by Farah Cook
‘Of course I am.’ She makes a hissing sound. ‘Why would I otherwise be coming here at night? Afrah, you saw me take them off so I could nurse baby Naima. Didn’t you?’
I nod, fold my hands tight behind my back.
‘Well?’ Her voice is shrill. ‘Where are they?’ She fixes her eyes at me for longer than necessary and it makes me jittery.
Suddenly I feel like a servant accused of stealing from the lady of the house. Except this is my home and I have not stolen anything. Why is she accusing me? Sultana searches the entire room herself. She squats, bends and rushes around. Her hand reaches the bottom drawer where my clothes are neatly folded. She pounds each item and throws it onto the floor. Nadeem’s hand reaches for her shoulder, but he pulls it back when he too hears the clinking sound of jewellery. Eyes rolling wildly, she clatters six gold bracelets between her fingers.
‘If you haven’t seen my bangles, then what are they doing in your drawer?’ She holds them up to show me. I want to say something, but the words don’t come out.
Nadeem stares at me disbelievingly. ‘Afrah?’ He wants an explanation.
The realisation of what she is doing shakes through me like a tremor. I’m shocked. Why would she deliberately do such a vicious thing, tampering with my mind?
Sultana stands up, her hand high as if about to strike me. She lowers it and hisses, ‘Liar. Thief.’ Then leaves without saying goodbye.
My insides are twisting. Nadeem reaches out and pinches my arms, twisting the flesh between his fingers. ‘Did you take Sultana’s bangles?’
I shake my head. He releases the pressure, his face red with shame, and walks out the bedroom, thundering down the stairs. I can hear them talking. The engine starts. Doors slam. Nadeem doesn’t come up.
I lay in bed and pull the duvet over my head stifling my sobs. The bracelets Sultana took are mine. They belong to me. The six gold bracelets my parents gave me on my wedding day. She’s taken them. Taken them because she’s wrongfully accused me of having stolen hers. I will not let her bring shame onto me. I will clarify matters. I will get my bracelets back, even if it means breaking all ties with the Pashtuns.
In the morning, I show Nadeem our wedding pictures.
‘Look,’ I point at my wrists.
He notices I wear the exact six bracelets Sultana stole last night. But he doesn’t seem to care. His spirit is down when I tell him what happened. Men don’t like to get involved in matters between women.
Nadeem doesn’t eat his breakfast. He tells me to stay at home till he returns.
‘Make sure she gives back my bracelets.’ I shove the picture into his palm.
His head hangs, shoulders slumped. He knows and I know this changes the relationship we have to his friends. They will start spreading lies. Let them say what they like. I know I am no thief. My heart races when Nadeem leaves the house. I stroke my tummy. Soon we will have a family of our own, and no child of mine will ever have anything to do with that Pashtun family. That, I swear by.
Chapter 31
AMIRA
Sunday, 22 December 2019
I’m at the Caledonian Canal, standing on the Bridge of Oich. It’s an unusually misty morning, and the fog has covered the water. No one is in sight. I check my phone. There’s an email in my inbox sent late last night from Ravenswood Lodge, confirming I can visit Mum today between nine and eleven o’clock this morning. I am also welcome to bring Shafi along. In a note below it says: ‘We encourage you to make the visiting time and avoid cancelling as most patients anticipating a visit from relatives and friends may become distressed and highly agitated.’ Mum is expecting to see me. I have to make it. I’ll listen to what Meena has to say, pick up Shafi and drive straight to the care home.
A jogger, dressed all in black, runs briskly towards me. Plumes of cold breath escape his mouth. He wears a hood that covers most of his face. I hold onto the rail as the jogger passes by. I pull out my phone and text Meena: ‘I’m here! No answer. I wait before calling her. I tuck my hands in my pockets, my shoulders raised to my ears. The cold is getting to my bones. Where is she? I am sure she will be here soon. She is probably running late. Meena is not the type of woman who’s going to stand me up. I tell myself, she is a friend, a good friend.
I walk back and forth, rock on my heels. It’s eight-thirty. I think I see somebody coming through the fog. I rub my eyes – is that someone’s shadow? I’m starting to feel nervous. I hear the slow clacking of heels. It’s a woman, or perhaps it’s a man? I think I see a sharp red colour. Is that somebody’s coat? Could it be Meena? I don’t have a clue what she looks like, and it’s probably different to how I’ve pictured her. The figure has quickened their pace towards me, seemingly carrying an air of stress. The fog is getting thick now. I think I see a woman passing me in a hurry, her head turned to the side. I can’t see her face properly. I can’t see anything in the fog. The clacking stops and I feel my heart race inside my chest.
I must be imagining things again. Nobody is here, just me. I widen my eyes and still believe somebody could be at the other end of the bridge. ‘Meena? Is that you?’
I hear the sound of heels clacking aggressively now. But there’s nothing, I can see very little through the fog.
‘Is anyone there?’ No answer.
I hear something that sounds like sniffles and imagine them belonging to a desperate woman.
‘Are you OK? Can I help you?’ No reply. I hear a scraping sound. Like nails as if scratching the rail of the bridge. I walk back, stumble and run.
A ripple breaks the silence. A splash, a loud burble in the water. Then it’s silent again. I turn. The fog suddenly seems thicker. I don’t believe anyone is there, but I need to be sure. ‘Hello? Is anybody there? Hello?’ No answer. I must have imagined the whole thing. Another figment of my imagination just like the spiders in my bed. That’s what lack of sleep does to the mind, it plays tricks.
Trying to control my cold hands from shaking, I dial the number Meena gave me and after countless rings, there’s still no answer. I decide to wait. She sounded so worried about the family she is living with. I hope nothing has happened to her. Oh God! I stop my thoughts from spiralling out of control. I ring her number again. I have a bad feeling about this. What should I do? I can’t even contact the police. What will I say? Still no answer. I decide to leave a message.
‘Meena, hi, it’s Amira. Are you there? Pick up. I am here at the bridge and I was wondering if you were OK? Please call me back.’ I sound worried. I am worried.
It’s almost nine o’clock. I should go, get out of here. I walk off and a message appears on my phone. It’s from Meena. ‘Sorry couldn’t answer. Wait for me. Don’t go. Will be there shortly.’ I text her saying I have to leave, but she begs me to wait, and I root my feet to the ground.
I fidget and keep staring at my watch. A message pings from Meena. ‘Hey love, I’m here. Can’t see you anywhere. Where are you?’
I look around. The fog has surrounded me. But I am sure no one is here.
‘I’m on the bridge,’ I crane my neck all around me, feeling the muscles twist.
‘So am I, Amira. Why don’t I see you?’
I type as fast as I can. ‘Meena, what bridge are you at?’
‘I’m waiting at Fort Augustus,’ she replies. ‘Where are you?’
‘Stay there,’ I type. ‘I’m at Oich. I am coming over.’
It was late at night when we spoke. I don’t remember what she said about where to meet her and assumed it was Oich. Fort Augustus is only a short drive away. I rush back and get into my car and drive as fast as I can towards it.
The fog is blinding me, I’m not even sure where I am going. I see headlights beaming from the opposite side of the lane. The mist feels like a thick smoke. I slow down, squint. I hope I am driving in the right direction. I continue at a slower pace, following the straight road. My phone is vibrating, so I reach inside my bag to pull it out. Suddenly I have to take a sharp turn and swing into what I believe
is the parking area. I stare at the screen, it’s an incoming call from Meena. I look ahead, when a jeep out of nowhere hurtles right towards me. A crash reverberates in my ears. My head hits the airbag, bounces back. I taste blood inside my mouth. It smears the frames of my car. Everything turns black.
The light behind my eyelids is sharp. A sheet is pulled over my body, the smell clinical, sterile. I know I am in a hospital. I wiggle my fingers and wince in pain. My bones feel like they’re rattling. I open my eyes, panic and confusion spreads through me. I hear the sounds of hospital machines – that’s when I remember I had an accident. A car drove into mine. I try to get up, but a familiar voice is telling me not to. His hands press a plastic cup close to my lips. I swallow the cold water and it softens my cracked lips.
‘How do you feel, Mira?’ Haroon’s deep brown eyes rest on me. I know by the look of it that he’s going to give me some sort of lecture. I nod to signal I am OK. A lump on my head is pounding, pain swelling through my body.
‘That was quite a nasty accident you had. Luckily nothing happened. The driver you crashed with drove off. Not to be found anywhere. And no one saw anything due to the heavy fog. The police came around when you were asleep. I gave them your details. They have questions. Do you remember what happened? What were you doing out on Caledonian Canal? I thought you were picking up Shaf? He was looking forward to visit his Nano. We called and called. Fortunately, we were able to trace you through the location of your phone. Mira, please answer. What happened? Why were you out there? Should I be worried?’
Fuck! ‘I am so sorry,’ my raspy voice cuts in my ears. ‘I was meeting a friend.’
‘On a Sunday morning?’ Haroon crosses his arms over his chest. ‘Look, Shaf is worried and missed his cricket match this afternoon when he heard what had happened. The trainer was pissed. Didn’t believe we had another family emergency. They seem frequent now.’
‘Haroon, please.’ I don’t look up. Heat washes over my face, and I let it. Why is he so angry anyway? It’s not like we’re married anymore.
Haroon is about to leave the room.
‘Wait,’ I say. He stops, doesn’t turn around. ‘I have to go, can you sign the release papers?’
He draws in a deep breath. ‘Are you sure? I can take a look at your bruise and examine you myself. I want to make sure you’re OK, Mira.’
‘Really, I feel fine.’
He stares at me incredulously. ‘Mira, you got lucky, a little bump on the head and no major injuries. But I’d really feel better if I could take a look at you.’
‘No need for it, can I go now?’ He knows I don’t like hospitals. ‘I’ll make it up—’
‘Fine,’ He rolls his eyes. ‘I’ll sign the release papers so you can go home after you speak to the police.’
‘What happened to my car?’
‘It was sent to the garage. Will you be OK ordering a taxi?’
‘Yes.’ My throat is dry. ‘Thank you.’
Someone is at the front door. Two police officers, one tall and one short. They introduce themselves. But I don’t register their names. I still feel I am in a daze, still standing on the bridge surrounded by the heavy mist. They ask if they can have a moment with me. I nod and show them inside the living room.
Mano meows and curls his tail around my leg. I place him in Mum’s armchair and notice the men are already sitting at the dining table, examining every corner and every nook of the house.
‘Miss Malik, can you give us a description of what happened this morning? What were you doing on Caledonian Canal?’ the short one asks.
‘I was meeting a friend. She needed to see me. I think she was in trouble.’ I take a seat across from them. I hope Meena is okay. I’ve still not heard a word from her.
The tall one takes note. ‘What kind of trouble was this friend of yours in?’
‘She didn’t say.’ Heat is building in my cheeks. ‘Is everything OK?’
The short one asks for details so they can run my story. I give them Meena’s number and tell them how I met her. I open my laptop, ready to show them the log of conversation we had in the chat forum for carers. But as I log in, a message says the user Thelonelymouse does not exist and though our conversations are still on there, I can’t send any more message. I tell them that the account existed until just this morning. My friend Diya can testify I chatted with Thelonelymouse yesterday.
‘What’s her full name?’
‘Meena, Meena Bashir, I think.’
The short one nods and I notice the suspicion in his cold blue eyes. The tall one is calling someone. He glares at me, unsmiling, when I try to show him the messages we exchanged this morning. He doesn’t appear interested.
‘You don’t think meeting a complete stranger – who you’ve never met before – who you know only from an online chat forum for carers was dangerous?’ says the short one. ‘This person could be anybody. Were you not afraid going out there alone?’ His voice is full of tension, and I avoid looking at him.
Feeling judged, I shake my head. ‘We started chatting online – it’s been about a year, I believe. It was harmless. She was a carer like me, and she supported me in my time of need. When she wrote to me last night she genuinely seemed worried and frightened about living with the new family she was working for.’
‘Did she say what family? Did she leave an address or anything we can check?’
‘No, nothing. It all happened so fast. We only chatted occasionally. I wasn’t expecting to ever meet her. In the end I agreed because she sounded desperate. I didn’t know what else to do. I just wanted to help. Wanted to be a good friend.’
‘Burner phone,’ says the tall one. ‘Can’t trace it. Seems like it was ditched after use.’
Something has happened to Meena. She must have been afraid and deleted her online account. Why else hasn’t contacted me again? No incoming messages or calls. It’s not like her. Meena wouldn’t leave me worried.
Now he glares closely at my exchange with Meena. ‘Where did you say, you were meeting her?’ He holds my phone, scrolling through my messages.
‘There was a misunderstanding about what bridge we were meeting at.’
‘Let me get the facts right. You drove out to Caledonian Canal this morning to meet your friend whom you met in an online chat for carers?’ I nod. ‘Can you state the exact location on Caledonian Canal where you met her?’
‘That’s the thing, I didn’t. I waited for her at Bridge of Oich. She never turned up. She was waiting for me at Fort Augustus.’
They look at one another, brows arched.
‘Is something wrong?’ I ask. ‘Is Meena OK?
‘How long were you at Bridge of Oich?’
‘About an hour, I believe. I’m not sure.’
‘And then you headed to Fort Augustus, which is where you had an accident?’
‘Yes, like I said, I was waiting for her at the wrong location.’
‘Why did it take you so long before you realised you were at the wrong meeting point? Wouldn’t you have agreed in advance on the exact place?’
‘Like I said. It all happened so fast. There was a misunderstanding. I couldn’t get hold of Meena and decided to wait at the Bridge of Oich in case she was running late. I called and left her a message. I drove off when she told me she was at Fort Augustus. But before I could get there, a car out of nowhere crashed into mine.’
‘Did you get a look at the driver?’
I shake my head. ‘It was unusually foggy this morning.’ He asks if I am sure. ‘Yes, I couldn’t see anything.’
‘Do you remember what sort of car drove into you?’
‘I think it was a black jeep, but I am not sure.’ They exchange worried glances. ‘What is this really about?’ I sense something else is going on. ‘Please, I need to know. Is it Meena? Has something happened to her?’ I think of the incident on the bridge, the shadow, the strange sounds of heels clacking. Did I see somebody? No. It wasn’t real. It was just another figment of my imagination.
A crazy fabrication of my tired mind.
‘Are you planning to leave the country anytime soon?’
‘What? No. My family is here. My mum, my son and my husband.’
‘Ex-husband, correct?’ The tall one says. I nod and look out the window. The moon appears through the broken clouds. Its waxing yellow shade casts a pale light on the pavement. ‘You were married how many years?’
I tell them, though they already know I was married to Dr Haroon Khan for nearly twelve years. They’ve obviously come prepared and done a full background check on me. I look at the short one who seems ready to shoot another question across.
‘Miss Malik, why are you selling your home?’
‘I’m down-sizing.’
‘Will you move away from Inverness?’
‘No, I have no reason to. I’ve lived here my entire life – I was born here.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘What are you suggesting? I think I know where I was born.’
‘Our records show you were born in Glasgow at the Royal Infirmary.’
‘No, you must be mistaking me for someone else.’ I try to stand up, but gravity pulls me down. ‘I’ve never even been to Glasgow. Never had any reason to.’
‘You are the child of Afrah and Nadeem Malik?’ I nod. ‘Our records show you were born in Glasgow.’ The tall police officer scribbles something down in his notepad.
‘What’s where I was born got to do with anything, anyway?’ I shake my head.
‘It’s procedure, Miss Malik,’ the short one says. ‘Is it correct your mother was recently placed into care by the council because you were unable to look after her? Because there was a fire inside your home?’
‘Nothing happened. She lost control in the kitchen.’
‘And where were you when she lost control in the kitchen?’
‘Look, I’ve already gave my statement to the police about what happened that day. I was in bed, I wasn’t feeling well. I was down with a cold.’
‘So while you were ill and in bed, your house nearly burned down.’
