‘May I point out the quality of the accommodation?’ Gul was pursuing his own agenda. ‘This block is for A-class prisoners. Despite Waraich not being entitled to such status, I took it upon myself to grant it to him.’
The door opened into a communal area. The walls were white; white tiles on the floor. A faint smell of bleach gave it the air of a hospital waiting hall. A Nordic Track exercise machine, a rack of barbells and a ping-pong table were at the far end of the room; under the window a colour television was playing music videos from a DVD. Imran could not hide his astonishment.
‘Superintendent-ji, this is a hotel! Is your whole jail so luxurious?’
Gul laughed.
‘I told you: this is A-class. We have 845 inmates but only two such guests. Saulat Mirza is away in Islamabad spinning his tales to the President, so that leaves your colleague Mushtaq Snake Eyes. Condemned men should normally be in the black cells, but in certain cases I am able to temper justice with mercy. When you speak to Mr Shafik, please confirm to him that Snake Eyes enjoys all the A-class privileges – his own room, bathroom, TV, fridge, superior food and personal cook.’
A hacking cough came from behind a door. Gul lowered his voice.
‘That is him. I need to mention something. We cannot shield death row prisoners from the stress of their situation. They wake each morning filled with fear, not knowing if the day will bring bad news. Some collapse under the strain. Saulat Mirza has been smoking a hundred cigarettes a day trying to stave off the noose. Your Snake Eyes spends sleepless nights. It can make them unpredictable, their behaviour unstable. And there are no psychologists in our jails; just the mullahs who lead the inmates in prayer and teach them the religious texts. You need to be prepared for what you are about to see.’
There was a growl from the door.
‘Who the hell are you talking to, Gul?’ The voice was harsh. ‘You are disturbing me, you bastard!’
Gul gave a nervous smile.
‘Snake Eyes-ji, you have visitors. Friends of Shafik sahib. Do you wish to receive them?’
There was silence, then a grunt.
‘Have you searched them?’
‘They are here at the wish of Shafik himself.’
‘So send them in. Make yourself scarce. Tell the boy to fetch us coffee.’
Gul and his assistant left us at the door of Snake Eyes’ cell.
‘Show your faces! I am a busy man!’
It sounded incongruous. With what did a condemned man fill his days? Imran went first.
‘Snake Eyes-ji, we have come with Shafik’s blessing. To talk to you . . .’
A bearded figure in a white cotton robe that looked freshly laundered was stretched on a daybed. He removed the earphones of a silver iPod from his ears.
‘Talk about what?’ The figure propped itself on an elbow, pulled out a mobile phone from beneath a pillow. ‘Give me your names then wait outside.’
In the white hall we exchanged whispers.
‘How does he have a mobile? Why are there no guards? Why are the officials so afraid of him?’
Snake Eyes finished his call and summoned us back.
‘Okay. Shafik wishes me to talk to you.’
I let Imran take the lead.
‘Snake Eyes-ji,’ he began respectfully. ‘Are they treating you well? Do you have what you need?’
‘I have what I need because we keep the bastards scared. They give me all this’ – he swept the room with his hand – ‘because we know where their families live.’
Imran smiled. ‘And the mobile phone? They don’t make problems?’
‘They don’t make problems because I need the phone for business. And the guards get a cut.’ His English was fluent, his tone extravagantly boastful. ‘They know the jobs we’re doing and they turn a blind eye. We send the C-class jailbirds on awaydays and they readmit them in the evening. The whole prison knows what heists and hits we have planned, but we are in jail so they can’t pin it on us. Last week we did a job in Quetta and the guys were back inside before anyone missed them. This week a bunch of new arrivals come in and they’ve been charged with our robbery!’
‘And how about the other prisoners? They maintain respect?’
‘There were some gangsters from Kala Pul who brought a four-wheel drive and gave it to the prison boss. They used to get allowed out to go and party. We had to bring them down a peg. And there are fights over who controls the amenities. Drugs, alcohol, women; you can get them all in here. They’re profitable things; the syndicates all want a stake.’
‘So who decides?’
‘Same as on the outside: the political parties. They provide protection and discipline. The MQM, the UF and the others all have their structures; the jail bosses negotiate with them. Each party has its own territory, its own kitchens and washrooms. And they’re ruthless about checking out new recruits because they’re scared of infiltrators and spies. We need to know who everyone is and who they work for. I’m talking to you because Shafik told me to, but you haven’t told me who you are or what your business is.’
I had expected the question.
‘Well, you know our names,’ I said. ‘And I’m sure Shafik has told you that I am writing about Pakistan. I need the sort of information only you and he can provide. I have promised that anything I write will be anonymised. I will disguise your identities and background, but Shafik wants to be a character in my book and you can be, too.’
I caught the look on Snake Eyes’ face that told me he was interested. I pressed ahead.
‘So tell me, should I use your alias or a fictionalised version of your real name? Snake Eyes, or Mushtaq Waraich?’
The man on the bed stroked his chin. The beard was the product of jail, but the fastidiously waxed moustache was part of the man.
‘Snake Eyes is fine.’
He wanted to be in the book; I had him.
‘So tell me how you came to work for Javed Shafik.’
Snake Eyes swung his feet down to the floor. Stiff from lying, he walked uneasily to the window and looked out.
‘I knew him in England. A long time ago. We both worked in the cotton mills, but Shafik was smart; he understood things that other people didn’t. Even then, back in the 1970s, he knew the English would never accept us. They hated us Pakistanis. Some of us tried being nice to them, tried to integrate and become British. But Shafik said there was no point. We got sworn at and spat on; some of us got smashed up by the bovver boys.’
He ran his finger over his ribs as if resurrecting the memory of a still hurtful injury.
‘It was a hard lesson, but it was liberating. Their brutality meant we could hate them. We didn’t owe them anything. We didn’t need to defer to the whites; we could exploit their weaknesses and take them for whatever we could get. And they had plenty of weaknesses. They had no moral code, no respect and no honour. They didn’t live by the values of religion. They were consumed by greed and sensual appetites. So Shafik gave them what they wanted. In the seventies it was booze and smuggled cigarettes. Then the English started wanting drugs, so he brought them opium from Afghanistan, hashish and heroin from Khyber Pakhtunkhwa trafficked through Karachi and Islamabad. There were plenty of mules ready to swallow a few condoms for a thousand rupees, but most of the time he just parcelled it up and sent it by airmail.
‘The trade grew so big that Shafik had to find new transport methods to meet the demand. And that’s when I got involved. He and I were travelling back and forth to Pakistan, negotiating with shipping companies to hide the drugs in their containers, stuffing the tyres of cars that were being transported to London or replacing baby powder with heroin. I’m not bigging myself up, but one of my ideas was the best – we got friendly with the funeral homes in Karachi and they used to tip us off whenever a British Pakistani had died and was being flown back to the UK. The amount of heroin you can get into a coffin – under the lining, in the corpse’s clothes or rammed into his body – is huge!’
Snake Eyes paused for effect. There was a recklessness in the man’s boasting that I found intimidating. When I asked if he was worried about the consequences, he laughed.
‘You mean you’re wondering why I’m telling you this? It’s because I’m proud of it. The English hate us, we make money out of them; it’s simple. Being in jail is just a holiday for me. I can take care of business from the comfort of my bed. No one can touch me because they’re shit scared of Shafik and the UF. And once things have calmed down I’ll be out of here. Shafik has got the party to guarantee it. He’s paid the right people the right money. That’s how it works.’
I remembered Superintendent Gul’s words about the pressures of being on death row. Snake Eyes didn’t seem unbalanced, just utterly assured of his own invulnerability. And that gave him licence to brag.
‘Can I ask about human-trafficking?’ I was testing the limits of his candour. ‘There’ve been a lot of news stories in England about Pakistani men abusing young girls.’
Snake Eyes glanced at me.
‘You’re confusing things. The abuse happens to English girls in English cities. The trafficking involves Pakistani girls who get smuggled into the UK. And that’s usually for marriages, visas . . .’
‘And prostitution?’
‘Maybe. Sometimes.’
‘And which of these do you and Shafik know about?’
‘We have acted as intermediaries in the immigration trade. We don’t have anything to do with the abuse rings . . .’
‘Really? It’s just that I heard of a case in Burnley – a young white girl; her name was Kelly Stafford – and I wondered if you knew about it.’
Snake Eyes fixed me with a glare that explained his nickname; intense, disturbing, dark with menace.
‘Why are you bringing that up? Why the fuck are you talking about Burnley?’
I had touched a nerve.
‘No reason. Just that Superintendent Gul mentioned you lived in Burnley. And that some of the charges against you were connected with the place.’
‘Gul showed you my charge sheet? I’ll fix that bastard!’
‘I’m surprised. You’ve been quite open about all the other allegations. So why this sudden outrage? Is it because of Kelly Stafford? Or because of Burnley, perhaps?’
‘It’s because there are things you should not know about! Things that include my connections in England! You’d better not write a single word of this in your book – not if you want to live to see it published, you bastard!’
The ferocity of his rage jolted me. The journalist’s impunity had lulled me into thinking of this as a story. But it was perilous reality and I was being sucked into it.
‘Okay, look – I am not going to use real names and places. Maybe I’ll talk about Bradford instead of Burnley . . .’
I attacked from a different angle.
‘But I need to know the truth. And I need to hear it from you. Your name isn’t Snake Eyes or Mushtaq Waraich or Kamran Rafique, is it? It’s Ahmed Rahman!’
He stared at me, unblinking, calculating. Then he shrugged.
‘Maybe. So what if it is?’
‘So it explains something that has been puzzling me. You are Ahmed Rahman and your brother was Ibrahim Rahman. Am I right?’
‘You tell me. You seem to know a lot of things.’
‘You both worked for Javed Shafik—’
‘Things that might not be good for you, journalist . . .’
‘But Ibrahim died, didn’t he?’
‘What?’
‘He died. He was murdered . . .’
‘Just because I’m in this cell . . . just because I’m in this cell doesn’t mean I can’t squeeze you ’til the blood runs from your veins, you bastard . . .’
‘I’m not out to get you, Ahmed . . . I’m not out to get your boss. I’m trying to understand. I’m trying to explain something that’s been troubling me . . . Ahmed . . .?’
Hearing his name used seemed to check him. He looked around.
‘I too have a brother, Ahmed. I had a brother. Like you, my brother died and I have been looking for explanations. Like you I’ve had the loss, the absence and the guilt. And Tom’s death has become tangled up with Ibrahim’s – don’t ask me how or why. I need answers to both. Even if I never write anything; even if I throw away all these notes and wipe all the tapes, I need to know. And I think perhaps you do, too . . .’