by Parker Bilal
As he stubbed out his cigarette, Makana stepped closer to the low wall. A small bird was worrying at a scrap of silver paper jammed under a fallen stone. It took to the air as he reached down. He sniffed it. A sweet wrapper. Tucking it carefully into his pocket, Makana spotted the nose of a car jutting out of the wall below him. Makana began descending the hillside by a series of winding paths that wound between the walls. The dried mud was flaked with flecks of light from the salt crystals it contained. They gleamed like gems hidden in the dull earth. He became lost, turning left and right. Finding his way blocked he scrambled up onto a wall to get his bearings. When he finally reached the bottom he discovered there wasn’t a road there at all. The way had been obstructed by a mound of crumbled earth that might once have been a wall. The nose of the car, a Lada Niva, was buried in the sand. The car’s paintwork was worn by sunlight and age to an uneven brown colour. Makana looked around him.
The Lada might have been an old army jeep. Hidden out of the way here, out of sight. Cairo plates. Shielding his eyes with his hands, Makana peered through the dusty rear window of the car. The interior was empty save for a plastic crate in which stood rows of what looked like withered plants. Their roots were wrapped in black plastic. The rest was wilted stems and dried leaves as if someone had forgotten them in there a long time ago. A stray dog began barking and when he turned it loped mournfully by to nose through a patch of wasteland, covered in broken bricks, pieces of tin, plastic bags – blue, white, striped, all the colours of a faded rainbow.
He was on the other side of the hill now and it took him fifteen minutes to find his way back around.
Makana was sweating by the time he reached the Norton. The machine was already hot enough to make him swear and pull back his hand when he touched the bare metal. Climbing into the saddle he turned the ignition switch and stamped on the starter a couple of times before being rewarded with the throaty grumble of the engine coming to life. He was aware of people watching him as he went by, no doubt wondering what evil this eccentric stranger had brought with him. Makana was beginning to get the feeling that the answers he was seeking were common knowledge, to everyone but himself. They all knew Musab and they knew what had taken him away from here. Some of them no doubt knew what might bring him back. They let him walk around and ask his foolish questions though none of them had the slightest intention of telling him what he needed to know.
Picking up the road west Makana rode out of town. The air cooled him down. Dust blew sideways across his path, at times gusting so hard that he felt the Norton wobble beneath him. The depot was about five kilometres outside of town; it wasn’t hard to find. It stood alone in the middle of nothing. A simple rectangular structure set back from the road. The walls were not the usual mud adobe but fired brick, though now faded almost to the same colour by sun and wind. Sergeant Hamama had said the place was abandoned, but it didn’t look that way. The doors were made of sheets of corrugated iron held together by a brace of crossed metal struts. They were locked with a heavy chain and padlock. Makana parked by the side and switched off the Norton. Without the engine chugging away he was suddenly plunged into silence, broken only by the gentle whistle of the wind. Looking south he saw the dust whipping itself up into a cone that rose high into the air, and twirled around. A desert jinn.
Traffic on the road was limited to the occasional vehicle going by. Makana peered through the corroded gaps in the corrugated steel gates. Inside he glimpsed a yard with a shelter along one wall. It had metal supports and roofing sheets. Underneath were parked three large Magirus-Deutz trucks. Covered in dust but serviceable by the looks of them. At the far end he could see what looked like storerooms. Makana circled the entire perimeter of the compound and then returned to the part just behind where the lorries were parked. It took him ten minutes to gather up enough broken bricks to pile into a rather unstable tower. It took several attempts before he was able to balance himself on this wobbly perch and reach the top of the wall. Heaving himself upwards, Makana managed, not without difficulty, to get onto the wall, catching his clothes in the strands of barbed wire that had been strung along the top of it. Once on the wall he could hold on to one of the supports to step over the wire and climb down onto the back of one of the trucks.
It was a bit of a disappointment. He didn’t find much more than he had already seen through the gate. The storerooms at the back were empty but for a heap of old tyres and didn’t look as if they had been used for anything in a long time. He returned to the trucks and discovered that the cabs on two of them had been locked. On the third one there was a hole you could stick your finger into where the lock ought to have been. The interior didn’t reveal much. A sun-bleached Quran lay face up on the dashboard to provide divine protection against mishaps. Apart from that there was nothing. He lifted the seats, looked through the tool locker, but came up with nothing more interesting than a broken lighter. He climbed down again and walked around the yard some more. There was a large blackened area in one corner where something had recently been burned. Makana sifted through the ashes with a stick and came up with a blackened tin can and a few strips of torn cardboard. Someone went to a lot of trouble to keep the place clean. As he straightened up and looked around him one last time he caught, out of the corner of his eye, something fluttering in the warm breeze. It was a torn piece of string or rather tape, that had been tied to one of the iron supports holding up the roof of the shelter. Makana went back over and climbed up into the back of one of the trucks. He had to step up onto the side of the flatbed and then, with a bit of fiddling, he managed to free it. It was a strip of white plastic which someone had knotted over the metal bar to use for something else perhaps and then forgotten. He turned it over. There were words printed on it, formed into a shape. A company logo. Something he had seen before, AGI LandTech. He rolled it up carefully and tucked it into his trouser pocket. Then he climbed up onto the wall and dropped down on the other side. Two minutes later he was back on the road with the noise of the machine and the wind whistling in his ears. He didn’t have any goggles, which meant that he had to squint against the wind and still the sand made his eyes water.
Far off in the distance the escarpment rose up like a crater on a distant planet, tapering down to meet the road that was nothing but a thin, dark thread that lost itself in the horizon. This was the old road along which Alexander had once led his trusted army through the desert in search of the blessing of the oracle. This was also the road Captain Mustafa took when he was killed. It took him less than ten minutes to reach the spot.
The remains of the pickup lay in the sand by the side of the road. From a distance it resembled the blackened, ugly carcass of a crow. Burnt and twisted. Setting the Norton on its stand Makana walked around the wreck. The road vanished into a point whichever way you cared to look. This was the kind of place it was easy to lose one’s sense of purpose. What had Captain Mustafa been after out here? Turning the other way he looked south and west towards the magnificent nothingness that was out there. Was it an accident or had the captain been surprised by a convoy of smugglers, old Wad Nubawi and his boys coming in from Libya with a fresh cargo of cigarettes and video players? Or was there something more?
‘Are you lost?’
An old Bedford lorry, the bonnet held down by a strand of electrical flex that trembled like a divining rod, rolled to a halt beside him. An old man, his face the same colour as the grubby white cloth wrapped around his head, leaned out of the window. Where he had come from wasn’t clear. He seemed to have materialised out of thin air like a mirage.
‘This road,’ Makana pointed south-west, ‘where does it lead to?’
‘The desert.’ The old man peered over his shoulder as if to make sure they were talking about the same track.
‘It doesn’t look like there’s much out there.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ the old man laughed. ‘There’s plenty. There’s a whole city of wonders. All you can dream of and more. Have you never heard of
Kalonsha?’ The old man chuckled to himself as he wrestled the lorry into gear and trundled off in a cloud of black exhaust. Kalonsha. Makana recalled that Doctor Medina had mentioned the name. The word echoed round in Makana’s head like a mystical incantation, the way the sufi devotees turn in circles repeating the name of the Almighty in order to rise up and attain a transendental state, a trance that would take them on high.
Chapter Twenty-one
Patience appeared to have run thin. When Makana arrived outside the police station a spectacle awaited him. The crowd from the previous day had swelled both in size and, it appeared, outrage.
‘Deliver him to us and we will show him our own justice!’
‘Typical police corruption, arresting an innocent man!’
It seemed they were not all in agreement with one another. At the top of the steps Sadig was grinning with delight. Nothing he enjoyed more than the sight of people at each other’s throats.
‘What’s all this about?’ asked Makana.
‘We’ve got him.’
‘You’ve got who?’
‘The killer. The one who cut up the Qadi.’ Sadig rearraranged his beret on his head. ‘So lucky for you we won’t be arresting you, and we won’t be needing your help any more,’ he said with undisguised satisfaction. ‘Not that you’ve actually done anything for us.’
Inside, Makana found further pandemonium. What was going on exactly wasn’t clear. The families of the two victims had been let inside and were now busy harassing the officers whose job it was to hold them back. Makana eventually managed to get through. Sergeant Hamama was strutting through the crowd with a grin on his face. He waved magnanimously, trying not to show his delight, but he was clearly a proud man.
‘Who is it?’ Makana asked.
‘Our friend Khalid Luqman. You remember him?’ Hamama ushered Makana into his office and gestured for him to take a seat before sinking down behind his desk with a sigh.
‘I can’t tell you how relieved I feel. I was getting pretty worried there for a time.’
‘You’re sure that he’s the one?’
‘I can smell it on him.’ Sergeant Hamama smiled, and ticked off his fingers. ‘He has motive and there’s no denying he had opportunity. He was perfectly placed.’
‘What is the motive?’
‘He had a grudge against the Qadi.’ Hamama leaned back in his chair. ‘Listen to this. It turns out that Luqman’s great grandfather was a Turkish official back in the days of King Farouk. He was awarded the land. Luqman was short of cash and keen to sell it off, but the Qadi ruled that the land belonged to the government. Luqman was furious, of course, but there was nothing he could do. The law is the law.’
‘What happened to the land?’ Makana asked.
‘It was eventually sold by the state to a private developer. I have the details here, but it was all official and above board.’ He ruffled through the papers on his desk before giving up, eager to get on with the telling of his story. ‘The point is, he thought the land was his on account of some old papers of his great grandfather’s, but he was wrong. Anyway, apparently it hit him hard. Old family fallen on hard times. I mean, there he is selling Coca-Cola to the tourists and him a big landowner. Hah, he never forgave the Qadi. He threatened to kill him only two months ago. We have witnesses.’
‘Witnesses who heard him threaten the Qadi?’ Makana went through his pockets for his Cleopatras and came up with an almost empty packet. ‘Who were they?’
‘There were eight of them. It was outside the Qadi’s office. Luqman didn’t care who heard him.’
Having debated whether to wait, Makana lit his penultimate cigarette and smoked quietly for a time. Sergeant Hamama sniffed but watched without comment.
‘So this means your promotion will go through.’
‘Yes.’ A broad smile arranged itself across the sergeant’s face. ‘I imagine they will be satisfied with this outcome.’
‘So what was his motive for killing Ayman?’
‘Ayman?’ Hamama rocked back and forth a few times in his chair. He didn’t like the question. ‘What about him?’
‘Well, I thought we were agreed that the same person killed both men. So why did Luqman kill Ayman?’
‘That was your theory, Makana. I was never fully convinced of the two being linked.’
‘Then you’re saying that we still have a killer out there?’
Hamama sat forward and his chair came down to earth with a bump. ‘Why do you have to start twisting things around? We don’t know the two deaths are connected. Even if they are, you can’t prove that he didn’t kill both men.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’ Sergeant Hamama pulled a face.
‘What is his motive? Why would Luqman kill Ayman?’
‘I told you, I don’t know. We’ve only just started our interrogation.’
‘Did he explain the mutilation?’
‘He will, don’t you worry. Right now we’re leaving him to think things over. They’re sending a superindendent from Mersa Matruh to confirm.’ Sergeant Hamama allowed himself a smile. ‘I think this could be the moment to officially announce my promotion.’
‘Mabrouk,’ Makana congratulated him. ‘Will you let me talk to him?’
‘You don’t understand. The case has been closed. We have a suspect and a motive. It’s only a question of time before that becomes a full confession.’ The sergeant pointed a finger. ‘You know what that means? It means thank you very much for your help, and goodbye. I’ll get one of the boys to drive you to the bus station.’
‘I’m not sure my business here is finished,’ said Makana, although from Sergeant Hamama’s tone he suspected that maybe it was, whether he liked it or not. He wouldn’t want any credit for solving the case going to a stranger. If a delegation was on its way from Mersa Matruh, Hamama wouldn’t want anyone else around who might throw a shadow on his moment of glory.
‘I’ll give you twenty-four hours, but then I want you gone.’ Hamama got to his feet and went over to the door. ‘I’m grateful for your help and everything. Don’t take it badly. I know you had your theories, but sometimes these things just don’t work out.’
‘Doctor Medina said that both the Qadi and Ayman were drugged. Luqman has no medical training, does he?’
‘You don’t know that for sure.’ Hamama shook his head in disbelief. ‘And even if that was true, he has motive and opportunity. Don’t forget the body was found out in the lake, just by that coffee shop where he provides tourists with illicit substances for smoking.’
‘Let me talk to him. You’ve got nothing to lose. If I’m wrong you already have someone locked up. Those people out there don’t really care who goes to prison for this. All they want is for someone to be punished.’
Hamama swung the door back and forth, undecided. ‘You’re taking this very personally. What does it matter to you?’
‘It matters because it matters, and you understand that. That’s why they are going to make you captain.’
The sergeant’s eyes were dark, wet stones set in the fleshy mass of his face. He had the bewildered look of a dog faced with a particularly devious cat but Makana had appealed to his vanity. With a curse he threw the door open so hard it slammed into the wall behind it.
The holding cells were below ground. A grubby doorway bore the imprint of countless hands steadying themselves as they stepped through into a stairwell that led downwards. At the bottom another doorway gave onto a short corridor. Here the mantle was low and dotted with brown stains where countless prisoners had not been quick enough to duck their heads. The latest addition to this cartography of pain was fresh and matched a corresponding open wound on Luqman’s forehead. He was clearly in a bad way, eyes wired with fear and already bearing the signs of a man whose mental balance has been shattered. He scuttled away from the door as it swung open and crouched down in the far corner with his hands over his head when they came in.
Luqman raised his arms higher to shield himself a
s Makana approached. He squatted down in front of him. Several of Luqman’s fingers had been broken. They jutted out like broken twigs, at odds with one another. Makana shook his last cigarette out of the packet and held it up to him. Luqman gave a whimper as Makana placed the cigarette between his lips and lit it for him. The blood from his head wound had run down and congealed around his eyes. He stared at Makana as though he had never seen him before.
‘You remember me?’ Makana asked.
‘Sure,’ Luqman nodded, before spitting blood on the ground. ‘You’re with them.’
Makana glanced over at Hamama who was hovering in the doorway.
‘What happened to him?’
Hamama stared at the ceiling. ‘Regretfully, some of the mob out there managed to get hold of him before we could stop them.’
‘They threw me to them!’ Luqman whispered to Makana. ‘You should get out now, before they do the same to you.’
‘I will,’ said Makana. ‘But first I need you to answer a few questions.’
Luqman stared at the ground, the cigarette smoking between his lips. He seemed to have forgotten it was even there.
‘The only reason I didn’t kill that old fool is that I didn’t have the courage to do so.’ He stared at Makana. ‘I should have done it years ago.’
Behind him, Makana heard a grunt of satisfaction from Sergeant Hamama.
‘Why did you want to kill him?’
‘Why?’ Luqman’s face broke into a garish grin. His teeth painted with blood. ‘How many reasons do you need? I wasn’t the only one either. Go out and ask the crowd.’
‘The same crowd that wants your neck?’ asked Hamama.
‘They are hypocrites, all of them! If they had the courage they could tell you. Everyone hated him.’
