‘Look at the workmanship on the lion’s mane,’ Salim muttered. ‘It’s even better than the ones in London.’
‘And we were right: no traces of colour anywhere. It was never painted, never put up in the palace.’ Katya touched his sleeve. ‘The story behind this; can’t you just imagine it? The scenes the King didn’t want anyone to see, but the artist who made them anyway …’
Abu Ammar was standing there watching them, the air darkening around him.
‘What the fuck are we going to do with this?’ he said. Katya and Salim hushed and both looked at him. Katya realised too late that she’d touched Salim’s arm again.
‘I said, what the fuck are we going to do with this?’ Abu Ammar shouted.
‘It’s priceless,’ Katya said. ‘One of the greatest …’
He puffed out his cheeks, and his eyes were blazing.
‘I’ve had enough of this.’ He pointed a shaking finger at Katya. ‘I won’t be made a fool of by you. I’m calling the boss.’
‘No, Abu Ammar,’ Katya began, but he held up his hand and turned away from her as he dialled a number into his phone and spoke brief, cold words into it. Then he hung up and threw a burning gaze over them both.
‘Tie their hands, you idiots!’ he shouted at the guards standing behind them. The men came up and made them kneel, pressing a foot into the backs of their knees and zipping their hands together.
‘Are we going to die?’ Katya muttered to Salim.
‘I think so.’
It didn’t seem like a joke. They knelt there and waited for interminable minutes, until a car approached outside, and more armed men, their faces covered, entered the museum. Some were wearing blue jeans, while some were dressed in the usual Afghan style. Katya shrunk back as she recognised the skull man with his distinctive balaclava. Then another man all in black entered. He was short, but his head was tipped back, and his eyes roved coolly over everyone present.
‘Who is this?’ he said in halting English, his voice high-pitched and clear.
‘Hostages,’ Abu Ammar muttered. ‘Prisoners, from the day we took the museum. She’s a foreign scientist and this man too. But they helped us find …’
‘Are there others?’
‘One other,’ Abu Ammar said. ‘Hiding upstairs. A Yazidi girl.’
‘Get rid of them,’ the man said, his voice chilling. ‘Kill him tomorrow for the camera. This woman. What is she? American?’
‘British,’ Abu Ammar said.
The man in black nodded.
‘I will marry her.’
Katya felt her blood freeze. She cast a glance at Abu Ammar, whose lips were twitching. Beside her, Salim’s face was lowered, his hair covering his eyes, but his lips were pulled back from his teeth.
‘Of course,’ Abu Ammar said eventually, his voice thin. The man in black’s eyes passed for the briefest of moments over the lion hunt carving, still dark with earth in places.
‘What is this?’
‘Boss …’ Abu Ammar began.
‘Destroy it,’ the man in black said. ‘Destroy everything in here. Feed it all to the camera.’
Then he turned to leave, his masked soldiers with him. The skull man was the last to go, casting a long and deliberate look around the room. Katya turned her head to Salim and saw that he was sobbing in silent exhaustion. Her whole body felt numb. For several moments, Abu Ammar just stood there in the entrance hall, refusing to look at anyone. Then he turned to the remaining soldiers and screamed, ‘What are you waiting for? Get hammers. A drill. And a camera.’
‘Abu Ammar,’ Katya said, and she heard the pain in her own voice. ‘Abu Ammar, you don’t have to do this …’
‘Quiet,’ he hissed, not looking at her. ‘Just be quiet.’
The soldiers returned a few minutes later with sledgehammers and a pneumatic drill. One got out a mobile phone and started filming, and another had a handheld camera. Katya watched and felt her whole body racked with nausea.
The men strode around the museum, going from exhibit to exhibit. Where pieces were covered with protective wrappings, they tore them off as if revealing something indecent, and used their hands to tip them to the floor. They fetched stepladders and climbed to reach artefacts high up on the walls, hitting them so they fell to the ground in a shower of shards and dust. The plaster replicas smashed instantly, but the stone statues fell with deep thuds, cracking the floor tiles where they landed. The men put their feet on the backs of the statues and gathered in groups to swing their hammers over their heads, knocking chunks from the stone. Katya flinched with each blow. She felt tears running down her cheeks. In the air, dust hung in low clouds, catching the light, moving in swirls and eddies wherever the men passed through them.
‘“I dreamed of the house whose people sit in darkness,”’ Katya murmured. ‘“Dust is their food and clay is their meat. They see no light, they sit in darkness …”’
The men’s laughter and the hammer blows rang over and over in her head, and for each blow that rained down on the ancient figures, she saw Salim’s body there instead, its fragile bones breaking, his warm skin splitting beneath whatever torments these men had in store for it. When their work was done, they came back into the entrance hall, kicking broken pieces, their boots covered in white dust. They gathered around the lion hunt carvings.
‘Please,’ Katya begged them from her knees. ‘Please, anything but that. You don’t know what you’re doing.’
Abu Ammar came back into the hall and joined the other men. Without taking his gaze away from Katya, he reached out and took a sledgehammer so its steel head slid along the floor with a dull note. He raised the hammer over his head and with his teeth bared, he brought it down right on the centre of the carvings, sending a crack lancing up the stone. After the first strike, all the men around him raised their hammers too, and the blows came down again and again on the stones, until the two panels split into smithereens that crumbled like brown sugar beneath the blows. Katya just watched, unable to do or say anything. Beside her, Salim pressed his nose to the museum floor.
‘Dear God,’ he was wailing softly into the dust. ‘Dear God, forgive us for what we have done.’
For some time after, the men kicked through the rubble, smashing any piece larger than a football. Abu Ammar looked exhausted, his shoulders sagging. He looked as if he could barely lift the hammer any more.
‘You two,’ he said to the two guards standing behind Katya and Salim, ‘stay with the prisoners and watch over them for the night. We’ll take the man out at dawn tomorrow, when the light’s good. I’ve got something in mind.’
Salim was shaking. His skin had turned a shade of grey beneath its coating of dust. Katya watched as Abu Ammar pointed at her.
‘Don’t hurt the woman. You heard what the boss said. There’s a snake-worshipper upstairs if you want her.’
They nodded. Katya felt a ball of rage ignite inside her.
‘Don’t touch Lola!’ she shouted. ‘Please. She’s just a girl.’
The men hauled Katya and Salim up off the floor from behind, both kicking and struggling with their hands still tied, and Katya kept begging them, pleading with them. They didn’t reply or give her any sign, just took them to the room upstairs where they found Katya’s belongings and the stale smell of habitation. The men sat them both down on the mattress and left in silence, the office-room key clicking in the lock. Katya began to cry. Salim didn’t speak to her. She tried not to listen as she heard Lola beginning to shout, the men laughing, dragging her downstairs. Katya heard Lola’s cries of rage and fear and then the door to the storeroom opening and closing deep in the building. Barren minutes passed. Out of nowhere, Salim spoke.
‘This is what the lion hunt carvings mean.’ His voice was hoarse and full of effort. ‘The artists, whoever they were. This is what they were trying to tell us. The cruelty of this world. They’re telling us, “We see it too. You’re not alone.”’
Katya only wept. Time fell over them in folds, glut
inous, turning one way then the other. She saw her Gilgamesh book lying open on the floor, and read it out loud, as loud as she could, to drown out the sound of her own crying, and Salim weeping beside her, and the cries of Lola, distant in the belly of the building.
Gilgamesh and the ferryman sailed across the river of death. On the far shore, they met the ancient one Utnapishtim. His eyes were milk. His beard was moonlight.
‘I know what you seek,’ he said. ‘But you will never gain the secret of eternal life. See, you are exhausted. Your head is hanging. You want to live for ever, but you can hardly stay awake for one day!’
‘Test me!’ Gilgamesh cried. ‘I will stay awake for six days and seven nights.’
Gilgamesh sat beside the river of death. But his journey had been hard, and grief had weakened him. Soon he nodded and lay down and then he was asleep.
On the seventh day, Gilgamesh awoke and saw seven loaves of bread laid out in front of him, one for each day. Each one was harder, covered in more mould than the last. And he knew that he had failed.
A muffled gunshot sounded somewhere in the building. A pause. Then two more. Katya lost her voice. She felt the whole of herself crumble from within, and burst into sobs of rage.
‘My god, my god,’ the words coughing out of her. She thought of the freckles on Lola’s nose, the way her front teeth were turned slightly towards one another.
‘She was just a girl. Such a sweet girl.’
Beside her Salim was sobbing too, his head hanging. The silence felt like a death all of its own. Katya heard the door to the storeroom opening, and footsteps coming up the central museum stairs, and she felt her whole body shrink with hatred. The key turned in the office door, and Salim whimpered. The door swung open, and Lola was standing there, her hands and clothes covered in blood. She clutched that little red-handled kitchen knife in one bloodstained hand.
‘Ya Allah,’ Salim breathed.
‘Lola,’ Katya whispered, unable to believe what she was seeing. ‘What happened?’
The girl’s eyes were wide and frightened. Her pupils were deep, inky wells, barely any iris visible.
‘They put down their guns,’ she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. ‘When one came close, I did not hesitate. I was very fast. I stabbed him. I took his gun, and now they are both dead.’
‘Are you sure?’ Katya said. ‘Lola, are you sure they’re dead?’
‘They are dead,’ the girl said again, dropping the word like a stone, spots of blood dripping in glutinous threads on the floor. Focus swam back to the girl’s eyes, and she staggered over to where Katya and Salim sat.
‘Lola, cut our ties.’ She did, though she was shaking the whole time. Once Katya’s arms were free, she wrapped them around Lola. She smelt the blood on her, the smell of fear; the girl’s bones felt weightless, and her skin was cold. The knife dropped to the floor with a wet clatter. Over Lola’s shoulder, Katya met Salim’s eyes.
‘Salim. They’ll be back any moment. They’ll kill us when they find out. Can you get the van going?’
‘I have no idea.’ He looked down at his own quivering hands in front of him, as if trying to test whether he was in a dream. Then a shudder passed through the whole length of this body, and he shot to his feet with a crazed expression on his face. ‘My God, I have no idea!’
Down in the museum’s shattered debris, they found the wrapped tools with the parts hidden inside, just where the men had left them. Salim put them under his arm and ran to the garage in wide, bounding steps, pieces of stone and plaster skittering in his wake. Katya took Lola to the bathroom and washed her up as best she could. The water ran pink in the metal basin. She held Lola and whispered to her that it was going to be okay, that they would get out and that she would be safe soon. The girl was shivering and distant, but she held on to Katya’s arm with a tight grip, as if the world was rocking beneath her.
‘I did it just the way my brother showed me,’ she said. ‘I decided to do it, and then I did it with all my soul.’
It was past midnight when Salim finally came to them, his hands covered in oil, patches of grease on his face, his hair disarranged.
‘I think I’ve done it. I think it should work now. But there’s only one way to know.’
They all went down into the parking garage: Salim, Lola, Katya. They stood around in a circle as Salim got into the driver’s seat and closed his eyes, muttered a prayer. Then he reached out and turned the key in the ignition. The engine spluttered and coughed. It choked, and then with the most beautiful sound Katya had ever heard, it thrummed into life, a throaty and wild roar. Katya and Lola jumped and cheered as loudly as they dared.
‘We’re going to get out of here,’ Salim said, barely believing what he was saying, his hands flexing on the steering wheel. ‘My god, we’re going to get out of here.’
‘It’s really happening,’ Katya said, and ran up to hug Salim where he sat in the driver’s seat. ‘You did it.’
He breathed out.
‘There’s just one more thing we have to do,’ he said, and looked at Katya. His hands were shaking.
‘What is it?’
‘The door to the garage. It’s locked from the outside, with two padlocks.’ He lifted up a pair of bolt cutters from the toolbox on the passenger’s seat. ‘I need to go out with these and cut them both.’
Katya looked at him, his dark eyes and unruly beard.
‘Salim, I’ll go.’
‘No, Katya, don’t be crazy.’
She held his gaze and reached out to take the bolt cutters.
‘Salim, it has to be me. I can’t drive. You saw what happened before. We can’t risk a seizure, a crash. You sit in the driver’s seat with Lola and get ready to leave.’
‘Katya, no …’
‘Salim, I have to do this. Give me the bolt cutters.’
His face was full of pain, but he knew she was right. He didn’t resist when she reached out and took the tool. She felt its weight in her hands, heavier than she expected.
‘I’ll be a few minutes,’ she said. ‘Just through the door, around the building to the back. I’ll tap on the door when I’ve removed the locks.’
‘Katya, be careful. There could be guards … and take your phone.’
She nodded and took a deep breath. Then he reached out and put a hand on her cheek, leant over and kissed her. She closed her eyes and felt his lips dry on hers, and for a moment her fear wasn’t of pain or death, but of that lost future. Then, unable to bear it for a second longer, she spun away and set off through the museum. She turned back just once, to see Salim watching her, and Lola too, in her bloodstained clothes.
When she turned the corner into the ransacked museum, Katya was trembling. She was alone now. She thought for a moment of going down into the storeroom, fishing around in the dark on the blood-covered floor for the dead men’s guns. But the thought terrified her. And she knew that if she fired a gun, the whole city would come down on them. She reached the main door and found that the guards had chained it shut with the bike lock. She listened against the wood. There was nothing outside, not even the sound of traffic. Just the distant booms of ordnance falling somewhere on people’s houses, a sound as normal now as the howling of dogs. She lifted the bolt cutters and set them against the old bike chain binding the door, then pressed the long handles closed. It was easy: the chain melted like hard toffee in its jaws. She caught it before it hit the ground, but one link came loose and tinkled on the floor.
Katya held her breath and listened for any sound from outside, but there was nothing. She edged the door open and crept out into the warm dark, the stars brilliant over the blacked-out city. There were two men with guns at the end of the street, but their backs were turned, and they shifted their weight from one foot to the other. Katya opened the door as quietly as she could, and crept on hands and knees out into the night. She darted into the grass verges around the museum entrance, and around the side of the building. The men didn’t turn, didn’t seem t
o notice anything. The palm trees overhead made a sound in the breeze like falling rain. Over the rooftops she heard the roar of jets, the flashes of bombs going off in other districts, the smell of gasoline and fireworks, a rising chorus of barking dogs.
Katya ran the whole length of the museum in the shadow of its garden. She ducked down at one point when a bird took flight near her, and then there was the sound of running feet that set her whole skin alive. She dropped to the ground and waited, let the echoes pass, then crept on to where the parking garage door stood, leading to the road. There were no guards here either.
Katya looked around, and moved as silently as she could to the wide garage door. She found the first padlock, and set the bolt cutters’ jaws against it. It broke easily enough, and the door’s vibrating surface let out a deep metallic rumble. She darted a look around again, into the unlit streets and the dark windows facing them. There was no one there. She ducked down, crept the length of the door to the next padlock and set the bolt cutters against it. This one was stronger, better made. The cutters slipped on the hardened steel, grazing it. Her hands were sweating, and the tool slid around in her palms. She wiped her hands on her trousers and tried again, clutched the cutters in both hands and wedged the padlock into place with her boot. Then she applied the pressure as gradually as she could, her forearms shuddering. The padlock snapped with a clink, and she fell forwards against the garage door, letting out a resounding bang.
Katya caught her breath and dropped the bolt cutters, swung around to see if anyone had spotted her. A dark figure was standing there in the night. Katya stifled a cry, lifted up her hand to touch her necklace. The figure stepped closer and staggered a little.
‘Katya?’ It was Abu Ammar.
Aurya
Aurya followed the King’s procession out into the open air, where insects were whirling. Clouds covered the stars.
All Our Broken Idols Page 32
