by Owen Mullen
‘Tell me, what he said again?’
‘“I need to speak to Bilal. Go and get him.”’
‘Only that?’
‘Only that.’
‘But why? Why does he want to see me?’
Firdos kept his eyes on the road, unable to resist a smile. Someone else’s discomfort was always enjoyable, especially when it was Bilal. The car stopped and both men got out. Firdos went ahead. Bilal wanted to go to the lavatory. Instead, Firdos took him to the dining-room and told him to wait.
Bilal drew his hand along the polished wood table. They lived well, his cousins. Approaching footsteps told him they were coming. The thug tried to pull himself together. Quasim mustn’t see his fear. The eldest brother was unpredictable, no knowing what he might be capable of. Life was sweeter without the Quasims of the world.
They arrived together, Firdos tucked in behind his brother, out of the spotlight, the way he liked it. Bilal spoke first. ‘Quasim, cousin. I wish we were meeting in happier times. Please give my condolences to your mother. All of you must be – ’
Quasim cut through the grovelling sympathy. ‘Sit down, Bilal. And shut up.’
Bilal’s fear wouldn’t allow him. ‘I know nothing.’
‘That’s interesting. What is it you know nothing about, exactly?’
‘About the fire. About Zamir. I was at home.’
‘Oh please, cousin, you judge yourself too harshly. You must know something. Everybody knows something.’
The mock compliment chilled Bilal.
‘Just what Firdos told me.’
‘And what was that?’
‘That there was a fire and Zamir was dead.’
Quasim looked across at his loose-lipped brother. Another idiot. ‘Well cousin, let me bring you up to date. You deserve to know, you’re family after all.’
He rested his elbows on the table, getting comfortable, as though preparing to tell a story to a child. ‘Last night, when you were at home fast asleep, someone set my warehouse on fire and murdered my brother.’
Bilal stared wild-eyed, his thin face drawn thinner with dread. ‘Again, my regrets to you and your mother. She’s too good a woman to lose a son this way.’
Quasim’s eyes were empty. ‘Bilal, I can’t accept we’re cut from the same cloth. How could my father’s brother produce something like you?’
The insult was spoken softly. ‘You’re a weak, pathetic coward. I despise you, I’ve always despised you. What you should be asking is why you’re here. Well, I’ll tell you.’ Quasim rose from the table and paced the room. ‘Some time ago, you were given a woman by Zamir and Firdos, do you remember?’
‘Yes. Yes, I remember.’
‘And do you remember what you were told to do with her?’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Bilal seized on something he could understand. ‘Yes, I remember.’
Quasim’s walk had taken him behind his cousin’s chair. ‘Good. Now think carefully. This is very important. Don’t lie, tell me the truth.’ He bent and whispered in Bilal’s ear. ‘What did you do with her?’
A weight lifted from the frightened man. At last, something he could answer. The sweat on his neck started to dry. ‘I did as I was told, Quasim. Just as I was told.’
‘Good, very good, Bilal. That’s what I wanted to hear.’
Quasim strolled to where he’d been. Bilal saw him nodding. ‘Just as you were told. What was that, exactly?’
‘Get rid of her. Zamir told me to dispose of her.’
‘And what did you think he was asking you to do, exactly?’ Quasim rephrased his question. ‘No. What did you do, exactly?’
‘I met your brothers at the warehouse. We put the woman in the back of my car. Firdos was there, he’ll tell you.’
‘Then? What then?’
‘I drove south, deep into the Punjab, for almost two hundred miles. On a road in the middle of nowhere, I pulled her out of the car – ’
‘And drove back?’
Quasim imagined the scene.
‘No.’ Bilal refuted his cousin’s lack of faith in him. ‘No, I needed to be sure she was dead. I strangled her. When I left she was dead.’
Quasim stroked the side of his hooked nose. ‘You did well, cousin.’
Relief surged through the assassin. Whatever was going on had nothing to do with him. Resentment pricked him. These superior people supposed they had a monopoly on hate. Not so, not so. Bilal hated them as much as they did him. And he should’ve asked for more money. ‘Is that all? Can I go?’
‘Almost, almost.’
Quasim put a hand in his pocket, pulled out a dark brown circle and tossed it on the table. The jewellery rattled and vibrated in a drum roll before coming to rest in front of Bilal. It meant nothing to him.
‘Recognise this? She wore it. Recognise it, Bilal?’
The cousin dragged his eyes away. Fear was back. His voice cracked. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Neither do I. That’s why you’re here. I wanted you to see it before I return it to the police.’
Quasim lifted the polished wooden round he’d bribed a policeman into giving him. In Pakistan, such things were possible. ‘I apologise, cousin. I haven’t been completely honest with you. It’s all been such a shock. But as you’re family, let me tell you the whole story. Our mother knows only that one of her sons perished in the warehouse blaze. That’s all she’ll ever know. She’s old. The truth would be too much for her. And what is the truth? The truth is that yes, my warehouse, my business, was deliberately destroyed last night. And yes, my brother was killed. But not in the fire. Zamir was knifed by a maniac who threw acid over him. Our mother couldn’t survive that knowledge.’
‘Of course, Quasim.’
‘You see, there’s something I’m trying to understand. This.’ He shook the bangle in the air. ‘This was under Zamir. Left where it was certain to be found.’
He’d made his point; the police could have their evidence back.
The room closed in on Bilal. ‘How? Who?’
‘By her. By Afra. She’s alive!’
-------
I could see lights inside the hall; it had been easy to find. Two men stood by the door, the nearest one put out his hand. ‘John.’
His friend, a tall guy, stabbed an arm at me. ‘Frank.’
Both were white and sounded English. I went inside. I was late, it had started. The room smelled musty, swirls of blue cigarette smoke circled overhead. I took a seat at the back and looked round. An overweight guy wearing a shirt and cardigan under a grey suit turned towards me. Another handshake. He whispered. ‘Colin.’
I whispered back. ‘Ralph.’
Three dozen chairs faced a table at the end of the room: two men were behind it. One of them, casual in jeans, T-shirt and an open denim jacket, was speaking. The other, an older man with cropped grey hair wearing a suit and a shirt without a tie, sat beside him. Slogans printed on laminated sheets were pinned to the walls. Simple messages: Easy Does It. Give Time Time. Think Think Think. Twenty people listened to the younger guy. Nobody looked down and out.
‘Our primary purpose is to stay sober and help other alcoholics achieve sobriety.’
So it had come to this. Ralph Buchanan, the great I Am.
The trembling in my hands reminded me why I was here. Everyone else seemed relaxed and at home, happy to sit back. I found it difficult to settle. I hadn’t felt well all day. A guy near the front read from a book. I switched off, and for the fiftieth time reconsidered my decision to come.
The man in the denim jacket introduced the person next to him. It had taken until late into the night to come to terms with what I suspected. Ironically, a couple of drinks helped me have the discussion I’d put off for years – the discussion with myself about my life and my drinking.
Simone’s reaction to the tragic way the rally had ended and how distraught she’d been at the flat, allowed a shaft of clarity to find me. Behind the passionate professional, Simone Jasnin was a fragile woman who neede
d a strong man to lean on. I wanted the job but didn’t qualify. In truth, I hadn’t been able to meet the criteria since leaving Scotland. Until now, it hadn’t bothered me.
The older man said, ‘My name’s Gert and I’m an alcoholic.’
He spoke English with an accent – Dutch, or Swiss perhaps. Everyone replied ‘Hi, Gert.’
Spooky.
But what did I have to lose? Calling the number I got online was my own idea. A woman answered and told me what I wanted to know. Sometime in the last forty- eight hours I’d arrived at a place I’d never been before: the bottom. And it hadn’t been my worst moment, not even close. That was in Germany when young Lonnie was murdered. This was the first time I’d faced the truth instead of running from it.
I was tired of running.
Gert took a sip from a Coke bottle in front of him. ‘When I came here I was sure my life was over. Thanks to my Higher Power and the fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous that was wrong. I’m sorry, my English is very bad. I’ll try to tell you something about me. My name is Gert, and one day at a time I’ve stayed sober for thirty-eight years.’
I did the math and reckoned this guy must’ve stopped drinking in his thirties. Thirty-eight years, my lifetime ago. Over the next forty minutes, Gert talked about where alcohol had taken him, and what had happened to enable him to walk away from the drug. I didn’t know what to make of it. Impressive, no doubt about it. Did it apply to me, that was the question? When Gert stopped speaking everybody clapped.
A woman and a man appeared carrying a catering-size kettle. Coffee time. The audience milled around, most of them with a cup in one hand and a sandwich in the other. They seemed to know each other, chatting and joking with an easy familiarity. Regular attendees, I assumed. A guy in a sleeveless safari jacket, all zips and flaps, ambled over and sat down. He laid his cup on the ground, wiped crumbs from his lips and offered his hand.
‘Jack.’ I hadn’t had my hand shaken so often since the night at The Dorchester when people thought I was a hero, most of them anyway.
‘You new?’
‘Yes, first time.’
‘It’s odd at first, but it works.’
‘Where are you sitting, I didn’t see you?’
‘First row. Don’t want to miss anything. My life depends on it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I can sit at the back and catch every third word, or I can hear everything. Don’t come because I’ve nothing better to do. It makes sense to take as much of it home with me as possible. Just for the record, I don’t... have anything better to do, there isn’t anything better. My condition needs to be treated on a daily basis.’
He waved a hand at the humble room with its damp smell and peeling paint. ‘This is a big part of it.’
We talked until the guy in denim rang a bell. Jack said, ‘Why don’t you sit with me?’
I followed him to the front row. The young guy said, ‘This is your part of the meeting, and Tom we’ll start with you.’
Tom, a stocky, ruddy-faced, forty-something in a tweed jacket was three places along. ‘Thanks, Alec for taking the meeting, and thanks Gert for sharing your experience, strength and hope with us. I got plenty of identification. Different drinking pattern but the same results. Alcohol and trouble. When I lost my wife, I didn’t stop. When I lost the job, I didn’t stop. When I lost my kids and my licence and, on a couple of occasions when I almost lost my life, I didn’t stop. One day I saw what I’d become. Then I decided to stop. And I couldn’t. It wasn’t my decision anymore. It hadn’t been my decision for a while.’
He cleared his throat. ‘Finally, I got here. Started doing what was suggested and was able to stop and stay stopped. That’s the way it’s been since. I joined a group and come to meetings. I’ve got a sponsor and I work the programme every day to the best of my ability. I’m not the big shot I used to be, but I’m not the unhappy egomaniac I used to be either. It’s good, really good.’
A powerful admission from an ordinary man. Whatever else it was honest.
‘I wanted what was on offer and I was “prepared to go to any lengths” to get it, as it says in the Big Book. Thanks for keeping me sane for another day. I’m glad to be here and glad to be sober.’
The chairman asked the next person if they’d like to say something and I had a frightening realisation. It would be my turn soon. Sweat broke over me, my heart beat faster, my face flushed. I didn’t want to speak. I had nothing to say, certainly not to a room full of strangers. When it came to me, I shook my head and the threat moved past. Jack talked without anxiety, similar stuff to the first guy. My heart returned to normal, and in a way I couldn’t explain, I felt foolish. I’d missed an opportunity. The chairman invited Gert to have the final word.
Gert gazed round the smoke-filled room. ‘Every day I shave.’ He stroked his chin. ‘I run hot water, take my razor and my shaving cream and get ready to start. I look in the glass. Aaaaghhh!’ He pointed. ‘In the mirror, there is the problem.’
The room rocked with laughter, then the regulars joined in a prayer. At the door, Jack said, ‘What did you think?’
‘Not sure. It was certainly very interesting,’
He handed me a scrap of paper. ‘Take my phone number. If you want to talk or feel like having a drink, give me a call. What did you say your name was?’
‘Ralph.’
‘Keep coming back, Ralph, just keep coming back.’
Chapter 25
They were walking down the dusty path, just as they always did. He tried to appear casual and kicked a stone; a cloud of dust rose and fell to the red earth path. She waited for the familiar question, ready with the well-worn reply. He pretended to be interested in where the stone had gone, following its progress through the short grass. He shuffled, tense, prepared for rejection. She frowned, bemused by his performance. How long had this been going on? How many times had they walked home in a group laughing and joking, or together in the straggling line of heavy-eyed, weary villagers? The answer was years, since they were children. And it would continue like this maybe all their lives.
He spoke, as she knew he would. ‘Will I see you tomorrow?’
They lived in Mundhi village where each day was like the one before, no different from the one after.
‘You’re a good boy,’ she said, ‘but you are nothing in the world, so no, not tomorrow, not ever.’
His jaw dropped. His heart stopped. His life was over. His eyes opened.
He was lying against the headrest staring at the roof of the car. It took a moment to realise what was happening. Then it came to him. Where he was and why. Across the street the big house held its secrets just as it had for the last three nights. Three nights of waiting and watching and seeing nothing. But it had to be done. If she was out there he had to find her.
The torched warehouse and the body were dramatic events. Dramatic, but someone else’s trouble, surely? Nothing to interest him – except the warehouse belonged to Quasim Dilawar Hussein, the man who had taken the woman he loved. Now, she was nowhere to be found. Jameel needed to be certain she was safe. Any wrong done her was his concern.
The work of a madman, Shakil told Ali; or a rival. Or a woman.
Violence was an everyday occurrence in the world, often beyond explanation. Jameel resisted the notion of a woman assassin, and he knew why. The fire and the viciousness of the attack on the brother had unsettled him. When Ali discovered no sign of Afra, Jameel’s imagination travelled a path he didn’t want to take. True, Dilawar Hussein might be divorced or separated and Afra may be back in Mundhi with no idea where he had gone. The murder and the destruction of the warehouse could have nothing to do with Quasim.
Mutilation was a different story. A jealous lover, a business rival, an unpaid debt, could have provoked it. The victim might have been the random choice of some maniac. Everything was a possibility.
Except Ali’s description of the bangle left under the body told another tale. Jewellery carved from wood was
common enough, though not like that. There were only two sets. He had one, Afra had the other. She was married to the dead man’s brother and she was missing, the reason he’d been here for the last three nights.
Jameel stretched and sighed. In the great city of Lahore he’d worked and grown and learned to forget. Seeing Dilawar Hussein in the restaurant brought it back. What Jameel Akhtar Hafeez had achieved was nothing set against the memory of what he’d lost.
There were few cars parked on the street. The big house stood dark and silent, nothing stirred. He looked at his watch and settled down to wait.
-------
Firdos opened the gate and closed it behind him. The street was empty, not surprising at this time. The family was unaware of his nocturnal forays; he wanted it to stay that way. Quasim had warned him and Chandra to be careful where they went and who they met. For days, Firdos looked over his shoulder, expecting to see his brother’s wife. Bilal’s account of how it ended made it impossible to believe she could have survived.
So what about the bangle?
It may have slipped from the assassin’s wrist during the murderous act. That would mean the killer was a woman, or someone trying to convince them it was a woman. Bilal was the last to see her alive, he might have taken the bangles and was using them to scare the family. Bilal was capable of anything. And Zamir had been an unpleasant man, not hard to believe he had an enemy.
Hiding inside the house for the rest of his life wasn’t possible, and anyway, as the youngest he was the junior partner in everything his brothers did. No one had a grudge against him. Quasim, Zamir, yes, but him? No, he couldn’t see it.
And he wanted a woman.
On the street, he kept to the shadows. When he judged he was far enough from the neighbourhood he hurried along the deserted streets, now and then glancing back. Jameel saw him close the gate and leave the house. He’d follow the brother and find out where he was going in Heera Mandi. His mind abandoned logic. Crazy thoughts tumbled out - Afra had run away and was hiding in the red-light district. This man was helping her and was on his way to meet her.