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

Eastern Europe and West Africa and then South Asia. He wanted to see the world before settling down to discover places even more distant, through telescopes and mathematical calculations. But as the time to tell Akbar Khan grew closer, he found he wasn’t as courageous as his little sister.

She had looked down her nose at him and through her rose-tinted glasses. ‘You have to tell him that you hate law, and that medicine is boring!’ she said. Their father wanted what all South Asians wanted back then, for their children to be doctors and lawyers, not stargazers. Dreams did not pay bills. Dreams were for people with white privilege.

Zan had laughed at her naivety and followed his father’s wishes, which was to win a place at Oxford. ‘A lawyer,’ his father said. ‘A lawyer from Oxford!’ and Zan finally felt he’d made Akbar Khan a little proud.

Zan was golden in more than just skin tone. Distanced from their parents by a cultural divide and with that tight sibling bond common to children of immigrants, Jia would listen to her brother the way the believers listen to a scholar. Zan was the font of all knowledge and the team leader. He helped make GCSE selections, advised on homework and fought for his siblings and cousins to take part in extra-curricular activities. As with most first-generation immigrants, the value of these things were lost on their parents. Maths, English and science were surely all that a child needed to succeed in life. Thanks to Akbar’s money and Zan’s tenacity, the Khan children basked in an innocence that was afforded to people of means. Life was good. At least for a while.

Then everything changed. Looking through the pictures now, Jia could almost map the changes, the point at which her brother lost his shine, when his face started to become gaunt, his eyes sunken.

It was incremental. For Zan, it started with simple questions, then pushing, followed by bullying, which turned to out-and-out intimidation. Soon, there was no doubting the fact that Zan was being targeted by the very people who were supposed to protect him.

The first time it happened he was driving home with his school friends. They’d been to play football at the recreation ground. Zan had just got his licence and his father had bought him a car to celebrate. There were other drivers on the road travelling much faster than the new silver Golf GTI. ‘You drive like an old man!’ Zan’s friends laughed.

‘I don’t want to break the law,’ he told them.

There was no reason to stop him. But they did. The flashing blue lights behind him told him to pull over. He waited on the side of the road. He’d not had dealings with the police, but he knew enough to stay polite and to answer any questions. He watched a policeman get out of the car and walk over to the Golf. Something about the way the officer walked betrayed his arrogance. Watching him from the rear-view mirror, Zan could see that he was grinning. Discomfort began to seep into him.

‘Well, aren’t you a good-looking one, eh?’ the policeman said, leaning into the driver’s side. A second officer had got out of the police car and was waiting just a few feet away.

Zan’s response came stammered: ‘Er…is everything OK, officer? We were just going home from football practice.’

‘The tread is worn on your back tyres,’ the policeman said.

‘That’s not possible, it’s a brand-new car!’ said Zan.

‘Are you saying I’m making it up?’ The officer’s voice was sharper.

‘No. No. I’m just… I…’

‘You know you need a driving licence to drive in this country?’ the officer said, waiting for him to take the bait.

But Zan knew better than to answer. Tight-lipped, he waited, acidity rising in his throat. He handed the policeman his licence. The officer looked at it with disinterest. ‘Come and look at the back tyre,’ he said. ‘You’ve been racing hard, haven’t you? The tread is gone. You can’t drive like that in this country, y’know.’ The blood rushed to Zan’s face. He climbed out of the car and walked to the back.

‘Over there,’ the officer said. He made him spread his arms and legs up against a cold, hard wall. The officer leaned in, his breath on Zan’s neck filled with a sickly nicotine gum smell, mixed with stale beer and stolen cigarette puffs. The policeman moved closer, patting him down, moving his hand deliberately up the boy’s leg and bringing it to rest on his thigh, his heavy belly pressing against his back. Zan felt the sickness rise from his throat to his mouth. It would never leave him.

‘You look a bit like my ex,’ he said. ‘He was Asian too.’ The officer grinned, revealing a gap where one of his top left teeth should have been. He whispered again, his mouth close to Zan’s ears. ‘Give great blow jobs, you Pakistani boys. Especially in handcuffs.’

Zan froze at the officer’s words. He knew his friends would be watching from the back seat of the car but this brought little relief. The smell, the words, the touch of the man, seared themselves on to him. For days afterwards the reek of the officer’s body odour and cheap antiperspirant would linger around him. He was crippled by hot, relentless shame. He prayed for the moment to end, for the officer to step away, his insides twisting and somersaulting. Then suddenly he threw up. The policeman sprang back in disgust, his shiny black shoes covered in vomit.

‘Urgh! Who’s going to fucking clean these?’ he shouted at Zan, who was gasping for air. ‘I should get you to do it! Right now, you fucking –’

The second officer appeared, and said something to his colleague. The first policeman’s tone changed. ‘I’m going to let you off this time, little boy. But you won’t be so lucky if I catch you again.’

Zan climbed into his car. He sat there shaking as his friends’ questions came at him hard and fast.