The Khan Saima Mir (best short novels TXT) 📖

the lack of bruising or signs of physical restraint, suggest he had no warning of the threat, and that could be because he trusted whoever killed him.’

The butcher didn’t flinch. He put his hand on the policeman’s shoulder. ‘Come, let me walk you to your car,’ he said.

But as Briscoe went to get in car, Bazigh Khan stepped forward, holding the door firmly shut. ‘I’d like you to keep that information between the two of us. Do you understand?’ he said, fixing the police chief with his gaze. Briscoe nodded. ‘I need you to say the words,’ said Bazigh Khan. ‘The way you did when I helped out your son.’

The mention of Timothy and a long-forgotten deal with the Khan family left Briscoe cold. ‘Mr Khan, I promise to do what I can for as long as I can,’ he stammered. ‘But I can’t guarantee anything. It will come out sooner or later.’ Bazigh Khan nodded and stepped back, allowing him to open the car door.

CHAPTER 26

Jia pressed the small key into the large iron padlock. It jarred slightly and then clinked open. She unhooked it and put it to one side before lifting the lid of the wooden trunk. Everything inside was still neatly wrapped and labelled, just as she’d left it. She picked up the package marked ‘Ahad’ and unwrapped the tissue, pulling out a small blue blanket. It was brighter than she remembered, a midnight blue with pale stars all across it. It had been a gift from her father to Ahad on the day he was born. She couldn’t help but bring it to her cheek, the scent and softness of it evoking long-forgotten feelings. She hadn’t been in the attic of her dead father’s house for years, and the sight and smell of it brought on a wave of emotion that hit her hard and fast, bringing with it memories she’d rather not recall. Immense and intense feelings towards her son overwhelmed her and the tears came. Slow at first and then faster, they streamed down her face, over her cheeks, her lips, and she let them fall to the ground. For the first time since his birth, she mourned the little boy she had lost. She wept for the childhood years she had missed, and the teenage angst she was part of. This outpouring of grief was precisely what she’d been desperate to avoid all those years ago when she’d attempted the unspeakable.

She heard footsteps coming up the stairs and quickly wiped her face as her mother entered the room.

‘My child,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Nothing, Mama,’ replied Jia, turning away. ‘I was just looking for something. I’ll be down in a moment.’

Sanam Khan took her daughter by the shoulders and turned her towards herself. ‘You can’t hide your pain from me,’ she said.

Jia smiled wearily. ‘I’m tired of fighting,’ she said. ‘I don’t sleep any more, not since I left this house. They make you weak…children, don’t they?’

‘Is that why you did what you did?’ said Sanam Khan. Jia flinched. The question had taken fifteen years to reach Sanam Khan’s lips. ‘You were wrong then and you are wrong now, my child.’ She paused. ‘You gave me reasons to be strong. Reasons to fight for a better life, to fight my fears, to fight your father.’ She smiled at the memories of her husband, Akbar Khan, gentle at the birth of his daughters, proud at the birth of his sons, watching with concern the day Jia learnt to walk, quietly bereft at Zan’s funeral. Then the smile left her. ‘It is fear of our children suffering that makes us weak, but the desire to protect them that makes us strong.’

‘I don’t know how to be his mother,’ said Jia.

Sanam Khan brushed the words away as if they were flecks of dust on her shirt. ‘Of course you do. You are my daughter. I know what you are capable of.’

‘But this pain inside me,’ Jia said. ‘I am ashamed.’

Sanam Khan took her daughter by the shoulders again. ‘You should be ashamed, but only because you are stronger than this. Listen to me. Tears are considered a sign of weakness in the world of men but they are not. They are the water that feeds our soul and keeps our roots strong.’ She wiped her daughter’s eyes with her chador. ‘This fear and these tears,’ she said, ‘will keep you human, keep you close to Allah, His people and His mercy. Shed them, wipe them and begin again. But remember this: show them to no one but your mother, because no one will understand, and people will try and use them against you. “Inna lillaahi wa inna ilayhi raaji’oon,”’ she said, and with that declaration of submission to the will of the Lord, she closed the matter, taking her daughter by the hand and leading her out of the room of memories and regret.

At the bottom of the stairs, though, she stopped. ‘Trust your blood, Jia. Tell him the truth,’ she said. ‘And make peace with your husband. You will need him.’ And with that, she left to prepare to bury her husband.

CHAPTER 27

A low, respectful hum surrounded Pukhtun House. The sky was cloudless, the day cold and crisp. The third day of mourning had begun. Yesterday’s trickle had turned into a torrent as people began to pour in to pay their respects. The news had travelled fast and the Pukhtun tabar had descended swiftly to help with the practicalities of an Islamic funeral.

The tabar was extended family – the tribe. It was allied and divided into groups called ‘zai’ along lines of blood, cooperation, business and conflict. The complicated nature of these lines meant members often belonged to more than one zai. But the only man who belonged to all was their Khan: he was the one man for whom they dissolved old feuds and put aside bad blood and stood united. The death of the Khan required that they