In the Company of Strangers Read online

  In the Company of Strangers is a stunning novel. Awais Khan’s writing is fierce and compelling. It’s a novel to be savoured, a debut to cherish.’

  Faiqa Mansab,

  Author of This House of Clay & Water (Penguin India)

  ‘Honest, thoughtful and provocative. This book speaks volumes about confronting the failures, dark whims and moral ambiguities that we spend much of our day-to-day lives avoiding. Awais’s writing will definitely instigate reflection and recognition in readers and at the same time create space for new discussion.’

  Sara Naveed,

  Author of Undying Affinity (Penguin India)

  ‘A flavourful interpretation of a social world that is fascinatingly flawed yet immensely familiar; Awais Khan plunges his multi-layered characters into a sizzling tandoor of intrigue.’

  Laaleen Sukhera

  Editor & Contributor of Austenistan

  (Bloomsbury India, Bloomsbury Publishing UK)

  “In the Company of Strangers is a beautifully observed novel that opens a window on a milieu of Pakistani society that is seldom written about. His storytelling transports you to a far-flung world but the dilemmas his characters face will be familiar wherever you live.”

  Anita Chaudhuri,

  Journalist (Psychologies Magazines; The Guardian)

  ‘Khan has a deft touch as he takes the reader through the slums and the mansions of Lahore with equal attention, every detail and nuance jumping out of the page. He uses the glittering but brittle world of lavish parties, drawing room intrigue and gossip in an upscale segment of Lahore society as a stark backdrop to the violence that is always there, lurking, just beyond the page, until one day, it can no longer be brushed aside. He paints present day Lahore with a richness of tone and a depth of understanding that brings it to life with all the fissures and the fault lines, whether it’s class, age, gender or religiosity, that threaten to tear the beautiful city, along with the lives of Mona and Ali apart. A captivating and thoroughly enjoyable read.’

  Sidra F. Sheikh,

  Author of The Light Blue Jumper (Mongrel Books)

  ‘Khan is natural storyteller. Allow him to whisk you away to Lahori high society complete with its intrigue and gossip. But keep your wits about you. Beneath the glamour he uncovers a dark underbelly of social unrest, poverty and chaos. Stunningly visual, Khan reveals a world that for many of us is a world elsewhere, one to watch with morbid curiosity, fascination, envy but also shock and horror. Just take a peek and you won’t want to look away.’

  Kirsten Arcadio,

  Author of the Borderliners trilogy & Zeitgeist

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by

  The Book Guild Ltd

  9 Priory Business Park

  Wistow Road, Kibworth

  Leicestershire, LE8 0RX

  Freephone: 0800 999 2982

  www.bookguild.co.uk

  Email: [email protected]

  Twitter: @bookguild

  Copyright © 2019 Awais Khan

  The right of Awais Khan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This work is entirely fictitious and bears no resemblance to any persons living or dead.

  ISBN 978 1913208 226

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  For Senator Gulzar Ahmed Khan (Bade Abu Jaan)

  “Be who you are and say what you feel,

  because those who mind don’t matter,

  and those who matter don’t mind.”

  Bernard M. Baruch

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Prologue

  7:46 a.m. – Lahore

  The early morning scent of damp earth and mown grass greeted him as the doors of the overcrowded bus were thrown open. A child, having lost control of his bowels, had caused the driver to make an unscheduled stop. The old bus groaned, its pistons emitting loud whistles as it ground against the curb, the people scrambling out in droves, some muttering, others hurling curses at the child who sat cowering in the soiled seat, his red knickers stained brown. His mother sat beside him, fanning her face with her malmal dupatta, a disapproving frown etched between unplucked eyebrows.

  The bus conductor simply slid the dusty windows open in an attempt to lure a breeze, ignoring the mess on the seat.

  While something like that would usually drive him crazy, it didn’t affect Ismail today. He was grateful to step out sooner than planned; it gave him more time to revel in the glory he was bringing his family – his entire village.

  Wrapping his shawl around him, he whistled a familiar tune from an Indian film, the one where the actress struck up all manner of provocative poses, causing the movie halls to erupt with hooting.

  The tune did nothing for him, but appearing inconspicuous was paramount. Sliding his hand along the rusted bars lining the sidewalk, he strolled toward the great den of activity – the Chowk. In the absence of the thick layer of smog that usually pervaded the city, the Chowk looked almost beautiful in the embrace of sunny blue skies. The fruit vendors shouted out tempting prices from their carts as they scratched their armpits, cars attempted to make their way through the gathering mess. The traffic wardens were absent, the dysfunctional traffic signal watching over everything like a silent ghost. A tangy smell emanated from the public park beyond, where a group of gardeners were busy with antiquated lawn mowers, bits of grass flying in the air like dust. The blueness of the sky reflected off puddles of water on the pavement, the crisp March breeze stirred his hair. It was exactly the kind of day those foreigner Goras called ‘beautiful’.

  Perfect, he thought, smiling to himself.

  Luck proved to be on his side all the way through. The Chowk was packed, and in the midst of the hundreds of people commuting to work or selling their wares, he was as good as invisible. Walking alongside a donkey cart loaded with cheap furniture, he peeped into the residential colony guarded by barricades. The quaintne
ss of the area was a glaring antithesis to the loud, swarming mess of the Chowk. His nose drew him toward the aroma of manure where a pair of black buffaloes idled in an open field littered with garbage.

  For a moment, he froze.

  Disgusting, but the stench bore the unmistakable stamp of home, of mud walls and open drains, and it was with reluctance that he pulled himself away, shaking his head at the familiar sight of steaming dung, round cakes of which had been plastered on the walls lining the field.

  Focusing on the task at hand, he edged closer to the enclosed colony, his eyes searching for the policeman responsible for the morning shift. The policeman in question seemed to be in significant distress, the way his head swivelled in every direction, and his fists clenched and unclenched. Ismail sent up a silent prayer of thanks as he caught him abandoning his post at the most opportune moment, presumably huddling off for a leak with one hand firmly clutched around his genitals. Who would have imagined that a full bladder would be a catalyst to such destruction?

  Don’t presume anything. Don’t allow overconfidence to swamp you! The words rang clear in his head. Everything is God’s will. Wasn’t this what he had been learning for years now? Let this be a lesson for the murderers, those traitors who have ravaged the country, uprooted families, destroyed legacies. Let this be a solid punch in the CIA’s gut.

  He navigated his way past the concrete barricades like a silent shadow, his muscles taut in case he had to break into a run. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, his empty stomach groaned, but he maintained a clear head, and strolled past the checkpoint without inviting any suspicious eyes in his direction.

  He arrived at the junction between the tranquil streets without incident, but even though he had memorised the route, for a moment everything looked the same to him: idyllic streets with concrete and brick houses rising in both directions. This part of the city held none of the rustic allure of his village. Its overreliance on concrete depressed him, made him think of prisons and subservience.

  He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes, allowing his mind to guide him in the proper direction. As his breathing calmed, the map of the area lit up like a bulb in the darkness, and he recalled the directions that had been given: First right, and the third left from there.

  Another ten minutes of suspense, but it seemed that he had at last arrived at the desired place. The dented black gate stood out like an anomaly, quite unlike its shiny counterparts that lined the entire street. It did, however, serve its purpose of shielding the short one-storey building from view. To the ordinary person, it would look like an abandoned place with the white paint peeling off the walls, revealing ugly graffiti.

  A clever ruse.

  He stepped closer, visualising how the end would be, and a plethora of confusing notions assaulted his mind. How would it feel? Would it hurt? Would he feel the head splicing off his body, and rolling across the floor? Would he even feel a hint of the savage triumph he had been promised?

  The voice of their Leader rang in his head again like a drumbeat. ‘It will be painless for you, jihadi, but the pain of those kaafirs, those non-believers, will be unimaginable. Remember, they are not humans; they do not feel. They do not love. You shall be rewarded for this noble deed, my boy, you will go to heaven. Kill those kaafirs!’

  Kill those kaafirs. He recited it like a mantra in an attempt to ward off other, more disturbing thoughts. The cocoon of indifference he had created around himself threatened to burst, and reveal something ugly, something forbidden… something that smelled like fear. He felt an urgent need to tear away the shawl, and fling the jacket into the rubbish, leaving the button intact, and the world unchanged. Was this what going to heaven was like, through so much pain, through such cruelty? Did he have to stoop as low as those Goras to exact revenge?

  Coward!

  These were the workings of Shaitan, the Satan. Their Leader had warned him about this. Shaitan will tempt him; try to deter him from the virtuous path to that of sin and cowardice.

  He must fight this.

  He trudged toward the ancient gate, the breeze drying beads of sweat that had erupted across his forehead. His hand slipped inside the shawl.

  Kill those kaafirs.

  An ice-cream van approached. The gate to a house on his left opened. A woman emerged, carrying a small child in her arms as the ice-cream van blared the familiar tune that heralded happiness, lighting up the faces of children everywhere.

  He paused, waiting for the child to receive his ice cream. He thought the child deserved that much. Ismail watched him as he slurped it down, resting his head on the woman’s shoulder. Possibly her son, he thought.

  Not so long ago, he had done the same… rested his head on his mother’s shoulder as his father came back from a hard day’s work, smelling of sunshine and well-earned sweat. Not so long ago, he had been innocent too, oblivious to everything happening around him, running alongside the ditches with his siblings, relishing the potent possibility of falling into the black muck. So filthy, and yet so exciting.

  Until they had bombed his village.

  Killed his entire family while he brought back fried fish for dinner.

  Everything lost in a second.

  He remembered the polythene bag speckled with condensation falling to the floor with a wet smack, the crusted fish sliding out on the floor. Slick with congealing blood, the floor wore the red colour of shame, the shame of being branded terrorists in their own land. Steam issued from his family’s still-warm bodies, dissolving in the cold air, the head of his infant brother lay in the ditch; his eyes wide open in fear or question, he couldn’t tell.

  That was it; he couldn’t take it anymore.

  He flicked open the plastic casing that protected the button, and closed his eyes as his thumb punched it hard.

  Chapter One

  Mona

  In the bathroom, Mona closed her eyes, but the gruesome images kept playing in her head. The news channels had had a field day. ‘The children… the suicide bomber didn’t even spare the children!’ the newscasters had all yelled in unison. The whole street had worn a scene of helplessness: dead bodies covered in white sheets being carried away on stretchers toward the ambulances; every house on the street standing bereft of its windowpanes, multi-coloured curtains billowing out in the crisp March wind like a scene from a horror movie; shocked and dishevelled men pointing at a disintegrated mass of concrete and steel, which had just hours ago been the hidden office of some clandestine agency’s headquarters.

  Reports coming in from the hospitals were also far from encouraging. The terrorists might never stop, they said. Not until they’ve destroyed Pakistan.

  Mona sighed as she opened her eyes. Pakistan was under attack, and all the people in this house were concerned about was what to wear tomorrow. Rolling a wad of tissue paper over her index finger, she leaned toward the mirror, and tried to wipe the mascara that seemed to have leaked from around her eyes, but looking closely, she noticed that the blotches were actually dark circles. A solitary tear escaped her left eye and slid down her cheek, staining her pink chiffon kameez.

  She had been crying a lot these past few months; each bomb blast shook her in a physical way, deepening her fear that the world was falling apart just like her marriage.

  Opening her Chanel handbag, she rummaged inside for her Touche Eclat to hide the tear tracks. She had left her friends in the drawing room with their favourite Belgian chocolate and Brazil-imported coffee. It was imperative that she should join them soon, lest they started questioning her whole existence.

  Inside the bag, her hand brushed against her iPhone. She hesitated before fishing it out.

  No messages or missed calls.

  For the tenth time that day, she dialled the same number. The line rang and rang. Mona tapped her foot on the hard stone floor. Suicide bombs and an absent husband… how had it all come to this? Reciting an
Ayat from the Holy Quran, she took a deep breath, and blew it across the bathroom in an attempt to ward off evil.

  Bilal picked up at the last ring. ‘What?’ he asked irritably.

  Gripping the marble slab supporting the wash basin, she took a deep breath. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Work.’

  Mona took another deep breath. ‘Why haven’t you called me back?’

  ‘What part of the word “work” didn’t you get?’

  ‘Typical, Bilal. Do you have any idea how terrified I’ve been?’ Her voice rose as she pronounced each syllable with force, something she knew Bilal hated. ‘Your secretary wouldn’t tell me anything! Do you realise a bomb just detonated in the city? And in our neighbourhood!’

  Bilal tutted. ‘Saira is sitting right in front of me, and it’s not her fault. I’ve been busy, Mona, and for God’s sake, don’t make a fuss. You know how important this deal with the investors from Dubai is for me. I hardly ever check my phone these days.’

  Mona lowered her voice knowing that it carried out of mobile phones, and that Saira would be trying to listen in, ever hungry for a stray crumb of gossip. That bitch. ‘But the bomb blast,’ she said quietly. ‘Surely you must have heard—’

  Bilal cut her off. ‘Of course I heard, but I simply presumed that you were safe at home since I called Amma, and honestly the work here has been so hectic lately, I just…’ His voice tapered off as he realised his mistake. ‘Listen I—’

  Mona forgot about Saira. ‘You called your mother, and didn’t even bother to check on me? What kind of a person are you? Do you even care about me? The country blows up, and that still doesn’t make me any more worthy of Bilal Sahab’s attention? I mean, I left you ten calls. Ten! And you didn’t see fit to reply to any of them. Oh, but you had time to call your dear Amma.’

  Bilal was silent. The sound of his deep breathing and the occasional rustle of papers in the background was the only indication that he was still on the line. After what seemed like ages, he replied, ‘Don’t tell me that all of a sudden you care, Mona.’