I remembered Superintendent Gul’s words about the pressures of being on death row. Snake Eyes didn’t seem unbalanced, just utterly assured of his own invulnerability. And that gave him licence to brag.
‘Can I ask about human-trafficking?’ I was testing the limits of his candour. ‘There’ve been a lot of news stories in England about Pakistani men abusing young girls.’
Snake Eyes glanced at me.
‘You’re confusing things. The abuse happens to English girls in English cities. The trafficking involves Pakistani girls who get smuggled into the UK. And that’s usually for marriages, visas . . .’
‘And prostitution?’
‘Maybe. Sometimes.’
‘And which of these do you and Shafik know about?’
‘We have acted as intermediaries in the immigration trade. We don’t have anything to do with the abuse rings . . .’
‘Really? It’s just that I heard of a case in Burnley – a young white girl; her name was Kelly Stafford – and I wondered if you knew about it.’
Snake Eyes fixed me with a glare that explained his nickname; intense, disturbing, dark with menace.
‘Why are you bringing that up? Why the fuck are you talking about Burnley?’
I had touched a nerve.
‘No reason. Just that Superintendent Gul mentioned you lived in Burnley. And that some of the charges against you were connected with the place.’
‘Gul showed you my charge sheet? I’ll fix that bastard!’
‘I’m surprised. You’ve been quite open about all the other allegations. So why this sudden outrage? Is it because of Kelly Stafford? Or because of Burnley, perhaps?’
‘It’s because there are things you should not know about! Things that include my connections in England! You’d better not write a single word of this in your book – not if you want to live to see it published, you bastard!’
The ferocity of his rage jolted me. The journalist’s impunity had lulled me into thinking of this as a story. But it was perilous reality and I was being sucked into it.
‘Okay, look – I am not going to use real names and places. Maybe I’ll talk about Bradford instead of Burnley . . .’
I attacked from a different angle.
‘But I need to know the truth. And I need to hear it from you. Your name isn’t Snake Eyes or Mushtaq Waraich or Kamran Rafique, is it? It’s Ahmed Rahman!’
He stared at me, unblinking, calculating. Then he shrugged.
‘Maybe. So what if it is?’
‘So it explains something that has been puzzling me. You are Ahmed Rahman and your brother was Ibrahim Rahman. Am I right?’
‘You tell me. You seem to know a lot of things.’
‘You both worked for Javed Shafik—’
‘Things that might not be good for you, journalist . . .’
‘But Ibrahim died, didn’t he?’
‘What?’
‘He died. He was murdered . . .’
‘Just because I’m in this cell . . . just because I’m in this cell doesn’t mean I can’t squeeze you ’til the blood runs from your veins, you bastard . . .’
‘I’m not out to get you, Ahmed . . . I’m not out to get your boss. I’m trying to understand. I’m trying to explain something that’s been troubling me . . . Ahmed . . .?’
Hearing his name used seemed to check him. He looked around.
‘I too have a brother, Ahmed. I had a brother. Like you, my brother died and I have been looking for explanations. Like you I’ve had the loss, the absence and the guilt. And Tom’s death has become tangled up with Ibrahim’s – don’t ask me how or why. I need answers to both. Even if I never write anything; even if I throw away all these notes and wipe all the tapes, I need to know. And I think perhaps you do, too . . .’
CHAPTER 38
Ahmed Rahman was silent. What thoughts were stirring behind his expressionless eyes? When he spoke his words were belligerent, but his tone was not.
‘Listen to me, journalist. I don’t care if you get answers. I don’t care about your brother. But I do want to know why you’ve come here asking questions about mine. An Englishman, with no understanding of me or my people or my country. Why do you come here and ask me these things?’
‘I’ve come because Ibrahim’s daughter, your niece, asked me to. Ayesha asked me to find out what happened to her father and I promised her I would. I know about Shafik and Ibrahim and the quarrel over his land. I know Shafik threatened him and I know Ibrahim was ready to die to protect his property. But then something happened and I need to know what it was. You went to Ibrahim. You spoke to him. And you persuaded him to change his mind. I need to know how you convinced your brother to give up a law-abiding, family life and enter your world of depravity.’
For the first time in our conversation, Ahmed laughed. It was a laugh of derision and, just possibly, relief.
‘How do you think I did it? I persuaded him through brotherly love!’
Ayesha’s account of Ahmed’s behaviour after Ibrahim’s death had conditioned my ideas about her uncle, the men he mixed with at the funeral meal and the long, troubled relationship between the two brothers.
‘Can I just go back a bit? Ayesha told me about you and Ibrahim when you were growing up, when the two of you came to England and lived together in Burnley. She told me about the quarrels you had and the problems between your two families. To be honest, it doesn’t sound like there was much brotherly love at all.’
Ahmed’s laugh was harsh.
‘It’s not me you should be asking about those things. Those quarrels were my brother’s fault. He was the one who refused to show respect. I was his elder; I brought him from Pakistan to England; he lived in a house that I provided, worked at a job that I found for him. I was due deference, but he wouldn’t give it. Ibrahim always thought he knew best: he disrespected my advice about how we should live among the whites; he laughed at my warnings not to try to be part of their godless society . . . and he let his children laugh at me.’
The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable; Ahmed was spilling out things that had festered within him, that he had long yearned to share.
‘All I wanted was for Ibrahim to acknowledge me.’ He was sitting now on the edge of the bed, his swagger gone. ‘I collected him at the airport in 1969. I came in a car and I drove him from Gatwick to Burnley. Is that not brotherly love? I looked after him when we were living in our uncle Kabir’s house; I took him to the factory and persuaded the foreman to take him on. Is that not brotherly love? I went with him when he wanted to go to a stupid football game and when he wanted to introduce me to his white English friends. Is that not brotherly love? And when it all went wrong, when we were attacked and beaten up, I stood by him. All I wanted was for my brother to respect me. But he didn’t. He persisted in trying to be British. He moved to a white area, bought a house in a smart street, sent his children – even his daughter! – to university. When she went to Cambridge I told him to make sure she didn’t get big ideas, but he ignored me. He was in my debt, but he thought he was better than me. His family looked down on us. I tried to tell them they were making me a laughing stock in the eyes of the community, but they just sneered.’
Ahmed’s eyes were pleading for understanding.
‘Ayesha mentioned some of those things, Ahmed. But she told me her father’s side of the story. She said that later on, when you’d fallen out, you demanded money for the car from Gatwick to Burnley, that you’d kept a logbook of everything you’d ever done for him and a balance sheet of what he owed you for it. She said it was your way of humiliating him. And she said you tried to blame him publicly for the death of Kelly Stafford at his taxi business . . .’
‘Dammit, man! You’re talking about Kelly Stafford again!’
‘Yes. Because you never answered the question I asked you about her. Did you have anything to do with her death? Did Ibrahim?’
Ahmed hesitated.
‘Ibrahim had nothing to do with it. It was an un
fortunate event; that’s all I will say on the subject, so don’t ask me any more about it.’
He sounded sincere about his brother’s innocence.
‘Well, let me ask you about something else Ayesha told me. She said that when you were boys in Pakistan you made Ibrahim witness the murder of two young lovers who’d committed some sort of offence against family honour . . .’
‘Yes! I did. I did it because he needed to learn a lesson; he needed to see the rewards of treachery and dishonour. But he didn’t learn a thing. He didn’t understand that broken promises and disrespect bring retribution . . .’
I had the impression that there was something more Ahmed wanted to say.
‘Do you mean his disrespect for you, Ahmed? Is that what you are trying to tell me?’
‘I will tell you this, journalist. You are right that my brother and I quarrelled. You know enough about the reasons and it doesn’t matter now who was to blame. Maybe it was him, maybe it was me. But I want you to know that we found a way to resolve our differences. Several years ago in Burnley, he and I spoke. We both wanted an end to the things that divided us; he was willing and I was willing.’
Ahmed looked at me. I nodded encouragement.
‘Ibrahim thought we could just shake hands and everything would be okay. But I said it would take more than that. I had been disrespected by him, and the Pakistani community notices everything. In Burnley people talk. For my self-respect and my family’s self-respect Ibrahim needed to acknowledge that he had dishonoured me and that he was atoning for it. I know you English don’t understand, but these things are important. I offered him a deal. His son Tariq had done well in the world; he was a surveyor, earning a good salary. His daughter Ayesha had gone to Cambridge. And his youngest, Bilal, was making good money driving a taxi. My daughter and my son hadn’t done so well. They were good kids, but not successful. So I told Ibrahim that my price for pardoning him was that he must promise Tariq and Ayesha in marriage to my children. And he agreed. He promised solemnly, before witnesses and before the council of elders. But then he reneged . . .’
‘How come?’
‘When he told Tariq, the boy refused; he argued with his father and stormed out of the house. I don’t know if he even told Ayesha. He should have forced his children to agree, but he was pathetic. He came to me and backed out of our agreement.’
Ahmed’s face twisted with anger and regret.
‘I couldn’t let him get away with it. I told the council of elders that Tariq and Ayesha had broken a solemn arrangement. And what’s more, both of them were consorting with whites. I had followed Tariq and saw he was sleeping with a girl from an English family. And I learned that Ayesha was seeing an English boy called Peter. I demanded retribution and the elders agreed. They said my brother and his children had dishonoured me. They asked if I was willing to pardon them and I said I was not; I had an obligation to defend my family’s honour. The elders ruled that I had the right to exact the ultimate penalty on both Tariq and Ayesha. They said it would be merciful if I would negotiate financial compensation in lieu of their deaths, but I was not obliged to do so. They issued their judgment and said it was up to me.’
Ahmed smiled.
‘I pocketed the judgment and did nothing. I was waiting for the moment to use it. And that moment came when Ibrahim started his stupid histrionics about the land we needed for the Orangi water project. Shafik didn’t know Ibrahim was my brother. He tried and failed to persuade him to see sense. In the end I said I would do it. I went to see him and told him that unless he did what Shafik wanted I would invoke the judgment against his son and his daughter. Ibrahim had to come to work for us, or he was condemning his children to death.’
CHAPTER 39
Ahmed Rahman stared at me. He had confessed to a journalist whom he knew was taking notes, compiling evidence against him. The prophet Mohammed said a believer sees his sins as if he were sitting under a mountain which he fears will fall upon him, while the wicked person considers his sins as flies passing over his nose.
‘Can we be clear?’ I said. ‘You are saying Ibrahim refused to compromise himself, until you threatened to kill his children. He sacrificed himself to protect Ayesha and Tariq?’
‘If you put it like that.’
‘Your brother was a good man.’
‘If you say so.’
Ahmed laughed; but he knew his brother had behaved better than he ever could. There was one more question.
‘Am I right, then, to assume you killed him?’
The door opened and the boy came in with a tray of coffee.
‘Goddamit!’ Ahmed rounded on him. ‘Why the fuck are you coming in here now! Get out of here, you bastard!’
The boy dropped the tray; cups smashed and a stain of black liquid spread over the tiles. The child burst into tears, turned and ran.
‘Okay, journalist; time for you to go.’
The moment of candour had passed. Ahmed had spoken so openly that perhaps now he regretted it. The more I pressed him, the more he rowed back.
‘Leave it! I’ve told you enough. Why would I kill my brother? We’d already got what we needed from him . . .’
The old Ahmed was back, arrogant and angry. He called the guard to take us away. I made a final plea.
‘I need to know, Ahmed. I need to know who killed Ibrahim. If it wasn’t you, then tell me who it was!’
Ahmed turned his back, snarled at me.
‘You figure it out. You think you’re so fucking clever, coming here and passing judgment. You tell me who it was. Tell me who deserves to pay for it, who deserves to suffer for it. You tell me who that man is!’
We reached Quetta after midnight and checked back in to the hotel. I asked the night porter to book an international call to London, but he said there was little chance of getting it until the morning. I was eager to tell Ayesha that her father had not been a willing participant in the crimes he had committed; I dreaded having to tell her that the identity of his murderer remained opaque.
My dreams took me to the death cell, to Saulat Mirza’s hempen noose and hundred cigarettes. Did you ever see a hangman tie a hangknot? . . . He winds, he winds; after thirteen times . . . I found myself on the floodlit stage of Imran’s make-believe Hamlet conference, with Ahmed as smiling, villainous Uncle Claudius. O, my offence is rank; it smells to heaven. It hath the primal eldest curse upon’t, A brother’s murder! Ahmed as fratricide, king-slayer, outcast from God. And the Lord had respect unto Abel and to his offering. But unto Cain and to his offering he had not respect. What did Freud say about the Brudermörder, with his anguish of jealousy and self-disgust, his urge to destroy the being closest to him? And the Lord said unto Cain, Why art thou wroth? . . . And it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel. And what would Freud say about me dreaming now – I knew it was a dream, but I knew it in my dream – of the Brudermord? What if this cursed hand were thicker than itself with brother’s blood? Ahmed struggling to confess his guilt, but unable to purge the conscience that pricks and burns. ‘Forgive me my foul murder’? That cannot be . . . What then? What rests . . . when one can not repent? O bosom black as death! Elektra avenges her father, but who shall avenge the brother? And the Lord said, Now you are cursèd from the ground which has opened its mouth to receive your brother’s blood . . . The ground that Ahmed stole; the land that was his brother’s. And what about the widow, Gertrude, who marries her murdered husband’s brother? I was back on the floodlit stage, wearing Claudius’s robes and crown. I was kneeling, trying to purge my guilt. Loud knocking from somewhere behind me; the revenger come for him who murdered the brother he loved. I tried to rise but my knees were glued to the floor. I tried to run but my guilt weighed me down . . .
The porter had been knocking at the door, concerned that the line might be cut before I roused myself to use it. By the time we reached the lobby the operator had got through to Ayesha. I blurted out the news she had been hoping to hear. Ibrahim was not a
villain. There was an explanation for the crimes he had committed. Her image of a loving father was safe.
There was silence on the line. I had expected gratitude and relief. I called her name, asked if she was still there.
‘Martin, I already knew . . .’
‘What do you mean, you already knew?’
‘After you went back to Pakistan I spoke to Tariq. He told me about Dad’s promise to marry us off to Ahmed’s children. That was why Tariq ran away from home . . .’
‘Yes, I know . . .’
‘. . . and why he was so angry with Mum, who had gone along with it. But he told me he’d tried to patch things up. He contacted Dad in Kahin Nahi and Dad spoke to him about how Ahmed was using the judgment against us to blackmail him. Tariq was furious. He told Dad not to give in; he said he would come to Pakistan and take care of things – with a knife if necessary. But Dad said that if Tariq showed his face in Kahin Nahi, Shafik’s dacoits would slaughter him out of hand.’
‘So if you knew, why did you let me come here?’
‘Because we don’t know who killed our father. Dad told Tariq he was going to work for Shafik and Ahmed and that he would be safe once he had given them what they wanted. Then we heard that Dad had been murdered.’
‘And you were hoping I would find out by whom . . .’
‘There’s more. I showed Tariq the papers from Dad’s desk; he went through them all and he found something dangerous. Ahmed kept some of Dad’s land for himself – land that he kept secret from Shafik. Can I send you a fax?’
I asked the porter for the fax number. He said it was unreliable, but the machine whirred into life. The pages spewed out, accompanied by a commentary over the phone from Ayesha.
‘Look at the first page, Martin. It’s the ownership document, the fard, for part of Dad’s land – you can see the boundaries outlined on the map. You won’t be able to read the Urdu, but Dad’s name has been replaced by Ahmed’s.’
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