by Saima Mir
‘Just like a woman, thinking always of her family. Come, then, I will take you to him. He is in our guest quarters,’ he said, rising. ‘This way.’ He pointed to the back of the restaurant.
Jia got up and signalled to Michael, who was standing out the front by the car. He entered and they followed Nowak across the dining area to the back door, which opened on to a cobbled alleyway.
Nowak led them along the alleyway and on towards a dark archway, where two of his men were waiting. He stopped by a discreet wooden door recessed into the wall of the arch and turned the cast iron handle. It creaked opened slowly to reveal steps going down.
‘Ladies first,’ said Nowak and waited for Jia.
She looked into the stairwell, cold air and the smell of iron and petrol wafting up from it. It occurred to her that this could be a trap. She turned to Michael, who understood immediately. Without hesitation, he descended the clanging metal staircase. There was a thud as his boots hit the ground below – and then silence. It felt like an age before he called up, ‘OK.’ She followed him down.
They found themselves in an underground car park, the only light coming from the stairwell behind them and a ramp at one end of the long basement.
Nowak gave a shout and somewhere in the darkness an engine began to roar. The noise was followed by the bright beam of headlights flooding the room, and Jia raised her hand against the glare. Through squinting eyes she made out five heavy black Range Rovers, and sitting on the ground in front of them, the outline of her brother. He was holding his hand in front of his face to shield his eyes from the light. She heard Michael’s gasp before she could see for herself, but as her eyes came into focus and she stepped closer to her baby brother, all feeling left her limbs.
Marks from tyre treads were embedded into the right side of his face. His black hair, usually straight and gelled back, was caked in congealed black blood. Lacerations ran across his cheeks, and his eyes – his beautiful brown, soulful eyes – were swollen to the size of small plums.
Nowak laughed, soaking up Jia’s shock and horror. His entire body twitched with anticipation of her anguish. But she didn’t flinch. She just stood there silently, loyal to the tendrils of cold hatred that were spreading deeper within her. Insidious, slow and powerful, they wrapped themselves around her legs and feet, driving deep into the ground, rooting her and strengthening her will to kill him. It was an intoxicating sensation; she had felt it fleetingly once before. This time it was stronger, purer, more sustained. There was no denying her destiny. There was nothing left to fear. It was everyone else who should be afraid.
She glanced down at her right hand and noted its paleness. She flexed and clenched it into a fist to bring the blood flow back. She spoke the words, ‘Michael, bring the car,’ her voice steady and distant. Michael hurried away up the ramp.
From the corner of her eye she could see Nowak’s face fixed in its cruelty, and she knew he was waiting for an outpouring of rage. In his position she would have done the same. She turned to face him, taking him in, piece by piece. ‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ she said. ‘You have been most gracious.’ There was no trace of irony, just simple words strung together, and with them she robbed Nowak of his victory.
She saw his eyes flash and narrow, and the vein in his neck throbbed until almost blue. This momentary lack of composure was enough to prove to Jia that she’d rattled him. ‘Let us conclude our business now, Mr Nowak, as agreed,’ she said, holding up the box of mithai she had brought with her.
Her coolness snapped Nowak back. ‘As agreed,’ he repeated. ‘Fly back to your nest. Make sure the others understand that this is our territory – and we will not steal your young.’
‘That is not my business. I am taking my brother and leaving. Here is what you asked for.’ She handed him the box. He took it and placed it on the bonnet of one of the cars, then pulled a pocket knife from inside his jacket and flicked it open with well-practised ease. He slid the blade along the seal, before passing the box to his associates, who began carefully lifting out the wads of purple notes it held.
‘You understand I need to check the amount?’ he said.
She nodded. Silently, the men counted. Jia waited, watching the money pile up on the bonnet. The air, heavy with the smell of engine oil and metal, made it difficult to breathe, and she felt her head becoming opaque. The men continued to count. From the corner of her eye Jia could see her brother. The blood pounded in her ears and a metallic taste filled her mouth. She just needed to hold on a little longer.
She was grateful when the screeching of tyres on the ramp broke the silence, signalling Michael’s return. But the sound sent Benyamin crumpling to the floor, whimpering, his arms covering his head as he lay there in a heap. It took all the self-control she had not to rush forward and gather him up in her arms. But she knew she could not show Nowak any sign of weakness, and this made the rage in her rise further. She called it forth from deep inside her soul and held on to it, feeding off it, one eye on her brother and the other on the men slowly counting the money.
When the men gave Nowak the nod, Jia went over to Benyamin and pulled his arm around her. With Michael’s help, she led him to their car and lowered him into the back seat, closing the door firmly after him. With her brother safe, she took a deep breath and glanced down at the apple twig in her hand.
‘You’ve got this,’ Maria had told her on the doorstep of Pukhtun House.
‘I know.’
‘Remember that gruesome book of Pukhtun tales we smuggled in from the One World Bookshop?’
Jia had cast her mind back and remembered a yellow hardback book with strange pictures. Maria went on to remind her what they’d read in it, of wartime executions, prisoners pegged out, their jaws forced wide open as wronged women urinated in their mouths repeatedly until death overcame them. And of the women who carried out castrations, beheadings and ‘death by a thousand cuts’. Maria’s words were matter-of-fact, as though relaying an oft-used recipe passed down through generations.
‘They would slice the man open,’ she’d reminded Jia, ‘and then push grass and thorns into his wounds. And they were no kinder to their own men, punishing a cheating husband by forcing thick and thorned twigs down his penis. Why do you think our father never strayed? Sometimes they would just tear a man’s tongue out by the roots after gang-raping him. I’m not trying to say we are barbarians; the British were no better. They flayed and filleted our people. But war for us is an honourable pursuit. We nurture it within us, and each generation proves its worth through it. And, of course, our wars are ruthless. No mercy is shown and none is expected. We don’t take prisoners. If this man Nowak was to be captured by the Jirga, he could expect not only to be killed, but to be carved up and quartered before having his cock cut off and stuffed in his mouth for good measure.’
Jia didn’t know if it was Maria Khan’s stories or her support that had strengthened her. But she’d left for the meeting filled with a confidence that made her care little about proving her worth to Andrzej Nowak.
Now, though, with her brother safely in the back of the car, Jia couldn’t resist, the way a cat can’t resist a mouse. Drawing herself up, she turned and looked at Nowak, her eyes as cold and steeled as his, and she said to him, ‘Have you heard of execution by golden shower?’ He flinched, and she pounced. ‘It was carried out by Pathan women on prisoners of war. I hadn’t thought about it until this morning when my people reminded me. But there’s no need for you to worry. These are civilised times, and as you mentioned earlier, in today’s world our women are controlled by men – and by that token I have no power and can do nothing other than take my brother and leave. If, however, by some chance I did have power and the might of my people behind me, you should know that you have shown my brother more mercy than I would show you. There is also the matter of my father’s death.’
Nowak was suddenly unsure of his course of action. Something in Jia’s voice unnerved him. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with y
our father’s death,’ he began, but he stopped himself. He knew she wasn’t interested in his denial.
Nowak was a man who had seen conflict of many kinds; he had sought it out and studied it and buried himself in it to the point where he had become practically fearless. But even he knew there were men and women in the world against whom you could never win. And there was something in Jia’s voice that day that reminded him of that. He had heard it before in men with no will to live, in kamikazes and jihadis.
CHAPTER 25
Her face unflinching, Jia buckled her seatbelt. ‘Let’s go,’ she said to Michael. He drove out of the dark basement and turned into the street, the soft hum of the car’s heating system tempering the silence. It was only when they reached the edge of the city that Jia exhaled. She leaned across the back seat and gently wiped her brother’s brow. She tasted iron on her lips when she kissed his forehead. He whimpered, his eyes closed, and she took him in her arms, pressing him into her, trying to absorb his pain, as she had done when they were children. ‘I’ve got you,’ she said. A myriad of thoughts ran through her head; she pushed them down. Leaning forward she put her hand on Michael’s shoulder. ‘Drive for a few streets and then stop the car somewhere quiet,’ she told him.
He did as she asked. Turning into a small backstreet, he stopped outside the Ali Baba Fabric Shop. The metal shutters were coming down, evening was falling and the owner, Wasim, was closing up for the day. He turned to see who had pulled up as Jia got out of the car. She looked left and right. The street was empty except for Wasim and a group of boys playing football at the end of the cul-de-sac. Wasim rushed forward to greet her, just as she threw up all over his shoes. ‘Water, I need water,’ she said, wiping her mouth.
The fabric merchant looked from Jia to his shoes and then back to Jia. She opened the door to where Benyamin was doubled over and Wasim’s eyes widened, a slow realisation crossing his face. He ran to his car and began fumbling around in the boot, returning with a plastic bottle and a bag of dates. He placed them in Jia’s hands. ‘This is all I have. It’s Aab-ae-Zamzam,’ he said. ‘My parents have just come back from Umrah.’
Jia took a long swig from the bottle then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She felt better but didn’t know whether it was the holy water or just the action of throwing up that had eased the knot in her stomach. What she did know was that she would not find loyalty like this anywhere but here. ‘I won’t forget your help, Wasim,’ she said.
‘No worries. It’s only water! You could’ve got that at Tesco,’ he replied. Then his face turned solemn. ‘We are here for the daughter of Akbar Khan in any way you may need.’ That he knew who she was, didn’t surprise her: she had been recognised as the daughter of Akbar Khan in this city her entire life. That someone like him held her father, a criminal kingpin, in such high esteem always took her aback. But this was a city of contradictions; nothing was black and white and no one’s loyalties were straightforward.
She handed the water and dates to Michael. ‘Here… I’ll take over the driving now. With your medical training you’ll be able to take better care of Ben than I can. Do what you can until we get home. I’ll call Malik when we get there,’ she said, taking the keys from his hand. He did as she asked. Once in the back of the car he put the water bottle to Benyamin’s lips, and the boy gulped fast, almost choking. Pouring some of the holy water on to his scarf, Michael began wiping his wounds.
As she drove through the streets of Hanover Green, Jia caught sight of her brother in the rear-view mirror. He winced in pain and she couldn’t help but blame her father for it. ‘Day in, day out, my father dealt with these people, wallowed in their crap. What the fuck was he thinking?’ she said bitterly. ‘And what the fuck am I doing cleaning up his shit?’
In the time that Michael had been with the Khan, he had seen him for what he was. He couldn’t stay silent. ‘You think your father was a demon, and there are plenty of folk ready to agree with you, but what do they know about struggling and climbing out of the gutter? Akbar Khan kept the devil from the door for a lot of us. Without sinners, there aren’t saints. If you want to help good people, you have to learn to be bad. Because that’s what it takes in this world.’
Her eyes on the road, her hands on the steering wheel, Jia held her tongue until they got to Pukhtun House. Sanam Khan was already at the door, waiting anxiously. She moved aside as Michael carried Benyamin in, then hurried after them with Arabic words, Maria close behind with water and bandages. Placing the patient on the sofa, Michael carefully began cleaning his wounds. The cuts were deep, the bruises thick. He was worried about internal bleeds and concerned he didn’t know enough to prevent further complications. ‘We need to get him to a hospital,’ he said.
‘Jia…’ Benyamin reached out for his sister. She took his hand in hers, kneeling beside him.
‘No hospitals,’ she said. ‘They’ll ask too many questions and we can’t be dealing with the police right now. Do what you can for him and let me figure something out. Benny, I’m just going to get changed and I’ll be right back, OK? Mama is here with you, and Maria will get you whatever you need.’
She transferred his hand gently to their mother’s. Jia would spend the night by his side, watching over Benyamin as he slept, ready to fetch painkillers and water every time he stirred, but for now she had things to attend to. She left the room, closing the door behind her. Her head was spinning. She looked at her phone: another missed call from Elyas. He’d left a voicemail. She deleted it without listening. She couldn’t hear his voice right now; she wouldn’t be able to think straight. She’d call him later.
She scrolled through her contacts for Malik’s number. Her cousin was a qualified doctor. ‘I need you to come over, now,’ she told him. ‘He’s in a bad way. He needs to be in hospital but I can’t take that risk.’
She hung up the phone and turned around to find Bazigh Khan standing at the door, his face awash with concern. Even killers and criminals worried about their kin. ‘He is hurt badly?’ he asked.
Jia nodded. ‘Malik is coming.’ She leaned against the wall, exhausted. ‘Is it always this hard, Lala?’ She looked small, but he knew better than to underestimate her.
‘Yes,’ he said, taking her in a fatherly bear hug. ‘It is. You must eat, and then we must get on with business. The chief of police is here. He pulled up outside just as I was coming in the door. He says he has been calling since the day your father died. I have asked him to wait in the study.’
Jia looked surprised. ‘He’s come to see me? Do you know what he wants?’
‘Maybe he wants to offer his condolences. I always thought these Angrez sent cards, but maybe our ways are rubbing off on them, eh?’
‘Maybe,’ Jia said, ‘but I doubt it. And I’m sure you know more than you are letting on.’
The way the policeman sat in the chair, unapologetic, with his arm sprawled over one side, irked Jia. His voice, nasal and patronising, did not help matters. ‘Ms Khan…I have a dead white bouncer, severely injured white revellers and an eighteen-year-old girl, also white, who may never walk again thanks to these two thugs. You must know something.’
The last words were spat out; he could see that her mind was elsewhere. Reeling from her meeting with Nowak and the damage he and his men had inflicted on her brother, the thoughts running through her head were not pleasant. The problems of one chief of police didn’t figure high on her agenda. But she tried to feign interest, her eyes on his lips as he repeatedly uttered the word ‘white’, his mouth stretching so wide it almost split his cheeks. His face was flushed as though he’d been drinking and Jia wondered if the job was a little too much for him. His annoyance at the situation was apparent. He wasn’t used to having to chase people to get back to him and she had inconvenienced him by making it necessary to seek her out in person.
‘Eyewitnesses describe these thugs as anywhere between five foot eight and six foot, with brown hair and – wait for it – Asian. They took it into their hands
to exact mindless revenge in my city, a city that is already at boiling point, and being watched by outsiders, right-wing groups ready to rip it open again and drag its intestines out on to the streets to chants of racial hatred!’
‘I understand, but what can I do? We’re preparing for a funeral here,’ Jia said. She was tired of listening to the sound of his voice.
‘I know, Ms Khan, and I am sorry for your loss.’ Briscoe’s voice suddenly became practised, as if reading from a script. ‘We are doing all we can to find out who was responsible. But we could do with your help in return…’
‘Are there any leads on my father’s death?’ Jia said, substituting his request with her own.
‘Not yet. We’re working our way through the information. But as you know, your father had many enemies…’ His eyebrows furrowed as he spoke, and his eyes disappeared further into his face.
Jia bristled at his words. ‘I’m sure, Chief Constable, that in your line of work you also have many enemies. If you met an untimely death, would you expect to be treated with less respect?’
The policeman looked disappointed. ‘I am not here to mark territory, Ms Khan. I don’t think you understand the severity of the situation. Look, I love this town, but she is not like other cities. This is not a melting pot, it’s a pressure cooker. And unless you help me we will have a riot on our hands of unprecedented proportions!’
‘And how should I do that?’ Jia asked.
Briscoe sat back in his chair. Her lack of emotion vexed him. He was no stranger to bending the law, knowing that there were times when ethics had to be put aside for the greater good, but this privileged brown woman was beneath him, and asking for her help was akin to walking on ground-up glass. But he had little choice in the matter: the order had come from above. The police and crime commissioner himself had called him to a private meeting.
‘By calling in your father’s…associates,’ he said. ‘The Jury, the Jirga. And by telling them to control the streets. They have done it before. They have been doing it for years. Why can’t they do it now?’
