The Khan Saima Mir (best short novels TXT) 📖

and carry on his family name. I am a mother. I know your fears. If our sons get caught up in this, the police will not give us justice. We have already lost some of our children to this violence. My cousins Razi and Raza have just returned from paying a heavy price. We can’t allow others to do the same.’

And so when the violence started, they were ready and waiting to take their sons home. It was a Friday afternoon when things began to simmer; Jumma prayers had just finished and people were returning to their places of business. It was contained at first, having started within a mile radius of where the two bouncers had been shot, but by midnight it had spread out past Valley Parade and into Burlington and Hanover, and on the other side from Bowling towards Leeds.

It was 2.00P.M. when Elyas stepped out of the cafe and into the growing demonstration. In the time he’d had lunch, police in riot gear had moved into the centre of the city and were gathered around the edges of Centenary Square. Protesters with placards filled the place. ‘Education + Opportunity = Integration,’ read one; ‘Laundry is the only thing that should be separated by colour,’ said another, and ‘Why should we integrate with those who denigrate?’ A line of mounted officers hemmed them in, watching from the perimeter, their eyes hawk-like, waiting for trouble to kick off.

Elyas’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and hit the green symbol. ‘Yeah. I’m right in the middle of it!’ he said. ‘I can’t see much…’ He turned to find a mob moving towards the steps of City Hall, their faces contorted in anger. The police circle began to tighten. Elyas broke into a run. ‘I’m on my way back.’

On the other side of the city centre, Nowak and two of his henchmen were getting ready to hide their money. They walked into the travel agency that had been helping them launder and transfer their ill-gotten gains, each one of them carrying a black holdall. Previous monies had been small amounts, but this was the big one. Dressed in suits, they looked like three business reps about to sell generic paracetamol to a chemist. The owner of the establishment, Hajji Taj Mohammed Akram, ushered them in quickly before reaching up to the top of the turquoise door and turning the key in the heavy mortise lock. He repeated the procedure three times along the length of the door. No one could get in and no one could get out. He led the men into his back office and turned to face them. Each silently placed his holdall on the desk, unzipping it to reveal wad upon wad of neatly rolled banknotes. The travel agent looked up and grinned at Nowak.

Jia waited patiently outside the back door of Café de Khan. The restaurant was housed in a terraced row. The backyards were open, without fences or walls between, and customers often parked across the invisible boundaries.

It was some time before it opened, but it gave her the opportunity to put her car keys in her purse and look through the bag just long enough for the CCTV camera on the corner of the building to get a clear shot, and allow her entry. The game was officially in play.

On the worn stone steps of the Inner City Gym, in a dingy doorway, Razi Khan waited with his brother. Their eyes on the road, they watched as the ranks of men surrounding the English Defence League began to swell and turn nasty. A scuffle broke out between a skinhead and an Asian boy with a Scouse accent. Tempers flared and language became more and more colourful; others stepped forward and fell into the fight. Fists flew and heads were cracked; bottles of Newcastle Brown were smashed before being held out as assault weapons. Some cuts and bruises later, a group of policeman stepped in, pulling the men apart.

Back in the newsroom, Elyas and John tried to figure out what was happening. ‘What have we got?’ said Elyas. ‘I don’t understand how this happened without warning. And in the middle of winter!’ He was staring over John’s shoulder at his screen. The building buzzed with ringing phones and staff arriving, dropping their bags and switching on their computers; the quiet hum of a weekend newsroom had turned to a roar.

‘We’ve got several snappers and a couple of reporters on the scene,’ said John. ‘Guys in here are making calls and I’m on your social-networking sites.’ He was staring at the screen, scrolling down the list of tweets, Facebook messages, Instagram and Snapchat posts.

Elyas glanced around the room. Almost every journalist on the payroll was there. ‘Who called these guys in?’ he asked.

‘No one. They’re hungry for a story. Like you. Only younger,’ John said.

‘Thanks! You got anything?’ asked Elyas.

‘Nothing yet. But look at this guy. I don’t even know what he’s saying here,’ John said, pointing to a message full of acronyms.

One of the junior reporters shouted over to the Elyas, ‘Police have advised people to shut up shop and go home!’

John turned to him. ‘Something is not right here, Ely,’ he said. ‘It’s like this EDL march just happened, without any visible planning. Since when did these people get so bloody spontaneous? And so organised at such short notice?’

‘You’re right,’ said Elyas. ‘I’ve just walked through a crowd of young Asian guys, and not one of them sounded like he was from this city. Newcastle, Liverpool and London, yes, but not here. Something is definitely not right.’

‘Do you think Jia knows anyone who can shed light?’ asked John.

‘I just spoke to her. She’s having dinner with her cousin at Café de Khan. Didn’t seem to know any of this was happening.’

In the middle of town, Basharat Bashir began pulling down the shutters to his halal meat shop. Across the road, James Davis was doing the same for his butcher’s shop.