‘How can you see these men as good and holy?’ I said. ‘They’ve killed my baba. They tricked Adnan into something terrible. We are all fled, living like beggars and dying of disease.’ My voice was soft but I saw how much my words hurt him. ‘And now you take two women and shame them and lock them in a cell. Is that honourable? Is that the work of decent Muslim men?’
‘Don’t talk like this.’
He reached into the pocket of his kameez and showed me the edge of a dark packet, wrapped round in plastic. He prised open the end and lifted it to show me. It was money. A lot of money, rolled into a ball. I had never seen so much in my life.
‘Where did you get that?’ I was suspicious. There was something dirty to me now about Saeed and his wound and his money.
He looked taken aback. ‘For us, Layla. I save everything. For us.’
I shook my head. I turned away and wouldn’t look at the money and wouldn’t look at him. He shifted and when I looked again, the bundle had disappeared back into the deep pocket of his kameez.
I said, ‘You should go.’
He looked stricken. He opened his mouth to say something, then waited for a moment, reading my eyes, and closed it again. He put his hand on the floor between us, reaching towards me. ‘Are you all right?’
I shrugged. It was a stupid question. I wouldn’t answer. He got to his feet. The Britisher in her corner was watching us. I saw her eyes follow him as he walked to the door, banged on it to be let out and disappeared.
I turned my shoulder to her. My head was aching. I twisted and curled in a ball on the cement floor. It was dotted with small stones and pieces of dirt. The more closely I looked, the more filthy it became. In the corner, a spider had spun a web. A fly was caught in it, struggling. The threads glistened in the half-light. Behind the web, a line of ants was picking its way up the wall. So much life. This whole world was teeming with it and yet my baba was cold and still.
I knew then that I could never marry Saeed and it was not on account of his class or his family or their lack of land but on account of the terrible sins which he and his new friends had committed against me and my family, against us all.
Chapter 22
Ellen barely slept that night. By morning, she was red-eyed and dull with fatigue. Layla was still flushed but her fever was receding and she seemed to sleep deeply for several hours. When Saeed came with food, he took the girl into a corner and whispered to her. Ellen wondered if he’d been sent to strike a deal.
Ellen ate the bread and tried to listen. Saeed’s voice was soft and she struggled to make out what he was saying. Then she heard a word she knew: Baba. Father. She looked up. Layla’s face was white. She had doubled over and was rocking herself. So Ibrahim was dead, the gentle schoolteacher who’d risked his life to save books. Ellen pushed away the bread, unable to eat.
When Saeed had gone, she went across to Layla and tried to comfort her. The girl curled up in the corner and pushed her away.
The sun in the cell grew whiter as morning wore on. Streaks of hard light poured in from the window and bounced off the walls. Ellen’s face felt stiff with dirt. When she touched the cut on her forehead, flakes of dried blood came away on her dirty fingertips.
Sometimes she paced round the cell with even steps, counting the distances and dividing them in her head. Widths and breadths, diagonals, chess squares. At other times, she sat and stared at the cement floor, watching trails of ants navigate its bumps and creases.
All she had to look at was the packet of medicine. There wasn’t much to read on the cardboard sleeve. The main lettering, the brand name, was raised and embossed, in Chinese characters on one side and English on the other. She ran her fingertips over it with her eyes closed, then rubbed it against her cheek. The company address was an industrial unit in Guilin, China. She tried to pass time by making words with the letters.
In the top right-hand corner there was a hologram, a security guarantee. It was a stylized design, a spinning wheel. When she tipped the packet back and forth, it gleamed and shone. She balanced the packet on its end, knocked it down, balanced it again. She thought about Mohammed Bul Gourn and the screams in the night and worried about Frank.
She did simple exercises she remembered from yoga classes and aerobics, stretching first legs, then arms, then back, trying to work out the cramp. Her neck flamed with pain when she moved her head and she tried to massage it.
She must have been dozing when the man came. The scrape of the bolt jerked her awake. She recognized him from the previous night, one of the men who ate with Mohammed Bul Gourn and sniggered. Now he stood in the doorway, blocking it with his heavy build, and glared. A piece of rope dangled from his hands and, knowing why, she offered her wrists.
He walked her in front of him down the narrow corridor, kicking at her heels to keep her moving. At the end, they turned to the left and the ground sloped sharply downwards. It smelt musty, an earth smell overlaid with the aroma of animals and damp straw. A man sat on his heels by a low door. He nodded as they approached, then spat to the side. He heaved himself to his feet and stood, his grinning mouth showing stained teeth.
Her escort was jangling keys, fiddling with the padlock and chain on the door. It came open with a metallic thud. He opened the door a foot or so until the chain reached its limit, then pushed her through the gap and slammed the door shut behind her.
She stood motionless for a moment. It was dark. She blinked hard, trying to see through jumping threads of light. There was a scent of damp hair. Above her, set high in the far wall, a dark square was narrowly outlined in bright sunlight. Her eyes were drawn to it and she stood, peering, trying to make it out. The shapes came slowly forwards from the shadows to meet her as the darkness thinned. It was a window, she could see that now. Smaller than the window in her own cell and covered with a square of wood.
Something stirred to the right. She turned. A figure, a man, was shifting, there in the corner. It was too dark to make out his face but she saw light gleam in his eyes and felt them watching her.
‘Ellie?’ His voice was slurred.
Frank.
‘Are you OK?’ She moved across to him, straining to see.
The side of his face was dark and its contours distorted. His cheekbone was misshapen, staved in beneath one eye. The cheek around it was a mass of blackness, of bruising and dried blood. She bent over him and lifted her bound hands to his face, gently touching his skin. ‘What’ve they done to you?’
There was no answer. He lifted his arm and pointed across the cell. She looked. A person was lying in the far corner, the lumpen shape of a man. He was still.
‘Ibrahim?’
He shook his head. ‘Driver.’ His voice was thick and little more than a whisper. Around his mouth, his lips were swollen and split. ‘Ibrahim’s dead.’ He turned his eyes from hers. The high-pitched night screams came back to her. She settled on the damp ground beside him and her fingers found his. She stroked the back of his hand.
‘Frank.’ She had nothing for him, not even water. With her hands bound, she could barely move her fingers. ‘What can I do?’
He shook his head. His eyes had closed, his head slumped forwards.
They had brought her to see him for a reason. To frighten her, perhaps. Or to put pressure on him. She thought of Mohammed Bul Gourn’s anger, his allegation that Frank was siphoning money from the refugees and must be punished.
‘Why, Frank? What do they want?’
Frank’s eyes rolled. ‘They blame me.’ She put her face to his, trying to catch his words. ‘For all the deaths.’
‘Why would they think that?’ she said.
‘They say I’m corrupt.’ He collapsed into a cough. A thin line of saliva ran from the corner of his mouth and glistened on his chin.
‘It was Doc stealing stuff,’ she said. ‘They know that.’
He was breathing hard, trying to steady himself. He strained to lift his head to look at her. His eyes were bloody. ‘It’s not true, Ell
ie. Swear to God.’
‘I know.’
He let his head fall, exhausted. She squeezed his hand. Across the cell, the driver moaned, twisted on the floor, then settled.
When he spoke again, she had to lower her ear to his drooping head to hear his voice. ‘They keep asking about Khan,’ he said. ‘Why he came. Why he’s giving money.’
‘What’s their problem with him?’
‘God knows.’
The chain behind them rattled and the door was prised open again. The guard’s face was at the gap, glaring. He shouted at her, an order to hurry up and leave. She leant forwards and brushed her cheek against Frank’s face. She slid her mouth to his ear and whispered to him. ‘Frank. We’ll get out of this. Don’t give up.’
The guard shouted again, lifting his gun. She struggled to her feet to leave. At the door, she turned. He gave a feeble wink and tried to smile, offering her the best he could: a grimace of broken lips and bloody teeth.
Her own cell seemed to have shrunk. The walls pressed more tightly round her. Layla was lying on the ground under the window, her legs sprawled. Her scarf covered her head and eyes. Ellen lowered herself to sit against the opposite wall, massaging her wrists where the rope had chafed them. The sun was high and shards of light were reaching further into the room. It was hot and airless. The cell stank. Clouds of small flies swarmed around the bucket in the corner.
Ellen paced up and down across the concrete, trying to distract herself from thinking about Frank. Outside, the light was bright with glare. A bird cawed with a distant mournful cry. Men with raucous voices shouted to each other in Pashto. She wished the hours would fade, that night would come again. Finally she sank against a wall, pressed her hands to her face and closed her eyes.
Frank’s bloodied face was there at once. What had they done to him? Thinking about it made her physically sick. She couldn’t bear to sit still. He’d been so pitiful, trying to be brave for her when it was clear he was in pain. She groaned, rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes. Frank wasn’t perfect. He was stubborn sometimes and short-tempered. But he was a decent man, a kind one. He was dedicated to helping people. It was absurd to blame him for the camp deaths.
She remembered Frank’s sorry attempt to smile. She twisted and hit the flat of her hand against the wall by her head, banging up dust and loosening fragments of mud. She pounded until her hand was red and aching, then curled up, exhausted, put her head in her hands and wept. She was afraid they hadn’t finished with him yet. She didn’t know how much more his body could take.
An hour or two later the door was unbolted and dragged open. She looked up. Mohammed Bul Gourn was there in the doorway, drawing his eyes over the cell. He seemed taller. He had a blanket wrapped loosely round his shoulders and a woollen hat on his head. He pointed to Layla and his man rushed across and tugged her by the shoulder. She sat up, bleary-eyed, and adjusted her scarf to cover her hair more completely.
When Mohammed Bul Gourn turned to Ellen, his look was calculating.
‘So. The girl is still living.’
Ellen thought of Frank and the driver. This man had complete control over them all.
‘You gave me medicine,’ she said. ‘From my bag.’
He gave an odd laugh. ‘In this place, all alone, you are keeping her living. But in the camp, with all those clever doctors, people die.’
She opened her mouth to protest then closed it again. Useless to argue. He was considering her. His look was strange and she couldn’t read it.
‘What if I give you freedom? What will you do for me?’
For a moment, she couldn’t let herself think about freedom. Instead she looked at the blanket he wore. It was made of coarse brown wool but the columns of light falling across the room were picking out a light meandering thread and she concentrated on following its pattern with her eyes.
‘It is a great blessing to show mercy,’ she said.
She wouldn’t look up. She didn’t trust him and she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing hope in her eyes and then crushing it. She made herself trace the thread through the curves of the blanket as it fell in broad folds around his body.
‘This girl is doubly blessed.’ He had drawn himself to his full height, his expression self-satisfied. ‘She is made well by her Britisher friend. And she has another good friend. From her village. He has pleaded for her. He has given all his money to Allah’s fight so she can be free.’
Ellen nodded. Saeed had begged for her then. ‘And what can I give you? I don’t have money.’
‘You can give me another thing.’
He came briskly across the room towards her. She scrambled to stand up. She felt his power and it frightened her. She stood with the wall hard against her back, facing him. He had stopped so close to her that she could see the fine lines of pitted skin across his broken nose where, many years ago, the flesh had torn and scarred as it healed.
‘This man, Hasan Ali Khan,’ he said. ‘You know him?’
‘I’ve met him. Once.’
He lowered his voice so that only she could hear. ‘Take to him this message from Mohammed Bul Gourn. This is my land. It is not his land.’ His eyes were intent on hers, fixing her. ‘He must not come here. Understand?’
She nodded. He turned from her as quickly as he had come and strode back across the small room. Layla, watching from her corner, whimpered. He was already at the door.
Ellen roused herself, took a step after him. ‘And the men? What about their freedom?’
He turned and his look was stern. He inclined his head to her to say goodbye and tossed the end of his blanket across his shoulder. ‘Write good things,’ he said. ‘Write I am a good man, a mercy man.’
He turned from her a final time, the door was pulled shut behind him and he was gone.
The light was starting to fade when the young men came. She and Layla were curled in their corners, sleeping. The men pulled them to their feet and marched them out. Ellen thought of Frank and the night screams and concentrated on breathing slowly, bracing herself for whatever might come.
They were taken into a compound, surrounded by a high wall. The air was hot but fresh after the stuffiness of the cell. A car engine was running. Layla was so weak she staggered. The men bound their wrists and forced hoods over their heads. The sacking pressed against Ellen’s face. It was full of dust. The stink of earth and mould brought back the terror of the first journey. Beside her, Layla was whimpering.
A man held her elbow and marched her forwards, then pushed down her head and forced her into the back of a car. Someone pressed in beside her on the seat. His hand was hot and hard on the back of her neck, holding it down. Layla was beside her. The doors slammed shut and the car shook, then rocked slowly forwards on a rough track. A melodic voice intoned on the radio, giving a sermon or religious reading.
Blood rushed to her head, making her nauseous. Pain flared in her neck. The hessian hood rubbed against her windpipe, chafing her throat. This sudden move could mean anything. She mustn’t let herself imagine freedom. She tried to focus on breathing. This could be a drive to a piece of wasteland and a brutal beheading, her body dumped by a roadside. Or a handover, a transfer for cash from one group to another which would take them further towards the Afghan border and make it harder for anyone to trace them. Someone smoked, filling the car with the sickly fumes of cheap tobacco.
The car swerved to the side of the road and came to a sudden halt in a crunch of loose stones. Ellen was pitched against the back of the seat in front. Doors opened and a flood of air carried the rich smell of grass. The hand on Ellen’s neck lifted and the pressure of the man’s body against her side disappeared and was gone. The door slammed. Layla was still in the car. Ellen felt her against her side. They waited. In the distance a dog barked.
The door opened and a male hand grabbed at her arm and tugged, pulling her out. She fell out sideways, striking her head against the ground. For a second, she was too dazed to breathe, then
air came back to her in gulps. Small stones pricked her cheek through the hood. She’d fallen awkwardly and, her hands bound, couldn’t right herself. Men were talking in Pashto in low voices. She couldn’t understand. Her head was thick with tiredness and she was dizzy.
Car doors were slamming and an engine revving and there was a sudden skidding of tyres on stones as a car drove away. They’ve dumped us here. She shook her head, frightened.
Someone moved. A man spoke in a soothing voice, saying, ‘It’s OK, it’s OK.’ He had a Pakistani accent. His breath smelt of spices. He was reaching over her, fiddling with the knots which held the hood and suddenly, in a rush of air and light, he pulled it off.
They stared at each other. He was a young Pakistani man, dressed in a cream salwar kameez. A stranger. He looked at her with large solemn eyes. A car was parked across the road. Beside it, Layla was hunched over, her hood already removed. Her headscarf was neat on her head as if someone had taken care to arrange it for her. A man was kneeling at her side, untying the cord at her wrists. She looked pale and sick.
The young man smiled at her. He had dark teeth and a single gold crown which gleamed in the low light. ‘It’s OK.’ His accent was heavy. ‘Now it’s OK.’
‘We can’t leave.’ Ellen reached for his arm. He didn’t seem to understand. ‘They’ve got Frank. The driver.’
She looked round. The man with Layla had freed the cord and was winding it into a coil on his fingers. His eyes were sad.
Ellen struggled to her feet. ‘He should stay here, with Layla,’ she said. ‘We’ll go back.’
The young man shook his head. He twisted away from her, embarrassed. ‘We are going to Peshawar,’ he said.
‘But the others . . .’ Ellen heard anger in her voice, a sudden surge of rage. No one was listening. She turned away from them all and started off up the road. The car went that way, she’d heard it. She stopped after a few steps, her strength and certainty draining away. She ran her hand over her face. Maybe they’d come from the other direction after all.
Far From My Father's House Page 24
