by Saima Mir
Tonight, the hotel’s newest waiter had won Nowak’s custom and he was eager to impress. The hotel’s policy of discretion was well known. The staff took their work very seriously, and for those with aspirations The Mansion was the place to be. Fulfil the needs of the right client and you could find yourself living a much wealthier lifestyle. To keep the drink flowing and the customers socially lubricated, the waiters had developed their own system of signals. It was faster than the tech devices favoured by chain restaurants and didn’t leave a trace, something that was important to The Mansion’s clientele.
Nowak’s waiter took his order and signalled the bartender, who was ready and waiting. He, in turn, crushed a small white pill into the bottom of a tall glass, poured coffee liqueur over it, then vodka, and gave it a good shake in a silver cocktail shaker before serving it in a glass over crushed ice. He placed the drink on the tray, and poured out two more, then handed them to the waiter, who safely delivered them to the table. Nowak knocked them back fast. He was celebrating the safe arrival of his shipment, which was currently sitting in the boot of a new Ferrari. Nice touch from the suppliers, he thought. It would be fun to christen the car. He leaned in towards Juliet. They’d met last week at the races and he had been showering her with expensive gifts. He believed this gave him the right to partake of her today. He ran a finger under one of the scarlet strips of her dress, just beneath her cleavage.
‘You know, my Ferrari is waiting outside,’ he said. ‘You…you would look beautiful behind the wheel.’ He moved forward to kiss her but she backed away. Offended by her rejection, he turned his attention to another woman to his left. Juliet placed her hand on his thigh. He watched as her slender fingers moved slowly upwards. Her eyes widened and she parted her glossy pink lips, moving them closer to his. She waited for him to meet her mouth and when he didn’t she pulled him in, one hand behind his head, the other deftly reaching for the keys in his pocket and secreting them in Mina’s open purse.
Mina picked up her clutch bag. Reality had suddenly hit her and her stomach turned. ‘I don’t feel too good,’ she said to Juliet. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
Seeing her pallor, Nowak stood to attention. ‘Take her to the ladies room, please,’ he said to Juliet. ‘This is a five-thousand-pound jacket. I don’t want her vomit on it. She couldn’t afford the cleaning bill.’
Juliet put her arm around her friend and ushered her towards the cloakroom, Mina tripping on a stool and bumping into the bartender as she did so. He held out his hand to steady her, and in one well-timed move she passed the keys to him. The bartender walked steadily over to an open window and, making sure no one was looking, threw the keys down to where Benyamin was waiting.
The Khan’s son picked up the keys and headed towards a red Ferrari. He’d had time to size up the situation and knew that the car was parked awkwardly for a swift getaway. He wiped his brow and started the engine. The key turned like butter, encouraging him, and he backed out of the space slowly at first, slamming his foot down in reverse the moment he knew he’d be clear of the cars on either side. The engine responded with a roar, but the tyres skidded wildly on the gravel, forcing Benyamin to swerve and brake sharply. The car stalled. He started her up again, glancing round to see three men hurrying towards the car park, alerted by the noise. By the time he’d manoeuvred the car out of the tight spot, the exit was blocked. The men shouted loudly, signalling frantically at each other to move, move, move, and within seconds Benyamin was surrounded. A heavy man with a broad head and no neck stood in front of the bonnet; two equally ugly heavies stood on either side of the car. Behind was the solid brick wall he’d just managed to avoid hitting.
Benyamin grasped the gearstick in his sweaty palm, and revved the engine in warning, but no-neck stood firm, and suddenly there was Nowak beside him, and more men at his back pulling out weapons. Pistol in his palm, Nowak stared intently, his cold gaze locked on to the Khan’s son. Benyamin slowly raised his hands. The game was up.
CHAPTER 15
Jia walked across the garden towards the house. The last of the wedding guests had left. The night had fallen silent. She wondered where Benyamin was; he hadn’t returned in time to give Maria away and their father had had to do the ceremony alone. She assumed he was off somewhere with the girl in the green sari.
She climbed the steps to Pukhtun House, moving one foot along the gentle dip in the centre of the first golden slab. The Khans had spent years climbing, walking and running up these five steps, from childhood through to adulthood, swinging coats and bags and ditching them all at the front door as they left the cold and entered the warmth of home.
She had sat on these very steps for what felt like hours after the police had taken Zan and her father away. This was where Sanam Khan had cried salty tears, clutching her son’s jacket against her cheek, unable to speak. It was where Jia had greeted Bazigh Khan later that night. His arrival had been swift and she had crumpled at the sight of him. He smelt like her father, his aftershave and his starched shirts. His arms and fragrance enveloped her, and the dam that been holding back her tears broke.
He rebuked her gently. ‘Child, you are to face stronger trials than this,’ he said. ‘You are a daughter of the Khan. Struggle is our life.’ She had never seen him so gentle as when he wiped her tears. ‘You are the niece of Bazigh Khan, yes?’ he said. ‘And have you not heard the mothers tell their children about me? And you know that Bazigh Khan is beyond the laws of the land and more powerful than all the jinn and bhoot of it put together?’ With these words he’d succeeded in making her smile. Then he turned away, his face darkening. ‘Ya Allah! I will burn the city down if I have to, but I will bring my brother and yours home.’
Several hours later he made good on his promise, or half of it at least. Akbar Khan came home the next morning; Zan Khan did not. The prayers continued, the janamaaz spread in one long row, the family side by side, pressing their foreheads to the ground asking for Zan’s return.
The tears and prayer ended only when the boy walked through the doors of Pukhtun House later that afternoon. The women rushed forward to embrace him but his arms dropped, hanging limply by his side. Unresponsive, he waited for them to stop. Dark circles around his eyes told them he hadn’t slept. They tried to fuss over him, but he was tired, he needed a shower, he wanted the sweetness of home.
He waited quietly in the kitchen as his sister poured tea into two mugs. It had been steeping all day, its flavour deepening with each passing minute, the colour from the leaves darkening the milk. Jia added spoonfuls of sugar, hoping it hadn’t tipped over into bitterness.
Eyes lowered and face dark, Zan was not the boy who had left the house the night before. Akbar Khan embraced him, his arms bear-like, leading him away from the women and into the study.
Jia followed but Akbar Khan stopped her, his body between her and the doorway. Something in his voice told her not to argue. She sat down on the floor outside, waiting patiently until Zan emerged. She looked at him expectantly, but he said nothing and walked to his room.
It was early morning when he knocked on Jia’s door.
‘There is no justice for people like us,’ he said quietly, his head in his hands. His weakened smile made Jia’s heart ache. She felt so helpless. Sitting on the floor of her room, as he had done many times before, he counted the painted stars. ‘Still two hundred and eighty-two,’ he whispered. ‘Some things do not change. Take one down when I die?’ he said.
‘Must we be so melodramatic?’ she said, equally irritated and frightened. She wanted to lighten things but couldn’t, and they found themselves sitting in silence. Zan’s gaze remained on the floor as he tried to process the past few days of his life. The silence was only broken when the family manservant came in, clumsily carrying a tray of more milky chai and parathas. He placed it on the floor in front of Jia and left. Jia marvelled at her mother’s abilities; she was aware of every waking soul in the house and knew exactly what they needed.
‘Tea?
’ she said, and Zan nodded. He took the cup, and their eyes met for the first time since his homecoming. It gave her the courage to ask the thing most on her mind. ‘What happened at the police station?’ she said.
‘More than you want to know…’ His voice was measured, but his tone was low, as if the act of merely speaking the words would awaken a nightmare again.
‘Tell me…please?’ she said. ‘I’m worried about you.’
‘You don’t need to be. I’m fine. I really am.’
‘It’s his fault, isn’t it?’ Jia said. ‘It’s to do with the things they say at school about Baba, isn’t it?’ Her words hung in the air like the speech bubbles in a comic book. They had never discussed their father’s line of work. They had heard people say things, but had left them on the other side of the door when they came home from school, falling instead into homework and TV. Some things were too immense to be processed by children. The mind had a way of compartmentalising and filing them away in order to survive. Now, though, one of them had fallen victim to Akbar Khan’s business dealings and there was no way to avoid what was being said in the wider world, and what, on some level, they already knew. Their father was all the things people said he was – Jia knew it and Zan knew it. Nevertheless, she waited for him to speak the words. But he didn’t. His silence was deafening.
Jia’s love for her father was as encompassing as the ocean, but her brother was the cloudless sky above her. Zan was a spiritual soul who seemed out of place in the Khan’s life. There was no doubt that their father loved him, but this didn’t stop him from trying to toughen him up. Zan never complained, and Jia was always ready to defend him. But now Akbar Khan had hurt him in ways that she could not have envisaged.
‘Our father is a good man,’ Zan said slowly. ‘He’s not what you think he is.’ Something in his voice wavered, and it was all Jia needed for rage to take root. Like spitting masala in an earthenware pot, this rage would grow with time until it bubbled out of control and consumed her.
‘They arrested you because of him!’
Impassive, dispassionate, Zan sat cross-legged, his back against the wall. ‘He’s my father. I’m his eldest son,’ he said. ‘He trusts me. I know that now. It’s time you realised that too.’ Despite all that happened, Zan had managed to wipe his father’s slate clean. His forgiveness was lost on Jia.
‘I’m going to kill him,’ she said matter-of-factly.
‘A lot happened, a lot of things you don’t know about.’ And he began slowly to unravel his story, of recently opened bank accounts, of their father’s business interests, of the business Akbar Khan had set up in Zan’s name for tax purposes, without Zan’s knowledge, of the money laundering the police suspected him of being involved in, and of much darker, graver things. ‘That was why they took me in for questioning,’ he said. ‘They wanted me to help them put Baba behind bars. They showed me photographs, so…many…photographs. Pictures of people they said were missing under mysterious circumstances, of wives and children of men dead as a result of vendettas, drugs and being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some of the pictures were brutal, others were just sad. They said Dad was responsible. They thought I would turn against him.’
The images were etched into his mind. He saw them every time he closed his eyes. He thought about what the officers had said, how they had stared at him from across the desk as though looking down the barrel of a gun. ‘They talked to me like I was shit on the street, Jia. I was born here. I’ve been to better schools than they have. I speak better English. But they didn’t see any of that. All they saw was what they wanted to see, a dirty Paki with a criminal for a father.’
‘They can’t talk to you like that! They should be reported!’
‘They can, Jia. Don’t you get it? We are nothing but who they say we are. They don’t hear us. They only hear their own privilege. They’ve been getting away with it for years. Look at the riots. Segregation, poverty, deprivation, no jobs, no future. Those guys had no chance, still have no chance. Add to it trying to navigate a white world with brown sensibilities and Muslim pressure – it was a melting pot for disaster. Is it any wonder the kids kicked off? And when they did, Asian kids got years more than the white kids did for the same crimes. You and I, we just ignore these things because we think we’re better, because we go to a good school and wear expensive clothes and live in a nice house. But to white people we’re all just filthy Pakis who wear bling and live in cramped terraced houses. They’ve been tormenting me for days before this. They tried to make me afraid. They…touched me.’ He stopped, watching her for some reaction. She swallowed hard, not wanting to understand. ‘They had power and I did not,’ he said. ‘Well, soon I will have power. And I will take theirs from them.’
The rage that had been simmering in the pit of Jia’s stomach dissipated. For the first time in her life she was afraid, really afraid for her brother and for her family. She placed the piece of paratha she had been about to put in her mouth back on the plate and pushed it away.
‘Don’t say that word again,’ she said.
‘What word?’
‘Paki. Don’t say it again.’
‘But I am one and so are you. And in the minds of some people, that’s all we’ll ever be.’ Zan spoke slowly, his hands perfectly still, staring into his chai. He told his younger sister everything he knew about the family business, and the fog around him began to clear. ‘I listened to the things they said about Baba,’ he said. ‘I didn’t speak. I just listened.’
The police had accused the teenager of knowing more than he claimed. They had pushed him gently, insulted him, and then they had turned nasty. ‘We’re going to have fun fucking with you on the stand,’ they had said. ‘You’re going away for a very long time.’ The lead interviewing officer had fed on the fear in Zan’s eyes, his chest becoming broader. He’d leaned back in his chair. ‘And you know what happens to pretty brown boys in prison, don’t you?’
Zan’s eyes were still red with the residue of the pictures he’d seen in the interrogation room. When they finished telling him he was scum, they asked him to turn traitor, to sign documents that gave them access to his father’s accounts. ‘It’s not like you’ve got a choice, is it? We are your lord and master.’ And it was then that something snapped, something tiny and inconsequential, something not worthy of note to anyone else but to Zan. Every man has a limit. If pushed hard enough he will either make a leap, fulfil his potential and become the thing he is meant to be, or else stumble to his knees and crawl. If the heat is high and the pressure pronounced, the result can be kundan, the purest kind of gold. As the officers poured scorn and stress on Zan in the hope of breaking him, they unknowingly flipped the switch that would make him the next Khan. Hunched and crumpled in the hard plastic seat, he began to straighten up, and leaned back in his chair. ‘Yes, alright, I’ll do it.’ he said. The men smiled. They pushed over the necessary paperwork and handed him a pen. He took both and then met their gaze.
‘I’ll sign. But first you need to bring me the man who burned my aunt and my cousins alive. Then bring in the policeman who assaulted me. Then go and get every racist who stops someone like me and my father getting on in life, from moving on to the next level, from taking what is due to us, from getting a place at a good university, from finding a job that’s slightly better than cleaning your shit, from setting our minds free from the sense of inferiority you’d have us believe in. Then, and only then, will I give you all the information you need.’
The switch threw the men. They’d been cocky and they’d been arrogant, and in playing games, they had run out of time. The budding law student knew his rights and he knew how long he could be held without charge. He had played them, and now they had no choice but to release him.
Back home, sitting with Jia, Zan had clarity. He knew what he had to do. ‘I’m not going to take the place at Oxford,’ he told her. ‘I’ve spoken to Baba already. I know he wanted to keep us away from his line of work and I respect him for it and
love him even more now I know what that means, but I need to stay and help with the family business.’
‘What? No! We should get as far away from here as possible! Why don’t you understand that?’ Jia said.
‘You still don’t get it, do you? I’ve tried to get Baba’s approval my whole life. Now, at last, I understand the world he lives in. He wanted to make me tougher, strong enough to deal with life, but he also wanted to distance us from his work, to live like respectable white people. He expected too much too quickly.
‘He wanted us to be spotless and know nothing about where our family money comes from, and what he has to do to earn it, so that no one can use it against us. But his plan didn’t work. We can’t have the lives he wants us as a family to have while the business exists as it does. Someone has to act as a buffer or the past will bleed into all our lives. I need to be that buffer, so that you and Maria and Ben can get out.
‘Do you remember the goat herder’s daughter, Jia, the one who Mama put through school?’
‘The one who killed herself?’
Zan nodded. ‘You know why?’
Jia shook her head.
‘Not really. I remember Mama blaming herself.’
‘She was really bright. Graduated top of her class, but after she finished her MA, she no longer fitted anywhere. She knew there was a better life out there than the slums – she had seen it. But the people in that world didn’t accept her, they didn’t want her to marry their sons, live in their houses, be their equal. In the end, the fight broke her. Change has to be slow, has to be incremental, otherwise people don’t accept it. We have to do it together. I have to help Baba evolve the business, clean it up now, so that by the time you are ready to leave, the past is buried. The business holds our family together. If we dismantle it too fast, it will collapse and we can’t live like ordinary people yet. We need the money to clear the way.
