‘So how come Ahmed didn’t keep the fard for himself?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Mum’s name is also on the document, Asma Rahman. Tariq contacted the patwari and asked him what’s been going on. The patwari said Ahmed brought Dad in and asked for the land to be signed over. Dad agreed to have his name removed, but Asma was not present to authorise the removal of hers. So now the land is held jointly by Mum and Ahmed. The patwari drew up two authenticated copies of the fard; we’ve got one of them and Ahmed has the other.’
‘Okay, so why had Ibrahim put Asma’s name on that particular piece of land? And how come Ahmed wants to keep that bit for himself, when he let all the rest go to Shafik for his dam scheme?’
‘Exactly! Have a look at this . .’
The fax whirred again; this time the document was in English.
KAHIN NAHI, Pakistan – Huge oil and gas reserves have been discovered at Kahin Nahi, fifteen kilometres from Karachi, according to Oil and Gas Development Co (OGDCL) sources. Other wells in the area include Ahdi, Mastala, Missa and Tobra, all of which are currently in production with Pakistani Petroleum. The sources said OGDCL prospectors estimate the new find could yield up to 4,600 barrels of crude daily, making it one of the largest discoveries of recent years and opening up a new area for exploitation of hydrocarbon potential. (APP)
CHAPTER 40
I showed Imran the faxes over breakfast and he confirmed that the fard registered the land as owned in partnership between Asma Rahman and Ahmed Rahman. There were other documents.
‘These are surveyors’ reports, Martin. It looks like they were commissioned by Ibrahim to evaluate the potential quantities of oil. There are some differences between them, but all of them say the revenues will be substantial.’
I told Imran about my phone call with Ayesha. She had asked me to go back to Machh to see Ahmed again. She was desperate for answers to the remaining questions about her father, and this might be the last opportunity to get them.
Imran was dubious. It had been dangerous going to the jail once, he said; going twice was patently foolish. We had angered Ahmed, and his power to wreak vengeance extended beyond the prison walls.
I acknowledged Imran’s concerns. But for all the antagonism and suspicion our encounter had aroused, I felt Ahmed might welcome another meeting. There were things that still nagged his conscience.
‘We should try again, Imran. Would you ring the Superintendent of the jail and see if we can go there today?’
Imran rang. Superintendent Gul said he would ask if Ahmed was willing, but returned to say he had categorically refused. It was a blow. I asked Imran to ring Javed Shafik and see if he would order Ahmed to change his mind. It was mid-afternoon before we heard back: we should go to the prison at once.
Ahmed was surly. He refused to get up from the daybed, kept his eyes fixed on the window, ignored my questions.
‘Ahmed. Look, I’m sorry about the way we got in to see you today . . .’
Silence.
‘I wouldn’t have insisted, but there are important things to talk about . . .’
‘Go to hell!’
‘. . . important for me and important for you, too, I think.’
He shifted his body, raised his head.
‘How do you know what’s important for me?’
‘I know what I would consider important if I were in your position.’
‘What do you mean, my position?’
‘On death row . . .’
‘Oh, grow up! I’m not going to swing. The party have said they’re getting me out of here; next month at the latest.’
‘Okay. So maybe you won’t die now. But you are going to die . . .’
‘It’s you who’s going to die if you don’t stop hassling me!’
‘. . . and I don’t think you want to die with your conscience heavy.’
‘My conscience? Who said anything about my conscience?’
‘You did, Ahmed. The last time I was here.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. You told me I should figure it out. You asked me who must pay for Ibrahim’s death, who is the man who deserves to suffer for it . . .’
I saw the apprehension in his eyes.
‘. . . and I did figure it out. You were giving me the answer in the question – it was you who murdered your brother; and you can’t live with yourself because of it!’
‘Oh, yes? Who says?’
‘I think you want to tell me about it. You want to share the burden . . .’
‘Fuck off! You know nothing. And anyway, the Qur’an says only Allah can forgive . . .’
Ahmed turned away, mumbling fervent, rapid words, invoking the formulae of forgiveness. ‘O son of Adam, so long as you call upon Me, and ask of Me, I shall forgive you. Despair not of the Mercy of Allah: Were your sins to reach the clouds of the sky, I would forgive you. Were you to come to Me with sins as great as the earth and were then to face Me, I would bring you forgiveness . . .’
‘Come on, Ahmed . . .’
‘For Allah is full of knowledge and wisdom. Turn to Allah for He will remove from you your ills and admit you to the Gardens through which rivers flow . . .’
Unexpectedly, Imran joined in: ‘But oh! My servants who have transgressed against their souls! Of no effect is the repentance of those who continue to do evil until death does face them!’
Ahmed hesitated. Imran took over the incantatory verses.
‘For lo! Unto those who leave repentance until the time of their death, We have prepared a punishment most grievous. On the Day of Judgment they will dwell for ever in ignominy, for the Lord is swift in retribution!’
Ahmed snarled, ‘Repenting to anyone other than Allah is forbidden!’
But Imran had an answer: ‘The Qur’an says, “Verily, your fellow men on whom ye call for counsel and relief are like unto you; therefore call on them now, so they might soothe your mind and answer your prayer!” ’
Ahmed slumped onto the bed. He had lifted his arms so the sleeves of his robe covered his face.
‘Enough!’ His voice through the white linen was distant, strained. ‘What is it you want from me?’
‘Who paid the Pathans to strangle Ibrahim? . . . Ahmed . . .’
‘Yes . . .’
‘It was you?’
‘Yes . . .’
There was silence in the white prison; a prisoner in a white robe, grappling with his sin.
‘But why? You said yourself you didn’t need to kill him. Ibrahim had done what you asked of him. He’d turned over his land; he’d come to work for Javed Shafik; he was ready to hand over his taxi network . . .’
‘But it wasn’t enough!’ he groaned. ‘It wasn’t enough, because it could never be enough! For all the hurt and all the humiliation, for all the slights and insults, all the sneering, superior . . . He had to die. There was no other way.’
‘But did you not feel—?’
‘Enough! My brother is dead. And I am alive . . .’
There was anguish in Ahmed’s voice; but could I feel pity for a man who had bribed and threatened and lied to cover up his crime? Who had misled his brother’s loved ones and condemned them to the hell of unknowing?
‘You went to the police and got them to concoct a fictitious version of what you had done . . .’
‘The police had no interest in the case. It was an honour killing – they happen; it was justified.’
‘There’s no honour in murdering a man because you resent his happiness or his success. Because you feel inferior to him. There’s no honour in sending thugs to pin down your own brother on a concrete floor and crush his skull with a sledgehammer.’
Ahmed turned away, torn between shame and self-justification, between the need for absolution and the impervious swagger of the hardened killer.
‘It was no honour killing,’ I said. ‘You killed him because you were stealing your brother’s land!’
‘What are you talking about, journalist? You know nothing
about that!’
‘Oh, no? So what do you think this is?’
I thrust Ayesha’s copy of the fard into Ahmed’s hand. As he scanned it the openness in his eyes faded; a veil of unfeeling descended.
‘You kept this land for yourself. When you gave the rest to Shafik, you kept this. The water scheme and the dam were a red herring – it was the oil that was the real prize. Right from the beginning.’
‘Go to hell, journalist!’
‘No. You go to hell, Ahmed. I thought there was goodness in you alongside the evil. But I’ve understood you now.’
‘Why should I care what you think you have understood? Or what you think about me?’
‘But the land has Asma’s name on it, Ahmed. How are you going to deal with that?’
A smile spread across his face.
‘Don’t worry. I know how to do it.’
‘What? By killing Asma?’
‘If I have to . . .’
‘You’re already tormented because you killed your brother; and now you’re planning to kill his wife . . .’
Ahmed laughed. ‘Kill her . . . or marry her; whichever gets me the oil. I’m getting out of here next month; you won’t have long to wait . . .’
There was an angry finality in his farewell.
‘Don’t forget, journalist – I can have you killed before you even get back to Karachi. You should look out for yourself!’
That evening I told Ayesha the identity of her father’s killer.
EPILOGUE
We created man from a drop of semen so that We may test him . . . And verily, We shall put men to the test with fear and suffering and loss of wealth and lives and children . . .
— Qur’an 76:2, 2:155
If men divide into those who have suffered and those whose suffering awaits, this was the year of my graduation. I sit now by my open window, leaning my cheek on my hand, watching the breeze blow the cherry blossom, and can embrace neither the Allah whose suffering winnows the unbelievers, nor the Christian suffering that strengthens and ennobles. It is several months since I was in Pakistan; the things I saw there have settled in the silt of my mind. I took the manuscript of my book to my editor and explained that there may be stylistic inconsistencies. I wrote the first part – the events that happened before my brother’s death – before my brother’s death. There was a hiatus while I staggered; and when I picked it up again my life and my voice had changed. ‘This book has been the journal of your plague year,’ she said.
The day after I came back from Karachi I sat with Ayesha; we tried to draw the lessons of what we had discovered. I hoped the common endeavour of our quest, with its lowering disappointments and meagre successes, might outweigh our differences. I hoped we might come together in mutual acknowledgement of the other’s grief. But we argued. Over trivial things. I walked out and we didn’t communicate. I understood that she was unhappy – my investigation had brought her little cheer and no catharsis – and unhappiness mixed with frustration made her run from comfort. It took me a while to understand that I was the same. Always at the end of a project I feel empty. This time, because the dangers had been survived, the research done and the book written without any of the emotional redemption such stories are held to generate, it was worse. The plague year and Tom’s loss had disturbed my balance. The gloom descended. I had to get away. I travelled to avoid thinking, ran to escape from myself. It took time – months – but it helped. The voyage lifted my spirits. I returned to England with new energy, resolved to make good the mistakes I had committed.
I determined to put things right with Ayesha. She had a new address; she invited me to come and see her. I found the house in the long terraced streets of Fulham. She opened the door and pointed to the number on it.
‘Look, Martin – 786! That’s a lucky number for Muslims!’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Because that’s what the letters of Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim add up to; In the name of Allah, the most Merciful . . .’
‘You seem happy . . . Happier than when we last met.’
‘I am, Martin. Come in.’
In the kitchen she showed me the cradle and the pram. Wrapped in a pink blanket, her week-old baby was sleeping. We hugged and the hug was long, each of us trying to hide our tears behind the other’s back. I thought of the bar in Piccadilly long ago when her heel snapped and she first told me her story.
She went to make tea; it gave us time to compose ourselves. Leaning over the tiny form in the pink blanket I understood that for Ayesha hope had triumphed. Denise’s life force, Freud’s Eros, had vanquished Thanatos. When she returned, she told me how the resolution of the mystery of her father’s death had freed her to marry. His inhibiting shadow had lifted; she had thrown her mind and her body into the union with Peter, and in the months that followed Peter had made her happy. The baby was confirmation that she had done the right thing.
‘My father would have disliked me marrying an Englishman. He would have given his blessing because he loved me, but he would have worried about it . . .’
Ayesha bit her lip.
‘I can’t believe he’s dead . . . I still can’t believe it . . . And the most terrible thing is that he died to protect me. He died because of the stupid Pakistani code of honour, because Tariq and I should have married our cousins . . .’
‘Don’t regret, Ayesha. Ibrahim died because he loved you. You should treasure that memory. And you should love your children as he loved you.’
For a moment, neither of us could speak.
‘Did you see that Saulat Mirza was executed?’ I changed the subject. ‘The government held a commission of inquiry to examine the revelations he was promising about the MQM – stuff he hoped would get him reprieved – then they said thank you very much and hanged him anyway!’
Ayesha had news of her own.
‘Did you hear about Ahmed, Martin?’
‘No. What?’
‘He’s dead . . .’
‘Really?’
‘You remember he told you the UF was going to get him released? Well, he was right. He got out while you were away on your odyssey. And a week later he was found murdered by the Karachi-Orangi highway. They’d cut off his right hand and stuffed it into his mouth . . .’
‘God!’
‘Apparently it’s the dacoits’ sign that he was caught stealing . . .’
‘So it was Javed Shafik who did it? Because Ahmed had kept the land with the oil on it?’
‘Yes, probably . . .’
‘What do you mean, probably?’
‘It’s just that . . . you remember you told me on the phone from Quetta how Ahmed was boasting he was going to get the land for himself? How he was going to sort out Asma’s claim to it by murdering her or marrying her?’
‘Yes. He was bragging. He had a big mouth . . .’
‘Maybe. Anyway, I told Tariq about it and he went apeshit. He went to Pakistan . . .’
I burst out laughing. The vision of Tariq as Hamlet avenging his father by killing his uncle was so glib that pulp fiction would spurn it. Ayesha looked puzzled.
‘Why are you laughing? He hasn’t come back and he isn’t responding to my messages. I’m worried . . .’
There were other mistakes I needed to put right, other people I had hurt or neglected. I wrote to my brother’s children: ‘Your dad’s death is the most painful thing that has ever happened to me. The deaths of Nana and Papa were sad, but they were in the order of things. Tom dying was wrong in every way. I have found it hard to speak about this, and I think you have, too. I hope you will tell me when you want to talk.’
I could not replace their father, but I wanted to be there for them. I wanted it for me, too. They were the last flesh and blood that linked me to him.
I had spent a year among the dead, looking for answers about the past, driven by the compulsion to understand in order to forgive and be forgiven. But I had discovered that the dead keep their secrets; no one will tell us if and how we cou
ld have saved them. My thoughts were turning to the living. Ayesha told me that Ibrahim’s dream house in Kahin Nahi was to become a school, offering education to poor as well as rich, girls as well as boys. It would be Ibrahim’s gift and Ayesha’s. Her joy over her baby daughter had brought her new hope. I could see her life was restarting and I was happy for it. Now I must restart mine.
AFTERWORD
I thought my book was ended. But a week after I delivered the manuscript to my publisher I had a phone call from the coroner’s office in the town where my brother had died. The long-delayed inquest had been completed, a verdict of suicide returned and Tom’s effects were now available for collection. An apologetic official handed me a bin sack containing the clothes he had been wearing, his watch, cigarette lighter and a laptop that I didn’t recognise. I recharged it and hit the Start key. In the index of saved documents I found one addressed to me. ‘Martin, Have a look at this. Can you edit it for me? If you think it’s any good, would you see if you can get it published?’
I will always remember my forty-eighth birthday, because I spent it in the locked ward of a psychiatric hospital and I found out how old God is. My name is Tom and if you saw me I don’t think you would consider me dangerous. I look ordinary. My fellow patients, with a few exceptions, are also ordinary. The men in the lockup are personable or stand-offish, polite or rude, helpful or selfish, friendly or unfriendly just like the rest of us. The lockup resembles a mid-priced hotel. You share toilet facilities, but that’s no hardship. Food is served three times a day. The only thing is that the doors are kept locked and some of the guests are criminals.
There is very little to do. There is a secure area, poetically described as ‘the garden’, which is camouflaged by a fog of cigarette smoke. The TV in the patients’ lounge is kept in a Perspex cage to prevent damage. One evening we watched a DVD of Die Hard 2. When it finished we found that Die Hard 1 was about to start on TV. Voices were raised in protest: ‘We can’t watch Die Hard 1 after we’ve watched Die Hard 2!’ But Sean said, ‘We’re in a mental hospital; we can do what we like.’
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