Love at First Heist

TWO

The sky is grey this evening. Winter bites into skin and the cold penetrates into her bones. The snow falls outside, covering the roofs of the rows of cars that never paid for the ticket. A shawl covers Shehnaz's arms and her fingers are still frozen cold. She feels slow today, unmoving, motionless, but she can't name why.

Her fingertips caress the wilted petal of the lily, and she picks the bouquet to throw it out. New lilies, she notes mentally. Having enough of this environment, she runs into the kitchen for tea.

Shehnaz ties her hair up in a bun, pouring the masala chai in the flask. It was almost 7pm, that meant it was time for Ibrahim's medicines.

She knocks on his door, once then twice and thrice until there is no response. Although it could be because he was in the shower, something tells her to call the watchman. The guard climbs upstairs with the spare keys, and she runs inside.

The house is quiet, so much that the clock's ticking is evident. As she opens the bedroom door, a hand flies up to her mouth.

There he is, lying on the floor.

___________________

The sirens of the ambulance still ring in her ears, it had been an hour since they took him. Shehnaz's hands have not stopped trembling, as she folds Ibrahim's clothes inside the suitcase. A phone then begins to ring, jolting her.

"Hello?"

"Shehnaz, oh dear, are you alright?"

Tears well in her eyes, no. No, she wasn't, of course not. She clears her throat, answering.
"I'm fine, aunty. Why're you calling? Is everything fine? Did something happen?"

"Your uncle— he needs surgery. And we need a relative's consent for that. Since you're the closest to him, I was thinking if you knew anyone."

"I— no. I don't know anyone, I can try find out, but that needs time. Talk to the doctors, they know him. He has worked there for decades, what do you mean they can't perform the surgery?"

Shehnaz rummages through the journals on the shelves. There must be something. Then as her elbow knocks out the diary on the counter, she kneels to pick it up.

Idris Sarsilmaz.
+44xxxxxxxx
Oxfordshire, London.

"Sarsilmaz? He must be family," she thinks, before hurriedly dialling the number.

LONDON, ENGLAND

His mind is full of void for ten minutes. He doesn't know what to think. Dreading, he finally opens the envelope, wetting his dried lips in anticipation. A photograph falls out, and he picks it up.

"After so long, is this it? A picture of his new family?" A myriad of thoughts run over his mind, and he almost feels silly— childish, as if taken back to when he was younger.

He looks at the picture, it's of a woman.

She's wearing a salwar kameez and holding a kitten pressed against her cheek. Her hair falls in tumbles of onyx, and some locks appear a burnt terracotta, stopping at her hip. She appears to be in the middle of laughing. Her eyes are almond shaped— a deep opal, almost as dark as the night sky, yet they're shining— as if the sky is freckled with countless constellations. The gaze is so melancholic— like she realises time isn't her possession— even though she's smiling, causing a strange ache to form in his chest. And her cheekbones are sharp, as if cut out from marble from the very hands of Picasso.

He blinks, shifting out of a daze. But his heart hasn't slowed down, his brows furrow, and he turns the photograph over.

Shehnaz Yussef
November 11, 2019.
Amsterdam, Netherlands.

"Za la taa sara dera zyat meena laram, aw zwand ghayri taa na kizji"

Eng. Take care of her for me.

Idris' mind goes absolutely numb. Seventeen years since he has heard from his father, and the first thing he hears is this? He didn't even know the woman for god's sake.

He needed answers, now.

__________________

"Sir, the departure is in two hours. Is that okay?"

He nods, bringing out his passport and credit card. His mind is elsewhere, as he watches the snow fall outside the glass walls.

His phone rings, jolting him out of his thoughts.

"Is this Idris, Idris Sarsilmaz?"

"Yes. Who's asking?"

"Ibrahim. Are you related to him?"

His breath gets caught up his throat, who was this? And why today of all days, how come every grave from his past is coming after him altogether?

"I'm his son." He says, letting his own words sink in.

"He's— he's in the hospital. He needs a surgery, and we don't know anyone from his family."

He hears her voice break, and his heart at the same time once he listens to those words.

"Hello? Are you there?"

Idris releases a sharp breath, a lump already forming in his throat.

"I— I'm a doctor. What hospital is he in? I'll talk to them."

"AMC. Please do, it's urgent."

"Is his condition serious?"

"I can't say much on phone," she pauses, and he can almost hear the tremble in her voice.

"But come here. He's so alone, and— and he needs someone there, anyone."  The voice on the other line says, pleading. For a second, he almost thinks she's talking about herself; desperate, alone and broken. 

"I'll be there."