More Than You Can Say (7 page)

Before I met the girl I had assumed this was simply a rather elaborate way of obtaining a UK residency permit for another illegal immigrant: perhaps a cousin of Mr Khan’s from Lahore or Peshawar, or a girl to whose family he owed a favour. But the more I thought about him, the more Mr Khan reminded me of other people I had met in the past: people whose moral values and objectives were very different from the rest of the world’s. The truth was, there was no knowing what Mr Khan would do once I had completed my part of the deal. Maybe the plan they had made for me did not include a happy ending, after all.

There was a knock at the door, and I heard the key turn. David came into the room.

‘It is time, Mr Gaunt,’ he told me.

*

The wedding party was conveyed to the register office in two black Range Rovers. I saw the girl for the briefest moment, being shepherded by David, who had swapped his role as assistant for that of chauffeur, and the man who had kidnapped me with Kevin. His name was Amir, and he was not in the same class as Kevin. He looked much more formidable. The girl was wearing a beautifully cut dark blue jacket over a skirt of the same material. She was dressed as if for a smart day’s shopping in Bond Street – unless you looked at her face, that is. Then you wondered whether she wasn’t on her way to a funeral.

I travelled in the second vehicle, in the rear, while Mr Khan sat in the front and Kevin drove. Mr Khan was wearing a morning coat in the same charcoal material as my own, and there was a white rose in his lapel. He handed another rose to me and ordered, ‘Put this in your buttonhole.’

We proceeded at a stately pace down a long drive with sweeping lawns and banks of rhododendrons on either side, until we came to the entrance, two stone pillars with electronically operated gates that opened slowly as we approached. We turned into a small lane and drove through pleasant rural countryside, by fields of stubble and innumerable small woods and thickets. Here and there were road signs of which I caught only the briefest glimpse. At first the names meant nothing to me, but there was something familiar about the landscape. I felt I knew it, had seen it before, perhaps from a different perspective.

The feeling passed as we turned on to wider and busier roads. I started seeing names I recognised: ‘Witney’ and ‘Oxford’. Before long we were approaching the outskirts of
Oxford. Mr Khan turned to me as we drove towards the town centre.

‘Of course, you will play your part as promised, Mr Gaunt. No wrong words to the registrar, no attempts to dash off into the crowd. Any such behaviour would be bad for you. You will not get your money. And it will be much worse for the girl, I assure you.’

‘Relax, Mr Khan,’ I said. ‘I’m here for the money. I won’t spoil the party. You’d better make sure she doesn’t do something unexpected again.’

Mr Khan smiled at me. ‘We have already made sure of that.’

He turned back to face the front again. I tapped him on the shoulder.

‘How will you pay me? Ten thousand is quite a lot of cash to carry around.’

Mr Khan did not move his head.

‘We obtained your bank account details when we visited your flat. The money will be deposited in your account twenty-four hours after the ceremony is concluded.’

I made a mental note to change my bank account as soon as possible. I wondered why I had ever believed Mr Khan would actually pay me. There was nothing I could do about it now, in any case. The feelings of doubt I had experienced earlier returned in greater strength. How on earth was I going to get out of this?

We arrived at the register office in Tidmarsh Lane. It was situated in a grey office block: rather unromantic, I thought. David and Kevin dropped us off then drove the cars away to park them, while Mr Khan, the girl, Amir and I went to sit in the waiting room until it was our turn. When Kevin and David arrived a minute or two later, Kevin was whistling
‘Here Comes the Bride’. He was silenced by a look from Mr Khan. I stared at the ceiling and tried not to think too much about what I was doing. The girl from Afghanistan sat very upright, eyes downcast. She did not move or speak. Then the registrar put her head around the door.

‘If Mr Richard Gaunt and Miss Adeena Haq would come through now, please, and the witnesses as well.’

Adeena stood up and said something, in Arabic, not Pashtun, as I would have expected. When I was in Iraq we were taught a few words of Arabic, so that we could hold basic conversations with locals when necessary. I had forgotten most of what little I had learned, but I was still able to understand what Adeena said.

‘
Aseeb, I will not do this
.’

Aseeb? She had addressed herself to Mr Khan. Was that his name? I stood up and smiled politely at everybody. Amir stepped very close to Adeena and whispered something in her ear. She was already pale but now she flinched as if a wasp was buzzing at her head. I added Amir to the list of people I had developed a strong dislike for and mentally put him in my queue for retribution just behind Kevin. Amir took Adeena’s arm and almost frogmarched her through the door into the next room. I followed, shepherded by Kevin and Mr Khan – or Aseeb, if that was what he was called. It was a Pashtun name.

The ceremony was very brief. Adeena and I stood side by side in front of the desk and listened to the registrar deliver a small speech. I did not take in a word: I was feeling more wound up by the minute. I remember Mr Khan handing me a ring to put on Adeena’s finger, and Amir put a ring on my finger. Adeena wouldn’t, or couldn’t, bring herself to do it. Then Kevin and David signed as witnesses, and it was all
over. Five minutes later we were herded back towards the Range Rovers. Soon we were driving out of Oxford.

Now that the ceremony was over, Mr Khan was in a more genial mood.

‘I congratulate you, Mr Gaunt,’ he said, turning in his seat to look at me, ‘you have married a very beautiful girl.’

‘What happens now?’

‘Ah, we shall see, we shall see. All has gone well. You have done as we asked. We will fulfil our side of the bargain, you must not be in any doubt.’

But I did not see. As the minutes ticked by, and we drove farther away from Oxford, I knew I had made a serious error, once again; my life had been one long string of bad decisions over the last three years. What had started out yesterday as an amusing joke with a large cash reward now felt very different. My heart was racing. Why hadn’t I run for it while we were in Oxford? What could they have done if I’d walked off? And what had prevented me from doing so? Was it the money?

As we turned off the main road and drove back along the country lanes, I wondered about Mr Khan’s immediate plans for me. This was more than just a dodgy marriage ceremony to get someone an immigration visa. And whatever was going on, I was a witness to it. Would they pay a witness to their schemes, whatever they were, and then let him go with a pat on the back and a wave of the hand? I wasn’t at all sure that that was Mr Khan’s style. I wondered whether I would ever leave the house if I didn’t wake up and do something.

As the Range Rover’s wheels scrunched on the gravel and drew to a halt, I was as ready as I would ever be. Kevin got out and went around the front to open the passenger door for Mr Khan. I got out too, smiled at Mr Khan, nodded in a
friendly way at Kevin and then kicked him as hard as I could just below the kneecap. As he shouted out in pain, and reached down to clutch his damaged leg, I punched him in the stomach and then drove my elbow into the bridge of his nose. He fell over, one hand clutching his shin and the other feeling for his nose, which was beginning to spout blood. The whole process gave me a moment’s satisfaction; then I reflected that it had come at a price, probably around ten thousand pounds. As Kevin kneeled on the gravel I reached inside his jacket, found the gun I had noticed earlier and took it out.

‘That’s us settled up for the moment, Kevin,’ I told him. Amir jumped out of the other Range Rover and came running towards us, while Mr Khan struggled out of the car. I could see David was holding on to Adeena’s arm. She was staring at me in astonishment.

‘Don’t try anything,’ I warned Mr Khan and Amir. I held up one hand, palm outwards. The other now held Kevin’s gun.

I hurt like hell after the unaccustomed exertion and my ribs were on fire. I backed away, and Mr Khan and Amir stopped, hesitating. The electronic gates were slowly closing so I pelted down the drive and managed to slip between them before they shut. When I glanced over my shoulder as I turned into the main road, I saw that Kevin had been propped up against one of the Range Rovers, a handkerchief to his nose. I didn’t think I had long.

As soon as I was out of sight I took the first footpath that led away from the main road, and within a couple of minutes was approaching the edge of a small wood. They were certain
to be after me in a few moments. I had only just entered the wood when I heard a car roaring past along the road.

I did not slacken my pace but jogged as quickly as possible along the rough and muddy path that led through the narrow belt of trees. I came to a crossroads where another footpath intersected the first, and on instinct turned left and downhill, because that was where there was the most cover. Soon I found myself walking along a green and brown tunnel formed by overhanging branches. There was a constant flutter of leaves, drifting to the ground in the mild breeze. The sun had come out and its light played on me through the branches. I heard birdsong, and once or twice saw the white scut of a rabbit bounding out of my way.

After ten minutes or so I emerged from the woodland. I stopped for a moment at the edge of the trees, realising that I was still holding the gun in one hand. I was not your typical rambler out for a walk: wearing morning dress and holding an automatic pistol. I looked at the gun. It was a Sig Sauer P220, the weapon of choice for gun club target practice and professional assassins. I stuck it in the waistband of my trousers.

The path now led along the side of a stubble field, and then over a stile in a long hedgerow of blackthorn. I thought I had probably lost my pursuers, and with a lightening heart climbed over the stile. I would make my way along this network of footpaths until I came to a village, and then get a taxi, or catch a bus, to the nearest town and from there back to London. I was keen not to meet up with Mr Khan and his employees again.

As I stepped into the next stubble field I became conscious I was not alone. I found I was at one end of a long line of men, all dressed in army surplus camouflage or jeans and wax
jackets. Some of them were carrying flags, others had sticks in their hands, and there were a number of dogs running about: spaniels, mostly. The man nearest me saw me and hissed, ‘Bloody walkers.’ Then, louder, ‘Would you please stop where you are for a minute, sir – we’re in the middle of a partridge drive.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m not an anti. I won’t spoil anything. I’ll just walk down the hill in line with you until you get to the end of the drive.’

I knew I would be safer walking with all these beaters than I would be on my own if anyone was following me. The beater nearest me gave me a venomous look, but at that moment the man in the middle of the line raised a red flag, the signal that the line could start moving off downhill. I supposed he was the keeper. I walked slowly with them, keeping in line. Then I picked up a fallen branch and used it to tap on the sides of the hedgerow as we went. I thought I was doing rather a good job as a beater, in the circumstances.

As we advanced down the long slope, partridge started to emerge in front of us: singles, then twos and threes or even larger groups, rising out of the stubble or from the hedgerows, where they had been invisible a moment before, flying away from us and gaining height and speed as they did so. At the bottom of the field, still a couple of hundred yards away, was another hedgerow running at right angles to the one I was walking along. From behind this now came the noise of shots being fired, and I realised we were approaching the line of guns. More and more partridge swarmed out of the stubble and bushes in front of us, and I saw several fall.

The keeper raised the red flag again and we all stopped, while the dogs flushed out the last few birds in front of us. The shooting from the other side of the hedge did not seem
particularly accurate. Then a horn sounded, and the shooting stopped also. Now was the time to leave. I made my way through a gap in the hedgerow in front of me, scrambled across a ditch on the other side, and came face to face with Freddy Meadowes. He had a shotgun under his arm, his big moon face was beaming all over, and he was bending down to retrieve a red-legged partridge from the mouth of a liver-coloured springer spaniel.

‘There, Mildred. It’s dead!’ He managed to take the bird from the dog’s mouth, although it seemed inclined to engage in a tug of war. ‘Thank you, old girl, that will do.’ He straightened up with the partridge in his hand and saw me. For a moment his features expressed extreme surprise, then his beaming smile returned.

‘My God,’ he said. ‘It’s the Leader of the Pack! What the hell are you doing in my beating line? And why on earth are you dressed like that? Are you getting married, or something?’

I said the first thing that came into my head.

‘It’s a bet, Freddy. I’m doing it for a bet.’

Freddy roared with laughter. That was his answer whenever he was confronted with any situation that was less than straightforward. The appearance of someone in a tailcoat in the middle of a partridge drive definitely fell into that category.

‘Leader, I never know what you’re going to get up to next! We’ve finished shooting for the morning, so you’d better come back to the house with us and have a drink and a spot of lunch. Unless, of course, you are keeping your bride waiting at the church?’

‘No, no one’s waiting for me, Freddy, and I’d love a drink if there’s one going. I don’t want to crash your party, though.’

‘Not a bit, not a bit,’ said Freddy. ‘You’ll know everyone, I expect. Eck Chetwode Talbot will be there. You must know him, he was in the army like you.’

Freddy turned about and I walked along beside him. I could see other guns converging on a row of Range Rovers and Land Cruisers parked by the side of a lane a few hundred yards away.