visits, application forms and interviews. The empty nest was approaching.

  The spectre of reflection hovered close by, and Elyas knew it would result in the raising of the dead. He was acutely aware of the baggage he had stuffed away. He hadn’t made peace with ghosts of the past and he hadn’t sorted and sifted through old memories to categorise and make sense of them. No, he had compartmentalised his life, he had held on to his son, and together they had survived.

  But this last year, Ahad’s migraines had become more and more frequent, as had his questions. The consultant had said that stress was a possible trigger and suggested it was exam pressure, but deep down, Elyas knew the truth. He’d been running from it long enough. And when the exams were over and the migraines persisted, that confirmed it. Ahad needed to see Jia and place his unanswered questions before her.

  Elyas sat down, overwhelmed by the reality of the journey he was about to take his son on. Much had happened since he was last in the hills and valleys of Yorkshire. The boy who once greeted him in the mirror was now a man with flecks of grey scattered through his black hair. That boy had wanted to see the world and make it his. This man wanted to unsee it. The monsters he now knew lived inside people, those who shunned their ordinary lives to run amok, making those around them question everything they held dear – he wanted to purge them from his mind and start over.

  He picked up the handwritten letter that had arrived a few weeks ago. The flourish of real ink on Conqueror paper, a rare sight in today’s digital world, was his father-in-law’s penmanship, unmistakeable and impeccable. The man had not learnt to read until his twenties, and pride had driven him to overcome and surpass the challenge.

  It came with a wedding invitation, and was brief.

  Elyas jaan,

  You must come and see me.

  Bring my grandson. It is time.

  Regards,

  Akbar Khan

  Elyas stared at his father-in-law’s succinct words. As he turned the paper over in his hand, he wondered if the timing of the letter was a coincidence. Akbar Khan knew of Ahad’s troubled mind and the migraines that came as a result. Since leaving his grandson in Elyas’s care, he had corresponded regularly with Elyas. Was he responsible for the job offer that was taking them back to the city where it all began? He had always been well connected, of course. Elyas wondered how far those connections now extended. Was it paranoia to suspect a link between the timing of the job and the letter, or was it journalistic instinct? Hard news had made him cynical. It had taught him that even the most democratic of countries, and the whitest of white establishments, called on the criminal fraternity occasionally. And vice versa.

  The knot in his stomach tightened as he thought of Jia. He knew it wasn’t the wisest decision to accept his father-in-law’s invitation, he knew nothing good would come of it, but he had never been able to resist temptation when it came to her. He was curious. What was she like now? What kind of woman had she become? Did she ever think of him?

  Then he put these thoughts aside and considered the other, more likely option: the two events were unconnected and the timing was merely coincidental. He had landed the job on merit. And Akbar Khan
had finally decided it was time to meet his grandson. And maybe he was right. Maybe it was time to sew up old wounds.

  CHAPTER 6

  Benyamin Khan watched from his car as the woman in the burqa left with the punter. He had been raised in the family business and understood its workings better than most, but the mind of these men was lost on him. He got that the punters had sexual proclivities they could not satisfy elsewhere, but not that someone might be willing to sell their sister, girlfriend or even mother to meet the needs of those people. And while he’d been raised in a world of grey areas, there were still lines of morality whose blurring made his stomach churn, and he knew his revulsion made him better than these men.

  ‘A Pukhtun’s woman is his honour,’ his father had told him. ‘Her seating place is in the heart. If you want to succeed in life, remember this: hear and heed your sisters and your mother, and in time your own wife. It is their birthright to speak, and it is your duty to listen. Women are like prisoners in our hands because they are physically weaker than men, but we must not abuse that power. A society that dishonours its women dishonours itself. Remember that; that is how He will judge us,’ he had said, pointing to the sky.

  ‘Then why do we take money from these men and their women, Baba?’

  ‘Man is neither good nor bad, Benyamin Khan. It is the deeds that are thus divided. And money is money, my son; it is not honourable or dishonourable, it is just necessary. That said, the world confers honour on the man who holds it. These men will whore their women without regard whether we allow them or not. By taking them under our wing we regulate things, make sure of the girls’ safety. In a way, it is an act of charity on our part.’ Benyamin had nodded at his father’s words, taking them as others might take Quranic scripture.

  Despite his youth, he understood the workings of the family business and that times of austerity meant turning one’s hand to all kinds of work. Men needed to eat, and women had families to feed.

  And in the Khan house that meant hundreds of families. Especially this week, since there was a wedding. One that Benyamin was responsible for overseeing.

  He pulled his cuff back and glanced at his watch. He wore the price of a house on his wrist, thanks to his sister Jia. She had sent it to him on his twenty-first birthday. The vintage Patek Philippe went unnoticed among the gold Rolex watches his friends wore. His older sister had always been one for subtlety, looking dowdy among what some described as ‘the Chavistanis’. She hated the way people dressed themselves in their money. The watch told him he was late the way any other watch would have done, but this one did it while reminding him of his sister, her rebellion and her unconditional love for him.

  Ordinarily, tardiness wouldn’t have bothered him, but today was different. Maria would not forgive him if anything went wrong tomorrow and he knew he’d never hear the end of it. He still couldn’t believe his young sister was about to become someone’s wife. She was so disorganised and frazzled in her thoughts, it astounded him that she was about to build a life apart from her family. He would miss her more than he could say. The accident had brought them closer, as had Jia’s departure. It had been so sudden that Benyamin had been lost in the haze of it.

  She was coming back, Jia, his older sister, his protector, his adviser, the one who had abandoned him. Her presence in the Khan household had made it a warm place, whether it was by her singing of Hindi songs into an old brush, smuggling pizzas into his room at midnight, telling him ghost stories on the steps or doing hilarious impressions of their father’s friends. She had been his partner in crime, his cool big sister and his best friend. Losing her had been a lot for a ten-year-old to bear, and he had never forgiven her.

  Not a day went by when he didn’t wish things were different, that the accident hadn’t happened, that his brother Zan was still alive and that Jia understood their father. But wishing didn’t bring change and it never would. Life was about doing not dreaming.

  The untested bravado of a twenty-five-year-old meant it was rare for Benyamin to be afraid, but there was something about this weekend that made him nervous. He was the son of Akbar Khan, and as such he believed that fear should fear him, not the other way around. But this would be the first time the Khan family were together in over a decade. He hoped that the past would stay buried and not raise its bloody head.

  He turned his mind back to the job at hand and to the pimp renting this ‘bitch pitch’, who was leaning against a wall and carefully counting out a wad of cash. It was unusual for the son of Akbar Khan to do the ‘milk run’, but he wanted to make sure that everything was ticking over smoothly. His father would have enough to deal with over the next few days.

  ‘Business is good, bro,’ said Khalid, when Benyamin asked him. ‘Since your dad’s been running things all our girls are clean. Tested an’ that. We keep a close eye on ’em, y’know. And kasmai these gorai, bro, they do like a bit of exotica.’ The pimp was in good spirits as he flicked away his cigarette butt and passed the money to Benyamin through the car window. ‘Going for a shisha after work and then watching the big fight. Our boy Amir Khan is up. You wanna join us an’ that?’

  Benyamin took the cash and shook Khalid’s hand. ‘I’m afraid I’m busy. You understand?’ He nodded his head once, the way his father did when he was implying trust. Business of this kind was built on trust and on distance. It was one of the many things he’d learnt over the last few years. Akbar had wanted Benyamin, his youngest child, to experience the family business from the bottom up, to see it from every angle, in order to prepare him for what was to come. There was no room for fear and little forgiveness left in the bank of Khan. Not any more. There had been once, back when Akbar had planned to hand his empire over to his eldest son, Zan. But things hadn’t worked out as he’d hoped. He had outlived his son, and the daughter he’d primed for the business had proved herself obstinate.

  And so the apprenticeship had fallen to Benyamin Khan. His being out on the streets was risky – the child of the Khan was rarely put in a place of high visibility. But he was being closely watched over by Bazigh Khan, Akbar’s younger brother and the most loyal of all the Khan’s men. He would keep him safe and out of trouble.

  Benyamin was only to collect from certain streets but the responsibility gave him a sense of pride. Unknown to him, Bazigh Khan had gone ahead and swept the area of anyone who might seek to implicate the Khan’s son in illegal activities.

  Having inherited his family’s good looks, Benyamin was not easily missed. A chubby, waddling Pukhtun baby, his cheeks had been heavy with puppy fat, probably to protect the chiselled cheekbones and large eyes that emerged in adulthood. As with all Akbar’s children, people would often ask him about his origins. Greece was the most popular guess. Benyamin was young enough to still enjoy the game. He felt it set him apart from the average Asian kid. If there was one thing he didn’t want to be, it was like everyone else.

  As Benyamin put the cash away, the pimp said to him, grinning, ‘I hear there’s gonna be a meeting soon, the Jirga getting together. Must be serious.’

  Benyamin nodded, but added nothing more. It was time for him to leave. Khalid the pimp had forgotten that the code of the Jirga required silence as much as loyalty. One did not speak casually on the streets about the Khan and his ‘Jury’. Benyamin left saddened and burdened. A way would have to be found to reinforce the old lesson and make sure Khalid never made that mistake again.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Rolls-Royce purred through the broad streets of Knightsbridge and Belgravia, its navigation system telling the driver that he was almost at his destination. He was on schedule, despite the Friday rush-hour traffic.

  Michael had only driven a few hundred miles, but the climate and pace of this city was a world apart from where his journey had begun. Though he felt out of place, the car he drove was not. Bentley, Ferrari, Mercedes-Maybach…few knew that the streets of his home town were also paved with prestige vehicles. Whether parked up in Frizinghall Square or cruising throug
h Mayfair’s New Bond St, the cars on the roads were the same. The social demographic that sat behind the wheel, however, was not.

  In his city, cars were the favoured symbol of how far you had travelled in life – the milometer clocked resilience. They spoke of high achievement, a PhD from the School of Hard Knocks. Like the diamond in an engagement ring, an elite car signified the spending of care, attention and copious amounts of money. It showed one’s rank in society: a white Audi for foot soldiers, a black Bentley for the kingpin, a Rolls for his family.

  Michael knew the cash that was flashed to purchase these beautiful machines came fast and easy to the boys moving up the ladder of the Khan’s organisation to become men of means.

  As he drove through London in the Rolls-Royce Phantom, he felt the city’s magnificent stucco buildings embrace it, recognising it as one of their own. But the broad, sprawling Yorkshire stone edifices to which it actually belonged stood squarely detached from everything around them, whereas the slim homes of Mayfair gentry stood shoulder to shoulder, stretching upwards, and downwards. No room for anyone or anything new. Michael wondered if cars, like people, looked down on each other, Skodas and Peugeots put in their place as they tried to climb the social ladder. ‘But then…new money is better than no money,’ he said to himself as he turned the corner into White Horse Street. He’d reached his destination. He parked up and made his way to the address he’d been given.

  He waited uncomfortably at the concierge desk of 100 Piccadilly, looking down at his shoes. He quietly raised his right foot and rubbed it behind his left trouser leg in an attempt to shine away the signs he didn’t belong here.