CHAPTER 35
Kevin’s usual route back to his attic room took him past the front door of Faisal World Travel on Park Road, down the narrow weed-filled alleyway towards Gordon’s Motors, and through the old latched door on the brick wall to the rear entrance.
It was 9:00 p.m. and dark when he passed the shop front. A strip light was on in the room directly behind the shop, and Kevin could see Khan standing, talking to someone that Kevin often saw around: a short dark middle-aged Pakistani with grey hair and a matching beard who scurried everywhere, as if in a hurry. Bashir had once told him that the man was locally known as Kooky.
To see Khan talking to others in the shop was not unusual, and so Kevin took his usual route to the rear entrance and pushed the door open into the short dark passageway. On the left was Khan’s locked room. On the right was the stairs, and straight ahead was the door leading to the back of the shop. A crack of light shone through the bottom of the door.
Up the stairs, on the landing, were four other doors and the fold-down ladder that Kevin used to access his attic. One of the four doors opened into the bathroom with its stained bath, the shower attachment that mostly sprayed the floor, and a seatless toilet. The other three rooms were Khan’s so-called guest rooms. One was filled with Arabic books and brochures, an old TV, and other junk. The other two were dusty, as bare as Kevin’s attic but scattered with mattresses and prayer mats.
But from the passageway downstairs, Kevin could hear Khan’s voice, so he crept to the door and put his ear to it. They were talking mostly in Punjabi, but Kevin could often follow the gist of a conversation if it was mixed with enough English or some Arabic. Khan’s tone was strong, bordering on anger.
“That is enough,” Khan said, as if to shut the other up. “Listen to me. The boy has disappeared. He has defied all attempts to become a martyr. He was taught new skills and given privileges. He—”
There was a loud thud, as if Khan had banged a fist on the wall, but his next words were lost, as if he was walking around, thumping anything within reach. Then there were three very recognisable words, “Your Jewish friend. I don’t trust him.”
The other man, who Kevin thought was Kooky, then spoke, “He is too calaka.” Calaka, Kevin knew, meant clever.
More mumbled and indecipherable words came from Khan and followed by the other man, Kooky, in Punjabi again, “Aga . . . duraghatana.”
Kevin also knew “aga.” Bashir often said “aga” instead of cooker or stove. Aga also meant fire.
“No. He’s useful. Understand?”
Khan’s voice behind the door was far too close to Kevin’s ear for comfort. Thinking it could open at any minute, he made his escape up the stairs, up the ladder into his attic, and he turned the light off. Seconds later, he heard the front door onto Park Road open and close. Khan then came into the passageway, stopped outside his locked room, unlocked it, and went inside. Two minutes later, he came out again, double-locked it, and left through the rear entrance. It was 9:30 p.m.
Kevin phoned Bashir. “Bash, you asleep? What does duraghatana mean?”
“What?”
“Duraghatana or something like that.”
“Why?”
“I need to know, OK?”
“Where were you today?”
“Out, Bash. Jobs for Khan. Sorry. What does it mean?”
“Say it again.”
“Duraghatana.”
“An accident.”
“And aga is cooker or fire, yes?”
“Cooker is kūkara. Why?”
“But you always say aga.”
“A habit from my grandmother.”
“So aga is real flames and smoke?”
“That’s it. Why do you want to know?”
“For my Punjabi lessons, Bash. Good night.”
Kevin tried to call Roger, but there was no reply. Instead, he called Walid. “What are you doing, mate?”
“Reading a Ford Kia handbook.”
“Fancy a night out?”
“What now?”
“No time like the present.”
“Where are we going?”
“To check inside Khan’s office.”
“Cool.” Walid laughed disbelievingly. “We gonna do some arson?”
“Sneak in, sneak out. I’ll do the dirty. You keep watch. OK?”
Walid sounded doubtful. “This time of night?”
“It’s a good time. Khan’s not there.”
“That’s good to know, Kev.”
“You sound too doubtful. You starting to like Khan since yesterday? Has he apologised for nicking your passport?”
“Khan’s a sod.”
“So we’ll nick something of his. Tit for tat like.”
“It needs planning, Kev. You can’t do stuff like that without plans. How are we going to get in? Any windows?”
“One outside with bars and a blind.”
“So you can’t see in, and you can’t get in.”
“True.”
“Door?”
“Two locks.”
“And, of course, you don’t have keys.”
“True.”
“So what’s your plan, Kev?”
“I don’t know.”
“So why call me just as I was studying the wiring diagram?”
“Khan’s a sod.”
“I just told you that.”
“Yeh, well, any other ideas?”
“I’ll ask Gordon what he thinks.”
“But this is a secret operation.”
“Gordon can open doors of cars and start them without a key. He’s brilliant.”