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

She changed the subject quickly, and he accepted that small talk was all there was for now. From trivial things, to work – his and hers – to politics, science, old friends; they spoke, and all the while he stole snatches of her, each blink of the eye a mental snapshot, greedily stashing them in his mind for days when things were dark and his memory unforgiving. The bright young thing he’d fallen in love with all those years ago had become a woman. And while he saw that she was now cleverer and more accomplished, he felt sadness for the innocence they had both lost. Standing before her he understood exactly why no one had yet managed to replace her in his affections. She was simply the most extraordinary person he had ever met. His greatest misfortune was that he had met her too young.

Their conversation had reached a natural pause when Bazigh Khan walked by, carrying a plate of precariously balanced meats, his hair the colour of the flames on which the barbecue was to be cooked.

‘Would you like some?’ asked Elyas.

‘Actually, don’t say anything but…I’m vegan,’ said Jia, letting Elyas in on her secret.

‘Bloody hell! Is there anything you can eat here? They’ve carved up an entire abattoir!’ said Elyas. His eyes met hers and they laughed as they used to, years ago.

‘I had this moment where I suddenly became aware that I was eating flesh. Obviously, I can’t tell my father. He’d bring me chicken and say, “This is not meat!”’ Their laughter airbrushed the edges of the past, and everything softened, the way the borders of old friends melt into each other.

‘Is he a relative?’ asked Elyas, pointing at Bazigh Khan. ‘He looks too hard a man to henna his hair.’

Jia laughed again. ‘He is. You don’t remember him?’ Elyas shook his head. ‘I don’t think you would like him,’ she whispered, leaning forward.

‘Why? Who is he?’

‘I never told you the story about my uncle?’

‘No, tell me now.’

‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘Sometimes you ask for the truth when you don’t really want it.’

Elyas raised his eyebrows, and mouthed: ‘Me?’

‘OK, listen up…’ she said.

Elyas nodded, moving closer in anticipation, his eyes down ready for the story that was about to unfold. But she didn’t speak, and when he looked up at her face, he could tell she was lost deep in thought. He followed her gaze and realised she was staring at three men who were making their way towards them across the marquee, their strong strides swallowing up the ground beneath them.

CHAPTER 12

Elyas held out his hand to each of them in turn.

‘You remember my cousins?’ said Jia. ‘Brothers Idris and Nadeem, and Malik.’ The men were immaculately dressed, their suits perfectly cut and stitched to accommodate their broad shoulders. They had the kind of golden skin tone that comes with money and Mediterranean holidays. One of them had a Turkish beard, of the type favoured by jihadis and hipsters. Nowadays who can tell the difference? thought Elyas, feeling a little shabby in his off-the-peg attire.

‘So, what’s the deal with you two? Aren’t you divorced?’ one of them asked.

‘They’re still direct,’ Elyas said to Jia.

She smiled at her cousins in that way women do when men step out of line. ‘Elyas was just asking about Bazigh Khan,’ she said to the eldest of the three, Idris.

‘Stories made up to scare children,’ said Malik. He was the youngest of the men, and the one with the beard.

‘If you’re looking for a news story, you won’t find it here,’ said Idris, his tone cold. He was the kind of man who favoured silence over small talk. Although his jawline was square, his cheeks rounded when he smiled, which wasn’t often. His eyes had the potential to tear strips off men. Elyas remembered Jia referring to him as a ‘hellhound’. Seeing him now, he understood why. ‘If I’m ever in trouble, call Idris,’ Jia had said. ‘He’ll drag me back from hell if he has to.’ It had been a strange conversation, as were most conversations that featured his wife’s family.

Nadeem put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘Steady on, Idris. It’s just a question.’

Elyas liked Nadeem. Of all Jia’s cousins he was the one he had warmed to most. He was an actor, a rare one, of the kind that made a lucrative living from his talent.

‘I’ll tell you about Bazigh Khan,’ Nadeem went on. ‘It happened a long time ago,’ he began, ‘when Bazigh Khan and Akbar Khan decided to go into business together. Pathans like snuff.’ He splayed his hand and tensed it to show Elyas the groove that appears on the back, near where the thumb meets the wrist. He raised it to his nose and inhaled. ‘But you couldn’t buy it here and so, seeing a gap in the market, the two men, they started selling it. Soon, they were doing well, really well, and that’s when things changed –’ Nadeem stopped abruptly, as if choking on the words. Jia gently laid her hand on his arm as if to steady him.

‘Then what happened?’ Elyas said softly.

‘Then what happened,’ said Jia, ‘is that the gang who controlled the estate where they lived came to see Bazigh Khan.’ As she spoke, her demeanour changed and her tone lowered, and something in her voice made him wish he hadn’t asked about Bazigh Khan. ‘Mica, the man who ran all the drugs in town, offered him a deal: Bazigh and my baba smuggle heroin into the country from the borders of Pakistan and in exchange their families get to live. Bazigh Khan refused.’ And then, suddenly, it was as if her voice drained of all emotion and she was reading from a book she’d read too many times. ‘So the men went to Bazigh Khan’s house. By the time he arrived home all that was left were the three tiny bodies of