Far From My Father's House

by Jill McGivering

  A group of men, five, six, came running out from the trees and surrounded the first car. They wore flapping black cotton, their faces wrapped round with scarves which showed only their eyes. Thin arcs of water sprayed from their bodies as they moved. They beat on the windows with the butts of their guns and wrenched open the passenger doors.

  The bodyguard was pulled out sideways from the front seat. He was a large man, and he fell heavily, arms flailing, legs tangled under him. As he tried to get up, one of the men cracked him across the back of the head with the wooden butt of his gun. He was forced onto his knees, his head bowed. His hands were pulled behind his back and tied. He was struck a second time. Felled like a tree, he lay motionless on the road.

  In Ellen’s car, the press advisor started tugging at the door handle, struggling to get out. He was staring ahead with wide eyes, too terrified to remember that he’d locked the door. The handle repeated a dull metallic click, click, as he pulled at it uselessly.

  ‘Keep still.’ Ellen leant forwards, speaking calmly to steady him. ‘There’s nothing we can do. If you get out, they’ll shoot you.’

  John, next to her in the back, had tucked himself sideways into a ball. He was crouching low behind the front seat, his hands over his head, trying to make himself invisible.

  One of the gunmen ran over to them, shouting and waving his weapon. The press advisor’s shoulders shook.

  ‘Calm,’ she said. ‘Stay calm. We’ll be OK. Keep your hands visible. Show him we’re not armed.’

  The gunman came to the driver’s side of the car, close to Ellen. His face was hard. Ellen rolled down her window so he could see inside. Rain blew in at once, sprinkling the plastic seats, soaking her arms, legs. He pointed his gun at her. His eyes were jittery, running back and forth between them, primed for any sudden movement.

  Ahead, the rain swept over everything. A stout figure in a white suit was being dragged from the back seat. He lifted his hands, remonstrating. The men snatched at his arms and twisted them behind his back.

  Khan was unprotected in the rain. Rivulets coursed down his neck and splashed out across the shoulders of the white suit, staining it with dark, irregular streaks. He twisted back to the men and said something. His words were washed away. His face contorted with fear. One of the men slapped him across the face. Khan stood, shocked, for a moment, then his chin sank to his chest.

  A pickup truck roared up onto the road from a hiding place beyond the trees. It paused, engine running. Khan was pulled towards it, a man grasping each arm and tugging him forwards. His steps were stumbling. His posture was that of an older, poorer man, bent and defeated.

  When they reached the open back of the truck, he hesitated. One of the fighters prodded him in the back with his gun. Khan reached clumsily for the metal sides, grasping the rails. His foot found a metal stirrup. He tried to heave himself up. When he was almost level with the top, his arms seemed to lose strength and he hung there for a moment, a rounded figure in a hand-stitched suit, stranded. The men shoved him from behind, sending him sprawling.

  The crack of a gunshot. From his crouch in the footwell, John swore. It was fired over their heads, a warning not to follow. The truck started to move and the men were running to it now, grabbing its metal bars and pulling themselves up into the back as it gathered speed.

  Ellen’s final sight of Khan was of him sitting with his shoulders hunched, his eyes wide with terror as he was driven away into the rain.

  Chapter 30

  Ellen sat in the suite which had been booked for Khan at The Swan. It was now several hours since the kidnapping but Khan’s press advisor was still in shock. He sat on the edge of an armchair, his head in his hands, rocking himself rhythmically to and fro. His shoulders shook. He refused to let Ellen get him anything to eat or drink. When she spoke to him, he didn’t answer her directly, just mumbled into the carpet.

  ‘I told him,’ he kept saying. ‘He wouldn’t listen.’

  Outside in the corridor, John was pacing up and down, on the phone to his foreign desk at The News in London. He was shouting so loudly, she could hear every word.

  ‘Kidnapping. For cash,’ he said. ‘Guaranteed.’ A pause. He gave a sarcastic laugh. ‘I don’t give a damn what Jeremy wants. I am not writing a bloody obit. Waste of my time.’ Another pause. ‘I’m telling you, they’re not going to top him. He’s worth too much.’

  A moment later, he came crashing into the suite, banging the door against the wall. ‘Bloody London.’ He pushed past the armchairs, crossed to the suite’s minibar and rifled through the snacks. ‘Bloody idiots.’ He opened a packet of almonds and stuffed a handful in his mouth. ‘Stale.’ He pulled a face at Ellen. ‘Sodding Third World. Want one?’

  He plonked himself down on the sofa opposite Ellen and rolled his eyes. ‘Those guys wouldn’t know news if it grabbed them by the balls. Fresh out of college.’ He took another handful of nuts. ‘Cracking story. “Our man’s brush with Taliban shocker.”’ He was laughing now, brimming with self-importance. ‘And all they want is to cover their arses with an obit. I told them straight. They’d never kill him.’

  He shook his head. Beside him, the press advisor trembled and let out a long sigh. Ellen didn’t speak. She looked down into the deep pile carpet. She felt sick. I’m responsible for this, she thought. Saeed delivered the fake pills and repeated what I said and Bul Gourn believed me. This is his response.

  She lifted her eyes. The door to the adjoining bedroom was ajar. Khan’s green leather bags were standing at the foot of the king-sized bed. She shook her head. I wanted to save Frank, to show them they were wrong. I didn’t think they’d take Khan.

  The hotel phone rang. The press advisor just stared at it, his face bewildered.

  ‘Do you want me to . . . ?’ Ellen picked up the receiver. Frank. His voice had the studied calm of terrible news.

  ‘Think you guys better come,’ he said. ‘I’m just outside the hotel.’

  John, his eyes suspicious, was craning closer, trying to hear. ‘How much?’ he said. ‘How much do they want?’

  She and John went down together. Frank led them out of the main entrance and along the sweeping drive to the road. The downpour had ended and the tarmac was steaming in the heat.

  At the gates, the security guards were sitting together on the damp kerb, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and talking in low voices. They fell silent when they saw the Westerners and dropped their eyes.

  Two police cars were parked ahead in the road. Beyond them, a group of policemen had gathered round something in the ditch. One of the officers looked up as they approached and stepped forwards to meet them. He was a tall man with an imposing handlebar moustache. He put out a hand to stop them. John pushed past.

  ‘Please, madam.’ The officer wagged his head and his moustaches shivered. ‘No sight for a lady.’

  She followed just the same. Khan’s body was on its side. The head, roughly hewn from the neck, had been placed at the feet. There was little blood. He had been beheaded somewhere else and then dumped here. The head was face down in the watery undergrowth. The neatly cut hair at the back of the crown was matted.

  The torso was already stiffening. The gaping flesh of the neck was black with ants. Khan’s arms had been wrenched back from the shoulders and his hands tied behind his back with rope.

  John stretched out a foot and touched Khan’s leg with the toe of his boot as if he couldn’t quite believe he were dead. He turned away, flipped out his phone and started to walk back to the hotel, dialling his colleagues in London.

  There was a rasp as one of the policemen struck a match and lit a cigarette. A cloud of smoke puffed through the air. Frank backed away from the ditch and turned to talk to the officers. It was so nearly you, she thought. Thank God it wasn’t.

  Ellen crouched low and sat on her haunches by the body. The ditch gave off a heady smell of damp plants and earth, cut with something rancid. She ran her eyes down the torso. One bound hand was nestled neatly in th
e other. The fingers were curled round, showing nails which were pink and neatly trimmed. The tips were plump and smooth.

  In the afternoon, Ellen finished her piece on Khan’s death and sent it to Phil and the news editor in London. She ought to pack next and she wanted to eat. Instead she turned to Layla who was perched on the edge of her bed, eyes bright as she clicked her way through the television channels.

  ‘Ready?’

  Layla nodded. The oversized salwar kameez flapped round her wrists and ankles as she got to her feet and picked up another bag of treats for Marva. Already, Ellen thought, she’s moving more easily.

  As the taxi drove them down to the camp, Ellen leant towards her and lowered her voice. ‘Can I tell you a secret, Layla?’

  The girl studied her with cautious interest.

  ‘You won’t tell anyone? It’s important.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Someone saved my life in that fire. You know who it was?’ Ellen paused. ‘It was your friend, Saeed.’

  Layla started. The idea passed through her like a jolt of electricity, widened her eyes.

  ‘The fire had taken hold,’ Ellen went on. ‘I was foolish. I ran back into it to get something. I must have passed out. Saeed came in after me and carried me to safety.’

  Layla looked down at her lap and the plump bag of food.

  ‘He has a good heart, Layla. He’s not like the other fighters.’

  She waited to see if Layla would reply. She stayed silent, her eyes averted.

  ‘You know why the fighters let us go?’ Ellen said. ‘That was Saeed too. He gave them all his money. And he begged them. He took a big risk. For you.’

  Layla tightened her hands round the neck of the bag. Her cheeks flushed red.

  ‘I don’t know what will happen,’ Ellen said. ‘But I think, when he can, he will come and find you again. Inshallah.’ She paused. ‘Maybe, if he does, you should give him another chance.’

  Layla’s shoulders were tense as they drove on. The plastic bag crackled in her fingers.

  The camp looked bedraggled after the storm. Fragments of leaf and stick clung to the white canvas of the tents and swirled in the ditches. Everywhere people were busy cleaning up, poking plastic roofs with sticks to make the pools of water run off and hanging out bedding to dry.

  Britta was in the women’s medical tent, giving an injection to an elderly woman. ‘Ellen!’ Britta raised her hand in an effusive greeting. ‘One minute!’ The old lady frowned and pulled the blanket more tightly round her exposed flesh.

  Layla left Ellen’s side and ran down to Marva. She dropped the bag of snacks in her lap. They grasped each other’s hands and started to chatter. Layla picked up a brush and tugged at the tangles in Marva’s hair as they whispered together.

  Britta finished the injection and came dashing across. Her face was animated and flushed. ‘Have you heard?’ She beckoned to Ellen to follow her. ‘Come. Come with me. Quickly.’

  They walked the length of the ward to Britta’s office. It looked bigger now the boxes of supplies had gone. She pulled out two chairs and they sat down.

  ‘So.’ She flourished both hands in the air. ‘You will never know what has happened.’

  Ellen smiled. ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘You will be very surprised.’ Britta could hardly contain herself. ‘Just an hour ago, I had a telephone call from my boss in Copenhagen. Guess what he said?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A million dollars.’ She clapped her hands, her eyes gleaming. ‘Anonymous donation. To us!’

  ‘A million dollars?’

  ‘And all for spending here, in Pakistan. All of it.’ Britta was jiggling about on her chair. ‘A million. So much money for a small charity like us. You have no idea.’

  Ellen looked down at their feet. Britta was wearing brown lace-ups. They looked sturdy but hot. ‘That’s amazing.’

  ‘I can buy more medicines. New equipment. I can hire a new nurse, another assistant. For two, three years, maybe.’ She clasped her hands together. ‘My prayers are answered. Thanks be to God.’

  The brown shoes were tapping now as if Britta were itching to dance.

  ‘That’s fantastic. I’m so pleased.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Britta’s voice was light with laughter. ‘Whoever sent the money, I will pray for him. Every night.’

  ‘You should, Britta. Pray for his soul.’

  They sat together and drank tea. There were three more cases of typhoid, Britta said, but all had been caught early. With new equipment, new nurses, new supplies of medicine from Europe, there was the chance of a fresh start now. Her voice buzzed with energy.

  Ellen reached into her pocket. She set on the table between them the final few packets of fake antibiotics, salvaged from the fire. The cardboard was battered, the holograms dark and dull.

  ‘I was going to have these analyzed,’ she said, ‘to confirm exactly what was in them.’ She thought of Khan’s body in the ditch. It was a little late to gather evidence against him now. ‘Destroy them, would you?’

  Britta looked at them sadly. ‘I will.’

  ‘And about Layla . . .’

  Britta nodded. ‘Her back is healing well. You mustn’t worry.’

  ‘She needs to find a way to support herself.’ Ellen looked round the office at the papers strewn across the table, the stubby filing cabinet, spilling cardboard files, a messy tray of receipts. ‘She’s determined. I think she’d work hard.’ She hesitated. ‘But she’s very young.’

  Britta shrugged. ‘Many girls here are married at her age. Mothers, even.’

  There was a pause. Ellen let the silence lengthen, giving Britta time to think.

  Britta tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. ‘You think maybe she can work here?’

  ‘Could you use her?’

  ‘Would she do dirty jobs, like washing patients and cleaning up?’

  ‘I think she’d do anything.’

  Britta was thinking. ‘She’s very good with her sister. I could give her training.’

  Ellen nodded. Britta has good contacts in Peshawar, she thought. If Layla has an income, even a small one, she and Marva could rent a room with a family. Life will be difficult but not impossible. ‘She’ll have to grow up quickly,’ she said.

  ‘That is the life. Especially here.’ Britta sighed. ‘But she has a good heart.’ Her hand reached for the cross at her throat. ‘Maybe this is for the best.’ She smiled. ‘Maybe this money was sent as a blessing for us both.’

  They got to their feet and walked back through the ward. Layla had thrown off Marva’s sheet and was massaging her thin legs. Marva was blowing into the bunched top of an empty snack packet, making it swell.

  As Britta said goodbye to Ellen, she whispered: ‘Don’t worry about them. They’ll be fine.’

  The sun was falling rapidly, painting the camp with broad yellow strokes. Everywhere, wet surfaces gleamed and shone. A dog trotted past, jaunty, its ears and tail erect. It snuffled at the edge of a puddle, lapped dirty water, then straightened up and jogged on.

  Ellen walked towards the administration building. Two men were in the doorway, dragging rakes with jittery strokes across the brick floor, drawing together piles of charred, sodden cardboard. A third man was on the step, shovelling the debris into sacks. Fine ash swirled in the air, floating and twisting. She stood for a moment, lulled by the rhythm of their movements, and said a silent thank you to Saeed.

  ‘Hey.’

  She looked round. Frank was coming towards her. He walked stiffly. His face was splashed with a new palette of colour. The red and black around his broken cheekbone was starting to meld into yellow and purple. His eyes were still badly swollen.

  She smiled. ‘How are you, handsome?’

  He managed a wink. ‘Never better.’

  They turned away from the wreckage of the fire and fell into step, picking their way along the path between the tents, heading deeper into the camp. Voices rose from the open tents as they
passed. A woman scolding. A whining child. The path narrowed. Ahead water splashed and they heard the reedy voices of young girls, singing in Pashto.

  They emerged into a cleared patch of ground with several tube wells. Three young girls knelt together over pails, their arms plunged deep in soapy water, pummelling clothes. The older two looked up and stopped singing at once. Ellen smiled at them. They glanced at each other, uncertain.

  The younger girl, only six or seven years old, carried on singing. Her thin voice fell in and out of tune as she grasped at the notes. Her headscarf was crooked round her ears. Suds frothed and overflowed as she worked, splashing and running in narrow rivulets round her bare feet.

  ‘I never said thank you.’ Frank looked at the washing, not at her. ‘For the other night.’

  She cut him off, embarrassed. ‘No need.’

  The youngest girl wavered, stopped singing and lifted her head. She tried to nudge a stray hair from her face with the top of her arm, her hands full of wet clothes.

  ‘So you’re heading back?’ Frank started walking again, drawing her away from the girls. She turned to take a final look. The youngest girl was wringing out a long dark rope of cotton. She draped it round her shoulders. The drips fell forwards, splattering her kameez.

  ‘Islamabad tonight,’ she said. ‘A flight out tomorrow.’

  ‘Glad you came?’

  ‘Very. And what are your plans?’

  He shook his head. ‘The systems are up and running. A few more days and I’m gone.’

  ‘Where to?’

  He shrugged. ‘Back to Washington. After that, who knows. Wherever they need me.’

  Two young boys, giving chase, hurtled down the path towards them. Frank took her arm and drew her to one side to let the children through. His hand was warm. He was standing so close, she could feel his breath.