Refuge

by N G Osborne

  “It just might be. Now come outside a moment.”

  “I didn’t know you’d softened your views on the burqa.”

  Tariq lifts up their gas lamp and studies her face. He licks his thumb and wipes away some dirt from her cheek.

  “This is a special case,” he says.

  Tariq holds the door open, and Noor follows.

  “Noor,” Aamir Khan says.

  Her father has risen to his feet.

  “It’s okay, Baba, I’ll be right back.”

  She and Tariq go outside. In the backs of the pick-ups are a mixture of battle-hardened Arabs and Afghans. It’s the first time she can remember not being leered at by a group of men. It unsettles her.

  What does he want to show me this time?

  Ever since Tariq joined the mujahideen he’d only ever visited them to show off.

  You’ve been nothing but bravado from the earliest age. Yet you never got as high as me on the apricot tree, and neither of us will ever forget it.

  He leads her to a gleaming white Range Rover. Tariq touches her arm, and they stand there waiting. The tinted window edges down, and expensive perfume wafts out.

  Could this be that prestigious bride of his, the one we’ve never met?

  The window opens fully, and Noor comes face to face with a pudgy man with a trim beard. His bright white thobe and checkered headdress mark him out as an Arab and a rich one at that. The man scrutinizes her like a butcher might a heifer at market, his fleshy eyes traveling up and down the length of her body.

  “You weren’t lying,” the man says in Arabic. “With a little make-up she’ll be stunning.”

  Noor feels her throat tighten. The man runs his thumb along the length of his lower lip.

  “I like her,” the man says.

  The electric window slides back up, and the Range Rover drives off followed by three of the pick-ups. Noor glances at her brother. His face is so flushed he looks sexually aroused.

  “Go and say goodbye to Baba,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “You’re going to be his Royal Highness’s next wife.”

  Noor looks around for an escape route. Across the graveyard would be pointless. She knows she’s fast, certainly faster than her brother, but not fast enough to outrun the ten remaining men. The only other option is to lose them in the camp but that requires getting past the two pick-ups and to the alley.

  Buy time, a voice inside says.

  She starts towards the hut.

  “This is an amazing honor,” Tariq says. “Do you know how unprecedented this is? The luxury you will be living in; the clothes, the jewelry, the servants at your beck and call, especially when we get to Riyadh.”

  They enter the hut. Aamir Khan is kneeling on a rug praying. The longer they wait, the more agitated Tariq becomes. He pulls out a set of prayer beads and plays with them in an attempt to control himself. Aamir Khan stands.

  “The Prince wants to marry your daughter,” Tariq says.

  Aamir Khan’s gaze shifts to Noor.

  “And did you accept?” Aamir Khan says.

  “The only permission we need is yours,” Tariq says.

  “I would still like her answer.”

  If you refuse, Tariq will have his men drag you away.

  “I accept,” Noor says.

  Aamir Khan looks stunned. Tariq smiles.

  “I will arrange for the Prince to pay you a dowry of two thousand dollars,” Tariq says to his father. “I think that would be most generous.”

  “I have but one condition,” Noor says.

  Her father and her brother look her way.

  “You don’t make conditions when marrying a Prince,” Tariq says.

  “I want to spend one more night with Baba and Bushra.”

  “Fine. You can all share a room in the compound.”

  “No, here.”

  Tariq looks around; at the earthen floor, the blackened pots, the battered suitcases stacked in the corner

  “You may despise our dwelling,” she says, “but for us this has been our home for eight years.”

  Tariq stares at Noor trying to divine her intentions.

  “I also want the dowry increased to ten thousand dollars,” she says, “the Prince can more than afford it.”

  Tariq pulls on his beard.

  “He won’t accept such a figure.”

  “Then five thousand, it’s only fair. Baba and Bushra will no longer have my teaching income to rely on.”

  Noor watches Tariq as he weighs the pros and cons. She knows his greed. She prays that it will blind him.

  “I’ll return at dawn,” he says.

  Tariq pushes the door open, and soon after they hear the vehicles drive away. Noor looks at her father. He is trembling.

  “Why are you doing this?” he says.

  “I’m not.”

  A glint returns to her father’s eyes.

  “We need to get out of here immediately,” he says.

  “But where will we go?” Bushra says.

  “I have an idea,” Noor says.

  ***

  TARIQ WALKS DOWN the long line of vehicles. Yousef hobbles beside him.

  “I don’t care which one,” Tariq says, “I’m only going to be gone an hour.”

  “Oh no, that wouldn’t be right,” Yousef says.

  Yousef stops in front of a gleaming, black Land Cruiser.

  “Was delivered only a couple of days back, you’ll be the first to drive it.”

  Yousef flashes him a smile.

  “And may I be the first to offer you my congratulations.”

  So it’s out.

  Tariq wonders how. His pulse quickens.

  The Prince must have told somebody.

  “Who knew when you first came to work for me that you’d end up being the Prince’s brother-in-law.”

  “You were always good to me, Yousef. I won’t forget.”

  Yousef hands him the keys. Tariq climbs in and breathes in the scent of fresh leather. He casts his eyes over the controls and the polished wood trim.

  This is how a man should live.

  He drives past the rear of the main building. Mujahideen are everywhere, laying out supplies and equipment for their next expedition into Afghanistan. One of them walks in front of his path. Tariq brakes and lays on the horn. The man doesn’t move. Tariq gets out and strides up to him. The man turns. It’s Salim Afridi.

  “I see you’re already pretending to be a Prince,” his father-in-law says.

  “I took what Yousef offered me.”

  “That’s what it means to be a Prince, you get to choose from the best.”

  Salim Afridi scoops out a wad of chewing tobacco and places it underneath his lower lip.

  “This will be good for our family,” Tariq says.

  Salim Afridi snorts.

  “As far as I’m concerned you’re no longer part of our family.”

  “I’ve done nothing but serve you faithfully.”

  “You might as well have snuck into my bedroom and slit my throat.”

  “I pleaded Badia’s case, praised her virtues—”

  “Yet somehow it’s your sister the Prince wants to marry. Curious, huh?”

  “He wouldn’t take my word. Noor was our best hope of salvaging anything.”

  Tariq notices that a number of mujahideen have stopped working and are watching them. Salim Afridi lets a huge of glob of brown saliva drip from his mouth. It hangs there a moment before pulling loose and splattering on the ground. He opens his arms.

  “Come here,” Salim Afridi says.

  Tariq steps into his father-in-law’s embrace.

  Thank God, he bought it.

  Salim Afridi puts his wet lips up against Tariq’s right ear.

  “If there is one thing you can be sure of in this life, Tariq Khan, it’s that I’m going to kill you. When, where, how, that will be of my choosing, but it will happen, and when it does, don’t fear, I’ll be sure to make it as agonizing as possible.”<
br />
  Salim Afridi slaps Tariq on the back and walks over to a couple of mujahideen. They huddle in conversation. Tariq shivers.

  Could they already be planning my murder?

  Tariq forces himself back into the Land Cruiser and drives away, his hands shaking so badly he finds it almost impossible to grip the wheel.

  It’s an empty threat. No one would dare kill the Prince’s brother-in-law, not even Salim Afridi.

  And then he remembers the legend of how Salim Afridi had killed his uncle.

  It had been at the wedding of his uncle’s favorite daughter; the same uncle who had shot Salim Afridi’s father ten years earlier. By tradition every man had had to leave their weapons outside, so Salim Afridi, who was Tariq’s age, had pilfered the sharpest knife he could find in the kitchen and waited for his uncle to head to the bathroom. Supposedly Salim Afridi had stuck the knife in his uncle’s belly as he was halfway through taking a shit. By the time he was finished, his uncle’s balls were in the toilet bowl, and the floor was awash with blood. Salim Afridi had walked calmly out the front gate and fled to the tribal areas for Panjshir. Five years later he joined the insurrection against the Afghan government, and six years after that the Soviets invaded Afghanistan. By the time Salim Afridi arrived in Peshawar he was a venerated guerilla warrior.

  Tariq’s left leg begins to shake, and he has to grasp it with his hand to bring it under control.

  You’re going to have to kill him before he kills you.

  The question’s how?

  He comes on Kacha Gari refugee camp and turns down its main drag. In the early dawn, his high beams catch those refugees lucky enough to be heading to work. With their shawls wrapped tight around them they look like phantom spirits fleeing before the sun rises. He beeps his horn and the refugees part. Before long he’s outside his family’s hut.

  He pulls out five thousand dollars from his inside pocket. The previous night he’d told the Prince’s accountant that his father had asked for fifteen, and without blinking the accountant had handed him three neat stacks of one hundred dollar bills.

  I’m an idiot, I should have asked for fifty.

  He stares at the money. There are plenty of people who’d kill his father-in-law for ten thousand dollars.

  Perhaps Yousef would do it.

  He wonders why no one’s come out yet. He gets out and bangs on the corrugated door.

  “Baba, Noor, time to go.”

  He yanks the door open and steps inside. No one’s there.

  A cold sweat forms on his brow. He scans the room. The pots are still there as are the lamp, the table and the mattresses. He looks in the corner. Something is missing.

  The suitcases.

  He throws his hand against the wall to steady himself. It’s as if the fetid air inside the hut is poisonous. He stumbles outside and sinks to his knees. He gasps in a lungful of air.

  How could they do this to me?

  Just beyond the path, he sees a rabbit looking his way. He clambers to his feet and withdraws his gun. The rabbit cocks its head and hops onto the track. Tariq points the gun at it.

  Come on.

  It hops closer until it’s only a couple of feet away. Tariq pulls the trigger, and its head explodes in a mist of blood and brain.

  NINETEEN

  CHARLIE CRAWLS OUT of his tent and draws in a lungful of crisp, chill air. He takes in the gold tipped mountains in the distance.

  This is going to be a good day.

  They review the village at nine, which Dave and Mike claim for no better reason than to spite Charlie, and arrive at their second just past eleven o’clock. Unlike the other two, the mud homes here are whitewashed and sit perched on a steep hillside overlooking the river. At the bottom lies a flat communal area with broken fields on either side. An ancient truck is parked there with three beleaguered families camped around it. Shamsurahman goes over and talks to them. One of the boys catches Charlie’s eye. Charlie grabs his soccer ball.

  “You play?” he says.

  The boy grins. Charlie kicks it over to him, and the boy kicks it back.

  “See you’re a natural,” Charlie says.

  “And you’re a regular Bryan Robson,” Mike says.

  Charlie ignores him. He and the boy continue to pass the ball back and forth. Shamsurahman returns.

  “What’s their story?” the Colonel says.

  “They come two days ago. They want to go back Pakistan; they remember it differently. I told them we all do.”

  For a moment no one says anything, the Afghans lost in thoughts of better times.

  “Well what do you say we take a look around?” the Colonel says.

  Charlie stares up the steep street.

  What’s the point? It’s not like Shamsurahman will give it to us..

  “You know what, I’m going to pass on this one,” he says.

  “Scared you won’t make it to the top?” Derek says.

  “I think I will join you,” Wali says.

  No one objects, and Shamsurahman leads the rest of the group up the village’s only street.

  “Assholes,” Charlie says.

  “Oh, I would not worry about them, Mr. Matthews,” Wali says. “Sticks and stones may break your bones—”

  “I know, I know.”

  “So now that’s settled pass me the ball.”

  Charlie kicks the ball to Wali, and pulls his sketch pad out of his backpack. He sits with his back against a broken cart, the morning sun warming his face, and draws Wali and two of the boys kicking the ball back and forth. The village acts as his backdrop; it looks like a crumbling wedding cake. At its very top the rest of group stands on the roof of a house. Shamsurahman has a map open and is pointing out the minefields.

  Maybe I should have gone?

  Charlie shakes his head. It’s too late now. He looks down at his pad and puts the group in as stick figures. When he looks up again he sees that Wali and the boys have gotten further apart, requiring them to kick the ball ever harder. He gets a queasy feeling, and jumps to his feet.

  “Hey guys.”

  One of the boys kicks the ball to Wali, and Wali takes a wild swing at it. The ball rockets over the boys’ heads and into some undergrowth beyond. The two boys turn and race to retrieve it.

  “Stop,” Charlie shouts. “Wali, stop them.”

  Wali realizes what Charlie means and screams out in Pashtu. The boys cross into the undergrowth.

  “Stop, goddamn it,” Charlie shouts.

  He spies a mine detector leaning against one of the trucks, and runs over and grabs it. When he turns back he sees Wali racing into the undergrowth. The two boys have reached the ball and are fighting over it.

  “Wali,” he screams.

  Wali tramples through the stalks of wild grass.

  “Wali.”

  There’s a bright orange flash, and Wali is flung into the air. Before Wali can even fall back to the ground a cloud of dust obscures him.

  And then there’s just silence, as if for a moment in time the soundtrack to the world got lost.

  The boys begin to wail.

  “Stay there,” Charlie screams. “Don’t fucking move.”

  Charlie runs to the edge of the undergrowth and turns the mine detector on.

  “Wali‌—‌you hear me?”

  He waves the detector over the ground and hears nothing. He steps forward and waves it again. The detector beeps.

  Fuck.

  He turns to his right and sweeps again. When he hears no beep he steps forward and turns back in Wali’s direction.

  “Wali!” he shouts. “Wali!”

  He listens, hoping for at least a pained cry. Instead all he hears is the rustle of the wind as it weaves its way through the knee high stalks of grass.

  “Oh God, oh God,” he says, “please let him be alive.”

  He continues on, his route beginning to resemble that of a Pac-Man game as he alters his course whenever his detector beeps. By the time he’s halfway there, the cloud
has dissipated and he can make out Wali lying on the ground like a piece of discarded trash.

  “Wali! Wali!”

  Charlie carries on sweeping until he comes to a point where there seems to be a mine on all three sides in front of him. He’s now so close he can touch Wali with the detector. Charlie looks down; shrapnel litters the ground.

  They’ve got to be the reason.

  Charlie places the detector on the ground, and steps forward. Nothing happens.

  Thank you, God.

  He kneels down beside Wali. Wali’s left leg looks like a steak that’s been left on the grill too long. Pieces of skin hang off of it and shards of white bone jut through its flesh. Charlie closes his eyes and takes a couple of breaths.

  Remember your training.

  He opens his eyes and places a finger on Wali’s neck. Wali’s pulse is weak but constant. He looks back. Shamsurahman is at the edge of the undergrowth, a mine detector in his hand, Derek and Mike behind him.

  “He’s alive,” Charlie shouts.

  Charlie sees one of the boys edging his way.

  “Don’t move.”

  The boy freezes. Charlie turns back to Wali.

  “Hang in there, buddy. Help’s on the way.”

  Charlie puts his hand underneath Wali’s right hamstring and finds that most of it’s gone. When he brings his hand back up it looks like he’s dipped it in paint. He examines the wound. A severed artery is spurting blood.

  Remember your training.

  He reaches in and pulls on the artery. It stretches like a rubber band and slips from his hand. He tries again and this time manages to keep a hold of it. With his other hand he fashions a knot and pulls it tight. The blood stops flowing. He looks back. Shamsurahman, Mike and Derek are halfway to him.

  What next?

  Charlie rips off his shirt. He tears off each of its arms, and stuffs the shirt into the leg’s gaping wound. He uses an arm to tie it in place and the other to tourniquet the left leg.

  “How is he?” Shamsurahman says.

  Charlie turns to find Shamsurahman and Mike at his side. Derek continues on with a second mine detector towards the boys.

  “Not good,” Charlie says. “The femoral artery on his right leg is severed.”

  “We gotta tie it off,” Mike says.

  “Already did.”

  Mike pulls the t-shirt away and examines the wound. He repacks it and nods at Shamsurahman.