Stella Rimington: Rip Tide

She’d asked her cousin Chunna to stand in for her today, though she hadn’t told her father that. Chunna would keep an eye on Nazir and was glad of the work – it would give her a bit of pin money to spend on herself. Her husband was a bully and mean with it; he only gave her the barest housekeeping. But he’d gone on a trip to Pakistan, so Chunna was off the hook for a few weeks, though her mother-in-law was a mean old cow too and kept a very close eye on her. Tahira had sworn Chunna to secrecy. If her father ever found out she’d gone to a pop concert, let alone taken a day off work at the shop for it, he’d be furious.

Tahira was nobody’s fool, but she’d trusted the MI5 woman from London as soon as she’d met her. Not that she believed she was called Jane Forrester, but that didn’t matter – Tahira wasn’t surprised that she didn’t use her real name in her line of work. But she’d seemed very straight and she’d spoken kindly about Amir, not blaming him as though he was some kind of criminal – though it did seem from what she’d said that he had got himself into something dreadful. Jane had seemed anxious about Tahira too, particularly when she’d told her she was meeting Malik again this morning. Jane had made her promise to ring as soon as he’d gone, and tell her what had happened.

Tahira didn’t know Malik very well, but it was hard to believe that someone like him, who’d lived all his life just a few streets away and who’d been to the same school as her, would want to kill people, though Jane had said he did. In his way he was quite attractive, and when you talked to him he could be interesting and even funny sometimes – in a different world they might have had a real friendship. But he had shown another side too, when he’d started lecturing her about the Islamic duty to fight the West and defend Islam. Why should defending Islam mean hurting people? She didn’t get it. It was men like Malik who’d led her brother astray. She was sure it was him and the others at the New Springfield Mosque who’d arranged Amir’s trip to Pakistan and put him in the hands of other extremists, so that he’d ended up in prison in Paris. She’d never forgive Malik for that, and that was why she’d agreed to tell the MI5 woman everything that he said.

Tahira was hurrying now; she didn’t want to be late at the café and start the conversation on the wrong foot. There was something rigid about Malik that made her sure he’d be angry if she wasn’t on time. In that way he reminded her of her father. Were all Pakistani men tyrants? She sometimes wondered. Englishmen seemed more relaxed, not that she could speak from personal experience – she’d never got to know any. Her father, her mother, and the whole culture she had grown up in had made sure of that. So far she had managed to avoid the arranged marriage her parents wanted for her. Her father had been prepared to wait, but only because she was useful to him, being so good at running the shop. But he wouldn’t wait for ever, and it was certain that if she showed any interest in an Englishman she’d end up married to some dire cousin from Sadiquabad. Then she’d be like Chunna: bullied and tied to the house.

She crossed over the side street, noticing a couple of builders sitting eating sandwiches in a van. She wondered why anyone would work on a Saturday if they didn’t have to. Maybe they worked at something else during the week. Not that they were working now, just sitting eating and reading the paper.

‘You’re looking very lovely today, Tahira.’ The voice came from behind her; she was still a hundred yards away from the café. Tahira was used to casual comments on the street – wolf whistles from men on building sites, muttered compliments from shy teenage boys when she passed them – but this sounded different. He knew her name.

She turned around and saw a short man who looked familiar, beaming at her. She looked more closely.

‘Malik?’ she asked cautiously.

‘Don’t say you’ve forgotten me already,’ said the man with a laugh. It was Malik, she saw now, but he had shaved off his beard and he was wearing trousers and a jacket. He even had a pullover on. He’s going to be hot, thought Tahira; the forecast was for a day of sunshine and it was already warming up.

Malik came closer and shook her hand, holding it for a moment. He seemed less formal than usual, much friendlier. ‘Let’s have some tea,’ he said, taking her arm and leading her towards the café.

It was crowded with Muslim men in white shirts and skullcaps. Tahira was one of the few women there. Two men at a corner table got up to leave as they came in, so Malik and Tahira sat down there, Malik facing the door. He poured out the mint tea they had ordered, talking all the time – asking Tahira about her job in her father’s shop, telling her about his little nephew’s football team and his brother’s hopeless efforts to set up a kebab stall. He was doing his best to be charming; she might have warmed to him if she hadn’t kept in the forefront of her mind everything else she knew about him.

He stopped talking just long enough to drink his tea, then asked, ‘Are you still going to the concert?’

‘Of course. Though my cousin’s cancelled on me.’ She looked down at her watch. ‘I’ll have to go soon if I’m going to get a good place.’

She was finishing her tea when Malik said, ‘You know, I have been thinking about this group you like. Perhaps I was a bit too down on them. After all, if we live here in the West, then we have to live with the West. There is no point pretending we are in Pakistan, is there?’

Tahira nodded, but she was puzzled. Why was Malik sounding so reasonable? Where was the firebrand of their last meeting? He went on, ‘I can’t say these Chick Peas are much to my taste – bit of a girls’ band with all their fancy clothes and hair-dos and stuff. And they’re Indian as well. But I have to admit,’ and he gave a sheepish smile, ‘that their songs are quite catchy. I heard one on the radio this morning and I’ve been humming it ever since. What’s it called?’

‘“Biryani for Two”,’ said Tahira. ‘But you ought to get their CD. Some of their other songs are better.’

‘Really? Well, perhaps I should hear them live. I’m not doing anything special today – I could come with you to the concert, especially since your cousin’s let you down. If you don’t mind, that is?’

‘Of course not,’ said Tahira, but her mind was racing. It didn’t make sense – Malik had been completely contemptuous last time, when she’d said she was going to hear the all-girl band. Why had he changed now? And why had he shaved off his beard? She didn’t like to ask him, but it was a very odd thing to do for someone as religious as he professed to be. She didn’t trust this new Malik – something was going on. She needed to tell Jane right away.

‘Excuse me a minute,’ she said, getting up to go to the lavatory.

Malik stood up too. ‘I’ll pay the bill,’ he said, ‘then we can walk to the park together.’

Tahira found the women’s room at the back of the café, and locked the door firmly behind her. She turned on the tap in the washbasin to cover the sound of her voice, in case anyone was listening outside, then she hit the predial number for Jane.

There was no signal.

She went out to find Malik waiting for her by the door. ‘Ready?’ he said with a smile.

‘You go on. I just need to phone my father. I’ll catch you up,’ she said, reaching into her bag for her phone.

‘Your father’s a bit of a tyrant, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ said Malik. He was holding her elbow now. ‘Ring him later?’

‘But I promised-’ she said, and felt his fingers tighten their grip on her arm.