of this activity.’
Bhurhan already had an inkling of this. Loose tongues at the police station had told him Parekh, whilst respected by some, was not popular with others. A bit like sheep’s brain curry – you either liked it or you loathed it. Husayni was still talking, so Burhan tuned back in.
‘Then there are the demands of her job, the area she lives in – all in all, I think we can pull this your way.’ He paused and steepling his fingers together, he tapped them on his lips. ‘Of course, there are other options available should you so choose.’
Husayni instinctively understood what his client wanted and was prepared to take great lengths to remove any barriers that stood in Burhan’s way. By the end of this, inshallah, Nikita Parekh would be imprisoned for murder and Khalid’s daughter Charlie would be under his guardianship, where she would learn how to be the heir her father couldn’t be. The knot of anger that had pressed against Burhan’s chest eased. He was happy to pay whatever Husayni needed to gather the evidence. He had his eye on the end goal and cared not a jot about Nikita. She had brought this on herself and if he needed to play dirty further down the line, then so be it.
‘Keep me informed. I want regular updates. At the moment she is “in the wind” as the British say. I suppose even the Bradford police will be able to find one of their own quickly.’
Bhurhan leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out before him. The damp weather made his muscles ache and he desperately needed to sleep. His doctor had advised against the trip, but how could he not come … regardless of his own health. First though, he had to call his wife.
Enaya, scarf covering her head, looked at him, her eyes wide and expectant. Burhan could see the hope still burning in them and hated that he would have to dash it so completely. For years, she had prayed that her only child would return and forsake the infidel. She was a simple woman and Khalid’s betrayal had hit her hard. She, like Burhan, had been sure that when given the ultimatum, Khalid would choose his family, his privileged life in Ramallah over the drudgery of life in a Yorkshire city with a woman who neither understood nor took steps to embrace their religion and culture … but worse than that, was the fact that she was of Hindu descent. Both he and his wife had been severely wounded by Khalid’s actions.
Wishing he was with her to comfort her, Burhan shook his head. ‘It’s him, Enaya. They took DNA and there is no doubt, our Khalid has gone.’
Enaya began to recite Qur’anic script, rocking back and forth as she did so. A wave of tiredness rolled over him, drowning him, pushing him under a suffocating quagmire. He could do nothing but watch as tears flowed down her cheeks, dripping from her chin, unheeded.
‘She killed him, Enaya. That woman killed him to stop him coming back to us.’
Enaya stopped crying, straightened her scarf over her hair and looked straight at her husband. ‘You will deal with this. Make her suffer as I have done for the last fifteen years.’
‘I am working on it. Trust me, she will pay. Now, I have some better news.’ He picked up the photograph he’d taken from Nikita’s fridge and held it to the screen. ‘This is your granddaughter. Khalid’s daughter.’
Enaya’s lip trembled, her hands clutching at a tissue as her eyes scoured the picture. ‘Khalid’s girl?’ Her hand reached out and her fingers touched the screen, stroking the face of the girl. ‘She has his eyes. She looks like him. Her name?’
‘Hmph, Charlie. Her name is Charlie.’
Enaya frowned. ‘When you bring her home to us, we will call her Aadab.’
Burhan smiled ‘Hope. That’s a good choice. Aadab. I like it. Respect and politeness.’ Whilst Burhan suspected the girl would have neither in abundance, he supposed the name was a good omen.
‘You will bring her home, won’t you?’
Burhan nodded. ‘That is the plan. To bring her home and make her mother pay.’
It is strange to sit here whilst outside the consequences of my choices so long ago are causing chaos to many. Strange, but dare I say it, quite thrilling. Time on my own is always a welcome thing, but time shared with my memories is second to none. In this time of crisis, I find myself eking out more ‘me time’. Not sure that what I do in my ‘me time’ is exactly what they’ve got in mind but nonetheless, I derive great pleasure from it. There’s something particularly satisfying in knowing that whilst I am indulging myself in my homemade production, others, in more clinical surroundings, are trying to work out what happened. Perhaps one day they’ll be able to compare their findings with these recordings. I wonder how well they’ll match up.
I’ve already inserted the DVD and fast-forwarded to near the end. I love the way my voice sounds through the speakers. Many hate their own recorded voices, but for me it is like music. I love seeing myself too. I look powerful, strong, but more importantly dependable. I am dependable! Unlike my targets, I am fully committed to whatever decisions I make. I don’t give up, don’t opt out. No matter how difficult things become, I dig my heels in and crack on. Maybe it’s that Yorkshire grit in me. Off we go …
10th November 2003. Time 00.45. Time in captivity: four days, one hour
As we watch, the shadowy figure looms over the captive man. Hands tied behind the death chair, feet tied to the legs, his head droops. It’s nearly time – time to lose all hope. Time to face his maker. Notice the number of cuts, the frequency of the slashes. Each bears testament to his failure to prove his worth. You won’t be able to count them, but I can assure you there are more than fifty. Fifty chances he had and fifty chances he blew. Note how he fails to flinch now. Resigned to his failure. Just one more indication of his readiness to submit – to admit defeat. We’re in the home stretch. Watch and learn. Bear witness!
As the camera zooms in, the figure circles the captive, prodding him occasionally with a cattle prod. Watch how our captive flinches, half lifts his head and groans. Watch as the figure pulls his head up and directs it towards the camera.
‘Focus! You have proven time and time again that your privilege is stronger than your brains. That you are lacking – undeserving of the opportunities that have been offered you at the expense of those more deserving. You have one last thing you can do. One last thing you can leave behind – a last chance, if you will, to redeem yourself in the eyes of those who matter to you. A chance to prove that there is more to you than privilege and entitlement. Answer the question. Why are you here?’
Note how the captive remains inert. Is he bluffing? I fear not. His exhaustion is clear, his weakness apparent. Take heed how the figure deals with this. Watch how he teases the captive back to consciousness. Smelling salts and an injection of adrenaline, that’s all that’s needed.
See how the captive’s head slumps backwards, his eyes, although open, keep rolling back in his head before refocusing. For now, he is alert. Witness the care taken to make these last few moments special – momentous. The captive can go to his death safe in the knowledge that his last request has been recorded. Closure at the end of a long struggle which has ultimately resulted in the same abject failure that has plagued his life’s choices.
Listen to me. ‘Have you had enough? Can you not answer? Why are you
