The Khan Saima Mir (best short novels TXT) 📖

With no sons of his own he thought of these boys as his children, paying for their airfare, finding legal representation to iron out citizenship problems, helping them when they were sick. He was shaking now as he spoke.

Seeing this, Jia softened her tone. ‘Yes, Baba, you are right,’ she said. ‘That is why you have my promise that by cooperating with us in dealing with our mutual problem, no harm will come to you or your staff. Just make sure your insurance is in order and I will do the rest. When this is over we will sit down and discuss how to assist you further. My legal team and expertise will be at your disposal. You have my word.’

The old man smiled. He had spent more than sixty years of his life toiling, and most of that without his wife. He was ready to retire. He had just been waiting for someone to hand things over to.

‘My wife would have liked you,’ he told Jia.

‘And I would have liked her, I’m sure,’ Jia said. ‘You have my word…as the daughter of Pukhtunwali, I will help your people.’

The old man stood up. ‘Please excuse me, it is time for my Isha namaaz,’ he said. Then he placed his hand on Jia’s head and brought it forward, kissing her forehead. She smiled and thanked him for his hospitality. Before leaving, she turned to the old man. ‘Pray for me, Khan Baba,’ she said. ‘It seems the time for sacrifice is here. And we must all pay. You with your place of business, and I with my soul.’

CHAPTER 43

Nadeem awoke to the sound of his daughter crying. The little girl was standing by his door, clutching the shawl her mother had embroidered before she was born, her hair as red as her grandfather’s. That was where the similarity to Bazigh Khan ended.

‘Sweetie, what is it?’ Nadeem asked.

The little girl rubbed her eyes and swallowed hard. ‘Baba…Baba, there’s a monster in my room. Can I stay here? With you?’ Nadeem pulled the bed covers back and his daughter raced to climb in. She snuggled up to him, her tiny five-year-old feet ice cold. Nadeem rubbed them gently. ‘Haala jaan, did you really see a monster?’ he asked.

‘No. But…Sarah at school told me that Uncle Akbar was a bad man and a monster and now that he is dead he will come and get me.’ Haala stopped. She was embarrassed. ‘She said that’s why the girls won’t come to my birthday party. Is it true, Baba? Is Uncle Akbar a monster?’ The little girl looked up expectantly at her father.

Nadeem kissed the top of his daughter’s head. ‘No, my love. It’s not true.’

‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘I liked him.’ She paused for a moment and then spoke again tentatively. ‘Baba,’ she said. ‘Is Mama a monster too?’ Nadeem hugged the little girl tight and told her to sleep – she had school in the morning. But Haala had more questions. ‘Baba, what is a Parkie? Sarah Mathews said I was a Parkie. I told her we weren’t Parkies, we were Pukhtuns. That’s right, isn’t it, Baba?’

‘Yes, darling. That’s right. Now close your eyes,’ he said. Nadeem looked down at the little girl, who was already starting to drift off in his arms. She was the most beautiful thing in his life. She had her grandmother’s eyes, eyes that he hadn’t seen since his mother died that day in the fire. Growing up without her had been hard. Nadeem had been his mother’s favourite child. He felt her loss infinitely, even now. He’d buried himself in work; taking on other personas brought relief, at least for the time he was on stage. But Haala’s birth had meant having to leave that life.

Nadeem’s girlfriend, the little girl’s mother, had left early on and he had raised Haala alone. Looking back, he didn’t blame her. They had met at work and had fallen fast for each other. Their relationship had been passionate and addictive, drinking each other in and living life to the full. It was a fairground ride on love heroin. But a baby brought change, one that she could not handle. The passionate debates that at one time had ended in sex now became arguments that led to her throwing whatever came to hand. So she had left. But if she’d found the relationship difficult, she found separation from her daughter even harder. Unable to make peace with either option, her addictive personality had led her down dark corridors from which she could not escape.

Unable to sleep, his daughter’s words ran through his head. She was so much like him it made him afraid. He remembered how the cruel words of school children stung hard. And with no mother to run home to for comfort, the stings swelled and multiplied, until eventually you were numb. You had to be to survive. This was the future his daughter faced. He had hoped for better, but all these years on and little had changed in the world for Haala and for other brown children like her. The thoughts gnawed at his wounds. As he brushed the hair from his daughter’s forehead he knew he wanted to protect her innocence. He did not want her to become like him or like Jia Khan. He wanted words like ‘Paki’ and ‘terrorist’, and the negative connotations of her heritage, to be wiped clean from her life path. She was worth slaying monsters for.

He gently moved his arm from behind her neck letting her head rest on the pillow. Covering her with the duvet, he carefully walked across the room so as not to wake her, and into the kitchen. He opened the fridge and took out a bottle of milk, gulping it back to ease the heartburn he’d been experiencing for the last few days. He placed the plastic bottle on the worktop and picked up his phone, flicking through for Jia Khan’s number before deciding it was