The Other Half of Happiness

by Ayisha Malik

  Sakib appeared at the door as I waited for Sean’s reply.

  ‘Fine. Sure. I’ll speak to her. And I’ll try to call his Pakistan mobile again.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Sakib.

  ‘Nothing. Well, a lot of things, actually.’

  He stopped and looked at me. ‘That’s certainly true.’

  I shook my head. ‘We are both two very sorry people, aren’t we?’

  ‘Misery loves company,’ he replied.

  Then he put his hand in the air and high-fived me. I know. Ridiculous; high-fiving a divorce – especially since I wanted to crawl under my desk and cry most of the time. But Sakib bobbed to the surface of my despair, dispelling it with the knowledge that someone knows how it feels.

  9.50 p.m.

  From Sean: Sorry, Sofe. Couldn’t get through to him. He did say he’d be back weekend of nineteenth. I don’t think he has access to emails and, I don’t know, it was a different SIM card or something. Will let you know when I hear from him.

  Tuesday 28 October

  8.45 a.m. Just received weird phone call from Sean. He said he’s not heard from Conall yet, but apparently he called Mary to tell her he’d be going to some retreat in Karachi.

  ‘A retreat? In Karachi?’ I asked incredulously.

  ‘The weird thing is that I got through to Hamida and she thought he was going back to Ireland.’

  ‘But he’s not in Ireland?’ I asked. ‘Have you called Claire?’

  ‘Yeah – she said last she spoke to him, she told him not to come back until he’s sorted his head out.’

  ‘What’s wrong with his head?’

  ‘It’s Conall,’ Sean replied.

  ‘But Hamida said he was going back to Ireland?’ I asked.

  Sakib looked at me over the desk and started mouthing something.

  ‘Hang on, Sean. What?’

  ‘Sorry, you OK for agent meetings over the next week?’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ I said distractedly.

  ‘Listen, let me just double-check a few things and call you back,’ said Sean.

  I put the phone down.

  ‘All OK?’ asked Sakib.

  ‘Yeah. I’m sure. Just some kind of miscommunication, I think.’

  6.20 p.m. When I didn’t hear back from Sean I called him after work, but he didn’t pick up. Then I decided to call Hamida.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I’ve spoken to Uncle Wasim and he’s pretty hurt. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this. Was your mum the Auntie Mehnaz my mama told me about?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Years ago Mama told me that Uncle Wasim was in love with a woman but she had to marry someone in London, or something like that. It didn’t click until now.’

  ‘Listen, Hamida – have you spoken to Sean?’

  ‘Haan. I told Conall to at least text his brother so he knows where he is. But you know what he’s like and he’s been . . . well, a little distracted for a while.’

  ‘He said he was going back to Ireland?’

  She paused. ‘Ya, that’s what he told me.’

  ‘But he told his mum he was staying in Karachi for a few more weeks on some kind of retreat. And his conversation with Claire didn’t exactly sound amicable.’

  I stood outside the Tube station, waiting for her answer.

  ‘He never mentioned anything about that. And a retreat? In Karachi?’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said.

  ‘He specifically told me he was going home.’

  ‘Home or Ireland?’

  ‘Well, home.’

  This really wasn’t helping me much.

  ‘To be honest, I was glad. I thought going back to Eamonn would help.’

  ‘He’s not home, though.’

  ‘But he left six days ago.’

  I told her I had to go, and called the only person I could call.

  ‘Hi, Mary. It’s Sofia.’

  ‘Oh.’

  When I asked about Conall she said that he was still in Karachi. Honestly, I was going round in sodding circles as people rushed in and out of the station.

  ‘But he’s not,’ I said.

  I filled her in about my conversation with Hamida and Mary said she’d call Claire. Fifteen minutes later Mary called me back. I was still outside the Tube station.

  ‘Well, she swears he’s still in Karachi. I’ll be honest and say he didn’t leave here on the best of terms with Claire. He’s my son but I won’t hide his faults.’

  I leaned against the wall. What the hell was going on? ‘Right, OK. So, where did he say he was staying?’ I asked.

  She hesitated. ‘Well, he didn’t say.’

  ‘How long would he be away?’

  She paused. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Who does know?’ I realise I might’ve been getting a little irate here, but this really was getting ridiculous.

  ‘Colm,’ she called out. I heard her fill him in.

  ‘That boy does what the hell he wants without letting people know. You’ll be here fretting over him while he’s gallivanting, thinking he’s changing the world.’ He took the phone from Mary. ‘Sofia?’ he said. ‘He’ll be back when he wants to come back.’ Though he didn’t sound very convinced. ‘Don’t you waste another minute,’ he added.

  ‘Colm,’ I heard Mary say in the background.

  ‘I have to go,’ I said, putting my phone away. Without thinking I turned round, striding towards the only place it made sense to go.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ said Sakib, looking surprised. This look swiftly turned into an expression of concern. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘My husband.’

  ‘What?’

  I stared at him, confused, the voices of Hamida, Mary and Colm spinning in my head. He’s in Ireland; he’s in Karachi; don’t you waste another minute.

  ‘No one knows where he is,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean no one knows where he is,’ I replied. What was happening? If no one knew where he was, then what did that amount to? ‘I mean, I think he’s missing.’

  NOVEMBER

  Lost

  Tuesday 5 November

  9.25 p.m. I was sitting at my bedroom window, watching the Guy Fawkes fireworks burst into the night sky and explode in reds, oranges, greens and blues, when my phone beeped.

  From Sakib: Listen, I know it’s been a weird week, but this is the manuscript I need you to look at that came in over the weekend. Are you coming to tomorrow’s meeting? It’s important you’re there.

  I put the phone face down. Sakib’s worked his notice and now I have to deal with him glancing at me over the computer screen every so often. Sean keeps calling, telling me something’s not right – going on about Conall being radicalised – at which point I’m ready to hang up on him. But then I think of Conall with the beard and rolled-up jeans and his refusal to look at me . . . Then there’s Mum. She and Auntie Reena have managed to come up with a conspiracy theory involving an elaborate in-house kidnapping job in order to get money from us. Of course, no ransom has been demanded, which, for some reason, hasn’t deterred them from their theory. Claire says that she’s tried to call his number but can’t get through.

  It feels so long since I’ve seen Conall I don’t know what to think. I picked up the phone and dialled Sean’s number.

  ‘Well?’ I said.

  He sighed. ‘I just don’t know what the hell’s going on.’

  ‘Hamida messaged yesterday and said she’s asked around but everyone thought he was going back to Ireland, just as she did.’ I looked out of the window again. ‘Would he do it again? Leave like that?’

  ‘No.’ He sighed again. ‘I don’t know. All I know is I spoke to Claire and she said his . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve not said anything to my parents yet, and told her not to either, but . . . she said he started speaking to Eamonn about Islam.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Is it normal, Sofe?’

>   ‘Is it abnormal?’

  We’d been here before. Everything Sean told me just felt like about ninety per cent of most Muslims’ day-to-day life. Next thing I know he’ll be saying “Conall’s stopped shopping at M&S; it’s a sign.”’

  ‘I just wonder . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘With everything that Claire’s told me and, well, what happened with you – what would keep him here?’

  Monday 11 November

  10.10 a.m. ‘So, what did you think of the manuscript?’

  My brain has gone into autopilot. I only seem able to think about things that are relevant in immediate time and space.

  ‘Oh . . .’

  ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t read it yet.’

  ‘No, I have,’ I said – attempting to mentally grasp the synopsis of the book that surely my brain would’ve stored. ‘Good concept . . .’ And then, when I could grasp no longer for the synopsis, I clutched at straws. ‘Figured out the plot twist halfway through. Not for us.’

  ‘Really?’

  I nodded, pressing on my phone to see if I’d missed any messages.

  ‘Yeah. I agree with you.’

  ‘You agree with me?’

  He looked at me with what I’d call scepticism. ‘What was the twist?’ he asked, sitting back and folding his arms.

  I wanted to think of feasible lies, but all I could think of were the lack of messages on my phone.

  ‘Did you read the manuscript?’

  I lowered my eyes and shook my head. This didn’t seem to have quite the charming effect it used to have on Conall. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘You have to think about what you want, Sofia. I know you’ve been distracted, but he’s a grown man. And I’d like you to be able to tell me the truth. Like a grown woman. What he’s doing or where he is isn’t really your concern any more.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I know.’

  Why was there so much anxiety there – stuck in the pit of my stomach, leaking into every bone and sinew?

  ‘Start noticing things,’ he added. ‘Like my socks,’ he said, lifting up his trousers and showing the rainbow-coloured item.

  I tried to laugh.

  ‘Now switch off your personal email account . . .’

  ‘Is this 1984?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, and don’t forget how that book ended. Focus on now.’ He rested his elbows on the desk. ‘I need you.’

  It reminded me of the time Conall said the same thing to me. Any day now, we’ll hear from him and I can shout at him down the phone before divorcing him.

  Sunday 17 November

  12.30 p.m. Tried to call Sean but it was going to voicemail. You’d have thought with a missing brother he’d have his phone on all the time. Texted him to call back when he could. But what was I going to say: explain every way how the thought of where Conall might be catches in my throat and leaves me short of breath?

  1.50 p.m. ‘Soffoo,’ said Mum, coming into my room with a sandwich. I was poised on my bed, twenty-five pages into the new manuscript, which felt like quite an accomplishment.

  ‘You’ll be blind with all this reading,’ she said, handing me the plate. She leaned in closer. ‘Haw, look, you have grey hair.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  ‘You shouldn’t stress. It is all in Allah’s hands. Though sometimes I wonder what He is thinking.’

  ‘OK, Mum.’ There was no need for heresy today.

  She sat on the edge of the bed. ‘I know, Beta.’ She was looking at me, perhaps as if she were seeing her own (relative) youth. ‘After so many years, I know how hard it can be. To let go of something.’

  I put the manuscript to one side, tears streaming down my cheeks, and, for the first time in my life, sobbed in my mum’s arms.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I said, wishing I could magic Uncle Mouch back to her. That I could magic Conall back home.

  She patted my head. ‘O-ho. You are my daughter. You never need to tell me you are sorry.’

  I need to wise up; accept; embrace. Some things are beyond our control. The sooner I get that through my iron-clad skull, the better.

  Wednesday 20 November

  9.45 a.m. Why hasn’t Sean called me back? I’ve called multiple times but it’s still going to voicemail.

  7.50 p.m. Came home and for some unknown reason, I felt compelled to look at my Muslim Marriage Book. Skimming through the pages, I came across: How far does forgiveness stretch?

  Oh, bloody hell, didn’t see missed call from Mary!

  8.05 p.m. When I called Colm answered and there was an urgency in his voice that I hadn’t heard before.

  ‘It’s Sofia,’ I said.

  Silence.

  ‘Where are you?’ he snapped.

  ‘London.’ Where else would I be?

  ‘I see.’ He sounded gruff, tired.

  ‘I received a call from Mary. Is she there?’

  The receiver was handed over to her.

  ‘I got your call. Is everything OK?’ I asked. Even as the words left my mouth I thought, what a stupid thing to say.

  ‘It’s been four weeks,’ she replied.

  There are some things you have no control over. ‘I know. I tried to call Sean but kept getting his voicemail. Just to, you know, ask if you’d heard anything.’

  She paused. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’

  Lack of control can also mean a surge of anxiety that weighs on your very organs. I barely wanted to ask. ‘What?’

  My heartbeats seemed to have gained momentum.

  ‘Sean’s gone,’ she said, her voice breaking.

  ‘Gone where?’

  Is Conall dead? There was some shuffling as Colm seemed to have taken the receiver. ‘For God’s sake; he’s gone to Karachi. Where else? Conall was never meant to be gone this long.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief before what he said really hit me.

  Why the hell has Sean gone to Karachi?? As I sat on the bed, taking in the reality of what Mary just said, I wondered: why am I not there with him?

  Thursday 21 November

  9.35 a.m. When Sakib opened the door I walked into the house, but instead of going through to the office I turned into the living room.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  ‘If I go into the office I might not be able to say this.’

  He shook his head and laughed as if he knew exactly what I was going to say. ‘So he’s decided, sorry, but rather selfishly, to fall off the face of this earth, not caring about you or his child . . . again, and now you’re going to what?’

  ‘I’m going there to find him,’ I said.

  He paused. ‘Where?’

  It all sounded preposterous, I’m sure, to him. I didn’t say anything.

  ‘Why are you doing this, Sofia?’

  Sakib is the only one who ever calls me by my full name. I don’t know what this means, but it means something.

  ‘Because if I don’t, then I’ll be thinking about it; worrying about where he is and what’s happened to him. Every time I’m moving onwards there’ll be a snag in my step because he’ll be there, in the back of my mind. He’s still my husband. I need to find him. Then I need to divorce him.’

  I waited for him to respond.

  ‘And what about all this?’ he said, spreading out his arms.

  Why did I always seem to be in the middle of having to choose one thing or another? Sacrifice one thing for something else? My throat felt like it was closing up.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this,’ he said, looking out of the window. He paused before looking back at me. ‘I’m not waiting around – if you leave, you leave this behind too. I didn’t get to where I am, waiting for people. Just think about what you’re giving up.’

  On paper it sounded like a no-brainer – what was I thinking? But paper can be deceptive; it carries no nuance; it has no heart. And it certainly doesn’t know Conall the way I do. Because if our roles were reversed, there’s no doubt in my mind he�
�d come to find me.

  ‘I’ll make it work. I’ll work from Karachi – read manuscripts.’

  He seemed to hesitate.

  ‘Listen, I held the fort while you worked your notice. We’re a team, right?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, but you know it’s really taking off now and –’

  ‘Please,’ I said, my voice breaking. ‘I need to go and find him, but I can’t leave this behind.’

  He looked at me, brows knitting with something like concern. ‘OK. Fine.’ He shook his head as if he could hardly believe the words coming out of his mouth.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thank you so, so much.’

  ‘Like you said – we’re a team.’

  Conviction cemented itself somewhere in my gut.

  ‘Sofia,’ he said, his voice softening. ‘There are things that happen that you have no control over. Sometimes, you have to learn to accept them.’

  ‘But I don’t accept this,’ I said. ‘I don’t accept it at all.’

  9.35 p.m. ‘What are you doing?’ said Maars, stuffing a little too much puréed food into Adam’s mouth. He spluttered it out. ‘And why didn’t Sean tell you he was going to Karachi?’

  I shrugged. ‘He didn’t think I cared enough.’

  Maars scoffed. ‘That’s rich.’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t exactly act like I cared.’ I wiped Adam’s chin with my hand, rubbing the food on my pyjamas and picking him up.

  ‘I still think you’re overreacting,’ she said. ‘Give it a few more weeks.’

  I thought about it – but Sean was already there – he clearly didn’t think it could wait a few more weeks.

  ‘Well . . .’ she began. ‘Not like anything I say will change your mind, but I still don’t think you should go.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone does.’

  10.50 p.m. Certainly not Mum. The worrying thing is she didn’t even shout. She looked at me like I was one of the horsemen of the apocalypse.

  ‘Going like this as if you are a heroine in a film.’ She shook her head. ‘Are you mad? Soffoo, where will you begin? What will you do? What can a woman do?’