It was approaching evening in Lahore but the blue sky still went on forever and the sun hammered down as Helena Ahmed and Zakia Kaltabi climbed into the black saloon they used for business. One bodyguard took the wheel while the other sat beside Zakia in the back.
“Where can you accommodate this one we’re taking in today?” Helena asked as they set off into the midst of the grinding traffic.
“That last bit of the tranche of funds you got for us from the government paid for an extension to one of our properties, you know the one round the corner from here.”
Helena nodded. She did know. In fact, she knew where all Women’s House properties were located, one of only a handful of people who did.
“I wanted you to come today because this is a young lady whose parents want to marry a cousin thirty years older than her. She’s only fourteen.”
“It never ceases to shock, however often you hear it.”
“She’s refused the marriage. Her father has tried beating her but that hasn’t worked. Now he’s getting threatening. Her uncle was suspected in an honour killing of another relative in similar circumstances. She knows the threat and one of her aunts is shielding her, but it’s only a matter of time before they find her. She’s very nervous to come with us. I thought your being there would help to persuade her.”
“I’m always pleased to help. Let’s hope we get there in time.”
Their driver negotiated a channel round yet another traffic jam and bore through a small gap to find some relatively open road. “Where are we going?” Helena asked.
“Johar Town,” came the response.
Helena wrinkled her nose, not so much as a gesture of disapproval but more one of resignation. She knew only too well that Johar Town down by the Ravi River was one of the worst slum areas of the city, home to people with perilously unstable jobs which yielded very little money and rife with crime and alcohol abuse. Drawn into it constantly were country dwellers searching for a better life, who instead found a slum with open sewers, no healthcare to speak of and zero infrastructure on which to depend. Their homes were largely shacks held together by bamboo sticks and open to the elements. As they drew near the river, they could see a group of small boys kicking a ball about. When the ball went into the water one of them didn’t hesitate about jumping in to retrieve it. Helena wrinkled her nose once more. She knew just how polluted the water was.
The car came to a stop at the top of a road, which was little more than a mass of potholes and trails scored out by runs of water and sewage. Plumes of dust hovered, swayed around in the breeze before dissipating and being almost instantly replaced. “I don’t want to go down there,” their driver said. “We only have one spare tyre. You don’t want to be stuck here.”
“The house is the fourth one down.” Zakia pointed. “It’s the one with the ribbons hanging outside. That’s the sign. We’ll walk.”
She jumped out before either of the bodyguards could object, closely followed by Helena. One man stayed in charge of the car. The other stayed right behind the two women. As they approached the shanty a young girl appeared with tears trickling down her face being held by an older woman. Zakia stepped forward and started talking to her. It was a lengthy conversation out in the burning heat. Helena stayed back. This was Zakia’s job, not hers. Hers was to provide the foundation, to lobby the government and other donors for money and to publicise the plight of women such as this young girl. She was conscious of the bodyguard peering around them all the time. He was becoming increasingly nervous. “We have to get out of here,” he muttered in her ear. “With the car we’re sitting ducks.”
She turned her palm down to pacify him. “Just a few moments more.” The girl was pleading. She was desperate not to lose her family but knew the fate which awaited her if she decided to stay. Zakia kept trying to convince her that she was going to a place of safety. In time she would be able to see her family again but only when the danger of a totally unsuitable marriage was past. Finally, she disengaged herself from the older woman, who gave her a parting kiss on the top of her head and pushed her away. Zakia took her by the hand and began to lead her towards the car. The car doors opened in readiness to receive them.
It was then that the shot rang out lacing through the stagnant air. Zakia turned to see Helena crumple to the ground. The bodyguard clutched her and the girl and almost physically carried them both to the car. “Nooooooo,” Zakia shrieked. “Not Helena, Not Helena.” The bodyguard pulled out his gun and searched the corner from which the shot had been fired. There was nobody there. He turned around. The gaggle of boys playing ball had disappeared like just another plume of dust. He knelt down beside Helena’s body and felt for signs. Then he looked up and shook his head. The pool of blood leaking from a gaping wound in Helena’s back trickled down to the nearest sewerage trail and toppled over it in a sinuous but inexorable movement towards the river.