by Parker Bilal
On the far side of the roof he could make out some kind of flimsy construction. It wasn’t uncommon for people to build shacks on rooftops. The shortage of housing, funds, available space, forced people to make do. These would not have been out of place in a shanty town. On closer inspection Makana could see that for what they were they were fairly robust. A sound brought him to a halt. Something, or someone, was moving around inside. There was a scrabbling about that made him think of rats at first, but this was bigger. His next thought was a dog. Then it hit him. Moving in closer, he examined the hastily nailed-together planks, sheets of plywood. All the material appeared to have been assembled haphazardly from a variety of sources. It was solid enough though, with a roof of zinc sheeting. At the level of his head a series of openings ran along at regular intervals. As he approached these the stench hit him. Standing on tiptoe he could peer inside. The commotion inside increased in intensity, like animals in distress sensing danger.
‘It’s all right,’ he said softly into the opening. ‘I’m going to get you out.’
Easier said than done. The door was reinforced as well as bolted in two places. Makana rattled the heavy padlocks, increasing the alarm within. He would need tools to get it off. Moving around the roof in search of a lever of some kind, Makana discovered there was no perimeter wall around the edge. No doubt the owner had decided it wasn’t worth it. When he had the money he would simply construct another floor. Makana peered down into a narrow cut created by the awkward angle between this building and the next. Some miscalculation by a surveyor had left a couple of metres to waste. Or perhaps it had been left on purpose, as a thoroughfare designed by the municipality. In which case another planner had truncated this scheme by placing another building at the far end. As he peered over, sliding one foot carefully towards the edge, he was met by a rotting stench of drains and bad water.
It was as he was turning away that something hit him. Hard. If he hadn’t been moving it would have knocked him out cold. Instead, the blow aimed for his head glanced off his shoulder. Still, it was enough to send him staggering back. He could hear a grunting, wordless sound, like a man in pain. The second blow hit his outstretched arm, sending a ringing numbness through his left side. Trying to evade the blows Makana found himself being pushed backwards towards the edge of the roof. He tried to straighten up, but his assailant was too strong. The next blow struck his side. His foot tripped over something and as the other man drew back his weapon, a length of wooden scaffolding, Makana scrabbled about on the ground until his hands found a weapon. An old tin that must have once contained paint that had long since been hardened by rain and sun. It weighed a couple of kilos. He swung it while trying to straighten up, hearing the satisfying crack of the heavy tin hitting home. There was a wild scream, but the man responded by throwing himself at Makana with renewed fury. This time the wooden spar hit him high up in the chest and pushed him backwards. There was no barrier, nothing to stop him. He scrabbled blindly, clutching only handfuls of air. His right foot skidded over the edge. The night spun around him as his arms flailed wildly and he toppled with a cry into the dark void.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
A dead man falling, Makana thought. There were seven floors of empty space beneath him. Lighted windows flared like brief matches as he fell past them. He braced himself for impact, for unimaginable pain. He could hear a voice, vaguely similar to his own, yelling. Nobody falls seven floors and walks away unscathed. Then, before he had time to think any further thoughts, he plunged into a soft, spongy mass. A sticky, moist hand closed around him, then he was sinking, no longer falling. Confused, Makana scrabbled about hopelessly. The stench filled his throat, so strong he could not breathe. Something sharp dug into him. Wet plastic stuck to his face, suffocating him even as it sucked him down, pouring in on top of him, burying him alive. Years of accumulated rubbish, tossed out through kitchen windows without a thought, had produced a layer of decomposing matter – vegetable, animal, mineral – all wrapped in plastic and about two floors deep. Alive, too, by the feel of it. Something was moving about under him. Fighting panic, Makana kicked frantically to roll clear of the mess, to breathe, to stay afloat. He floundered in the dark until eventually he managed to roll himself into a corner where there was a lighted window. He banged on the glass as loudly as he could. It was like floating on soft mud that might at any moment give way, leaving him to plunge even deeper into the bowels of this creature. Something scampered over his leg. He shouted and banged more frantically. A light came on. Shouts of alarm, children crying.
‘Ya Allah!’ a woman implored. ‘Iblis, the devil himself is out there!’ The howling children joined in the hysteria. ‘Allahuakbar!’ they all chimed together.
Makana was afraid he might pass out from the stench of putrid gases. He was clinging to the window sill to stop himself drowning in the muck.
‘Police! Open this window!’
The voice of authority had a sobering effect.
‘What did he say?’ the woman asked.
‘Police. I think he said,’ replied her husband.
‘Police? How can the police be out there?’
‘Do I know? Stand back, woman, let me open it.’
There were cries of alarm as the rot and bits of blackened waste matter tumbled into their kitchen, along with a tidal wave of cockroaches, worms, and finally a strange man smeared in all manner of nasty material fell through the window. Something jumped nimbly off Makana’s back and bounded across the floor.
‘A rat!’
‘Quick, kill it! Where did it go?’
Makana struggled to his feet and stood brushing the rubbish off, checking himself for bites. His whole body itched and he fought the urge to retch. Banana peels, bones, bits of rind, along with all manner of unidentified decomposing matter tumbled off him to the floor. The man and his wife stared at him in horror. The child was busy chasing the rat through the house, hammering the walls with a broom.
‘How can you live like this, buried in rubbish?’ Makana asked.
‘We never open that window,’ the man explained.
The woman shrieked as a large black beetle fell into her sink. ‘It’s the people from upstairs. They are the ones you should question. No respect. They just throw their rubbish out of the window like there is no one in the world except them. Are you really from the police? You can arrest them.’
‘Nothing would give me more pleasure,’ said Makana honestly. ‘But right now I need to use your telephone.’
While he called Okasha the child reappeared holding the dead rat by the tail, two smaller children trailing cheerfully along behind. Makana stepped past them out into the darkened stairwell.
‘You know the man who lives on the fourth floor?’
‘Everyone knows him. He’s a brute. But what can you do? If you say something his friends will come round and break your legs, or worse even.’
‘You know what he keeps on the roof?’
The man muttered something and fell silent.
‘You’re coming with me,’ said Makana. ‘Have you got any tools?’
Armed with a hammer and a large screwdriver Makana climbed back to the roof. Behind him, the man was finding his tongue.
‘He treats them like slaves. It’s shameful. They steal, they rob, and he lends them out to other men for even worse things. But what can you do? I have a family. And the people who protect him are too strong.’
Makana peered out over the darkened roof and realised that his legs were shaking, from fear or shock he wasn’t certain. Nothing moved.
‘I don’t want any trouble. I have to live here, you know.’
‘Just keep your eyes open in case he comes back.’
Makana pushed the long screwdriver through one of the hasps and leaned his weight on it until it came away with a yawning, wrenching sound. Then he did the same with the second one. As the door swung open a terrible smell hit him.
It took a moment for Makana’s vision to adjust to the gloom.
He could make out a couple of mattresses on the floor and counted at least three frightened sets of eyes blinking back at him. They were huddled together over by the far wall. The room, more like a hole in the ground or a grubby cave, stank of all manner of human waste and decay.
‘It’s all right,’ he called out. ‘He’s gone. It’s safe.’
Slowly they crept towards the light. One by one, as if afraid it was a trap. Half naked, covered in grimy rags. There were five boys, of varying age. The youngest was not more than six, the eldest around twelve. Where they had come from, what their stories were, he could only imagine. What they shared in common was this little prison and the abuse they had suffered.
‘Ya allah,’ murmured the man from downstairs.
‘We’re taking them out of here,’ Makana said, turning to reassure the boys. ‘It’s all right,’ he said again. None of them had yet spoken a word. They stared at him with wide eyes that seemed to have lost all sense of light. He ushered them towards the stairs.
In the street below he found the bewhiskered Omda stamping his stick indignantly. A crowd had gathered round the entrance to see what the commotion was all about. They closed in on Makana as he came out of the building with his little band of wretches.
‘What is going on here?’
‘It’s all over. The police are already on their way.’
The Omda put his hand on Makana’s chest, his moustache wrinkling with disgust. ‘I told you, we take care of ourselves around here. The police aren’t welcome.’
Knowing the state of the traffic, Makana knew that it could be a while before Okasha showed up.
‘You’re protecting a criminal.’
‘These . . . animals,’ he wrinkled up his nose, ‘are like vermin. They carry disease.’
‘They are children.’
The crowd was closing in, and Makana realised that things could get nasty. Several of them, including the old goat with the moustache, were probably accessories. Rocky no doubt paid them off as well as providing some of them with extra services. The boys were beginning to get nervous. He backed towards the entrance to the building thinking it might provide some shelter until help arrived. He scanned the crowd hoping for a sight of Sindbad. Then one of the boys lost his nerve and made a break for it. Running along the side of the building, he triggered off an instinct in the men surrounding them who immediately gave chase. They cornered him, penning him in quickly. The boy darted one way and then the other as the circle closed in on him. Any minute now, Makana thought, and they would all be ripped limb from limb. He was in no doubt that the Omda was not joking when he said they took care of their own.
‘There he is!’
All eyes followed the finger pointing upwards, and there, running along the parapet of a building, was a slight figure.
‘It’s the angel!’
‘That crazy Christian boy,’ someone else shouted. ‘We’ll get him this time.’
The Omda thrust his stick into Makana’s face. ‘There’s the one you should be after. He’s the one who killed those boys.’ And without waiting for a reply he turned and hurried after the mob. Makana felt a certain relief watching them go, although he was concerned about what might happen if they caught up with Antun. As he turned his head back, Makana glimpsed a face retreating quickly into the shadows two doors down. At that moment Sindbad huffed into sight.
‘I heard the noise. What is happening?’
‘Look after them,’ Makana told him, indicating the kids. ‘Okasha will be here in a moment.’
‘What are you . . . ?’ Sindbad’s voice trailed off as Makana crossed the street quickly and stepped through another narrow doorway. Rocky had not gone far. He had come back down the stairs and slipped into another building, hoping no doubt to watch them carry Makana’s body out. Now he could hear him, breathing heavily as he climbed the stairs above him. Makana was in some pain. The fall had bruised his chest and twisted one leg. He realised he was hobbling up the stairs rather than running. But he was moving, which was something.
The roof of this building was similar to the other and cluttered with all manner of junk. Here, washing lines loaded with sheets flapped in the night air. In the distance he could hear sirens. A shadow popped up and then vanished just as swiftly. He crossed the roof and saw the figure had dropped down and was now running across the top of the next building. Makana swung himself down, scraping the skin on his hand in the process. He moved as quickly as he could, trying not to trip over too many things. Ahead of him he glimpsed Rocky jumping to the next building, showing more athletic prowess than Makana would have given him credit for. When he reached the edge he saw that it was less than two metres across a narrow alley to the next building. He took a run and cleared it easily, falling over an old oil barrel lying in the dark on the other side. By the time he got up, Rocky was already halfway across the next building. Torches burned a trail along the street below, marking the progress of the gathering mob. The flames bobbing along on a tide of angry shouts and upraised hands. The flares lit the faces of onlookers: a flickering portrait of unease.
Makana was now running parallel to them, with Rocky a fleeting shadow ahead of him. They leapt across another street and then another. Below, the road widened and the high white walls of the church loomed out of the darkness. This time they would surely burn it down. Beyond the church the road narrowed again, vanishing once more into a labyrinth of crooked buildings. Rocky was climbing a wall, standing on something and hauling himself up. It slowed him down a bit, but Makana was faced with the same problem when he got there. He stacked up a couple of crates and then threw himself up until he got his fingers over the lip. He felt a nail rip his hand as he scrabbled with his feet, running up the brickwork, trying to find some support.
From up here the city looked like an electric sea tossing in a storm. The hard lines dissolved into darkness and the buildings emerged like tall grey vessels floating out of the gloom. When he straightened up he realised he was now directly opposite the church. But the street separating them was too wide to jump at this point. He watched a fireball spin slowly through the air before exploding, spilling an angry tear down the white wall. Another Molotov cocktail followed the first. There was a tinkling of glass and flame erupted inside. The leaping shadows playing in the high windows in the church’s side.
Ahead of him Rocky was getting away, running across the precarious roofing that spanned the buildings further down. The street narrowed there. He was trying to get across. He was trying to get to the church. What for?
On the other side, Antun appeared in one of the windows of the church tower. He climbed out and ran with sure-footed recklessness along the parapet until he stood directly over the mob gathered in front of the church doors. There he stood and raised his hands above his head. Makana stopped running, spellbound by what he was seeing. Antun seemed to really believe he was some kind of supernatural creature. An angel even. Then Makana saw the shadow rise up at the rear end of the church and begin edging carefully along the narrow parapet. Rocky was heading for the front of the church. If he knocked Antun down no one would accuse him of murder and the crowd would have their killer.
Below, a second group had gathered in front of the church, apparently in an attempt to repel the attack. Ishaq’s angry gang. Makana could make him out on the frontline, ahead of his men who carried sticks and bicycle chains. A car exploded into flames as the two groups advanced towards one another. Makana could make out Father Macarius fighting to get between them. A crowd was forming as people gathered to see what was happening. Some shouted excitedly:
‘There he is!’
‘Al-malaika!’ someone cried. ‘It’s the angel.’
‘Killer!’
The thin figure standing at the apex of the church tower stood out in stark contrast to the white walls. A silence fell over the crowd below as they caught sight of him again. People were looking up and pointing. If Antun was the devil who was preying on young boys he was also the miracle. The Angel of I
mbaba. Indeed, some had fallen to their knees and were crossing themselves, raising their hands in prayer. The boy seemed not to notice any of this. He was balanced right on the very tip where there couldn’t have been more than a few centimetres to stand on. Yet he appeared perfectly stable, as if he had stood on that exact spot many times before.
‘Antun!’ Makana shouted, waved his arms in warning, but to no avail. Rocky was drawing closer. The slight boy would be no match for him. Antun seemed oblivious. Another car exploded into flames as the sirens drew closer. Rocky disappeared from sight and then reappeared, just on the other side of the church tower. Antun saw him now. He lowered his arms, almost in a gesture of resignation. Makana could see the smile of satisfaction curl across Rocky’s upper lip as he closed in. The look on his face changed to one of puzzlement as Antun turned towards him and threw himself into his arms. The expression turned to one of panic as Rocky realised that Antun was not trying to fight him off, but was instead clinging on, his arms wrapped tightly around Rocky’s neck. The two figures toppled slowly from the roof. Antun’s little cape gave a brief flutter before they hit the ground with a sickening crunch.
Silence fell over the crowd. They drew back from the two bodies which lay there still entwined. In death, Antun’s face appeared to be smiling in an odd fashion, as if he had finally found peace. The rest of his body was crushed and broken by the fall. His legs were twisted away to either side at unnatural angles and his chest had collapsed, but his face had somehow managed to remain untouched. All the animosity had gone out of the crowd. As they stood puzzling over the body and why he had jumped, a flare of light rose with a clap into the night sky and everyone turned to look up at the church.
