The Khan Saima Mir (best short novels TXT) 📖

Michael had only driven a few hundred miles, but the climate and pace of this city was a world apart from where his journey had begun. Though he felt out of place, the car he drove was not. Bentley, Ferrari, Mercedes-Maybach…few knew that the streets of his home town were also paved with prestige vehicles. Whether parked up in Frizinghall Square or cruising through Mayfair’s New Bond St, the cars on the roads were the same. The social demographic that sat behind the wheel, however, was not.

In his city, cars were the favoured symbol of how far you had travelled in life – the milometer clocked resilience. They spoke of high achievement, a PhD from the School of Hard Knocks. Like the diamond in an engagement ring, an elite car signified the spending of care, attention and copious amounts of money. It showed one’s rank in society: a white Audi for foot soldiers, a black Bentley for the kingpin, a Rolls for his family.

Michael knew the cash that was flashed to purchase these beautiful machines came fast and easy to the boys moving up the ladder of the Khan’s organisation to become men of means.

As he drove through London in the Rolls-Royce Phantom, he felt the city’s magnificent stucco buildings embrace it, recognising it as one of their own. But the broad, sprawling Yorkshire stone edifices to which it actually belonged stood squarely detached from everything around them, whereas the slim homes of Mayfair gentry stood shoulder to shoulder, stretching upwards, and downwards. No room for anyone or anything new. Michael wondered if cars, like people, looked down on each other, Skodas and Peugeots put in their place as they tried to climb the social ladder. ‘But then…new money is better than no money,’ he said to himself as he turned the corner into White Horse Street. He’d reached his destination. He parked up and made his way to the address he’d been given.

He waited uncomfortably at the concierge desk of 100 Piccadilly, looking down at his shoes. He quietly raised his right foot and rubbed it behind his left trouser leg in an attempt to shine away the signs he didn’t belong here.

‘Ms Khan left this for you, sir,’ the concierge said, handing him a note and a parking stub.

‘What is this place?’ he asked the concierge, showing her the note.

‘It’s a warehouse, sir. Not far from here.’

He thanked the woman and climbed back into the car. He was entering the new postcode in the satellite navigation system, when the phone rang. It was Akbar Khan.

‘I’m on my way, Khan Baba,’ he said. ‘She got held up at work. I will call you as soon as I have collected her… Yes, Baba. Salaam.’ He never knew how much detail to give the Khan. He didn’t want to say anything to upset his employer, especially in this case, since he was collecting his daughter.

The concierge had been right: the location was not far. A young man in a high-vis vest waited at the entrance to the street named on the parking stub. Michael showed him the paper and he waved him on and down towards what looked to be a vacant plot. As he got closer, he counted ten cars parked up, each one worth more than his house. He felt ill at ease as he left the car park. Even if he achieved his dreams of becoming a surgeon, he was unlikely to live the kind of life on show here.

The attendant was waiting for him and recognised the look. ‘Obscene, in’t it?’ he said. ‘There’s people visiting food banks and these guys get to live like this.’ They walked on through a tunnel of wet cobblestones the colour of copper when it rusts, towards the light and roar of a crowd. The passageway opened out into a courtyard. A sign on one of the walls dated them as Victorian.

‘What is this place?’ said Michael.

‘A private venue – for those in the know,’ the attendant replied, tapping his nose.

‘This must be some party.’

‘That ain’t exactly what I’d call it,’ said the young man, as he led him towards a door into the warehouse.

The smell of sweat and the taste of iron hit Michael hard as the metal door swung open. A crowd was gathered around a huge cage that stretched around ten feet high; inside it, two bloodied men were pummelling each other. ‘Ms Khan is at the front, on the right,’ said the attendant, pointing.

A solitary woman stood in a sea of angry men, their adrenaline-fuelled fists punching the air, their faces contorted as they roared, and hers no less so, possibly more. Her dark hair fell across her face, her voice was strong, echoing as she shouted to the fighters, telling them to punch harder, move faster. Michael felt the crowd around her blur out, and when she came into focus, she was primal, her pull so strong that he couldn’t stop looking at her.

‘How did you know I was here for her?’ he asked the attendant.

‘None of your beeswax how I know. She’s been coming here for years. She’s paying for my little brother’s posh school. Proper bright, he is. Anyway, I can’t stand here yapping. My shift’s nearly over – bit like this match,’ he said, as one of the fighters slumped to the floor.

When a few minutes later the bell sounded and the winner was announced, Michael took advantage of the interval to make his way through the gentrified cage-fight enthusiasts towards Jia Khan.

‘Did you find the place easily?’ she asked. He nodded. ‘Follow me,’ she said.

He did as she instructed, walking a couple of steps behind as she navigated the crowded space. She was swift, moving faster than the women he knew. She stopped next to a stocky woman in a loud shirt and a black hat.

‘Jaani, I’m leaving now, so we need to talk about my winnings,’ said Jia. The woman waved her quiet, frowning. She was sweating