by Saima Mir
Afzal Khan was the first member of the Jirga to have been born in England. Seated at the far end of the room, he had inherited the family business only a year ago, after his father passed away. His factory was crucial to the Khan’s economy and was one of the major links in the drug import chain. His blood ran hot, but his loyalty to the Khan was unmatched.
‘Your father was a respected man, a great man,’ he went on. ‘He kept the peace in our streets for decades. But the young men have been getting restless for some time. The Brotherhood is feeding them lies and we need to show them the truth of justice. You can decide which law you follow, that of your British courts and your education, or that of your ancestors, and if you choose to leave us, that too is your right. Know that any one of us is willing to step up and take the responsibility of your father’s place. Indeed, I would name myself if my uncles here would accept?’ Afzal Khan’s forthright words impressed and shocked the gathering in equal measure, and sent murmurs running through the room.
Bazigh Khan raised his hand to calm the men. ‘That will not be necessary,’ he said. ‘We must allow the daughter of our Khan to hear what each of us has to say. That is our way and has been since time began.’ So, one by one, they came forward and put their case.
Jia listened, paying close attention to every word. They put their plight before her, heaped praise upon her father and demanded justice for his death. And as she listened, she realised they would never accept her as their equal, so she resolved to play a different game.
‘You have done me a great honour by inviting me here,’ she said. ‘I know that you have done so out of love for our laws and for my father. Jaanan Khan is right, I am only a woman and I know little of the world of men. Women know only the pain of leaving their family behind to help a man build his name and his family; the pain of being heavy with child, a child that will carry a man’s name; the pain of giving birth; of love, of suckling your male child for two whole years, pouring every ounce of life into him only for him to turn around and tell you he knows better than you. The West would have us believe that women are equal to men, but you and I know we are not. Women can only live as equals if men permit it, if men support us, step aside to allow us to progress, if they help us stand and place our feet on the ladder of success. My father was one such man and he was proud that his Jirga was full of such men. And so, because I know you to be men of honour and forward-thinking, and because you know my weaknesses, I am asking you to stand by me as your daughter and sister. I am your honour. We are Pukhtun. Help me to make things right, help me to deliver what you need. Give me time and I will bring you badal and my brother, your son.’ She paused, emphasising the word, reminding them that they were family. ‘But you must trust me and assist me in this process. I cannot do it without you.’
As she spoke she saw each man’s face soften, his head bow, some in shame, others in understanding, and she knew she had won. They had expected her to defend her position the way a man would; they had been ready for a fight but not for her surrender.
One by one they came and offered their allegiance. Placing their hands on her head, the way a father does to his child, each man gave his blessing. Women were strange creatures, difficult to gauge, impulsive and emotional. But some, the ones who were pure, like their mothers, could see into men’s soul and beyond the naked, shivering wreck that housed them. They found themselves wanting to protect her and, in so doing, win her favour. They were afraid both for her and of her.
The meeting was over. One by one, Bazigh Khan showed each man out until only Jia Khan remained. ‘That was smart,’ he told her.
She smiled at him gently, putting her hand on his. ‘Now, Uncle,’ she said, ‘sit by me and tell me everything my father knew about the Jirga and its weaknesses.’
CHAPTER 23
She knocked on the door and waited. No answer. She rapped harder, her knuckles bearing the brunt. The sound of footsteps and the turning of a key followed. She could see he’d been sleeping. His hair was ruffled but he was dressed. She understood this was why he’d taken so long to open the door: he’d been searching for his clothes.
He stood aside to let her in.
‘Coffee?’ he asked. She nodded.
She watched him moving around the kitchen looking for clean cups, trying to find milk, all the things one does when someone drops by unannounced in the middle of the night. She noticed his body was still taut and lean and it made her glad she’d driven over.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she said, taking the cup. ‘I keep thinking about Ben and what state he must be in…’ She paused, waiting for him to speak, but he didn’t. He just kept looking at her, wondering why she was here now, after all these years, and in the middle of the night. She was worried about her brother, which was understandable, but her concern for him while still no mention of her own son angered him. He wanted to ask her why, but he was afraid that she would leave, and he had waited so long for her to come to him this way.
She shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, not ready to tell him her real reasons for visiting, instead talking about other things. ‘I’ve been meeting with my father’s old cronies,’ she said. ‘Remember them?’ He nodded, now as interested in her words as her lips. He blocked out his questions, wanting her to keep talking. He also wanted her to stop. She noticed the light behind his eyes, the one that would come alive when he was wrestling a knotty problem or when he was pursuing her. She wanted to see it burn and so she began telling him about her meeting with the Jirga, the things they had said, the way it had made her feel. As she spoke, bits of Jia Khan, criminal barrister, began to fall away until she was just Jia. The words spilled out of her, and she let them. She knew he would clean up the mess; he was the only one who could. He always had been, hadn’t he?
He listened quietly and when he finally spoke it was only to say, ‘Perhaps warm milk would’ve been better, then?’ She laughed. Maybe at his joke, maybe at herself for being there, maybe because if she didn’t she’d cry. She didn’t really know which it was.
‘Yes, perhaps,’ she said, then added, ‘I want to stay…’
He was about to say something about their son being in the house and the inappropriateness of the situation when she kissed him. He pulled away, unsure of what was happening. She leaned in closer, her warm breath caressing his neck. ‘I want to fuck your brains out,’ she whispered. He decided he would leave the emotional fallout until tomorrow.
She bit him, she gnawed at his lips, she sucked the kisses out of his mouth. Her hands held him fast and tight, and he let her. They moved to the bed, falling into it as they had when they were young, but this time it was more about forgetting than making memories. His mind kept wandering and he kept dragging it back. What would he tell their son in the morning? That was the difference between youth and age. Youth was always in a hurry, while age was eager to slow everything down, to think things through before acting.
His scent entered her bloodstream and hit her hard and fast, sharpening her senses, cutting the cord of self-restraint and destroying all logical reasons not to do this. She wanted to press him into her; she wanted to make herself whole again, the way she used to be. The old Jia, the innocent Jia, the one without blood on her hands, the one who was fearless. Her hands moved lower, unbuttoning his clothes, pulling him closer, making him hard, taking him into her. She wanted to lose herself in his smell and make him bend to her will, to control him, own him, make him feel things that only she knew how. And he, in shock from the moment she’d arrived, allowed himself to give in to her will.
Afterwards he lay on the bed, spent, exhausted, still reeling from the shock of it all. ‘Did you find what you needed?’ he said, as she came back to the room from the bathroom.
‘Yes, thanks,’ she said. She was wearing his shirt, and in the faded light she looked exactly the way she had done when they’d first made love. She began to take it off and he wondered if he had the energy to do it all again. But she put on her own clothes.
&nbs
p; ‘You’re leaving?’ he asked.
‘I can’t stay,’ she said. ‘It’s not a good idea for Ahad to see me here.’ Her directness, the mention of their son, took him by surprise again. It was the first time he had heard her say his name.
‘But this just feels sort of wrong somehow, your leaving, I mean.’
‘It was just sex.’
She was right. But these words, from those lips, were unexpected.
‘How have you changed this much?’ he whispered, intrigued and a little afraid. Because she had changed more than he could ever have imagined. He watched her dress and tie back her hair in that way she used to when they were together. He’d never really stopped loving her. She collected her things and she left, kissing him as she did so, telling him to bring Ahad to the funeral. And in that moment, watching her walk away alone, in the dead of night, the same way she had come, he understood just how broken she was and that he was never going to get over her.
CHAPTER 24
The cups rattled on the tray as the old man set it down with trembling hands, removing the items one by one and placing them in front of Nowak and his guest. Some of the coffee spilled from the pot and he grabbed a cloth, mopping up frantically. ‘So sorry. So very sorry.’ His throat was dry, his words afraid to leave his mouth.
Nowak smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry, old man,’ he said, baring his teeth, then his smile vanished. ‘Now, get out.’ His clipped accent added to the directness of his words. The owner of the restaurant backed away quickly, relieved to be able to do so. He knew men who had lost their limbs for less.
Sitting across from him, Jia waited patiently. ‘Would you like this with your coffee or later?’ she asked, pointing to a box by her feet. The words ‘World’s Finest Sweethouse’ were embossed on it, a claim as confident as the gold it was written in.
‘Later. We can deal with these things in good time. I don’t like to do business without getting to know my associates first. Let us get acquainted,’ he said, and smiled wide, every tooth visible. ‘Last time we met, you weren’t very forthcoming, as I recall. Funny, isn’t it? You were working for me then, and a fine job you did.’ He paused. ‘My cousin, whose name you helped to clear, he was there on Friday when your brother tried to steal from me. In fact, he’s the one who’s been looking after him.’
Something in the way he said the words made a shiver run down Jia’s spine, though she did her best to hide it.
Nowak sat forward, his long, tapered fingers clasped into a steeple, and Jia was transported back to the café where he’d approached her a year ago. He was wearing the same cologne. It was gentle, inoffensive, expensive. ‘You know, in my country, women usually pour the coffee,’ he said, leaning in as if about to share a secret and then changing his mind. ‘I like the ways of the English. They claim to make no distinction between men and women. But you and I know they do.’ He paused, waiting for her to agree, continuing when she didn’t. ‘I like my coffee strong, like my loyalties. How do you take yours?’ he asked, lifting the pot.
‘I am your guest, I will take whatever you offer,’ she said. The room was hot, the air musty, like the red velvet curtains that were draped across the windows, blocking out sunlight and any sign of a breeze. Nowak’s talk left Jia impatient, but she knew men like him must be indulged and so she thanked him, putting the cup to her lips gently. The coffee tasted even worse than it smelt but she drank it as if he’d handed her nectar.
They were at the county’s longest established and only authentic Polish restaurant. The owner was a trusted friend of the Nowak family and his daughter was married to a young Pathan from Mardan. The restaurateur worried about his grandchildren, their health, their well-being, their future, and so in a world of lines and sides he had negotiated himself a neutral place.
Idris had been at the Khan residence early to brief Jia about Andrzej Nowak. He’d flicked through the notes he’d prepared for Akbar Khan, his iPad balanced carefully on the breakfast table. His uncle had relied heavily on Idris for such matters. ‘Andrzej Nowak, handsome, young, erudite.’
Jia had raised an eyebrow at the description. ‘Is this a date or business?’ she’d said.
‘He’s the son of a wealthy doctor who came to England in the sixties,’ Idris went on. ‘Dr Nowak married the daughter of a shopkeeper, the owner of a local delicatessen. Andrzej was their middle child. He was sent to boarding school in the south of England, and then his parents decided to move back to Poland. He was a brilliant student, studied history and modern languages at Cambridge, and then he disappeared. We don’t know anything about him between then and his arrival in Yorkshire, including why he is here. He certainly doesn’t need the money.’
‘I guess we’ll find out what he wants this afternoon,’ Jia said, closing her book. She had been making notes; it helped her focus, and looking down at the page meant her thoughts remained her own.
She had been finishing up with Idris when her mother arrived, the perpetual murmur of protection prayers coming from her lips. She blew them over her daughter, her hands passing from her head to her toes. Jia bristled a little. Her mother chose prayer over action every time and it irritated her, but she knew better than to brush her away; besides, they needed whatever higher power there was on their side. Before leaving, Maria had given her a twig, the kind they used to collect as children when they pretended to build bonfires. ‘It’s from the apple tree,’ she said. ‘Baba was going to have it cut down. Its roots are damaging the house.’
Sitting before Andrzej Nowak now, Jia picked up that twig and placed it on the small leather notebook. The talk so far had been inconsequential and Nowak was yet to mention her father, or the business at hand. ‘I am surprised they sent a woman to such an important meeting,’ he said.
‘Do you consider women to be less capable than men?’ she asked.
‘Me? No, I do not. But your men do,’ he said.
Jia pulled the notebook towards her and opened it. She traced her finger down the seam, pushing the pages flat. ‘I think…Mr Nowak, that there has been a misunderstanding…’
‘In that case, please do clarify, Ms Khan.’
‘My brother is young and headstrong,’ she began. ‘He doesn’t always understand our ways –’
Nowak held up his hand to stop her.
‘You sadden me, Ms Khan. Your brother was caught trying to steal from me,’ he said. ‘I would not call that a misunderstanding, would you?’ He had gauged that Akbar Khan’s daughter was sharp and astute, but most of all she was patient. She knew when to listen. He liked that, and he hoped she would prove worthy of his time. He was tired of the common criminal. They were boring, too easy to manipulate, easily triggered, with little self-control.
Life was a game to Andrzej Nowak – he liked attention, he liked winning – but a game was only fun when one’s adversary was worthy. Charm flashed across his face, and he sighed deeply. ‘I had hoped for a smarter response from the daughter of the mighty Khan. Perhaps you’ve been sent to negotiate with me on more…intimate terms?’ His eyes fixed on her. She could feel them boring holes into her.
He began removing his tie, sliding it from his collar, and then folding it once, twice, three times. He placed it on the wooden table close to where Jia was sitting. Then he unhooked the brown leather belt he was wearing and pulled at the strap, each of his movements slow and deliberate. Jia glanced around the room: there was one exit and Nowak was sitting between her and the door.
‘What do you say, Ms Khan?’ he said, leaning in towards her, the stale smell of coffee on his breath making her sick. Alone with a man who was feared by many, she could see where his power lay. Andrzej Nowak was a man of no honour, the kind of man who brought a grenade to a knife fight. He cared for nothing but the win. And even that mattered little. She realised that she was his opposite.
Her words came calmly, slowly, decisively. ‘I say that the misunderstanding, Mr Nowak, is your calling me here, and holding my brother hostage in order to negotiate a deal. I underst
and your grievance, but my father’s business associates are not so sympathetic. They think you killed him.’
A cold smile spread across Nowak’s face. ‘Your father’s colleagues must be upset,’ he said, relishing the moment.
‘As you already know, I am not involved in the business of my family. I won’t disrespect you and pretend that they have not asked me to take over from my father. They have. But I have declined. I want my brother, that is all. After that, the city is yours.’
Nowak leaned back. ‘That is a shame. I like you, Ms Khan. You’re an intelligent woman and I can tell that you have an inquisitive mind. I was hoping we could spend some time getting to know each other but I see now that you are not inclined that way. Truthfully, I’m disappointed to hear that you’re prepared to hand the great Khan empire over so readily.’
‘Really? Why?’ Jia said.
‘Because, Ms Khan – and I feel you of all people should be able to understand my predicament – I’m bored. This life of privilege that you and I have lived, it’s dull. I envy ordinary folk, and their daily need to wake up and go into the world and make something of themselves. No one ever wanted anything of me. It’s hard watching the ants go about their business. You understand that, I can tell. I start thinking I’ve met an equal, I plan, I wait, and then they disappoint me. It’s always the way. I need distraction.’
His face broke into another smile and Jia noticed that one of his teeth was cracked and yellowing, his face lined like the contours on a map. How had she not seen it before? She recognised exactly what he was; she had come face to face with his kind in court countless times. She leaned back in her chair, grateful for the cashmere cardigan she had picked up before she left: his words had chilled her to the bone.
‘My brother, Mr Nowak,’ she said. ‘That is all I am here to talk about.’
