Razia

by Abda Khan

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ said Razia.

  ‘Why not? Don’t be scared, she won’t know.’

  ‘No, I really can’t telephone you, because I won’t be able to.’

  ‘What do you mean? Why won’t you be able to?’ Farah asked.

  ‘Because …’ Razia lowered her voice a little as she finished her sentence. ‘Because she and Master lock me up when they go out.’

  A cold, prickly feeling took hold of Farah. She felt goosebumps like she had never felt before, as though the temperature had suddenly plunged to below freezing.

  ‘They actually lock you up?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, in the small room, where I do all the ironing, and where I also sleep. I have a mattress on the floor, and I’m allowed to take a bottle of water in with me. Although sometimes that is not such a good idea if she is out too long, as then I need the washroom and cannot go.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ was all Farah could say.

  ‘I—’

  And then there was nothing, apart from the long continuous high-pitched tone to indicate that the call had been cut.

  Farah waited patiently with the phone in her hand, still standing by her front door, her thoughts whirling around in her head in a cloud of disbelief. The girl was being kept a slave and a prisoner. This was happening right here, in London, on her doorstep, and the culprits were the supposed best friends of her boss.

  Two minutes later the phone rang again.

  ‘Sorry, Farah ji, I thought I heard Malikin, but it is OK, she is still in the shower.’

  ‘Why are you staying there if they treat you so badly? Why don’t you just leave?’

  For the first time in the conversation Razia became emotional; Farah could hear her voice beginning to crackle, and she could imagine the girl’s struggle to fight back the tears.

  ‘I can’t leave.’

  ‘Yes, you can. You have every right to leave.’

  ‘No! I really can’t. I don’t think you understand. They have rights over me.’

  ‘Rights? What rights?’

  ‘They own me, or rather, they own all of us – in Pakistan – me and my family. I had to come here; I didn’t have a choice. And even if I had the courage to do it, I can’t leave. I don’t even know where my passport is. In fact, I never saw my passport; they had it made and have always kept it. Even if I left, where would I go? Where would I live? Who would look after me? I don’t have anywhere else to go to in this country. And I don’t have any money; they don’t pay me. And what about the repercussions for my family? I want to go back to Pakistan; I miss my mother so much, but they will not let me.’

  ‘Hold on. Rewind a bit. What do you mean they own you? How can they own you?’ Farah asked, feeling utterly bewildered.

  ‘Because we are indebted to them, and we must serve them until the debt is paid.’

  ‘OK. I’m really not sure I understand, to be honest. But coming back to you. You say you want to leave?’

  ‘Yes. I do. But—’

  ‘But nothing. If you want to get out of there, then I will help you, if you want me to. We can deal with all this family and debt stuff later. Do you want me to help you?’

  ‘Yes … but I am scared. If they find out and you are not able to help me, then I will be in the most terrible trouble. I will be beaten …’

  ‘No, I won’t let that happen. I promise you. You have my word. You just sit tight. I’m going to speak to a few people and then get you out of there.’

  Razia’s crying was now audible to Farah, who remained as calm as she could in the circumstances. Farah knew that no matter how much sadness she felt for this girl, she must keep it together, as Razia was now relying on Farah her to get her out of that hellhole of an apartment.

  ‘Thank you, Farah ji, may Allah bless you.’

  10

  When Farah got in to work, she headed straight past her own office to the other end of the corridor and knocked loudly on Paul Drake’s door. She heard his muffled ‘come in’ and after taking a short, sharp breath, she walked in. She felt like a schoolgirl at the headmaster’s door, not completely sure of what the reaction from the other side of the door would be, but she entered in the hope that there would be a fair hearing, followed by the right decision.

  He was sat at his desk, which was as messy as ever; it was laden with piles of files, books, Post-it notes, telephone messages, receipts, loose bits of paper. His office was cluttered in any direction and corner you looked; there were countless files on the floor by his desk, and on top of the filing cabinets, and they just continued to grow as though they had a life of their own. Unlike the state of his desk and room, however, Paul always took great pride in his own appearance; today he was wearing a fine bespoke Savile Row three-piece pale grey suit with a striped dark grey and red tie. His mostly silvery head of hair was now receding, and had been shaped into a short, tidy cut. He closed the file that he had been going through, took his reading glasses off, carefully folded them and placed them on top of the file.

  ‘Good morning, Farah, come on in, sit down. I don’t normally have the pleasure of your presence very often, and rarely first thing in the morning. Is everything OK?’

  Farah sat on one of the smart black and chrome chairs on the other side of the desk.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she replied cautiously. She placed her handbag on the floor, and sat back in the chair.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I wanted to ask you about Zaheer, and Aneela.’

  Paul raised his eyebrows slightly; Farah knew this had thrown him. She usually only popped her head through his door when she wanted to pick his brains about one of her more complex cases, or seek his opinion on a particular barrister she was thinking of hiring for one of her hearings. Or perhaps to ask for some extra time off. Perhaps he was expecting a conversation about when she might be promoted to partner status. Probably the last thing he had anticipated was that she would want to talk about his friend and his friend’s wife.

  ‘What about them?’ asked Paul.

  ‘How well do you know them?’

  Paul raised his eyebrows even further.

  ‘I know them reasonably well; I’ve known Zaheer since we studied together at King’s. Now that’s going back a bit. Not that either of us look that old, eh? Why do you ask?’

  Farah was hesitant. She hadn’t really thought this through. She knew what she wanted to say, but wasn’t exactly certain about how she should convey it. She may as well come out with it, she thought to herself.

  ‘Do you know someone called Razia?’

  Paul scrunched his face a little and thought about the question for a moment or two.

  ‘No, I can’t say I do,’ he replied eventually.

  ‘She is their so-called housekeeper.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s what she’s called. I know they’ve got a young lady who helps with the housework. It’s a big apartment though, so that’s hardly surprising. Well, what of her? And why do you say “so-called”?’

  Farah cleared her throat.

  ‘When we were at their house last Friday, they said they had a housekeeper. And she was the one who had prepared all that lovely food. But the thing is, I don’t think she’s a housekeeper at all.’

  ‘What else would you call her? Domestic help, perhaps? Housemaid? I mean, what difference does it make what label you stick on her?’

  ‘No, Paul. The label does matter, because I’m afraid to say that I think she’s a domestic slave.’

  Paul’s face slowly unwrinkled. He donned a graver look and tone of voice.

  ‘Now, just hold on a minute. You can’t go around making accusations like that.’

  ‘I’m telling you the truth. She’s being treated like a slave. No, sorry, that’s wrong. The fact is that she is a slave,’ responded Farah.

  ‘How the hell would you know?’ Paul asked, beginning to sound agitated.

  ‘Because I spoke to her, and she told me as much. I wanted to ask
if you would come with me to their house and see if we can rescue this girl.’

  Paul let out a quiet laugh.

  ‘Have you heard yourself? “Rescue” her? Rescue her from what, exactly? She works for them. Who they employ, and on what terms, has got nothing to do with you, or me. We can’t just go around there, poking our noses in without rhyme or reason.’

  Farah scrunched her hair in her hands above her head, and pulled it backwards. She was infuriated that Paul wasn’t taking her seriously, incensed that he was simply trying to dismiss her as some silly little girl with an overzealous imagination. She really hadn’t expected this lack of co-operation from him.

  ‘Look,’ she said, tapping her index finger on the spare bit of desk that she could find. ‘I came to you as a matter of courtesy, seeing as Zaheer is your friend. I didn’t want to go behind your back. But, if you won’t help me, then I’m left with no choice.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning I’m going to go to the police. I’m going to tell them everything I know, and let them investigate it. I dare say they will be a damn sight more interested than you are!’

  Paul suddenly became serious.

  ‘That’s ridiculous, Farah, go to the police and say what? You have no evidence; for all you know, this girl could be telling you a pack of lies.’

  ‘Why? Why would she lie to me? I’m a complete stranger. She has nothing to gain by doing that.’

  Paul let out a loud sigh, and rolled his eyes. He placed his hand on his chin and thought about it for a few seconds.

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t make head nor tail of this. Just – don’t go to the police; I will talk to Zaheer over the weekend, and I will discuss it with you on Monday. In the meantime, don’t do anything you may later regret. Leave it with me for now.’

  Farah had hoped for a better reaction than the one she had just received from Paul, but his assurance, in the end, to raise the matter with Zaheer was at least something. All she could do now was wait and see.

  11

  ‘Hello, Paul,’ said Zaheer, as he answered his mobile phone on what he was hoping would be a lazy Saturday morning.

  Zaheer was sat in the lounge in his recliner leather chair, and he took the call whilst he drank his coffee and flicked through the Daily Jang newspaper; there was a story about the surge in the popularity of the opposition party in Pakistan that had particularly caught his eye. He looked through the pictures of the latest rallies with hundreds of thousands of people having gathered to show support for change. Even though he was in London, he liked to keep abreast of everything that was happening back in Pakistan, especially matters of a political nature. It was essential. He, and his family, neither liked nor wanted change. The system as it stood had served them handsomely for many generations, and these mass movements did not bode well. They were potentially very harmful and therefore had to be thwarted as early as possible. He would continue to keep a keen eye on this story.

  ‘Hi, I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday morning, mate. Have you got a few minutes to spare?’

  ‘Of course, Paul. I’ve always got time for you, my friend; you know that. Fire away.’ Zaheer replied absent-mindedly, as his focus was still very much on the newspaper article. He had always fancied running himself one day. He knew he had enough contacts inside and outside the political world that would ensure his success should he ever wish to stand. He had the means and the influence, although he lacked the motivation at this point in his life. Perhaps in the future he would give it some serious thought.

  ‘It’s a bit awkward, actually. Farah came and had a chat with me yesterday, and I promised her that I would speak to you.’

  ‘Speak to me? What about?’ he replied, putting his cup of coffee down on the dark mahogany side table, but continuing to look over the headlines on the next page of the newspaper. ‘New Trade Deal with China’ caught his eye, and there was a section on how the Gwadar Port development project was progressing.

  ‘She said you have a young lady called Razia working for you.’

  Zaheer wondered how Farah knew her name.

  ‘Yes, we do. What of it?’

  ‘Well, it sounds preposterous really, but she has got it into her head that you … that she …’

  Zaheer put his newspaper down and sat up straight.

  ‘Yes? Go on.’

  ‘That … she is your slave.’

  There was a split-second silence from Zaheer; just long enough for him to grab his thoughts, and arrange them in line for a rapid-fire response.

  ‘Slave? Goodness me, where did she get such a hideous notion?’

  Zaheer faked the outrage well. Paul fell silent. Zaheer deliberately allowed the uncomfortable silence to fester for a little while.

  ‘She said she spoke to her, and this Razia girl told her herself,’ said Paul.

  Zaheer was at a loss as to how Farah had even managed to have a conversation with Razia, unless of course Aneela had allowed it somehow, knowingly or unknowingly; it didn’t make a difference, it was Aneela’s job to keep day-to-day control of Razia. He could only wonder what on earth this interfering busybody of a lawyer had said to Razia.

  ‘Look, I don’t blame Farah for falling for it. I have to be honest with you. Razia has done this sort of thing before.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She is the daughter of some very poor people that we know in Pakistan. My older brother asked me, as a favour, if I would bring this girl over as a housemaid, more to help her family out really. He told me that she was an excellent worker, and a very good cook; and so she is, you tasted her food when you came to dinner. However, he also warned me that she has a tendency to moan and exaggerate, and has been known to make stories up just for a bit of attention. I suspect that is all it was. Tell Farah I’m sorry that Razia bothered her in this way, and gave her any cause for concern.’

  Zaheer took a moment to draw breath, before he continued.

  ‘Rest assured, Aneela and I will both make sure she doesn’t do it again.’

  ‘Oh, that’s OK. I will let Farah know. She was talking about going to the police and everything, but I convinced her to hang fire.’

  Zaheer paused for a few seconds, and rubbed his forehead with his hand. Blasted women! Zaheer knew he had to nip this in the bud. And quickly.

  ‘In that case, why don’t you text Farah’s number to me. I will reassure her myself, just as soon as I’ve had a word with Razia.’

  Zaheer cut the call, put his phone on the table and walked slowly out of the lounge and into the hallway. He drew a deep, calm breath.

  ‘Razia!’ he called out. There was no answer, and he repeated her name.

  Aneela came out of the kitchen having heard her husband. As she entered the hallway her pale green georgette dupatta fell to the floor. She bent down to pick it up, wrapped it back around her neck, and then walked up to her husband, who was stood just outside the lounge. Zaheer was quite calm, still waiting for Razia to emerge.

  ‘What’s the matter? Why do you need to speak to Razia?’ Aneela asked.

  ‘Actually, perhaps I need to speak to you first?’

  ‘Oh? Why?’ Aneela asked.

  ‘Razia has been speaking to that busybody Farah. Do you want to tell me how that happened?’

  ‘I forgot to say. She popped over to ask if she had dropped her earring here when she came over for dinner. I found her in the kitchen with Razia, but they can only have been together for a minute or two.’

  ‘A minute or two is all it takes.’

  He called Razia’s name once again.

  ‘Where is that kuthi?’ he asked his wife.

  ‘She’s cleaning the bathroom,’ said Aneela.

  Zaheer headed for the bathroom door.

  Razia was already screaming.

  12

  It was a tediously boring Sunday evening. Farah had not planned to do anything, or to see any of her friends. It was one of those loose-ended, nothing-to-do, whiling-away-the-day sort of S
undays. And to add to that, Farah couldn’t help but wonder if Paul had managed to speak to Zaheer; she had been tempted to phone Paul for an update, but then thought better of it. She would know the outcome in any event when she got back into the office tomorrow.

  Farah’s old-fashioned little cobbled street was prettily situated in Westminster, in the heart of London. Her first-floor apartment within a row of terraced houses was part of a period restoration. The flat was tiny, just a small open-plan living room and kitchen-diner, a bedroom and a bathroom. Her rent was on the high side compared to equivalent properties in other areas, but the location, in her opinion, was worth it; at least that was what she had told herself when she had signed the lease. That said, the lack of space was suffocating at times, especially when she compared it to her spacious and airy detached family home back in Solihull.

  Farah lay lazily on the sofa, with her feet dangling playfully off one end, past the armrest. She wriggled her dark plum-painted toes, and let out a lingering yawn. The living room was simply decorated; Farah was not one for clutter or knick-knacks; the walls were painted a plain straw colour, there were a few cherished ornaments dotted around, and her beloved print of Monet’s Purple Poppies hung on the largest wall. A small bookshelf housed the eclectic mix of her favourite novels.

  Farah lay on the cosy two-seater sofa thinking of nothing much, although her mind did wander towards Razia from time to time. She hugged a soft lilac-coloured cushion, and as she did so, she thought about Razia locked up in her little room; no comforts, no food, no freedom.

  Farah grabbed the remote control. She switched the television on and flicked through the channels, but she could not find anything even a tad interesting to watch. She turned the television off, and got up off the sofa. She popped on her trainers, picked up her coat and bag and headed out for a walk.

  Sometimes Farah would go grab a coffee down by the London Eye and just watch the world in all its technicolour glory drift by; tourists queuing for the attractions, or enjoying river cruises, or snapping photos with Big Ben behind them.