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

Akbar Khan’s face was lined; he had lost much sleep over his decision, but Elyas found it hard to have any sympathy for him. He was, after all, responsible for the demise of his marriage and the loss of so much more.

With Zan’s death, something inside Jia had died too. Without word or warning, she cut off all contact with Elyas. He had called her every day, written her lengthy emails, sent her letters and texts, but she had not replied. Left without explanations and only assumptions as to what he had done to deserve such treatment, Elyas arrived at Pukhtun House but was turned away by security. He waited at the gates until darkness fell. No one came to ask after him, not even Sanam Khan, who had always been kind to him. The police were called and he’d spent the night in a cell, accused of harassment. Nothing had come of it except an official letter requesting the dissolution of the marriage. Elyas had ignored it, putting it to one side, thinking that she would reconsider. And then one day his father-in-law had arrived with a child he said was his.

Still standing in the hallway, dressed in his pyjamas, Elyas had been bewildered by what was unfolding. He looked down at the swollen but tiny baby, sucking hard on its tiny fist. He’d read somewhere that newborns resembled their fathers to give them a greater chance of surviving. It was evolution’s way of confirming paternity. And sure enough, when the baby looked back at him, his warm brown eyes wide and accepting, Elyas saw his own features reflected back. He stared up at Akbar Khan for guidance, but the crime lord and kingpin, looking almost comical clutching a feeding bottle, with a baby bag swung over his shoulder and a burp cloth in his other hand, was in a hurry. The surreal situation in which he found himself meant questions were left unasked and unanswered.

Now, so many years later, waiting in a cemetery, having buried the man who created this situation, Jia was having to answer questions about her part in what played out that night. She thought back to the day her father had told her that Ahad was still alive.

He’d arrived one summer’s evening last year, almost unannounced. It was late on a Friday. The last appointment. Her PA had brought him to her office, grinning, thinking she’d pulled off a raise-worthy stunt. Jia had thanked her firmly and asked her to close the door behind her.

‘It’s not her fault,’ he’d said. ‘I told her it was a surprise family reunion. You don’t come to me, and I was here on business anyway, so I asked her to list the appointment under a pseudonym.’

Jia moved to take his cane, gesturing for him to sit, his smell reawakening her childhood. He looked older, his brows slightly unruly and greyer than she remembered. In another life she would have leaned over and tidied them up, then given him a kiss on his head. His lion-headed walking stick, which had always been about style and not assistance, was now necessary. ‘It’s about your son,’ he’d said.

She’d sat back in her chair. ‘I don’t have a son.’

‘Jia jaan.’ His voice was gentle, reminding her of all the times throughout her girlhood when she’d played him for toys and books and money and he’d let her. She felt herself filling up with the sadness that she’d long tried to suppress.

The years had passed quickly but the days were often endless. Seeing families picnicking in Hyde Park, friends’ holiday snaps on Facebook and tourists wandering around London together, was beginning to leave her hungry for connection with her own. It would be good to find a way forward. She had resolved to tell him that, to lay her cards on the table. She was ready to make amends, but fate had other plans.

‘He is alive,’ said Akbar Khan. ‘He is with Elyas. I took him there.’ He paused and looked at his daughter, waiting for a reaction. None came. ‘You weren’t well. And I thought it would be best for you and for the family.’ He watched as she began rifling through papers. He’d anticipated annoyance, anger, a visceral reaction, but none came. Instead, she picked up the file she’d been searching for and walked across the room with it. Opening the door, she stepped into the walkway where her PA was working. Akbar Khan watched, knowing this to be the height of disrespect in his world, but equally aware that her anger was justified. He was afraid it was too late, that her pride would convince her to make the wrong decision. They had both lost sons, but hers, he could return. That’s why he was here.

He heard her now, a little louder than before. ‘Could you bring some tea?’ she said to the PA. ‘From across the road. That place that does chai, and something to go with it, please.’ She returned to her office and closed the door.

‘Forgive me,’ she said to her father. ‘I forgot my manners.’

The path between the said and unsaid had fallen away that day, leaving Jia unable to find her way back to her father. For her, it was the final disappointment. She would not allow it to happen again.

‘Didn’t you care about me at all?’ Ahad said, breaking into Jia’s thoughts.

‘I did care. I still do,’ she said.

‘You don’t seem to care,’ Ahad said, his frustration at her coldness growing.

‘I’m sorry you feel that way. I’m not devoid of feeling. Emotions run deep in my family, in many ways deeper than in others. We have learnt to control our emotions to stop them controlling us.’

Experience had taught Jia hard and long-lasting lessons, and she’d survived by cleaning the slate of whys and regrets and the left-behinds of life. But now they were reappearing, one by one, and demanding to be heard. ‘You’re taking my choice not