Far From My Father's House

by Jill McGivering

  ‘You must help us. My little nephew is shot.’ Jamila pointed to the boy. ‘His mother too. If they don’t get help, they’ll die.’

  ‘A child?’ The woman was frowning, uncertain. ‘Shot?’

  Jamila nodded. May Allah forgive me, she thought, but we must have food. The woman called to the man who was travelling with her. He was tall and lean. He came round from the other side of the vehicle and peered at Jamila, studying her face.

  ‘What child?’ he said.

  Jamila caught hold of Hamid, who still held the writhing boy in his arms, and tugged them both forwards. Behind them, the young Auntie was swaying, propped upright by the others. Her face was deathly pale. The man peered through the darkness at the boy. His fingers reached out cautiously and touched his hair. They came away bloodied.

  ‘Come,’ he said to Jamila. He kept his voice low. ‘Bring your family and follow me.’

  Jamila pressed the Uncles, Aunties and children into a compact group and urged them quickly past the clamouring crowd and in through the metal gates, to safety, food and shelter.

  Chapter 11

  Dawn broke surreptitiously. The sky crept from grey to bleached white, sharpening the shadows along the mountain range. As the day began, the air filled with the frantic cawing of birds which wheeled high overhead.

  Ellen arrived at the camp before six o’clock. At six thirty, a cordon was being thrown round the area and she needed to be inside. She stood in a queue of grumbling aid workers. They were complaining in a dozen languages about the same things: the pain of being up so early and the indignity of bag and body searches imposed at the gate.

  There was plenty to watch. Two men were balancing a homemade ladder against one of the posts at the gate and stringing a banner over the entrance. It was a long strip of white cotton, a torn bed sheet perhaps, hand-painted in black letters. Welcome, Khanji – Camp Food 4 Al. Either the writer had run out of paint or he just struggled with his English spelling. Ellen smiled to herself. She’d tease Frank about that when the visit was over and he could relax again.

  Ellen shuffled forwards, she could see people queuing inside the camp. Girls with plastic buckets waiting to pump water from standpipes. Men and women in separate lines for the makeshift latrines. Near the distribution point, a formless knot of people had formed in the hope of a handout of food or fuel or blankets. She touched her fingers to her face and explored its broken skin and bruises. Her cheekbone was tender but the cut above her eye was already starting to knit.

  By nine o’clock, she was outside the medical tent with staff from Medicine International and FOOD 4 ALL, local and international workers together. One of the Belgians was at her side.

  ‘Complete waste of time,’ he said. ‘As if we haven’t got better things to do. All of us. Yeah?’ He dug at the earth with his boot, using the metal-capped toe to make a dent. A column of ants was thrown into turmoil. ‘Who knows when he’ll turn up? All this, just because he’s got money. Disgusting.’ He pulled a sour face. ‘How long have we wasted already? Three hours, is it? More?’

  His eyes were on the ground. The ants were regrouping and trying to adapt to the new landscape. He kicked up another avalanche of dust in front of them and watched them be engulfed, then struggle to the surface and change course again.

  The heat was building. Ellen tried to remember how many bottles of water she’d brought with her. Already her shirt was sticking to her back. Then she heard it. Faint but unmistakeable. She stiffened. A dull distant throbbing.

  A young German man said, ‘Seventy-one days. I just counted.’

  The Belgian stopped annoying the ants and looked up. ‘Until what?’

  ‘End of contract.’

  ‘So? You’ll just get a new one.’

  ‘No way.’ The young German turned to face him and laughed. ‘No way. I tell you, I’m going home.’

  The noise swelled. Ellen tipped back her head and scanned the empty sky, shading her eyes with her hand. The sound bounced off the mountains as it pulsed and grew. Finally the Belgian noticed too and looked up. A minute later, he pointed. The helicopter had emerged. A black, rapidly expanding dot.

  ‘A Chinook,’ said the German.

  ‘That’s not a Chinook.’ The Belgian snorted. ‘Way too small.’

  They carried on arguing. The helicopter was curving in at speed. It hung in the air over a flat expanse of mud two hundred yards from the edge of the camp, then swayed and slowly dropped. Its roar engulfed them as it rocked and settled. Dust billowed. A tide of heat and grit radiated out in a sudden blast. Ellen turned her back and covered her eyes. Dirt scoured the back of her neck and her scarf fluttered round her ears. The blades slowed and finally the engines were cut.

  Ellen wiped the dirt from her eyes and turned back to watch. The helicopter door was heaved open. A flight of steps appeared and a member of the crew rushed to the bottom. Everyone waited. Finally Quentin Khan appeared at the top of the stairway. He was a stout figure in a crisply pressed white shirt and tan slacks. He paused for a moment on the top step, his hand raised in a theatrical wave, looking out across the camp. Regal, Ellen thought. She nodded to herself. He had presence. Even the Belgian had fallen silent.

  Khan descended with languid movements. Two jeeps pulled up in front of the helicopter and he climbed into the first. Behind him, his team was hurrying down the steps. The doors of the jeeps slammed and they bounced across the mud to the camp gates.

  Frank was just inside the gates at the head of the receiving line, wearing a freshly pressed shirt with his usual tattered jeans. Khan emerged from the jeep, gathered himself to his full height and stepped forwards to offer his hand. He was shorter than Frank and less muscular but he exuded polish. Ellen watched him as the two men stood together. They turned sideways, prolonging their handshake for a photograph. Khan’s smile stretched without any apparent effort. It showed perfect teeth.

  Ellen had seen photographs of him in the newspapers and Sunday supplements. He was often pictured alongside other wealthy entrepreneurs and minor royals at parties and premieres. In real life, he looked shorter than she’d expected and plumper. He must have been in his sixties. His hair was black but the colour wasn’t natural and when he turned, she saw how thinly it covered the crown.

  Khan was introduced to the camp’s staff. He reached in close to shake hands, his left hand cupping elbows. The smile never faded. His cuff shifted and a gold watch glinted in the sun. His clothes were understated but clearly expensive.

  A young Pakistani assistant stepped forwards with glasses of chilled fizzy orange and lemonade on a tray. As Khan took one, Ellen’s eye was drawn to the other men in his party. They were unfolding themselves from the second jeep and standing in a loose group behind Khan. One of them . . . She looked again as he turned to speak to someone. It wasn’t, surely . . . Her heart sank. He moved his head and she saw clearly. It was. John Sandik. She shook her head. He was never a welcome sight.

  He was looking decidedly middle-aged now, his stomach bulging over his waistband. His eyelids were puffy and slightly hooded as if his eyeballs had receded into his skull. She’d heard he’d hit hard times since she last saw him, ditched by his last paper and forced to take a job on The News. Much less prestigious. He caught her eye for a moment and raised his hand in a brief, self-satisfied wave, gave a tight smile, then turned his shoulder and carried on talking to another member of Khan’s party.

  Within an hour, Khan had been briefed on facts and figures, toured the male medical tent and heard a group of ragged, cross-legged boys recite a poem to him in the makeshift school. There’d been no mention of typhoid. Now Khan was being guided by Frank through the camp itself. Ellen watched them ooze through the main paths, his security people sticking to his side. Khan looked hot, dabbing at his running forehead and temples with a handkerchief. His thin hair was slick on his skull.

  He stopped to talk to a hand-picked head of household. The man’s wife and daughters were pushed to one side. The women peered w
ith indifference at this fattened, Western-dressed version of a Pakistani man. They seemed to have no idea who he was or why he was visiting them at their time of misery.

  Ellen crossed to talk to Khan’s minders. They were standing in the shade, fanning themselves with briefing notes, sipping bottles of water and looking at their watches. The visit was nearly at an end.

  The press advisor was a young British-born Pakistani with a sharp nose. Ellen introduced herself. He made an extravagant show of remembering her although she was sure they’d never met before. Her request for an interview led to a second performance.

  ‘An interview?’ He clicked his tongue on his teeth, pulled a long face. ‘Hmmm, all a bit tricky. Love to help. But the chopper’s whisking us off any moment. Government meetings, you know. Can’t be late.’

  They exchanged cards. He looked past her, trying to catch Khan’s eye, tapping his watch ostentatiously.

  She persisted. ‘I gather Mr Khan’s staying in Peshawar overnight. Maybe some time this evening? Just twenty minutes.’

  He forced his eyes to focus on her again and managed a hard smile. ‘It’s a very tight schedule.’

  Ellen nodded. She’d already made friends with the young receptionist at The Swan who’d told her that the whole team was being accommodated just a floor away from her room. ‘Well, if you could find me a slot, I’d be very grateful. NewsWorld has a very big readership. And Mr Khan’s work here is so important.’

  ‘I’ll try my very best.’ He reached out and squeezed her hand. His fingers were cool from the water bottle. As he walked off to extricate his boss, another hand landed on her shoulder. It was sweaty.

  ‘Fancy seeing you here.’ John was eating a high-protein biscuit, the kind given to malnourished children to build their strength. He gestured to her bruised cheek and sniggered. ‘You been fighting again?’

  She sighed. No point trying to explain. John never listened. ‘Something like that.’

  He was chomping with hamster cheeks, spraying small brown crumbs as he spoke. ‘Bad luck, missing out on the helo. You drive down specially?’

  She shook her head. ‘I was down anyway, seeing the camp.’

  He looked round in puzzlement at the shelters and ranks of listless people as if to say: What could you possibly want to see here?

  She said: ‘You filing on this?’ It didn’t strike her as his kind of story.

  He nodded, chewed. ‘Landed a big profile on Khan.’ He looked smug. ‘You heard I got poached by The News? This is for the magazine. Probably make the cover.’

  ‘Really?’ Her jaw slackened in disbelief. Only John could end up on a paper like The News and still brag about it.

  ‘Khan? Man of the moment.’ He drew her to one side and lowered his voice. ‘Don’t quote me – but you know how fast he’s climbing, back home?’

  She stared at him in silence, wondering what he was talking about. Quentin Khan had been established for a long time.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘You can’t be across everything.’ He put his face close to her ear, shooting small pellets of biscuit into it as he talked. ‘Tipped for a peerage in the next honours. Close to the PM, you know.’

  He drew back, checked her face for reaction, then tore off the wrapping on another biscuit. ‘These are crap. You tried them?’

  ‘So why’s he doing all this?’

  ‘This bleeding-hearts stuff?’ He shrugged. ‘The guy’s got money, right? So what does he need next? Endorsement.’ He tapped his head. ‘Psychology. That’s what a great profile’s all about.’

  ‘Endorsement? By whom?’ For the first time, John was piquing her interest.

  ‘The British. Society.’ He was warming to his theme, enjoying a chance to show off. She knew John. He must be at the end of his research on Khan, almost ready to file, or he wouldn’t be telling her all this. ‘He fancies himself as a titled gentleman. Look at him.’

  They stood, shoulders together, and looked. Khan was standing with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, leaning forwards with a polite smile on his face as an aid worker translated his question to a refugee. The expensive cut of his clothes only emphasized the shabbiness of the other man’s salwar kameez. Whatever he’d asked, the refugee was gazing at him with barely disguised astonishment.

  ‘You know he plays polo? He’s got a great pile in Sussex and throws flash parties there.’ He puffed himself up. ‘I went to one before we came out here actually. Lavish.’ He paused, thinking. ‘Course the real true blues stay away from him. See him as not quite one of us, know what I mean?’

  ‘And he thinks, if he’s a lord, that’ll change?’

  John shrugged. ‘Suppose so.’ He glanced sideways at her. His eyes were canny. ‘He doesn’t do interviews, by the way. Hates them. In case you were thinking.’

  She nodded, pretending to look thoughtful. ‘That’s odd. I’m sure I’ve seen—’

  ‘Well, hardly ever,’ he cut in. ‘Only to a favoured few.’

  ‘Thanks, John. Good to know.’

  That was why he’d been so free with his insights. As far as he was concerned, he’d crossed the threshold and bolted the door behind him. She wasn’t competition.

  Khan’s minders were waving at them, giving John an unsubtle signal to get ready to go.

  ‘Marching orders.’ John winked, changing tone completely. ‘Anyway, how are you? Still no bloke?’ He sniggered. ‘I’m going to have to stop asking, aren’t I?’ He patted her arm in a show of sympathy, already starting to move off. ‘Don’t give up. You never know. Miracles happen.’

  The young receptionist at The Swan wanted to move to the United States and become a pop singer.

  ‘Baba won’t allow me.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘You know what he’s saying? He’s saying singing is all very well but it’s not respectable. Unbelievable, nah? How can he say that? He, like, so doesn’t get the modern world.’

  Ellen was leaning on the reception desk with her elbows, propping her chin in her hands. She made a sympathetic face. ‘What does he want you to do?’

  ‘Get married.’ She sighed dramatically. ‘His best friend’s son. All very cosy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Have you met him?’

  ‘Met him? We practically grew up together. He’s a nice boy, quite good looking and all. But I want to travel, to have some fun. I’m so young. Am I right or am I right?’

  She reached into her handbag and pulled out her purse, filleting it for photographs. She had a baby face and bright kohl-encircled eyes. Eighteen or nineteen at the most.

  She handed over the first picture. ‘This is Mama and Baba.’

  A middle-aged woman looked solemnly back at Ellen. She was dressed in purple silk, a chiffon dupatta covering her hair, ornate gold jewellery dangling from her ears and round her neck. She was standing beside a portly man in a black Nehru jacket. They looked awkward in front of the camera, posing a little stiffly, Ellen thought, but their faces were kind. They were probably younger than she was.

  ‘That was at my cousin’s wedding last year,’ the young girl went on, ‘in Lahore. Such a blast, I can’t even tell you.’

  She was just handing over the next picture when the phone rang. Ellen straightened up. She’d been hanging around reception for the last two hours, hoping to intercept Khan when he returned to the hotel. Now it was already after seven. She was beginning to wonder if he was staying somewhere else.

  The call was in Urdu and Ellen could only catch a few words but it was clear that the man on the line was angry. When she replaced the receiver, the receptionist looked agitated.

  ‘So much drama,’ she said in a low voice. ‘You’d think he was dying. It’s only a scratch.’

  ‘A scratch?’

  The kohl-rimmed eyes looked round to make sure no one was within earshot.

  ‘I’m not supposed to tell a soul,’ she said, ‘but seeing as you’re a friend and all.’

  Ellen nodded quickly.

  ‘Well,’ she leant forwards over the desk, gene
rously sharing her heady perfume. ‘Mr Khan took a tumble and scraped his leg.’

  ‘He’s hurt?’

  She shook her head. ‘Barely at all. But his people are crazy. They say it might be dirty, with some soil and whatnot. I sent our doctor to tend him, a most excellent doctor. He wanted to give him some injection, just on safer side, when Mr Khan said he wouldn’t have the needle. Because it’s Chinese. What nonsense is that? Everything is Chinese, nah?’

  ‘So what does he want?’

  ‘Some tip-top Western doctor.’ She twisted her hands in the air, fingers flexed, emphasizing the madness of the idea. ‘They’ll have to send all the way to Islamabad.’

  ‘So he’s here, in the hotel?’

  She pulled an apologetic face. ‘Sorry. They came in from back side only. Top secret.’

  Ellen pointed to the phone. ‘Call them straight back,’ she said. ‘Let me talk to him. I can help.’

  The young British press advisor looked weary when he opened the door. His shirt was limp around the collar and grimy. He nodded to the two armed guards, standing outside the room with guns raised across their chests. They moved out of the way to let her pass.

  Inside, the entrance hall opened into a voluminous suite. The flecked carpet was thick and spongy underfoot, leading into a broad sitting room. In the centre, two plump sofas were set on either side of a glass coffee table. A bowl of fruit, pleated napkins and a fan of glossy magazines had been arranged on the surface. A vast wooden cabinet, fitted from floor to ceiling, dominated the side wall. There was a closed door on the opposite wall which she guessed would lead into the bedroom.

  A man was sitting by the window, his medical bag open on the carpet in front of him. The Pakistani doctor was rummaging through the contents with an air of panic, his glasses perched on the end of his nose.

  ‘This is the British lady.’