Dishonour (12 page)

They’d then got the cart, pulled by an ox and guided by the old man, which had trundled along the dust road, wheels hitting every stone as her bones were jarred whilst the clouds swiftly flew by, hurrying to veil the dazzling sun of its blazing heat.

She didn’t know where she was. The signs had disappeared on the outskirts of Islamabad. Though Laila didn’t need to know the name of the place to know she didn’t want to be here. She couldn’t even call it a village; it consisted of five flat-roofed houses, ashen in description, almost as if the colours had been sandblasted away.

Dried mud replaced any paths. An undernourished dog lay panting under the shade of the single mulberry tree, chickens wandered for feed by the crumbling stone wall, and wide-eyed, curious stares watched Laila.

Turning to her brother, her voice was strained and pitiful. ‘Tariq, please help me. Please, I’m begging you. We don’t have to do this. We’ll be okay without uncle; we can manage. I won’t go back to school, I can help out; I’ll get a job. Anything you need me to do. But please, please, don’t leave me here.’

Tariq’s eyes flickered; glimpses of hesitation and uncertainty showing in his brown eyes. A moment later it was gone, passing away like the breeze. He had to stay strong. If he didn’t he’d be letting her down, no matter how hard it was for her … for him. This was the only way. He had to keep believing he was doing the right thing. The only thing to keep Laila safe. If only she could see it was best. If only she’d stop asking him to help her. This
was
him helping her. He couldn’t allow himself to feel sorry for her. Better this than the family do what they’d originally wanted to do to her. Besides, he had to remember this was her duty.
His
duty as her brother was to show her what was expected. And surely doing something in the name of duty wouldn’t harm her?

Angry at himself for letting doubts come into his mind, Tariq snapped at Laila.

‘What do you want from me Laila? What do you want me to do? Just tell me. Tell me how I’m supposed to help you.’ Tariq threw down the cigarette he was smoking, kicking a stone out of the way. ‘Look, we’re here now Laila; get used to it, make the most of it.’

‘We’re where? Where are we Tariq? You tell me where we are and then tell me this is what Daddy would’ve wanted.’

He didn’t know where they were, although he wasn’t going to admit that to Laila. But mostly, he wasn’t going to admit his father would never expect him to leave Laila here. But what else could he do? In a way, Tariq felt as trapped as Laila did.

‘What difference does it make to you if you don’t know where you are? If you wanted to know, maybe you should’ve paid attention in your Saturday morning lessons; then you would’ve been able to read the signs.’

Not being able to look at Laila any longer, Tariq stormed off to find out why their uncle was taking so long.

It took Laila to the count of three to start running. She turned left, not wanting to go along the same road they’d come down. She could hear the children who’d been watching her shrieking with surprise and excitement as she darted along the road. She cried out a small cry as her ankle bent over to one side as she ran on the uneven stones in her dolly shoes, making her escape slower than she would’ve wished for.

Laila looked up and saw nothing but the road ahead looming in front of her. A barren stretch going on and on into the distance. How far was it? One mile? Two miles? It was impossible to tell, but she knew if she stayed on this road she’d be seen.

She couldn’t turn back and run past the houses, the children’s screams were bound to have caught her uncle’s attention by now. Almost without thinking, Laila swerved into the undergrowth. Her burka caught on the tall hard reeds, forcing her to drag and yank at it to make her escape. Within seconds she could feel her feet being covered in water, then her knees, and before long her waist. She began to cry; a loud audible howl. Scared, lonely, hollow cries of terror and pain.

Pulling herself together, Laila slowly and carefully began to wade, waist deep in water and sludge. Her burka was water-logged and she had a sense she was dragging a heavy weight behind her. The reeds towered above her, obscuring her view.

Not having any sight or landmarks, Laila looked up to the sky, making sure to keep the sun in front of her. She paused, tired and shivering in the heat of the day. She didn’t want to think or look round because she knew if she did she would panic; panic at the sheer hopelessness of the situation.

She wanted to focus on home, to try to imagine she was in her room, but however hard she tried, she couldn’t. The sounds, the smells, the feel of this foreign place she found herself in overwhelmed her senses, making it impossible for her to imagine she was anywhere other than here.

A sudden noise made Laila freeze. Her heart speeded up and her breath became short. Coming towards her through the thick beige reeds was a snake; winding its body with graceful ease towards the ballooned floating cloth of her burka.

Laila’s natural instinct was to scream out but as she continued to watch its long dark brown body with light gold sides and dorsal blotches, she was overcome with wanting it all to end. Wanting the snake with its concealed venom to poison her body; putting her out of the misery of her toxic life.

She made a purposeful sudden movement, aware of the fear it would cause the snake; hoping its instinctive reaction would make it turn and bite her. Closing her eyes, Laila waited, embracing the fact it would soon all be over.

Laila’s eyes were scrunched up so tightly they were beginning to hurt. Slowly she opened them only to see the snake weave its escape through the soaring reeds. ‘No!’ Laila shouted as the frightened snake disappeared from sight. Watching it vanish felt like the fleeting glimmer of hope had left with it too.

Not knowing what to do, she put her head in her hands and cried. Cried for herself, for Tariq, for Ray-Ray, for her father and for the life which had been snatched away from her.

She heard voices coming through the rushes.

‘Hello?’ Laila was startled by the voices. Her heart was racing faster. She couldn’t see who was there or even know how many people there were and for a second she wondered if she’d done the right thing by answering. She didn’t think it was her uncle or his friends; the tone was warm and kind.

They were speaking in Urdu and Laila thought hard, trying to understand and remember what little she knew. It was unlikely they’d be able to speak English; they were so far away from any large towns or cities.

The same question was repeated and then it came to her. They were asking if she was in trouble, telling her they couldn’t see her but wanting to know if she was all right.

‘Yes, help … I mean …’ Laila took a deep breath and then slowly and not very confidently, spoke her plea for help in Urdu.

Laila listened as she heard a different voice answer her, louder than the first but again seemingly void of hostility. The sound of something breaking made Laila turn her head. She could see the top of the reeds being pushed and moved to one side, opening up her view.

Standing just a few feet from her, waist-deep in water were two men. They stared at Laila, not unkindly, but puzzled to see her there. Their dark faces held a multitude of questions but they said nothing, only waved their hand for Laila to follow them.

It took a couple of minutes for them to reach the other side of the river and clamber up the muddy banks and immediately she felt exposed. No longer did the reeds give her sanctuary from being seen by her uncle and his friends. Laila knew she needed to move and fast.

She looked at the men who had their eyes firmly on her but talked to one another in quick quiet voices. They looked almost identical in their clothing; both wearing a thin clothed cream shalwar kameez; something her uncle always wore. The usual loose-fitting trousers and long sleeved tunics, now wet, clung to their bodies, showing off their sinewy frames.

Laila wasn’t certain what to do now. She looked both ways and the road was as long and barren as the road on the other side. She knew a woman on her own in Pakistan immediately drew attention and that was something she didn’t need to do. Clearing her throat, she spoke, more self-assuredly this time, as her Urdu began to come back to her. she asked the way to the nearest town. The men seemed to understand, though Laila could see the hesitancy in their eyes. Instantly she began to feel nervous again, turning her head to the thick reeds as if she was expecting to see her uncle appear out of them at any given moment. The younger and skinnier of the men pulled a face before gesturing and turning to walk. Taking this as a cue, Laila followed them. What other choice did she have?

Her feet were hurting. Sweat was dripping down her back, adding to the discomfort of her wet clothing. She looked at her watch which was still set at English time, causing her to catch her breath once more at the reality of her situation.

They’d been walking for fifteen minutes and with every second, Laila had to fight the fearful thoughts rushing through her mind. They could be taking her anywhere. Even back in Bradford she would never go somewhere with two men she didn’t know, yet here she was putting her trust and effectively her life in the hands of these people.

As they walked along the road, the stares from the passing strangers seemed fewer. As long as they didn’t notice she was wet, there was nothing unusual about a woman dressed in a burka following a few feet behind two men. It was the only time Laila was thankful she was wearing traditional dress. Wearing western clothes would’ve certainly brought more trouble.

They stopped and one of the men turned to Laila, pointing.

‘Here?’

The man nodded his head as they stood outside a house which was almost a replica of the one she’d been standing outside with Tariq. ‘No, I want to go to the nearest town.’

The man pointed again and said the word,
here
. Laila couldn’t understand why he was saying the word,
here.
She didn’t want to be here, she wanted to get to the nearest town. Though quite what she’d do when she got to it she hadn’t worked out.

There was no one to call. Her family, besides from her mother – who’d be too scared to help anyway – were all here in Pakistan. They’d been the ones who’d brought her. Her friends were all family friends and the ones who weren’t, for their own safety, wouldn’t dare get involved. Laila Khan was quite literally alone in the world.

The men started to walk towards one of the houses, turning back occasionally to see if Laila was going to follow her. She stood, unable to make a decision. Part of her wanted to keep on going, but going where? It could be another few hundred miles to the nearest town for all she knew. The other part of her just wanted to rest. To put her faith – which in the past week had been taken away – back into people. To trust they would be kind and help her.

A minute later she’d made her decision. Though it wasn’t her head or heart helping her to make up her mind, it’d been her bladder. She needed to go to the toilet. Taking a deep breath, Laila hurried to catch up to the men.

It wasn’t a toilet. Not the sort she was accustomed to anyway. It was a hole. A reeking, foul hole behind the house of the woman she’d been taken to. What made it worse was the old lady standing, watching her. Sensing Laila’s hesitation, the woman gestured, then contemptuously flicked her head towards the fly-filled hole.

The humiliation Laila felt as she squatted in front of the old lady brought her head down and caused the tears to return. This couldn’t be the life she was going to lead. Somehow she had to get away.

Standing up, and knowing it was pointless to even think about toilet paper, Laila walked back towards the door of the house.

The two men had gone and Laila stood in the dark room, grateful for the coolness and the escape from the relentless heat.

The old lady smiled a toothless grin as she asked Laila to sit down. Too tired to search her brain for the word in Urdu, Laila gently gave her reply in English, her large beautiful eyes lighting up with genuine gratitude as she did so. ‘Thank you.’

A bowl of rice topped with what looked like curried lentils was placed in front of her, and Laila accepted it gratefully, ignoring the stained, chipped bowl it came in. She lifted up the upper portion of her burka with her left hand so she could get to her mouth. Expertly using her fingers, she hungrily scooped up the rice.

When her uncle had moved in, he’d insisted on them putting most of the cutlery away, seeing the practice of them using knives and forks as another indication she and her family had been ruined by the western ways.

The curry hit her lips, tingling at first and then burning, her mouth almost calling out distress signals as the heat of the sauce refused to ease off. Laila glanced around, catching the eyes of the old lady, who cackled with laughter as she poured Laila a glass of milk.

The milk was like a balm, cooling down the insides of her mouth and throat. She was still hungry but didn’t dare venture to eat any more of the curry. Sighing, and with her stomach still rumbling, Laila turned to the woman. Without needing to say anything the old lady pointed at the large floor pillow in the corner.

It looked so inviting. The white cover might be off-grey and the stained sides might have turned brown, but to Laila it meant she could rest. It looked like a piece of heaven.

She was exhausted and perhaps if she had a few hours’ sleep her mind would be clearer. Not being so tired would help her decide what she was going to do next. Laila knew it wasn’t unusual for someone in Pakistan to offer hospitality like this. Her uncle had told her countless stories about the kinship and warmth of the people of Pakistan, often unfavourably comparing it to the hostility he found in England, where neighbours didn’t speak to neighbours and people walked past each other in the street as if each one were invisible.

In truth, Laila really wanted to get some more distance between herself and her uncle, especially as in a few hours it would be getting dark. But as she looked at the cushion, the heaviness of her eyes, the aching of her body, and the weariness of her feet told her she needed to sleep.