I showed Imran the faxes over breakfast and he confirmed that the fard registered the land as owned in partnership between Asma Rahman and Ahmed Rahman. There were other documents.
‘These are surveyors’ reports, Martin. It looks like they were commissioned by Ibrahim to evaluate the potential quantities of oil. There are some differences between them, but all of them say the revenues will be substantial.’
I told Imran about my phone call with Ayesha. She had asked me to go back to Machh to see Ahmed again. She was desperate for answers to the remaining questions about her father, and this might be the last opportunity to get them.
Imran was dubious. It had been dangerous going to the jail once, he said; going twice was patently foolish. We had angered Ahmed, and his power to wreak vengeance extended beyond the prison walls.
I acknowledged Imran’s concerns. But for all the antagonism and suspicion our encounter had aroused, I felt Ahmed might welcome another meeting. There were things that still nagged his conscience.
‘We should try again, Imran. Would you ring the Superintendent of the jail and see if we can go there today?’
Imran rang. Superintendent Gul said he would ask if Ahmed was willing, but returned to say he had categorically refused. It was a blow. I asked Imran to ring Javed Shafik and see if he would order Ahmed to change his mind. It was mid-afternoon before we heard back: we should go to the prison at once.
Ahmed was surly. He refused to get up from the daybed, kept his eyes fixed on the window, ignored my questions.
‘Ahmed. Look, I’m sorry about the way we got in to see you today . . .’
Silence.
‘I wouldn’t have insisted, but there are important things to talk about . . .’
‘Go to hell!’
‘. . . important for me and important for you, too, I think.’
He shifted his body, raised his head.
‘How do you know what’s important for me?’
‘I know what I would consider important if I were in your position.’
‘What do you mean, my position?’
‘On death row . . .’
‘Oh, grow up! I’m not going to swing. The party have said they’re getting me out of here; next month at the latest.’
‘Okay. So maybe you won’t die now. But you are going to die . . .’
‘It’s you who’s going to die if you don’t stop hassling me!’
‘. . . and I don’t think you want to die with your conscience heavy.’
‘My conscience? Who said anything about my conscience?’
‘You did, Ahmed. The last time I was here.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. You told me I should figure it out. You asked me who must pay for Ibrahim’s death, who is the man who deserves to suffer for it . . .’
I saw the apprehension in his eyes.
‘. . . and I did figure it out. You were giving me the answer in the question – it was you who murdered your brother; and you can’t live with yourself because of it!’
‘Oh, yes? Who says?’
‘I think you want to tell me about it. You want to share the burden . . .’
‘Fuck off! You know nothing. And anyway, the Qur’an says only Allah can forgive . . .’
Ahmed turned away, mumbling fervent, rapid words, invoking the formulae of forgiveness. ‘O son of Adam, so long as you call upon Me, and ask of Me, I shall forgive you. Despair not of the Mercy of Allah: Were your sins to reach the clouds of the sky, I would forgive you. Were you to come to Me with sins as great as the earth and were then to face Me, I would bring you forgiveness . . .’
‘Come on, Ahmed . . .’
‘For Allah is full of knowledge and wisdom. Turn to Allah for He will remove from you your ills and admit you to the Gardens through which rivers flow . . .’
Unexpectedly, Imran joined in: ‘But oh! My servants who have transgressed against their souls! Of no effect is the repentance of those who continue to do evil until death does face them!’
Ahmed hesitated. Imran took over the incantatory verses.
‘For lo! Unto those who leave repentance until the time of their death, We have prepared a punishment most grievous. On the Day of Judgment they will dwell for ever in ignominy, for the Lord is swift in retribution!’
Ahmed snarled, ‘Repenting to anyone other than Allah is forbidden!’
But Imran had an answer: ‘The Qur’an says, “Verily, your fellow men on whom ye call for counsel and relief are like unto you; therefore call on them now, so they might soothe your mind and answer your prayer!” ’
Ahmed slumped onto the bed. He had lifted his arms so the sleeves of his robe covered his face.
‘Enough!’ His voice through the white linen was distant, strained. ‘What is it you want from me?’
‘Who paid the Pathans to strangle Ibrahim? . . . Ahmed . . .’
‘Yes . . .’
‘It was you?’
‘Yes . . .’
There was silence in the white prison; a prisoner in a white robe, grappling with his sin.
‘But why? You said yourself you didn’t need to kill him. Ibrahim had done what you asked of him. He’d turned over his land; he’d come to work for Javed Shafik; he was ready to hand over his taxi network . . .’
‘But it wasn’t enough!’ he groaned. ‘It wasn’t enough, because it could never be enough! For all the hurt and all the humiliation, for all the slights and insults, all the sneering, superior . . . He had to die. There was no other way.’
‘But did you not feel—?’
‘Enough! My brother is dead. And I am alive . . .’
There was anguish in Ahmed’s voice; but could I feel pity for a man who had bribed and threatened and lied to cover up his crime? Who had misled his brother’s loved ones and condemned them to the hell of unknowing?
‘You went to the police and got them to concoct a fictitious version of what you had done . . .’
‘The police had no interest in the case. It was an honour killing – they happen; it was justified.’
‘There’s no honour in murdering a man because you resent his happiness or his success. Because you feel inferior to him. There’s no honour in sending thugs to pin down your own brother on a concrete floor and crush his skull with a sledgehammer.’
Ahmed turned away, torn between shame and self-justification, between the need for absolution and the impervious swagger of the hardened killer.
‘It was no honour killing,’ I said. ‘You killed him because you were stealing your brother’s land!’
‘What are you talking about, journalist? You know nothing about that!’
‘Oh, no? So what do you think this is?’
I thrust Ayesha’s copy of the fard into Ahmed’s hand. As he scanned it the openness in his eyes faded; a veil of unfeeling descended.
‘You kept this land for yourself. When you gave the rest to Shafik, you kept this. The water scheme and the dam were a red herring – it was the oil that was the real prize. Right from the beginning.’
‘Go to hell, journalist!’
‘No. You go to hell, Ahmed. I thought there was goodness in you alongside the evil. But I’ve understood you now.’
‘Why should I care what you think you have understood? Or what you think about me?’
‘But the land has Asma’s name on it, Ahmed. How are you going to deal with that?’
A smile spread across his face.
‘Don’t worry. I know how to do it.’
‘What? By killing Asma?’
‘If I have to . . .’
‘You’re already tormented because you killed your brother; and now you’re planning to kill his wife . . .’
Ahmed laughed. ‘Kill her . . . or marry her; whichever gets me the oil. I’m getting out of here next month; you won’t have long to wait . . .’
There was an angry finality in his farewell.
‘Don’t forget, journalist – I can have you killed before you even get back to Karachi. You should look out for yourself!’
That evening I told Ayesha the identity of her father’s killer.