The Khan

by Saima Mir

  She washed the tired out of her eyes before looking at her reflection. Cleansed of the day’s make-up, she ran her hands over her cheeks and neck. Her face was free of lines and yet to wrinkle – the benefits of brown skin – but tiny age spots had begun appearing on her cheeks. Her eyes were worn, her skin not as taut as it once was – she was definitely older, and a lot wiser. She checked her phone for messages, hoping for something from Benyamin, but there was nothing. She wondered if he was home yet, and made a mental note to spend some time with him away from here. She wanted to make things right between them and knew that her mother’s shadow wouldn’t allow the frank conversation they needed to have.

  Her mother was waiting for her outside the bathroom, clutching Jia’s shawl. She wrapped the soft material around her daughter’s shoulders and brought it up to her head, covering the loose hair the way she used to do when Jia was a teenager. The duplicitous world of men expected women to be draped in honour. ‘This looks like the kind of thing Akbar Khan would choose,’ she said, her voice faltering at the name of her husband.

  ‘He sent it to me,’ said Jia. ‘I never understood why he gave us gifts on Father’s Day.’

  ‘Your father, always a gentle soul,’ her mother replied, her voice quieter than usual. ‘Few people know that about him. But, then, he lived every day for his children…’ Her voice trailed off and Jia noticed her hands were shaking. She put her arms around her mother as Sanam Khan had done to her so many times throughout her childhood. She found herself swelling with tenderness and sadness in equal measure.

  ‘It’s OK, Mama, I’m here now,’ she whispered. She helped her mother down the stairs, Sanam Khan leaning heavily on her daughter. Jia reached for the bannister; the wedding flowers that were wrapped around it crumpled under her touch.

  Sanam Khan took each step carefully, holding her daughter tight, afraid of what letting go would mean. Akbar Khan had left the house abruptly after the party ended. In his youth, he would have taken the stairs two by two to tell her he was leaving, but his knees weren’t what they used to be and so he had called up to her, saying he’d be back soon. But he wasn’t, and instead Bazigh Khan was here, his face solemn, his eyes pitch black. This house had seen some dark days and her God had demanded His dues. Something told her that there was worse still to come.

  ***

  Standing by the fireplace, watching the embers rise and fall, Jia listened to Bazigh Khan, his words chilling her to the bone. She pulled her chador tight around her shoulders and up across the nape of her neck to warm herself. ‘Tell me again, from the beginning, Lala,’ she said.

  But Bazigh Khan wasn’t prepared to repeat the story so soon. ‘The words almost took my life the first time they left my lips,’ he whispered. He had been standing since he arrived at the house. His legs were getting heavy but he dared not sit for fear of not rising again.

  ‘Baba, sit down,’ said Idris to his father.

  ‘How can I sit in the warmth while Akbar Khan lies on a cold slab?’ he said. He took a deep breath, letting the alien feelings that ran through him settle. He knew that other people, normal people, called them guilt and fear. But he had not been like everyone else for such a long time. He was Bazigh Khan, defender of the Khan: his job was to stand between death and his brother and snatch him back from the heavenly farishtay when they came, but he had failed. He had left his brother’s side and his duties early, and the angel of death had taken Akbar Khan.

  He’d only gone because Akbar had pressed him. ‘The Khan should be guarded day and night. It is one of the unwritten rules of the family,’ he had reminded his brother. But shortly after, when Akbar Khan received the call about Benyamin, he’d ignored protocol and chosen to travel alone, telling his guards to meet him at the place where they’d heard Benyamin was being held.

  When he didn’t arrive, the guards went looking for him. It didn’t take them long: a black Bentley with private plates is hard to miss on a winding country road. Less than two hours after saying goodnight to his brother, Bazigh Khan got a call telling him the Khan was dead.

  ‘It was not like him to take such a risk,’ said Bazigh Khan, shaking his head.

  The moon had been full and fat that night, casting its light like little drops of honey on the leaves that filled out the lush hills and valleys. The guards had found the car parked in the layby of a nearby beauty spot, Akbar Khan beside it, still wearing the black shervani Maria had picked out for him for the wedding reception. A grey blanket had been draped over him, as if to stop him feeling the chill. The men had moved the blanket to find his face pressed deep into the soft brown mud, five bullets in the back of his head. He had been shot at close range. The black brocade hid the bloodstains well, and from a distance he looked like an old man who, feeling tired, had taken a nap next to his car after a picnic. The men who found him had fallen to their knees and wept like children at their father’s grave. They had lost their protector, and who now would answer to God on their behalf?

  Idris stood by his father’s side, one hand on his shoulder. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror – his clothes crumpled, the red lines of sleep still evident in his eyes. This night had aged him. Standing by the window, his cousin Jia, however, looked fresher than her middle years. Her hair covered, her face washed clean, she seemed to have shed some of her burdens.

  He remembered his Quran teacher telling him that believers are mirrors for each other, silently reflecting back their truth. Unwittingly, Jia Khan’s mirror cast light on the weaknesses of others. The strong among them took note; the weak, no doubt, blamed her for their own inadequacies. It was something he had observed at the wedding, but he realised now that she had always had this presence about her. She was clever and unflinching, and he saw in her a hierarchy of destructive potential and his place within it. Maybe it had seemed more pronounced tonight because she no longer cared about anything in this world – Zan’s death had seen to that – or maybe it was just the way she was made, only he hadn’t recognised it before. Whatever it was, Idris knew that if he could see it, then so could everyone else. There was no honour among thieves; the pack needed someone they feared to keep them in line. Idris wondered if Jia Khan could accept who she was before it was too late, and in so doing save the family before its demands destroyed her.

  The call for Fajr interrupted his thoughts. It was followed by silence, and each person playing their part. Sitting in an armchair by the window, Sanam Khan wiped her tears with her shawl. She was heartbroken at her husband’s death. The thought that she might be mourning her child as well as her husband skirted her mind, and she resolved only to mourn when Benyamin returned home.

  ‘We must proceed carefully or face financial ruin,’ Bazigh Khan warned. He was not a slow-hardened man; it was the heavy hammer of a single experience that had shaped him, and his words were often blunt. In other families, this was not the time to mention business and money, but they were not like other families, and Jia understood his reasons well. Her uncle was readying himself for war. But the warning sufficed; the rest of that discussion could wait. Today, he would speak of his brother.

  ‘Akbar Khan was a great man, a good man, one who knew that to steal was more honourable than to spread one’s hands before another,’ he said. ‘He chose to face the wrath of God rather than bow to a master. And on this day, my sister, as he stands before his Lord, no curtain between them and no earthly body, I pray for great mercy on him, as he showed mercy to so many of us.’

  It was customary to talk of the dead in this way, to scoop out memories and feast on them for three days, no more, no less. It was how the mourners healed. The coming days would be full of this.

  ‘We must make preparations for the Janaza and for his afterlife. I have given orders for five hundred poor families to be given flour and meat and provisions across the provinces of our people. I hope you feel it is enough. We can do more if you so wish.’

  Sanam Khan nodded without really listening. She was unable to focus on the a
fterlife of her husband while her son’s earthly life was in the balance.

  ‘There will be time to mourn my father, Lala,’ Jia said softly but firmly. ‘Right now our concern must be for Benyamin. We don’t know how much time we have. Please tell us again everything you know.’

  It was beginning to get light by the time Bazigh Khan finished recounting the night’s events. Unbeknown to him, his brother had sent men to bring news of Benyamin after he failed to show up for the rukhsati.

  ‘He received a call soon after the wedding,’ Bazigh Khan said. ‘I must have just left. The men had found out that Benyamin was being held by a group called the Brotherhood in the old textile mills.’

  The factories had once been the financial backbone of the city, a flourishing industry that had attracted workers from India and Pakistan, feeding their families and changing the course of their lives. Then everything changed. The workers stayed but the work travelled to the countries they had once called home. The mills remained dormant for decades until regeneration projects opened them up again. The Khan had business interests in these buildings and some of his foot soldiers owned apartments there. It wouldn’t have taken long for the information about Benyamin to reach him.

  Bazigh Kahn groaned again. ‘I wish I had known what was going on. I would have stopped him going. I could have handled the situation myself.’

  ‘He would not have listened to you. You know what Baba was like.’

  ‘You must not think ill of your father, Jia, he was a brave man,’ said Bazigh Khan. ‘We will defend your honour, and when Ben jaan is home and our Khan is buried, we will have vengeance – we will invoke badal. As his eldest child, you are the only one capable of doing what must be done. The law of Pukhtunwali demands it.’

  ‘This life of ours has already swallowed one of my children – must it take more?’ said Sanam Khan. She was tired and unable to hold it together any longer. The tears came and she wept.

  Jia wiped her mother’s eyes. ‘We will find a way to fix this,’ she said.

  ‘If they were going to kill him, they would have done so by now,’ said Idris, kneeling beside his Sanam Khan. ‘Instead they have moved him – we’ve checked the old mills. He’s not there. They must be hoping to buy some time. Don’t worry, we will bring Ben home. Now, why don’t you go and see if the chai is ready?’ He understood that his aunt needed a task, and feeding her family would give her a sense of purpose. She nodded, kissing his forehead as she left the room.

  When she’d gone, Jia took her seat. ‘What do we know about this Brotherhood?’ she asked Idris.

  ‘Not much,’ he replied. ‘Andrzej Nowak is the head of the group – he’s fairly new in town.’

  ‘I’ve met him,’ said Jia, with a grimace. ‘I defended his cousin on a drugs charge last year.’

  ‘They are from across Eastern Europe, but the kids here assume they’re all Polish, hence the name “Brotherhood”. They’ve been here for a few years, making in-roads in a couple of other cities. Some of the kids whose parents came here when our fathers did have joined them. But some of our boys have married their women and so we keep track of things. They’ve not really caused any major trouble until now. Your father asked me to look into their dealings last month. He said they were angling for control, trying to take apart the Jirga and pick its proceeds. He knew they were planning something but I never thought they would be brave enough to kill him, and this soon.’

  Jia listened intently to her cousin. Idris was the Khan’s lawyer and chief adviser. He knew everything there was to know about the family business. If the old ways had continued he would have been her husband, and it was widely known that Akbar Khan had hoped his daughter would choose her eldest cousin as a spouse. The arrival of Elyas had ended the hope of a familial union, but while the open secret could have caused bad blood between other families, Jia and Idris were different to most people. He held her in high regard and she recognised in him sound judgement. She knew that the death of Akbar Khan would leave a gaping wound in the Pukhtun brotherhood; it required the kind of ‘handling’ that only a Pukhtun man with a steady hand and a steel mind could do. She was glad he was here. ‘You should speak to the Jirga, Idris. This is not my world, but you understand it,’ she said.

  Trusted, respected and obsessed with detail, her cousin was an important linchpin in the Khan empire. But he knew he was no leader. ‘No,’ Idris said. ‘It’s not my place. I have laid the groundwork and I’ll do whatever you need, but the succession must continue with you.’

  He had spoken briefly to key members of the Jirga on his way over to the house, to break the news and to reassure them. ‘The families are setting up a meeting for later today. They are demanding justice,’ he said. ‘Akbar Khan worked hard to unite them through marriage and business alliances, but I’m afraid the ties of kinship may not be enough. If you do not assert your right today and in front of the collective Jirga, they will see it as weakness and there will be war.’

  The death of Akbar Khan would have far-reaching consequences if not handled correctly. It was Jia’s actions that would now determine the future of the city and those who lived there. Idris prayed to God that she understood the gravity of what she was about to undertake.

  CHAPTER 19

  ‘Good or bad, he’s closer than your jugular vein,’ said John, raising his eyebrows at his old friend.

  Elyas laughed. ‘Since when does an atheist quote the Quran?’ he said.

  ‘Round these parts it’s what they’d say about your father-in-law,’ said John. He was one of the few people Elyas trusted. He told the truth and he told it cold. It came with the territory. John and Elyas had known each other for over two decades and despite distance their friendship had remained strong.

  When the Recorder’s editor had announced he was taking a sabbatical for six months, Elyas jumped at the chance to work beside his old friend. Taking over the chief’s office was not just another job for him. It meant more than warm news-sheet and black ink. This was the Khan’s local paper. If anyone knew what was really going on with Jia’s family, it was the reporters who worked here. And Elyas needed familiarity.

  ‘It won’t happen,’ the school careers adviser had said when he’d mentioned his plans to become a journalist. ‘Media is not for people like you.’ For a while Elyas believed him. But, thankfully, university changed that, giving him back the confidence to follow his dreams. After graduating, he’d gone to work at his local paper. The first day on the job, he’d understood his careers adviser’s warning: Elyas’s was the only brown face in the newsroom.

  The distance from the cub reporter’s desk to the chief’s corner office, inch by inch, was a measure of how far he had come. He looked out at the team of weekend staff through the glass wall that separated them, as they sifted through the details of the day’s breaking story – the death of Akbar Khan. He’d been left reeling when Jia had phoned him with the news. So when John got in touch to see how he was, he offered to come into the office to help piece the story together, even though he wasn’t officially supposed to start until Monday. It would take his mind off the personal fallout from this news. Ahad’s grandfather was dead before they’d even been introduced.

  The newsroom hadn’t changed much in the years since Elyas had left. Newspapers were still strewn across the floor, desks and printers, some of them yellowing, their edges beginning to curl. Subs still shouted at fresh-faced journalists, and endless cups still filled the kitchen sink. The smell of the fridge left Elyas wondering if anyone had cleaned it since he’d left. Reporters still hunched over desks, stared at their screens, bashed keyboards and snapped pens, as news editors with papers to fill remained as antsy as ever, if not more so. The arrival of the internet age had made life for print journalists precarious.

  John, who’d never left, was now their crime reporter. His reasons for staying were mainly family-related. His wife was the social affairs correspondent and their three children were settled in local schools. He’d thought of movin
g, especially with the industry dying, but had never quite found the right post. John was an old-fashioned hack: TV and radio were not for him, and the jump to internet… Well, that was too risky with a family. ‘I’ve got a comfortable seat on a sinking ship,’ he’d told Elyas. ‘Let’s see if a lifeboat turns up, eh?’ And so he’d stayed. Easy to get along with, he looked like a newspaperman out of one of the 1920s detective novels he read and wrote for a hobby.

  First day back on the job and Elyas found himself knee-deep in photographs and clippings as he and John looked through the background on Akbar Khan. Not all content had been digitised. Elyas knew most of Akbar Khan’s history by heart and the cuttings did little more than refresh his memory. Heartbreak and Google were stalking companions, and while there wasn’t much about Jia online, there was plenty about her father.

  The men stopped as one of the reporters came in carrying newspapers fresh off the press. The reporter piled them on Elyas’s desk and left. ‘Why are we going through these old stories and not getting someone else to do it?’ John asked.

  ‘This is personal to me.’

  John nodded. He knew exactly how personal it was. Tentatively, he broached the subject. ‘Did Jia say anything else?’ he asked.

  Elyas shook his head. ‘Just that the funeral will be on Monday. And that I should bring Ahad.’

  ‘What? She wants you to bring Ahad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  John shook his head. ‘Are you sure that’s wise? I mean, her dad told her that he was dead. Is his funeral the best place for a reunion?’

  Elyas shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Ahad wants to go. He’s getting a train up here this afternoon. None of this is easy.’

  ‘What I never understood was how she believed that he was dead. Surely she needed to bury her child, name him, find some closure, something? But she just carried on. And then Khan left him with you. What the fuck was that all about?’