The Khan Saima Mir (best short novels TXT) 📖

too late to call. He wrote a text and then hit send. ‘I’m all in,’ it said.

Seema pushed the pram along the cobbled street. She didn’t understand why her friends wanted to meet in this part of town. Head down, she quickened her pace as she approached a group of young teenagers. They began to jeer and joke among themselves. One of them spat on the ground before her. The group’s ringleader stepped out behind her and shouted, ‘Oi! you wan’ some o’ this?’ He pointed at his crotch and gestured obscenely.

Seema stopped in her tracks. She turned around, and looked at the boy and his group of friends. They were still laughing. She smiled back at them. ‘Do you want some of this?’ she said.

The ringleader looked confused and then angry. ‘That’s wha’ I said an’ that. You bein’ funny, hain?’ he said.

Seema nodded at him, still smiling. The teenager began walking towards her, his friends close behind, but she stood her ground. Her baby began to cry. As the gang drew closer, she reached under the blanket that was spread across the pram hood. She pulled out a pistol and pointed it at the youngsters. ‘Now. Tell me. Do you want some of this?’ she said.

The ringleader took a step back, walking into his friends.

‘No? Thought not,’ said Seema. Then she turned and carried on striding towards her friend’s house. Behind her she could hear the teenagers.

‘Woah!’ said one of them. ‘Was that thing for real?’

A young girl ran past Seema and up to the dazed group. ‘What was she sayin’a you?’ she asked.

‘Nowt,’ said the ringleader.

‘Good. Yasser Khan’s wife that is. You shoun’t say owt to her unless you want the Verdict to cut off yer balls.’

‘Who the ’ell’s the Verdict?’ asked another kid.

‘Han’t you ’eard? Ma brother an’ his mates all been talkin’ ’bout it. They say it’s time for new blood. A revolution’s comin’! The Jirga’s time is over. Ma brothers, they say they gonna be respectin’ whatever comes.’

CHAPTER 44

‘We can’t have organised crime in a disorganised city. We need law and order restored,’ Jia told the men.

Sher Khan’s eldest son, Razi, listened carefully to her words. He had been tasked with arranging this meeting, inviting handpicked and trusted sons of the Jirga. The men had come eagerly and sat side by side, eating roti and rice with large cuts of mixed grill, as Jia told them of her plan.

She had met with each man personally in advance of this gathering. Idris had done the background checks and collated the information. They had found their cousins ready to speak and amenable to a meeting. The atmosphere was relaxed and informal. The clatter of plates, the sound of freshly cooked karahis being spooned and drinks being downed filled the air. The fragrance of coriander and ginger, tempered with simple spices, made them feel at home. A decade had changed the family dynamic; ideals had been shed, dreams smashed and reality had set in. The men were tired of living under the iron rule of their fathers at work, and then going home to negotiate the arguments of their wives and mothers in the extended family system.

But they had been raised to be respectful, and needed guidance on how to extricate themselves. The emotional blackmail used to keep them in place had started to wear thin. The threats of dishonour and shame upon family were becoming old. This last year, under Jia’s watchful eye, had brought new hope.

She knew that getting the old men of her father’s Jury to retire would be easier if it was their children who asked them to step down. The old men had run the city for too long. Their decisions had started to weaken along with their limbs. Rebellion under the guise of retirement was what she offered her cousins. It meant their fathers would retain their dignity. Further, as each Jirga member was replaced by his own son, he could act as mentor and counsel. But the cousins still needed a little convincing.

The dinner was being held on the first floor of one of the old mills owned by the property-rich Khan family. Land was important to the Pukhtuns and when the city’s old businesses had started to close the family bought up the premises. Unable to get mortgages at the start, they had used the old ways of ‘committee’. Large families meant that deposits were accumulated quickly and without the need for interest. The system worked by each person giving a fixed monthly amount over a set period of time. Each month all the money was collected and given to one of the committee members. Weddings were paid for, businesses backed, deposits collected and, more recently, university fees covered in this way.

Some of the buildings had been converted into apartments and kept by men for their mistresses, or second and third wives, and sometimes for gay lovers.

Much of Akbar Khan’s property had been bought in his children’s names. This mill belonged to Jia. In its heyday it had been filled with textile workers and wool merchants. Now, some of it still housed those ghosts and memories of the past, but the rest, Akbar Khan had rented out to an antiques dealer. It was a sentimental move on his part, one of his few indulgences. There wasn’t much call for antiques in this place and the dealer was unable to meet the rent requirements. But Akbar knew of his daughter’s love of antiquities and curiosities and had hoped that when she came to learn of it she would see it as a sign of his affection. And coming into the building today, she had.

As she had made her way up to the first floor, she’d wondered what her father would make of her now.

The mill was a vast expanse of space. Row upon row of grey industrial columns ran down the length of the building and parallel to each other, fixed into the ceiling and floor with heavy metal