Nick Oldham: Critical Threat

As Sabera walked along that evening she made the fatal mistake of thinking that she was a free woman.

She was on Victoria Street in Westminster with her new friend Aysha, walking away from Parliament Square, feeling more alive and exhilarated than she’d felt in the last four years. Her life had become so stultifying, as though the pillow of a lifestyle that had been imposed on her by duty and expectation was smothering her. It had been a life of restriction, small-mindedness and fear — and she had been treated like a dog. That was not what she had signed up to, not what she had been promised; an existence of subservience instead of equality and of deep fear and loathing for a man who saw himself, and all other men, as masters. He thought nothing of maltreating her and assaulting her and believed it his right to rape her. Which he had done. Twice.

In the end she had broken out of the shackles.

It had taken extreme courage and careful planning on her part to make that break — in the aftermath of the second rape — knowing that once she walked through the door there could never, ever be any hope of a pleasant return.

For weeks following her departure, she had lived in constant, gut-wrenching terror, causing her to lose most of her hair and more than two stones in weight, to become a bag of bones. She hardly dared to venture out, and then only briefly with trusted friends and always watching, expecting the worst, her heart missing a beat at every unexplained shadow or knock at the door. This, despite having run 250 miles from her hometown to one of the biggest cities in the world where, it was claimed, a person could lose themselves for ever.

Paradoxically, the urge to return and face the consequences had been quite strong in her in those first few weeks of high tension. But she fought it, as she knew she must. That would have been what everybody would have expected — her to come snivelling home, throwing herself on her husband’s mercy, but Sabera knew he was a man without such a trait. Her life would not have been worth living and the abuse she would have suffered would have been ten times worse … add to that the shame the rest of her family and community would have heaped on her … she could not have survived such a move.

So she held out, knowing it was the right thing to do. The worst of it was not being able to see her immediate family, mother, father, sister, grandfather, but she did contact them by phone occasionally, ensuring the number she called from was disguised and never telling them where she was. She knew her husband would intimidate and threaten them and they would easily cave in and spill all they knew. If they knew nothing, they could say nothing.

Now it was six months down the line.

There had been one close shave, never to be repeated, an incident that was a steep learning curve but which she had survived intact. But even that unpleasant experience was far from her mind whilst strolling in the pleasant evening sunshine past the rear of New Scotland Yard, swinging her handbag as though she didn’t have a care in the world.

The weight she had lost had now returned, and been redistributed in all the right places. She was dressed in a tight, thigh-hugging knee-length skirt — which did retain some of her in-bred and conditioned modesty, and a lovely cream and gold silk blouse which, whilst it did not accentuate her generous bosom, did not hide it either; four-inch heels on smart black suede ankle boots and meticulously applied make-up completed her stunning appearance.

Sabera knew she was strikingly beautiful and was now not afraid to show it to the world, to allow others to look at and admire her without her feeling ashamed or as if she was doing something wrong.

It was as if the world she’d once inhabited was nothing more than a bad, if recurring, nightmare, a world of subservience and near slavery.

No more.

She hadn’t gone to university and medical school for all those years to train as a GP suddenly to be informed by her domineering, violent husband that she could no longer practise medicine simply because he said so. It displeased him. Her place was behind a veil in the home, caring for him and their children-to-be. Fortunately she hadn’t managed to conceive; a relief to her, a source of anger for him.

Now, with the help of friends she had made at university who had also become doctors, she had established herself as a locum for several health centres in the Earl’s Court area of London. She also ran a weekly support group for abused Asian women. She was happy to be earning good money, doing something worthwhile, and feeling truly alive for the first time in years.

She also had a boyfriend who she was on her way to meet, along with other friends, at a smart Spanish restaurant on the ground floor of a shopping mall opposite Westminster Cathedral.

They hadn’t made love yet, despite his urges to do so and her own feelings deep inside. It was still something she was wrestling with — being a Muslim, still being married and all the ramifications that came with adultery. However, she knew that giving herself completely to this gentle man was something that would happen. They had kissed and lightly caressed and her whole being had been set on fire by his touch. She knew that the step over the edge into the abyss of total intimacy would be taken soon. Maybe tonight.

She shivered excitedly at the prospect of him on top of her — or, heavens above, her on top of him. A smile, broad and mischievous, broke across her face, her thoughts causing her to miss the last few words her friend had said to her.

‘What? Sorry … my mind drifted,’ she said, giggling.

‘I said, there they are.’ Aysha pointed to a group of people seated at the tables on the fenced-off concourse outside the restaurant. Aysha stopped and gripped Sabera’s arm, halting her. She smiled conspiratorially. ‘I think I know where your mind went,’ she said knowingly. The two women looked into each other’s eyes. ‘I know you have your doubts, so make sure this is what you want,’ Aysha cautioned, aware of everything Sabera had gone through to reach this point in her life.

‘Thanks — I will.’ They hugged quickly and carried on walking into the mall.

‘He is a bit of a dish, though,’ Aysha whispered naughtily out of the corner of her mouth.

‘Hands off, he’s mine,’ Sabera hissed.

They reached the restaurant to the warm greetings of their friends.

Sabera’s eyes — deep brown, long-lashed — were only for the handsome, dark-skinned man by the name of Sanjay Khan, a GP at one of the health centres where Sabera was locum. They had known each other since medical school. Sabera’s body went limp as Sanjay guided her to the vacant chair he’d saved beside him and whispered words into her ear which made her gasp; simple words no man had ever said to her before: ‘You are beautiful.’

Eddie Daley could hardly have been said to be a great, or even adequate, private investigator. His self-produced business card, made at a machine in a motorway service area, advertised him as a retired Lancashire Constabulary detective, which was true, but the other words thereon which insinuated he was honest, loyal and had integrity, were certainly not.

He’d been a sleazy cop, always on the tightrope, before being hounded out of the force following the collapse of a Crown Court trial during which his corruption had been exposed. He had been lucky to keep his pension intact and frozen after twenty-five years of less than honourable service.

Now, at the age of fifty-three, waiting for his pension which he couldn’t get his hands on until he was fifty-five, he scraped a living as a sleazy PI, specializing in divorce and surveillance. He got his kicks following people round and then screwing up their lives; or, as he termed it, ‘Getting them what they effin’-well deserve.’