Rough Cut: Rosie Gilmour 6 (13 page)

‘Thanks, Sister. I won’t stay too long . . . I understand.’

Christ! It was Paul. What the hell did he want? Nikki opened her eyes to see him coming in the door, a sheepish look on his face and a bunch of petrol station flowers in his hand. With her good arm, she shifted in the bed and pulled herself up a little on the pillow.

‘Let me get that for you, Nikki.’ Paul took a step towards the bed and puffed up the pillow behind her, so that she was more upright. ‘There. That okay, darlin’?’

He smiled, and Nikki met his bloodshot eyes and caught a whiff of fags on his breath.

‘Don’t call me darlin’,’ Nikki snapped, her stomach tensing up. ‘I’m not your darlin’. What are you doing here, Paul?’

Paul’s face fell. He glanced away from her, then back, and his gaze fell on the bandaged stump. His lip trembled.

‘I’m your husband, Nikki. I want to help you . . . Look after you.’

‘Piss off, Paul,’ Nikki snarled. ‘Seriously? My husband? You should have thought about that when you blew our life savings at the bookies. You ruined everything . . . Everything.’ She turned away.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Paul’s lip twitched. ‘I . . . just want to look after you.’

For a few seconds Nikki was so choked she couldn’t speak. She’d heard all this before, the contrite weeping and promises he would change. No more, she told herself. She pulled her stump away as he reached out.

‘Don’t, Paul. I . . . I can’t do this right now. Can’t you see the state I’m in? . . . I’ve lost my bloody arm. My life will never be the same again.’

Paul placed the flowers on the bed, and she felt his hand brush across her foot and rest on her ankle. She wished he would just go, but the touch of him, the sheer feel of human contact was a comfort, even though everything in her body told her it was wrong. She had to find the strength. She jerked her feet away.

‘Don’t. It’s no good.’

They stayed silent, and Nikki turned her face away, but could see Paul wiping his tears from the corner of her eye.

‘Did you speak to the cops? What are they saying? Have they got the bastard for this yet?’ he muttered.

Nikki shook her head but kept her face turned away.

‘No. Probably never will.’

‘It’s been in the papers.’

Nikki nodded, staring out of the window at the afternoon sky turning dark.

‘They hinted that you were a prostitute. And that this was some kind of punishment. That you might have robbed a punter.’

Nikki said nothing, but kept gazing out of the window.

‘Is it true?’

Nikki pushed out a breath.

‘How the fuck do I know what they’re saying? Listen. I don’t want to talk, can you not understand?’

Silence. Paul walked around to the other side of the bed and wiped away the condensation on the window with his jacket sleeve.

‘There’s a lot of talk in the street as well. Something about a Pakistani guy – some guy who was found dead in the Albany Hotel. They’re saying he was a gangster . . . that somebody stole his money.’

Nikki ignored his unspoken question and reached across to the cabinet to the glass of lukewarm water. She sipped from it and placed it back down.

‘I don’t know anything, Paul. Okay? I . . . I’m shattered. All I know is that my life is in a mess. I’ve lost part of my arm, and I don’t know what’s going to happen to me next . . .’ She looked up at Paul, who was crying again.

‘I never wanted this to happen,’ he whimpered.

For a second, Nikki wasn’t sure what he meant. Paranoia kicked in. Was he a part of this? Had he handed her over to
them, helped set her up in some way? Knowing him, he’d do anything for money. Maybe that’s why the bastard was in here now . . . on a fishing expedition. But he just stood there, face in his hands, snivelling. Could he really do that? He looked so upset.

‘I’m so sorry . . . I just want you back.’

Nikki had heard enough.

‘I want you to go, Paul. I’m tired. I need to rest.’

‘What about Julie? Have you seen her?’

That was it. The bastard
was
fishing, she thought.

‘What do you care about Julie? You can’t bloody stand her.’

‘I . . . I only want to know that you’ll have someone to look after you when you get out . . . if you don’t want me. Listen. I’ll do anything for you. Anything at all. I’ve stopped gambling.’

‘Aye. Sure you have.’

‘Well . . . I’m going to. I can get a job, make a new life for us.’

She turned to face him.

‘Paul. I need to rest. I’m not well.’

‘Okay, I’ll go. But think about it. When are you getting out?’

‘Christ! Why all the questions? I don’t even know myself. A few days, they said, if they get everything stabilised. But my life is different now. It’s over between us. Please go.’

Nikki turned her head away, easing herself down on the
bed, turning her body to face the window. She was barely breathing, and she could feel the warmth of his fingers, and the gentleness of his touch on the top of her arm where the bandage stopped.

‘Okay, Nikki. I’m going. I’m sorry. So . . . so sorry.’

She didn’t turn around, but heard his footsteps as he left.

It was baking hot. In the back of the taxi, Rosie squinted through the clouds of dust at the mayhem that was downtown Peshawar, Pakistan. The culture shock of suddenly being thrust into the midst of this nearly took the feet from her. The stench wafting in from an open sewer at side of the road turned her stomach. She closed the window and wiped sweat from her brow. The streets were teeming with people. There seemed to be no traffic laws – cars and trucks barging their way through the gaps between rickety carts pulled by hulking oxen. Tiny rickshaws buzzed like wasps alongside the cars, all honking horns continuously and fighting for space among the potholes.

‘Christ!’ Rosie fanned herself with her notebook. ‘Why is everyone rushing all over the place?’ She tapped Omar on the shoulder. ‘They’re driving like maniacs. What’s with the mad rush? Is there something I should know?’

‘It’s always like this.’ Omar half turned, flashing a smile.
‘At this time of day, everyone’s hungry, and they’re all frantically dashing home for the evening meal. It’s pretty mental. People get all aggressive when they’re hungry.’

‘I know the feeling,’ Rosie sank back. ‘I’m starving. Are we nearly at the hotel?’

‘A few more minutes.’

She took in the scene across the busy road, where people swarmed around the throng of market stalls, selling everything from pots and pans to rusty car wheels and tyres, alongside mountains of fruit and vegetables. Nearby, children poked around a rubbish dump, collecting plastic bottles and tin cans and shoving them into sacks. Two men argued and pushed each other over a market stall, then fell into a fight, sending everything flying as they grappled on the ground. She closed her eyes and rested her head back. She’d be glad to get to the hotel. Minutes later, the car braked suddenly and screeched on a roundabout, knocking over a cyclist with a wooden cage full of live chickens perched on his handlebars. The taxi drove on, and Rosie caught a glimpse of the teenager on the ground, the bike on top of him and the chickens fluttering furiously, two of them escaping through some broken spars in the cage.

‘We just hit that guy! Shouldn’t we stop?’ Rosie asked.

The driver sped up and cursed, turning to Omar and shaking his head. They spoke in Urdu, chuckling.

‘He’ll be fine, Rosie. It happens all the time.’

Matt turned to look out of the rear window.

‘A couple of happy chickens just made it off death row.’

‘They’ll not get very far.’ Omar rolled down his window and stuck his head out for a look. ‘So, guys, what do you think of Peshawar?’

Rosie puffed. She’d only seen the north-west frontier city that bordered Afghanistan on television and in newspaper coverage of the Afghan war with the Russians back in the eighties, while she was cutting her teeth as a reporter. She hadn’t been there, but the chaos on the streets reminded her of places in war-torn Africa where she’d later reported from, all of them lawless and edgy. As always, the nervous churning in her stomach when she knew she was in a foreign land and things were out of her control had started. Anything could happen in a place like this. She should feel safe with Omar, she reminded herself. He was more or less a local, he’d told her before they left Glasgow.

*

Once McGuire had agreed to the trip, demanding to be phoned from Pakistan several times a day, Rosie and Matt had spent most of the afternoon and evening with Omar before they left, discussing plans. In theory it sounded plausible, and so far, so good. They’d made it to Peshawar, and were on their way to a hotel. How hard can it be? Matt had said, nudging her as they’d gone through customs and immigration without a hitch. Their cover story was that they were here to report on Afghan refugees, who were
stranded in camps in the Pakistan border because their country was still too unstable to go home. Omar knew the ground well, and he’d described to them how he had relatives in Peshawar and all along the border. Most of them weren’t blood relatives, but they were all brothers.

‘I’m not going to lie to you,’ Omar had spoken frankly, ‘There’s an element of danger. Inside Peshawar itself, but especially outside. Some of these Afghan border towns are bandit country, so it’s not always safe. But I think we’ll be fine.’

Rosie hadn’t relayed the ‘I think we’ll be fine’ part to McGuire. She’d been so surprised and pleased that he had decided to give the mission the green light that, as usual, she hadn’t given too much consideration to safety. She could only think of the plan. If all went well, they’d be in and out in a few days, hopefully with Laila and a couple of front-page splashes and spreads. She hadn’t heard from Sabiha – apart from the panicked phone call a couple of days ago – and she didn’t want to risk going anywhere near the house. Probably best that Sabiha didn’t know she was out here anyway. The less anyone knew, the better.

*

The taxi pulled off the main road and into the sweeping driveway of the Pearl Continental Hotel, a lavish white four-storey building, like an oasis in the midst of the swirling, dusty desert. A doorman kitted out like an extra from a film about the old Raj stood like a sentry, complete with
crimson tunic coat, shiny buttons, fez headgear and a waxed moustache. When the car stopped he approached, bowing and scraping as he opened the door.

‘Welcome, Mem Sahib.’

Rosie managed to keep her face straight, not quite knowing how to reply, then turned to Matt.

‘Just bear that in mind, pet. Refer to me as Mem Sahib from now on.’

‘Aye, right.’ Matt went to the boot as it clunked open and unloaded his gear, slinging his camera bag over his shoulder, and his laptop bag on the other.

‘This is rather plush,’ Rosie said.

‘Believe me,’ Omar said. ‘You don’t want to go downmarket in Peshawar. Some of the budget hotels . . . well, you don’t know what you’re going to wake up beside.’

Rosie made a mental note to bring Marion back a present for pushing the budget to the limit. She felt edgy enough in the streets, so the safety of a big international hotel was like a comfort blanket. But she knew it wouldn’t stay like that. In the next couple of hours they would meet Omar’s cousin, a Pakistani Glaswegian doctor who had married over here. Hopefully, he would give them the lowdown on Laila. Then it would be up to them how they played it. Rosie was impressed by how much Omar had gleaned of the area where Laila was apparently staying and what the set-up was. The Pakistani community was so tight-knit. In Glasgow, Pakistani people would more often than not
know what was going on in their old homeland village, whether it was illegal or not, but they would never discuss it. That was the problem police always said they had with them – everyone who wasn’t Pakistani was an outsider. It was rare when a journalist like her could strike up a friendship with a character like Omar, and it was always the only chance anyone had of getting a glimpse behind the veil drawn over life in Pakistan.

*

‘So, we have a fair idea of where Laila is. Nothing concrete yet, but I have eyes and ears who are keeping me informed.’

Ismal spoke with an educated Glasgow accent – the product, Omar had told Rosie, of the city’s best private school, where wealthy Asians sent their sons to be turned into accountants, lawyers, surgeons – fulfilling the aspirations they had had for themselves, but could never have achieved as penniless immigrants a generation ago. Omar’s parents had never made enough money to send him to private school, but he always joked that he made more cash living on his wits than most professionals. Knowing Omar, he probably did. But if Omar was the market trader who could convince you to buy something you absolutely didn’t need, Ismal was the studious pragmatist, who exuded an air of calm and maturity beyond his thirty years. Over dinner in the hotel’s swish restaurant, Rosie had allowed the two cousins to run the show, content to listen to their stories of growing up in Glasgow, of the racism and the
camaraderie among the group of Muslim mates who all stuck together. In his Western clothes and with a trendy haircut, Ismal looked too young to be a doctor and to be working in the kind of difficult environment he had described, in the Afghan refugee camp deep in Pakistan’s famous Swat Valley. As Rosie watched the two of them in discussion, she also didn’t object to the fact that they would slip into their own language when they were talking about something they did not want her to hear. It rankled a little, but now was not the time to deal with it. She’d come all the way over here to get Laila, and she needed them, Ismal especially, onside. Finally, over coffee, the conversation was turning to the business in hand.

‘So, how much do you know about where Laila is?’ Rosie looked inquiringly at Ismal. ‘Is she here in Peshawar?’

Ismal put down his cup and clasped his hands in front of him on the table, in the kind of pose he probably used for doctor–patient chats. He nodded slowly.

‘Here’s the situation.’ He glanced at Omar. ‘I’ve already told Omar what I know, but we should go over it together now, so that we can make a plan.’