by Paul Torday
Mr Khan started spooning small amounts of delicious-looking saffron rice, and spicy morsels of lamb, on to a plate, which he handed to me. He poured me a glass of iced water from a copper jug.
‘Is it to your liking?’ he asked, helping himself to a modest amount of rice and a spoonful of curry.
‘Delicious, thank you very much.’
We both ate for a moment. Then Mr Khan said, ‘But I am forgetting my manners. You must be wondering why you were brought here in such a very extraordinary manner. I must apologise, by the way, for Kevin’s carelessness. I hope you are not hurt?’
I drank some water, and said, ‘I’m recovering. You seemed very keen to get me here.’
Mr Khan smiled.
‘Of course I will tell you why we went to such trouble in a moment. But first, do tell me a little bit about yourself, Mr Gaunt.’
‘There’s nothing much to tell,’ I replied modestly.
‘You are an English gentleman? A member of English society? Is that why you were dressed in evening clothes at eight o’clock in the morning?’
This time I was the one who smiled, despite myself. This was the first time I had been called a gentleman and I enjoyed the irony. I wondered why Mr Khan wanted to know about me, and whether there was any reason I should tell him anything. Besides, what was my profession these days? In the last two years I had been a restaurateur for a while; then an ex-restaurateur. After that I had slipped gracefully down the social and economic scale. I had been a barman; a nightclub greeter; a bouncer and a debt-collector. You could take your pick. Few of my trades had lasted more than eight to twelve weeks and the most successful one since our restaurant had gone bust had been helping collect on unpaid or overdue loans. Even that, which was not exactly a gentleman’s career, had come to an end. I had been too forceful in my methods with one or two of the clients I considered were having a laugh at my employer’s expense.
‘No particular profession at present, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘My CV is broad, rather than deep.’
‘But you were in the army once, were you not?’
‘How did you know that?’ I asked, in surprise.
‘An inspired guess on my part. And now you are a gentleman of means – a man of leisure?’
‘I have plenty of leisure at the moment. I don’t have a job.’
‘And so last night you were at a Dance, perhaps, attended by other Members of Society? Or at a Cocktail Party? I have heard that the English are very fond of Dances and Cocktail Parties.’ As Mr Khan spoke he managed to invest each of these imagined jollities with capital letters. I laughed, and then winced as my ribs flared with pain.
‘No such luck, I’m afraid. I spent the evening at a club.’
Mr Khan looked very respectful.
‘Ah yes, an English club. And this morning you went for a walk to take exercise? The English are fond of taking exercise, I have heard.’
‘Yes, I decided to go for a walk.’
‘All the way from London? That is many miles.’
Mr Khan appeared to be intrigued by my eccentric behaviour but I was becoming restless under his cross-examination. I had waited long enough for an explanation of why I had been kidnapped, and I wouldn’t have minded some compensation either. I decided to start asking a few questions of my own.
‘You have a wonderful house, Mr Khan, and a very good cook, and a very efficient staff. You must have worked hard to acquire such things around you.’
Mr Khan smiled again. He smiled often but the smiles never quite reached his eyes, with their brown irises surrounded by whites so clear they were almost blue. His eyes remained fixed on me all the time we spoke, scarcely blinking.
‘I have been fortunate,’ he said. ‘I am a trader and a private banker, a rich man back at home, and not a poor man even in this wealthy country. I live here for a few weeks every year and I like to keep the house up to a good standard for my friends and guests.’
‘And where is home, Mr Khan?’
‘Where indeed, Mr Gaunt? I travel so much I scarcely know where home is, or once was. A long time ago it was a small village in the mountains of my homeland. Now Dubai is my base, but I also have houses in Palermo, Beirut, and here – I am a fortunate fellow.’
Mr Khan was good at not answering questions. I tried again.
‘You must do very good business, being a banker,’ I said politely.
‘Yes, the families I work for support me and I do my best to reward their good faith.’
There was a silence while we both continued to eat. The exchange of career notes seemed to be over. Mr Khan refilled my glass of water, and offered me more lamb, which I refused. He must have pressed a bell push out of sight under the table because the man in the dark suit appeared with a tray containing coffee cups. He set out the coffee things, cleared away the plates and dishes and retreated with his tray.
‘Are you a married man, may I ask?’ enquired Mr Khan, as we sipped our coffee. The conversation was becoming odder by the minute yet I felt a weird sense of inevitability about it.
‘No, as a matter of fact, I’m not,’ I admitted.
‘Have you ever considered it?’ asked Mr Khan. This was such an odd remark, in the circumstances, that I think my mouth dropped open for a moment. I decided to keep talking. Maybe in the end I would find out what this was all about.
‘Well, I might have done. But I have never really come close to the married state. Not so far.’
This was not quite accurate, but I felt that the present situation did not warrant too much candour.
‘I myself,’ said Mr Khan, taking a case from his pocket and offering me a large cigar, ‘have several wives. I have found marriage to be a rewarding state of affairs and I thoroughly approve of it. You won’t smoke? Do you mind if I do?’
He clipped the end from his cigar, then lit it and drew on it, puffing out a cloud of fragrant smoke. I rather wished I had accepted his offer, it smelled so good.
‘God wants men to marry women,’ said Mr Khan, continuing his discourse. ‘It is our natural state, after all.’
He puffed some more on his cigar. Maybe now was the moment to ask why his hireling had knocked me down with a car and dragged me here, thereby causing me to lose a six-thousand-pound bet. But before I could assemble the right words, Mr Khan forestalled me.
‘How old are you, Mr Gaunt?’
‘I’m thirty-three,’ I replied. ‘Now, Mr Khan, I really must ask you—’ But he stopped me again, raising one hand.
‘I think it is time you got married.’
‘Me? I’m afraid that’s not on the cards, Mr Khan. Perhaps you won’t mind if I change the subject. Could you explain why I was brought here—’
Again he cut me off, not impolitely, but firmly.
‘But that is what we are talking about.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘That is why you were brought here. To get married.’
By this stage of the conversation all I could do was stare at him. Mr Khan didn’t look like a madman and he didn’t sound like one. But the words he spoke were not reasonable.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Khan, noticing my surprise. ‘It is an important step in your life. Unfortunately there has not been much time to consult with you about this. Nevertheless, I feel very certain that you will soon be married and that your marriage will find favour with God.’
‘But I don’t know anyone I want to marry,’ I said feebly. If I had been feeling stronger I would have jumped up and tried to leave this place – and yet there was something oddly compelling about this conversation, even if it repelled me at the same time.
‘Fortunately, we have found just the girl for you,’ Mr Khan continued. ‘I will arrange an introduction in next to no time.’
‘Let me get this straight. You want me to get married to some girl you’ve found and whom I’ve never met? Is that what I’m hearing?’
‘Of course. It is what you British call an arranged marriage. These are so often the most successful ma
rriages. I am a great believer in arranged marriages. All of my wives were arranged for me. They brought money, useful contacts – and, of course, the inestimable pleasures of female company. You too will approve of our arrangements on your behalf, Mr Gaunt, once you know a little bit more.’
Three
There was a silence. I was struggling to understand the situation I found myself in. If I had been writing a report for my superiors when I was in the army it might have read:
‘8.30 a.m.: knocked down by large car and kidnapped. 1.30 p.m.: received indirect proposal of marriage from unknown man of Asian origin on behalf of girl, also unknown.’
Mr Khan sensed my confusion.
‘You have met Kevin. He is one of my goons. I hired him for qualities other than his ability to think.’
‘Oh, good,’ I said stupidly.
‘His instructions were to find a vagabond – a drifter – a man of no fixed abode. He saw a man in evening dress walking along by the side of the road and concluded, for reasons I cannot comprehend, that you were just such a person. It was not part of his instructions to knock you down. But it is so difficult to get good staff these days.’
His assessment of Kevin’s abilities was the same as my own.
‘I see from talking to you that you are an educated man. A refined, civilised person, who happened to be out for a walk. You still have not mentioned why you were walking along the road at that time of the morning in evening dress …’
‘It’s a long story,’ I replied.
‘That is immaterial. You may tell me later, after you are married. For a little while at least, you should think of me as you would a father-in-law. But perhaps you have a girlfriend at home who is anxious to hear from you?’
‘Not at present,’ I said.
‘Or an employer, wondering why you have not turned up for work?’
‘Not at this precise moment.’
‘Then I hope that your stay with us will cause you the minimum of inconvenience. Of course, you will be compensated for the use of your time, and for your patience with us, and for the – happily minor – injuries you sustained when Kevin bumped into you with his car. So unnecessary! If you will give us another forty-eight hours I will pay you ten thousand pounds. I hope you will find that acceptable.’
While Mr Khan had been talking I had been thinking. The truth was, no one was waiting for me: no girlfriend, employer, friend or dog pined for my return. I had no pressing engagements in my diary, now that I had missed my date at the Randolph Hotel. I had no prospect of employment, and just at that moment, not even the slightest curiosity as to how I might earn my living.
The last two years had been one disaster after another. There had been the restaurant, which had shown so much promise at first. It had failed because its co-owner couldn’t do his sums, and had a violent temper that the staff and customers would not put up with – not to mention worse behaviour. Then various jobs, each less glamorous and lower paid than the one before, as I failed to turn up to work or, on turning up to work, quarrelled with someone. It was not an enticing prospect. The thought of my empty flat in Camden with its unmade bed, and unwashed dishes, and scale-stained bath did not tug at my heartstrings. At any moment the landlord was likely to turn up and change the locks, then chuck my few belongings out on to the street: my rent must be at least two months behind. I realised that I had become absorbed in my own thoughts and that Mr Khan was waiting for an answer.
‘Another two days here, you say … ?’
‘Well, another two days of your time. It will be necessary to leave the house for a brief journey to the register office. We have prepared a great deal of paperwork but we will require your co-operation in completing some of the details.’
I thought about all the reasons why I should insist on leaving now. Mr Khan and his servants were at best a bunch of crooks engaged in some sort of scam, which I had yet to understand. At worst, they might be dealing in human trafficking. Almost anything was possible; the only impossibility was that they were pleasant, honest people who wanted to do me a good turn.
But ten thousand pounds! Apart from the cash I had on me I hadn’t a penny in the world. Some income from my army pension, but that didn’t go far. No capital, no chance of any handouts from my parents after the way I had treated them. But with ten thousand pounds in my pocket, maybe I could start to turn my life around. It would buy me a new suit, a haircut, time to go to the endless job interviews I knew I would have to go to before someone finally employed me. And after all: what were they asking me to do? Put my name on some piece of paper that allowed a woman from India or Pakistan to claim residency and then citizenship. That was what this was all about. Sham marriages were practically an industry these days. One more illegal immigrant wouldn’t make any difference, would it? I was vague about the law but I imagined that once I had married the woman I would never have to see her again, and after a certain amount of time I could apply for a divorce.
‘Why not?’ I said.
‘What?’
‘I said, OK.’
Mr Khan looked at me and I looked back at him and, for a moment, our gazes locked. Then he said, ‘I trust you will not mind if we keep you to your room for some of the time?’
‘I would prefer not.’
Mr Khan hesitated for the first time in our conversation. Then he said:
‘You may have the use of this conservatory, and the drawing room if you feel the room upstairs is too confining. But you must not go into any of the other rooms. Most of the doors are locked anyway. And you must on no account use the telephone, or go outside. Are these conditions acceptable to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And may I have your word as an English gentleman that you will adhere to them?’
Once again, I was amused by the old-fashioned nature of his question.
‘Of course.’
In fact, I had decided that for the moment I would not try to leave. I was by now too full of curiosity about the set-up here, and the bizarre arrangements that had been made for my forthcoming nuptials. The house was warm and comfortable and the food was good. Above all there was the matter of the money to be considered, which would more than compensate me for the loss of my bet with Ed Hartlepool – although nothing could have equalled the pleasure of seeing Ed Hartlepool write me out a large cheque.
Mr Khan stood up. ‘I will not detain you any longer. Later this afternoon my assistant David may ask you to sign some forms. I apologise for all the paperwork. At home, matters would be simpler, but we are in England and must obey her laws.’
He must have pressed the bell again, because as he was speaking David arrived.
‘Please show Mr Gaunt back to his room,’ said Mr Khan. ‘But there is no need to lock the door. Mr Gaunt and I have reached an understanding.’
David took me upstairs and as he left me he said, ‘I will be back in half an hour or so with some documents for you to complete, Mr Gaunt. I trust that will be in order?’
‘I shall be here,’ I told him. I went back into my room, lay on the bed and thought about getting married. Would she be thin or fat; fair or dark? My success rate at pulling attractive women was not good. I remembered going out one night, when I was still in the army. We were on a Mountain Warfare Course in the Austrian Alps, which turned out to be a skiing holiday paid for by the grateful taxpayer.
A few of us decided to have a ‘grimmie’ competition at the local dance hall, to see who could pull the grimmest-looking girl. I won. I don’t remember the prize. I do remember how horribly ashamed of myself I felt, as I left the dance hall with a very sweet girl who was, I had to admit, very far from good-looking. The bet didn’t require you to sleep with the girl, only to leave the dance hall arm in arm with your partner, and I did that. Outside it was snowing. I turned and looked at my temporary friend, and removed her spectacles and gave her the tenderest kiss I could manage. Then I left her, looking confused but happy, with some mumbled apology and a promise to meet again that
I knew I would not keep.
I wondered whether I would draw a ‘grimmie’ this time. It was quite possible. It didn’t matter, in any case. Once we were married I presumed I would never see my new wife again, which was fine by me: I didn’t think I was quite ready to settle down and I did not share Mr Khan’s faith in arranged marriages. Then again, I had little faith in my own ability to decide which girl to spend the rest of my life with. These days, getting any girl to spend more than a few hours in my company seemed beyond me. I always managed to do something disastrous whenever I met anyone I thought I might like.
There was a gentle knock on the door and David came in.
‘If you will follow me, sir, Mr Khan has offered the use of his study for the paperwork.’
I followed David downstairs to the hall. This time we turned right, instead of left. David took a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked a door that opened into a small library. There was a mahogany table in the middle of the room on which a few documents had been set out. Two chairs had been pulled up. In the corner of the room was a desk with a flat-screen monitor on it, and a stand-by light glowing on the hard drive underneath.
The room looked like everywhere else in the house: the books were sets of leather-bound volumes bought, it seemed, more for their array of colour than their content. There were no personal touches in the room: no photograph frames, or papers lying about. Mr Khan was either very tidy, or else he rarely came here. We sat at the table, and David picked up a document, which turned out to be my passport. I looked at him.
‘We found a door key in your evening jacket, and we took your address from the driving licence in your wallet. Amir, a colleague of ours, has been to your flat to obtain documents which will give us proof that you are a UK citizen, and proof of residence.’
I raised my eyebrows. I did not like the idea that these people had been rummaging through my personal things. It gave me a creepy feeling. That was why Mr Khan had asked me whether I had been in the army. They must have seen something in the flat: perhaps the photograph of me at Sandhurst. It was quick work, and resourceful of them. We sat and filled in a couple of forms. I noticed the name of my intended had not yet been filled in.
