Ahmed Rahman stared at me. He had confessed to a journalist whom he knew was taking notes, compiling evidence against him. The prophet Mohammed said a believer sees his sins as if he were sitting under a mountain which he fears will fall upon him, while the wicked person considers his sins as flies passing over his nose.
‘Can we be clear?’ I said. ‘You are saying Ibrahim refused to compromise himself, until you threatened to kill his children. He sacrificed himself to protect Ayesha and Tariq?’
‘If you put it like that.’
‘Your brother was a good man.’
‘If you say so.’
Ahmed laughed; but he knew his brother had behaved better than he ever could. There was one more question.
‘Am I right, then, to assume you killed him?’
The door opened and the boy came in with a tray of coffee.
‘Goddamit!’ Ahmed rounded on him. ‘Why the fuck are you coming in here now! Get out of here, you bastard!’
The boy dropped the tray; cups smashed and a stain of black liquid spread over the tiles. The child burst into tears, turned and ran.
‘Okay, journalist; time for you to go.’
The moment of candour had passed. Ahmed had spoken so openly that perhaps now he regretted it. The more I pressed him, the more he rowed back.
‘Leave it! I’ve told you enough. Why would I kill my brother? We’d already got what we needed from him . . .’
The old Ahmed was back, arrogant and angry. He called the guard to take us away. I made a final plea.
‘I need to know, Ahmed. I need to know who killed Ibrahim. If it wasn’t you, then tell me who it was!’
Ahmed turned his back, snarled at me.
‘You figure it out. You think you’re so fucking clever, coming here and passing judgment. You tell me who it was. Tell me who deserves to pay for it, who deserves to suffer for it. You tell me who that man is!’
We reached Quetta after midnight and checked back in to the hotel. I asked the night porter to book an international call to London, but he said there was little chance of getting it until the morning. I was eager to tell Ayesha that her father had not been a willing participant in the crimes he had committed; I dreaded having to tell her that the identity of his murderer remained opaque.
My dreams took me to the death cell, to Saulat Mirza’s hempen noose and hundred cigarettes. Did you ever see a hangman tie a hangknot? . . . He winds, he winds; after thirteen times . . . I found myself on the floodlit stage of Imran’s make-believe Hamlet conference, with Ahmed as smiling, villainous Uncle Claudius. O, my offence is rank; it smells to heaven. It hath the primal eldest curse upon’t, A brother’s murder! Ahmed as fratricide, king-slayer, outcast from God. And the Lord had respect unto Abel and to his offering. But unto Cain and to his offering he had not respect. What did Freud say about the Brudermörder, with his anguish of jealousy and self-disgust, his urge to destroy the being closest to him? And the Lord said unto Cain, Why art thou wroth? . . . And it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel. And what would Freud say about me dreaming now – I knew it was a dream, but I knew it in my dream – of the Brudermord? What if this cursed hand were thicker than itself with brother’s blood? Ahmed struggling to confess his guilt, but unable to purge the conscience that pricks and burns. ‘Forgive me my foul murder’? That cannot be . . . What then? What rests . . . when one can not repent? O bosom black as death! Elektra avenges her father, but who shall avenge the brother? And the Lord said, Now you are cursèd from the ground which has opened its mouth to receive your brother’s blood . . . The ground that Ahmed stole; the land that was his brother’s. And what about the widow, Gertrude, who marries her murdered husband’s brother? I was back on the floodlit stage, wearing Claudius’s robes and crown. I was kneeling, trying to purge my guilt. Loud knocking from somewhere behind me; the revenger come for him who murdered the brother he loved. I tried to rise but my knees were glued to the floor. I tried to run but my guilt weighed me down . . .
The porter had been knocking at the door, concerned that the line might be cut before I roused myself to use it. By the time we reached the lobby the operator had got through to Ayesha. I blurted out the news she had been hoping to hear. Ibrahim was not a villain. There was an explanation for the crimes he had committed. Her image of a loving father was safe.
There was silence on the line. I had expected gratitude and relief. I called her name, asked if she was still there.
‘Martin, I already knew . . .’
‘What do you mean, you already knew?’
‘After you went back to Pakistan I spoke to Tariq. He told me about Dad’s promise to marry us off to Ahmed’s children. That was why Tariq ran away from home . . .’
‘Yes, I know . . .’
‘. . . and why he was so angry with Mum, who had gone along with it. But he told me he’d tried to patch things up. He contacted Dad in Kahin Nahi and Dad spoke to him about how Ahmed was using the judgment against us to blackmail him. Tariq was furious. He told Dad not to give in; he said he would come to Pakistan and take care of things – with a knife if necessary. But Dad said that if Tariq showed his face in Kahin Nahi, Shafik’s dacoits would slaughter him out of hand.’
‘So if you knew, why did you let me come here?’
‘Because we don’t know who killed our father. Dad told Tariq he was going to work for Shafik and Ahmed and that he would be safe once he had given them what they wanted. Then we heard that Dad had been murdered.’
‘And you were hoping I would find out by whom . . .’
‘There’s more. I showed Tariq the papers from Dad’s desk; he went through them all and he found something dangerous. Ahmed kept some of Dad’s land for himself – land that he kept secret from Shafik. Can I send you a fax?’
I asked the porter for the fax number. He said it was unreliable, but the machine whirred into life. The pages spewed out, accompanied by a commentary over the phone from Ayesha.
‘Look at the first page, Martin. It’s the ownership document, the fard, for part of Dad’s land – you can see the boundaries outlined on the map. You won’t be able to read the Urdu, but Dad’s name has been replaced by Ahmed’s.’
‘So how come Ahmed didn’t keep the fard for himself?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Mum’s name is also on the document, Asma Rahman. Tariq contacted the patwari and asked him what’s been going on. The patwari said Ahmed brought Dad in and asked for the land to be signed over. Dad agreed to have his name removed, but Asma was not present to authorise the removal of hers. So now the land is held jointly by Mum and Ahmed. The patwari drew up two authenticated copies of the fard; we’ve got one of them and Ahmed has the other.’
‘Okay, so why had Ibrahim put Asma’s name on that particular piece of land? And how come Ahmed wants to keep that bit for himself, when he let all the rest go to Shafik for his dam scheme?’
‘Exactly! Have a look at this . .’
The fax whirred again; this time the document was in English.
KAHIN NAHI, Pakistan – Huge oil and gas reserves have been discovered at Kahin Nahi, fifteen kilometres from Karachi, according to Oil and Gas Development Co (OGDCL) sources. Other wells in the area include Ahdi, Mastala, Missa and Tobra, all of which are currently in production with Pakistani Petroleum. The sources said OGDCL prospectors estimate the new find could yield up to 4,600 barrels of crude daily, making it one of the largest discoveries of recent years and opening up a new area for exploitation of hydrocarbon potential. (APP)