by Abda Khan
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Abda Khan is an author and lawyer, and a passionate advocate for women’s rights. She won the Noor Inayat Khan Muslim Woman of the Year Award 2019 and was highly commended in the 2017 NatWest Asian Women of Achievement Awards in the Arts & Culture category. Her first novel, Stained, was published in 2016.
With special thanks:
Afzal Majid
Suleman Mehboob
Salma Shah
Also by the Author
Stained
To the five lights of my life,
May you always shine brightly
Love you always,
Mum
CONTENTS
A Note on the Author
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
Supporters
Copyright
1
LONDON
Farah Jilani walked out of Knightsbridge tube station, and stopped briefly to gaze up at the sky. She observed that there was still a vast blanket of grey covering London. It was a well-settled, clouded canopy which hadn’t shifted for nearly a week.
She glanced over the road at the window display of the spring collection at Harvey Nichols; the mannequins were kitted out in the new season’s colours of soft sherbet pink, creamy lemon and duck-egg blue. They stood and posed invitingly, trying their best to entice her over with their silent gaze. She was tempted to take on the busy traffic, and hop across the road for a quick browse, but a few seconds of hesitation was enough for Farah to talk herself out of it.
Farah felt the cool air sweep over her, so she buttoned up her long black coat, turned to her right, walked past the newspaper stand and headed up Sloane Street.
Although she was familiar with Knightsbridge, Farah had never visited Hans Place before. It was about as exclusive a postcode as one could get in London, being only a stone’s throw away from Harrods, and all things high-end and unaffordable for most. Unless you were someone akin to a Russian oligarch or an Arab prince, owning or renting in Hans Place was well out of your reach. Farah didn’t for a moment doubt that the apartment she was going to visit tonight would be palatial compared to the one-bedroom box that she rented.
As she ambled along Sloane Street, she glanced at her watch, and realised that she was going to be early. She did not want to be the first one to arrive. Time enough for a quick cup of coffee, she thought to herself, and stopped off at the next coffee shop she came to.
The shop was a small, rustic-looking outfit; the flooring was all old-fashioned, speckled oak boards, and the place was scattered with solid wooden tables and mismatched antique chairs. Farah looked up at the chalkboard menu behind the counter, and saw that it served all manner of organic and fair-trade hot drinks, as well as exotic-sounding smoothies and juices. A pale, gaunt young woman behind the counter came over to serve Farah. She spoke with a strong Eastern European accent. She seemed very keen for Farah to sample ‘a super-detox clean green juice’. No? Then maybe ‘an energy-boosting super-charged smoothie’? Perhaps there were floppy sticks of celery or overly spotty bananas which she had been told needed to be shifted. Farah wasn’t about to find out, and so she politely declined. The girl’s face crinkled. What would she like then? Farah opted instead for a large Americano, and the girl quietly obliged.
Farah went over and sat on a shabby but pretty dusky pink armchair by the window, and waited for her coffee to cool. It had just gone 6.30 on a Friday evening, and the coffee shop was quiet. There were only a couple of other people in there, both loners like herself.
As she settled into the armchair and placed her hands on the frayed armrests on either side, she wondered how much this chair had seen and heard over the years. The careful whispers of lovers at the height of their clandestine affair, when they caught a few stolen moments together? Or perhaps the shrieks and gasps of best friends spiritedly sharing and dissecting the latest gossip? Maybe a loved one offering consolation after bad news. Unlike humans, however, this chair would never give up its secrets, never betray the confidence of anyone who had sought sanctuary in its sunken softness. It wouldn’t make false promises. It wouldn’t pretend to be anything other than it was. It would just be there.
She gazed out of the window and noticed how the scene thronged with cars, taxis and buses that were all crawling along, trying, but failing, to make haste with their journeys. In contrast, all the pedestrians were dashing around hurriedly; most of them periodically looked up from their mobile phones, as they scurried about in a serious rush to be somewhere. Nothing and no one within her eye gaze was stood or sat still. She wondered if, after having been in London for over ten years, she was now tired of it all. She briefly closed her eyes and savoured her first sip of the coffee. Perhaps, she thought, it wasn’t London the city that she was fed up with. In her heart, London was the best place in the world, for many reasons. The view of the River Thames on a misty morning often took her breath away. There were modern feats of architecture that sat happily alongside the resplendent heritage of bygone years. The museums and galleries allowed you to quite happily lose yourself for an entire day without a care in the world. No matter which corner of which street you turned, be it an old cobbled side road with tiny eateries and open-air market stalls, or Buckingham Palace Road or the Strand, you were never alone in London, for there was always life and vibrancy in every inch of this city. Perhaps, she mulled, as she quietly drank her coffee, and continued to stare out of the window, it was indeed not London, but some of its people that she’d had enough of.
Farah wasn’t looking forward to the dinner party. Even though it was a Friday evening, her bosses had requested, or rather expected, her attendance. As work colleagues, they rarely met out of the office, and she hadn’t seen Tahir Ghani (the junior partner at the firm) socially since their relationship had ended just over six months ago. Having to pretend to enjoy herself was going to be an enormous drag. She had, in fact, planned on going up to her parents’ house this very evening, but had postponed this to the next morning. An invite from Zaheer Mansur to his apartment for dinner was too big a deal for Drake’s Solicitors to ignore, because he had practically saved the firm from certain bankruptcy.
Paul Drake, the senior partner, and Tahir were more than grateful to Zaheer for his help. Farah, however, was never 100 per cent happy with their ‘arrangement’, for she was sure that the partners were not declaring to the Law Society the referral fees that they were paying to Zaheer. Zaheer and Paul’s association went back a long way. They had studied together in London over twenty years ago, and as soon as Zaheer had been posted as the Deputy High Commissioner at the High Commission for Pakistan in
London, they had reached a deal, and work had started flowing the firm’s way.
The Pakistani High Commission was always busy, with all manner of people walking through the door, and said people were quite often in need of legal help. A man in Zaheer’s position was more than respected; his advice as to who they should consult for their visa application, or to prepare that power of attorney, or to deal with a property transaction, or to represent them at court, was usually followed without question. Drake’s had steadily become busier as a result, and of course new clients once referred became a continued source of income minus the need to pay referral fees; this new business had meant the saving of over twenty jobs. Tonight’s dinner was to celebrate a year since the start of this mutually fruitful arrangement.
Farah and the two partners were the only ones attending this celebratory meal. She had originally been a little surprised that they had asked her to come, but once she had thought about it, she knew why. She was head of the immigration department, and a large chunk of the work sent to the firm ended up with her team; however, that wasn’t it – the real reason that she had been invited was because she was a woman of Pakistani origin, and spoke decent Urdu, and therefore her bosses expected that she would provide ideal company for Zaheer’s wife, Aneela. They had suggested she wear traditional dress, so Aneela would feel more comfortable, for Aneela herself would be sure to be dressed in a traditional salwar kameez. However, whilst Farah was just about agreeable to attending the dinner for the sake of the firm, she was not going to be ordered around about what she should wear, and so she blatantly ignored this request; she wore a purple silk blouse and high-waisted black evening trousers instead. She had made some effort; black heels, glitzy earrings and an immaculately made-up face. She had even styled her usually straight long black hair into soft gentle waves that cascaded down past her shoulders.
After her brief refreshment break, Farah proceeded to continue her walk to her destination. When she surveyed it upon arrival, it dawned on her that Hans Place was even grander than she had imagined. Dating back to the late 1700s, it contained imposing multi-storey buildings which were set around a fine-looking square, which was occupied by handsome, mature chestnut and lime trees. Farah had read that Jane Austen had resided at 23 Hans Place during her stay in London with her brother. Farah walked across to the tree-laden garden in the middle; she fancied having a wander about inside, but sadly, the gate was locked. After a short stroll around the square, she found the door; the entrance to the building was an ornate black door, surrounded by stone columns on either side, and a well-crafted stone arch overhead. Then she walked around to the side of the building, where she found that there was a round, royal blue plaque, which announced in simple print:
JANE AUSTEN
NOVELIST
STAYED WITH HER BROTHER HENRY
IN A HOUSE ON THIS SITE
1814–1815
Farah stood and gazed at the plaque for a few moments, and she imagined that perhaps Jane Austen used to sit in that charming garden and scribble away. Then she glanced at her watch and realised that she was now in fact late, having totally lost track of time. She dragged herself away, and walked round to find the Mansur residence.
2
Farah rang the bell, and after a short wait outside the large door, she was welcomed in by Aneela, who had indeed donned a zari-embroidered salwar kameez of stunning deep red chiffon and georgette. She had tied her auburn hair up in a high bun, and wore a vivid red lipstick to complete the red-themed look. Her eyes were heavy with black kajal that was shaped into fine flicks at either end; they looked almost like the arresting eyes of a sweet little deer, timid and eager to please. She showed Farah through to the lounge, where Zaheer, Paul and Tahir were already having drinks and chatting away.
The lounge was a large, impressive room, perfectly square in shape. It was impeccably decorated in every respect. All the set pieces, from the intricately patterned Persian rug, to the fine china vases, were pristinely arranged, and co-ordinated to convey exactly the impression that they were meant to: this was a room which oozed luxury and money.
They all exchanged pleasantries, and Zaheer went off to pour Farah an orange and lemonade. Farah sat down, and Aneela disappeared from the room. The men then resumed their business talk, and Farah let out a silent sigh. She wondered if this was how the whole evening would progress: Aneela toing and froing from the kitchen, and the guys talking shop.
‘You look lovely,’ remarked Tahir, after he came and sat beside her on the tan two-seater chesterfield sofa. He looked closely at Farah as he leaned in towards her.
‘Thanks,’ was all Farah could muster in response to the compliment. She felt a little unnerved by his proximity. She wasn’t over it yet. Not in a heartbroken, missing-him sort of way, but rather in an angry ‘how could he have treated me like that’ sort of way.
Aneela came back into the room.
‘Dinner is ready,’ she announced, with a theatrical, high-pitched, Pakistani accent-laced voice that denoted a sense of urgency. It made Farah wince a little. ‘Please, everyone, come through to the dining room.’
Aneela led the way, and they all followed her. They walked across the large, high-ceilinged hallway into the room directly opposite. The apartment was situated on the ground floor of the listed building, which retained many of its original features, such as the old oak panelling that decked the lower half of the walls in the dining room, and the delicately crafted coving and ceiling roses.
The large oval table was carefully laid with white fine china crockery, glistening crystal glassware and heavy, gleaming silver cutlery. The centre was lit with a dramatic five-arm golden candelabrum, and all of this sat on top of a creamy rose jacquard-print tablecloth.
The appetisers were already in place: papri chana chaat, drizzled with a tangy tamarind sauce, with mini pakoras and samosas, and a wild rocket and cherry tomato salad. It was exceptionally delicious, as was evident from the fact that not a scrap was left on anyone’s plate. Aneela looked very satisfied with herself when she saw that the food had gone down so well. Whilst her husband was oblivious to such finer details and only cared that his guests appeared to be happy to be in his company, who ate what and enjoyed it was clearly very important to Aneela. She smiled as she collected the empty dishes on a tray, and declared she was off to the kitchen to check on the next course.
The guests talked shop with their host, and exchanged a few funny stories about some of the clients. Paul made a particular effort to ensure that Farah was drawn into the conversation; his easy, familiar banter, which she always enjoyed, allowed her to loosen up a bit. Despite her reservations, Farah was starting to relax, and beginning to enjoy the evening. She joined in with the chit-chat, and now felt bad that she had been so reluctant to come in the first place. Zaheer was all charm and politeness; he spoke with a great sense of conviction about everything he touched upon, and Farah could appreciate why he and Paul were such good friends. And his wife was a very pleasant woman; she couldn’t do enough, as she fussed and flitted around her guests, seeing to their every need, making sure everyone was well attended to at all times. They seemed a little bit mismatched as a couple; he was quite simple-looking, albeit smart in his manner of dress, but not terribly memorable, whilst she was beauty and glamour itself. She looked younger than him, although it was hard to say exactly how much younger, for the amount of make-up she wore made it difficult to discern her age with any precision. Farah was left wondering how he had managed to bag such a beauty. However, despite their outwardly mismatched appearance, they seemed very much at ease with one another; they were not only happy with each other, but they innately understood one another. They seemed to be able to communicate with just a glance at times; no words were necessary.
‘Aneela has been gone quite a while. Excuse me whilst I go check if she needs a hand with anything,’ said Zaheer, and then he disappeared out of the dining room.
Farah was now wishing she hadn’t stopped off for that
coffee, and found it necessary to disturb the two remaining gentlemen’s conversation to confess that she needed to visit the little girls’ room, only neither of the hosts was around to show her where it was. However, Paul had visited before, and was able to offer her directions.
‘Go back out into the hallway, and as you look to your left, there are two doors straight ahead, it’s the one on the left, I think.’
Farah got up and went down the hallway. She carefully opened the door on the left-hand side, just as she had been directed. She searched for a light switch, which she located on the wall to her left, but as soon as the somewhat dim light came on, she realised that this wasn’t the washroom at all. Rather, she had walked into some sort of a large pantry or utility room. It was a very good size, and it was well fitted with wooden cupboards and worktops which most people would be proud to have in their actual kitchen, and all around her were boxed and unboxed dinner sets, pots, pans and various kitchen gadgets. She was about to turn back when she heard shouting and muffled crying. There was another door on the other side of the room. The noise seemed to be coming from there. Farah walked over and stood by the door, and could just about make out the conversation, if she could call it that. It was a strange mix of English, Urdu and Punjabi.
Farah leaned against the door to listen.
‘Haram zaadi, how dare you ruin the food, can’t you do anything right, you little bitch!’
Farah was astonished, for she was certain that it was Zaheer that was yelling. She would never have believed that he could talk to his wife in this way, if she hadn’t heard it with her own ears.
She gently pulled the handle to open the door ever so slightly, mindful not to make any sound, and through the tiny gap she could now just about see into the kitchen; from her somewhat limited view she was able to see that it was a large, well-proportioned showroom-type kitchen, with glossy oyster-coloured fitted units, lustrous black granite worktops and state-of-the-art fitted appliances. Zaheer had his back to Farah, and his wife was stood next to him, also with her back to her. They were both looking down. Farah carefully opened the door a tiny bit more, and a sensation of shock flooded through her entire body.