The horn blared again, further away this time. My head was hurting so badly, only sleep would fix it, and I tried to drift off, thinking how horns like that would be against the law in Australia. So much that was against the law in Australia happened every day in Pakistan.
When I came to again, there was no way I could hang on to what was threatening to heave out of my stomach. I dragged myself to the window, fumbled with the handle for an agonising few seconds and hung my head out, just in time. I was still thinking of Dad. He used to hate it when we chucked on the mountain roads, especially after he’d washed our van. At that moment a slight sob escaped out of my mouth—just enough noise for one of the men in the front to turn and jabber something to the other.
Immediately the van stopped and the younger man, Sohail, had the side door sliding open before both his feet touched the road. I was allowed out, thankful that I had the shawl to pull around my body to hide not only me, but also my fear and embarrassment. I breathed in the cool night air and felt the nauseous waves receding. Then I realised I didn’t have anything to wipe my face with. I could still taste the vile remains of dinner and I knew, if I got back in the van like that, it wouldn’t be long before I was sick again.
I was too scared to look up at him, so I mumbled in Urdu, ‘Koi rumal hai? Do you have a handkerchief?’ I imagined he would be staring at my shawl (Sonya’s actually) as that’s what a tribal girl would use to wipe her face.
‘Rumal?’ I asked again, determined to get a response, and suddenly he plunged his hand into his woollen vest pocket to pull out a handkerchief. He went off with it, just as I reached out my hand and I guessed he’d gone to wet the thing. For one mad instant I thought about running, but my head hurt so much I knew I wouldn’t get far. Besides, I remembered how far he could jump. Strangely I didn’t feel that evil presence any more—he was a known entity now. It may have been dangerous thinking, but a guy who goes to wet a handkerchief for you couldn’t be totally bad. I didn’t even wonder how he managed to have such a thing, just hoped it wouldn’t be a bug-infested drain that he dipped it in.
Just as quickly as he’d disappeared, he was back. When he handed the handkerchief over, I noticed that his hand was the same colour as Dad’s. He wasn’t Pakistani, I knew that already. Afghan maybe? I ventured a glance upwards and, in the light from inside the van, I found him regarding me with equal interest. He swiftly averted his gaze as respectful Muslim men should, so I don’t know why I was annoyed.
The engine revved up as the driver wrestled with the radio, drawing out sounds of the test series cricket. I climbed back in, keeping the handkerchief in case I needed it later. I refused the water one of them offered, as I knew it wouldn’t be filtered, and I lay down, trying not to give in to the incredible wave of depression the sound of the cricket brought. They were playing in Australia; Dad and Andrew were supposed to be there.
Later I was awoken by the side door banging open again. One of the men was speaking to me, but as usual, I couldn’t understand much. I could tell they wanted me out, though. I tottered to my feet and clung to the van door as the younger one addressed the driver as his father.
The tall, burly driver began to argue about something. ‘Sohail—’ but I lost concentration as I started to slip down the side of the van. There was an exclamation and the one called Sohail lifted me in his arms. I couldn’t even struggle. My head was spinning as though I were travelling through a black tunnel on a roller coaster.
The cooler air outside helped a bit. It was dark and I could make out the night sounds of a bazaar. A horse clip-clopped by, pulling a tonga carriage, the animal snorting in anticipation of its rest and grain. I was carried down an unlit alleyway, into a building, up stairs that curved round and round so that I thought I was going to puke again, until we arrived on a flat roof above the bazaar. But the cool of the night air was short-lived. I was taken in through a door leading off the roof, a heavy piece of material dragging on my head as we went through.
Carpets again. I wrinkled my nose as the familiar smell met me at the doorway. Then the light was switched on and I was reminded of a rug shop that Dad had taken me to when I was younger. He had bought a prize carpet for Mum with flowers and borders, reds and blues. She always kept it by her bed. The smell of the wool and the second-hand carpets, which was a part of every Afghan rug shop, had permeated that shop as it did this one. Here, even the mud walls smelt of freshly sheared wool and sweaty second-hand tribal clothes that rug dealers display as antiques for unsuspecting tourists.
I was laid down, gently for a kidnapper, and I rested my head on a stuffed donkey bag, willing the dizziness to stop. Soon I heard the sound of teacups rattling and the guy called Sohail brought a little blue enamel teapot and an Afghan handle-less teacup for me to drink green tea.
That tea tasted so good. ‘Shukriya, thank you,’ I said in Urdu, then sighed. The warm, sweet liquid stilled the waves in my stomach and with it, came strength and a little courage. I glanced up, trying not to look into those eyes that I knew would be waiting. But I didn’t try hard enough and it was as I had thought: his eyes were green, but he was younger than I expected—no beard.
He was studying me strangely, differently from when we were by the van on the road. He said something, but I didn’t understand him. Urdu was the only other language I learnt at school and I looked down at the teacup, trying not to let that prickling feeling behind my eyes develop into a flood. The way he was watching me was unnerving and as surely as one knows one will fall when a rope breaks, I knew there was more disaster impending.
Then I caught on to what he said as he spoke in Urdu.
‘Are you understanding me now?’
I nodded miserably. ‘Ji.’ I sensed it wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
With a violent movement that reminded me of the way Jasper was now, he stormed outside. I could hear male voices raised in anger and I shrank back into a corner. There were carpets everywhere: on the floor, on the walls, stacked in piles. Maybe if I could reach one and pull it over me, they wouldn’t notice me. I felt like a huge blot on a page and I had the horrible impression the page would get torn out so the story could start again.
As suddenly as it began, the arguing stopped. I pulled the red shawl closer about me as the older man entered the room. He wore a huge wrapped turban and had an air of authority. No one would believe any of this back home. I don’t know how things like this happen in Pakistan. As Dad used to say, that’s the risk people take going to third-world countries close to war zones. He used to say things like that with a glint in his eye that gave me the impression he enjoyed dangerous spots. War zone? I was supposed to be having a holiday, visiting friends.
I watched the man slip off his shoes and come closer. I put down the cup and shrank further against the wall. He crouched on his haunches and peered at my downcast face for what seemed like ages, before letting out an angry burst of words.
My eyes were shut tight; I thought he’d strike me and I didn’t think my head would take it, not again. When the blow didn’t come I sneaked a look at him. He was just sitting there, wiping his eyes with his hand. He must have felt my attention on him as he looked up and spoke in Urdu.
‘Beti, who are you? Do not fear. I will not hurt you.’
For an instant I hesitated; then, though I knew it was naïve, I believed him.
‘I am the daughter of Wayne Richards,’ I began in the way a girl would introduce herself in Pakistan, if there was no male to do it. ‘I was staying at the house of Sonya Shklovsky …’ I licked my lips wondering how much to say, ‘when I was abducted.’ It was a small moment of defiance; a Tom Thumb cracker going off when everyone else was watching rockets. I couldn’t read his face to see if I’d angered him but I swallowed and continued while he was digesting what I’d said.
‘Can you let me go? You could leave me here in Peshawar.’ I’d guessed by then where we were. ‘I have an uncle here,
Jon Harris. He could come …’ This plea achieved nothing, except to make me more upset.
‘We will not hurt you,’ the man repeated. I looked at his huge frame, his dark curly beard with streaks of grey, his turban, the empty cartridge holder crossing his chest, and I wondered if I was right to trust him. All he needed was a gun to look like one of those militants on the front page of the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Post.
‘Are you Americani?’
‘Australivi.’
‘That may be easier, at least.’ He scratched his beard thoughtfully for a full minute, then he walked outside without a backward glance. So far, so good; maybe he’d let me go. I stood up, ready. But then I heard the click of a key turning in the door and my slightly raised spirits took another dive. No one was in any hurry to take me anywhere as I could hear the static roar of a crowd and the cultured excitement of a Pakistani commentator: ‘It’s out! No! The players are appealing. Smith is pleading with the umpire.’
‘What a beautiful diving catch to his right …’ I pricked up my ears at the Australian accent but the Pakistani voice cut in, ‘The umpire is shaking his head. Not out! Younis Khan is not out!’ And the crowd roared again.
I settled down on the rough donkey bag to wait. Something would have to happen sooner or later, and I understood enough about cricket fanatics to know it wouldn’t be until the day’s play was over.
9
Jasper
Jasper slammed the Suzuki door shut. It was the first time he’d driven so far at night, and he found his hands were shaking when he finally turned the engine off. Driving in Pakistan was nothing like in the West. Trucks, always top-heavy and travelling too fast on the wrong side of the road, commanded the night roads to escape the day traffic. Huge, gaudy, overcrowded buses were driven crazily as if the drivers believed invisible tracks (they called it fate) would keep them from crashing over the edge. It was amazing how people, who seemed calm and patient, could transform into The Joker as soon as they sat behind a steering wheel.
Liana put a hand on his. ‘You did well, Jasper, and I wouldn’t have thought you’d have had much driving experience.’
‘I haven’t. Dad used to let me drive when …’ He stopped and abruptly faced the other way. Liana spoke softly to his back. ‘You okay?’ She sounded gentle and offhand at the same time. He knew that tone girls got when they felt he needed to ‘offload’ but he didn’t need their help, nor Liana’s.
‘Sure.’ He turned back towards her, hoping anger didn’t show in his eyes, in case she thought it was directed at her. This was where he grew up. It was the first time he’d been back since his father disappeared, and there he was, pretending to grin at her so she’d think everything was all right.
Sonya seemed involved in thoughts of her own and turned around a few times. ‘We should go down this gali, I think.’ And she pointed down a dark narrow alleyway. It didn’t take much to wipe the grin off Jasper’s face.
‘You think? Hell, Sonya. Peshawar is not a place where I like to be out in the middle of the night! Either you know where to go or you don’t. Got it?’
Sonya faced him, her chin even higher than usual. ‘That way, then.’ And she pointed down the same alley. Whatever Jasper thought of Sonya, she at least was strong willed.Jasper waited, tapping his foot on a discarded cigarette box while the girls adjusted their shawls to cover their faces. They then made their way after him, as custom dictated, down the narrow alley. Shouting started up not far away and a machine gun fired, making Liana pause.
‘It may be just a wedding,’ Jasper said, offering reassurance that he didn’t feel. ‘A few years ago, we were at a wedding here where the guests got so trigger-happy they had a contest to see who could fire closest to the bridal couple without hitting them. They wounded the groom and killed the bride—by accident—and they were just having fun!’
‘After a story like that, I’m not meant to worry?’ Liana said.
The truth was Jasper knew Peshawar could be a dangerous place. So many of the refugees lived there, and among them, the Taliban militants, many of whom would take on the world to keep their country holy and would gladly die doing so. They were told they’d go straight to Paradise if killed in a holy cause, and many were such extreme hotheads that fervour spread through a mob of them like a summer brushfire.
It was Sonya who worried Jasper more. She showed none of the nervousness that she should feel, and when they heard that chilling sound—the click of a safety catch being released—from the alley on their left, Sonya hardly moved a muscle. Jasper jumped, so did Liana as she was close beside him, and he felt the tremor right through his leather jacket.
Jasper’s hissed, ‘Don’t panic’, was superfluous. Sonya ignored him and Liana froze at the size of the gun the Pakhtun was holding. She looked on the verge of panic but one glance at Jasper’s face seemed to calm her; he tried to put on an act of bravado.
‘Raza! Come!’ The man motioned them down the alley he had emerged from. Jasper was surprised; the guy didn’t seem much older than himself. Then he mentally chided himself. How could he be thinking about how old the guy was when their lives could be on the line? It was as though his mind had switched off.
‘Jasper?’ Liana found his arm and hung on. She seemed relieved he didn’t pull away. ‘How will we find Jaime, now?’
He only shook his head. Then, for the first time that night, he was actually pleased. ‘I know where we are. We’re behind the Kissah Kahani—the street of the storytellers. It’s the oldest part of the bazaar.’
Liana wasn’t impressed. ‘It’s like a rabbit warren. We could never find our way out of this again.’
‘I could,’ came Jasper’s stubborn whisper.
10
Jaime
When I first heard the clunk of the lock, I thought it would be the older Afghan man coming back to ask more questions. I sat up straighter because I’d been thinking of offering my gold bangle as payment, if they’d let me go. The light went on and I shut my eyes momentarily against the glare.
‘Jaime! Is that you?’
My eyelids flew open. It sounded just like Liana at the airport. And suddenly she was hugging me. They were all there, Sonya and Jasper too. They’d been pushed in and the door locked behind them. Sonya’s face looked like a lake on a calm day, nothing remarkable you could say about it, except it was pretty, but Jasper was a dam about to burst.
‘Are you all right?’ Liana was feeling my bones.
I nodded. ‘My head feels bad, but it’s better since I’ve been asleep.’
Jasper crouched beside me. ‘Jaime, are you really okay?’ I looked up at him. I knew what he meant and I nodded again. His eyes grew bright, and he quickly looked away.
Liana was beside herself. She was big on miracles and was going on about how special it was to find me when they had no idea where I was. But the more she said, the bigger Jasper’s scowl grew until finally he cut in.
‘You’re forgetting something, Li. She,’ and he pointed at Sonya, ‘knew where Jaime was. She led us into a trap.’ He walked—stalked was more like it—over to Sonya, so he could talk right into her face.
‘I think we have you to thank for this mess. Would you care to do some explaining?’
Even Sonya seemed to see that Jasper couldn’t be pushed any more. She answered him straight away. ‘I was the one they wanted. Jaime should not have been taken.’
I still didn’t see what she meant, but Jasper seemed to. ‘You little bitch. You set her up, didn’t you? Look at her. She’s the same height, same colour hair, the same shawl you wore the other night.’ And the clip, I silently added. Could he be right? Half of me was shocked. I’d never heard him quite so worked up, and I wanted to soothe him, say it would be okay, but I wanted to hear what he thought about it more.
Sonya’s eyes shone so gold they sparked. ‘You forget! I warned the girls. I told them not to go into the garde
n.’
‘There wasn’t a prowler, was there?’
‘No.’ Sonya’s tone was quiet but short.
I had a question too. ‘So how did you know something was going to happen in the garden?’
There was no answer at first, then she sighed. ‘I had a text.’ She always gave me the impression she didn’t think I was worth talking to.
‘And then you told your friend in the carpet shop?’ Jasper accused. ‘Is that what you were doing last night?’ Sonya shut her lips together as tight as Ali Baba’s cave. Perhaps Jasper realised she had said all she intended to, or maybe her quietness proved something to him, as he gave up questioning her, and began to make himself comfortable on the floor with a few of the carpets and woven rugs.
Liana voiced the question that was crowding my mind. ‘What happens now?’
‘One thing’s for sure.’ Jasper was smoothing a Kashmiri shawl over the carpets so they wouldn’t itch him in the night. ‘Those Pakhtuns want Sonya for some reason. But what about the rest of us? We just got in the way. Guys like that, who kidnap people, are not about to let us go so we can tell the whole world about it.’
I felt I needed to put him right; Jasper didn’t have all the facts. ‘They said they wouldn’t hurt me.’
‘What crap!’
‘Jasper, do you mind?’
‘Look at you. You have a king-sized bruise across your forehead and you can’t even sit up straight. The worst state I’ve ever seen you in. And Junior out there …’ He paused momentarily as if he couldn’t find words to say that wouldn’t self-destruct on utterance. He settled on the gun instead. ‘That AK 47 he’s carrying around is the meanest assault rifle I’ve ever seen close up. Do you know what size hole that would make in these walls if it went off?’
The War Within Page 5
