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

his men last night. I’m told he’s been under police surveillance for a while. They’re not sure what he’s doing here but they know it’s not to do charity work for Islamic Relief. Your man Ben Khan was also seen at this gathering with some girl, probably his girlfriend…’

John knew Elyas thought of Benyamin Khan as a little brother. What he had to say next was difficult. ‘Apparently Ben was trying to steal Nowak’s drugs consignment. Maybe he was trying to impress his father, maybe he was just doing it for a lark, who knows. The drugs were in the guy’s car, so he stole the car.’ He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully, his eyes on Elyas, watching for a sign of when to stop. ‘The word is that the Brotherhood have Benyamin Khan. Andrzej Nowak is not known for his…mild-mannered ways. And if they do have him, and he’s alive…from what I hear, he’ll be praying that he wasn’t.’

CHAPTER 20

‘Yes, John, I’ll be careful,’ Elyas said as he left the car park. Just a day into management and he hadn’t been able to hack it, watching reporters leave the newsroom to find stories as he sat behind a desk and read reports and looked at budgets. He couldn’t do it. He’d collected his keys and left.

John was better at that stuff and should have got the job in the first place. ‘Look, I’ll call you as soon as I know anything,’ Elyas said, not letting John speak in case he told him to stop being stupid and head back. Which would have been a reasonable demand. Elyas ended the call and dropped the phone on the passenger seat.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Benyamin.

Elyas had heard enough about the Brotherhood now to know what they were capable of. A cold chill ran down his spine at the thought of them. He straightened his shoulders, leaning back in the seat; he needed to stay focused if he was to be of any help to Jia.

It had been years since he’d driven through the city. It was a set of memories to him, memories filled at first with sunny days, walking through town eating bags of salty chips from the shop on the corner of Moonbridge Road, and later with dark and rain-soaked days, collar pulled up and battling through the wind to catch the bus home. He couldn’t say exactly when the warm and bright had turned to cold and gloomy, but it was then that he had made the decision to leave. Today, as he drove through the same old streets with the same grey skies overhead, past the broken windows and peeling paintwork of the stone buildings, few signs of the city’s better days remained.

His time here had been mixed, but Elyas still loved this city. To him, she was a grand old lady who’d enjoyed her time in the sun, but had burned too brightly and faded all too fast. During her glory days in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, her beauty and potential drew traders from far and wide. With the merchants came lucrative deals and soon mills of honey-coloured stone began to spring up against the green landscape. Thousands of workers followed, crossing continents in the hope that some of her success would rub off on them. She became the wool capital of the world, and the district of Hanover was the jewel in her crown, home to her courtiers, who built huge houses for their families.

But then the textile industry moved overseas, where production was cheaper, and the mills that had once been filled with looms, humming love songs to her bounty, stood empty. As her charms faded, so did her suitors. The merchants fled when the money dried up, taking their families with them, leaving behind only high ceilings, covings and mouldings. Neighbourhoods dropped out of favour, prices fell. Immigrants and factory workers moved into the opulent Victorian houses. The multiple floors, numerous bedrooms and large living spaces made them perfect for the extended family system of the city’s South Asian communities.

It was to one of the old mills that Benyamin had been taken, rumour had it. Driving to it through the city meant taking a refresher course in clutch control, and as the car engine revved at the traffic lights on top of another steep hill, Elyas realised he had missed driving through this quiet beauty.

He arrived at the mill to find it cordoned off, two policemen patrolling the perimeter. He parked up and jumped out, taking the road in his wide stride as he walked towards them. ‘What’s going on, officer, if you don’t mind my asking?’ he said.

‘There was a nasty incident ’ere last night,’ the policeman replied, his accent white working class, but his tone warmer than expected. ‘From press, I s’pose,’ he added, watching as Elyas pulled a notebook from his pocket.

‘Mind if I look around?’ said Elyas.

‘Knock yourself out, mate. Not past the cordon, obviously. The press officer is on her way if you’re looking for information – if you are, you know, press, like. Because if you were…I’d tell ya to ask in that shop over there.’ He pointed at a minimart across the road. Elyas thanked him and headed over to it.

Inside, an old man at the counter was chatting with an equally antiquated fellow behind it. Deep in conversation, they were oblivious to the arrival of new customers. Elyas looked around at the shelves. They were half empty except for crisps and chocolate, bread, booze and dust. A musty smell permeated the air, almost as if emanating from the old men, dense and pungent. Elyas lurked behind the shelves, eavesdropping on their chatter. He picked up a faded bar of chocolate. They were talking in heavy dialect, one he’d heard before but wasn’t fluent in. The shopkeeper noticed him loitering. He used the words ‘lamba’, ‘gora’… They were talking about him as though he was white.

‘Just this, please,’ Elyas said, coming