Drive For Freedom

By Peter Thomson

At the end of a gruelling day's work in their father's cotton field in northern Afghanistan, Houshmad Wahidi, middle of three teenage brothers, came up with a plan to steal pomegranates. Albeit with reluctance, his siblings agreed, but the theft went seriously wrong. Houshmad had to flee the province after his brothers denounced him. He swore vengeance against them and walked south to Beghlan, where he gave himself into the bondage and sexual-servitude as a dancing boy to The Uzbek – the region's warlord, gangster and principal people trafficker.

Nurturing his hatred for his brothers, he applied himself diligently to his situation. Thirty years later he had become a rich and powerful man in his own right. He controlled The Uzbek's legitimate and criminal activities as the warlord's right-hand man. It was now time to settle his feud with his brothers.

One had already disappeared but. Kahmi, the younger brother, had  fled the Taliban to the safety of the UK. Houshmad vowed to make Kahmi's life a misery and to put his sons through the shame and ignominy of the dancing boy culture that he had suffered. He had already ensnared Kahmi's two older boys and only, Armagan remained - the apple of his parents' eyes and their hopes for a better future. On Armagan's fourteenth birthday, Houshmad's evil reached out for the boy.

DRIVE FOR FREEDOM is a fiction, based on fact, and in three parts. It describes the ancient Pashtun gender reversal culture of dancing boys as it operate in Afghanistan today, its apparent anomaly with the teachings of Islam and the workings of people trafficking gangs in the UK.

At the end of a gruelling day's work in their father's cotton field in northern Afghanistan, Houshmad Wahidi, middle of three teenage brothers, came up with a plan to steal pomegranates. Albeit with reluctance, his siblings agreed, but the theft went seriously wrong. Houshmad had to flee the province after his brothers denounced him. He swore vengeance against them and walked south to Beghlan, where he gave himself into the bondage and sexual-servitude as a dancing boy to The Uzbek – the region's warlord, gangster and principal people trafficker.

Nurturing his hatred for his brothers, he applied himself diligently to his situation. Thirty years later he had become a rich and powerful man in his own right. He controlled The Uzbek's legitimate and criminal activities as the warlord's right-hand man. It was now time to settle his feud with his brothers.

One had already disappeared but. Kahmi, the younger brother, had  fled the Taliban to the safety of the UK. Houshmad vowed to make Kahmi's life a misery and to put his sons through the shame and ignominy of the dancing boy culture that he had suffered. He had already ensnared Kahmi's two older boys and only, Armagan remained - the apple of his parents' eyes and their hopes for a better future. On Armagan's fourteenth birthday, Houshmad's evil reached out for the boy.

DRIVE FOR FREEDOM is a fiction, based on fact, and in three parts. It describes the ancient Pashtun gender reversal culture of dancing boys as it operate in Afghanistan today, its apparent anomaly with the teachings of Islam and the workings of people trafficking gangs in the UK.

Drive For Freedom is a compound trilogy in the contemporary crime, literary and 

 social fiction genres.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Thomson
• Release date: Mar 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386332381

Peter Thomson

Peter Thomson has lived a rich and varied life as a soldier, commercial seafarer and businessman. He was born under the Gemini star sign and raised in a village on the outskirts of the old Roman city of St.Albans. Humour and tease tempered the hard manual work of the family's day. Peter quickly developed his wits to give as good as he got. Whenever his father ribbed him,he would come back with 'You weren't at Mum's bedside when I was born. You were away at the beach with your mates.' It felled his father with laughter each time it was said. Thomson's father was fighting the rear guard action at Dunkirk when Peter came into the world.  Some beach! Motivated by unfairness and injustice in our society, Peter will often craft his fiction around real events. 'Nobody has gone to jail yet for inflicting the sub-prime mortgage scam on the world. ‘That has to be wrong,' according to Thomson.  He makes the point along with an explanation of how it happened, and the unregulated corporate greed that engineered it in the second volume of his 'The Stopover' series. He now lives in South West France with his wife and a colony of feral cats. When not writing articles and books, Peter grows enormous quantities of fruit and vegetables. In addition to continuing The Stopover series, Peter's other work in progress - Drive For Freedom - about an Afghan family's flight from evil.”

Book preview

DEDICATION

To the memory of all who gave their lives to bring peace and democracy to Afghanistan, (2001 – 2018)

Especially to those who died by the hands of Afghan civilians and servicemen they were trying to protect,

And in particular to:

WO1 Darren Chant,

Sgt. Matthew Telford, Corporal Steven Boote,

Corporal Nicholas Webster-Smith,

Guardsman James Major.



S/Sgt Scott E. Dickinson, USMC

Corporal Richard A. Rivera, USMC

L.Cpl Gregory Buckley, USMC

Their names live for evermore in the hearts of freemen, everywhere.

.

‘Mercy of an Uzbek, Torture of a Pashtun’

Afghan Proverb

DRIVE FOR FREEDOM

BOOK ONE

DANCING BOYS

PETER THOMSON

‘After every darkness is light.’

Afghan Proverb

Chapter 1

THE RAUCOUS CLAMOUR of approaching motorcycle engines shattered the morning tranquillity of Al-Batoor Street in the northern Afghan town of Taloqan.

Shoppers and townspeople strolling past the parade of shops facing the river scurried off the streets, entering the stores or disappearing into concealments along the dark alleyways nestled between the shops.

A small group of children sat on the road tormenting a dog with a bone. On first hearing the approaching noise, they scattered in all directions, screaming, ‘Mujahadeen, Mujahadeen’. Terror gave wings to their legs.

The motorcycles turned into the street with deafening noise and polluted the atmosphere with billowing clouds of dust and choking exhaust fumes from ill maintained two-stroke engines. The noise abated when the Mujahadeen arrived at the spot where the children had played below the tinsmith shop belonging to Hussain Fahim, and switched off their engines.

With practised precision six of the mounted men parked their motorcycles to seal off the road from both directions. They lifted a varied assortment of weapons from their shoulders and formed up in a crouching defensive position to secure the area:  poised in readiness to counter any resistance to their arrival.

The fighters wore the red, black and green uniform of the feared Marg Militia, and for added effect had draped the Afghan flag around their bodies: black scarves tied around their faces concealed all but their eyes. The men remained still and quiet, placed for immediate offensive action. Only their eyes moved, flitting left and right, up and down, visually probing the buildings for Jihadist hiding places.

Two minutes elapsed, and with no retaliatory response to their arrival, two men broke away from the secured half-circle to make a closer inspection of the shop fronts and interiors. When satisfied the area was free of Jihadists, the men strolled back to their defensive circle and made their report to a thin elderly fighter with a straggly grey beard; who then repeated the report into a radio handset. The militiamen waited, none spoke or moved save for the flitting of their eyes, constantly scanning the street and its surrounding buildings.

Several more minutes passed with no appearance of townspeople on the street. Only the sound of the river waters rippling over and around the rocks in the near distance could be heard. Peace and tranquillity had returned to Al-Batoor Street, to be disturbed moments later by the high-pitched howl of a military vehicle’s engine.

A Humvee armoured personnel-carrier burst into the street from a side road. A fighter hastily shifted his motorcycle out of its path to allow the Humvee into the protected circle, where it stopped at the steps leading up to the tinsmith’s shop.

Two men carrying AK73’s at a ready position rushed out of the back door of the Humvee and took up kneeling positions in front of, and behind the vehicle. The elderly soldier with the radio set hurried across the road and opened a side door to the vehicle. He spoke for several seconds, making his report before standing aside with head bowed to allow a tall, middle-aged man of good physique, with a neatly trimmed beard and dressed in Afghan Army combat dress to exit the vehicle. Arrogance exuded from the man as he stretched to his full height before linking his thumbs casually into a broad, leather belt. Slowly, he looked around, checking the positions of his men. He saw no town’s people, although he sensed there were many pairs of eyes upon him, viewing him in trepidation from multiple hiding places.

Townsmen and women, concealed by drapes or shadows, held their hands across their mouths in fright, having recognised him as Marg Militia Commander Bakhlyre Ali Khan. The infamous militia leader once with the Mujahadeen of the Taliban, and now fighting them in support of the present Afghan government, had arrived to visit Hassan Fahim. The unseen citizens watching the spectacle from their hiding places wondered what business this bloodthirsty, self-serving commander might have with the tinsmith. All feared the worst for the popular tradesman, and many of the hidden observers mimed prayers for the well-being of Fahim and his family.

Khan stood on the street for several moments, poised with the arrogance of a master of all he surveys, hands resting on his hips, expressing a silent challenge of ‘touch me if you dare.’

Turning abruptly on his heel, he strutted through the piles of pots, pans and ironmongery laid out for sale on the pavement and disappeared into the shadowy anonymity of the shop’s interior. Two fighters took up a station as guards in the entrance doorway, weapons held across their chests in a belligerent attitude that defied anybody to seek entry.

Khan halted to stand imperiously inside the doorway, allowing his eyes to accustom to the interior gloom. A teenage boy hurried out from behind a stack of bright metal cooking pots, arriving in front of the great man and bowing obsequiously before him.

Salaam Aleikum! Welcome honoured sir, to the home and shop of my master, Hussain Fahim Afandi.

The boy kept his gaze lowered to the floor. The commander grasped the boy’s chin between a finger and thumb, jerking the youth’s head upwards. Khan sighed with approval as he looked over the sixteen-year-old youth’s strikingly handsome face with its slight fuzz of an emerging moustache sprouting beneath his nose. The boy’s lips quivered in apprehension.

Khan snapped. You are Barlas Afridi.

It was a statement rather than a question.

Yes, Sir.

The man turned the boy’s face to the left and then to the right.

You have danced for me before, Afridi, more than once, and you have pleased me with your dancing ... but you have never completed my pleasure by visiting my bed after the dance ended.

Khan’s tone carried a note of accusation.

Thank you Sir, sorry Sir, and please pardon me for saying, Great One, but I must obey my master. I can only come to your bed after dancing for you if my master allows.

The commander laughed, releasing the boy’s chin and allowing Barlas’ head to fall forwards into a lowered and obedient position.

Fetch your master, he barked, and the boy scurried away into a back room. Meanwhile, the commander focused his attention on the hardware on offer, ferreting among the various items while he waited.

A MAN OF SLIGHT BUILD sporting an immature and patchy beard came rushing through the bead curtain into the shop pulling a workshop smock away from his body and mumbling apologies:

Salaam Aleikum, Great One, a thousand apologies for not greeting you personally when you arrived. I will beat my boy and my wife for not telling me sooner that you are come into my humble shop...

The commander raised a hand for silence, throwing back his head and chuckling from the back of his throat as he took in the sight of this young businessman wearing protective glasses positioned on the top of his head, giving him an owlish appearance. Although the tinsmith’s greeting conveyed warmth, anxiety showed in the man’s eyes, in case this should be an official visit. His fear accounted for the vigour with which he continued to wipe his hands on a soiled workshop towel – as if wringing them together in unease.

Es Salaam Aleikum Hussain, and relax please, this is purely a social visit.

Khan watched the relief flood across the man’s face and he stepped forwards to put his arm across the tinsmith’s shoulders to further reassure him of the friendly nature of the visit.

The boy Barlas stood in the doorway from the shop to the workshop, bowing deferentially, watching and waiting at a respectful distance for instructions from his master.

The men hugged and exchanged pleasantries before Hussain broke away, Forgive me, Great One, where is my hospitality?

He spun around to face Barlas and bawled,

Boy! Go to my wife and tell her to prepare tea with nuts and fruit and sweetmeats for my friend. Pardon me for my inhospitality, Great One; it is a shame on my household. ...Go quickly boy, bring tea and refreshments, or I will beat you.

Khan laughed and called out to Barlas, Stop! Boy!

He turned to Hussain, Forgive me my friend, but I am unable to enjoy your hospitality today. Please apologise to your wife for my ill manners, but there is pressing official business needing my attention. I can stay with you for only a short while.

Barlas halted in the doorway, standing lopsided on one leg in confusion, his eyes roamed between the commander and his master, unsure of what to do next. In almost a whisper, Khan nodded towards the boy and asked Hussain,

Is there somewhere we can talk in private?

The shopkeeper spun around to face Barlas:

Leave us boy, go and ask my wife to give you some work. I will call you when my business with his eminence is done.

KHAN STROLLED THROUGH the shop, moving towards a corner of the room farthest from both doorways. Hussain followed behind, his hands clasped together and his eyes passing over the militiamen now standing guard inside and outside the shop. The commander glanced at one of his men and flicked his head towards the inner door. The man returned the nod and rushed to stand guard at the bead curtain covering the doorway to the workshop. Hussain regarded the move with increasing concern for the seriousness of the visit and for his future well-being.

What is it, Great One? What brings you here with so much of your army? Are you hunting Jihadists in my humble shop?

The commander’s back straightened; stretching tall and his face took on a fierce expression. Khan snapped at the tinsmith,

Do you have Jihadists here, Hussain? Only yesterday I caught four of the devils and sent them to Allah without their heads. Are you confessing to me you are a Jihadist?

Hussain dropped to his knees in front of the commander, raising and wringing his hands in front of him.

Oh no, Great One, I am not with the Taliban or this other blight that has come to our country, the sickness they call Daesh. If I see or hear of any I will rush to tell you.

Khan rested his hands on his hips and hooted with laughter. After several seconds of enjoying the spectacle of the cowed man, the commander took hold of Hussain’s shoulder and lifted him up, speaking in a comforting tone of voice:

That would be the right and proper action for you to take. Forgive me for my little joke, my friend. I did not wish to frighten you. I know I can trust you. I have told you already this is a social visit and so it is, but I must be quick for my safety and for yours too. There will already be somebody coming with a bomb or a bullet for me, and if I am still here when they arrive, they will make you share their gifts with me.

Hussain whirled around to face the doorway, his body trembling with fright, only to see the mocking grin on the guard’s face and hear again the belly laughter of the commander behind him. Khan linked arms with Hussain.

Don’t worry my friend, you are safe; I wish to talk to you on a very personal matter.

Hussain’s jaw dropped in awe and the first smile came to his lips since Khan’s arrival:

In that case, let us go to my office where we can talk openly and be more private.

Hussain ushered Khan through the bead curtain and into the workshop, they passed its benches materials and tools for the tinsmith’s trade and the work in progress. Hussain led the commander to a small entrance at the far end. He opened the door to find Barlas inside, sat on his haunches and wringing his hands, his face pinched with concern. The sight startled Hussain.

What are you doing here, boy? I told you to get some work to do from my wife.

Sorry, Master, but she told me she is busy with the children, and I am to wait here until she can come and give me work.

Hussain grunted and pointed towards the shop. Go and wait in the shop and continue with what you were doing there.

The boy dashed away in a half crouch of obeisance. Khan chuckled and lit a small cheroot:

You did well to win that boy, Hussain. How long is it now, three years since you bought him, and at such a low price?

Yes, it is three summers ago now. He is willing and has learned well. I am proud of him.

Khan chortled, but it sounded false to Hussain’s worried ears.

He looked so plain then, none of us except you could see the beauty in him that was yet to come out – and he dances so well.

Allah has been good to me sending me Barlas, Great One.

Khan looked sideways on at Hussain, with a suggestive leer lighting his eye.

You often let him dance for us, but you never share him.

Hussain shook his head,

No, he is special to me. I will not sell him or share him. He lives here with us as one of our family. He helps my wife Lamba with the children, and me in the shop. He learns quickly and is becoming useful in the workshop too. I can increase my business with him here. No, I will not sell or share him with anybody, Great One, so sorry.

Khan took a deep draught on his cigar and blew out rings of blue smoke towards the ceiling.

"Is he more to you than a bacha bareesh, a mere dancing boy, Hussain?"

The tinsmith’s brain clouded with numbness under the commander’s suggestion; he was unable to form an immediate reply to refute the implication and shook his head in uncertainty.

Khan added softly, I and many others think so.

No! No it is not like that. Hussain cried in despair. "It is not permitted for a man to love another man. Are you saying you think I love him? It is not true. I swear it. I am fond of the boy, but I do not love Barlas."

Khan rested his bottom on the desk, crossed his legs, and held up a hand prior to speaking.

Relax, my friend. As we Pashtuns read the Holy Quran in our own language it does not say we cannot enjoy the company of men, only we can never love a man – as for boys, it says nothing, and we can enjoy them all the time until they can grow a beard, and become men.

The commander threw his hands in the air and laughed. Hussain’s face turned pinched and grey as he contemplated the commander’s insinuation of him being in love with Barlas. It troubled Hussain that others might think and say so, and by implication, develop eventually into an allegation against him.

Why? ... Why do you say that you and many others think I love Barlas, Great One?

Khan slapped his thigh and barked,

It is obvious. You enjoy him, but you do not share him. You will not sell him, and you keep him like he is one of your own blood family?

Of course I enjoy Barlas, it’s why I bought him, but I cannot love him. You know the old saying, ‘a woman for children and a boy for pleasure’. Hussain chuckled in a vain endeavour to laugh off the commander’s question. But Khan was in no mood for jocularity.

Then why not share him, or sell him even, if he does not mean so much to you?

Never!

Khan blew out air noisily and tapped his fingers in exasperation. He leaned towards Hussain to add emphasis to his next words.

"Why do you do so much to protect him if you don’t love him? He’s not your wife ... or has he become your ushna – your wife substitute, and you do love him like everybody is saying?"

Hussain jumped to his feet, tearing at his body shirt in rage.

"No! That is untrue, Barlas is not ushna to me, and who are these people saying these things about me. They are lies, all lies!"

The commander exhaled cigar smoke at the ceiling, taking his time before replying.

"Almost everybody who is known to you and me is saying the same thing. Hussain is in love with his bareesh."

Hussain slumped in distress, his body shaking. He hid his face under his hands and spoke through his fingers,

No, it is not true, why do people say these things to you?

Khan spoke softly, even your wife’s father says this is true.

Hussain dropped his hands and flopped aghast into his chair, his face coloured beetroot red with embarrassment and unshed tears pooled in his eyes.

Why should he say this thing to you, when he has never once spoken of it to me?

A note of pique had crept into Hussain’s tone. The commander shrugged off the tinsmith’s question.

Perhaps he does not want to upset you ... or give you reason to throw out his daughter.

I would never do that. What makes him think I would do such a thing? Lamba is the mother of my children.

A hard edge came onto the commander’s voice.

For the same reason he thinks you love your boy. You are married for nearly seven years. How many children do you have?

Three, I have three children, my daughters Laila and Tanima, and my son Jawal.

And what ages are they?

Laila is five, Tanima is four and Jawal is three.

You are young and healthy, Hussain, with a good business here, yet you have no children in the last three years. How long is it since you bought Barlas and brought him into your home?

Three years now, he came to me on his thirteenth birthday.

Exactly. Does he take the place of your wife in your bed?

Lamba and I have always slept in different beds.

Khan raised his voice, But does Barlas sleep with you?

Hussain appeared confused and opened his arms, adopting a questioning yet contrite stance:

Yes, but not every night. I bought him to dance for me and to accompany me to parties and meetings where it is not possible to take my wife or any woman. Why should I not also enjoy his warmth on cold nights?

The commander laughed, and reached across to slap Hussain’s arm: "No reason at all, my friend. Bacha bazi is prohibited now under this government, but is not enforced. Under Taliban law bacha bareesh was banned; they would throw you from a mountain for keeping a boy."

He patted Hussain’s arm to give him reassurance,

All the more reason to seek out and destroy the Jihadists. Every last one of them, and their sympathisers too, or we will have the Taliban back here making us live under their strict interpretation of the Holy Quran.

Khan paused to draw on his cigar. "I came here today to talk to you about your boy, and what I am to say next is secret. You must tell nobody - not even your wife.

Chapter 2

BARLAS BRUSHED AWAY imaginary dust from among the piles of merchandise in the shop, conscious of the soldiers’ eyes upon him. They smiled with crooked, yellow-teethed smirks each time he looked up to meet their stare, compelling him to drop his eyes in acute embarrassment. He held the attention of both guards inside the shop and when he moved behind a pile of pots to hide from their scrutiny, one of them moved aside to keep him in view. The boy felt his face burning and the uncomfortable clammy sweat of embarrassment breaking out on his neck. He had heard tales of militiamen raping boys and he wished his master would come into the shop to keep him safe. Barlas staggered in fear when the man guarding the inner door called out to him while gripping his crotch:

People say you dance well, boy?

It was happening. His body flexed in dread and adrenalin flushed through his arteries, bringing him instant calmness and composure. He looked up and smiled politely at the man.

Thank you sir, but I can dance only for my master.

Come here and dance for us while we wait. I promise your master will allow it.

Barlas, scared to disobey the militiaman, caught his breath and inched his way into the open space in the centre of the shop. In a slow, sensuous motion he removed his outer tunic to stand before them in his Shalwar pantaloons and Kameez body shirt.

The guard at the outer door came into the shop to stand next to his comrade. They exchanged glances and nods and commenced tapping their feet and clicking their fingers. Barlas gently swayed to their rhythm with small movements of his feet and hips. He raised an arm above his head, forming his body into graceful lines. The guards quickened the pace of their impromptu music, adding to the rhythmic pattern with guttural noises from the back of their mouths. The clicking became clapping and Barlas twisted and whirled himself into his dancing stride, shaking his shoulders seductively at the men. Their volume increased as they appreciated and applauded the boy’s performance, calling for more steps and figures.

The soldiers in the street heard the sound of the entertainment and one by one came into the room until all were inside, clicking, la-la-la-ing with their tongues, clapping, foot-tapping and shouting encouragement.

IN THE BACK-OFFICE, the commander spoke while he paced the length of the room. Hussain sat in a chair and listened, his head spinning with disquiet, and asked Khan,

You want to talk about my boy Barlas, Great One, but he is not for sale to anybody. I am sorry. You have many boys already ... and some are more beautiful and better dancers than Barlas.

The commander slapped his stomach and burst out laughing. "Relax, I am not asking to buy your boy, Hussain, but listen carefully to me now. I am holding a bacha bazi party next Thursday, and I want you to bring your boy to dance for us."

The shopkeeper sighed in relief and visibly relaxed, releasing the grip of his whitened knuckles on the arm of the chair.

Of course, Great One, I will be honoured to come, and I will bring Barlas to dance for you, but if he is chosen as the best dancer of the evening he will not be for sale or sharing.

Khan spun around to face away from Hussain and walked a few paces before speaking.

Excellent. It is a special party for twelve important people and we must keep it a secret for the sake of security. It is for that reason I am holding the party in the Almeerah Hotel.

But surely, Great One, The Almeerah is only two streets from here, and it is in a very poor part of town, not a place to take such important people.

That is my plan to confuse our Jihadist enemies and their sympathisers, nobody will expect such important people to come to that hotel.

May I know, Eminence, who are these people, and what is the purpose of the party? You are going to a lot of trouble for a simple dancing-boy entertainment.

Khan pulled a chair closer to Hussain and sat down, taking hold of the tinsmith’s hands.

"But it is not an ordinary party, Hussain. You are my friend and I will protect you, but you must promise not to tell anybody what I am about to tell you. I am inviting only five kaatah’s, and so there will be only five dancers."

Hussain nodded to affirm his understanding, while his brain whirled in confusion, Khan continued.

They are wealthy men who are coming here to buy new boys...

Hussain stiffened, and the commander increased his grip on the man’s hands.

Let me finish, my friend. One of them is the butler for Houshmad Wahidi. Have you heard of him?

Yes, I have heard of him. Who has not? He works for The Uzbek gangster, but he is not from this province. I will bring my boy, Great One, but he will not be for sale. Not to this gangster’s butler or to anybody else.

Khan fluttered a hand in front of Hussain to wave away the tinsmith’s objections.

Let me finish. You are right; Houshmad Wahidi is not from this province. He is from Andarab district in Beghlan Province. Houshmad is building a new villa, and the butler wants to surprise him when it is finished with a gift of a new boy, a special boy: one who is handsome, with good manners and dances well.

Hussain’s back stiffened more and he cut across the commander,

I heard that Houshmad Wahidi already has many boys waiting in his houses, but he is never home to enjoy them. Why does he want another?

Khan held the tinsmith’s face between his hands in a gentle touch and their eyes locked together before he resumed speaking, each word uttered with firmness.

Because he always wants more boys, and can pay for them. The last one cost him ten thousand US dollars. Yes, ten thousand, and he is not as handsome as Barlas and cannot dance as well.

No! Hussain jumped up from the chair freeing himself of the commander’s grasp.

No! He shrieked, Barlas is not for sale and I want nothing to do with this Houshmad Wahidi. I heard he killed his own brother and forced another to flee to England.

Hussain stood facing away from Khan and silence closed around them, only the sound of clapping and the rhythmic tapping from the main shop area echoed through the room. The commander lighted another cheroot, skilfully flicking the spent match into the rubbish bucket beyond where Hussain stood with his back towards him. Khan drew smoke into his lungs. He held it for a second and exhaled in a long breath.

We don’t know for sure he killed a brother. It is true he tried to force his other brother, Kahmi, to work for the Taliban, but he fled to England with his family instead. There is a fatwa on Kahmi Wahidi. But we don’t have to involve ourselves with these people. This is commerce, and that is all. Think about it in this way, my friend. It is an opportunity for you to make a lot of money. What could you do with ten thousand dollars? Ask yourself that. You say you don’t love Barlas, so why not put him up for sale? If he is sold, his going will be no personal loss to you and you will be able to buy ten or more boys with the money you will make.

Hussain did not turn around to face Khan before replying. He shook his head to free it of negative thoughts and his voice sounded flat and lifeless when he spoke.

Barlas is not for sale. I need him here. He helps me in the business ... and he helps Lamba with our children. I need Barlas here. In that way alone is he more to us than a boy for pleasure.

Don’t talk in such stupid words, Khan retorted. You are not a stupid man. Think about it as an opportunity. The commander’s tone took on a hostile note, revealing his increasing impatience. You cannot keep Barlas forever. You know what will happen when he grows a beard? His father will claim him back, and you will have to let him go.

But Barlas does not have a beard.

Not yet, but he is already starting to grow one. Have you looked under his nose recently? Anyone can see there is thickening hair there, and also under his chin, up as far as his ears. Barlas will have a beard in one or two years time and he will be worth nothing to you.

But I need him here...

Tchaw!  You are talking like a woman. He is worth as much as ten thousand dollars to you now. You can have that much money next Thursday night. I know your boy will be voted the best dancer. The buyers will want him. You would get that price for Barlas next Thursday; set your price at ten thousand dollars and if nobody will pay that much for him, you can bring him home at the end of the entertainment.

But what if they do pay it?

Khan threw up his arms in exasperation.

Then you will have plenty of money to buy more boys. If you are worried about being cold in your bed, you can sleep with your wife again. Give her father the next grandchild he is waiting for. Make up your mind. I want your word now!

Hussain’s fingers clutched his shirtfront like an eagle’s talons; tears gathered in his eyes ready to fall when he spoke:

It is true what you say, Great One. I have seen the hair growing on Barlas’ face and have many times told myself they are not the beginnings of a beard. Ten thousand dollars is a great deal of money. I will never see that much from working in the shop. I know I will have to let him go in a few months’ time. I have been persuading myself I can have him as an apprentice afterwards, and employ him in the workshop.

Stop! The commander cried, wagging a warning finger at Hussain. Stop these thoughts. You cannot play with him any longer once he has a beard. Do not let that temptation grow in your mind. In whatever way you are playing with this boy, it must end when he grows a beard, and at that time he is best gone from your house. It is better for you if Barlas leaves next Thursday, when he can leave ten thousand dollars behind him.

He slapped the shopkeeper’s shoulder keeping his hand in place while Hussain spent a few moments organising his thoughts.

The tinsmith raised his head to look Khan squarely in the eye, and spoke with conviction.

I have made my decision. I will bring Barlas to your party. He will dance for you and your guests. I will not share him with anybody. If he is the best dancer I will sell him, but only for ten thousand dollars. If nobody offers that much, I will bring him home and, it will be finished. He will stay with me until he is a man and I give him back to his own family.

Good man, so be it. Khan slapped Hussain’s shoulder. You have made the right decision my friend, be sure to tell nobody of this party or of our discussion today.

The shopkeeper nodded a blank affirmation, his mind settled elsewhere, wrestling with self-doubt and uncertainty. The light left his eyes, and lines of worry etched his face. The noise from the shop had increased to a riotous cacophony, bringing an abrupt end to their discussion by raising concerns for their security.

What is happening out there? Are we under attack? Khan shouted, drawing his automatic from its holster and bursting into the shop ready to open fire.

THE DEAFENING NOISE and sight of his full force of militiamen stood in a circle, cheering, clapping, stamping their feet, beating time using pots, pans and their lids as drums and cymbals stopped the commander’s advance. In the centre of the circle Barlas whirled, cavorted and twisted to the rhythm of the makeshift orchestra. He saw his men captivated with delight and their passions inflamed by the boy’s seductive entertainment.

The commander fired a single shot over their heads and through the open door to the street, bringing the carnival atmosphere to an instantaneous halt.

Stop this nonsense, Khan roared. Who told you to leave your posts? Get back on duty, check to see no Jihadists have crept in to murder us due to your neglect.

The men filed out, mumbling their disappointments. Barlas froze on the spot and in slow deference made a deep bow from the waist to the commander and his master, presenting his bottom towards the doorway. A militiaman could not resist groping the boy between his buttocks as he passed, eliciting a cry of appreciation from the other militiamen and a squeal of alarm from Barlas. The boy jerked forwards in shocked surprise and rushed into the arms of his master for protection.

The soldiers laughed, and the one who had touched the boy turned to face his comrades. He held the offending hand above his head for a second and then kissed his fingers before announcing, Like a peach. In response, riotous laughter and lusty cheers erupted from his comrades.

Outside! Now! Khan bellowed, I will shoot any of you still here after I count to three. One! ... Two! ...

The shop emptied of his troops before Khan had finished shouting, ‘Two.’ The commander holstered his automatic and walked across to Hussain, his arms open in readiness to hug the shopkeeper in farewell.

Your boy still dances well, Hussain. Until Thursday.

Until Thursday, Great One, thank you for honouring my home with your visit.

The commander spun around on his heel and strode out of the shop into the street. Moments later a different cacophony disturbed the peace as the motorcycles engines and the deeper roar of a Humvee armoured troop carrier erupted into life and left the street.

Hussain put his arm around Barlas.

You are trembling, Little One. What is the matter? Whatever frightened you is over now.

Sorry, Master, he pleaded, they made me dance. The boy’s arms closed around the waist of the man, holding him tight. Hussain shook the child gently and chuckled.

And you danced well, Barlas. I was proud of you, thank you. We have been invited to a party next Thursday and you will dance again for me and my friends.

Barlas brightened and smiled.

I will dance well for you, Master. I will make you very proud of me and win you much status.

Hussain ran his fingers gently through the boy’s hair.

I know you will, Little One. I know you will.

He lifted the boy’s face to his own and kissed him.

Within minutes following the departure of the militia, Hussain’s manner changed. Gone was the genial, patient, family man with time and a happy word for everybody. In his place emerged a detached, taciturn person, lost in introspection and with only a grunt or angry shout for those wishing to engage him in conversation or ask a question. Hussain Fahim withdrew into his own world, allowing nobody else inside. Like a ghostly figure he wandered around the shop and workshop, his face grey and lined by his inner turmoil. His erratic behaviour put everybody on edge as they went about their day, unsmiling and nervously expecting an angry eruption from the man at any moment. The change affected the children, causing them distress.

What is wrong with Papa?

He won’t play with us.

Papa shouted at me.

Lamba gathered them into her kitchen to keep them out of their father’s way. She glared at the closed door to the office behind which her husband kept his own company, and the worry lines on her brow deepened. Her husband wanted nothing from her during the day or night, and he waited until the children and Barlas had eaten and left the kitchen before coming to the table for his meals. Even then, he would only pick at his food, eating very little. Lamba tried every trick she knew to get him to tell her what ailed him, but without success. Hussain remained impassive in the silence of his own world.

Barlas feared he was to blame for the change in his master’s demeanour and he slunk around the workshop in a state of nervous apprehension. The boy’s concern intensified later that night when he came to his master’s bed and Hussain turned him away. In the three years Barlas had been a part of the Fahim household he could count on his fingers and toes the number of nights he had slept away from his master: and those were the few nights of the year Hussain slept with his wife in her bed.

NEXT MORNING BARLAS rushed into the kitchen to consult with Lamba.

Please tell me what I have done wrong? How have I displeased my master? Please tell him to beat me if I have been bad. He will not talk to me.

Lamba took in the anxious face of the youth and the dark rings around his eyes caused by worry and sleeplessness. A single, fat tear dropped onto his cheek and her heart went out to the child. She took him into her arms to comfort him.

It is not you, Barlas, do not worry. He is the same with us all. I think the commander’s visit yesterday is the cause of the difficulty. We must be patient and wait for the problem to resolve itself. You will have to take charge of the shop until my husband is restored to his normal self.

Lamba took tea into the office and found Hussain staring at the wall, nibbling his thumb with a vacant expression on his face.

I have brought you some tea, Ba-Ba. She began straightening the papers on his desk, but before she could question him about the problem, he yelled at her,

Leave that, and leave me alone. Go woman!

She walked to the door and turned around to speak softly,

I do not know what is troubling you, Ba-Ba. I am your wife and I want to help. I am here if you need me.

No! Go! His arm flew out to point at the door.

Very well, she said, "but tell me if I am to prepare the dancing clothes for Barlas for Thursday night? The party is tomorrow and I need to know today if I am to prepare his street clothes and his jamman."

Yes, of course, prepare them, he snapped. "How will he be able to dance without jamman?"

Hussain dropped back into his trance-like state, staring at the blank wall and nibbling his thumb. Lamba shook her head, but said nothing more and left him with his misery, crashing the door closed behind her. His ill temper continued throughout the remainder of the day, keeping everybody else on edge within the household and creeping about the place to avoid him.

Chapter 3

IN THE LATE AFTERNOON, twenty-two-year old local policeman Dagar Sahik rushed into the shop in a state of nervous excitement and asked for Hussain. Barlas asked him to wait while he fetched his master, but Sahik followed the boy through the bead curtain, and pushed past him to enter the office once the boy had knocked on the door. The policeman slammed it closed behind him, leaving Barlas in the hallway outside.

An hour later the two men came out arm in arm, laughing, joking and in high spirits.

We will go together on Friday morning, Dagar. We must go quickly and not waste any time before leaving.

Hussain’s excitement showed in the high pitch of his voice, and in the front entrance to the shop, he uncharacteristically hugged the policeman when saying their goodbyes.

Hussain rushed back into the shop with a spring in his step and clapped his hands three times,

Ha Ha! Now where are you all hiding?

He spoke with his voice carrying its customary lilt of contentment. Barlas emerged first from behind a stack of pots to be instantly grasped in Hussain’s arms and lifted from the floor.

You are a good boy Barlas, I am well pleased with you and I apologise for my bad mood.

Hussain landed the boy, kissed him and went to make amends with his wife and children. Barlas watched him go, relieved and yet bewildered; it was like winter had turned to spring.

Hussain never spoke of the cause of his ill humour. When Barlas talked of it later with Lamba, she told him,

I think the policeman brought good news from the commander. Whatever it was causing my husband to worry after the great man’s visit, it is over now.

BARLAS SCUTTLED INTO the kitchen next morning. He only just saved himself from tripping over the bottom stair as he rushed into the kitchen and blurted out his apologies to Lamba for being late to help her with the children at breakfast. The children were pleased to see him as always, each one calling out his name and waving their arms at him in greeting from where they sat around the table, eating their breakfast yoghurt and flat breads.

Hello, Little Ones, he hailed, once he had caught his breath, and then walked around the table to kiss each child in turn. He came at last to stand in front of Lamba, who beheld the latecomer with a stern expressionless face, holding her hands on her hips and her eyebrows raised in question. Barlas dropped his gaze in embarrassment. He fiddled with the buttons on his shirtfront and spoke through a badly stifled yawn.

I am very sorry I am late this morning. Please excuse me?

Lamba covered her mouth with a hand to conceal the laugh waiting and ready to escape from her lips. She closely examined the bedraggled condition of the youth; his eyes sunken and darkened by tiredness and spoke with mock severity.

You were with my husband last night, Barlas?

He dropped his head in shame and mumbled:

Yes, Lamba ... and it was a long night.

She broke out in ear-piercing laughter, unable to restrain her mirth for any longer. Lamba had long ago told the boy to use her first name. He stood before her, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the next in his humiliation until she spoke again.

"I can see that just by looking at you. And where is my husband this fine morning?"

I am sorry, Lamba, but he’s still asleep. I think he is still very tired, and it is all my fault.

They both laughed. It was not their practice to discuss the details of the intimate occurrences in her husband’s bedroom. However, they could not ignore what happened when Barlas slept there, and it had become their habit to speak obliquely to each other about these matters.

Will you be able to dance tonight, Barlas? She asked with concern, brushing the boy’s hair out of his eyes with her hand.

Oh yes, I must dance well for my master tonight.

Then you must take some rest this afternoon. Sit at the table and I will bring you some breakfast. Then you had best open the shop. I can manage the children. I don’t think my husband will be here before opening time. Whatever have you done to him?

She spoke through a peal of light merriment, carrying with it a faint hint of relief that it was not her suffering the after effects of a demanding night with her husband.

Thank you, Lamba. I think he will survive.

Barlas’ reply raised a fresh outburst of hilarity from Lamba in which he joined.

THE HOUR NEARED TO lunchtime when Hussain finally appeared at the kitchen table in a happy and buoyant mood. He kissed everybody, sharing a chuckle or quip with each of them. Lamba had prepared a Korma stew with chalau rice and naan breads for their midday meal. The table talk gravitated immediately to Barlas and his chances of being voted the best boy at the dance party that evening.

You kept him awake for too long last night, Ba–Ba. How can you expect him to dance well when you rob him of sleep?

It was a mischievous challenge by Lamba, and one taken seriously by Hussain,

Are you unwell, my boy?

He rushed around the table to clasp Barlas in his arms while the boy sat at the table.

No, Master, I’m fine ... thank you for asking.

Hussain carried out a close inspection of the boy’s face, training his spectacles over the youth in the manner of holding a magnifying glass over Barlas’ face. He muttered ‘Mms’ and ‘Ahhs’ for several moments and nodded sagely in between his murmurings. Hussain finished his examination by pointing towards the stairs.

Go to my bed, Barlas! You must take some rest before the party tonight. You will need all of your strength and energy for the competition.

The boy lowered his head to look up at the man through his long eyelashes.

Will you be coming, Master?

The seductive way Barlas posed the question set Hussain’s desires aflame. He fidgeted with his clothes and grinned,

Perhaps, for a little while...

No! Lamba roared. He needs rest, husband. Let him sleep by himself. You can mind the shop for him.

Hussain decided against arguing with his wife and stood with the corners of his mouth turned down. He blew out a long sigh of disappointment and pointed at the stairs.

Go boy! Go now.

Chapter 4

LAMBA SERVED A REPEAT of the lunch menu for the evening meal, filling out the dish with the addition of plums, apricots and nuts.

As the day faded into night, Hussain and Barlas’ excitement mounted over the approaching evening’s entertainment. They quipped and pondered who might be there as guests or dancers. The daytime nap had restored Barlas’ vitality and he now felt the need to stretch his muscles in exercise, having been left to sleep for the whole afternoon.

You’ll not be able to sleep tonight.

Hussain had challenged him, with a heavy hint of suggestion when Barlas came downstairs, causing the boy’s face to flush with embarrassment, and raising good-natured laughter from both Hussain and Lamba.

Come, Lamba, Hussain ordered, Clear away the table. Barlas’ father will be here soon to see him on his weekly visit, and we have important preparations to make for the dance party.

He rubbed his hands with glee while she shepherded the children out of the dining room and returned to clear the table. She emptied the remaining food and breads into a metal carrying box, placing it on the floor beside the outside door from the kitchen to the alleyway at the side of the shop.

Hussain and Barlas sat at the table, smoking cigarettes and discussing the evening’s possibilities in the cooling breeze of an electric fan.

Do you know what songs they will play, Master? I want to be sure I am ready for all dances.

I hope it will be the same man playing the sitar as last time so we will have the same songs and dances as before.

In that case, and if it is possible, Master, I would like to dance last, because there is a song that starts slow and increases speed as it goes, finishing very fast. I can show many skills in that dance. Maybe I can be best dancer for you again tonight.

Hussain looked askance at the boy.

Do you want to be the best dancer, Barlas?

Of course, Master. I want to please you and bring you much acclaim with your friends.

The man sang the opening line of a happy song and slapped the youth lightly on the shoulder. You are a good boy, Barlas, I know I will be proud of you tonight.

A faint, rather timid knock on the doorjamb interrupted their banter. Barlas fidgeted on his chair and stubbed out his cigarette. He knew his father had come to see him and was waiting in the alleyway outside.

Hussain opened the door on a middle-aged man with a long, grey beard dressed in threadbare working clothes. The man stood outside the door’s threshold, bowing in deference to greet the tinsmith. The men spoke in low voices and Barlas could not hear their conversation. He stood at a polite distance from the men, waiting to be called forward to greet his father. Hussain pressed a small amount of money into the man’s hands and handed him the carrying dish of food. He then turned to beckon Barlas,

Come, Barlas. Come and greet your father.

The boy rushed through the door and into the arms of the man who had given him life. They hugged, kissed and spoke in low voices, their forms shrouded by the darkness of the alleyway.

Mr. Afridi was never invited into the house; the short, weekly reunions he was allowed with his son took place in the alleyway outside the kitchen door. Hussain stepped into the kitchen, partially closing the door to afford them a little privacy.  Barely a minute later, Hussain called out to the boy, bringing the reunion to an end:

Hurry, Barlas, say goodnight to your father. We have preparations to make and we must not be late.

The leftovers from the Fahim family’s evening meal that Barlas’ father took away from his visit to his son every Thursday helped to feed the remainder of his family. He also collected a small amount of cash each week as part of the arrangement for allowing Barlas to be Hussain’s bacha bareesh – his boy for pleasure.

In the time it took for a hurried farewell hug and a kiss, Barlas said goodbye to his father and came back into the kitchen, pushing the door closed with his bottom. Hussain noticed the boy’s flushed cheeks and the moistness in his eyes. He smiled and spoke in warm tones.

Your father looked well, Barlas.

Yes, Master, he is happy and sad also.

Why so?

There will be a new child soon, and that makes him happy. It is one more mouth for him to feed, and that makes him sad.

Hussain cackled and slapped the table with the palms of his hands. If you dance your best tonight, men will throw money at you. I will allow you to keep it, and that will help your father.

The prospect cheered the boy, bringing a wide grin to his face.

Hussain stood rubbing his hands together.

Come, we must start our preparations for the party.

He took the boy’s hand and led him out of the room, along a short corridor into a large, tiled wet-room. Lamba had already placed jugs of hot water at the side of the bathing area in readiness for their cleansing routine.

Barlas glanced at a small side table where she had laid out a freshly laundered and pressed shalwar kameez pants and smock set, and a bundle of clothes he recognised as his jaaman – the female clothes he would wear when he danced.

In his rush to start, Hussain kicked off his sandals, removed his pantaloons and gathered up his long smock, tying it in a bundle above his knees in readiness to wash his boy.

Hurry, boy, Hussain barked, impatiently beckoning the youth to join him inside the bathing area.

Barlas read the raw hunger glowing in Hussain’s eyes as he stripped naked, and this added to his own thrill of excitement. It gave him reassurance that his master would not sell him, just as long as he could continue to raise such excitement in his man.

The boy stepped into the bathing area with exaggerated grace where Hussain’s eager hands waited to explore and sponge his body. During the washing Hussain bent to kiss his boy and took the opportunity of inspecting the growth on his upper lip and below the chin. He thought with misgiving.

‘Yes, the commander is right. It could be the beginning of a beard. In two years, or even less, I will lose him.’

Hussain took care not to convey his shock or disappointment to Barlas as he sponged the boy with tender care. They chatted amiably during the washing, pondering again over which other dancers Barlas might be competing against tonight, and which important men the commander might have invited to watch them perform. The close togetherness of the washing, and being washed, ceremony before a dance party was a shared enjoyment.

Following a vigorous toweling session, Hussain massaged the boy’s limbs with ointment for several minutes.

Now let me get you ready for the dances, Little One. Hussain spoke with a musical lilt in his voice. He took Barlas by the hand and led him to a chair where he combed the boy’s hair to one side in a feminine style, fastening the strands in place with glitter tape and butterfly brooches. He stood back to survey his handiwork and clapped his hands. Perfect, he cried and exchanged smiles with Barlas. He opened a battered tin box from which he applied female make-up to the boy’s face – lipstick, eye shadow, blusher and mascara to enhance his long eyelashes.

Hussain stepped back to inspect his finished handiwork.

Ahh, yes. You are truly beautiful tonight, Barlas. Everybody will want you tonight.

These words were not what Barlas wanted to hear and a spike of alarm passed through his body. His apprehension must have showed on his face because Hussein picked up on it and giggled, while shaking a finger at the boy,

You need not worry, Little One. I will not share you with anybody tonight. Your charms are for me alone.

Barlas’ sigh of relief snapped Hussain out of his daydream.

We are done here, and it is time to go. Disappointment sounded in Hussain’s voice that the intimate ritual was over.

Get dressed, quickly, he ordered.

Where are we going, Master? Barlas asked the question as he dressed in his clean, walking out clothes.

Not far from here, it’s only a few minutes’ walk away.

Hussain adjusted his own dress and readied himself for the outing. When both were ready to go, they hugged.

You will be wonderful tonight, Barlas.

I will make you proud of me, Master.

Hussain held out a female burqa. Barlas put it over his head, taking care not to smudge his make-up or muss his hair. When only his eyes were showing through the slit in the garment, Hussain picked up the bundle of jaaman clothes and announced,

It is time to leave for the ball, let us go, Little One.

FOLLOW CLOSE BEHIND me, Barlas, and be careful where you tread. It is not too clean here.

Hussain led the way along the rubbish-strewn alleyway between his shop and the next building. They crossed the street at the end to enter another narrow alleyway on the other side of the road. It took them to a street bordered by shacks and roughly made dwellings, and the compound inside which the hotel stood.

Master! Master! Barlas called, his voice muffled by the thickness of the burqa’s material. Hussain detected the urgency in his tone and stopped walking.

What is it? He asked abruptly.

This is a rough part of the town, Master. We have not been here to dance before. Are we in the right place?

Yes, it is not far to go now. Follow me closely.

Hussain’s curt reply closed the topic, and they continued their walk to the hotel in silence.

Hussain turned left out of the second alleyway and twisted around to speak sharply to Barlas,

Shuffle and walk in short steps, be more like a girl.

They walked another fifty metres before turning into the entrance to the hotel’s walled compound. An elderly guard sat in the guardroom at the gate and checked Hussain’s credentials, inspecting them closely, before allowing them inside. He came out of his guardroom to unlock a second inner gate and waved them through. He pointed towards a staircase. Go up, he directed, and locked the gate behind them.

In the pale yellow glow of a lamp hanging crookedly above an upper story doorway they stopped to check the staircase before going further. Hussain viewed with circumspection the rough wooden affair enclosed by metal grilles and fixed against the crumbling baked earth outer wall of the hotel with circumspection. With increasing doubts they were in the right place, they walked the remaining short distance towards it with shortened steps. Out of the corner of his eye Hussain detected movement in the shadows of the compound’s perimeter and was reassured they were at the correct hotel.

‘Commander Khan’s militiamen are on duty here tonight.’

Unpleasant odours fouled the damp night air. Hussain dry-spat, screwing up his nose in distaste at the mixed smells of hashish, urine, burned oil and rotting rubbish assailing his nostrils.

The menacing atmosphere intimidated Barlas, and he pressed his body closer into Hussain for greater comfort, drawing a breath in relief when the man put a protective arm around his waist.

The scent of hashish and burned oil became stronger as they climbed towards the heavy wooden door at the top step, barring their further entry.

A husky guard answered their knock. A younger, more muscular Pashtun than the watchman at the outer gate opened the door. He completed a close scrutiny of Hussain before waving them both into the entrance foyer with a brusque, Wait here.

Beyond the foyer, they saw a large hall, with many pairs of shoes and sandals piled outside its double doors, and heard the sounds of a large number of voices coming from inside the room.

Barlas gulped and his pulse quickened, for this was a larger, and more important party than he customarily attended, in spite of the poor choice of qush-khana – venue.

Three shifty-eyed men followed them through the outside door and into the foyer, each accompanied by companions wearing burqas. They too were told by the guard to wait with