The Outcast Hours

by Mahvesh Murad

  “Oh, fuck it,” he said, and shot Bogdan in the face.

  A storm of bullets started up as Bogdan fell; but Max’s foot was already on the accelerator and he drove away, expecting to be blown up at every moment, bullets pinging into the chassis and the doors and he wondered what suicide bombers prayed for, the moment before they blew up.

  But he got away and the gunfire receded behind him. One wheel was out, but he didn’t care. He manoeuvred the car away from Bogdan’s Bauhaus building, away from the gunshots, all the dead men and the dead or dying Bogdan, who, even if he lived, would never smile again, if he ever did.

  He ditched the car three blocks away, knowing they would come after him but he had the case, that was the important thing. He went into the night and the night’s velvety darkness sang to him with the cry of the dead and the wail of police sirens.

  7

  “Did you have any problems?” Benny said.

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  It was the next day and he was at the Market Porter, an old Persian restaurant Benny favoured as his informal office. Faded pictures on the walls of television actors famous three decades in the past. The smell of greasy lamb cooking on a spit.

  He’d gone to see an old friend from the army who cut him out of the bomb vest and seemed happy to accept the explosives in lieu of payment. They would go on the open market and—who knew?—perhaps end up strapped to a genuine suicide bomber. There was always a market for explosives.

  Max didn’t care. He’d taken a room in a boarding house for the night and slept deeply and well and then went to see Benny in the morning.

  “You’re late,” Benny said.

  Max put the briefcase on the table. “I’m here, aren’t I?” he said.

  Benny pushed aside the newspaper he’d been reading. Dominating the front page was a picture of dead men in front of a Bauhaus building shaped like a ship and, at the bottom, a news item about the shocking torture meted out to a group of young thugs, three of whom were dead and one still in intensive care.

  “I suppose you are,” Benny said. He took out a thick envelope and tossed it to Max, who caught it one handed.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Benny stood up to go, picking up the briefcase. “I might as well pull you off light duty,” he said. “Seeing as you can’t seem to keep away from trouble either way.”

  Max smiled. As Benny went to leave he said, “What’s in the case?”

  Benny turned by the restaurant door and looked back at him. “Does it matter?” he said.

  Max thought about it. Sunlight rippled through the windows into the gloom of the restaurant.

  “No,” he said. “I suppose not.”

  Gatsby

  Maha Khan Phillips

  The music was loud, so loud that she felt the road vibrating underneath her when she got out of the car. They were playing something with a heavy base, something completely incongruous, considering the theme of the party. She shouted into Ahmed’s ear. “Does your friend not realise there was no Hip Hop in Gatsby’s time?”

  Her brother pushed her away with practised ease. “Stop being a snob, Ra. It’s New Years’ Eve. Try and have some fun, for once.”

  She let him take the lead, weaving his way through the piles of Toyota Corollas and Pajeros that were parked haphazardly all the way down the badly lit street, towards the deceptively small white gate behind which the music was blaring. “I’m just saying, what’s the point of inviting everyone to a Great Gatsby themed party and then having music like this?”

  Ahmed stopped and looked at her, and rolled his eyes. “Did you really think three hundred Karachiites want to hang around and listen to jazz? Stop being such a loser, yaar. The point is Prohibition. It’s ironic. Do you know how hard it was for Saqib to get a hold of enough Black Label for tonight? Every bootlegger was out. He had to pay double to that dodgy Korean diplomat who sells his rations.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you want me to drive you home?”

  “No,” she said, reluctantly. Yes. That was exactly what she wanted him to do.

  The narrow entrance to Saqib’s house was jam packed with revellers. From the corner of her eye, she could see Anita Thanawalla, already having trouble walking. Her navy blue flapper dress was all glitz and sequins, and she was wearing killer stilettos. Her headband was askew, the feather pointing to the left, instead of straight up.

  Anita’s eyes lit up. “Ra! Darling! We haven’t seen you in like forever! Not since Batul…” She flushed. “Well. How are you? I’m so glad you’re finally going out again. You’ve become the opposite of a vampire. Only seen in daylight.”

  “Ahmed dragged me.”

  Anita looked sympathetic, but was swaying slightly. “I know it’s been tough. She’s my friend too, Ra. But life has to go on. Come on, let’s drink voddy the way we all used to in the good old days, before we could afford wine. We’ll dance our worries away just like the woman in The Great Gatsby did. What a good movie that was. I wonder who thought of it.”

  Ra felt Anita’s arms around her and didn’t protest, allowing herself to be pushed forward into the human tide, though in the end, it was her pushing Anita in an attempt to keep her upright. Anita never knew when to stop.

  They found themselves in a large front garden, standing under a white marquee lit with hundreds of elegant fairy lights. Its canvas sides were painted with art deco motifs, and there were vases full of daisies and roses on tall round tables. Everything was white and silver, the vases, the flowers, the crystal. It was impressive, even she had to admit that. People had made an effort to dress for the occasion: flappers, gangsters, feathered boas, fringes and tiaras were in abundance. Even the bearers were dressed up in something akin to white tuxedos. This was new. Normally, it was the Sind Club types you would see at these parties, keeping their faces as bland as possible as they poured whisky paani for Club members. These white tuxedo wearing waiters—whoever they were—were carrying around trays of champagne glasses like pros, and no doubt, by the end of the winter social season, anyone who was anyone would be smartening up their staff. Ahmed hadn’t been exaggerating. Saqib really was loaded.

  “Fun na?” said Anita, glazed eyed and giggly. “Saqib had an events company flown in from Malaysia to arrange all this, can you imagine? Well, that’s what I’m told. I haven’t actually met the guy yet.” Anita winked. “I’m going to go powder my nose, do you want to come?”

  “No thanks.” She could just imagine how many people were already hovering around the bathroom, waiting to get in and do blow. Anita disappeared into the throng, and Ra looked at her brother, who was sweating under his hat, vest, and double-breasted woollen suit. “Just how do you know this guy again?”

  Ahmed took off the hat and fanned his face. “Are you going to judge him because he isn’t a member of the Club?”

  “Of course not, don’t be silly. I just… I’m surprised our paths have never crossed.”

  “Saqib is new in town Ra, I told you that. He used to live in New York. You’ll like him, I promise. He’s just set up an asset management business and he’s going to make all of us some money—he’s got some foreign investors who want to allocate to real estate in Karachi. As I’ve told you before, it’s a good time to be in the market, if you want to diversify your portfolio and take a bit of value-added risk.”

  Ra loved her brother, but Ahmed could be so pompous when he talked about his banking job. “I’m not judging, I’m just asking. How does he know so many people in Karachi already?”

  Ahmed shrugged. “He’s got booze, a never ending supply. What else do people need to know? Come on, come and meet him, and you’ll see. He’s a great guy.”

  She followed her brother once again, right into the middle of the marquee, where the crush of party-goers was at its most intense and where she was surrounded by a haze of cigarette smoke and expensive perfume. Ahmed got distracted, pulled into a conversation with an old school friend, and Ra hung around aimlessly for a mom
ent. She felt awkward. Once upon a time, she had been better at this. But that was then. In the days when Batul helped her laugh at herself and take life less seriously. Batul was the party animal, not her.

  Was?

  She needed some air. She left her brother and left the marquee altogether. She decided to walk by the side of the garden, where she might be alone to catch her breath. How had she already started thinking of Batul in the past tense?

  She passed a group of men in shalwar kameez, who were drinking tea on a charpoi. They were either drivers or guards or house staff, she imagined. Ra felt their gaze on her, and flushed. Her dress was pretty short. But it had been all she could pull together for a flapper costume. She should have just come in jeans.

  There was a small alleyway, leading, presumably, to the back garden or the staff quarters. She could still hear the music, the tinkle of laughter coming from the party. But it was darker here, and she could see the night sky, feel the sea breeze on her face. It was a welcome relief.

  “Are you lost?”

  She hadn’t noticed there was a man there, lounging against something—a water geyser—she thought. He was about her age, and had a sharp, angular face. His designer stubble was perfectly manicured. The man was smoking a cigar and was dressed in a beige suit and a green embroidered vest. His shoes had spats on them and he was even wearing a newsboy hat. Everything about him was immaculate, a perfect homage to the 1920s.

  “Are you Saqib?”

  He appraised her slowly, and then put his cigar out against the wall. “Well, that’s interesting.”

  “What?”

  “There are four hundred people here, did you know?”

  “I thought about three hundred, actually.”

  “Nope, I invited three hundred, but four hundred have turned up, my chowkidar’s been counting them on the way in. And you must know them all, if you can pin me down as the one strange face, the newcomer. You’re a tight society, aren’t you?”

  “So you are Saqib.”

  “And you are Ra.”

  “How did you…”

  He took a step towards her. “In ancient Egypt, Ra was the God of the Sun. The most powerful being of them all. All forms of life were believed to have been created by Ra, who called each of them into existence by speaking their sacred names. Ra was only truly powerful in daylight though. Nut was the goddess of the night sky, and was covered with stars that touched different parts of her body. Perhaps I should call you Nut, from now on.”

  She took a step back. “How did you know who I was?”

  He followed her, closing the space between them. Then he stopped and giggled. “Relax. I saw you with your brother earlier. I knew he had a sister named Ra, so I put two and two together.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Saqib. People around here don’t shake hands so much as air kiss on the cheeks, but I’m still getting used to all that.”

  She shook back, automatically. “Can I ask you something, Saqib?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why are you here?”

  He crossed his arms and went back to leaning against the wall. “My parents are from Karachi. I grew up abroad, but I’ve returned to set up my business. There’s a lot of potential here, you know. Fastest growing world economy, etc. But… I’m sure you know all that already, the way the gossip vine works.”

  “I mean—sorry, I mean, why are you at the back of your house in the darkness. All your guests must be keen to spend time with you.”

  He looked amused. “We both know that’s not true. They’re here because they are curious, and because they want to indulge.”

  “Then why…”

  “Why what?”

  She waved her arms around. “Why all this? What’s the point?”

  He shrugged. “It’s good for business, and an easy way to mainstream into this closed society of yours. I’m not well connected yet, but I need to be, if I’m to invest here. I know how it works. Contacts are everything. I’ll go press some flesh in a bit. And nobody is going to forget my name in a while.”

  “Money is everything,” she corrected him.

  “What?”

  “You’ll find that these days in Karachi, money is everything. You can easily buy contacts if you have money.”

  “In that case, I’ll be fine. But tell me, why are you here?”

  “Ahmed insisted I come. I’ve been a little… reclusive of late.”

  “I meant, why are you here, at the back of my house?”

  “Oh, sorry,” she flushed. “I don’t feel particularly social.”

  “Neither do I.”

  They looked at each other for a long moment. Then slowly, he offered her his hand. “Shall I give you the Grand Tour?”

  The inside of Saqib’s house was a revelation.

  “I see now why you know so much about the Egyptian Gods,” Ra exclaimed, as she walked into his drawing room. There were antiquities—beautifully displayed and lit—in cabinets against all the walls. An alabaster statue of an Egyptian pharaoh, some writings of hieroglyphics, some seals and tablets that she immediately recognised as being from the Indus Valley Civilisation. Many things she didn’t recognise—a bull with gold horns, and a face carved from stone and etched in gold leaf. There was a large, antique globe in one corner. Everything smelt of leather, of old world charm, it was almost…like some scene from a novel by Jules Verne.

  She stared at the bull with the gold horns and he came and stood beside her. “Minoan,” he said. “I’ve always loved the Minoans. But not as much as the Egyptians. They really were special.”

  She was conscious of his breath against her neck, of his hand casually placed on her shoulder. He smelt of fresh laundry and a spicy cologne.

  “So… like, are you actually Indiana Jones?”

  He laughed and moved away from her, towards an ornate bar. “I wish! I’m just someone who is passionate about antiquity. It’s a family business—Aba was a historian, before he became a buyer for the Smithsonian. We travelled all around the world when I was a child, collecting antiquities. Imagine his disappointment when I told him I was going to become a banker. Drink?”

  “No thanks,” she said.

  “Do you mind if I have one?”

  She shook her head, and watched as he busied himself at the bar. “So all these antiquities are yours?”

  “Most of them—some I pinched some from Aba over the years, and one or two I’ll sell on—Aba launched his own business a few years ago and I get involved from time to time as a middle man. The truth is, it’s far more interesting than banking. I thought about leaving all my pieces in New York—I hear there’s a crime spree happening in Karachi. But I just couldn’t be parted from them. They’re part of my psyche, you know what I mean?”

  He came over with his drink, which was pink and had a cherry and an umbrella in it. She looked up at him, amused.

  He smiled, and it crinkled his entire face, in the best kind of way. Laughter lines. He had laughter lines, everywhere. “I know, I know, no self-respecting Pakistani male drinks anything that isn’t whisky. I like cocktails, particularly cocktails that look old school. Do you want to try a Gin Rickey? It’s what Gatsby used to drink. Or I make a mean Mojito. Are you sure you won’t have something?”

  “Alright then,” she said, surprising herself. “I’ll have a vodka with lime please.”

  He looked disappointed. “You could have at least given me a challenge.” He made her drink and brought it over. “You know; a little grenadine would really make that delicious.”

  She couldn’t help but smile, even as she shook her head. “I’ll stick to the vodka thanks.” She took a sip of the drink, wincing a little as she did.

  “No good?”

  “It’s fine. Just stronger than I remember. I haven’t drunk in a while.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  They had moved now to the sofa and she sat down, tucking her legs underneath her. She looked at him again. He was not at all what she had expected him to be, this
eccentric antiquities-loving financier who unashamedly drank pink cocktails with umbrellas in them in a city where people would lose all respect for him. Maybe it was the strong drink, or the dim-lit room, so cosy with all its antiquities and the smell of cigar smoke, but she felt herself relax, for the first time in weeks.

  “My best friend is missing,” she blurted. Well, she hadn’t expected to be telling him that.

  He put his drink down carefully. “Oh?”

  “Her name is Batul. Batul Alibhai. She teaches history at the Lyceum. Actually she studied archaeology at university—you would like her, and she would love all this,” she waved her hands around the room. “Five weeks ago she left work, and she never came home. There’s been no sign of her car, and no sign of her.”

  “She was kidnapped?”

  Ra swallowed. “We assume so, but we kept waiting for a ransom demand, this being Karachi. But it hasn’t come, and the authorities are not optimistic that it will. Her parents are besides themselves. It’s… it’s tough, not knowing. The waiting. I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that there may be bad news. But the not knowing…”

  She looked down at her lap. How could she explain what it was like? She had met Batul at school, at the age of seven. Back then, Ra had been so shy, she made wallflowers look like dancing queens. Then Batul had come along, larger than life, full of gusto, always ready for an adventure. And to her complete shock, Batul had singled her out. “You’re an old soul,” she’d said.

  “What does that mean?” Ra had asked.

  Batul had shrugged. “I dunno exactly, but it means we should be best friends forever.”

  And just like that, they were. How could she explain what a gift Batul had been, that losing her was like losing a sister, walking around with a phantom limb that ached the whole time?

  She blinked when she realised that Saqib had put his hand on hers. “I’m so sorry. Could she have been taken by someone she knows? An old boyfriend perhaps, or a greedy uncle? What do the police say?”