Razia

by Abda Khan

  Mr Hamid was a grave-looking man, perhaps in his early sixties. He was dark in complexion, clean shaven, and wore thick black-rimmed glasses. He looked as though he was wearing a toupee. He asked Zaheer to come in and close the door and sit down in the chair opposite him.

  Mr Hamid carefully pushed a pile of papers to one side and placed his hands on the desk space that he had cleared. He rested one palm on top of the other. Mr Hamid looked Zaheer up and down in a disapproving manner, with a sour expression on his face, a little like a headmaster would look towards the boy at school who had done something very naughty and had brought the whole school into disrepute. This wasn’t a situation that Zaheer was used to or comfortable with.

  ‘You must be in no doubt as to why you are here,’ Mr Hamid said. He spoke unusually slowly, dragging and teasing each word out. Zaheer wanted to give this man a piece of his mind; how dare he speak to him like this? This whole charade was ridiculous, Zaheer thought to himself. He recoiled at the sense of power this man seemed to think he had over him.

  Instead of rising to the bait, Zaheer answered calmly, ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘You have placed us in some difficulty, Mr Mansur. From my understanding, you are accused of mistreating your maid, a Miss Razia. Said maid, on her way back to Pakistan, was found to be in possession of drugs in her suitcase, and it appears that, at least unofficially, she is alleging that you framed her. Apparently you are the only person she can think of who, shall we say, had an axe to grind.’

  Zaheer wondered what specifically Razia might have said, what details she had given to the police.

  ‘Has she given an official statement to this effect?’ Zaheer enquired.

  ‘No. We have managed to delay this for now. We wanted to speak to you, and try and ascertain exactly what we are dealing with. However, this British lawyer who brought up the whole issue back in London, a Miss Jilani, has teamed up with Ali Omar. You must know, or at least you ought to be made aware, that Omar is the best lawyer around for these types of cases, and we won’t be able to delay matters indefinitely. So, I wanted to ask you straight, and I expect a straight answer from you; did you have anything to do with those drugs in Razia’s bag?’

  Zaheer looked Mr Hamid straight in the eye and answered firmly, ‘No’.

  Mr Hamid let out a noisy sigh.

  ‘In that case, do you have any ideas as to why and how she might have ended up with drugs in her suitcase?’ Mr Hamid asked.

  Zaheer kept his calm countenance and cleared his throat before he replied.

  ‘No, Sir, I cannot. I have no idea what happened. She left my house with Farah and Mr Amin, and I believe she went to stay with Farah whilst her flight was being sorted. After she left my house that night, I did not hear from her or see her again.’ Zaheer shifted around in his chair a little, but he resolutely maintained eye contact with Mr Hamid at all times. He knew he couldn’t be seen to waver in any way. His every move was being watched and his every word was being noted.

  Mr Hamid placed one hand under his chin and shook his head slightly. Zaheer wondered what was going on in that little brain of his; it was hard to make out anything from his gormless face.

  ‘I hope for your sake you are being honest with me,’ Mr Hamid warned Zaheer. ‘When Ali Omar gets after something, he is like a dog with a bone. Whatever has or hasn’t happened, he will get to the bottom of it sooner or later. In the meantime, whilst I appreciate what you have said, having looked at the circumstances, I have no option but to suspend you, pending the outcome of Razia’s court case.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. OK then, I will wait to hear from you.’

  ‘You do that,’ Mr Hamid said. ‘Goodbye. And please close the door behind you.’

  Zaheer stepped out of the room, and shut the door gently. He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaled a deep, long breath, and clenched his fists by his side. As he did so, he felt a renewed surge of energy enter his body. He opened his eyes and walked swiftly towards the exit.

  30

  Farah put the telephone down, having spent the last ten minutes speaking to Razia’s parents. Farah had insisted on talking to Nusrat, so she could personally reassure her about her daughter. At least she was able to tell her that she had seen Razia, and that she was ‘OK’. She didn’t say much more than that. She didn’t tell her about how difficult Razia was finding things. She also didn’t tell her how tough she herself had found it to see Razia in such a state. She didn’t tell her that her daughter had looked gaunt and seemed to have lost weight, although she had been thin enough anyway and had precious little to lose. Farah had instead done her best to keep the conversation as upbeat and as positive as she possibly could in the circumstances.

  No sooner had the call ended than the hotel phone rang; it was a lady from reception informing her that Ali was waiting for her downstairs. Oh, yes, Ali, she thought to herself. The man she had now become dependent upon to try and secure Razia’s freedom, even though she barely knew him. She thought about the contrast with London, where she was in charge of her clients and their files, where she called the shots, where she decided how the case proceeded. Here, she felt more like a helpless bystander, and it was something she was not used to.

  Farah grabbed her scarf and bag and left her room to make her way down.

  When Farah got downstairs, she saw that Ali was chatting to the male receptionist with the large moustache. They were both laughing. For a split second, she felt out of place, and far away from home, and from everything that was familiar to her.

  When Ali noticed Farah, he waved at her.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you for another half an hour,’ said Farah, as she approached him.

  ‘I know, I’m sorry, I came early without any warning, but there has been a development,’ Ali replied, and mid-speech, he started to make a dash for the exit. Farah followed right behind, half frustrated but also half excited about what this development could be.

  ‘Really? What is it? Do tell,’ Farah urged, as she followed him through the exit doors.

  ‘I’m pretty sure I’ve managed to track down the women who took care of Razia when she arrived at Islamabad Airport. And they should be on duty now, so we need to rush to try and catch them.’

  ‘OK, great. Let’s go,’ said Farah, who, whilst she had her misgivings, was nevertheless relieved that Ali had managed to make some sort of a breakthrough in Razia’s case. Right now, she knew that her own feelings didn’t come into it; securing the best outcome for Razia was of paramount importance.

  The driver dropped them as close as possible to the airport building, and they made their way towards the main entrance. As they approached the steps, Farah noticed the little boy selling the thasbees; the same boy she had seen on the day she had arrived.

  ‘Wait one moment,’ she shouted to Ali, who was a few steps ahead of her. Ali stopped in his tracks just before the entrance doors to the airport. He spun around to see what was going on.

  Farah walked over to the little boy. He was in the same shabby clothes that she had seen him in on the day that she had landed, only they were even filthier than they had been then. There were other noticeable differences in his appearance; he had a gash just above his right eyebrow, which had scabbed over, and, on this occasion, he was barefoot. His feet were so dusty you couldn’t see the actual colour of his skin. She didn’t know what it was about this little child, but she felt for him. She knelt down to talk to him.

  ‘Are you OK? Thum teek ho?’

  He nodded his head, but didn’t speak.

  He held out a thasbee for her. It was strung with striking turquoise beads, like the colour of an unspoiled ocean.

  This time Farah gently took the prayer beads from his hand. The boy’s face beamed with a wide, partly toothless, radiant smile, and also revealed two cute little dimples which appeared on either side. Farah grabbed some rupees from her bag and handed them to the boy.

  ‘Shukriya, Ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘Farah, come on,’ shouted Ali. His shou
t made the boy jump, and he quickly ran off. How strange, thought Farah, that the severity of Ali’s voice should frighten the boy in this way.

  ‘I’m coming,’ replied Farah.

  ‘It’s sweet of you to care about people such as that little boy,’ said Ali, ‘but if you’re not careful, then you’ll—’

  ‘Have a line of beggars as far as the eye can see. I know, I know,’ Farah interrupted.

  They were shown into to a quiet corner of Rawal Lounge. The area they sat in was furnished with smart black leather-effect sofas and a low, square, pale wooden coffee table, which was topped with a few lifestyle magazines, and a couple of the morning’s newspapers. The television closest to them was running the day’s main story on the national news channel, about a train derailment in rural Sindh, where there were dozens of suspected casualties and injuries.

  A small male employee approached them with two cups of tea along with a plate of biscuits and pastries, which he placed on the table. Farah thought about the fact that this was the same place that Razia had been brought to on that fateful day. She had been so enthralled by the comfortable seating on which they now sat, so taken with the delicious refreshments which they were now enjoying and so awestruck by the big television which they now glanced at intermittently.

  After about ten minutes a young woman appeared. She was dressed in the official airport uniform, and introduced herself as Najma. She was tall and slim, with a large, prominent gold and ruby nose stud which dominated her facial features. She wore a maroon-coloured lipstick, and her dark hair was scraped back into a high bun. She sat down. Ali introduced them both, and then asked her about exactly what happened on the day of Razia’s flight.

  ‘I remember being told by my senior that this girl Razia was to be looked after during the period between the two flights. The job was given to me and my colleague, Sadia. We were told to collect her when she came off the Heathrow flight, explain to her what was going on, which we did, and then take her to Rawal Lounge, and there she would stay until it was time for her onward flight to Lahore.’

  ‘Did you stay with her the whole time?’ Ali asked, whilst writing away on his notepad, not looking up when he asked the question.

  Farah looked intently at her, and she noticed that Najma thought about the question carefully for quite a few seconds.

  ‘No. We simply escorted her from one place to another. Once we had ensured she had reached Rawal Lounge, we left her there.’

  ‘And did you see her again? asked Ali.

  ‘No,’ replied Najma, most definitely, ‘I didn’t see her again.’

  ‘And what about Sadia?’

  ‘I can’t speak for her, because after we left this girl in Rawal Lounge, we went our separate ways to see to our own duties.’

  Farah wasn’t at all convinced by this Najma character.

  ‘Well, we will discuss that with Sadia when she comes in,’ Farah commented.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ Najma said quickly.

  ‘What do you mean we can’t do that?’ asked Farah.

  ‘Sadia isn’t here any more. She left her job a few days ago.’

  ‘Really? Where has she gone?’ Ali asked her, sounding concerned that the other girl had gone before he’d had a chance to question her.

  ‘I don’t know. I never really knew her all that well. She had only been working here a few months, and now she’s gone off somewhere else. She is from somewhere down Karachi way, and that is probably where she has gone. But I don’t have an address. My seniors have already tried to phone her, in readiness for your visit, but it’s a dead line. And they only had a temporary hotel address for Islamabad on their file. I don’t think anyone really knew very much about her at all in fact. She kept herself to herself.’

  Farah felt a surge of exasperation. It was just as she had expected: the drugs had been planted, and then the suspect had disappeared off the face of the earth. The job had been done well, she thought to herself.

  ‘One final question: do you remember Sadia taking Razia’s little suitcase from her as she walked away?’ asked Ali.

  Najma thought for a few moments, to Farah’s ever-increasing frustration. The woman was still unconvincing in her eyes.

  ‘Perhaps she did. I really can’t tell you for certain. I wasn’t paying all that much attention. My job was simply to deliver her to Rawal Lounge, which I did. I don’t recall any more than that.’

  There was a small, stretched-out pause. All three of them sat there, none of them quite knowing what should be said next. Farah had a mind to call her out, as an out-and-out liar, or at least someone who was holding back from telling the full story. Perhaps Ali noticed Farah’s dissatisfaction; he directed a quick glance at her, accompanied by a brief shake of the head.

  Najma broke the awkward silence.

  ‘Look, I’ve answered all your questions. I’ve told you everything I know, so can I go now? I have a lot of work to do. We have an important foreign dignitary flying in today, so we are very busy with all the extra security,’ she said.

  ‘OK,’ Ali replied, but Farah observed that he now also wore a look of dissatisfaction on his face.

  ‘Thank you for your time and your help,’ added Farah. The woman gave Farah a slight smile, and left.

  ‘What now, Ali?’ asked Farah.

  ‘Back to the drawing board. Looks like your Mr Mansur did a proper stitch-up job. The only question is: why?’

  ‘Why?’ asked Farah, looking perplexed. What a daft question to ask, she thought to herself, and coming from a supposedly accomplished lawyer like Ali. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘No, not really,’ replied Ali, as he shook his head. ‘Perhaps you can explain what is so obvious to you?’ he asked. Farah wasn’t expecting the question to be bounced back at her in this way and felt she shouldn’t have to spell it out.

  ‘He was exposed as a man who beat a girl, who he kept as a modern-day slave, and now he has lost his cushy post in the UK as a result. So, I guess revenge would be the obvious answer to your question.’

  ‘No.’ Ali shook his head vehemently. ‘I don’t buy it.’

  ‘You don’t? I don’t understand.’ What on earth was Ali trying to say? Farah asked herself. The facts spoke for themselves.

  ‘It doesn’t add up. Sure, what happened was embarrassing for him, but he comes from a family that makes money off slave labour at the brick kiln. This is not a big deal for him. Also, he’s been suspended on full pay and privileges pending the outcome of Razia’s case. It’s in his interest not to bring attention to himself.’

  ‘What exactly are you saying, Ali?’

  ‘I’m saying, why would he be so angry that he would resort to this? And why are his lawyers, and the police, delaying a formal interview with our client? Razia must know more than she has said. There is something else here. We need to speak to her again. Right, back to the car; I will make some calls on the way and make sure we see her today.’

  ‘OK, let’s go,’ said Farah. She grabbed her bag and followed him out of the room, although she was unsure what to make of Ali’s mini rant. Farah felt a little out of the loop sometimes, both culturally and in terms of the legal technicalities, and she didn’t think Ali really appreciated this. However, she was happy to park this to one side as it was becoming increasingly evident to her that Ali was going to do everything he could to free Razia. And she couldn’t ask more than that.

  She was, however, dreading going back to the prison, and having to face Razia once again in that hellhole of a place.

  31

  For the second time that day, Ali and Farah were asked to sit and wait, but the room at the prison was far less inviting than the lounge at the airport; there were no decent furniture, no glossy magazines, no tea and no biscuits. This room at the prison, Farah thought, smelled even worse than the last one, if that was possible. The reek of what seemed like blood and sweat was overbearing. They sat patiently for almost thirty minutes, waiting for Razia to be escorted in. Time seemed to pas
s even slower in Farah’s mind as she chewed over, once again, the events that had led to Razia’s incarceration, and her own role.

  ‘I wonder what’s taking them so long?’ asked Farah, looking to Ali for some sort of a response.

  ‘Me too; they are taking ages.’

  ‘You do think everything is OK, don’t you?’ asked Farah. She didn’t get much from Ali, only a slight nod of the head.

  A few minutes later, the door opened.

  ‘Aha!’ Farah said. ‘Here she comes.’

  But to her surprise, a man walked in, and announced himself as the jail’s superintendent. Ali seemed well aware of who he was, but still looked surprised to see him walk in. What did this mean? Farah asked herself.

  The superintendent was dressed in his full uniform. He slowly walked over and sat down on a chair on the opposite side of the table.

  ‘I understand that you are both here to see one of our inmates, a Miss Razia Begum.’

  ‘That’s right; I called earlier and was told to be here for three p.m. Where is she? What’s taking so long?’ Ali asked.

  The superintendent hesitated. He cleared his throat abruptly before he spoke again.

  Farah started to feel tense; there was a grave look on the superintendent’s face. She could feel a sticky heat creeping up her neck and into her cheeks. She swallowed hard, and waited with her hands clasped together in her lap; waited for him to speak.

  ‘Erm, I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ announced the superintendent. His eyes were set on the table that separated them; his face remained grave.

  ‘What’s the matter? Is Razia ill?’ asked Farah, beginning to feel the sense of alarm that had been creeping across her neck and cheeks now start to spread throughout her body. She started to chew her bottom lip.

  ‘No. It’s not that. She’s not ill.’

  Farah let out a sigh. Ali softly tapped his fingers on the table. More excruciating seconds passed, and finally the other man spoke.

  ‘I’m afraid that Miss Razia has committed suicide.’