She woke in the night. It was dark. Something had disturbed her. She turned onto her back and lay quietly, listening to the breathing. She raised herself on her elbows and strained to see. All across the tent, women were sleeping. They were lying against each other, children tucked at their sides. She looked more closely. Layla was gone.
Jamila wrapped her chador around her and picked her way between the bodies to the entrance. Outside, the night was clear. She narrowed her eyes and scanned the pathways near their compound. No sign of Layla.
She lowered herself heavily onto the broken plank and placed the flat of her hands on her belly to soothe it. I tried, she thought. May Allah bear me witness. Layla could have had security and a marriage blessed by her Uncles and, inshallah, children of her own. Instead she too will be alone.
She felt weighed down by a great sadness. Everything I learnt, she thought, from my mother and grandmother, I wanted to share with a daughter. The wisdom about our history, our people and our ways. She sighed, gently rocking herself. Now it is finished.
She stayed there in the stillness of the yard for the rest of the night, watching as the grey light of dawn crept slowly into the camp and the first women stirred and emerged from their tents, carried their pails to the pump to fetch water, then sank to their knees to blow dying fires back to life to heat the water for chai and for their men to wash.
Chapter 24
Ellen stepped into her hotel bedroom. One corner of her neatly made bed had been turned down and decorated with a breakfast order form. Her litter of books and papers had been tidied into a pile on the table. The fruit bowl had been restocked. Her travel bag was open on the floor, just as she’d left it, spilling clothes.
Her laundry had been returned. Two salwar kameezes, perfectly pressed and encased in plastic, were laid out on the second bed. Even as I sat in that cell, she thought, trying to fight back the fear of being tortured or beheaded, all this, in this parallel universe, was here.
She turned to Britta who was hesitating behind her. ‘What about Frank?’ She thought of that filthy room. ‘What can we do?’
Britta closed the door. ‘They’re working on it.’ She held out a mobile phone. ‘Call home first. Tell them you’re safe.’
Ellen took the phone and stared at the numbers. ‘What do you mean, they’re working on it?’
‘The Americans.’ Britta was standing awkwardly, her hands clasped. ‘The embassy’s involved.’
‘I should call them.’
Britta brushed past her to the bathroom. Ellen heard the deep cascade of water from the taps. ‘Have a bath.’ Britta reappeared, drying her hands on a towel. ‘And we’ll eat something. You can call later.’
Ellen shook her head. ‘If someone’s trying to get Frank out, I should call them now.’
Britta tutted. She rummaged in her bag and handed Ellen a business card. It was from the American Embassy in Islamabad, the name neatly embossed in raised lettering.
‘I’m going to my room to order food for us both.’ Britta picked up her bag again. ‘You know what you want?’
‘Anything.’
The door slapped shut as Britta left. Ellen went into the steaming bathroom and switched off the taps, then crossed the bedroom to stand at the window and dial the mobile phone number on the business card.
A man answered, speaking in a soft American accent. His voice reminded her of Frank. ‘Anything you can tell us, ma’am.’ His tone was smooth but she felt his attention. ‘Any detail at all about the place, the drive . . .’
She looked out at the early evening light and ran through what she could remember about the car journeys and the compound where they were held. When she finished, there was a long silence on the line.
‘Ma’am, is there anything you need?’
I need Frank, she thought. Sitting right here, next to me, measuring out shots from his illicit bottle of whisky. ‘No, thank you. I’m just tired.’
She looked out at the dusk, at the silhouetted landscape of tree tops and buildings and streets which was now so familiar. Ibrahim was dead. By now, Frank and the driver might be too. She wanted to talk about it but she didn’t have the words.
Finally she said, ‘I met him. Mohammed Bul Gourn.’
He sounded instantly alert. ‘Tell me about that.’
‘He blames Frank. For the typhoid deaths. He says he’s corrupt.’
The American didn’t comment. ‘What else did he say?’
‘He asked me about Quentin Khan. The businessman. You know who I mean?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘He told me to give him a message: Keep away.’
Around her, pipes were knocking with flowing water as the rest of the hotel settled down for the evening. She put her hand to her head. She ached all over.
‘We are aware of threats against him.’ The American official was selecting his words deliberately. He wasn’t giving anything away.
‘It’s just, well, I wanted him to know—’
‘We’ll be sure and pass this on to his people.’ His tone was business-like, moving her on. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Can’t tell you how much we appreciate it.’
She felt herself dismissed. She closed her eyes and the room swam. She thought of Frank and the driver and the horrors the night might bring for them. The silence stretched. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Ma’am, I am sorry but I am afraid I cannot discuss that.’
‘Does that mean you do or you don’t?’ No answer. ‘Are you going in, to rescue him?’
He paused. ‘Ma’am, I am sorry but I am not—’
Her frustration boiled over. ‘Look, I’m not asking you as a journalist. I’m family. You understand?’
He sighed slightly. ‘Ma’am, we are monitoring the situation carefully,’ he said. A long pause. ‘We have intelligence . . .’ He hesitated.
‘That what?’
Pause. ‘There may be a significant development in the next thirty-six hours. That’s all I can say.’
She closed her eyes. ‘Do you know if he’s still alive?’
He took a moment to answer. ‘Ma’am, if we have news we will contact you immediately. I assure you, we are doing everything we can.’
In the bathroom, she ran the water as hot as she could bear and lowered herself into the bath, turning her legs red. Steam clouded the mirror and made the tiles slick with running condensation. Frank was still there, still with them. She thought of his battered face and of the dark cell. A development in the next thirty-six hours. That could mean a rescue mission. Or that Bul Gourn would kill him by then. She tipped her face back, screwed her eyes closed and tried to think what else she could do.
Once out of the bath, she wrapped herself in a dressing gown. There was a knock at the door. Britta, a tube of antiseptic cream and a dressing in her hand. ‘Now,’ she said, gesturing to Ellen’s forehead, ‘let’s dress that cut.’
When she’d finished, Ellen called Phil in London. He answered at once. His first words when he heard her voice were: ‘Where the hell are you? You OK?’
‘I’m safe. I’m back at the hotel.’
He exhaled noisily. There were voices around him. ‘It’s Ellen,’ he said to someone. ‘She’s out.’
He came back on the line. ‘You need anything?’
She smiled. It was rare to hear Phil sound anything but cynical. ‘That’s fine. I’m OK.’
There was a pause. ‘About putting up money.’ He sounded embarrassed, another first. ‘I pushed. Of course. But you know what they’re like. Editorial policy. Once you start, every reporter we’ve got is a walking cash register.’
‘Sure.’
Phil cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, I’m just glad you’re OK. That’s what matters.’
The murmurs around him were amplified by the receiver, echoing down the phone.
‘I know it’s a stretch but I wondered . . .’ He seemed to be shifting his position, almost whispering into the phone. ‘A few thousand words? The website wo
uld love it. They’d post it straight away. Tomorrow maybe. Whatever you can.’
She nodded. That was more like him. She looked again at the crisp, turned-down bed and wondered how long it would be before she could sleep. ‘Sure. Not a problem.’ She didn’t dare catch Britta’s eye. ‘Tell them I’ll file tomorrow morning.’
‘You know that bloke from The News?’
‘John Sandik?’
‘He’s been trying to force an obit on me. Yours. Wouldn’t take no.’
‘My obit?’ So the secret hadn’t been well kept. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Well, obviously. That’s what I said. I already got one done in-house.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Anyway. Better go.’
‘Yeah. And, Ellen, next time I say “get the story”, I don’t mean become it, right?’ He sounded pleased with himself.
‘Right.’
Britta was standing at the window, picking at the edges of the tape cross with her fingernails.
‘Did you hear that?’
Britta half-turned, looking back over her shoulder. ‘I was trying not to hear.’
‘You know John from The News, the guy who came down with Khan? He’s been trying to hawk an obit. My obit. To my own boss.’ She shook her head. ‘What a vulture.’
Britta tutted, and shook her head. Her nails clicked lightly on the window as she went back to scratching at the edge of the tape.
Ellen dialled her sister’s mobile, still indignant. ‘He’d get it all wrong.’
Britta shrugged. ‘Well, if you want to put him right on anything, you might get the chance. He and Khan are coming back in a couple of days.’
She stared. ‘Here?’
‘To the camp. They heard in Islamabad about the riot. They want to see the damage.’
Ellen sat down heavily on the bed. ‘But he mustn’t.’ She thought of Mohammed Bul Gourn’s threat.
‘Why not?’
Susan answered her phone in a storm of noise and wailing children. ‘Ellie?’
‘Hi. I’m fine. I just wanted to—’
‘Put that down. I’m trying to talk to Auntie Ellie. No, you may not.’
She waited, listening to the chaos of her sister’s life. The girls must be having a bad day. Susan finally came back on the line.
‘I’m so sorry, Ellie. How are you?’
‘Fine. Really. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to worry you.’
‘Worry me? Ellie, are you OK?’ There was a distant crash. Her sister’s attention faltered.
Ellen felt suddenly exhausted. Clearly Susan hadn’t even been told.
‘Ellie? You there?’
‘Sorry. I just wanted to say hi. But I’ve got to go.’
‘Everything OK?’ Her sister, confused, sounded suddenly anxious.
‘Yes, promise. I’ll call when I’m back in the UK. Love to the girls.’
‘Keep safe.’
Ellen pictured her walking around the house after the children, her phone in one hand, the other one averting disasters. ‘Love you.’
Britta was standing with her shoulder to the window, one hand on the peeling tape. She was watching Ellen and pretending not to. There was a long silence. Ellen reached forwards and put the phone on the table.
‘I didn’t know who to call.’ Britta’s voice was quiet. ‘I thought your magazine would—’
Ellen tried to shrug it off. ‘It’s fine.’ She wondered how much Frank’s parents knew. Britta turned on the television and it flickered into a studio discussion on CNN. She muted the sound.
A room service waiter arrived with a laden tray. Britta swept the laptop and papers off the table and heaped them on the floor. She and the waiter unloaded the plates of food, the white porcelain pots of tomato sauce and mustard, covered with cling film, and a small vase with a single red carnation. Ellen sat quietly in the soft robe and watched, trying to push away thoughts of Frank.
The waiter didn’t raise his eyes to her. Before he left, he lifted the metal covers off the food with a flourish. A pizza, smothered with tinned mushrooms, tomato purée and imported cheese. An oversized club sandwich with fries. Ellen stared at it all without appetite.
Britta made a show of being cheerful as she tucked into the pizza. Ellen picked at the fries. She sensed weariness in Britta, papered over with good humour.
‘Are you managing without Fatima?’
Britta took a moment to clear her mouth, pulling an apologetic face. ‘Just about. I have my assistant. But I have to find someone else.’
‘And the typhoid?’
Britta didn’t meet her eyes. ‘Pretty bad.’ She took another bite of pizza, spilling rubbery mushrooms. ‘Something very odd is happening. I don’t know.’
Ellen didn’t know either. Next door a door banged and suitcase wheels trundled in the corridor with a murmur of low voices.
‘You should see the size of the graveyard.’ Britta looked worried. ‘No one comes to the clinic now unless they’ve already lost hope. They’re too afraid. And now Khan is coming back, Mr Money.’
Ellen peeled back the cling film and spooned tomato ketchup onto her plate. She picked up two fries and dipped them. ‘Layla was ill. When we were with the fighters.’
Britta looked up. ‘Typhoid?’
‘I think so. Fever. Diarrhoea. I gave her antibiotics and the fever went almost at once. She needs more.’ She shook her head. ‘They’ve got my medical kit. Bag, phone, everything.’
‘I’ve got more.’ Britta wiped her greasy fingers on a napkin and leant down to rummage in her bag. She produced a packet of tablets and set it on the table between them. ‘Anyway, I’ll go and see her first thing tomorrow.’
‘Thank you.’ Ellen half-heartedly picked up a quarter of the club sandwich with both hands. It bulged with mayonnaise and tomato as she tried to bite into it. Strands of chicken fell and littered her plate. She looked at the packet beside her plate as she chewed.
‘Everything’s made in China.’
Britta nodded. ‘Absolutely. You should take a walk through the new supply store. It’s like Hong Kong.’
Ellen pulled out a piece of bacon and ate it. ‘What supply store?’
‘In the admin block. Now Fatima and Doc are gone, they keep everything locked up there.’ She patted her pocket and her keys jangled. ‘Not so convenient. I have to go myself every time we need more things.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since the riot.’
Ellen shook her head. She thought about the riot and the way they’d cowered together in the women’s medical tent as the mob came slowly nearer. Britta had seemed so unafraid, so detached from the danger.
‘Britta, in the riot, what made you think they wouldn’t attack us?’
Britta shrugged, trying to separate herself from trailing strings of melted cheese. ‘I just thought it would be OK.’ She looked around the room. ‘You have two beds. Did you ask for that? I have a double.’
Ellen bit into her sandwich. She was still thinking. Something was bothering her. ‘Why though? They smashed up everything else.’
Britta didn’t answer. She focused on her food. ‘They have suites,’ she said. ‘For five hundred dollars a night.’
There was noise out in the corridor. Male voices and laughter. A door slammed. CNN flashed with swirling pictures as its news bulletin started. A hurricane had hit somewhere in the Caribbean. New pictures just in. Dramatic images of bending trees and whipped-up waves.
Ellen watched idly. Her mind was elsewhere. She was thinking back to the black stain of the first rocks hitting the canvas wall of the medical tent as they hid inside, to the young male voice which had risen above the others and called the men away. It triggered a sudden memory.
‘The young guy who called them off.’
Britta, busy eating, didn’t respond.
‘It was Saeed, wasn’t it?’ Ellen put down her sandwich. ‘It was him.’
Britta didn’t look up. Ellen watched her closely. She thought about the arm wound Sa
eed had shown Layla and how neatly it was stitched.
She remembered her glimpse of Britta walking out across the dark grass by the swimming pool late at night. ‘You’ve been treating him.’
Britta didn’t say anything. She picked up another piece of pizza and bit into it. She was suddenly eating more mechanically, her eyes fixed on her plate. Ellen sat back in her chair. Her sandwich lay forgotten, spilling out across her plate. The grease hardened as it cooled. She’d been groping towards an answer and suddenly she had it. ‘You’re treating his bullet wound, aren’t you?’ She touched the flesh of her upper arm. ‘You knew he’d be part of that riot. You knew he’d look out for you.’
Britta’s face was flushed. She chewed and swallowed hurriedly, finishing what she could. ‘I’m a doctor,’ she said finally. ‘I practise medicine.’
‘On anyone?’
‘Anyone who needs it.’
Ellen stared. Britta sat back and wiped her lips with her napkin.
‘Do you go to them?’
Britta looked annoyed. ‘Of course not.’
‘What then?’
Britta was already twisting down to her bag and zipping it up, getting ready to leave. She leant across the table. For the first time since they’d started to eat, she looked Ellen full in the face. Her cross swung low at her neck.
‘If someone comes to me and they need help, I treat them.’ Her look was fierce, daring Ellen to disagree.
‘Even if they’re Taliban?’
Britta clicked her tongue. ‘Am I God, to decide who should live and who shouldn’t?’ She pushed back her chair and got to her feet. ‘Do you read the Bible?’
Ellen shook her head.
‘As the body without the spirit is dead, faith without works is dead also.’ She turned towards the door. ‘You should sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ She strode across the room, bag in hand. As she opened the door, she paused and turned back. ‘And I’m very happy you’re safe.’
The door shut heavily behind her. Ellen sat alone in the silence, too exhausted to move, the remains of the meal congealing on the plates in front of her, the pictures on the television set flickering without meaning.
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