The Other Half of Happiness

by Ayisha Malik

  It went on for a while in the same vein until she stopped and got her diary out.

  ‘Haan, Hussain? Haan, I need to book tickets to Karachi. Give me good discount. No, two.’ She shot me a look. ‘For me and my daughter.’

  Dear Lord. Apparently if I’m going to Karachi, Mum is coming with me.

  11.05 p.m. Make that Mum and Maars.

  Friday 22 November

  11.40 a.m. Called Mary to let her know that I’m going to Karachi. She sounded surprised and relieved at the same time.

  ‘He’ll be all right, won’t he?’ she asked. ‘Karachi isn’t as bad as all that, is it?’

  ‘No. No, it’s . . . I mean. People live there.’

  She paused, sounding tired. ‘I wish I could know what happens in his head.’

  I sat down, looking at the wedding ring I still hadn’t managed to take off. ‘You and me both.’

  Sunday 24 November

  12.05 p.m. Next Saturday can’t come quickly enough. I’ve stuffed what I need in a case and started a Facebook page for Conall, with his pictures, asking for anyone to contact me if they see someone who looks like him. I don’t know why no one thought of this sooner. Now all I’m doing is pacing the room or house, watching the clock tick. Mum on the other hand has emptied out her cupboards for things to take to Pakistan because there’s a wedding that she’s going to attend. Honestly.

  3.50 p.m. Girls came over today – all just as dubious about me going as Maars had been. Though she’d calmed down considerably now she’d be there to overlook everything.

  ‘God,’ said Suj. ‘Why can’t you just let Sean handle it?’

  ‘Because she’s Sofe,’ said Han. ‘Can’t not know what’s going on.’

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  ‘Do you have everything you need?’ asked Katie. ‘Will you come back safe? I mean, you have responsibilities now.’ She pointed at her stomach.

  ‘What will you do if you find him?’ asked Han. ‘It’s all very docu-drama isn’t it?’

  ‘Put it all behind me, at last. Other than wanting him to be safe, I also want this divorce.’

  ‘Don’t you need a fag?’ asked Foz.

  ‘I need more than a fag, love.’

  Just then, she reached into her purse and brought out a packet of cigarettes. I almost fell on top of her when I hugged her. Hannah and Suj looked at us both in disgust whereas Katie just patted me on the shoulder and said, ‘Sometimes you have to do what you have to do.’

  ‘My mum’s out, we can smoke in the garden,’ I said, already rushing down the stairs.

  As we all congregated outside – Foz and I revelling in the nicotine perhaps too much – Foz looked at me, thoughtful.

  ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Remember that time you went to save your husband?’

  Tuesday 26 November

  8.55 p.m. My God. What the hell is going on? The doorbell rang and who was standing there but Mary! I looked at her and then the small case she had in her hand.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  It took me a few moments before I asked what she was doing here.

  ‘Who is it?’ called Mum from inside.

  ‘Can I come in?’ she asked.

  ‘Sorry. Yes, of course.’

  She stood in the passage, putting her case down.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

  ‘O-ho,’ shouted Mum again. ‘Who’s at the door?’

  ‘I saw your Facebook page. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it.’ She put her hands in front of her. ‘But then there are lots of things I didn’t think of.’

  I noticed how tired she looked. Just then, Mum came into the passage, stopping short at seeing Mary.

  ‘Oh.’ It was apparently all that could come out of her mouth in that moment. ‘What are you doing out here? Soffoo, bring our guest in.’

  Mary walked in without really looking around, her eyes still focused on me.

  ‘Are you really going to Pakistan?’

  I nodded as Mum said, ‘Haan. We are all going.’ As if it was a family holiday!

  ‘Well.’ Mary paused, looking from me to Mum. She sat down, placing her hands over her knees. ‘I’ve decided I’m coming with you.’

  DECEMBER

  Triumph and Disaster

  Sunday 1 December

  10.25 a.m. When I find Conall, before I divorce him, I’m going to kill him. And the method of death will be him trapped in a confined space with my mother and Mary, with Auntie Reena exclaiming: ‘First my budgies flew away and now you are all leaving me.’

  We’d had lasagne for dinner last night because the night before Mary hadn’t quite got to grips with the amount of spice in the food.

  ‘That’s quite a lot of chilli for lasagne,’ she said, after the first bite.

  ‘We don’t like bland food,’ said Mum, who then looked at me and puffed out her cheeks while Mary wasn’t looking.

  ‘But lasagne shouldn’t really have chilli.’ Mary looked at me.

  ‘What does Soffoo know, she can’t cook,’ replied Mum.

  ‘Hai hai,’ Mum said to me afterwards. ‘How will she cope in Karachi with food? She is going to be a lie-bility.’

  ‘It’ll be fine, Mum.’

  ‘Lekin, you must talk to her and let her know. She can’t think the food will be bland, bland.’

  ‘Fine, Mum. I’ll speak to her.’

  And so I had to explain this to Mary, who looked at me thoughtfully before she said: ‘Perhaps I should get some things from Sainsbury’s for myself?’

  A man is missing in the world and all anyone’s concerned about is spices.

  ‘I hope it doesn’t appear rude. Because the last thing I like is fussy guests.’

  I told her that everyone would understand as I looked for any update on the Facebook page.

  ‘I hope so. I’ve not been away for so many years and Colm is just beside himself that I’ve made this decision, but . . .’ She stopped and put her hand on my arm. ‘I can’t sit and wait any more for my son to come back.’ Tears surfaced in her eyes, but she blinked them back.

  Then I went out and bought some tinned food for her.

  And now we’re on the plane, with Maria and Adam in front of us and me sat between Mum and Mary, and a strong need for a fag.

  11.10 p.m. We arrived at my chachi and chachu’s house and Hammy and Sean were already there, waiting for us. Mary looked at the marble-encased house as she wrapped her cardigan around her. The vast expanse of the place was so different from where Conall and I had lived, with the goats nearby, that you’d hardly believe it was the same city.

  ‘Very pleasing to meet you,’ said Chachi – who is quite possibly the loudest and largest woman in Karachi. She took Mary’s hand and pulled her into a hug that lasted as long as the flight here.

  Poor Mary looked so relieved to see one of her sons. He didn’t look like the same Sean I’d seen only four months ago. He had a beard too now, which Mary couldn’t stop looking at, presumably from fear of having another son who’s converted to Islam – domino theory of religion.

  ‘Sofe,’ he said. ‘Fucking hell, what a drama.’

  ‘You should’ve told me,’ I said.

  He sat down, rubbing his eyes. ‘I know. I just didn’t think you cared. Sorry. I’m glad you’re here now.’

  ‘Le,’ said Mum. ‘You know how fat she was and now look at her.’

  Mary looked at Mum in consternation as Maars comforted Adam, who’d started crying.

  ‘My poor bachi,’ said Mum, pulling me into an unprecedented hug. She looked over at Hamida and nodded. ‘How is your uncle?’

  ‘Fine,’ she replied.

  Then Sean grabbed my hand and led me into the living room. We sat down and he began telling me everything he’s done so far, bringing out a list of places he’s been, people he’s talked to.

  Hamida shook her head. She’d not yet quite met my eye. ‘He told me. He said, “I’m going to Ireland.” This lying makes no sense.’

&nbs
p; Mary stared into space as Chachi put her arm round her. ‘Don’t worry. We will find him.’ Though when she glanced at Mum neither of them looked very sure.

  ‘This is different.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Sofe, I’ve said it before . . .’ He glanced at his mum.

  ‘Oh God, not this again,’ I said.

  ‘Sean,’ Mary said, rather sharply. ‘What are you saying?’

  I was shaking my head.

  ‘Ma – don’t fret, it’ll be OK, but . . .’ He blew air out from his mouth as he took her hands. ‘I think he’s been radicalised.’

  ‘Oh, Holy Mary.’ Non-Holy Mary clutched her chest as Mum grabbed her and exclaimed, ‘Hai Allah.’

  ‘OK,’ said Maars, looking at me as Adam pulled her hair. ‘Everyone has to calm down.’

  Hamida frowned as mass hysteria broke out.

  ‘He was saying all this religious mumbo-jumbo,’ said Sean. ‘Sorry, but you know what I mean.’

  ‘Don’t say mumbo-jumbo,’ said Mary, coming out of her shocked stupor. ‘Word cannot get out, Sean,’ she insisted. ‘They’ll put him in jail. They’ll take him to Guantanamo.’

  ‘Mary . . . Mary? Mary.’ I tried to get her attention, because she seemed to have gone into a trance. ‘Your son has not been radicalised. And who was going to radicalise him in Kilkee anyway?’

  ‘But Soffoo, Beta,’ said Mum, ‘you know this does happen. People who convert become very extreme sometimes.’

  ‘Mum, a week ago you thought he’d been kidnapped.’

  Mary’s head shot up.

  Chachi began talking about involving the police and Sean said no way because of what they might do. Mary looked petrified, while Mum exclaimed about her daughter’s poor kismet. Maria had to give Adam to Chachi at this point and comfort Mum because of my poor fate.

  I looked at Hamida, who was staring at me. She nodded towards the door and walked out. Leaving the others to spout their conspiracy theories, I followed Hamida up to the roof.

  She stood there, her arms folded.

  ‘God knows where he is,’ she said. ‘But this is ridiculous. Sean won’t go to the police because he thinks Conall’s turned into some fundo.’

  I couldn’t help it. I flung my arms round her and hugged her so tight I might’ve broken one of her ribs. Her arms were flopped to the side, until they slowly reached round me too. She patted me on the shoulder until I let go.

  ‘You don’t mind hugging someone like me?’ she said.

  ‘Like you?’ I asked, confused.

  ‘Aren’t you scared I might hit on you?’

  I almost laughed. ‘I wouldn’t flatter myself.’

  Poor Hammy. She never liked me because she thought once I knew about what she was hiding I’d judge her. The only thing that made me sad for her was that people had rejected her so spectacularly that she’d rejected her faith. People ask what answer she’ll give to God. They should be worrying more about what answer they’ll be giving Him.

  ‘Hamida,’ I said, holding on to her arms, ‘you’re all I have right now.’

  She looked around and then at the ground as she nodded. ‘Conall might be many things,’ she said. ‘But he’s no fucking fundo.’

  ‘We’re going to the police station tomorrow. First thing.’

  ‘Bring that red passport,’ she said.

  I took a deep breath. He was here somewhere and we’d find him. ‘Does Uncle Wasim know we’re here?’

  She nodded. After a few moments she said, ‘You know, I didn’t think you’d come.’

  I watched her and wanted to say: of course I was going to come. It’s Conall. But I’d have been lying. ‘I almost didn’t,’ I admitted.

  ‘What happened?’

  It was basic human error – only acting the way you think another person might. ‘If our roles were reversed, there’s nothing that would’ve stopped him from doing the same for me.’

  Monday 2 December

  10.10 a.m. Note to self: British passport holder with a hijab on head is like walking around with a halo. I radiated a postcolonial glow with my impressive use of English grammar and conviction of faith. It was all very enlightening.

  ‘Bhai saab,’ I said, reverting to Urdu, which was only more impressive because, look! She can talk like the Brits and like us. ‘I need to find this man.’

  I had to fill out some forms, state his occupation, that kind of thing. The police officer, in true Pakistani style, played with the ends of his moustache and adjusted his maroon beret.

  ‘Photographer? What does he photograph?’

  Hamida spoke: ‘He’s been working with me on a slums project.’

  He looked at her muddy trousers and dishevelled hair, and back at the paper. ‘And who are you?’

  She gave her name.

  ‘Your parents?’

  ‘Uncle . . . sorry, bhai saab,’ I said. ‘What does it matter who her parents are? Can you help us?’

  ‘Haaris!’ he called out. ‘Yaar, he’s white. If we don’t do something British government will eat our head and someone will lose their job.’

  God bless the United Kingdom! Although, of course, I was indignant on principle at prioritising on basis of colour. Obviously. He picked up the phone and called someone. Within half an hour there was a call on all police officers to be on the lookout for a six-foot-one, white, Irish man, with a beard and a lost soul. (That last part was mine.)

  2.45 p.m. Just told the family what I’d done – Sean started shouting at me.

  ‘Sofe, if they find him and realise what he’s been up to they’ll arrest him and keep him without trial. You think the government won’t send him on a one-way ticket to Guantanamo?’

  He grabbed his head and kicked the table.

  But he’s worrying about nothing. Conall isn’t in the hands of some nut jobs, he is just lost and I am going to find him.

  12.05 a.m. Couldn’t sleep. Woke Maars up.

  ‘What if Sean’s right? What if there’s even a nought point nought, nought, nought, nought per cent chance of Sean being right?’ I asked.

  She looked worried for a moment. ‘Sofe, you need to hold on to that feeling.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one that tells you what the right thing is. Your problem is you do something and then instantly doubt it.’

  Maybe she was right. Must hold on to gut instinct. It’s very important apparently.

  Even so; what if I’ve just sentenced my own husband to a lifetime in prison?

  Tuesday 3 December

  10.40 a.m. There was a knock on my door before it opened and I heard, ‘Chai, baji?’

  It was Jawad. There wasn’t the same derisive look he’d worn so often when we were in the flat. When I asked what he was doing here, he said that Hamida felt they’d need help here while we were looking for Conall.

  ‘Baji. I am sorry what’s happened. He was a good man.’

  ‘Is,’ I said.

  He nodded as he walked into the room. ‘I didn’t think he’d be one to already have a family and then lie, but then people make mistakes. My wife heard your mama was engaged and it was broken off?’

  I busied myself with checking up on Conall’s Facebook page.

  ‘You know, some people gossiped, but we were both very happy for her.’

  I looked up at him. ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘My wife said that so many women don’t get the chance to be happy when they’re young. Why shouldn’t they be happy when they’re old?’

  Friday 6 December

  3.55 p.m. No word from the police. Hamida and I have been driving around distributing leaflets with Conall’s picture all morning. Tired. Worried. Mary hasn’t eaten anything. Sean hasn’t told a joke since I got here. All this drama brings out the pessimism in everyone.

  Sunday 8 December

  10.20 a.m. Went to the police station for an update today with Hamida, while Sean handed out more leaflets. They said they’ve found nothing. Nothing. How is that even possible?

  ‘
He’s a six-foot-one white man,’ I shouted. ‘You can’t miss him. He has tattoos and a beard and looks like he’ll throw you into a ditch if you cross him.’

  Except when he smiles. Then he looks like the type of person who’ll take you out of a ditch. I was going to yank on that police officer’s moustache so hard I’d rip it off. What happened to my halo? Why was no one falling over themselves to help me?

  ‘Your friend didn’t tell us who her parents were,’ he said, glancing at Hammy.

  Her face went a shade of red. He put his feet up on the table and tapped his baton on the desk. Ah. Of course.

  ‘How can I go against the wishes of a general?’

  ‘Forget who I am,’ she said in Urdu. ‘She needs to find her husband.’

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ignoring her and looking at me, ‘you go to your government and file a missing report. Maybe something will be done. But I do anything and I say goodbye to my job, and who will feed my wife and children?’

  ‘Fuck this, Sofia.’ Hamida glared at the police officer. ‘And we wonder what’s wrong with our country.’

  As we got back into the car I looked at her, pausing before she put the car into gear. ‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

  She barely nodded.

  ‘Luckily,’ I said, ‘for every one of those police officers there are ten more people like you.’

  Came home and Sean was with Mary. He said there’s no way we’re appealing to the government because of course my husband is now radicalised. Every time I want to tell Sean to get over it and pick up the phone to call the embassy, something stops me – this latent fear that there might be truth in it. How many risks is a person meant to take in life?

  Thursday 12 December

  8.10 p.m. ‘Look how skinny she is,’ said Chachi to me in Urdu, glancing at Mary. ‘She will think this is how we treat our guests, letting them bring tinned food. Soffoo, you must think of these things – she’s your mother-in-law.’

  Just as I was about to respond that my priorities were more Conall than cuisine-related, guess who walked in – Uncle Mouch! Maars and I both froze in our respective seats, eyes darting between him and Mum.