Fiction: Dil, missing from home in London, might be far away and involved in something unthinkable

At night, this part of outer Walthamstow became unexpectedly quiet given the busy daytime traffic from the motorway to the north (A 4 or a 6, darling? she used to joke with Ash) and the din of the service lanes closer to her home. The silence was broken only by the worried squeals of London ambulances now and then. As the trees were few and sparse in Maryam’s immediate neighbourhood, the night sky over the houses often turned a diffused pale under the light from the high streetlights. They towered over the roads, casting a speckled golden halo over all the nooks and corners, reflecting like tiny moons in the shiny pebbles of the worn asphalt of Homecroft Street.

It was going to be a month since Dilawar’s disappearance, and Maryam had, much to her surprise and unease, started to become used to having the flat to herself. She had the full measure of its space, its breadth and silence and aloneness. She missed his presence behind the door, the awareness of his body in the room, and was sometimes startled, wounded by the sound of her own footsteps as she went back and forth between her bedroom, the living room, the kitchen, and Dil’s bedroom, where his clothes still smelled of him.

The police had found no trace of Dil so far. They were still hopeful, they said, though they hadn’t made much progress. He was officially a Missing Persons case now. If there was a development in the case, they said to her, to her quiet heartbreak, they would send for her “without delay”. Officer Richard B. came to see her once – to reassure her, to check on her, he said. “Don’t lose your heart, Mrs Ali,” he said. He also took Dilawar’s toothbrush with him, sealing it in a ziplock bag. “It’s just procedure, Mrs Ali. Have to follow the rules, it’s for DNA purposes if needed. Chances are we won’t, so don’t worry.”

She started to spend long hours in the garden, walking from one wall to another, going round and round at intervals. Sometimes she sat down if the sun was out, and sometimes she stood next to her balcony, gazing at the flower beds, the little plants, their sullen branches, their struggling leaves. She considered her options and felt she didn’t have any – if she had even the faintest idea where Dil was hiding, she’d run this very moment to bring him back. But there was nothing she could do to find him, though she found some solace in the fact that the police hadn’t turned up at her door to say they had found his body, discovered in the woods, fished from a canal, with stab wounds … She must banish the stabbing fears, she told herself again.

Dil disappeared on Saturday, the sixth of February, she recalled, as she strolled in the garden. Since he hasn’t turned up dead, it means he’s been somewhere all these days, living, eating, sleeping. Living. “Suppose that’s good, isn’t it,” she muttered, then remembered she had said the same thing to herself yesterday and the day before. She had said the same thing to Zarrine and Saffina when they came to see her. They brought news of their families and the rest of the clan. They brought gossip about the bua brigade – Aunt Kulsum, Bua Sayeeda, Aunt Sugra, the Finchley cousins, and the rest of them.

She knew they gossiped to distract her, and she let them. She spent much of February like this, in a state of waiting and not knowing. Saffina and Zarrine came every weekend, called every day. Ama was forbidden to come over owing to her weak left leg, although it didn’t stop her from dropping in suddenly now and then with old ice-cream boxes filled with food.

March came and brought with it a resignation to the state of not knowing. If there was no news, it at least meant there was no bad news. He’s somewhere, my baby, she told herself at night, tidying up his room for the hundredth time.

Four weeks after Dilawar went missing, Richard B. called on Saffina’s phone as she was clearing the dishwasher at her home.

He said he was “calling about Mrs Ali’s report, there’s been a development –”.

“This is not my sister’s phone,” Saffina blurted out, instantly nervous and frightened, not knowing how to respond.

“I know, miss, I know. I wanted to talk to you first. The thing is, we need to speak with Mrs Ali soonest, it’s important we do, so how about we come to the house? If you or any other family members are there, that would help … You, your other sister, perhaps a male member of the family? Whatever suits,” he said.

Saffina kicked the dishwasher door shut and hopped over to the kitchen table, her breath shaky. She sat down. It was early evening, and the stars hung low over the narrow, long garden of her Leytonstone semi. In the slanting light from the loft conversions opposite her house, she saw that the grass in her garden was overgrown but looked pretty. A dewy wash made the tufts look artistic, as if part of a landscape painting.

“Erm, what? What is it about, though,” she said, struggling to find the right words. “Is it about Dilly? Do you have any news?” She paused, moving the phone away momentarily, swallowing, and brought it back to her ear slowly as if to prepare for impact. “Has something happened to him? Is it bad news? How bad? You can tell me … whatever it is,” she said in a single breath, one hand digging into her bag for her cigarette pack.

“The thing is … I can’t say much on the phone. I’m not authorised, to be honest, but we want to come down to see you soonest. I will be there too.”

“What the hell, what the f –” Saffina began to shout, but checked herself immediately, glimpsing a faint split reflection of her face in the bifold doors as she shifted in her chair. “It’s about my nephew, sir, about our son! How can you say you can’t tell me? What am I supposed to tell my sister?”

“You know it’s a police matter, darling, can’t do anything about it.”

“Oh, okay, alright, alright, phew!” She took a deep breath. “How about I come over to the station, then, and you tell me? That way, we can spare Baji, I mean my sister, if there’s anything … Is Dilly alright? He’s not dead, is he?” She found her Silks and fiddled with the lid to extract a cigarette with one hand, saying “fuck it, fuck it” under her breath.

“I’m afraid it’s got to be done through proper channels, darling. It says next of kin is Mrs Ali here. You wrote it yourselves …”

“Alright, alright … come to the house then, if that’s what you want! God. Let me know when, though, so we can all be there. I’ve got to be with Baji, you know, I’ve got to be with her.”

“Of course, of course, goes without saying. The thing is … it’s got to be done first thing, to be honest … Tomorrow, as a matter of fact. So if you can be there, and anyone else you want, not too many, mind you. It’s a sensitive matter, with your nephew involved and all. We don’t want the whole neighbourhood there, now, do we … We will see you tomorrow morning then, alright.”

Saffina sat with the phone in one hand and the dying cigarette in another, trying to imagine what she’d say to Maryam. She looked at the garden outside; the grass had changed colour as the night grew. She ignored bedtime demands from her daughter upstairs, hoping her husband would come down from the loft room where he watched the Premier League in the evenings.

Excerpted with permission from Maryam & Son, Mirza Waheed, Westland.