by Parker Bilal
CITY OF
JACKALS
PARKER BILAL
Anubis’s heart is happy over the work of his hands and the heart of the Lord of the Divine Hall is thrilled when he beholds this good god, Master of those that have been and Ruler over those that are to come.
Coffin Texts no. 197
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
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Prologue
She opens her eyes to find the nightmare is not over. It’s still very real. It takes her a moment to recognise the face leaning over her. Her brother seems to have aged a lifetime, no longer the soft young boy she has always known.
‘Jonah!’
‘Shhh.’ He puts out a hand to silence her roughly. She can smell his fear.
The room is close, gloomy and hot, the air thick with the smell of oil and dust. Dark, even though she can hear what sounds like a street in full swing. Daytime, but it’s hard to see. The details come back to her slowly, torn fragments floating by like moths in the air. Their dreams so close. It pained her to think of that now, of everything that had lain ahead of them and was now gone. Tears well up inside her chest again and she sucks desperately at the hot air of the sealed room, trying to breathe.
‘Where are we?’ she repeats, over and over, unable to get beyond this simple question.
Jonah sinks down beside her and puts his arm around her shoulders. They are slumped on the hard floor, their backs to the wall.
‘Listen to me,’ he says. ‘We don’t have much time.’
‘Why are they keeping us here?’
She can’t bring herself to look at him. She knows he has no answers, that for all his bravery he is as scared as she is. Beatrice feels exhausted, too tired to even stand. She feels as though she has been running all her life.
‘I’m not going back to that place,’ Jonah says. Beatrice starts to sob quietly to herself again. ‘I’m not,’ he repeats. ‘You know what will happen.’
‘Then what? What can we do?’
‘We must escape from here.’
‘But how?’
There is no way out. The room is small. There is one door and no windows. She can hear the sound of a television from somewhere above them, an advertisement for some kind of snack. A silly, childish jingle. It seems to come from another world.
They had almost made it. Then everything seemed to slip away.
‘Why did they do it?’ The image of Jonah leaning over her came back to her. The fear. The blood on his T-shirt. ‘I don’t understand,’ she cries.
Her brother silences her with a finger to his lips. Now he has his head pressed against the door. She moves closer and they stay like that. Outside there is the sound of a car. The engine stops. A door opens and closes. Voices whisper. She cannot take her eyes away from Jonah.
He is all she has, all she has ever had for as long as she can remember.
This is not the first time they have faced danger together. She still remembers when they were children and the soldiers came. That day their mother took them to the edge of the village and told them to run and never look back. Smoke was already rising in thick black plumes from the huts. An uncle ran towards them, his clothes burning. She saw a soldier step out and shoot him. As easily as if he were a dog. From their hiding place they watched their mother being dragged away by a group of men in uniform. They were grinning and laughing. Jonah wanted to go back and rescue her, but it was Beatrice who knew that would be the last thing they ever did. So they turned and ran and now, after all of this, all these years, they were running again.
Everything had been going so well. It pained her to think that her dreams were over.
Beatrice recalls falling asleep. Something in the drink they had been given. When she woke up it was like waking up inside a nightmare. She thought she was going to die, but then Jonah had saved her, had saved them. He fought. She watched him, too terrified to move. He was strong and fast. He had learned to fight on the streets when he was a child.
Somehow he got them out of there. Then they were running along the road in the dark, through the oncoming cars. She was terrified. Cars beeped their horns, drivers leaned out of their windows and yelled curses. Luckily the cars weren’t moving fast. Men shouted insults, called her dirty names. She was aware that she had lost most of her clothes. It was hard to run, her legs seemed to be asleep. So many cars, so hard to know which way to go. They walked for hours, keeping to the sidestreets, away from the light. Jonah said he knew a place, somewhere they would be taken care of. When they came in sight of the square she saw what he meant. The camp. There in the lights on the square, she saw people who would help them. She could have cried.
They almost made it. Then a car came out of nowhere, cutting across their path and knocking Jonah to the ground. He was hurt, bleeding. He tried to get up. Two men jumped out and grabbed him. They kicked him and threw him in the boot of the car. Then they came for her.
Beatrice screamed and called for help. A woman watched from a balcony but then simply turned away and disappeared inside. The men tied her hands and threw her in the back of the car. She could hear Jonah crying in rage from the boot.
She listens at the door, straining to hear the voices. In the distance, the sound of a muezzin calling people to prayer, the lazy honk of car horns, the rumble of traffic. They are in a basement, that much she knows, but why, why are they holding them here? She feels despair wash over her again. Jonah rests a hand on her shoulder. He points upwards towards a small metal hatch set high on the wall.
‘It’s the only way.’
‘But we don’t know what’s on the other side.’
‘Whatever it is, it’s better than dying in here.’
Beatrice shakes her head. ‘It’s hopeless. We can never reach that.’
‘If you get onto my shoulders you can reach it.’
‘Then what? How do you get up?’
Jonah doesn’t answer. He places his hands flat against the wall and she climbs up onto his shoulders. It’s not easy –she is weak from the ordeal, lack of sustenance, fear. The sound of voices draws close, silencing them. Two men. A third behind them, an older man. When someone rattles the padlock Beatrice gives a shriek. There’s a moment’s silence. One of them thumps the door with something heavy, followed by laughter.
‘Can you reach it?’
They can hear the screech of metal being dragged along the doorframe very slowly.
�
�I can’t reach it.’
‘Yes, you can. You can do it,’ Jonah urges.
She stretches up slowly, her fingertips scraping over the cement. At full stretch she can only reach it with the tips of her fingers. The bolt is old and rusty. She struggles to pull it back.
‘I can’t do it.’
‘You must. It’s our only chance.’ She feels him trembling beneath her and knows that he can’t hold her up for much longer. With a grunt, she tries again, ignoring the pain in her fingertips. Finally, with all that remains of her strength she manages. The bolt flies loose and the metal hatch swings open. Taking hold, she pulls herself up until the floor inside the hatch is level with her eyes.
‘What can you see?’
‘A room. Very dark, but I can feel the wind. I think we can get out.’
‘Then go.’
‘No,’ Beatrice cries. She feels herself grow weak and slides back down, almost falling. ‘I’m not leaving you.’
‘You have to go. I can’t hold you for much longer.’
So finally she launches herself upwards, grasping the edge and pulling herself into the narrow space. She rolls over, reaches down for his hand.
‘Now you.’
The door flies open with a crash. The two men stand in the doorway. One of them holds an axe. There is another, older man behind them.
‘Jonah!’ she screams.
‘Go,’ he shouts. ‘Run.’
She rolls away and crawls through the narrow space, feeling her way with her hands. All around her is blackness. Ahead of her she can feel air. There is a way out. She just has to believe she will find it.
Chapter One
Makana’s body ached as if he was coming down with a fever. He hadn’t slept well, in fact he’d spent most of the night sitting in the big wooden chair on the upper deck watching for the sky to grow light.
It was December. The end of the year was just over a week away, but this winter seemed harder than any he could remember, which made him wonder if time was beginning to take its toll. Perhaps he was starting to feel his age. The awama, the houseboat he’d come to know as home, felt as squalid and damp as a sunken wreck. Thin wisps of morning mist drifted over the surface of the river. A fisherman balanced on the bow of his small boat as he struggled to untangle his nets. Makana wrapped the blanket more tightly around his shoulders. The electric radiator at his feet generated about as much heat as a candle. Cold air whipped around him in vicious draughts that found every little crack in the lopsided structure, window shutters, roofing sheets and doorframes. This was the last year, he promised himself. He had to move out. Find somewhere on dry land with proper walls around it. He couldn’t go on like this.
He considered lighting a cigarette, but the last one had triggered an attack of coughing so violent it had left him wheezing like a geriatric on his last legs. Beside his chair was the stack of books that he relied on to get him through the bouts of insomnia that seemed to come more and more often these days. Mainly it served as a stand for his packet of Cleopatras and his lighter. Reaching now for a cigarette, Makana noticed that the top of the stack was occupied by a volume on ancient Egyptian medicine. It was curious, he reflected, how one could draw comfort from knowledge that served absolutely no practical purpose. As he smoked, he fixed his eyes on the flickering orange lamp on the radiator switch in the hope that it would convey some warmth. In a while the sun would break through the mist and the day would warm up. He could call Aziza to make him some tea. The breeze rustled the newspapers stuffed into the cracks in the window frames.
The previous night he had visited the Verdi Gardens, a respectable Italian restaurant in Zamalek, its dark and somewhat gloomy interior crowded with fake neoclassical pillars wrapped in plastic vines. The effect was complemented by a number of oil paintings in heavy frames that adorned the walls. They depicted scenes from Rome – the Colosseum, the Spanish Steps, a touch of class from times gone by. The rest of the wall space was strewn with cheap prints in tacky frames – sunset over the Bridge of Sighs, the leaning Tower of Pisa, the kind of décor that might come your way from a cousin who happened to be in the tourist business. The Verdi Gardens had been in the Hafiz family for three generations. The current owner was Hossam Hafiz, grandson of the original Hafiz who, many years ago, had once visited Italy and decided there was a sacred bond between Italian cuisine and his own country. The embodiment of this connection was the composer Giuseppe Verdi, who, rumour had it, was commissioned by the Khedive to write the opera Aïda for the opening of the Cairo Opera House in 1871. The story had passed into legend and, like so many tales about this country, it was overshadowed by doubt.
In its heyday, the Verdi Gardens had been an exclusive place, frequented by film stars and their mistresses. Now it looked a touch old-fashioned and neglected. In a country that was so fond of its own cuisine there was little motivation to explore foreign fare. The Verdi Gardens’ appeal rested on its prestigious reputation, a style that recalled another age, one in which the finer aspects of European culture were appreciated in this country.
By the looks of the people dining last night, it wasn’t just the place that was getting on. The clientele of loyal patrons were also beginning to show their age. Young people went elsewhere. Those with money preferred to spend it in new venues: the lavish, open-air restaurants along the Nile that made you think you’d stepped into a movie. They modelled themselves on the French Riviera, or Los Angeles. It didn’t much matter which. Times had moved on, leaving Mr and Mrs Hafiz in possession of a gloomy place where elderly couples tucked into creamy pasta dishes that didn’t strain their dentures.
Still, the Hafiz family were managing. They had few worries in the world other than maintaining standards and keeping up appearances. That is, until their son Mourad went missing. They had heard nothing from him in nearly three weeks, but when he failed to attend the little party that had been arranged to celebrate his mother’s birthday they began to suspect that something was wrong. They went through the usual routine – called his mobile repeatedly, went to visit his hostel room at the university, talked to his friends. All that remained after that was to check the hospitals, and finally they did what they had been hoping to avoid and went to the police, which resulted in a series of interviews with a parade of different officers, the filling out of a variety of forms and, finally, absolutely no result. It was their lawyer Munir Abaza who advised them to find an independent investigator to look for their son, which is where Makana came in. Abaza was a colleague of his old friend Amir Medani, and so the world turns.
Mr and Mrs Hafiz were in their early fifties. Both had that weary, lived-in look of a couple weighed down by years of good eating and now by concern about their only son. They seemed oddly out of place, as if trying to live up to the standards of another age, like marble busts or leather-bound books. Also present at the meeting was their daughter Sahar, in her twenties. She listened attentively to everything that was said, but contributed little. Makana had the impression she disapproved of their choice of investigator, or else she was holding something back, or perhaps had some sort of grudge against her brother. In any case she kept her mouth shut and her head down most of the time. She tended to avoid Makana’s gaze when he looked in her direction.
They sat at a big round mahogany table in the centre of the dining room usually reserved for large parties. Mr Hafiz did most of the talking. He was small in stature and fleshy, with a dusting of flour in his thick hair, his hands clasped together on the table in front of him and his head bowed.
‘Mourad is headstrong. When he gets an idea into his head he sticks with it.’
‘He gets that from you,’ declared Mrs Hafiz, turning to Makana. ‘They are alike, father and son, perhaps too much so. My husband and son argue often, sometimes fiercely. But when it is over, it is forgotten.’
‘We never bear a grudge. We never let things drag out. We just . . . carry on.’
Makana glanced at the daughter to see if she had anything to add. If
she did she was keeping it to herself.
‘Mourad is at university.’
‘Ain Shams. Studying engineering.’
‘Is that something you approved of?’ asked Makana. Hossam Hafiz smiled.
‘Nowadays it makes little difference what the parents want. Whether I approved or not he would do what he wanted. I understand that. I was like him when I was young, but I had responsibilities. Young people today don’t know the meaning of the word.’
‘Baba . . .’ began the daughter. Her father silenced her with a dismissive wave before continuing.
‘I was expected to take over the business from my father. That is the idea of a family business, the next generation takes up the burden and carries on.’
‘But Mourad didn’t want that?’
‘He had ideas of his own. I decided, fine, let him follow his dreams. Let him study to become an engineer. One day he may wake up and decide that he wants to come back and take over the business.’
‘But he gave no indication that this was his plan?’
‘Not at all.’ Mr Hafiz shook his head. ‘He takes his studies very seriously.’
‘We hardly see him.’ Mrs Hafiz decided she would not remain silent any longer. ‘Even though he’s here in the same town. Other mothers see their sons more often than we do. They come home to eat. Some of them even live at home. Not Mourad. He wanted to live in the hostel, to be independent. Independent of what? That’s what I’d like to know. What did we ever do to make him feel that he was not free?’
‘Yallah, Medihah, don’t excite yourself.’ Hossam Hafiz put out a hand to cover his wife’s. ‘As you can see, Mr Makana, we are rather upset by this whole business. We can’t understand where he could be, and we fear the worst.’
‘Baba . . .’ The daughter again implored, and again her father lifted a hand to calm her.
‘It’s okay. We must be prepared.’ Hafiz addressed Makana. ‘Do you think you can find him?’
‘It depends. You understand that if your son doesn’t want to be found there’s a good chance he won’t be. Is there a possibility he might have left the country?’
