Can You See Me Now?

by Trisha Sakhlecha

  ‘I can try and –’ Alia stops speaking. The gasp is unmistakable.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He was there. Don’t you remember? At the leavers’ ball. He tried to speak to Noor a few times.’

  I don’t remember seeing him, but then I was a bit preoccupied that night. ‘Do you know what they spoke about?’

  ‘No, sorry, I don’t remember. But –’ She pauses, groans, then continues. ‘But I’m pretty sure he left right after Noor.’

  ‘He must have followed her,’ I say, stating the obvious before running through scenarios with Alia.

  I hang up a few minutes later, promising to let her know as soon as I hear from the gallery.

  There’s a single thought running through my head as I swirl my wine.

  If Ankit did follow Noor that night, he would have been there when she died. The thing that I need to work out is whether he was an accomplice or a witness.

  Unless, of course, Faraz is innocent. I finish my wine, then order another, sipping it slowly as I turn the thought over in my mind. All that the video proves is that Faraz had lied about being out of town. Could that just be the result of overcompensation on Javed Uncle’s part? An attempt to shield his son from any baseless accusations? It would make sense considering Faraz’s history and the kind of gossip they’d already been subjected to. The threat of losing Faraz might have been enough for Javed Uncle to cover up his own daughter’s murder. I have almost convinced myself of Faraz’s innocence when I remember the dead police commissioner.

  And then there is the card. I find it hard to believe that the invitation to the private view was a coincidence. But if Ankit really is guilty or hiding something, why would he reach out to me? No, it makes far more sense that he’s hiding from something. Or someone. No one disappears this completely out of anything but fear. Before I know it, a few hours have passed and the waiter starts hovering, pointedly reminding me that they are starting dinner service.

  It’s not until I’m back home that my phone pings. It’s the email I’ve been waiting for all day.

  Dear Ms Khan,

  I hope you are well.

  I have been in touch with James from Wolf Arts and I am pleased to include below the artist’s contact details as requested by you. You will be welcome at the studio anytime next week.

  The artist has requested that you respect their wish for anonymity and treat this information in complete confidentiality. Please do let me know if you need anything else and I hope you will enjoy your trip to Scotland.

  Burnside Studios,

  Fanagmore,

  Scourie,

  IV27 4RT

  Kind regards,

  Katie Briscoe

  I read through the email again. Scotland?

  ALIA

  It’s still dark when I step outside.

  I climb into the hotel car and let myself sink into the soft leather seats before plugging in my earphones, a futile attempt to drown out the thoughts that have been circling my brain all night. I had rescheduled my flights when Sabah called, choosing to fly in a few days before the summit in Westminster, but now that I’m here, I cannot escape the feeling that I’ve made a mistake. We’re going in blind to a situation that neither of us have any way of controlling, but then, I suppose I have no control over anything anyway.

  The life I’ve spent years building is unravelling around me.

  I cast a quick glance at my phone as we drive out of the hotel grounds and past the sprawling designer shops and cafes. Arjun and I have barely spoken in weeks, our conversations growing more and more stilted as the cracks and crevices where I stowed away all my lies and secrets warp and widen. When I told him I was going to London a few days earlier than originally planned, he didn’t ask me why or when I’d be back. He just nodded. I’m hoping there is a message or a voicemail from him, checking to see if I arrived safely. There isn’t.

  I try to remember the first time I met Arjun, the real first time. I was working as a waitress at The Ivy when Arjun walked in with his girlfriend, the astonishingly beautiful and proportionately vain Tanya. The hostess had seated them by the window and I watched them for a few minutes before walking over with the menus. I knew who he was, of course, but we’d never spoken. We spent a few minutes chatting while Tanya debated between the green salad and the caesar salad and by the time I walked away with their orders – steak for him and caesar salad without the dressing for her – I knew I liked him. He was different from all the other trust fund kids I’d come across in Cambridge. He had that easy confidence that can only come from knowing your place in the world but he was far too well mannered to flaunt his money or status.

  I was still thinking about him when we ran into each other a few days later in the library checkout queue. I smiled, expecting a hello, but the brief conversation that had made such an impression on me seemed to have meant little to him. I could practically see the invisible shield that came with years and years of privilege go up between us. I walked away, library book still in hand, my face burning.

  I had always known it but that’s when it really hit me. People like him didn’t notice people like me.

  I quit the job at The Ivy and started teaching English at the local women’s institute. The pay was lower, leaving me with little to spare, but I was willing to trade in drinks at the student bar for a last name like Arjun’s.

  I knew he was friendly with Niv and I made sure that the next time I saw him, I had a boy on my arm. Not a boyfriend – that would be too crass – but an admirer whom I was trying to fend off, an announcement that I was unobtainable. Something to be coveted. I met Arjun as if for the first time at Niv’s birthday party. It didn’t take long before we became friends, hanging out as part of a group to begin with, but gradually, as we grew closer, our meetings became more and more intimate. We always found excuses to justify it – none of our friends like obscure French cinema (neither did we), they don’t really get Nietzsche (I still can’t stand the man), no one else wants to spend an afternoon at a cryptozoology exhibition (we didn’t make it past the entrance hall) – but the truth is, both of us knew exactly what we were doing.

  And when six months later Tanya walked in on Arjun and me having sex in their rather spotless white kitchen, I knew exactly what I was doing.

  Tanya had an appointment at the hair salon that afternoon.

  But there was a mix-up. Someone called the salon and told them she wanted to reschedule her cut and colour for the next week.

  I got dressed in thirty seconds flat and ran out while Tanya wept in the corner.

  Arjun told me the next day that they’d broken up.

  Six weeks later, we started dating.

  Six years later, we were married.

  I twist away from the memory as my phone lights up with a text from Sabah: she’s waiting on the platform.

  I sit up straight as we pull up along the concourse. The weight of what we’re about to do anchors me. I might not know what we’re walking into but if there’s even the slightest chance that I can bring Faraz to justice, I have to try.

  I step out of the car with renewed determination just as the sun peeks through the clouds and the sky explodes in shades of pink and orange, bathing King’s Cross station in shades of innocence.

  SABAH

  Though it’s less than a hundred miles from Inverness, Scourie feels like the end of the world.

  After the seven-hour train ride to Inverness, the drive takes another three and a half hours, most of which Alia and I spend in complete silence.

  We haven’t seen another car in miles, not since we got off the motorway an hour ago. We’ve been driving along the coast, with the ocean on one side and the forest on the other. Every so often the road curves, bringing us dangerously close to the edge, and I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, painfully aware that one wrong move could send us teetering over.

  No one knows where we are. Once the thought occurs to me, it’s all I can think about. Other than the boarded-up pub we p
assed an hour ago, I haven’t seen any sign of life for miles. We’ll have to go all the way back to Inverness for a meal or a room. The remoteness hits home and I wonder if this trip is a mistake. We could drive off the cliff and not be found for weeks. Alia’s parents think she’s visiting friends in London and her husband . . . judging by the way Alia clams up every time I ask about him, I’m pretty sure she hasn’t told him much about why she’s in the UK, let alone where we’re going. We could disappear and no one would even think to look in this part of the country. They might be able to follow my credit card trail up to the car hire agency in Inverness but beyond that, they could spend weeks searching and not find a trace. With it being New Year’s Eve, we’d had to pick up the car keys from a collection box outside the station. There had been no banter with an overfriendly Scot, no talk of Hogmanay plans or chat about the freezing Scottish weather. The last people to see us were the students who had got into the carriage at Aviemore.

  I think, irrationally, of Dan. I wonder what he would make of this trip, if he would think it was crazy trying to track down a creep I haven’t seen in fifteen years in the middle of nowhere on New Year’s Eve.

  When I first read that email with Ankit’s address, I couldn’t help but smirk. It felt like I’d somehow tricked the gallerist and the agent into revealing Ankit’s location. But now, as we move further and further from civilization . . . I daren’t think why Ankit’s brought us all the way here. If he wanted to reach out, why not just pick up the phone or ask to see me in London or even Edinburgh?

  It’s illogical and reckless, and yet, something compels me to keep driving.

  I refuse to look at Alia. I can’t risk seeing my fears reflected, not now, not when we are so close to finding out how Ankit fits into all this. I switch on the radio, desperate to change the topic in my head, but all I get is static. GPS stopped working about twenty minutes ago and our mobile signals dropped off about ten miles after Inverness.

  I catch sight of some lights in the distance and my heart leaps at the sign of life, but before we are close enough to see what they are, Alia looks up from the A to Z she has open in her lap.

  ‘Take the next left,’ she says.

  The road is little more than a dirt track and I slow down as we wind through it.

  I shudder to a stop.

  ‘Are you sure this is it?’ I ask Alia.

  There is nothing but wilderness around us.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, her irritation evident.

  I continue up the path, unease prickling my skin.

  All I can see now is an expanse of water and a ramshackle cottage. It doesn’t look like an artist’s studio. It doesn’t look like anything. We circle the lake, which doesn’t even appear on the map. It is only when we come to the end of the track that I catch sight of the small sign saying ‘Burnside Studios’.

  The sight of another car in the drive bolsters me and I pull up next to it, trying to peek into the car to look for clues. It’s an SUV, fairly new, but completely anonymous. No stickers, no jackets strewn on the back seat, or coffee cups in the front. No clues.

  I look at the cottage backlit by a sky that’s slowly turning black as the last light leaves and then at Alia, who is already climbing out of the car.

  I take a deep breath and follow her to the front door.

  I step forward when the door swings open and as the features fall into focus, every last bit of constraint disappears. I crumble to the floor, the weight of fifteen years’ worth of guilt and regret too much for my body to handle.

  I had seen her unspool at the party.

  I had wept at her funeral.

  I had lit a candle every year for the last fifteen years.

  I had nearly lost myself in the guilt of what I had done.

  I had dared to hope, but the hope felt so sharp, so desperate, that my mind had refused to accept the possibility.

  And yet, here she is. Alive.

  Noor.

  SABAH

  Inside, the cottage is cosy. A log fire is roaring in the living room. A mug of tea sits on the coffee table. A record player in the corner is playing jazz. A book lies open, spine up on the armchair.

  The scene is so ordinary it takes my breath away.

  Noor goes straight to the drinks cabinet and carries three glasses and a bottle of Scotch over to the kitchen table.

  ‘When in Rome,’ she begins but her words are met with silence.

  She sighs. That deep, this-world-is-coming-to-an-end sigh that I never thought I’d hear again.

  The sound that leaves my throat is entirely unfamiliar. A gasp. A cry. A thousand emotions rolled into one tiny little sound.

  Noor pours the Scotch out, the deep gold liquid glinting as she slides a glass each towards Alia and me. I swallow it back, hoping a drink will steady my nerves, but the smoky liquid feels rough against my throat as I try to make sense of the scene before my eyes.

  My hand trembles ever so slightly as I set the glass down.

  ‘You’re alive,’ I say, uselessly.

  ‘Yes,’ Noor says, the hint of a smile on her face.

  ‘Did you run away?’ I ask.

  I look at Alia. She hasn’t said a word since we stepped out of the car. I follow her gaze around the kitchen. Her drink lies untouched on the counter. The fridge is covered with photos, evidence of a life well lived. Souvenirs litter every surface, displayed proudly amidst the chaos of a kitchen that is used often.

  I take in the chiselled features, the wild hair, the face that I used to know so well. My heart flips in my chest as it tries to decide what to feel.

  ‘What did we bury?’ I whisper.

  ‘Let me start at the beginning.’

  ‘I moved to Scotland a few years—’ Noor begins, but I cut her off.

  ‘I mourned you. I’ve been punishing myself for fifteen years.’

  ‘I know,’ Noor says. ‘I’m sorry.’

  The apology is delivered far too effortlessly to mean much. I flinch. Alia doesn’t. Indignation curtains her face.

  ‘You’re sorry?’ Alia demands. ‘What the actual fuck, Noor?’

  Noor takes a sharp breath as Alia continues, her fury rippling out as words tumble out of her mouth unrestrained.

  ‘You faked your own suicide! What the hell happened? How did you convince yourself this was okay?’

  Noor’s face crumples. Her voice, when she speaks, is soft. ‘I didn’t. I didn’t convince myself it was okay.’ She bows her head. ‘Abbu did.’

  ‘Remember the protests in Kanpur that summer?’ Noor asks, her eyes darting from Alia to me.

  I nod, vaguely recalling the arrests at the university and the communal violence that had ensued.

  ‘We came back early from Shimla because of the riots. Sabah, you probably don’t know this because—’

  It’s my turn to bite back. ‘Because we were fighting about how you decided one fine day that you wanted to be Head Girl?’

  Noor looks at me, waiting perhaps to see if there’s more. I sigh. ‘Go on.’

  ‘After we came back, Faraz wanted to go to Kanpur. He was planning on running for the student elections the next year and he wanted to show his support towards the youth and students. He managed to convince Abbu to let him tag along.’

  Alia and I look at each other, unsure what the riots have to do with any of this.

  ‘While he was there, Faraz became friendly with a few of the party workers, mostly from the youth division but also some of my dad’s older karyakartas. We didn’t notice anything at first, but over the next few months, he became tetchy. He started commenting on things he’d never cared about, telling Ammi off for not wearing a hijab at home, skipping college to hang out at the party headquarters. He’d never liked the idea of me having boyfriends, but he went off the rails with Sameer; he started spouting off obscure passages from the Quran. It was odd, he wasn’t religious at all – I don’t think he ever even went to a mosque and I saw him come in drunk more than a few times – but he became quite e
xtreme. There were a couple of incidents at his college as well,’ she says and I nod, remembering. ‘Faraz had started hanging out with radicals and when his friends called him out on it, he got into a fight with them and the whole thing escalated. Some of Abbu’s supporters went over there the next day and they beat up a bunch of boys at the college. That was the first sign that something was going horribly wrong.’

  I remember that. I remember hearing some of the boys talk about it at school, veering between idolizing Faraz and ridiculing him.

  ‘Abbu sent him away, and for a while things got better. When he came back, Faraz would still get really riled up about little things, but Abbu had forbidden him from going to the constituency or meeting the karyakartas. And being cut off from them seemed to help.’

  Noor looks away, out of the window.

  ‘But then the video went out and it was like overnight everything changed. Things were already so bad at school, but as soon as it was on the news . . . everyone was judging me, questioning my morals. No one ever published my name. The clip was never shown on TV. People knew it was me because they had searched for the video, downloaded it and watched it. Half the fucking country got off on it and then they called me a slut.’

  I feel an even greater stab of guilt than before as Noor pauses, her voice hoarse. The country had crucified her. We had crucified her.

  ‘What you both saw, at school, that wasn’t even half of it. There was so much pressure on Abbu to resign. Usually Abbu was really strict about not allowing party workers to come home. He only ever met them at the party office or in the constituency but even though he was still the party president, it was like he had no control over them anymore. They started coming to the house at all hours, calling me immoral, a bad Muslim, demanding Abbu do something about it. It was just this constant stream of pressure. We all tried to ignore it at first, but then the death threats started coming in. And then one day, a party worker snuck into my room. I came out of the bathroom and he was just standing there, waiting. I was lucky that Abbu was in the house and he heard me screaming, but I was terrified. I wasn’t even safe in my own house.’