The Khan Saima Mir (best short novels TXT) 📖

him? Money? But it made no sense. Why would she pay him? Unless she had found her loophole? ‘It was only recently that I realised how much my father really loved me… Sometimes the one you’d take a bullet for is the one holding the gun.’ Her words came back to him. Had she always planned to take over her father’s empire?

Elyas suddenly remembered something else from that night at the concert. He made his way quickly to the bedroom and opened the walk-in wardrobe that was now his. He hadn’t unpacked properly yet. He unzipped his suitcase and began searching frantically. He found the jacket he’d been wearing that night and emptied the contents of its pockets. Nothing. Then he remembered the internal pocket. He reached in and his fingers touched the edges of an envelope. He’d forgotten to give it to Jia when he was handing back the things that had spilled from her handbag during the shooting.

He opened it, taking out a piece of folded paper. He recognised Jia’s handwriting.

Baba,

You were my hero. I had no way of knowing what life had in store for us, but I knew that as long as you were with me, everything would turn out well.

I was naive.

When Zan died I broke. You watched over me for months as I grieved. Then the baby came and went and I broke again. The grief was bubbling up inside me, leaving me bitter. So I left. Life was hard without you. But it would have been harder with you.

And then you called and told me about my son. That he was alive. You’d kept him from me. Because you had thought it best.

I had been in a haze after Zan’s death. I had been unwell. I had trusted you to protect me, but you failed. Instead you took advantage of the situation.

Your actions took from me the people I loved, the people I could have loved the most.

I didn’t get to see him grow. I didn’t get to be there for his first day at school. I never got to hold his hand in mine when he was afraid, or sad, or when he was lonely. And now you tell me he is alive, and expect no repercussions. You raised me like a son but treat me like a daughter.

I love you, Baba. But you took away my choice. You took away my freedom. You took my life. And I cannot allow that to happen again.

Your daughter,

Jia Khan

Elyas pressed his hand against his chest. The air felt thin, leaving him unable to breathe. He scanned the letter again, hoping he’d misunderstood. He folded it up and put it in his jacket pocket. His head began to hurt, and he rubbed his temple with his thumb, trying to figure out what to do. He ran through the conversation they’d had in his bedroom a week ago. He hadn’t got it then, but he did now. He finally understood who Jia was. She was Akbar Khan’s daughter and she had had him killed – and possibly betrayed the man she hired to the police. She had planned her father’s death, paid for his execution, and then carried on as if none of it was her doing. That’s what she had been trying to tell him, but he was too blinded by love to listen. Jia Khan was a stone-cold killer, and she was carrying his child.

He walked into the living room and stood by the fireplace. He took a log from the pile and put it on the fire.

‘Are you OK, Dad?’ said Ahad.

‘I’m fine,’ he said, turning round. Behind him the cream corners of the letter curled under the log, disintegrating into the flames.

CHAPTER 48

Jia stepped back into the house. Satisfied with her words, the reporters were moving away from the gates of Pukhtun House. Inside, the Jirga were gathered.

Sanam Khan waited in the hall, in her hands her husband’s favourite chador. She unfolded it and wrapped it around Jia’s shoulders. She could not stop her daughter entering the world of men, but she would make sure she kept her honour. The familiar smell of Akbar Khan’s aftershave mixed with the scent of stale tobacco enveloped Jia, triggering memories of childhood and her father. She pulled the shawl tight around her and walked towards the study.

The men had been called to Pukhtun House to discuss important matters. They had been told about the events of last week and they knew that badal had been exacted. With each man stood his son and representative. Jia Khan walked over to the desk and invited the men to sit. Idris poured her a glass of water and placed it by her right hand. She waited until each man was seated before beginning.

‘I have called you here for the last time as members of the Jirga,’ she said, her voice full of authority, her words absolute. ‘As of tomorrow my father’s Jury will be retired and a new Jirga sworn in. They are your sons, and they have shown themselves worthy. They were prepared to put their lives on the line for the good of our people. I hope you will show them respect.’

These were clever men, they were smart men; they had left their homes and travelled to a foreign land and they had succeeded in their hopes of providing security for their children. Jia knew that they were aware of her plans to place them in retirement. She would not disrespect them by assuming otherwise.

‘I assure you that we will continue to follow the ways of the Jirga and in doing so seek your consultation in major decisions,’ she said. ‘Shura is the way of the Quran, it has always been the way of the Khans, and I will honour that. You have worked hard for us. Now it is time for you to rest and for us to work for you. People of honour stand by their word,’ she said.

The men nodded in agreement.