If Karim moved to London, would he meet Blonde Bettys?
. .
It was probably soon after that conversation in the school yard that Zia called me up, late one evening, proposing a visit to Sonia’s.
‘I can’t,’ I said, rather feebly. ‘There’s school tomorrow and it’s already after ten.’
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Your parents are at Runty and Bunty’s beach party, aren’t they? Mine are too. And, guess what, so are Sonia’s parents. Aunty Runty told Mummy this morning that Bunty had invited them; he’s such a loser, he’ll invite anyone with a bank balance that goes into seven digits. OK, eight digits maybe.’
‘I suppose I could call my parents and ask them…’
‘Raheen! There aren’t any phones at the beach. Besides, even if there were, you know your parents would say no. Come on, sneak out. Just once. I’ll have you back within an hour.’
‘Well…’
‘I’ve got my neighbours’ Merc.’
‘What do you mean you’ve got it?’
‘I have the keys. They’re out of town for the next few days.’
‘And they gave you the keys?’
‘Details, details. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Call Karim. Tell him we ’11 be at his place in thirteen minutes and tell Sonia we’ll be there in eighteen.’
I dialled Karim’s number and hung up after one ring. Then I did the same with Sonia’s number. When Zia walked into my room, twirling unfamiliar car-keys, I said, ‘Called the other two but no one answered their phones. I think Karim’s at his cousin’s place and maybe Sonia’s gone to sleep already.’
‘We’ll stop at her place to check.’
Oh, great.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘This is going to be the ride of your life.’
He really did have his neighbour’s Mercedes. It was red and it was cool. ‘Wow!’ I said out loud, forgetting that I had to be as quiet as possible so that none of the servants would know I was leaving and report me to my parents the next day.
Zia winked and flipped up the collar of his shirt. He opened the passenger side door for me and then slid across the bonnet to the driver’s side. I thought I would faint with delirium.
We took the long route to Sonia’s house via back roads, Zia gunning the engine for all it was worth. In those days that part of Defence was still comparatively uninhabited, so the back roads at night were deserted and Zia zigzagged from one side of the road to the other, weaving between street lamps, pretending to be out of control. I felt crazy enough to say or do anything, even to say, ‘How’s this for an idea, Zee? You and me. Is that an idea or is that an idea?’ and I probably would have, except that the music was blaring too loudly, Springsteen singing ‘No Surrender’ and Zia lip-synching along, banging his palm against the steering wheel. When I hear that song today I’m almost-fourteen again and back in that car and nothing in the world is impossible except a broken heart.
We drove into a pitch-dark street and I said, ‘Electricity’s gone; yes, bye-bye, bijli.’ A repair truck from the Karachi Electricity Supply Corporation rolled up and Zia said, ‘KESC to the rescue… Oh, I know which song we have to listen to.’ He rewound the tape all the way to the beginning and Status Quo’s ‘In the Army Now’ blared through the speakers. ‘Sing, girl,’ he said, and together we drowned out Rick Parfitt and Francis Rossi’s voices: ‘Bijli fails in the dead of night/Won’t help to call “I need a light”/You’re in Karachi now/Oh, oh, you’re in Karachi now.’
Volume turned up all the way, despite the fact we were now in a built-up residential neighbourhood with our windows wide open, we serenaded the streets: ‘Night is falling and you just can’t see/Is this illusion or KESC/You’re in Karachi now.’
We didn’t even hear the first shot. If Zia hadn’t turned to look at me and seen through my window the gunman run out on to the street…
But he did. He yelled, ‘Duck,’ pushed me down, my hand on the volume knob jerked in surprise, the music disappeared, the rat-tat-tat-tat against the car, Zia so low in his seat he can’t possibly see out of the windscreen, his foot on the accelerator, we fly over a speed bump, bang my head on the glove box, a thump against the front of the car, Zia mutters, ‘Cat. Has to be. Cat.’ I don’t even look to check, he’s zigzagging, taking turns so fast I swear all four wheels leave the ground. ‘He was on foot, Zia, on foot,’ I scream, but I’m still huddled, sweat all over, and finally he stops. ‘We’re OK,’ he says. ‘We’re OK.’
He stepped out of the car before I did. We were on the main road, under a street light. A house a few doors down was festooned with fairy lights; the wedding season was at its height. The gate was wide open and girls holding rose garlands stood near the entrance, waiting for the imminent arrival of the baaraat. Music spilled out over the walls. He Jamalo. If we walked into that house we’d probably recognize someone there. But how would I explain being out with Zia, alone, at this hour? I tried to open the door but it was stuck, so I rolled down the window in time to see Zia in front of the car, wiping something off the mudguard. He held up his palm, plastered with bloodied fur. ‘Cat,’ he said. ‘Told you. A silly-billy cat.’ We both started laughing. I was half-in, half-out, of the car window, and as my hysteria grew I slapped my palm against the exterior of the door and felt something sharp bite into my skin.
‘Zia, come here.’ I slid out of the window, found my legs weren’t working properly and sat down hard on the street. A wavy line of bullet holes ran all the way across the front and back door, just centimetres below the window. I bent forward at the waist and touched the tip of my finger to the jagged metal that marked a bullet’s point of entrance. Hot. I jerked my finger away. What that thing could do to flesh. How my body would convulse. Thrown forward into the windshield. No pain, just burning. Seared.
And then this sentence, in these words exactly, came to mind: they cannot protect you against this.
I turned over, on to all fours, gasping when I expected to retch. Zia had walked over to stand next to me, and I saw him move his foot away as a line of spittle fell from my mouth. I knew I would never forget that gesture. I wiped my mouth against the back of my hand, and thought of rubbing my hand against his jeans, but when I turned my head to look at him, he was staring at the bullets in a kind of wonder that made me think of religious awe. ‘It missed me,’ he said, and flexed his shoulders, savouring the easy movement of his muscles. ‘It’s so easy to miss.’ I pushed myself off the ground and stood next to him.
He switched on the torch attached to his key chain and shone it into a bullet hole. ‘I can see it lodged there.’ He leaned in through the open window. ‘Yup,’ he said.
I leaned in next to him. He was running his fingers along the protruding bumps in the car door. If the gun had been just a little more powerful, the bullets would have ripped through the door’s inner sheet of steel.
‘Man,’ Zia said. ‘They almost got you. Man. Your parents would have killed me. Karim, too. And Sonia. Man.’
I think I would have bashed his head against the car door if I hadn’t seen his fingers gripping white on to the side mirror. Is this moment an exception, I somehow found the clarity to wonder, or is his cool demeanour always a mask? As he tried to light a cigarette, I looked away so that he wouldn’t know I could see him snapping the heads off matches in his attempt to strike them against the flint.