by Anna Smith
As she walked across the car park, she suddenly became aware of a bin moving. Then, in a second, someone was on her. She was grabbed from behind and dragged to the side of the building into the darkness, away from the lights on top of the building and out of view of the CCTV cameras. Weirdly, her first thought was that McGuire would go nuts. He’d warned her so many times never to go home at night unless she was in a taxi right to the front door. But now, she felt a strong arm pull her back and her legs went weak as she felt the coldness of the steel on her neck. Christ! Outside my own house. How fucking stupid is that? She tried to speak, afraid to as much as move her hands. She could feel the knife and the pulse in her neck.
‘Please. What do you want? Take my bag. I’ve got money.’
Even like this, desperate and vulnerable, Rosie hated the sound of her begging, when all of her instincts were telling her to kick backwards between his legs. But she was too terrified to move.
‘Keep away from my family. You hear me?’
The Pakistani accent was crystal-clear, rasping in anger, and she could feel his hot breath on her hair. She was rigid with fear, waiting to have her throat sliced.
‘Keep away from my family or I’ll cut your head off, you bitch.’
The blade seared into her flesh, but she didn’t feel pain. Just warm blood running down her neck. He released his grip and shoved the back of her head hard. Her face hit the brick wall as she slumped to the ground, her hand clutching her neck. She could hear his footsteps running away and she slowly got to her feet and staggered to the doorway, her bloodstained fingers trembling with fear as she pushed the key into the lock. As she stepped inside the door, she turned to see the hooded figure running out of the car park and jumping into a waiting car. Rosie closed the door and stumbled up the stairs to her flat, fumbling with the lock, one hand on her neck to stem the blood running through her fingers. She rushed into the bathroom and slammed on the light with her free hand, still clutching her neck with the other. In the mirror, her shocked, ashen face stared back at her with terrified eyes, one side of her cheek grazed and bleeding from the roughcast wall. Blood was dripping through her fingers and onto the basin. She rinsed a facecloth in cold water and pressed it tight to her neck, barely breathing, her legs feeling like jelly. After a few seconds she took her hand away and could see the gash. It wasn’t much. A line of about three inches, though deep enough to bleed heavily. Jesus! She wasn’t even sure where the jugular vein was, but she would be bleeding much more if it had been hit. But what if the knife had nicked some little vein next to it? She rinsed the cloth and pressed it to her neck again, then slumped onto the toilet seat, feeling light-headed. Calm down, she told herself. You’re not going to bleed to death. It’s only a flesh wound. She rested her head back on her shoulders, hoping that would stem the blood flow, and closed her eyes. The shrill ring of her mobile startled her, and she fished it out of her coat pocket. No name. She pushed the answer button, trying to compose herself.
‘Rosie! Rosie! It’s me. Sabiha!’
‘Sabiha! Are you alright?’
‘No. I can’t talk. Listen to me, please, Rosie. I don’t have much time. It’s Laila. She’s gone! They’ve taken her!’
‘Gone? Where?’ For a moment Rosie was confused, her head swimming.
‘To Pakistan! They took her! To the north – the Swat Valley! Please help! I can’t talk to you again. Please!’
‘Have they hurt you?’
‘Yes!’ Sabiha was crying. ‘Please keep away from me. I’m sorry. Help my cousin! Please help us!’
‘Where are you?’
‘I can’t talk. I will try to get a message to you. Don’t contact me again. They saw us in the park. They beat me! They won’t let me see my babies!’ She broke into sobs.
‘I’m so sorry, Sabiha.’ Rosie felt suddenly nauseous. ‘I’m so sorry.’
The line went dead. Rosie stood up and looked in the mirror, her face crumpling as the floodgates opened and tears ran down her face. Stop it, she told herself. You cannot lose it. She gingerly took the cloth off her neck and watched the drops of blood mixed with her tears rinse away.
Chapter Twelve
It had been a sleepless night after Rosie finally went to bed, lying flat on her back, careful not to move a muscle for fear of opening the wound. She’d decided the cut wasn’t bad enough to merit a trip to the Accident and Emergency unit. She’d delicately cleaned it and used a couple of butterfly stitches she had dug out from an old First Aid bag that the Post’s in-house medical department had given her for one of her foreign trips. It seemed to hold it in place. She’d forced herself to drink a brandy for the shock and went to bed. When she eventually drifted off, her nightmares were full of shadowy figures chasing her with knives and dragging her up dark alleys, and finally she woke to the same ringing of the phone in her head that she’d been waking up to for most of her life. And again her eyes were wet, as the final, garish image that brought her screaming out of her fevered sleep was that of her mother hanging on the end of a rope. Rosie lay still for a few moments, wiping her eyes with the palms of her hands and sniffing. Crying in her sleep again. Always the same when she was stressed, and sometimes even when she wasn’t. She was fine, she told herself. It could have been worse. Her finger lightly brushed the wound. It stung, but at least it was holding up. She let out a long sigh, staring at the ceiling. If she didn’t get out of bed right now, she never would. ‘Come on, Gilmour,’ she said aloud. ‘Get on with it.’ She swung her legs onto the floor.
*
‘What the fuck—’ McGuire’s mouth dropped open as Rosie walked into his office. He slammed his pen onto the desk and sat back. ‘What the fuck happened to you, Gilmour?’
Rosie put her hand up in a calming gesture. She knew the bruise and grazing on her face were raw.
‘I’m fine, Mick. It’s not as bad as it looks.’ She didn’t need sympathy or she’d go to pieces right here in front of him. ‘I got attacked last night.’
‘What? Christ almighty! Where? Who?’ McGuire was on his feet and coming out from behind his desk. ‘Come on, sit down.’ He took her arm and led her to the sofa. ‘Tell me.’ He sat opposite her. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah,’ Rosie said, through gritted teeth. ‘I’m fine. Don’t fuss.’
‘Where did it happen?’
Rosie shifted in her seat and pushed out a sigh.
‘Er . . . Outside my flat. In the car park.’
‘Aw, for fuck’s sake, Rosie! How many fucking times have I told you? Fucking hell!’
‘Christ, Mick,’ Rosie could feel her lip trembling. ‘Give me a break, I got bloody cut.’ She bit her lip to stop the tremor.
McGuire’s voice suddenly softened as he put both hands up.
‘Okay, I’m sorry.’ His eyes rolled to the ceiling. ‘It’s . . . It’s . . . Well . . . you know, Gilmour, how much I live in dread of something like this fucking happening to you.’
His eyes met Rosie’s and for a poignant moment there was no need for words.
‘I’m well touched, Mick. And they say you’re a right hard bastard too. It’s just not true.’ Rosie shot him a little tongue-in-cheek smile. She had to do something. A spat she could cope with, but a tender moment would have her blubbing all over his office.
‘Yeah, right.’ He smiled back. ‘I am a hard bastard when people like you don’t do what they’re bloody told – as if you ever would. But I just don’t want you getting killed, okay?’ He cleared his throat and folded his arms. ‘So, what the Christ happened?’
‘I was coming into the car park after having a glass of wine with a cop contact, then just as I’m getting towards the front door, suddenly some bastard grabs me from behind and holds a knife to my throat.’ Rosie eased down the zipper in her high-neck sweater, revealing the wound.
‘Aw, for fuck’s sake! Why didn’t you phone me last night? You should have gone to Casualty.’
Rosie shook her head.
‘No point, Mick. Once I got into
the house and I could see it was only a flesh wound, I dealt with it. I honestly didn’t want to involve anyone. You go to Casualty, they have to tell the cops, then I have to deal with a lot of questions I don’t want to answer.’ McGuire nodded in agreement.
‘So who was the bastard? How did you get out of it? Your face looks sore.’
‘I know. He pushed me hard against the wall when he let me go – once he’d cut me. Then he just ran away. I got into the house in time to get a quick look and saw this guy in a hooded jacket running towards a car. He climbed in and they roared off.’
‘Bastard!’
‘He was a Pakistani.’
‘A Pakistani?’
‘Yep. Didn’t see his face, but I knew from the voice. And he said to me, “Stay away from my family or I’ll cut your head off.” Nice guy.’
‘Shit! We should tell the cops.’
‘No. No. Definitely not, Mick. Not right now. I’ve got a lot to tell you. We need to talk – the bastard last night must be attached to the Shah family. It has to be one of them.’
‘But why? I mean it’s not as if we’ve done anything yet. We haven’t even written a proper story.’
‘I know, I didn’t get a chance to tell you last night, but I talked to the Pakistani girl – Sabiha. Remember the one I told you about who was giving me the eyes that day, but wouldn’t talk?’
‘Yeah.’ McGuire nodded. ‘How did you get to her?’
‘I went back down to the shop where she worked and waited for her to come out. She went to the park and I followed her.’
McGuire let out a little chuckle, shaking his head.
‘Despite the fact we were supposed to be taking a step back in case we were accused of racism and harassment?’
Rosie shrugged, half smiling.
‘Well, I thought I’d give it one last shot. And hey, I’m glad I did, because she spilled her guts. Plus there was another girl with her. A lovely little Glasgow girl, born and bred here, only fourteen, and she told me she was getting shipped off to Pakistan to get married to some old bastard. The kid was really upset. I honestly couldn’t believe my ears when they just started talking, Mick. What a result!’
‘So, tell me everything.’
He got up and buzzed Marion to bring some tea in, then sat back down, rubbing his eyes.
Rosie relayed chapter and verse what the girls had told her. About the passports and what they believed happened to people. She watched his eyes almost pop when she told him what Sabiha had said about the diamond smuggling.
‘But the thing is,’ Rosie continued, ‘after I saw them yesterday, I got attacked last night outside my home. Plus . . . they rumbled poor Sabiha and gave her a right hiding.’
‘Jesus! How do you know?’
‘Because when I got into the house and was trying to compose myself, with blood pouring out my neck, the mobile rang and it was her. She was terrified and sobbing. Told me not to get in touch with her again, that they’d beaten her up and won’t let her see her babies. Someone had seen us talking in the park.’ Rosie shook her head. ‘Christ! I can’t believe these bastards.’
‘Shocking.’ McGuire shook his head.
‘Sabiha was pleading with me to help her and her cousin – they’ve already taken the young girl away to Pakistan. They must have just stormed in there after seeing me with them yesterday and more or less kidnapped the poor girl. It’s outrageous, Mick. It really is. They shouldn’t be allowed to do this with kids. It’s just wrong. ‘
The door opened and Marion came in with a tray and set it down on the coffee table. McGuire poured, handed a cup of black tea to Rosie, and then sat back, cup in hand, his feet on the table.
‘I know it’s wrong,’ he sighed. ‘But it’s not for us to judge. It’s how they do business.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I mean. And nine times out of ten it is business. These arranged marriages. Much of it is to link families’ wealth together.’
‘We can’t say that, Gilmour. We’ll get fucking hanged.’
‘I know we can’t say it. And of course it’s their culture to arrange marriages, and I can see why they want to keep to themselves and work within their own community – given that there are plenty of racist bastards out there who wouldn’t give them jobs otherwise. It was the same when the Irish came generations ago, they had to look after each other, intermarry and all that crap, so that they could take care of their community. It’s the same for the Asians, and of course I respect that. But you can’t be taking fifteen-year-old girls out of the country against their will – the country they’ve been born and raised in – and shunting them to Pakistan to some village to marry a middle-aged bastard. It’s just wrong.’
McGuire nodded, rubbing his chin.
‘I know. That’s a good point. The kid is probably as Scottish as any teenager in Glasgow. It’s not fair. But we need to tread carefully. I’m not sure what we can do on this. But there must be a public interest defence we could make if we published it and were taken to task by lawyers or courts.’
They sat in silence for a long moment.
‘I don’t think we should be publishing anything right now Mick.’
‘Why?’
‘We should go and find the girl. Bring her back.’
He looked at her, incredulous.
‘Aye. Fine. I’ll do the jokes, Gilmour.’
‘I’m serious. She’s a British citizen – and a minor – and she’s been kidnapped. She told me herself yesterday what was going to happen. She was crying.’ Rosie rumbled around in her bag. ‘I’ve got it on tape, Mick. Everything she said.’
‘You have that on tape?’
‘Yes. And the other stuff Sabiha said about Rabia and the fake passports. It’s all on tape. We have to find a way to use it.’ Rosie paused for a breath. ‘But listen, what a scoop it would be if we could go over there and bring that kid back!’
McGuire was silent for a moment, and Rosie could almost see his brain ticking over.
‘It would cause a riot within the Asian community.’
‘Maybe not. You might find she’s not the only woman who’s been treated like that. But forget that for the moment. We should concentrate on what we can do for her. She’s the one whose life is going to be in ruins. And she’s just a kid.’
‘And how in the name of Christ do you propose to bring her home? Are you just going to waltz into some remote village in Pakistan like the cavalry and tell them, “Sorry, guys, the wedding’s off, the bride has a pressing engagement in the House of Fraser?” You’d get lynched.’ He shook his head, slowly and put his cup down. ‘No chance, Gilmour. I’ve been there before with you. But this would be right off the scale. It’s Pakistan, not the Costa del Sol. That whole area is a hotbed of Islamist fanatics since the Taliban started marching around Afghanistan, stringing everyone up. You could disappear into the middle of nowhere and nobody would even know where to begin to look for you.’
‘I could take somebody with me.’
‘Oh yeah! Sure. Matt would be perfect . . . Shitting himself in the hills of Pakistan.’ He looked her square in the eye. ‘No chance, Gilmour. Are you reading my lips?’
Rosie looked at him defiantly.
‘I’ve got a friend . . . A Pakistani guy, a contact I’ve used for years. He’s already helping me on this. He knows a lot of stuff and is a real Glasgow wide boy. He’d be our man on the ground, and if anyone can get this girl out, then it’s him. Omar.’
‘Omar? Omar fucking Sharif?’ McGuire chuckled in disbelief.
Rosie couldn’t help but smile.
‘Yes. Omar. He’s good. A bit of a crook, but he knows his stuff. And he knows Pakistan like the back of his chapati.’
Mick shook his head and said nothing. Rosie could see he was at least considering the option.
‘There’s something else, Mick.’
He looked at her, puzzled.
‘What?’
‘Well. Again, it was something that happened yesterday. A lot happened ye
sterday . . . Er . . . A lot.’
