9
L eila
Two years later…
“Miss Mansour, if we could trouble you for your attention? Just briefly?”
The sarcastic tone of Professor Evans cuts into my daydream. Or should that be my waking nightmare? The intricacies of biochemistry are challenging enough without distractions, and yesterday’s startling discovery in my email inbox is most definitely a distraction.
I thought it was an advert at first. We see you , the title line announced. I almost sent it straight to my junk folder. I wish now I had.
“Miss Mansour?” Professor Evans continues. “Perhaps you could remind the group of the structure and principal functions of proteins and the likely outcomes of protein misfolding?”
I gape at him helplessly. “I…I…”
“Quite.” The professor puts me out of my misery. “I look forward to receiving your essay on that precise subject by this time tomorrow. And now, if we may continue? And is there some chance, however remote, that we might be further blessed by your undivided attention?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I murmur. “Yes, of course.”
He resumes his lecture, and I make a renewed effort to appear interested.
My coffee goes cold on the low table in front of me. I’m between lectures, in the student refectory, surrounded by the chatter of other medical students. The talk is of the upcoming toxicology exam which no one expects to pass, despite it being essential if we are to progress to clinical practice on the wards. But I’m completely tuned out. I get out my phone for what must be the millionth time and scowl yet again at the image I received by email yesterday morning.
It’s a picture of me, letting myself into the house in Stirling. I’m pretty sure it was taken from just across the street, solid proof that someone is watching me. Someone close.
They know where I live.
I finger my necklace, tempted to press the panic button. Does this count as an emergency? Possibly, but maybe I can handle it myself. I could just move. Student accommodation is everywhere around the university. I could find another place easily enough, but not somewhere as nice as my room in Stirling. And not free of charge.
Zayn would know I’d moved out as soon as I give notice, and he’d want to know why. He’ll probably wonder why I didn’t tell him if I was scared, and he won’t be pleased.
“Leila?” Someone prods me on the arm. “You’re miles away. Again.”
“Oh, sorry.” I turn sharply.
It’s Miranda, my best friend on the course. She looks anxious. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I was just…thinking.”
“I said, do you need a hand with that essay? You can have my notes from today if you like.”
Miranda’s always top in everything, and she even has a sporting chance of passing toxicology. Her notes will be meticulous. “Oh, yes. Thanks. I’ll be up half the night as it is.”
“Evans is a slavedriver,” she commiserates. “I’ll email the notes over later.”
She’s right about the professor. He is demanding and exacting, but he’s right. I wasn’t concentrating, and that can be fatal if patients are involved. I need to get my head right back in the game. I make up my mind.
I’ll find alternative digs, and I’ll get myself sorted. And, I’ll do it soon. As soon as I’ve done that bloody essay and got toxicology out of the way.
My sense of urgency gets a rude awakening when I return to Stirling and check my snail mail in the box in the hall, with my name on it and a neat little slot for my letters. I always check every morning on my way out, and every evening when I get home. I open the box to find a neat white envelope inside with my name scrawled across the front in black felt tip. There’s no postage stamp or postmark so it must have been hand-delivered. One of the other residents, probably, wanting to report a repair.
I wait until I’m upstairs in my room before I rip the envelope open and tip the contents onto my bed. A sheet of paper, folded in half. I pick it up and unfold it, then drop it as though it was on fire.
Fuck! Shit, shit, shit. “What the…?”
I look again, not even touching it this time. It’s another picture, of my uncle, in a wheelchair. He’s glaring into the camera, an expression of pure loathing on his pudgy face. And there’s a message scrawled beneath in the same felt tip.
Ungrateful whore. You did this and you will pay.
I get on the university website and start a search for student accommodation.
“What the fuck is going on, Leila?”
I grimace. I should never have answered the phone. Now I have Zayn to deal with on top of packing up my stuff ready to move. I’ve found a decent flat a few minutes’ walk from the university. I’ll be living with three other medical students. There’s a shared kitchen and bathroom, but Wi-Fi is included, and it’s cheap. It’ll do.
“Zayn. How nice to hear from you.”
“Don’t give me that crap. What’s going on? Ethan says you’re moving out.”
“I am, yes. Somewhere closer. No commute.”
“You drive, don’t you? Get a car.”
“That’s ridiculous. I don’t need a car. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m busy. I have to pack.”
“No, you don’t. You’re staying where you are.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard. I’m coming over.”
I can’t quite suppress the thrill of excitement after two years and no contact beyond occasional checking in, but I don’t want to see him. I can’t.
“There’s no need. I’m fine, really.”
“Bollocks. I’ll be there within the hour.”
“I’m going out.”
“No. You are not. One hour, Leila.” The phone goes dead.
Who the hell does he think he is?
I stomp about the room, chucking my remaining possessions into a box. I’m moving out, and that’s that. I’m grateful for all he did when I needed it. Ethan, too. But I’ve stood on my own two feet for two years now and I don’t intend to stop anytime soon, whatever Zayn Abbassi might think.
I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s been half an hour since he hung up on me. I have maybe ten minutes before I need to be out of here. There’s a bus due, I can be halfway to Glasgow by the time he arrives and discovers I’m gone.
No such luck. Zayn gets to Buchanan bus station in the centre of Glasgow before I do. Arms folded and a face like thunder, he’s waiting for the bus from Stirling to get in. He glowers at me when he takes me by the arm and marches me towards the exit.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I protest, trying without success to break free.
“We need a chat,” he growls.
“I doubt that. Let me go or…or I’ll scream.” There’s a police officer by the main exit. I could just?—
“Don’t even think about it,” he mutters.
For reasons I don’t entirely understand, my mouth remains shut as he hustles me past and out onto Killermont Street. We cross the road, and he leads me into a rather nice little coffee shop. I’ve seen the place before, many times, but their prices don’t cater for student budgets.
“Sit over there. And don’t move.” He points to a table in the far corner while he heads for the counter to give the barista our order. He joins me a few minutes later with two frothy lattes. “I didn’t know if you take sugar.” He tosses a handful of sachets onto the table.
I ignore the drink and the sugar. “I should be at a lecture,” I lie.
“Not today. It’s Thursday. Independent study all morning.”
“What the…? How do you know that?”
“I make it my business to know your routine. How else can I keep you safe?”
I don’t believe this. He’s been spying on me! That’s it, I’m done. I try to rise. “I’m leaving.”
“Sit. Down.” His eyes are like flints. “Drink your coffee and tell me what the fuck this is about.”
I sit in sullen silence for several minutes.
“Well? I’m waiting.”
“Don’t let me keep you. You must have better things to do.”
“Not especially. So?”
“So what?”
“I have all day, in fact. Whereas you, you are due in a lecture at two o’clock. It wouldn’t do to upset Professor Evans again by being late.”
I don’t even ask. Someone on my course must be feeding him information about my life. I should have realised.
So much for my own two feet.
He leans back in his seat, his arms crossed, as casual as you like. “So, now we have all that out of the way, what is it I don’t know?”
“Not much, I imagine.”
I grumble the words under my breath, but he hears. The bastard hears, and he smirks.
“Leila, I can be patient, and I’m in no rush. But we do both have better things to be doing, so shall we not mess about?”
I consider my predicament for a few moments, then, “Okay, okay. Here.” I hand over my phone. “It’s an email. It came a week ago. And this was waiting for me when I got home the day before yesterday.” I drag the now somewhat crumpled picture of Uncle Abdul from my bag and shove it across the table at him
He scrolls through my phone until he finds the offending photo. He pauses, glances up at me. “You should have told me.” He flattens out the photograph. “Ah, Uncle Abdul. He looks well, considering.”
“Are you mad? He’s in a wheelchair.”
“True. Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving knobhead.”
“Deserving? What are you…?” My words dry up when the penny finally drops. “You did this.”
“I did. By way of a warning. And…punishment. He got off lightly, I think.”
I’m lost for words. I can only gape at him, try to get my head around what he’s done. The brutality, the…the sheer barbarism. “You can’t just take the law into your own hands like that.”
“I think I already did. The question now is, why didn’t you contact me when you started getting these threats?”
“I was dealing with it myself.”
“By going into hiding?”
“I’m not. It…it’s nothing.”
“Nothing? So much ‘nothing’ that you’re moving out. Running scared.”
“I’m not scared. I just?—”
“Bollocks. Fucking bollocks. You’re either scared or stupid, and my money is not on stupid.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“It’s obvious who sent these happy little holiday snaps,” he says. “But what does it mean?”
“Search me, but…”
“But?”
“It has to be Iftikar. Or Mehrban. And they actually got inside my house. They were there, in the hall by the post boxes. What if I’d been at home?”
“Maybe then you would have had the sense to press your panic button. I’d be interested to know how they found you.”
“I don’t know.”
He raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “Leila…” His tone is low, a warning.
“Well, maybe…”
“Maybe what, Leila?”
“It was Farah’s birthday, her sixteenth and, I thought after two years, maybe…”
“You got in touch with your sister.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“Just Farah. It was only?—”
“For fuck’s sake, Leila.” He’s livid. “You’re right, you do have to move. But I’ll find you somewhere. It needs to be secure.”
“That’s ridiculous. Even if it was my cousins, they wouldn’t?—”
“They threw you in the ocean, left you for dead.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. His glare is intense. “But you’re not dead, are you? You’re very much alive and ready to tell the tale. A fucking witness statement, backed up by a video to prove what happened. Attempted murder, they’d go to prison for years. Of course they’re not going to leave you walking around, ready to blow the whistle whenever you feel like it.”
My jaw drops. I never thought of that. How was I so stupid? But…
“How do they know about the video? I never mentioned it.”
“I did. In fact, Uncle Knobhead has a copy of it, just to remind him how badly things could go wrong for him if he attracts my attention ever again. I guess he showed it to his charming offspring.”
I can only gape at him. “You? But when? Why?”
“Two years ago, just before you left Caraksay. And I just told you why.”
“So, it was you who told them I wasn’t killed that day,” I accuse. “And you hurt Uncle Abdul.”
“I did. Knee-capped him. Always works to deliver a lesson. As for telling him you were alive, guess I did. I told him to leave you alone. In any case, they could probably work it out when they watched the home movie. What I didn’t tell them was where you were now. You managed that.”
“I never?—”
“How long were you on the phone?”
I shrug. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”
“Ample time to track your phone and locate you.”
“How would they manage that? They’re not exactly tech wizards.”
“All it would take is a half-decent private detective. I’d suggest they hired one as soon as they realised their nasty little scheme had gone tits up. His job…to find you.”
My heart sinks even lower, if that were even possible. “So, what am I to do now? If they find me…”
“Drink your coffee. I need to make a few calls.” He gets up and paces away from me.
“Zayn, I don’t want?—”
He turns his back on me, phone to his ear, deep in conversation.
I sip my coffee and wait for him to tell me what happens next.
“I found you a safe place. Just outside Glasgow.” He sits back down opposite me. “You can easily get to the university from there, but I think you should give it a miss for a week or two. Chances are they’ll be watching the university as well.”
“I can’t miss my lectures! I’m struggling as it is, with all…all of this.”
“I get that, but your safety comes first. You can catch up.”
I probably can, if I work all hours and forget about sleep for a while. A few months, at least. Shit. But I know, deep down, I know he’s right. Now that they know I’m alive I represent a serious threat to my family, and they’ve already shown how merciless they can be. I am in danger.
I nod helplessly. “Where is this place? Another flat somewhere?”
“You’re moving in with me.”
My jaw drops. “I am not!”
He continues as though I never spoke. “It’s called Caernbro Ghyll. You’ll like it there. I have an apartment. Jack lives there, too, and his wife. Tony’s family have another apartment, and Rome. So, you’ll know people.”
“I’m going to be living with a load of…of gangsters? You must be joking.”
“Better than dying in a grotty university shared flat surrounded by fucking undergraduates armed with stethoscopes, compassion, and worthy intentions.”
“I was not going to?—”
He fixes me with a glare that leaves no room for argument. I fall silent.