The Khan by Saima Mir (read e books online free TXT) 📕

Seeing her pallor, Nowak stood to attention. ‘Take her to the ladies room, please,’ he said to Juliet. ‘This is a five-thousand-pound jacket. I don’t want her vomit on it. She couldn’t afford the cleaning bill.’

Juliet put her arm around her friend and ushered her towards the cloakroom, Mina tripping on a stool and bumping into the bartender as she did so. He held out his hand to steady her, and in one well-timed move she passed the keys to him. The bartender walked steadily over to an open window and, making sure no one was looking, threw the keys down to where Benyamin was waiting.

The Khan’s son picked up the keys and headed towards a red Ferrari. He’d had time to size up the situation and knew that the car was parked awkwardly for a swift getaway. He wiped his brow and started the engine. The key turned like butter, encouraging him, and he backed out of the space slowly at first, slamming his foot down in reverse the moment he knew he’d be clear of the cars on either side. The engine responded with a roar, but the tyres skidded wildly on the gravel, forcing Benyamin to swerve and brake sharply. The car stalled. He started her up again, glancing round to see three men hurrying towards the car park, alerted by the noise. By the time he’d manoeuvred the car out of the tight spot, the exit was blocked. The men shouted loudly, signalling frantically at each other to move, move, move, and within seconds Benyamin was surrounded. A heavy man with a broad head and no neck stood in front of the bonnet; two equally ugly heavies stood on either side of the car. Behind was the solid brick wall he’d just managed to avoid hitting.

Benyamin grasped the gearstick in his sweaty palm, and revved the engine in warning, but no-neck stood firm, and suddenly there was Nowak beside him, and more men at his back pulling out weapons. Pistol in his palm, Nowak stared intently, his cold gaze locked on to the Khan’s son. Benyamin slowly raised his hands. The game was up.

CHAPTER 15

Jia walked across the garden towards the house. The last of the wedding guests had left. The night had fallen silent. She wondered where Benyamin was; he hadn’t returned in time to give Maria away and their father had had to do the ceremony alone. She assumed he was off somewhere with the girl in the green sari.

She climbed the steps to Pukhtun House, moving one foot along the gentle dip in the centre of the first golden slab. The Khans had spent years climbing, walking and running up these five steps, from childhood through to adulthood, swinging coats and bags and ditching them all at the front door as they left the cold and entered the warmth of home.

She had sat on these very steps for what felt like hours after the police had taken Zan and her father away. This was where Sanam Khan had cried salty tears, clutching her son’s jacket against her cheek, unable to speak. It was where Jia had greeted Bazigh Khan later that night. His arrival had been swift and she had crumpled at the sight of him. He smelt like her father, his aftershave and his starched shirts. His arms and fragrance enveloped her, and the dam that been holding back her tears broke.

He rebuked her gently. ‘Child, you are to face stronger trials than this,’ he said. ‘You are a daughter of the Khan. Struggle is our life.’ She had never seen him so gentle as when he wiped her tears. ‘You are the niece of Bazigh Khan, yes?’ he said. ‘And have you not heard the mothers tell their children about me? And you know that Bazigh Khan is beyond the laws of the land and more powerful than all the jinn and bhoot of it put together?’ With these words he’d succeeded in making her smile. Then he turned away, his face darkening. ‘Ya Allah! I will burn the city down if I have to, but I will bring my brother and yours home.’

Several hours later he made good on his promise, or half of it at least. Akbar Khan came home the next morning; Zan Khan did not. The prayers continued, the janamaaz spread in one long row, the family side by side, pressing their foreheads to the ground asking for Zan’s return.

The tears and prayer ended only when the boy walked through the doors of Pukhtun House later that afternoon. The women rushed forward to embrace him but his arms dropped, hanging limply by his side. Unresponsive, he waited for them to stop. Dark circles around his eyes told them he hadn’t slept. They tried to fuss over him, but he was tired, he needed a shower, he wanted the sweetness of home.

He waited quietly in the kitchen as his sister poured tea into two mugs. It had been steeping all day, its flavour deepening with each passing minute, the colour from the leaves darkening the milk. Jia added spoonfuls of sugar, hoping it hadn’t tipped over into bitterness.

Eyes lowered and face dark, Zan was not the boy who had left the house the night before. Akbar Khan embraced him, his arms bear-like, leading him away from the women and into the study.

Jia followed but Akbar Khan stopped her, his body between her and the doorway. Something in his voice told her not to argue. She sat down on the floor outside, waiting patiently until Zan emerged. She looked at him expectantly, but he said nothing and walked to his room.

It was early morning when he knocked on Jia’s door.

‘There is no justice for people like us,’ he said quietly, his head in his hands. His weakened smile made Jia’s heart ache. She felt so helpless. Sitting on the floor of her room, as he had done many times before, he counted