The Ghost Runner

by Parker Bilal

  ‘Not exactly halal,’ observed Makana.

  ‘No,’ agreed Doctor Medina. ‘Do you think he minds? I doubt it. He was a pompous old fool anyway. So full of himself and his authority.’

  ‘Respect for the dead is not part of your medical duties, I take it.’

  ‘On the contrary, I have great respect for the dead, especially what they can teach us about helping the living. I’m not a religious man, Mr Makana. What do I call you by the way, do you have a first name?’

  ‘Makana is fine.’

  As the doctor lifted his glass in salute Makana half expected the Qadi to sit up in protest. Of all the indignities a pious man could suffer, surely being gloated over by a drunk waving a glass full of illicit alcohol would have to rank close to the worst.

  ‘What did you find?’

  Doctor Medina wiped a hand over his face and set his glass down on the edge of the freezer. He peered at Makana over the rim of his spectacles.

  ‘You understand that I am not a trained forensic pathologist. I don’t do autopsies. This whole thing is ridiculous. I risk losing my licence.’

  ‘You had no choice. This is an emergency and your help was requested by the police.’

  ‘That makes me feel a lot better,’ muttered the doctor. He nodded down at the body. ‘Water in the lungs.’

  ‘So he was drowned?’ Makana looked down at the gash running across the Qadi’s body almost from one side to the other. ‘And the cut happened before or after he was dead?’

  ‘After. And not only that, I found something strange. I ran a blood test and found traces of secobarbital.’

  ‘A sedative?’ asked Makana.

  Doctor Medina nodded. ‘It would knock you out. Remember this is at least twenty-four hours after his death, so the quantity ingested must have been fairly substantial.’

  ‘You’re suggesting somebody poisoned him.’

  ‘I need to do some more tests, but my hypothesis looks like this: the killer overpowered the Qadi with the sedative, then he drowned him, then he disembowelled him.’

  ‘That makes no sense. Why cut open the body of a dead man?’

  ‘Who knows? Perhaps it has some ritual signficance. There is nothing rational about murder. You ought to know that.’ The doctor reached for his glass. ‘I can only tell you what I know. It is up to you to draw your own conclusions.’

  It struck Makana that in this case the exact opposite was true. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble. If they just wanted to get rid of him then a stone to the back of the head would usually do the trick.

  ‘Why the abdomen?’

  ‘You mean symbolically?’ Doctor Medina’s eyebrows rose. ‘Well, the belly is traditionally where life is thought to reside. The centre of the body. In women it is where the womb is found, of course. The very cradle of life itself.’

  ‘And since the Qadi very clearly wasn’t a woman?’

  ‘It’s true. He was many things, but that he wasn’t.’ The doctor sighed. ‘I can’t tell you why it was done but I can tell you how. It was performed with a very sharp instrument, and it was done cleanly. The edges show there was little or no hesitation in the movement of the blade. It was one neat cut. Almost surgical.’ He glanced up as the implications of his words struck home.

  ‘You mean someone with medical training did this, like . . . a doctor.’

  ‘Exactly like a doctor.’ Swaying on his feet Doctor Medina peered into the bottom of his glass before lifting it and draining it in one. ‘Let’s go upstairs, it’s cold down here.’

  He switched off the overhead lights leaving only the glow from inside the refrigerator cabinet, illuminating the Qadi’s chilled remains.

  ‘Why cut him open at all then, if not to kill him?’

  ‘To help sink the body in the water?’

  Makana dismissed the suggestion. ‘He was found in shallow water. He couldn’t possibly have disappeared from sight. Unless the killer didn’t know that.’

  ‘You mean the killer might not be local?’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ said Makana.

  ‘What other explanation is there?’

  ‘That it means something.’

  ‘You mean like a message?’

  ‘To be honest, I have no idea.’

  Upstairs, Makana sat down while the doctor poured himself another drink. As he was slicing a lime to drop into his glass he said over his shoulder, ‘So tell me, why all the interest in Musab Khayr?’

  Makana told him about the fire and Karima’s death. The doctor pulled a face. ‘I’ve seen some bad cases but it is always one of the worst things you can see.’

  ‘I think someone tried to make it look like suicide.’

  ‘It happens,’ the doctor shrugged. ‘You think Musab is behind it?’

  ‘You must have been here back then, around the time he left.’

  ‘I might have been. Just because you live here doesn’t mean you know everyone.’

  ‘No, of course not. But you knew of him.’

  ‘Only in passing,’ said Doctor Medina. ‘He was involved in the smuggling gangs. But almost every family has someone who is involved.’ The doctor sipped his drink and pronounced it too weak. ‘Sure you won’t join me?’ he asked before spilling another jolt of the clear spirit into his glass.

  Makana leaned back in the sofa and blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘Musab went to prison. While inside he renounced his former life and turned to Allah.’

  The doctor giggled into his ice. ‘They all do it.’ He pushed a hand through his unruly hair and managed to light a cigarette without setting fire to himself, but only just. ‘Religion is a fraud. No,’ he wagged a finger unsteadily. ‘It’s a disease. It allows people to look down on their fellow man while extolling the virtues of brotherly love. They withdraw from the world and prepare for paradise and the hereafter where they are assured of a good seat to watch the rest of us burn. A pest, a plague. Religion is a parasite that feeds on us all.’

  ‘Musab married Nagat Abubakr. You mentioned her father last time I was here.’

  ‘I did?’ Doctor Medina’s face screwed up in concentration. ‘Well, her father, Tewfiq Abubakr, was descended from a very big family in the old days. Wealthy landowners.’

  ‘Do you know what happened?’

  ‘What always happens. They fell on hard times. The sons were less gifted than the fathers. Isn’t that always the case? I know it was in mine. My father was . . . well. Anyway, they sold off the land gradually to pay off their debts. The house fell into ruin, and by the time Tewfiq came along they were pretty much finished.’

  ‘Does the family still own any land?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  Makana wondered about the picture hanging on the wall of Karima’s flat in Cairo. What had it meant to her? A photograph of the old family home that she had never seen. Was it a promise of a brighter future? Many people dreamed of returning home to collect their just reward. Was that what Karima had been taught to believe by her mother?

  ‘What about his family?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have a feeling they also left soon after he did.’ Doctor Medina was staring deep into his glass. ‘He went to prison for something related to smuggling, didn’t he? What was it?’

  ‘Cigarettes and alcohol, as far as I know. There may have been carpets involved.’

  ‘Carpets?’ The doctor’s eyes widened and he rolled his head back. ‘Ah, now you see, carpets is another matter. You should speak to Wad Nubawi.’

  ‘The one with the supermarket?’

  ‘The very same.’ The doctor jabbed a finger at the floor below. ‘Wad Nubawi can get you anything you need, including refrigeration for any corpses you might happen to have about the house.’

  ‘I didn’t see any carpets.’

  ‘Oh, they don’t keep them there next to the frozen bamia,’ the doctor chuckled. ‘You have to ask. Carpets, refrigerators, televisions, air conditioning, even whisky, if you ask him kindly.’ Doctor Medina pointed vaguely in the dir
ection of south. ‘There is a place out there. Kalonsha. People talk of it almost as if it was one of those fabled cities. You know, like in The Thousand and One Nights?’

  ‘Kalonsha?’

  ‘It’s an old well on the desert routes. There are roads leading across the continent and nothing to stop you out there. The borders are impossible to police. Too big, too remote.’

  As he was seeing him out, Doctor Medina asked Makana about the motorcycle.

  ‘Kamal says he wants to just give it another look over before he lets me have it.’

  ‘That boy is bone lazy, everyone around here is. But you won’t regret it. The Norton is a fine machine. One of the few good things the British left out here. They also left us about twenty-two million landmines. Every now and then some poor child runs off to chase a stray sheep and gets blown to shreds. So just remember, never go off the tracks.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Makana.

  By the time he arrived back in town night was falling and the muezzin was chanting the call to the sunset prayer. The distant clip-clopping of a donkey announced a karetta on the far side of the square. Makana watched Bulbul throw a stone at the door of the big house on the corner. Turning back, his eye was caught by the flutter of colour overhead and the lights turning on the ceiling. The entrance to the coffee shop was partially concealed behind a wall and a heap of building sand that someone had forgotten. The only announcement was the English word Internet scratched on the wall with a piece of charcoal. A barrage of plastic crates forced any potential visitor to slip sideways through the doorway where a bare set of concrete steps led upwards. The veranda was deserted but for a small group of young men who lounged on big cushions in the far corner. It was dimly lit. A silence fell over the group as Makana appeared. Eventually, one of them got to his feet, slipped on a pair of sandals and wandered over. A short man in his late twenties with a thickening waist who had already lost most of his hair. He smiled as he approached.

  ‘Welcome. How can I be of service?’

  ‘Is this some sort of private club?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ the man dismissed the thought with a laugh. ‘Anyone is welcome here. We have coffee, tea, soft drinks.’

  ‘Tea is fine,’ said Makana.

  With a slight bow, the young man withdrew, disappearing through a set of louvered swing doors into what was presumably the kitchen. The white neon light from within seemed stark in contrast to the gloomy veranda. There was a strange feel to the place and Makana was aware of being watched by the men in the corner as he crossed over to a table by the wall where he could lean on the parapet and look down over the square. He lit a cigarette and found himself thinking of Zahra Sharif. Why did he feel she seemed to hold out some kind of promise?

  ‘Are you here on business?’

  The man set down the tea on the table. He had a round face, soft features and large, thick eyelashes that batted nervously.

  ‘I’m looking for someone,’ said Makana.

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ The young man smiled blandly, glancing over at his group of friends, clearly eager to get back to them. ‘I was just thinking I hadn’t seen you around here before.’ His eyes widened in invitation. ‘It’s always nice to see new faces.’

  Makana sipped his tea and smoked his Cleopatra, wondering how he could possibly be of interest to this man in that way. ‘Nice place you have here.’

  ‘The breeze makes a difference,’ said the man. ‘It comes from the desert. I’m Hamza by the way.’ He held out a hand which felt like a damp rag.

  ‘Makana. I had an old friend from here, years ago.’

  Hamza bit his lip with concern, as if there was nothing more he would like to do than help. His talents as an actor were going to waste in this oasis.

  ‘I’d like to help, but I’m not very good with names.’

  ‘No, of course. I understand. His name is Musab Khayr.’

  The name demarcated the limits to Hamza’s thespian talents. The wagging of the head continued, only now he was just going through the motions.

  ‘Like I said, I’m not good with names. I’ll ask around.’

  ‘That would be kind of you.’

  As he made to go Hamza’s eyes narrowed as two areas of his brain connected. ‘One second. You’re the one from Cairo, aren’t you? The one everyone is talking about?’ Without being invited, Hamza sat down. He glanced around him and lowered his voice. ‘You’re here to investigate the death of the Qadi.’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’ Makana asked.

  Hamza dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. ‘I hear things all the time. Is it true what they say, that he was cut from his throat to his manhood?’

  In a small town, information would have spread from any number of sources. The policemen on the scene, Sadig and the skinny officer whose name no one could remember, or even more likely from the man on the donkey who first found him, along with his faceless wife.

  ‘What did you think of him?’

  ‘Of the Qadi?’ Hamza sat back, a touch warily. Now he wasn’t sure who he was talking to.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Makana assured him. ‘I’m just trying to form a picture of the man. I need to understand why he was killed.’

  ‘Right, so I am helping you in your investigation?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  Hamza relaxed a little. ‘Well,’ he began, warming to the task as if being interviewed by a magazine. ‘Nobody liked him. An old man who wanted everything to stay the same. We have plenty of those.’

  ‘He represented the law.’

  ‘Oh, he made sure the law suited him. That’s the other thing.’ With another glance over his shoulder, as if any number of eavesdroppers might have sneaked up on tiptoe. ‘He ran everything. Building permits, planning permission. All of that had to go past him and you can be sure he took his share. They all do. Between him and that sergeant there isn’t much left for the rest of us.’ The sorrowful look suggested his life was one of eternal suffering.

  ‘Sergeant Hamama?’

  Hamza went on, ignoring the query. ‘I don’t envy you trying to find who killed him. Throw a stone off this balcony on market day and see who it strikes. Nobody liked him, not even that fool Mutawali, even though he is no doubt crying even as we speak. But . . .’ Hamza thrust a forefinger into the air, ‘there’s a difference between not liking the man, hating him even, for what he represents, and cutting him up like a kharouf.’ Hamza sat back and rested for a moment, breathing heavily. Then he got abruptly to his feet to return to his friends in the corner. He paused as he went by. ‘I wish you luck with your work, but whoever did this does not deserve to be punished.’

  Makana sipped his tea. It wasn’t particularly good tea. The young men who frequented the place clearly preferred Coca-Cola and the like. It was a kind of haven for those who liked to think of themselves as belonging elsewhere. Somewhere more modern perhaps. A certain kind of male. When he arrived back at the hotel, he found Nagy standing in the doorway. He thrust his hands into his pockets and didn’t return Makana’s greeting, though he muttered under his breath as he went by, ‘I wouldn’t spend too much time in that place. People might get the wrong idea.’

  In the lobby the television played to an empty room. Central Security Forces in full riot gear trying to control the crowds. Palestinian flags waved in the air like angry palm trees. A shot of the Mukataa in Ramallah showed a besieged Yasser Arafat waving from a window. He looked like a man who knew his time had run out. Israeli tanks rumbled through the streets. Women picked up their children and ran.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The phone rang the moment he stepped into his room, almost as if Zahra knew where he was and what he was doing.

  ‘How are you finding Siwa?’

  Makana took comfort in her voice as he sat in the dark room. It was hard to believe that just over a week ago he had not known of her existence and now it almost felt as though he had come to depend on her presence, distant as it was.

>   ‘It’s not all that unfamiliar actually,’ he said. ‘In a strange way I feel more at home here than in Cairo. It reminds me of Sudan.’

  The sound of her laughter lifted his heart. ‘I’ll bet you’re the kind of man who can feel at home anywhere in the world.’

  Through the window the lights on the mosque illuminated the muddy finger of the old minaret, carving soft shadows out of the ancient darkness. Down below a solitary figure walked along the narrow alley behind the hotel.

  ‘There’s something about this place which is different,’ he heard himself say.

  ‘It’s a strange place.’

  ‘I didn’t know you’d been here.’

  ‘A long time ago.’ There was a long pause. Then she said, ‘Last night I dreamed about Karima. I dreamed she was alive and dancing. Isn’t that funny?’

  ‘Why was she dancing?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was a celebration of some kind. Perhaps a wedding. Actually, I think it was my wedding. Isn’t that strange?’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘Oh, then I woke up,’ she said. ‘And it made me feel sad all over again.’

  They talked about this and that, about the demonstrations and what was going on in the world and injustice in general. For a time Makana imagined having this kind of conversation every evening, of sharing his life. Millions of people did it. He had done it once, hadn’t he?

  ‘I sort of feel I’m being sidetracked by this business with the Qadi. As far as Musab is concerned, I don’t seem to be making progress.’

  ‘You’re still getting a feel for the place.’

  ‘By now I thought I would at least have found his family, but no one seems to know them.’

  ‘People move. It’s not so strange,’ she whispered.