by Farah Cook
I knock on Mrs Nesbit’s door and she opens it, tells me to come inside. She offers me a cup of tea. From the kettle, she pours hot water into a mug.
‘How is your mum? We were all worried about her.’ I curl my fingers around the cup and blow on the hot surface.
I don’t say anything. I am surprised. She appears different, calm and understanding. Watching her for all those years across the road, she is not the nosy woman I imagined her to be. ‘Mum’s doing well. She’s in a care home now.’
‘I am glad Afrah is doing better. It was hard seeing her health decline. She used to be such a jolly woman. Would invite everyone over for tea and Pakistani sweets. What are those colourful things called again?’
‘Mithai.’
‘That’s it. She’d cook a lovely big pot of curry and share it among us. We adored her. Such a shame when her memory declined. Dementia can be awful. Changes people. My husband passed away five years ago. He had Alzheimer’s. Bless Gerald. He spent his last days in a care home. It was impossible for me to look after him. He hardly remembered me.’
‘Mrs Nesbit,’ I sip the tea. ‘Did you ever call the social services to report Mum asking them to take her away?’
‘Why would I do that? I’ve known Afrah since she moved to the neighbourhood. She was so vulnerable during those early years, a young Pakistani widow, a single mother. I used to look after you when she had late night shifts working at the convenient store. Don’t you remember? You couldn’t have been older than five or six.’
‘No, that’s not true. Mum didn’t move here when she was a widow – she’s lived here with me all her life.’
‘Your mother told me she had moved from Glasgow. She needed a new start and wanted to make new friends. She was quite traumatised about something that had happened. Let me think, what was it? Something about friends accusing her of stealing some gold bracelets. Turns out it was hers that got stolen. Poor Afrah, how she loves her jewellery.’
I remember Mum wandering around the house late at night. She’d wake me and say, She took my bracelets. We must go to her house and get them back. I thought she was imagining things. Mum’s always been obsessed with those bracelets. Even had to try on Nadia’s. The nights she woke me up, I looked for them to show her where they were. I assured her no one would take them. She always ignored me and delved into her own little world. I knew she kept secrets. I just never knew what they were.
‘Mum never said anything about living in Glasgow or having friends there.’
‘Afrah cut them off. Didn’t want anything to do with them. She told me that they were close friends of your father’s.’
‘Did you ever know my father?’
She shakes her head. ‘Afrah only mentioned that after he died in the house fire, she moved out to the Highlands.’
‘What house fire, Mrs Nesbit?’ You are mistaken. Dad didn’t die in a fire.’
‘Look for the scar on your calf. You got it in the fire Afrah rescued you from.’
How does she know about my scar? I pull up my trousers and run my hand over it.
‘Surely you must have read about the fire incident. Afrah kept the newspaper clippings. She even showed them to me. I think there was a young girl, too, about fourteen who went missing after the fire, and if I remember correctly—’
‘Are you telling me that for all these years, she has been lying to me?’
I get up and thank her for the tea and make my way to the door.
‘Amira? Where are you going?’
I leave Mrs Nesbit’s house and go straight back to ours. I begin to sort out Mum’s documents, making sure nothing is missing from the boxes. I check statement of the old bills, showing an address in Glasgow, which means Mum did lie to me. Mrs Nesbit was right. She lived in Glasgow before moving to Inverness. Why did Mum keep it a secret from me?
I discover cassettes, and slot one of them into the player. Old Hindi songs stream through the speaker and I recognise the tunes she would hum for me when I was little. I re-examine the photographs of the same two faces I cannot place in the puzzle. It doesn’t make sense. Who is the man? And that girl, she looks so familiar, her smile, the way she’s running along the shoreline. Who is she? They can’t be family. Mum always said we have no other family. It’s always just been the two of us.
Something is missing. I stand on the foot stool and search through the cupboard with my hands. Hidden at the back, I find a third box. That’s the one Mum didn’t want me to look at the day I packed her things. She must have hidden it afterwards. What’s in there that she doesn’t want me to see?
I pull the box out and uncover a bunch of old newspaper articles. I read some of the headlines. Mrs Nesbit was right. There was a fire – Nadeem Malik, deceased. But the man in the picture is not my father. Or is he? I rush down and look at the frame hanging against the wall. I Google Daniel Day-Lewis. I scroll through several images until I find the exact same one hanging in the wooden frame where he is leaning against an apple tree, with the backdrop of an orchard.
Mum used to look at the photograph and ask, Why do you keep a picture of that Hollywood actor? I repeatedly told her, ‘It’s your late husband, Nadeem. You gave me that photo, don’t you remember?’ She shook her head and said, Areee, don’t be silly Mimi. It didn’t upset me, not as much as it does now. She made up a lie and gave me a photograph and had me fooled into believing that this man was my father. And I believed her. What an idiot I’ve been. I tear the frame off the wall and smash it into pieces.
I go through the rest of the stuff and find my original birth certificate. I was born in Glasgow Royal Infirmary. I find another birth certificate. I bring a shaking hand up to my mouth.
I had a sister. Mona Malik.
I glimpse at the headlines of the newspaper articles and find the front-page news story, the one that mentions a fourteen-year-old girl of Pakistani origin. I read the full article. Missing daughter of Afrah Malik presumed dead after a terrible accident during a fire in the family’s home in Glasgow. The address matches the old bills. But that’s not all. I now realise that it’s her story, a true story that’s been haunting Mum for more than thirty years. She lost a daughter, and has ever since has been plagued by her death.
I remember the day I picked up Mum from Haroon’s place Shafi told me, Nano kept saying Mona is missing. Mona might be dead. Who is Mona?
It all makes sense, and I see the pieces of the puzzle come together. The man in my dream was my father. The girl next to him was my sister. And it was me – I was the baby in the stroller. They died in a house fire over thirty years ago in Glasgow. That explains Mum’s phobia of fires. Her need to connect with her missing daughter through the front-page news.
Mum had a fall out, an argument with Dad’s friends who accused her of stealing their gold bracelets. Her own obsession with jewellery proves she carried the trauma, which I never understood till now. But why wouldn’t she tell me any of this?
What is she really hiding from me?
I look at the photographs in the newspapers – it’s them, I am certain of it. It’s Dad and my sister Mona. Mum did everything in her power to make sure I would never know the truth about what happened to them. She moved away, started a new life for herself and for me. All these years, I lived on the lie she fed me. How could she do this? How could she betray my trust like this? I deserve to know the truth.
I dial Haroon’s number. He’s not answering. I leave a message. ‘I need an urgent favour. Could you ask your relatives in Glasgow if they ever knew my parents, Nadeem and Afrah Malik? Or may have friends who might have known them? It appears we lived there before moving to Inverness. And, I also had a sister . . .
‘Mona Malik. She was in a fire over thirty years ago with Dad and has been missing ever since. I only just found out going through Mum’s old things. Haroon, she never told me! She lied to me and I need your help to find out why. I can’t trust Mum.’
I hang up and take out Dr Abdullah’s card. I dial his number. There�
��s a beep and I leave a message. ‘My name is Amira Malik. I have your number from my ex-husband, Dr Haroon Khan. This may be unexpected – I understand if you don’t want to call me back, but did you ever know a Nadeem and Afrah Malik? Nadeem was my dad. He died in a fire over thirty years ago in Glasgow. I also had a sister Mona Malik who was in the same fire.’ I hang up.
This is stupid. What do I hope to find out? Just because he’s a retired old doctor doesn’t mean he knows every Pakistani who died in Glasgow. I remind myself that it is in the nature of our community to help one another. We go by caste, by reputation, so that we can check on each other when we need to. There’s a small beacon of hope inside me that says maybe Dr Abdullah knew Dad and my family.
My phone vibrates and I instantly take the call. ‘Hello? . . . Yes, speaking . . . Now wait a minute, before making any hasty decisions Mrs Brown. I am sorry, I understand what you’re saying. No one will be there. Everyone is leaving tonight? OK . . . Sorry, I didn’t mean to—I’ll leave straight away. Expect me to be there within the next thirty minutes.’
I hang up and stumble over the box. At a closer look, I find a diary in the bottom next to a silver tin. I open the rusty lid full of broken seashells. Mum always liked collecting those. The diary has a musty smell to it. I flick to the first page, which says, ‘This diary belongs to Mona Malik’. My heart skips a beat. My sister kept a dairy? I read the first entry. My nerves begin to stir like cut-off wires.
Outside, snow is tumbling down from the sky like cotton balls. The weather forecast predicted heavy snowfall with the chance of a blizzard. Glistening crystals land softly in my hair. It’s going to be a white Christmas this year. I start the engine to Nadia’s car and wait for it to heat up. I see Mrs Nesbit from the window. I wave at her and smile. Then I drive as fast as I can, heading in the direction of Ravenswood Lodge.
Chapter 34
AFRAH
Monday, 23 December 2019
I’m in a room where the sign says ‘little reading room’. I am sitting comfortably in the armchair, facing an Asian woman. She snores very loudly, her mouth wide open as sudsy drool sloshes down the corner of her mouth. I can’t remember what I have had to eat today; my stomach feels heavy. A man in a black suit and white shirt passes me and asks if he should set up the fireplace.
‘No! I am leaving.’ I try getting up, pushing my hands against the arms of the chair, rolling forward. I slump back, feeling weak and tired. He insists I stay seated and gets me a random book from the shelf. I tell him I don’t want to read it. He crosses his arm over his chest. ‘No need to be rude, little lady. We’ve been in quite some mood today, haven’t we?’
‘I’m not in any mood.’
‘I am sorry. I looked for yer diary. I had nothing to do with the missing pages.’
I shake my head. What’s he on about? ‘Chalo! Jao, jao,’ I tell him off in Urdu.
He doesn’t like that. ‘Oi!’ he shouts suddenly. ‘Michael is my name.’ His finger points at the badge pinned to his jacket. ‘I’m the caretaker of this place. Treat me with respect, little lady. I was only trying to be nice.’ But he is not. He is rude and right in my face. ‘Yer can’t read the books anyway, said Myrtle. Yer went mad earlier. Do yer recall?’ He shouts ‘Oi’ again, louder this time. I keep on ignoring him. His face is getting puffier. ‘Liam was right, yer nuts.’
‘Leave me be,’ I say. He turns and shuts the main door to the room so hard the sign rattles. I hear him mumble, ‘I can’t wait to leave this place tonight.’
There’s a loud noise. A drilling right outside the window next to me. The Asian woman wakes and mumbles something. I direct my attention at the gardener, cutting down branches from the tree. Oak? Pine? I don’t know anymore. It’s large with a thick trunk. He stops and puts down the chainsaw and frowns coldly in my direction. My heart feels frail and sweat begins to dapple my forehead. Larry. That’s his name. I remember he hates me. I remember he stole something from me. He doesn’t pick up the chainsaw again. He kicks the grass and spits, eyes fixed on mine. I look away, turning a blind eye.
‘Where is Carol? Did she leave already without saying goodbye?’ says the Asian woman. She folds the pleats of her brown sari then turns, glaring at me with her hazel brown eyes. ‘What are you looking at? Cat got your tongue – where is she?’ She’s in a mood, rubbing me up the wrong way.
‘Carol?’ My memory associates the name with a heavy woman. ‘Who are you?’
‘Me?’ she laughs. ‘Who am I? Who are you? And what are you doing here?’
‘I don’t know. I think this is my home,’ I say.
‘No, it’s not. It’s my home. You don’t even like being here. You are crazy. The mad woman living in Alice’s room. Pagal aurat.’ Her voice is thin and small.
‘Quit bothering me.’ I stride into the hallway. A woman passes me. She goes to the Asian woman who now says she wants to have tea on the terrace. But she tells her it’s time to leave soon. Her son is coming to pick her up anytime now.
‘Why is Afrah still here? Why is she not leaving? Tell Afrah to leave. She is not welcome here anymore. She is crazy. I want her to leave. I will tell the woman in white to make her. Just the way she made Alice—’
‘That’s enough now, Nisha. Calm down. We’ll get you a hot cup of milk with honey. It’s quiet time now and this time don’t even think about not taking your pills, or else . . .’ I can hear the Asian woman cry, ‘Stop hurting me, you’re hurting me!’ The sound of slapping echoes through the room, and she goes quiet.
‘I’m not hurting you Nisha, you’re the one hurting me.’ I see them now turning the corner into the hallway. The woman quickly rolls Nisha in the wheelchair and stops at the lift. Nisha’s wrinkly face is dappled with spots of red.
‘I’ll see you get a shower before Ranveer gets here.’
‘I hate showers,’ the Asian woman gets up, but she is pushed right back down. ‘I don’t want it, I don’t want it.’
‘Behave, Nisha.’
‘Stop hurting me, Margaret.’ She slaps the woman’s sausage like fingers.
‘Now Nisha, be nice, and stop lying. I was not hurting you, Nisha.’
Nisha, Nisha? She is my friend. ‘What do you know about the woman in white?’
Nisha turns her head, sticks her tongue out. ‘Why should I tell you?’
Someone walks past me. Someone else walks past me. I don’t see Nisha anymore.
A tall man with a pale ghostly face and wrinkles strides speedily towards me. He holds a newspaper in one hand, rolled up, and slams it into his other palm. His eyes are bloodshot.
I turn around and catch my breath. I move up the stairs, up, up as fast as I can.
He’s right behind me, walking faster. I run down the corridor, passing the Morton Wing sign, and yank the first door handle I can see. Locked. The next one is locked too. I try door number three. Nisha is inside, facing the woman who is pinching her cheeks while making her swallow a fistful of pills. She cries when she sees me. ‘Get out! Get Out!’
I swing left, up the stairs, to the loft, to the loft. I am exhausted. There are voices behind one of the doors, a low whisper. There are so many I don’t know which handle to pull. The corridor suddenly turns pitch black. I hear the beams creak, the wind whistle. I stand still and a voice amplifies as if coming from inside my head.
‘How quickly can the procedure be done? Because we must all leave this evening. We’re closed for two days over the holidays, remember?’ says the voice. ‘Well, well, aren’t they all brain damaged? Just numb little minds that never shut the fuck up.’
l hear loud laughter, and an evil cackle. ‘And the new one. That is right. She has been with us for just over a month. Quite a nutcase. I will see to it that she gets sectioned. Her aggressive behaviour has been out of order. I don’t want to put our reputation at risk. Well, we could put her up in the tower, we’ve not had anyone in there since Alice . . . Don’t say it! We don’t like using the term “mad woman in the attic”. Of course, my dear
. Safe measures, we always apply safe measures here at Ravenswood Lodge. It’s what makes us so unique. Hold on, don’t go anywhere, a sneeze is coming. A little Myrtle sneeze.’
I can’t believe what I’ve just heard. Mrs Brown is planning to get rid of me. This woman is mad, pagal. I knew something was off about her when I first set eyes on her. That cold, pale face. Stern expression. Strict voice. She is out to get me. I step back, feel sweat trickle down my forehead and sting my eyes. She probably stole my things to play with my mind. Told me it was my memory. Now I know she’s wanted me gone all along.
Quietly, I draw back down. The hallway is empty. Where is everybody? No one is here and suddenly the place feels ghostly. I think I was being chased by someone or something. I start to chew my nails. A girl blowing pink bubbles from her mouth asks if I am OK. I say I don’t know. She leads me to a room in the other end of the hall.
‘Remember, this is your room. Number nine. Mill Annex. Don’t forget alrighty?’ She slinks down the hall and starts chatting loudly to the tall woman with blonde hair and says she can’t wait to leave tonight. It makes me wonder, where is everyone going? They both laugh and look at me now as if I were a dotty old woman.
I push open the door and step inside. Is this my room? It’s so dark, and I fumble to find the switch on the wall. Cold wind slaps at my face. The windows are wide open, the curtains flaring, ghostly. Everything is a mess. Newspapers are scattered all over the floor, crumbled and torn. Picture frames broken and photographs ripped into pieces. Clothes are jumbled on the floor, my shalwar kameez and saris. Dirty, pee-stained underwear is spread all over on the bed.
‘Who did this?’ I look around at the mess again. ‘Who was in here?’ Myrtle Brown. She did this!
‘My, oh my! What have you done to your room, Afrah?’ asks the heavy woman peering in. ‘You’re in deep trouble now.’
‘Nothing, I did nothing. It wasn’t me.’ I push her. She’s strong, doesn’t move an inch.