by Owen Mullen
Jameel had been joined by a new enemy: himself.
-------
The decision was the right one. Alone in the shadows she wasn’t so sure. The first time had been so easy, it ought to get easier. Instead, she was paralysed with fear, sweat running in rivulets down her arms while the sounds of the city were unknown terrors.
Ralph Buchanan had been her great hope – before the rally, the point of no return. What happened forced her to do something she had avoided. Making a real commitment. Nothing changed until someone changed it. Until the riot, the responsibility wasn’t hers.
She could still picture the smiling faces before the woman set herself on fire. What hellish demons had driven her? After that, firing into the crowd crossed a line; the injustice of it overwhelmed Simone. In the car with Ralph, her silence was a mixture of shock and anger, and something else: a realisation of why she’d returned to Pakistan.
She pulled the hood over her head, black to blend with the night. An image of a little girl walking with her father – holding his hand – carried her to a simpler time. Simone loved her father, he’d been a good man, but she’d outgrown him and his ideas.
Footsteps. Someone was coming.
The doctor screwed up her courage. Tonight had nothing to do with gardens or towers or golden yesterdays. The steps grew louder. Her heart beat faster.
Time to be ready. And she was.
-------
The brother followed the route taken the night Ali saw him. Jameel trailed at a distance, gradually closing the gap between them. Ali had let him go, he wouldn’t. Firdos relaxed the further he got from the house; his shoulders opened, his back straightened. He began to enjoy himself.
On and on through the shifting landscape of Lahore at play. Touts outside restaurants called to him, assuring the best seat, the best price, the best food; his if he would stop. Jameel ran the same gauntlet of promises. One look at his face was enough to persuade the most indefatigable barker this customer was beyond reach. He lost sight of Firdos, sometimes for a few minutes. Panic took hold, washed away when he spotted the brother striding ahead, as focused on his objective as Jameel was on him.
The streets narrowed, winding canyons of semi-darkness between some of the oldest buildings in the city. The sound of late-night diners and excited conversation were left behind and the labyrinth ended. Carts selling food and flowers lined up under the night sky as people went about their business. Quasim’s younger brother disappeared into an alley.
Firdos had no destination, only his lust was fixed. He’d know what he was looking for when he found it; it was always the way. Two women talking in hushed voices glanced as he passed and returned to their conspiracy. Deeper into Heera Mandi, he took a turn to the left and saw a figure in the shadows, clothed from head to foot in black.
Firdos smiled. ‘I’ve been searching for you.’
They embraced.
‘And I you.’
The blade plunged into his neck, releasing a jet of warm blood that sprayed the ancient cobble stones. Like his brother Zamir, Firdos Dilawar Hussein met death with confusion in his eyes. The last thing he saw was a surprise to him.
Jameel almost fell over the body. Moments ago this had been a living, breathing man. Now, it was a cooling carcass on a grubby street, surrounded by garbage and the smell of cats.
He forced himself not to run, dreading someone would come. His fingers scraped the earth, worn smooth by countless pilgrims to the shrine of pleasure, and touched something wet and sticky. Bile gurgled bitter in his throat.
It was lying next to the head. Even in the poor light Jameel knew what it was, he’d caressed the others too many times to be mistaken.
-------
There were days when the Lahore detective hated his job. This was one of those days. At the warehouse fire Rana had found it difficult to sympathise with Quasim Dilawar Hussein despite his loss. He set his opinions aside; this man’s family were victims. First Zamir now Firdos. To have lost two brothers as well as your business was an awful thing. He’d expected to see the head of the household stricken with grief, distraught beyond words. Not so. In the main room, Quasim held himself straight. Rana offered his hand. Quasim ignored it and the detective felt his expression tighten.
Quasim was brusque. ‘Do you think you’ll have more success in the search for Firdos’ killer than you did with Zamir’s? Perhaps someone else would be more effective? Maybe you’re not the right man for the job?’
It was impossible to like this person.
‘We’re piecing together your brother’s movements last night. Have you any idea what he was doing in Heera Mandi?’
Quasim sniffed. ‘I should have thought that was obvious.’
‘As to my fitness to conduct this investigation, that’s for others to decide.’
‘And have you discovered anything?’
‘So far not much, there are no witnesses and few clues.’
‘Few? So you have something?’
Quasim Dilawar Hussein wasn’t struggling to come to terms with the deaths. Even in these tragic circumstances, the role of interrogator belonged to him. Rana walked to the window and bent to look at the bird in the cage. ‘An unusual pet if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘At last! A subject you know. And unusual, how so? There must be millions in Pakistan.’
Rana let the insult go. ‘Birds are a hobby of mine. This is a Blue Rock.’
Quasim’s reply was sarcastic and terse. ‘Is it really?’
‘A thrush. A wild bird not meant to live in captivity. How does it survive?’
‘It adapts. It has no choice. Now can we concentrate on the case in hand instead of talking nonsense? Tell me what you’ve found out.’
Rana was reluctant to share the discovery of the bangle, Quasim pressed him. ‘Otherwise I’ll speak to your superior. Surely you don’t want that?’
The threat failed to impress the detective. A few more months and he wouldn’t have to put up with arrogant bastards like this.
‘I insist on knowing.’
Rana was blunt. He’d had enough of this man’s bullying. ‘Very well. Firdos died from a single stab wound to the throat. We found a wooden bangle similar to the one underneath Zamir. What does that mean to you?’
Quasim’s arrogance evaporated. His voice faltered. ‘Nothing.’
Chapter 26
‘I never took drugs. All my life I avoided that shit. It scared me. And I didn’t like the types they attracted – hippie-losers, drop-outs, talentless dreamers. Weak people.’
He held up two fingers in a peace sign and put on a faraway face. ‘Yeah, colours, man. I hated all that crap.’
It got the laugh he expected. He took a deep drag on his cigarette and tapped the ash from the end. ‘So none of that came my way. I stuck to something I understood and started small: a couple of beers before I went to a dance. Didn’t think it was a drug. Now I know different. Not just any drug, the world’s favourite drug. I bought into the clever marketing: beautiful people drifting over the Nile in a balloon, or running along a Caribbean beach. Completely acceptable socially, unless you’re addicted to it, and that’s okay as long as everyone you’re with is addicted too. But when you start to stand out from the crowd, all of a sudden it’s not acceptable anymore. You’re not acceptable. When it starts to really work. Works so well you can’t get through the day without the fucking stuff, then…
‘Then it’s a different story. I started drinking so I could be on the inside looking out. By the end no one wanted to know me. I was on the outside looking in. Always.’
He paused to let his words get through.
‘I couldn’t stop. Alcohol, the drug I’d trusted, had me as hooked as any junkie. And for years, I didn’t know it.’
He pulled another lungful of smoke out of the cigarette. ‘Cunning, baffling, powerful. Today I see that. Back then, all I saw was the next glass, the next bottle.’
In the first row, I listened, unsure exactly why I’
d come back to my third meeting in eight days. But I had. Talking to people during the coffee break and hearing them speak about their experiences told me things I hadn’t known. Everybody I met was from outside the country. Some had had well paid jobs, some still did. They shared a common problem and a common solution. I was no longer alone.
One or two faces were familiar, Jack wasn’t one of them. Back at the flat the first night I’d done a strange thing. Made a cup of tea. Without milk. There wasn’t any milk. It tasted all right. Something Jack had said at the end of the first meeting stayed with me.
‘Keep coming back, Ralph, just keep coming back.’
I’d taken his advice.
-------
Two nights later I took it again. This time the man at the table – the top table they called it – was Australian, at least his accent sounded Australian. He was somewhere in his mid-thirties, five o’clock shadow colouring his lantern jaw in charcoal. He wore a checked shirt and smoked all the time, lighting a new one off the smoldering tip of the last. That wasn’t the addiction he was fighting.
I sat in the front row again. The shakes were gone and I hadn’t had a panic attack since the rally. That had been the alcohol; pulling away too fast, from excess to zero. There had been a few shaky times but each day it got better. I’d started to eat and had managed to write a belated overview piece on the riot. It even crossed my mind to earn my money for a change.
There was no word from Simone; she hadn’t returned my calls and I worried about her. In the meetings, I’d heard “the most important person you meet in A.A. is yourself.” That made sense in a way I couldn’t explain. The proof was on too many faces to be denied. “It works if you work it.” It was already working for me. Someone shared they were glad to be alcoholic. I didn’t know about that. I did know I didn’t want to drink. More than enough for now. I felt better. My head was clearer. I saw life in a new light. One question wouldn’t let go. What part had I played in it all?
Little by little, I was uncovering the truth about myself. I’d let Jo-Jo’s name slip to force an early capitulation from those carrion at MEDICAL. What kind of man would do that? The answer was the kind of man I no longer wanted to be.
In the toilet at The Dorchester, Stanley Dow had been right to blame me. The order from my editor was to get out of harm’s way. I’d ignored it and Lonnie Harper had paid the price: ego, pride, the great I Am. Yet, I was changing. At least, I was willing to change.
It had been a long painful journey to the bottom but now I was striking out for the surface, taking the first unsteady strokes towards clean air.
I tried Simone again and didn’t leave a message.
* * *
------
* * *
After the meeting, I didn’t feel like going home. The hotel bar was exactly as I remembered. ‘George’ was on. I hadn’t seen him in a while though any thoughts he might have about my absence, he kept to himself. ‘Good evening, sir.’
‘Good evening yourself. Coke and ice, please.’
He poured the drink, condensation frosting the bottle. I’d been coming here almost from the beginning and I didn’t know this man’s name. I asked and he told me it was Ibraheem.
Five men sat at the back, western faces above western clothes. I didn’t rate these guys and usually avoided them. Tonight, I needed to touch base with people in the business because, despite my best efforts, I was still a journalist. I took my drink over to the group. One said, ‘Long time no see. Where’ve you been hiding?’ Layers of fat rippled under his chin. I sat down. ‘Been ill. I’m recovering. What’s going on?’
‘Apart from the rally, not a lot. See the pictures of the woman?’
I was there
right at the front,
I saw her burn
could smell it
‘Doesn’t do much for Pakistan’s image. And the warehouse fire was definitely arson.’
‘What warehouse fire?’
‘Same night. Somebody killed one of the owners and torched the place. They’re certain it was murder – the body was found outside. Speculation it might not be a coincidence.’
‘What’s the connection?’
‘It’s just talk.’
‘Who was the victim?’
‘Somebody called Dilawar Hussein.’
Suddenly he had my attention.
‘How did he die?’
‘Knifed. A couple of dozen times.’
‘Have they got anybody for it?’
‘Not so far. Police issued a statement then closed down.’
‘Which Dilawar Hussein?’
‘Middle son, Zamir.’
‘What about motive?’
‘Nobody knows. Sounds like your kind of thing.’
you used to be good
I lifted my drink and went back to the bar. What I’d heard had shaken me. On a stool at the end was a familiar face. Dan Meiklejohn. We hadn’t spoken in years. He raised his head from a Punjabi newspaper and smiled. ‘Hello Ralph. Still fooling some of the people all of the time?’
Meiklejohn was a lifer who had worked in just about every war zone in the past couple of decades. Three divorces and crippling alimony persuaded him to bury himself in Pakistan. He was a bear of a man, fifty-five with a fleshy face and a loner’s disposition. Our paths crossed in the good old days. We weren’t friends but we weren’t enemies, either. We appreciated each other. ‘Tipple?’
‘No thanks, Dan. Coke.’
‘Good idea. Wish I could do it.’ He signalled the barman for a refill. ‘Still here, then?’
‘Nowhere else to go.’
The drink arrived with the coaster and the bowl of nuts. Standards.
‘Cheers.’ Meiklejohn took a healthy pull. ‘Watched you mingling with our brain-dead colleagues at the back. Learn anything interesting?’
‘They were telling me about the warehouse murder.’
Meiklejohn snorted in the direction of Bob and the others. ‘Those guys.’
‘They’re happy.’
‘Happy idiots. Don’t believe a word they say.’
‘They reckon it might be linked to the rally.’
‘Based on what exactly? The body in the fire was stabbed thirty-three times and mutilated. The dead man had acid poured on him. They mention that?’
Acid and the Dilawar Hussein family.
‘On his genitals.’
‘Fucking hell!’
‘Looks like revenge. The police are keeping quiet about it. And here’s the thing. Last night there was another one, in Heera Mandi. Same family.’
My throat felt dry. I lifted the Coke and drank.
‘Firdos Dilawar Hussein, found in an alley.’
‘Mutilated?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘How do you know all this, Dan?’
‘Because, although I’m hiding from a shit-storm back home, I’m still working, still got my ear to the ground.’
Meiklejohn finished his drink in one swallow. ‘Last night might just be bad timing. A boy goes where he shouldn’t and ends up dead. But two sons gone and the business up in smoke in less than a couple of weeks...’
He let me draw my own conclusions.
‘The first was a savage out-of-control attack that suggests the killer and the victim knew each other. Genital mutilation is sexual. Could mean the attacker’s female. Women move freely in Heera Mandi. Ever been? Don’t answer that.’
‘You’re saying the killer’s a woman?’
‘I’m not saying anything, Ralph.’
‘Thanks for bringing me up to speed. Appreciate it.’
I had to think, had to get out of here. Meiklejohn caught my arm and I realised he was drunk. ‘Whoa boy, not so fast. Under the body at the warehouse the police found something.’
‘What?’
‘Found another one in Heera Mandi.’
‘Another what?’
‘The killer left a signature. A bangle. Now who wears stuff like that?’
&nb
sp; My heart stopped and started again. ‘Got to go.’
I hadn’t spoken to Simone in over a week. What I was thinking was ridiculous.
wars need deeds not talk
and soldiers not bystanders
Meiklejohn said, ‘Give me your number.’
I wrote on a napkin, he did the same.
‘Wondering why I told you?’ He tapped the side of my glass. ‘You’re drinking Coke. Whisky you’d have got nada. Loose lips and all that. Then again, three divorces say my judgement’s flawed.’ Meiklejohn grinned. ‘But only with wives, Ralph, only with them.’
Chapter 27
Still no answer from Simone. I left a message and replaced the receiver.
The time for games had passed. I needed to talk to her and find out what was going on. Already I was stronger than when we’d last met. Strong enough not to get involved in something bad? Yes, I believed I was. Strong enough to stand in the way of a woman bent on changing the world? I doubted it. The conversation with Dan Meiklejohn had come out of the blue, his information called up more possibilities than I could handle. And I didn’t kid myself: I was in love with the dark-haired doctor. Loved her commitment, her passion, her refusal of the easier options she might have chosen for her life; her eyes, her smile, all of her.
But, if underneath was a cold-hearted murderer bringing an awful kind of justice to those she believed deserved it, what then? What if that was the real Simone? A whisky thought crossed my mind. I resisted it and tried to find some clarity. I was still a journalist, what were the facts? Not theories or suspicions – the facts. What did I actually know? That question underlined a sad truth; avoiding ex-wives hadn’t prevented Dan Meiklejohn from keeping his oar in the water. He had contacts. I had none. The police would refer me to a statement, and I’d have...