Like, I suspect, many white Britons, I took little interest in Pakistan. As a country it appeared distant, alien and dangerous. Pakistanis in Britain were peripheral to me – I exchanged greetings with my friendly newsagent, read about extremists plotting to impose sharia law, and walked through streets of Asian faces when my football team played at Bradford or Aston Villa. Two events made me think again. An appeal for help from a young British Pakistani woman, followed by a tragedy in my own life, drew me into the writing of this book and, with it, an understanding of the shared concerns and common humanity that unite us.
The book grew from these facts, but it is not a factual documentary. The character named Martin is not me, although I share many of his thoughts and sorrows. Ayesha is not Ayesha, because the real Ayesha insisted that her identity be protected. As you read the pages that follow you will understand why all the main characters have been changed, locations altered and events rewritten. The whole picture of corruption and violence, the organised crime and the anguish of those caught up in them are terribly real.