‘Ayesha . . . I’m so sorry. That was stupid of me. Of course we must work on the assumption that Ibrahim was innocent. And of course I’m not going to force you to return to Pakistan. There’s lots we can do without going there . . . What about the Foreign Office, for a start? Your dad was British, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes. He had a British passport . . .’
‘Then we must get the Foreign Office onto this,’ I said. ‘It’s their job to look after Brits abroad . . .’
Ayesha shook her head. ‘He had dual nationality – British and Pakistani. When I tried the Foreign Office they said that makes a difference . . .’
‘Nonsense! If Ibrahim was British, he was British. And the government needs to recognise it . . .’
Ayesha was rummaging through the printouts she had brought with her.
‘I don’t think it’s that simple, Martin. When I asked the Foreign Office for help they were polite, but they quoted their rules and regulations about how much, or how little, they could help. Here, look – it’s in the FCO guidance: “If you or your father were born in Pakistan, you might be considered a Pakistani national by the local authorities even if you don’t hold a Pakistani passport, and the British government may be prevented from providing the full range of consular assistance . . .” That’s the problem with Dad: he had both nationalities, so the Foreign Office doesn’t want to know.’
‘Then we need to pay them a visit.’
‘Yes, I suppose . . .’ Ayesha wiped her eyes. ‘The FCO fobbed me off, but you’re a journalist; perhaps they’ll be worried what you might write about them . . .’
She had regained her composure.
‘So . . . how about a deal?’ she said. ‘If you get us a meeting with a minister at the Foreign Office, then I’ll consider coming to Pakistan with you . . .’
CHAPTER 11
I wrote to the Foreign Office. But first I wrote to the professor who had supervised my studies as a postgraduate psychology student ten years earlier. I told her I was worried about a friend and she asked when we met if I was sure this friend wasn’t actually me. I smiled and said it wasn’t; we sat down to talk.
Denise was in her sixties, an expansive, noisy Jewish woman who combined her academic career with work as a counsellor-therapist. She overflowed with natural empathy and emotional acuity; her kind eyes and ample bosom had comforted many sufferers of distress. I told her what I knew about Ayesha’s experience as the daughter of a murdered father, how she had repressed her grief and anger, and how fragile her equilibrium now seemed. Denise said post-traumatic stress disorder affects the majority of those who lose a close relative in violent circumstances, and Ayesha was almost certainly suffering from it.
‘Bewilderment, shock and grief are all deepened when there’s no clear explanation of why a person has died. And trauma deliberately inflicted by other humans is the hardest to come to terms with, much harder than deaths in natural disasters. An unsolved murder allows the imagination to conjure up endlessly disturbing thoughts.’
‘Most of the time she seems so normal and so in control,’ I said. ‘Almost too in control, if you know what I mean; as if she’s calculating everything like a business deal. Then at other times she completely disintegrates.’
‘Classic PTSD. The stronger the person, the harder they fall. The first proper case studies were soldiers in the First World War. These were brave men, so they held themselves together during the day but at night they were overwhelmed by nightmares and panic. The doctor who treated them, a fellow called W. H. Rivers, said the brave person’s shame about acknowledging his own fear sets up a vicious circle that makes everything worse.’
‘You mean the Freudian repression thing? Denying there’s a problem?’
‘Yes. Not talking about things; not finding any answers. The mind of your friend must be weighed down with all sorts of painful questions – who did this? Why did they harm my father? What was my father doing and thinking when he was killed? How much did he suffer? And was there anything I could have done to prevent it? When those questions remain unresolved, the mind works itself into a hyper-aroused state; it is constantly agitated, tortured by unknowing. Sufferers can’t sleep, can’t find rest. Eventually they can’t hold it together and you get the sort of dramatic collapses you described your friend as having.’
‘And do we know why the impact of deliberate killing is harder to process than that of other violent deaths? I mean if Ibrahim had died in a train crash, for instance . . .’
‘Well, there’s been research on it. I can give you the references if you want. I think it’s to do with interpreting the intentions behind the death. A train crash isn’t the result of a single person’s ill will, but murder is. Deliberate killing is seen as an attack on our human integrity, which causes anger and a loss of trust in other people. Mistrusting others can verge on paranoia – it’s very damaging for mental health . . .’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say Ayesha was paranoid, but she certainly has trust issues – not least with me.’
‘I think you need to show understanding, Martin. When there’s no logical explanation for a dreadful event like a murder it makes life seem terrible and meaningless. I’d say your friend is looking for meaning. If you could establish that her father was murdered by terrorists, for example, she could perhaps create a narrative that lends validation to his death – she could see her father as an involuntary participant in the struggle for freedom and democratic values, or something similar . . .’
I laughed. ‘Oddly, we discussed exactly that scenario and Ayesha ridiculed me for saying the murder could have been terrorist-related. She’s probably right. I wouldn’t want to rule it out, though. Is there anything practical I can do to help her in the here and now?’
‘There are always things we can do to help. For instance, experience with mass disasters suggests that taking relatives to the scene can be therapeutic. There’s a Norwegian researcher who studied the effect of the Anders Breivik massacre in 2011. When he compared the mental health of family members who went to the site of their relative’s death and those who didn’t, he found less PTSD in those who went than in those who stayed at home. Why? He says it’s to do with getting an understanding of what happened at the moment of death, with feeling physically close to the departed person and with being able to say goodbye. It isn’t easy to visit the place where your loved one died in such a terrible way, so overcoming your resistance and fear is validating in itself. It feels as if you are doing something for the dead person, a kind of symbolic ritual that can help cleanse you of feelings of guilt.’
‘Do you think I should tell her that the way to end the horror is to go back again and confront it?’
‘Perhaps. Forcing yourself to do something unpleasant can be beneficial if it’s handled properly. And just doing something is usually better than giving in to hopelessness or sinking into apathy. The best thing would be to solve the crime, of course . . .’
‘Ha! I’m working on it!’
‘. . . or in the absence of solving it, perhaps just writing about it will help. The book you’re planning could be quite validating if your friend thinks you are telling her story in the right way. It could bring a measure of comfort, a sense of compensating for the pain or putting it in perspective. But you do need to tell it in the right way. Relatives are sensitive about how their loved ones are remembered because they are the ones who knew them, not you as a writer.’
I rang Ayesha to tell her about my conversation with Denise, but she didn’t want to listen. There was an edge in her voice. When I asked if something had happened she said, ‘Yes. I’m marrying Peter.’ She sensed my hesitation. ‘You’re surprised? You don’t think that’s a good idea?’
‘Ayesha, I don’t know Peter . . . I’m not sure I know you. If that’s what you want, then of course it’s a good idea. Many congratulations.’
‘You don’t sound very convinced. If my dad were here, I don’t think he’d be saying congratulations. He’d be tryi
ng to dissuade me . . .’
‘Well, I’m not your dad. Getting married is a big decision, but it’s your decision. You and Peter have to make it. No one else can do it for you.’
‘Well, precisely! Because no one else cares about me. There’s no one looking out for me; no one I can trust. I thought I could trust my dad and he’s dead; I thought I could trust Masood Jilani and he’s let me down; I thought I could trust you . . .’
CHAPTER 12
Women think that pouring one’s heart out over lunch is a single-gender sport. But it isn’t. Men approach self-revelation cautiously: first the football, then the job, the finances, the children, relationships, physical then mental health. A trusted confidant is a safety valve and mine was my brother. When I told Tom that my life was beset by unpredictable women, he grunted understanding. For the next hour he and I were two Henry Higginses lamenting la différence. I said Ayesha was becoming volatile and I was getting jumpy. If she pulled out of the book at the last minute, I could see months of effort going down the drain. We finished our lunch on the unsatisfactory understanding that I had little choice; I would have to cross my fingers and press on.
The following day I had a reply from the Foreign Office to say my request for a meeting had been noted. There was no confirmation that the request would be granted, but it gave me a pretext for ringing Ayesha. She greeted me with joy in her voice.
‘Martin! The very person I was hoping to hear from! . . . Fantastic that you’ve got the FCO to acknowledge our existence. Thank you so much. I’ve been assembling the correspondence I had with them after my dad died – before I got involved with you – and I think we should go through it together. It’s such a beautiful day. Why don’t you come over for a coffee?’
I hid my surprise. I didn’t point out that our last exchange had ended with her accusing me of being uncaring and untrustworthy. When I arrived she gave me a hug.
‘So lovely to see you, Martin. I think we’re going to get somewhere now. So, thank you for all your help. Here are the letters . . .’
I tried to ask about Peter and wedding plans, but Ayesha was laying out documents on the coffee table, accompanied by a running commentary.
‘I told you how the Foreign Office gave me the brush-off when I rang them the day Dad was killed? That really annoyed me. The woman on the emergency helpline was completely useless. I didn’t go back to them until after I’d been to Pakistan, so that must have been late August or early September. Here’s the first letter I got my lawyer to send them . . .’
‘You mean you’ve had lawyers liaising with the FCO? Ayesha, why didn’t you tell me?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m telling you now. So here’s my lawyer’s first letter.’
Ayesha passed me a copy. It was from a firm of Manchester solicitors who had addressed their query, somewhat hopefully, to ‘The Foreign Secretary, The Foreign and Commonwealth Office, London’. The letter set out the facts of Ibrahim’s murder and requested the British government’s assistance in bringing his killers to justice. The Rahman family, it said, had reason to believe that the Pakistani police investigation of the crime was beset by ineptitude and possibly corruption. So would the Foreign Secretary please use his best efforts and those of the British High Commission in Islamabad to ensure that justice was done?
From the reply, dated two weeks later, it was clear that this was not the first such case the FCO had had to deal with. It was from Farooq Khan, desk officer with responsibility for consular matters within Pakistan, and began by expressing sympathy for the family’s loss. The rest of the two-page document was an exercise in wriggling.
I appreciate your client’s concerns about the investigation of her father’s death and her desire to bring the perpetrators to justice. Unfortunately the Foreign Office is not permitted to involve itself in police investigations in foreign countries. We are also limited in the assistance we can provide to dual nationals in the country of their other citizenship. The British High Commission in Pakistan has been in contact with the Karachi police authorities, but any investigation remains a matter for them and we cannot oblige them to release any information. We recommend that your client engage a Pakistani lawyer, who will be able to address her concerns about the conduct of the police in that country.
I understand that your client is worried about her personal safety if she were to travel to Pakistan, but the FCO is unable to provide protection to British nationals overseas. We can provide a list of private security companies. We can also provide a list of international funeral directors if your client wishes to repatriate her father’s body to the UK.
I wish to assure you that we have done everything within our power to assist in this tragic case, and we are satisfied that we have provided the appropriate consular assistance. My colleagues in Karachi will continue to monitor developments.
Yours faithfully,
Farooq Khan, Desk Officer, Pakistan.
‘A complete cop-out!’ Ayesha said. ‘They don’t give a damn. I wonder how they’d be acting if it was a white Englishman who’d been murdered. They’d be pulling out all the stops; the story would be on the news bulletins; there’d be questions in parliament. My dad they think they can sweep under the carpet and no one will care. Well, I care! And I’m not going to let them get away with it. I got my lawyer to write them a stinker of a letter.’
She gave me a copy to read.
Dear Farooq Khan,
Our client engaged a local solicitor in Pakistan immediately following her father’s death. The solicitor has advised her that there is no possibility of a fair and objective police investigation without the payment of bribes. The Rahman family does not have the means to pay the amounts necessary and the solicitor is unwilling to challenge the police as he fears for his own safety. This is understandable given the shooting of a local private detective.
Our client is doing all she can to get justice for her father, but she lives in the UK, has limited financial means and is scared to travel to Pakistan. She desperately needs practical assistance from the FCO. Why, for instance, is the FCO not liaising with the Home Office and the Metropolitan and Lancashire police forces? Why is the FCO not supporting our client’s demands for a new investigation? Could you at the very least ascertain if the authorities have accepted the results of the autopsy our client arranged to be carried out on the exhumed body of her father? In sum, we hope for a more constructive response from you.
Yours faithfully . . .
‘How did they respond to that?’
‘You can judge for yourself. Here’s their reply.’
The authorities in Pakistan have confirmed the exhumation of Mr Rahman’s body and they acknowledge the results of the autopsy that Ms Rahman arranged to be undertaken. My colleagues in Karachi have contacted the police authorities and they have informed us that an investigation is in progress. As such, the FCO cannot make any further representations on your client’s behalf. We advise your client to pursue any allegations of failings by the Pakistani authorities through the proper legal channels. The Pakistani courts are empowered to impose sanctions on police and other authorities. As you will appreciate, the FCO cannot insist upon the Pakistani authorities conducting their investigation in a particular way.
Yours faithfully,
Farooq Khan.
‘A fat lot of use that is,’ Ayesha said. ‘Okay, they’ve spoken to the police, but those are the very guys Masood Jilani said were being paid to cover up for the murderers. They’re hardly going to throw their hands in the air and tell the truth just because the British High Commission asks politely how things are going. There needs to be real pressure on them. That’s the only way we’ll ever get anywhere.’
‘I suspect you’re right. And I’d say the only way we’re going to get the FCO to apply that pressure is by a bit of arm-twisting. We need to get this meeting fixed so we can talk to the minister instead of just writing to low-level officials . . .’
‘I’m not being negative, Martin, but I
think even you might struggle to get a minister. I’ve spoken to other British Pakistani families in our position and they’ve had to wait months or years for a meeting with anyone. But when that white girl, Lucie Blackman, was murdered in Tokyo the government invited her parents to meet the Foreign Secretary within a week. It’s depressing, but I think there are different values for white Britons than for us.’
That evening I was thinking about Ayesha and Peter, her future husband, wondering how he felt about the travails of the family he was marrying into. Peter was white, a Londoner, and evidently struggling to understand his fiancée. Ayesha had told me that Peter couldn’t fathom the guilt she felt about her father’s death or her sense of regret that she had somehow let him down by neglecting the Pakistani side of her heritage. He told her she was being unfair on herself. He was comforting, but she didn’t want comfort; she was angry and disconsolate by turns.
Ayesha’s sudden determination to marry Peter puzzled me. I wondered if her desperate situation and the loneliness and vulnerability she was feeling were pushing her into a step she had previously resisted.
The phone rang. My brother’s voice sounded distant, muffled. He wanted to pick up the conversation we had had over lunch. He wanted to tell me something, but he wasn’t making much sense. I suspected he was drunk. ‘I can’t hear you, Tom,’ I said. ‘Can you speak up? What are you saying about Tara?’
‘I’m saying she wants to kick me out . . .’
We think our troubles are unbearable, then others come along that make us nostalgic for the old ones we once thought so hard to endure . . .
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