by Max China
Carla put a hand out and said, ‘Don’t worry ... if you can just give me an address, I’ll get out of your hair.’
‘That poor family really has gone through it,’ Rusty said, staring glassy-eyed at the stream of smoke billowing from the end of the cigarette. ‘How much do you owe him? Can’t be much. Leave it with me and I’ll see it gets to him.’
‘His family, you mean?’
‘Whatever ... I shouldn’t have had that last puff,’ she said, a Cheshire cat grin fixed on her face. ‘What did you say before that?’
‘The address, can you give me the address? I want to take the money in person.’
Rusty looked blank. ‘I don’t think I know it ... but I know where it is.’
Carla unfolded the Google map she’d printed out. ‘Can you show me on there?’
Taking the map, Rusty turned it all the way through 360 degrees. ‘Just getting my bearings,’ she said. ‘Ah, here we are, here.’ Holding her thumb over the spot, she reached onto the coffee table and picked up a pen. Marking the spot with an X, she squinted at the outer edge of the page. ‘It’s somewhere here ... I think you may have cut the edge of the page off showing where you want ... no, wait, here it is, here ... It’s the last house down on the left, with a blue door.’ She drew a line down through the alleyways leading from the main road. ‘There,’ she said, checking the route a second time. ‘That’s as much as I can do. Will you be OK? I’m sorry, I should take you there, but you know how it is ...’ She eyed her joint.
‘Thanks, Rusty. How long to walk it?’
‘Don’t walk, get a cab,’ she said, closing her eyes.
The driver dropped her right outside. She had to smile. The last house down, with a blue door. All the doors were blue. The entrance seemed familiar, though, and the door creaked as she let herself in. Blinking in the reduced light, she moved to the left and knocked at the door of his apartment.
Mohammed’s father answered.
A taxi driver by trade, his memory for places and people was excellent. He had a large spoon in his left hand. ‘What you want? You have caused this family enough grief.’
‘I know, I ... I just wanted—’
‘I do not care what you wanted. Go, now.’
‘To give you some money, that’s what I wanted.’ She took the envelope from her bag and held it out to him.
He snatched it from her. ‘Money!’ he spat in disgust. ‘You think the money can change what you did? Get away from my door,’ he said, brandishing the spoon.
She staggered back.
He slammed the door.
Well, what else did you really expect, Carla? That he’d say you were forgiven? The lightness of her step had disappeared as she trudged out the way she’d come in, pulling the door closed behind her.
She headed for the top of the alley.
Deep in thought, she’d covered twenty paces before a door rasped on its hinges, opening to her left. An elderly woman dressed in black peered at her through the gap, eyes filled with suspicion. Back down the street, another door creaked as it opened. Don’t they oil the bloody hinges out here? Absently, she concluded that it must be all that sandy dust.
Something Miller once said came to her, his voice in her head. If everything’s for sale, then what price do you put on soul? Well, at least he took the money. Maybe it was best that the father had banged the door in her face.
A tap-tapping sound, followed by the rasping scrape of something metallic dragging, filtered into her consciousness, getting faster, building like some crazy jazz rhythm.
She didn’t turn around. Instead, she picked up her pace.
‘Lady?’
She froze.
‘Is that you, lady?’
Her heart leaped. It can’t be.
She turned slowly, as if in a dream, to face the boy lurching towards her with one leg in calipers, steadying himself with a Zimmer frame.
‘Mohammed?’
She ran to him. ‘I’ve never been more pleased to see anyone in my life ... but how?’
The boy’s pale face lit up with a smile. ‘Allah, he say, I no want you now. Later, maybe. Now, I just take football life … the rest, you keep.’
She wept.
Mohammed shuffled closer and took her hand. ‘No cry, lady ... please. My father, he say I am miracle boy – come back from the dead. For this, we celebrate.’
Wiping her face dry, she said, ‘Of course, but your leg … it looks so bad.’ She nodded towards the scaffold-like apparatus enclosing his broken limb. ‘Will you be able to walk properly again, without those things?’
‘In one more operation, maybe two, he will be better. But I keep him, lady,’ he said, leaning on the Zimmer.
A distant and now familiar creak reached her ears.
‘Mohammed,’ his father bellowed, ‘sortir de cette prostituée.’
Carla cringed, stung by the words.
‘I have to go,’ he said, turning away. ‘He blames you, lady, for this. But I say, no, this is the will of Allah, who does no thing for no reason.’ Completing his manoeuvre, he spoke over his shoulder, ‘Au revoir, lady, fare you well.’
‘And you, Mohammed,’ she said, tears dripping from her cheeks. ‘And you.’
She stood watching him lunge and scrape towards his father, who hissed something unintelligible, gesturing for the boy to hurry.
At the door, Mohammed slowly turned, completing the process of changing direction, and lifted the frame through the opening.
She had her hand half-raised, ready to wave.
He went inside without looking back.
In the morning Carla got up early and made a few telephone calls, one of them to a friend who worked in the claims department of a medical insurance company.
‘Jilly, it’s Carla … yes, it has been a long time … ’
After a quick exchange of pleasantries, Carla said, ‘Can I ask you a quick question? Who’s the best orthopaedic surgeon dealing with fractures in Morocco?’
Jilly paused. ‘Have you broken something?’
No, it isn’t for me. It’s for a compound leg fracture ... a friend ... I’ll explain later.’
‘Why Morocco? You’d be far better off in England ...’
‘I understand that, but I’m in Essaouira at the moment, and this friend is a Moroccan national. Too much red tape. If I could get to see someone while I’m here, it would be brilliant.’
‘I see. I’ll have to come back to you, Carla.’
Half an hour later, Jilly called back. ‘It’s a Mr Hussain. I’ll send you his details. Is your email still the same…?
Two days later, she managed to secure an appointment to see the surgeon at the hospital, and then only because she’d greased the palms of several personnel in the pecking order leading up to him.
‘What you are asking is if I can perform another miracle. I re-examined the x-rays before you came in.’ Leaning further over the desk, he clasped his hands together and said, ‘I saved his leg, that was as much as I could do. This proposal ... I could re-operate ... I’ve been working closely with a colleague, a specialist in pioneering orthopaedic techniques. It is possible we can improve it … maybe two more operations, but it will cost much money. Who will pay for this?’
‘I will,’ she said.
With a look of surprise, he scrawled a figure onto his pad and pushed it to her. ‘You have this much money?’
Carla’s took in the figure, her shock registering only in the tiniest flicker of her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said, evenly. ‘I’d like you to take all necessary steps to organize it, now. And the other thing is this ... I don’t want anyone else to know. This is strictly between you and me. If anyone asks, you’re to say that you believe the work was covered by an insurance payout. Do we have a deal?’ She put out her hand.
He took it. ‘I’ll get my secretary to organize the paperwork.’
Chapter 34
Essaouira, 15 February 2010
A little over two years had passed since Moha
mmed was summoned back to hospital for further consultations with Mr Hussain who had proposed, due to the nature of the fractures, the use of coral bone engineering.
Mohammed had endured a seemingly endless round of minor and not-so-minor operations. Third-generation implants were supplemented by pieces of bone harvested for reuse, for grafting and rebuilding the breaks in his leg. Plates were inserted, then wires and screws; he’d given up trying to keep track. The amount of bone needed meant a donor was required and, without hesitation, his father had volunteered grafts from his own hips and ribs.
Time dragged.
Finally, Mr Hussain had given permission for the cast to come off.
Mohammed had convalesced and waited, knowing that if he tried walking too soon he ran the risk of undoing all the good work.
At first he’d walked slowly, favouring the newly healed leg, afraid to put more weight on it. He followed a strict exercise regime, gradually rebuilding his physical strength. At times, when pushing himself too hard, he’d hear Mr Hussain’s voice reminding him: Don’t rush things ...
It was a beautiful spring morning; the sun blazed low in a cloudless, cerulean sky. He sat in the front seat of the car while his father drove his younger siblings to school and then, after that, they continued together into town.
‘We will walk to the market for fish, for dinner tonight.’
Mohammed nodded. He felt giddy and lightheaded as if he could have walked for miles, if he’d wanted to. The cacophonous screeching of seagulls cheered him; to be so close to them once again ...
Strolling through the stone temple archway onto the harbour, he saw a group of his friends playing football. They saw him immediately and, calling his name, rushed to greet him.
Boomph. Someone kicked a ball and simultaneously shouted, ‘Hey Mo ...’
Mohammed stepped two short paces and, half-turning, thrust his chest out to meet the ball. He stopped it. The ball dropped to his feet.
His foot rested on top and his eyes grew fierce, ready for the challenge.
‘Be careful,’ his father said. ‘Your leg ...’
One of the boys cried, ‘Mohammed ... Go!’
And he went – fleet, almost as before.
His father watched with pride as his son cut a swathe through the other boys, amid whoops of delight.
Leaning against a wall, he watched, thinking on their unknown benefactor; for he was no fool – there was no insurance. Could it have been the woman? The one Mohammed called ‘lady’? No, he decided, she had already given money. If it had been her, she would have said.
He turned and gazed out over the gently bobbing blue vessels, and beyond … across the sea and on to the horizon, where azure skies dipped and melded with the water in a misty heat-haze.
His thoughts touched on the boy’s mother, his beloved wife, whom Allah had seen fit to take away from him. Overcome with emotion, he raised his voice, cracked and broken, unheard against the noise of screaming gulls … realizing that while He takes with one hand, he gives with the other, he dropped his voice to a reverential whisper. ‘Mon garçon miracle ... Allah be praised.’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Max currently works as a construction professional, writing in his spare time. His debut novel The Sister, was released in November 2013.
The Life and Times of William Boule, is his second novel.
Max China is a pen name.
Table of Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
