Kamila Shamsie - Kartography

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.

‘Damn wind’s too strong to get a flame going,’ he muttered, and tossed the matches back into the car.

I stepped back. ‘Zia, the car,’ I said.

He looked at the ravaged vehicle and this time he allowed stark terror to write itself across his face. I saw blood rush to his face and drain away as he slumped against the bonnet of the Mercedes. I put my hand on his shoulder, thinking that if he fell apart now he wouldn’t be able to drive us home.

‘The police. I have to go to the police,’ he said, straightening up.

‘Don’t be stupid. What can they do?’ We were both whispering.

‘Have to register a complaint. The car. It’s not my car. They never said I could…I stole the keys from my father; they gave him a spare set so he could run the engine every so often while they’re away. They never said I could. He doesn’t know. I have to be responsible. I have to be responsible. Insurance. I have to register a complaint with the police. When my cousin’s car… He had to. Insurance purposes. I have to register.’

‘Zia, I want to go home.’

He nodded. Blinked. Nodded again. ‘Police station is no place for a girl. I’ll drop you home and go. Won’t mention your name. Your parents won’t have to know.’

We drove home very slowly, stopping not just at the red lights but also at the amber ones. I can’t remember a word Zia said but he could no more stop talking than I could start. When he dropped me off I said, ‘Maybe I should come…’ and was more than relieved when he shook his head.

‘Call me when you get home. Promise, Zia.’

My first instinct when I stepped inside the house was to call my father. But there were no phones at the beach. Karim. I’d call Karim. But if it would have been hard to explain to the people at the wedding what I was doing out alone with Zia at that hour, it was somehow even more unthinkable to explain it to Karim, who would ask for no explanation, offer no comment. But my house was so silent, the gunshots still echoed so loudly in my head, and I needed to hear Karim’s voice, I needed him to laugh and make me laugh. But no, I couldn’t call Karim. I had to keep the line free in case Zia tried to call.

I sat down on the marble steps, unable to decide whether to go upstairs or down. If the gunman had aimed just a little higher, the bullet would have gone through the open window and hit me… here. I pressed a finger against the flesh halfway between elbow and shoulder. And if it had gone all the way through my arm it would have lodged itself here, between these two ribs. (The next morning I was to have two bruises exactly where I imagined the bullets would have hit. I didn’t know whether to be terrified or exhilarated by my body’s fidelity to recording the possible, and I briefly tried to imagine if I could turn into some kind of superhero if every morning my skin marked all the possible consequences of the previous night’s follies. But then I remembered my fingers digging into my flesh, reassuring myself of its wholeness.)