Benyamin Khan watched from his car as the woman in the burqa left with the punter. He had been raised in the family business and understood its workings better than most, but the mind of these men was lost on him. He got that the punters had sexual proclivities they could not satisfy elsewhere, but not that someone might be willing to sell their sister, girlfriend or even mother to meet the needs of those people. And while he’d been raised in a world of grey areas, there were still lines of morality whose blurring made his stomach churn, and he knew his revulsion made him better than these men.

‘A Pukhtun’s woman is his honour,’ his father had told him. ‘Her seating place is in the heart. If you want to succeed in life, remember this: hear and heed your sisters and your mother, and in time your own wife. It is their birthright to speak, and it is your duty to listen. Women are like prisoners in our hands because they are physically weaker than men, but we must not abuse that power. A society that dishonours its women dishonours itself. Remember that; that is how He will judge us,’ he had said, pointing to the sky.

‘Then why do we take money from these men and their women, Baba?’

‘Man is neither good nor bad, Benyamin Khan. It is the deeds that are thus divided. And money is money, my son; it is not honourable or dishonourable, it is just necessary. That said, the world confers honour on the man who holds it. These men will whore their women without regard whether we allow them or not. By taking them under our wing we regulate things, make sure of the girls’ safety. In a way, it is an act of charity on our part.’ Benyamin had nodded at his father’s words, taking them as others might take Quranic scripture.

Despite his youth, he understood the workings of the family business and that times of austerity meant turning one’s hand to all kinds of work. Men needed to eat, and women had families to feed.

And in the Khan house that meant hundreds of families. Especially this week, since there was a wedding. One that Benyamin was responsible for overseeing.

He pulled his cuff back and glanced at his watch. He wore the price of a house on his wrist, thanks to his sister Jia. She had sent it to him on his twenty-first birthday. The vintage Patek Philippe went unnoticed among the gold Rolex watches his friends wore. His older sister had always been one for subtlety, looking dowdy among what some described as ‘the Chavistanis’. She hated the way people dressed themselves in their money. The watch told him he was late the way any other watch would have done, but this one did it while reminding him of his sister, her rebellion and her unconditional love for him.