The Khan by Saima Mir (best thriller novels of all time .txt) 📗

instead holding the door behind the driver’s seat open as his father had taught him to do for women of ‘good’ families. Jia ignored the protocol and climbed into the passenger seat.

‘I’m not sitting in silence in the back of the car for three hours,’ she said. ‘This isn’t Pakistan.’ In that moment Michael knew that he liked Jia Khan, but that it mattered little to her either way.

CHAPTER 8

The boy searched the pockets of his red jacket for his car keys as he stood at the front door. He noticed his mother watching him from the kitchen. She was enveloped in the smell of masala, in her hand a powdered rolling pin. The boy stepped into the street to escape the scent.

He wasn’t really a ‘boy’ and when the newspapers would caption his photograph they would describe him as a ‘youth’. It was a legal technicality that mattered little to his mother.

‘No more chapattis, Mum. I’m in training,’ he said, waving her away as she followed him to the door. Her constant need to cook, showing her love through complex carbs, cakes and jalebis, annoyed him and hampered progression towards his muscle-building target. She stepped forward to kiss him but he brushed her off. ‘Acha, acha,’ he said, softening as he saw the look on her face. ‘Don’t wait up watching those Hum dramas.’

She stood by the door whispering prayers as the headlights of his red Ferrari flashed and the boot clicked open. She knew of no other way to keep him safe.

Taking a package from the back of the car, he placed it inside his jacket and pulled the zip up high before looking around. A group of kids were staring at him, one with his mouth wide open. They’d been kicking a football back and forth down the alley that hugged the side of the terraced houses. The flashing lights of the car had interrupted their game.

‘What you looking at?’ he shouted. The shortest of the group gave him the finger, before turning and tearing down the alley, his friends following fast behind. They all wanted to be like the man in the red Ferrari.

He climbed into his car, the sound of loud music exploding through the quiet street. The neighbours were relieved when his car disappeared down the road.

Twenty-three years old, Atif spent daylight hours at the gym trying to make up in muscle what he lacked in height. The evenings were spent making money.

He pulled into another terraced street, where his friend Aslam was waiting on a bench in the low sunlight, playing with his phone.

Atif greeted him warmly and told him to get in. ‘Bro, it’s been time, man!’

Aslam was a student at Manchester. His parents had encouraged him to move away in the hope that he’d leave his old friends behind. ‘Yeah, just, you know, been studying and that.’

‘Right. Right. Good for you, bro. Good for you. Me, I didn’t like it. Uni wasn’t for me. Dropped out.’

‘What were you studying?’

‘Politics and law. Then Abba got sick, I came back to help Mum an’ that… You know how it is, family.’ He stopped under the weight of the conversation, and pulled at his jacket. ‘It’s all good, though. See this?’ he said. ‘Ralph Lauren. Cost me a few hundred quid. There’s no way I could afford this if I was a student. Or even if I was working in an office. I make plenty Gs selling this shit. It’s the milk round that pays for my mum and sisters,’ he said, and winked at Aslam as he pushed the package further down into his jacket. Real men didn’t talk about their feelings in this town; they drove fast and flashed their cash.

He took a left into a narrow one-way road off Stourley Street. There were cars parked on either side, the drivers still in their seats. Aslam was about to mention this when his friend stopped the car. He watched Atif reach out of the window, his fist becoming a handshake as it met the hand of the driver parked alongside him. When he brought his fist back into the car, he was holding a twenty-pound note. He flicked his fingers making a clicking sound.

‘And that’s how it’s done,’ he said. ‘Help a bro out?’ He handed a small package to Aslam and gestured to let him know he was to do the same on the passenger side. Aslam tore open the brown paper of the package and tiny sealed plastic wallets fell all over him. ‘Easy. Easy,’ Atif said firmly.

Gathering himself and his goods, Aslam attempted to copy his friend’s fist to handshake move. It wasn’t as easy as it looked but the customer handed him a few carefully folded banknotes and seemed relieved to have his stash. They continued, driving and exchanging, until there was only one car left on the street.

As they approached the last car, Aslam realised he’d been holding his breath. He moved back into his seat, his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his back.

The next customer was dressed in a vest, shalwar and prayer hat. ‘You’re delivering early,’ he said. ‘I’m supposed to be at mosque praying Maghrib righ’ about now.’

‘Sorry, bro. It’s Akbar Khan’s daughter’s wedding. The Jirga wants to shut up shop early for the weekend. They don’t want’a bring no bad luck or owt,’ said Atif. A look of respect fell across the buyer’s face. He nodded in understanding and pulled away.

Aslam had heard stories surrounding Akbar Khan. He wanted to separate the myth from the reality. ‘How long the Jirga been running things?’ he said to Atif.

‘For time. They’re like the law lords of this city. You know how the twelve of ’em Supreme Court judges run Great Britain, keep everything, you know, running tight. In the same way the Jirga runs this city.’

‘But what exactly does Akbar Khan do?’

‘He owns this town, bro. He and the Jirga make sure the councillors do their jobs, the hookers do theirs and tossers like that