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

to feel as a reflection of my not caring, when in fact the truth is precisely the opposite. Do you understand?’ she said.

He did understand; he understood better than most. She looked across at the mourners. ‘We’re not like them,’ she said. ‘My father used to say that every herd has a master. I never really knew what he meant until now.’ Jia had stopped explaining herself years ago, but something about him encouraged her to keep talking. ‘I wasn’t always like this. There’s a story about Hazrat Ali that my father used to tell us often when we were children. During the height of one of the battles Muslims fought for their freedom, the caliph found himself standing above an enemy soldier, ready to take his life. But the man spat in his face, and so he let him go. You know why he did that?’

Ahad shook his head.

‘He said that the anger that had risen up in him had clouded his judgement, and if he had killed the man he wouldn’t have known whether it was for revenge or for the universal rights of mankind. It takes great strength to control one’s emotions. Killing someone else is easy; killing your own ego, that’s hard.’

From a distance, Elyas sat in his car and watched the two of them talking.

He still didn’t know what had happened all those years ago to make her leave, and why she had decided to sever all ties with her son, or indeed if she had thought him dead for some of that time. In the days and weeks that followed Ahad’s arrival, Elyas had tried to contact her again, but to no avail. Not knowing the background to the situation, and understanding Akbar Khan’s manner that night to be a warning, he didn’t discuss Ahad in his letters. Not that it would have mattered if he had: they were all returned unopened and his calls were unanswered.

Years later, when Ahad was older and had begun asking questions, Elyas considered contacting Jia again, but he decided against it. Something told him it wouldn’t be in the boy’s best interest. Things had changed since then. Ahad had changed.

Elyas had hoped to introduce his son to his mother in better circumstances, but choice was something that life rarely offered him. He watched them walk towards him. Jia covered in the residue of the day, Ahad subdued, they wore each other’s faces. He wondered now if he’d done the right thing by bringing Ahad, and what was to come of it.

CHAPTER 29

It was relatively quiet when Jia arrived at Pukhtun House. Most of the mourners had left. Those who were still there were having dinner in the marquee. It would probably remain this way until the next morning, close family trickling in and out until Fajr prayer, when the floodgates would open once again and prayer books, hats and the soft hum of Arabic verse would return.

Sanam Khan’s warm embrace when Jia came in was just what she needed after the wet cemetery.

‘How’s Benyamin?’ asked Jia.

‘He went out to see some friends, although I don’t know what kind of friends don’t come to the funeral.’

Jia wondered when she would find time to sit down for a chat with her little brother. The chaos of circumstances, the responsibilities upon her, and Benyamin being triggered by almost everything she said, made even simple conversations difficult. She worried about him.

‘You must be hungry. Let me get you something to eat,’ Sanam Khan said, ushering her towards the kitchen.

‘Wait, Mama, I have some guests with me.’

Sanam Khan squinted past her daughter, her eyes falling on Elyas, standing in the doorway. His hair was grey, unlike the first time he’d crossed the threshold of Pukhtun House, and by his side stood a teenage boy.

‘Who is that with Elyas?’ she asked. Then she stopped, a quiet realisation spreading through her. ‘Ya Allah, forgive us,’ she murmured, clasping her hand over her mouth, as if trying to push the words back in. She squeezed her daughter’s hand and whispered, ‘He looks like Zan.’ Unready to meet her grandson, overcome by affection but overwhelmed by the things she knew and had seen, she moved at speed, reaching the kitchen door as he stepped into the house. It was trite, but true, that she loved him more than her own children; it was that way with grandchildren. It was why she had sent him away with Akbar Khan: she wanted him safe. She would live with the shame of that secret her entire life.

‘Where’s the bathroom?’ Ahad asked.

Jia gestured to a room across the hall. ‘We’ll be in the study. It’s the second door on the right,’ she said.

Elyas followed Jia through the hallway, past the odd mourner and into the study. The smell of furniture polish and oranges flooded his mind with memories of the night Zan had died. This was the room he’d argued with Akbar Khan in. The oxblood chair in the corner looked a little more worn, its leather now softer and more inviting. It crossed his mind how different things could have been if he’d held his tongue, if he had left it to Jia to fight his corner. They could have raised Ahad together, Zan may still have been alive, and maybe Jia would still be the woman he’d married. The silence felt heavy. Elyas didn’t know if it was the circumstances of today or the past that weighted them down, but he knew if he didn’t ask now, he never would.

‘What happened to us, Jia?’ he said.

She looked up at him through her tired eyes and he wanted to hold her, to support her, the way he always had, smooth life over and make everything better.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I am sorry.’

He wasn’t ready for the apology, but he didn’t want to fight either. Time was a precious commodity, one he didn’t want to squander on bitter words and accusations; but still, answers were needed. And so he