Ellen set down her own medical kit in front of him, NewsWorld standard issue. She kept her pack of sterile needles in an inside pocket, easily accessible so she could grab it in an emergency or in the dark. She held them out for him to see.
The doctor peered at the labelling through his thick glasses and shrugged. ‘My own needles are perfectly sound.’ he said. ‘Hundred per cent guarantee.’ It sounded like the dying fall of a long lament.
The advisor moved to take the needles from Ellen’s hand. She closed her fingers round them.
‘I’m delighted to help out,’ she said, ‘but I would need to hand them over myself.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’ He glared at her. ‘Mr Khan is indisposed.’
Ellen nodded and smiled. She put the needle pack back into its inside pocket and zipped up her kit. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I quite understand.’ She looked towards the door.
The advisor and the doctor exchanged nervous glances.
‘Mr Khan is a very generous man.’ The advisor was looking tense. ‘I’m sure he’ll be happy to reward you very handsomely.’
Ellen shook her head. ‘I won’t detain him long.’
There was a strained silence. Finally the advisor gestured her to a seat, tapped gently on the closed door, waited, then went through to ask permission from the great man.
The bedroom was fragrant, scented by bouquets of pink roses. The king-sized bed, which dominated the room, was embellished with a sculpture of cushions against the headboard. Khan was sitting in an armchair in the far corner, facing the door.
He was dressed in paisley pyjamas and a white silk robe, wrapped round and tied with a cord. It reached to his knees. One leg was raised and straight, his foot resting on a pillowed footstool. The pyjama leg was rolled back to the knee to reveal a thin red scratch, smeared with white cream.
She stood at the door, the advisor at her side, waiting to be invited in.
‘I’m so sorry to hear about your accident. How awful. Is it very painful?’
He didn’t seem to be listening. He was fiddling with his robe, pulling it more tightly around his thighs. ‘You’re a stubborn lady, I hear.’
She inclined her head, taking it as a compliment. ‘Ellen Thomas, NewsWorld magazine.’
He smiled. ‘I like that.’ He looked across at her. ‘I have a stubborn streak myself. One must be single-minded to prosper in this world.’ His accent was a curious hybrid. Traces of his Pakistani origins were painted over with old-fashioned public-school English. The result was unsettling.
He seemed to have reached a decision. He waved his assistant away, back into the sitting room, then beckoned Ellen nearer.
‘How did it happen?’ she asked.
He looked down at his leg, examining the scrape. ‘A jagged metal edge. It caught my trousers, ripped them. Voilà. The damage was done.’
He straightened up again in his chair, wagged a finger at her. ‘Nothing is properly finished in this country, you know that? If the workmanship were better, I’d be the first to invest here. And I say this of my own countrymen.’
She moved forwards and looked at the cut. It seemed clean. ‘Is he giving you tetanus? Very sensible. Best not to take chances.’
He nodded. ‘One hears so many stories. Recycled needles. Infections. My people don’t understand but one can’t be too careful.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’ Ellen showed him her own pack. Each needle was individually sealed in plastic-backed paper and labelled sterile. ‘I always carry my own when I travel. Swiss, I believe.’
He held out his hand and looked them over. There was a glasses case on the table beside him but he didn’t reach for it. His eyes narrowed, straining to read the fine print. Vain, she thought. He’ll wait until I’ve gone before he inspects them properly.
‘Very kind. May I?’ He tore off two in their plastic sheaths and handed the rest back. ‘My people will settle with you.’
He was fingering the needles, thoughtful. He seemed to have lost interest in her. She didn’t move. ‘I have a special favour to ask. It would mean such a lot, not just to me but to our readers.’
He hesitated, looking at her boots which were planted firmly on his thick carpet.
‘There’s such interest in your charitable work here. Could you exchange the needles for a twenty-minute interview? That’s ten minutes per needle.’ She smiled, her eyes never leaving his face, reading his reaction as she continued. ‘Not a high price for good health and peace of mind.’
For a moment, he just stared at her, his brown eyes surprised. Then he threw back his head and laughed. It was a deep, coughing laugh which caught her by surprise. The door behind her flew open and the advisor stood, framed in the doorway, staring.
‘You have a cheek.’ Khan dabbed at his eyes with his fingertips and swallowed down his laughter. It disappeared as quickly as it had come. ‘You’d make a good businessman.’ He was waving his hand now, admitting defeat as he wafted her away. ‘All right, young lady. Later. You’ll get your twenty minutes of flesh.’
The advisor, stern-faced, ushered her out. He led her along the corridor to a second suite. The door was ajar. ‘Wait in there,’ he said.
Three men looked up in surprise as she walked in. Two were sprawled across sofas. The third was standing in front of an entertainment system, fiddling with its buttons. They were Pakistanis but dressed in Western trousers and shirts and they all wore dark wool blazers. One, the oldest of the three, had a red silk handkerchief folded into his top pocket. Stout glasses of whisky sat on the coffee table, a half-empty bottle beside them.
‘Madam, how do you do?’ The man at the entertainment centre bowed his head with courtly flair. ‘Please do be joining us.’
‘Is it not the snacks, nah?’ The youngest man, seated, was twisted round towards the door, struggling to focus on her. He was already drunk.
‘You are also guest of Khan-ji?’ The men were looking her over with interest. ‘We are his old friends. Cousins even, you could say so.’
‘A pleasure to meet you.’ The men struck her as classic hangers-on, getting their noses in the trough at someone else’s expense.
The man who was standing went back to tweaking the controls on the entertainment system. He was streaking through radio channels, and the speakers spluttered fragments of music and voices.
There was a knock at the door and a waiter appeared, wheeling a trolley covered with a white tablecloth. The young man clapped his hands. The waiter opened out the flaps of the trolley into a serving table. The radio locked onto a music station and the room was suffused with the high, wailing note of a Pakistani pop song.
‘Is there karaoke?’ The young man was waving his hands, conducting. ‘I love karaoke. I’m a great singer. Everyone is telling me so.’
The older men converged on the trolley, spooning large quantities of rice and meat onto plates and retiring to the sofas to eat. The rich aroma of cooked beef, marinated with spices, rose in the steam. Three European men, Polish, perhaps, or Hungarian, joined the party, filling their glasses with vodka, whisky, wine. The two Belgians arrived. Others loomed behind them. The large room was suddenly warm with bodies and food and vibrant with voices, all speaking their loud, differently accented English in competition with the pounding music.
Ellen looked at her watch. It was almost eight o’clock. One of the Belgians pressed her to have a drink. Over his shoulder, she saw a Pakistani man nudge cautiously at the half-open door. He peered round the room. He was thin-faced, his hair lank and long, his lips chapped. His salwar kameez was creased and slightly grubby. He was rocking with nervous energy as he clung to the shadows of the entranceway, as if he were a street dog, hungry for food but fearful of being kicked.
Ellen nudged the Belgian. ‘Who’s that?’
He turned to look. ‘God knows. Maybe he has the wrong room.’ He began a dull story about himself.
One of the older men threaded his way through the growing crowd to the door an
d handed over an envelope. The two men spoke for a moment. The Belgian drifted off to replenish his drink.
The young drunk on the sofa leant over to Ellen, his breath thick with fumes. ‘You have met Doc?’ He nodded towards the thin-faced Pakistani man at the door. ‘He’s not a real doctor, nah? But anything you are needing, he can get it for you. What are you needing?’
She smiled. ‘Nothing at the moment, but that’s good to know.’
When she looked again, Doc was ushering five young women into the suite. They were dressed in cheap polycotton salwar kameezes, trimmed with gaudy borders which glittered under the hotel lights. They were slight girls, none of them older than eighteen.
The man in the blazer led them further into the room. They stood in an awkward row. Their make-up was garish, their cheeks too red, their eyelids too bright. The Pakistani man pulled out a packet of cheap cigarettes and lit one. The girls passed it between them.
‘Five only.’ The young man shouted from the sofa. ‘Not enough.’
His friend slapped his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. You’re too drunk to need one.’
‘I’m not. I do.’ He sounded indignant. He tried to sit properly upright and fell back onto the sofa cushions. The other men laughed. The room was filling with cigarette smoke, alcohol fumes and raucous male laughter.
Ellen pushed her way out to the corridor. It was cool and deserted. The faint echo of noise splashed over her as she leant against the wall and thought about her interview with Khan.
‘Shy?’
She looked up. John. He was padding towards her down the corridor, his shirt open at the neck, his feet in thick leather sandals.
‘That’s no way to get laid.’
‘Exactly.’ She managed a smile. ‘That’s why I’m out here.’
His face was ruddy, either sunburnt or freshly scrubbed. He looked pleased with himself. ‘Just filed my mega-piece.’ He looked towards the door, sniffing the booze, the noise, the girls. ‘Party time.’
‘Pleased with it?’
‘Bloody delighted. So’s London.’ He leant towards her. ‘Guess who’s got the magazine cover this Saturday? Huge spread.’ He put a short finger to his lips. ‘Not a word, now. Top secret.’ He made to move past her and go inside.
‘How much is Khan giving them, do you know?’
He hesitated for a second, as if wondering whether to tell her. Then his face relaxed and he reached to pat her on the shoulder. ‘Sure, I don’t mind helping you out. Here’s the thing. All the medicines – that’s a couple of million, right there. Plus he’s giving in kind. Free transport of goods, supplies, all that stuff. That’s another couple of million, I’d say.’
She nodded, thinking. ‘And all offset against tax, I assume.’
He was looking past her into the party. ‘Is there food? I’m starving.’
‘And if the crisis drags on? If the numbers keep going up?’
John shrugged. ‘Who knows? Because it’s not just here, is it? It could infect the whole damn country.’ His tone became patronizing. ‘Look, this whole refugee business, it’s not going away in a hurry. Khan knows that.’
‘And he’ll keep paying out?’
‘That depends how long it takes for the peerage to come through.’ He winked, his eyes already drifting back to the hot chaos of the party. ‘Point is, he’s got very deep pockets. Not like you and me, if I may venture to be so bold.’ He sniggered to himself. ‘And you’ve got to remember, my dear. Whatever we might think, for a man like Khan, a few million ain’t a bad price for a peerage.’
The advisor found her there in the corridor.
‘Twenty minutes.’ He opened the door to Khan’s suite to let her back in. ‘And that’s it.’
Khan had moved into the sitting room and was lying across one of the plump sofas. His brown silk shirt was hanging loose over dark brown trousers. His feet were bare, the toes sunk in the thick pile carpet. His hair was slick against his skull as if he’d recently showered.
He pointed to the sofa opposite him and she sat down. A fug of spicy aftershave enveloped her. She opened her notebook and smiled.
‘Thank you for talking to me. You’re giving so much to these people. Why is this such an important cause for you?’
Khan drew himself up in his chair. ‘This is my country. I was born in Karachi.’ He put one hand on his heart. ‘It grieves me very deeply to see my people plucked from their homes, their way of life torn apart by conflict. They are weakened and vulnerable.’
Ellen stopped writing and looked up from her notebook. ‘And your role?’
He inclined his head. ‘It is my duty. My father left Pakistan when I was still a baby, in search of a better life. These people deserve opportunities too. And before they can have economic development, they must have peace.’
She tapped her pen on the page, watching him. He was reciting a script. His lines may or may not be true. That almost didn’t matter. She’d have to try a different tack if she wanted anything more genuine.
‘Tell me about your family. It must have been a difficult move, from Karachi to England.’
He shrugged, pulled a face. ‘In some ways. My father ran a small grocery business. He worked hard, for long hours. As a boy, I barely saw him. But he saw it as his duty. He wanted us to be the same as everyone else.’
‘Were you?’
‘Yes and no.’ He reached for the glass of water at his side and swallowed a mouthful. ‘I mean, it was a very mixed neighbourhood. In that sense, everyone was different. But I went to a good school, I worked hard and afterwards my uncle took me into his business. He had a small number of vans for hire.’
His answers about his own career were well rehearsed. He talked about the long hours, the business risks, the steady progression from a few vans to a fleet, from the gut decision to buy a cheap freight ship to the slow purchase of a whole line of them. His career was well documented. These were well-worn anecdotes. She looked at the clock. Her time was running out.
He paused and she jumped in, hoping to lead him back to his childhood. ‘What were you like, as a boy?’
He shrugged again. ‘Very ordinary. I liked the things boys like. Cricket. Sport.’
She thought for a moment. ‘What did you most want?’
‘Most want?’ He looked surprised. ‘I don’t know. What do boys want?’
She sat quietly. He was gazing at the art work hanging on the opposite wall. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again and took a sip of water. She waited. An empty minute passed. She sat with the silence, pushing him to speak.
‘A bicycle, I suppose. A better cricket bat. I don’t know. The usual things.’
She sat, looking at him, without writing anything down. He had tipped his head back now and was staring up at the ceiling. He was evading her, thinking but travelling alone. She sat still and waited, giving him her full attention. The silence extended.
Finally he leant closer and whispered: ‘Dickens.’ He sat back and clapped his hands. ‘There you are. There’s your scoop. The Pakistani community won’t like it.’
‘Dickens?’ She was lost.
He laughed, the same startling laugh she’d heard earlier. ‘A dog.’ He seemed delighted, as playful as a schoolboy. ‘A most wonderful dog.’
He was sitting up now, animated. ‘My best friend at school was from Cyprus. Greek Cypriot. Alex, his name was. Alexander. We used to play together after school. His family had that dog. A small thing, no pedigree, but full of mischief.’ He smiled. ‘We got into such scrapes with him. I thought it was marvellous.’
‘And you wanted a dog too?’
‘Desperately. Out of the question, of course.’
‘Your father wouldn’t allow it?’
‘Heavens, no.’ He shook his head. ‘Hated dogs. Thought they were dirty, unclean. Dangerous, even. Couldn’t see why any civilized person would have one in the house. I never told them about it. Just disappeared to Alex’s house after school, every chance I got.’ His face was fl
ushed as he remembered. ‘Whatever happened to Alexander? He was a scrawny boy. Probably as stout as me now.’ He patted the mound of his stomach, chuckling. ‘If he’s even alive. Anyway, that’s all a long time ago. Let’s move on.’
She had no intention of moving on. ‘Did you have many friends from outside the Pakistani community?’
‘Absolutely. It was a mixed neighbourhood, I told you.’
‘Did your parents approve?’
‘My father wanted me to be utterly English. Do you know, I hardly speak a word of Urdu? Embarrassing, isn’t it? Understand a lot, but can’t speak it. My father never let us.’
She nodded. She tried to imagine his father, a hopeful new arrival from the bustle of Karachi, desperate to adapt to a cold, strange country called England. ‘You must have made them very proud.’
His advisor had opened the door and was tapping his watch. The twenty minutes had passed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Mr Khan is running very late. He’s keeping people waiting.’
I know, she thought. I’ve met them. She got to her feet.
Khan had a wistful look on his face as he put his hand out to her. ‘It’s been a pleasure.’ She nodded. Inside this powerful man, now tipped to become an English lord, she saw a small, displaced Pakistani boy, driven by ambitious parents and in love with a mischievous dog.
Ellen sat in her room, staring at her laptop screen. Phil had agreed to take a short piece on Khan’s visit. Now readers in other countries would be interested in the refugee angle. It would be easy enough to put the two elements together into five hundred words on the growing need and the way Khan was stepping in to meet it. The gossip about his lordly ambitions she’d leave to John.
She picked up the ballpoint pen on the table beside her and clicked it on and off with her thumb, restless. She had the nagging sense that she was missing something but she just couldn’t see what it was. She deleted the few sentences she’d written and started again, kicking off with some description of the camp and the women’s medical tent. After a paragraph, she pushed back her chair and paced up and down the room. She picked a banana out of the fruit bowl and ate it. She pulled back the curtains and looked through her giant tape cross to the light-pecked darkness of Peshawar so many storeys below.
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