The Ghost Runner

by Parker Bilal

  ‘This is a small town,’ Hamama said as they drove back into town. ‘Everyone goes to the same school. They all marry one another’s cousins. We have small-town problems and we take care of them ourselves. But something like this . . .’ He shook his head. ‘This is the kind of thing that brings people running and sticking their noses into our business.’ He glanced over at Makana. ‘We have to find out who did this as soon as possible. And you’re going to help me.’

  It was still light when they arrived at Doctor Medina’s house on the outskirts of town. A large villa sinking into the shadows, set back in a garden thick with tamarind bushes and fig trees. Old palm trees bowed gracefully over a sandy drive that ended below a staircase on the left-hand side of the building. Wooden shutters on the upper floor were all closed. To the right of the stairs was a large screen door hanging from one hinge that led into the cool, dark interior of a waiting room. A fan turned lazily overhead but the benches were deserted. Sadig and the skinny officer carried the stretcher through another set of doors into the interior.

  A tall, dishevelled man appeared. There was a distracted air about him. His shirt collar was askew, the tails hung out of the front of his trousers. His white coat was torn and stained and had what appeared to be burn marks on the sleeve. He stood swaying in the doorway as if unable to make up his mind which way to go, running a big hand alternately over his unshaven chin and through his hair which was thick and greying, pushed back from his forehead in a messy ruffle. There was something boyish and lost about his features and Makana caught the sharp reek of alcohol on his breath as he squeezed past into the examination room, doing his best to hold up his arm of the stretcher before the ungainly Qadi slipped to the floor. Sergeant Hamama stopped off in the reception room to use the telephone on the counter. A worried man. The two policemen placed the stretcher on the wooden table that served as the doctor’s operating table, then retired outside to smoke. Makana and the doctor looked at one another over the Qadi’s corpse splayed out on the table between them. The plastic tablecloth had slipped and the raw guts were exposed. The raucous buzz of excited flies filled the air and the doctor went over and flicked on a blue UV light set high on the wall that hissed every time one of them was drawn in and fried on the electric grille.

  Doctor Medina leaned against the row of cabinets behind him and lit a cigarette.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘I’m Makana.’

  ‘Of course you are.’ Doctor Medina’s eyes narrowed as he inhaled deeply. ‘I see you’ve met our dear Qadi, our little community’s judge and spiritual guide.’

  ‘I happened to be with the sergeant when the call came in.’

  ‘A bad time to arrive.’ The doctor’s eyes were deep-set and dark. They examined Makana more carefully now. ‘A visitor? Sightseeing?’

  ‘He’s an investigator from Cairo,’ said Sergeant Hamama as he stamped into the room, ‘and he’s helping me with this.’ He stuffed pieces of gum into his mouth, his jaws chomping up and down between words. ‘Now, tell me what we have here.’

  ‘We have one dead Qadi,’ said Doctor Medina. ‘Other than that your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘That’s all you can say? Why do you think we brought him to you?’

  ‘You brought him here because you have no choice.’

  Doctor Medina turned and stubbed out his cigarette deliberately in a steel kidney dish that was piled high with butts and ash.

  ‘It goes without saying that your services are invaluable. Is that what you want to hear? Good, now that you’ve made your point perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me what killed our illustrious friend?’

  ‘Perhaps I should be more cautious?’ Doctor Medina mused as he removed the tablecloth and leaned over the corpse. ‘I could get myself into a lot of trouble.’

  ‘You’ll be in more trouble if you don’t co-operate. That much I can tell you.’ Sergeant Hamama thrust his hands into his pockets and glanced mournfully across at Makana. ‘If I go through official channels this could take weeks, and by then I’d be up to here with officials and red tape. They’d drum me back to directing traffic while they took all the glory.’

  ‘That is the closest I am going to get to thanks.’ Doctor Medina pulled up a surgical mask and peered down the dead man’s throat. He paused, then reached over to the set of instruments laid out on a tray and selected a set of long forceps. A harsh whiff of ammonia was beginning to come off the corpse. The set of forceps came alive, little arms flailing from side to side beneath the doctor’s broad grin. ‘Salt-water crabs,’ he said, dropping the creature into the sink where it could be heard scrabbling about trying to climb up the porcelain sides.

  ‘Can you tell if he was drowned first or cut open?’ Makana asked. The doctor glanced at him over his surgical mask.

  ‘What did you say he is here for?’ he asked Hamama.

  ‘He’s looking for someone.’

  ‘Who exactly?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Someone from a long time ago.’

  ‘Musab Khayr,’ said Makana.

  ‘That is a long time ago,’ said Doctor Medina, looking over at Makana.

  ‘Do you remember him?’ asked Makana.

  ‘This is a small town. Everyone knows everyone.’

  ‘Doctor, I hate to remind you, but we have a dead Qadi on our hands,’ grumbled the sergeant.

  ‘As you say, and since he’s dead he’s not going anywhere.’ Doctor Medina turned back to Makana. ‘Why are you interested in Musab Khayr?’

  Before Makana had a chance to speak the sergeant answered for him. ‘A girl killed herself and he’s being paid to think of it as murder. Now can you get on with this?’

  ‘They must be paying you well for you to come all this way,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Forget about it,’ Sergeant Hamama said in an exasperated tone. ‘His expenses don’t run to financing the medical profession.’

  ‘Sounds as if you have already enquired,’ said Doctor Medina.

  ‘Please, just get on with the job.’

  ‘Very well.’ The doctor turned his attention back to the dead man on the table. ‘In answer to your question, it is relatively simple to conduct a rudimentary examination.’ Another fly sputtered against the electric grille leaving a charred smell in the air. ‘How was this girl related to Musab?’

  ‘She was his daughter,’ Makana said.

  ‘He was a nasty character. I remember that much. He ran away with Tewfiq Abubakr’s daughter.’

  ‘Unlucky man.’ Hamama, still chewing fiercely, took over. ‘Had three daughters, and they all ended up badly.’ His memory seemed to be miraculously restored.

  ‘One of them went abroad. They had a big house on the Dakrur road,’ said the doctor.

  ‘We went out to look at the place,’ Sergeant Hamama went on. ‘Not a lot of it left. Now, why don’t you do something useful and tell me how the Qadi died?’

  Doctor Medina stepped away from the body and leaned against the counter that ran along the wall. He pulled down his mask and reached for another cigarette which he had trouble lighting until Makana stepped in with his lighter.

  ‘Watch out he doesn’t go up in flames,’ muttered Sergeant Hamama.

  The doctor ignored the comment and focussed on his cigarette. ‘He’s been in the water for more than twelve hours. My guess would be around twice that.’

  ‘How can you tell?’ asked the sergeant.

  ‘Rigor mortis,’ said Makana.

  ‘Very good,’ said the doctor, his eyes on Makana. ‘Maybe you don’t need me, Sergeant.’

  ‘Twenty-four hours, so that would make it around sunset yesterday evening.’ Hamama was moving around the table, hands thrust into his trouser pockets. He stabbed a finger at the corpse. ‘Doctor, do you have any idea what kind of instrument could do something like that?’

  Cigarette ash spilled down the front of Doctor Medina’s white coat as he leaned forward to examine the edges of the wound.

  ‘Something sharp.�
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  ‘Very good.’ Hamama stared at the ceiling. ‘I really couldn’t ask for a better team.’

  ‘A good, clean blade, I would say. Not very long.’ The doctor began digging away with his fingers at the flap of skin. ‘Nice, clean slice. No signs of struggle.’

  ‘It looks almost surgical, wouldn’t you say?’ Makana suggested.

  ‘Yes,’ Doctor Medina mused. ‘It does look almost too clean, except where the fish have got at it.’ He glanced at the sergeant. ‘I’m going to need some time. I have to do blood tests and so on.’ He took hold of the head and twisted it from side to side, lifted up the hands, pressed his thumbs into the arms. ‘Salt has a preserving effect. It slows the process of decay,’ he said.

  ‘Why don’t you have the air conditioner on?’ Hamama grumbled.

  ‘It’s broken.’

  ‘You should talk to Wad Nubawi.’

  ‘I will,’ sighed the doctor, closing his eyes momentarily. ‘Musab left here with Abubakr’s daughter, neither of them has been seen since.’

  ‘Not that again.’ The sergeant was looking back and forth between them as though he couldn’t decide which one of them to hit first.

  ‘Who would he go to if he did come back?’

  ‘He wouldn’t dare,’ said Doctor Medina.

  ‘Can you tell if he drowned?’ Sergeant Hamama asked. The others looked over as though they had forgotten he was there.

  ‘I’ll have to check the lungs to see if there’s any water in there. But already I wonder about the amount of blood.’

  ‘Blood?’ echoed the sergeant.

  ‘An incision of this size would produce a sudden release of blood. The blood vessels would show signs of rupture.’

  ‘And that is not the case?’ asked Makana.

  ‘Look, I’m not a pathologist. It’s a while since I’ve done anything like this.’

  ‘I’ll say one thing.’ Hamama strolled to the head of the examination table and peered down into the bloated face. ‘He wasn’t much loved but I can’t say he deserved this.’

  ‘If I do this I’m going to need a formal request in writing.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about that.’ Sergeant Hamama scowled. ‘All you need is to do it quickly. There’s no time to waste. As soon as the papers get hold of this story I’ll be up to my ears in protocol.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to prison.’ The doctor moved to the sink and ripped off his gloves to begin washing his hands.

  ‘I told you, don’t worry about it. You’ll have everything you need.’

  ‘What do we do with him when I’ve finished? We can’t keep him here,’ Doctor Medina went on. ‘The other patients might complain about the smell. And we can’t bury him until we hand him over. So we need storage.’

  ‘What kind of storage?’ Sergeant Hamama frowned.

  ‘Ideally, a freezer of some kind.’

  ‘You don’t have one?’

  ‘An ice box. I don’t think he’d fit. I deal with the living, Sergeant, not the dead.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Hamama. ‘I’ll think of something.’

  ‘How important was he?’ Makana asked.

  Hamama straightened up, one hand to his aching back. ‘The Qadi has been the judge of this town for years. Everyone knows him. He runs the courts. Not criminal courts, you understand. For serious offences we send people to Mersa Matruh. This is more land disputes, divorces, debts that were unresolved. He represented the state, and around here no one likes being told what to do. This is a very traditional place, Makana. People like the old ways.’ He broke off to address the doctor. ‘I’ve solved your problem. Wad Nubawi has a big freezer in his shop. I’ll send a couple of the boys over to fetch it.’

  ‘You want to keep him in a supermarket freezer?’ Doctor Medina stared at the sergeant.

  ‘Why not?’ Sergeant Hamama shrugged. ‘Makes no difference to him.’ With that he picked up his hat and headed for the door. ‘You can keep him out in the garage. We don’t have a choice. Until I receive word that we’re getting extra resources we’re stuck with the man.’ With one hand on the handle he paused and looked at Makana. ‘I’ll run you back to your hotel.’

  ‘If it’s all right with you, I’d rather walk. I’d like some fresh air.’

  ‘Well, take as much as you want. It’s the one thing we have plenty of out here, along with sand, of course.’

  The door slammed behind him. Doctor Medina took his Rothmans out of his breast pocket. He regarded Makana curiously as he lit one.

  ‘Our sergeant seems to have taken a liking to you.’

  ‘He wants to keep an eye on me.’

  ‘He seems to think you can help him with the case.’

  ‘He’s desperate.’

  ‘Well, just be careful not to step on too many toes. People around here are sensitive about outsiders nosing around in their private affairs.’

  ‘I take it you’re not from here originally.’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’ Doctor Medina smiled. ‘The answer is no. But I settled here so long ago that most people will grudgingly accept me as a local.’

  ‘I’ll drop by to see how you’re getting on.’

  ‘Do that,’ said the doctor.

  On the short walk back to the hotel Makana noticed how astonishingly peaceful it was. He had forgotten how quiet the world could be. The road was dark and there were very few lights, but the stars were out and he was guided back to town by the ruins of the old town of Shali which rose up on a little hill. The walls were illuminated by bright floodlights. There was a ghostly aspect to the collapsed, abandoned houses, as if the spirits of that other time were still holding vigil over the present.

  The lights and sounds of Cairo seemed as far away as another galaxy. As he reached the main square a flaring match drew Makana’s attention to the second floor of a building with a long open veranda. A man was leaning on the brick parapet smoking, watching Makana go by. Above and behind him a halo of coloured lights rotated slowly under the ceiling, like a celestial chart of the heavens seen through a kaleidescope. A constellation of the insane.

  In the telephone shop on the far side of the main square, the Quran recitations still groaned through the squeaky loudspeakers. A lopsided picture of the Kaaba that hung on the wall behind the counter was the only decoration on display. The man behind the counter wore thick spectacles and a bushy beard covered his face. He looked up as though annoyed at having to break away from whatever meaningful task he was engaged in on his computer screen. Behind the thin circles of glass there lurked that familiar combination of disdain and righteousness. Makana called Ragab. There wasn’t much to report, but Makana felt obliged to let him know that his money was being put to constructive use.

  ‘I’ve located Karima’s family home. It looks like nobody has lived there for a long time.’

  ‘Do what you have to do,’ said Ragab. ‘But don’t feel obliged to stay there if it is leading nowhere. No harm in changing course.’

  When he stepped back out, the silence felt like a relief from the droning voice imploring piety. The streets were deserted, but arriving back at the hotel Makana found the lobby crowded with people. At first he thought it must be another football match, but Nagy, the manager, was sitting with a group of men watching the news on television. There were demonstrations in Cairo.

  ‘The Palestinians,’ Nagy said, glancing up from his chair. His eyes were sunken in the glow from the television set. Smoke curled from his hand as he covered his mouth to smoke. ‘May Allah destroy the homes of all the Jews.’

  Somebody laughed over in the corner and Makana made out a large, clumsy figure whom he had seen earlier in the day sweeping the floor.

  ‘Don’t laugh, Ayman, this is serious.’

  The big man fell silent and stared gloomily at the floor. He seemed to have the role of the lame dog everyone enjoyed kicking. Makana turned back to the images on the screen. Things had been escalating since the end of March when the Israelis had invaded the
West Bank in retaliation for a suicide bombing at a hotel in which thirty people were killed. Now tanks bearing the blue star of David were rolling through Ramallah. There were reports of a fierce battle in the town of Jenin. Yasser Arafat, chairman of the PLO, was under siege in his headquarters and protests had broken out all over the region. The excited news commentator showed demonstrators marching in Damascus, Khartoum, Rabat, as well as Cairo.

  ‘Mubarak is frightened,’ murmured one of the figures sitting in the dark, as images from the solidarity protests in Cairo returned. ‘Students are chanting, Mubarak, you coward, you’re a client of the Americans.’ He waved his phone in the air so that people could see his sources were authentic. It wasn’t the kind of detail you were likely to hear on the state-run media. Perhaps Sami had a point about new kinds of journalism; people wanted to tell their own stories.

  ‘It’s all being run by the Ikhwan,’ suggested another figure, only to be shouted down by the one with the mobile telephone.

  ‘The Brotherhood doesn’t want trouble with the government. This is the work of communists, believe you me.’

  ‘Nasserists, as well,’ offered Nagy from the back, which brought general approval. He went further. ‘Who knows, maybe they will bring down the government,’ he said, apparently in all sincerity. The notion was dismissed with hoots of laughter as the image of a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant that had been smashed up was displayed on screen as an example of the ‘vandalism’ that was taking place. Makana left them to it and retired upstairs. As he walked down the corridor towards his room a shadow emerged from his room.

  ‘Hey!’ he called. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  The man turned to reveal himself as Sadig, the hard-faced police corporal. Head shaven like an escapee from a lunatic asylum, tunic unbuttoned. He shut the door calmly and walked towards Makana nonchalantly.