The Pestilence

by Faisal Ansari

  Mariam slid silently into the empty chair by his side. Stefano sat up but continued staring at the drab grey wall opposite. Mariam was a shadow of Dressler’s outward physical strength but inwardly they were similar; strong, powerful and determined. She pushed her arm through Stefano’s and rested her head on his shoulder. He felt her exhaustion and the ferocity of her rage seeping through his skin.

  They sat together in silence as the hospital staff bustled past urgent and sincere. With his free arm Stefano reached into his pocket and eased out his cell phone. His investigators had mapped Dressler’s inbox to his own. He scrolled through to the conversations between Ashen and White and passed the phone to Mariam. She lifted her head from his shoulder and scanned through the correspondence. Instinctively she flicked a wary glance towards the police officer standing guard at Samuel’s door. She needn’t have worried; he was completely preoccupied with peering into the nurses’ station at the end of the corridor. Mariam handed the phone back to Stefano accompanied by the slightest of nods. She was in. Mariam tightened her grip on Stefano’s arm and returned her head to his shoulder. They continued silently staring at the drab grey wall opposite wrapped in their all-consuming grief.

  ***

  Timeline: The Pestilence minus 1 day. Information source: BBC World News live broadcast.

  Hugh Feades in the BBC World News studios in London: Jerusalem is a city in mourning. The attack by the cult Church of the King of Light on a stadium of almost 50,000 people waiting to be healed has shocked the world. The audacious attack which left 840 dead and 4,100 injured was directed at one man. Samuel Srour who lies fatally injured at the St Luke’s Hospital in Jerusalem. For the latest update on Mr Srour’s condition we go now to our Deputy Middle East correspondent, Rayaan Khan, who is reporting live from outside St Luke’s.

  Rayaan Khan: Thanks Hugh. Outside the hospital where Samuel Srour lies close to death, this is a time for prayer and reflection. I am surrounded by thousands upon thousands of candles lit by the faithful who are massing in ever greater numbers waiting on news of the inevitable. Police estimate that over 100,000 people are standing vigil around the hospital. More and more arrive every hour as the news from inside the hospital becomes graver. Samuel Srour suffered a minor heart attack this afternoon. He may not make it through the night and now we understand that the Srour family have publicly stated that they will make a decision at noon tomorrow on discontinuing life support.

  I am here with a few members of the public to get their reaction. Can you tell me what does Samuel Srour mean to you?

  Public 1: He offered us hope for a better future.

  Public 2: We have come to stand and grieve together.

  Public 3: He could have made himself rich but instead decided to give his gift to us all.

  Public 4: I’m here to show solidarity with my fellow Healed. The love of the Healed community will live on beyond Samuel. Samuel always said follow your own path but he was the one starting us all on that journey. He will be missed but not forgotten and as long as there are Healed in the world then Samuel Srour’s legacy will live on.

  ***

  VICTOR watched the BBC News report from his car as he crawled through the Parisian streets. The last person on the omnibus made a very good point. As long as there were Healed in the world then Samuel Srour’s legacy would live on. He picked up his phone and dialled his assistant.

  “Celine, cancel the rest of my day. I would like you to have my plane ready immediately. I am travelling to Jerusalem. Please have an overnight bag for me at the airport, casual attire not business. Assume I will be away two days. Thank you.”

  ***

  DINA wandered into the living room with her football tucked under her arm. She was tired and hot from her after-school exertions in the garden with her cousins. Her father was seated in front of the television watching the early evening news. Dina bounced the ball on the floor and then against the wall hoping to attract some attention. Rayaan Khan’s news report ended with a close-up photograph of Samuel. Dina immediately stopped bouncing her football.

  “Baba, is that our Samuel?” she said pointing to the screen.

  “It is my darling. He’s been hurt. Mummy and I were talking about going to the hospital tomorrow to pray and light a candle for him. You must make me a promise and remember Samuel in your prayers tonight.”

  “Baba, I pray for Samuel every night.” Dina discarded the ball and crashed into her father’s arms. “I want to come to see him with you.”

  “No my darling. It’s a long journey and you have school tomorrow. You have to stay here with Tata.”

  Dina squirmed in her father’s arms bringing her face up to his and blocking his view of the television. “I’m sorry Baba, but the angels are telling me I must go with you.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said her father attempting to peer around his daughter’s obtrusive head.

  Dina placed her tiny hands on either side of her father’s face once again impeding his view. Exasperated at her constant distraction Dina’s father sought to haul Dina off his lap and deposit her onto the floor. He placed his hands under Dina’s armpits and lifted. He couldn’t move her. Somehow his arms lacked the strength to lift his own daughter. He tried again and failed. It was as if Dina were made of lead. His eyes flicked round the room as the thought that he was having some sort of stroke or heart attack took hold. As his panic grew deeper he shouted for his wife.

  Dina pressed her fingers to her father’s lips and her mouth to his ear. “Don’t worry Baba,” she whispered. “It’s going to be okay. The angels just want you to listen to me. They won’t hurt you. Look, they will turn off the TV.” Over Dina’s shoulder the television screen went dark and the room fell silent.

  There was now genuine fear in Dina’s father’s eyes. “Baba, we must go together and see Samuel tomorrow, okay?”

  Dina’s father nodded; he was physically incapable of doing anything else.

  ***

  MARIAM was alone with Samuel for the first time in days. Dalia and the others were resting in the adjoining visitors’ suite, the ventilator’s mechanised rhythm was the only sound in an otherwise silent room. Samuel’s skin was flushing slightly so Mariam drew some water into a bowl and recovered muslin from the cupboard. She moved back Samuel’s blankets and gently washed his face, moving on to his neck, the top of his chest and shoulders. The sensation of water on his skin or the soft movements of the cloth brought neither movement nor response. Mariam leaned over her childhood friend and kissed each one of his closed eyes in turn; this could be her last chance to say goodbye. The tears falling from her eyes traced a line down Samuel’s cheeks and Mariam reached down to kiss them away.

  As Mariam began to replace the blankets she noticed that the doctors had removed the bandages from the burn on Samuel’s thigh. A faint glow emanated from beneath the hospital gown. Mariam pushed back his garments, her curiosity peaked. The burn was about five inches in length and three inches wide, the patch of skin was luminous white with red angry lines running across it. Mariam stared at the wound, perhaps it was the light, or the early hour, but there was something definitely odd about the scar. The red raw lines formed a pattern and the more she stared, the more convinced Mariam became that there was something written on Samuel’s thigh, written in the aftermath of the airstrike, when destruction fell like rain from the heavens and the foundations of the earth shook.

  Mariam retrieved her cell phone and framed a close up of the lesion. She readjusted Samuel’s gown and drew the blankets over him once more. Mariam settled back into the hospital chair flicking through the contacts on her cell phone until she found the one she was looking for; the senior professor of languages at the University of Jerusalem.

  Stefano appeared at the hospital door. It was time. Mariam sent the text. She switched off her phone and gave it to Stefano. He placed it along with his own in Samuel’s bedside cupboard and they left the ward together.

  ***

  Timeline: The Pestil
ence day zero. Information source: Text Message between Dr Mariam Fara and Dr Hana Shihadah.

  Hey, Hana. Thanks for your text of support. Am coping as best as I can. Strange request. I came across this and wondered if you could make sense of it. Obviously not Hebrew but looks a little like it, no? Can you let me know?

  Mariam

  ***

  ASHEN strode through the Jerusalem morning wrapped in a feeling of smug satisfaction and fulfilment. He skipped down the steps leading to Suleiman the Magnificent’s Damascus Gate. Just through the gate was the Syrian cafe. Just beyond the cafe doors was Mariko. Ashen’s lip curled at the thought of finally taking Mariko into his bed tonight. He wouldn’t be gentle, her stupidity had brought him displeasure but soon the family of the False Messiah would terminate his life and Ashen’s divine task would be complete. His prize awaited him through the Damascus Gate.

  With the blood of over a thousand people on his hands Ashen was more cautious than ever. He abruptly stopped outside the cafe and swept his gaze quite brazenly over both sides of the street. This early in the morning it was as near deserted as a street in Jerusalem’s Old City was ever likely to be. When he was satisfied that he was not being followed, Ashen glanced through the frosted windows of the cafe. He couldn’t see Mariko and his heart fell. He paused a beat, looked round once more, made up his mind and stepped through the door with purpose and conviction.

  A single waitress flittered between the handful of diners. He scanned the room once more. Mariko had taken a table deep in the building and Ashen saw her immediately. Mariko had obeyed his orders. She faced away from the door and her overnight bags were stacked neatly against her chair. Ashen’s eyes traced the curve of her back, her slender, willowy frame and straight black hair hanging provocatively at her shoulders. He fought the temptation to rush over to where she was sitting and instead walked steadily to her savouring his moment of triumph.

  Something was wrong; a few paces from her he almost stopped. It was nothing more than a whisper from his subconscious, something about the way she sat or the angle of the tilt of her neck. There was something unfamiliar about it, but the whisper wasn’t strong enough to make him change course and his desire and longing drove him to make his second and final mistake.

  Mariko didn’t hear him approach and when he was on her Ashen reached down and pressed his lips into the side of her neck. The taste of her skin felt electric, sending a surge of desire coursing through him. He pressed his teeth lightly into her skin. He wanted to bite into her flesh; he wanted to consume her. He wanted her now, this instant. Mariko, without turning to face him reached out and pressed something into Ashen’s inner thigh. At her touch a ripple of pleasure flowed up his leg into his groin and he felt himself hardening.

  Ashen looked down. To his horror Ashen saw the blade of the Tanto glinting back at him. Holding the Tanto steady Mariam stared at him over the bridge of her sunglasses.

  “You looking for the owner of this?”

  Ashen said nothing, too shocked to speak.

  “You know Mariko’s blade don’t you? Then you should know how sharp this fucking thing is. I am pressing it into your femoral artery. You twitch; you so much as sneeze and I slice into one of the largest arteries in your body. I cut you there, you will bleed to death before I walk out of this cafe.”

  Ashen’s desire flushed out of him in an instant. He looked once more at the Tanto, then at Mariam and then towards the door of the cafe, his mind racing through the possible permutations of escape. He was about to slam his fist into Mariam’s face when a towering menace filled the cafe doorway. Stefano stepped through the threshold. He was for once dressed casually, wearing sunglasses and a grey marl top with the hood pulled tightly round his head.

  Stefano strode towards Ashen, fierce and malevolent. Stefano reached out his right hand and allowed his finger-tips to momentarily brush the side of Ashen’s face. In a clinically swift movement, Stefano flicked his right hand back towards his chest stepping lightly forward and crashed his elbow into the side of Ashen’s face. Ashen’s cheekbone gave way under the blow but somehow he stayed on his feet. Stefano grabbed his collar and guided him into the seat opposite Mariam. Stefano checked over his shoulder; the waitress had her back to him and his bulk had obstructed the assault from the view of the other diners. He pulled up a chair alongside Mariam.

  Ashen’s cheek throbbed and he felt his eye was ready to burst from its socket. He was fully aware of his predicament. He had sprung their trap and now he was at their mercy. There was no escape. Ashen gently placed his hands on the table in front of him offering Mariam and Stefano his surrender and his obedience. His eyes darted between them.

  Mariam was the first to speak. “How many more from your church are there?”

  “Tell me first, where is White?” said Ashen, his voice slightly slurred from Stefano’s blow.

  “I shot her in the throat when she tried to kill Samuel,” said Stefano. He withdrew Dressler’s 357 from under his clothes and dug it forcefully into Ashen’s chest. “The lady asked you a question.”

  Ashen grimaced in pain as the heavy gun clawed into his ribs. It was a welcome distraction from his anguish at Stefano’s half-truth about Mariko. “Then I am the last of my church. Four of us arrived in Israel. You shot White, I killed Red and Black died at the stadium striking at the False Messiah. So that leaves only me and you have now caught me in your little trap. You may take me in now. I will tell my story to the authorities.”

  Mariam and Stefano shared a look.

  “I have nothing to hide,” Ashen continued. “I admit all that I have done was only to facilitate the arrival of my King. I’m prepared to wait his coming in captivity. No cell can hold me once the true King is revealed.”

  “What worth is a King who calls for the death of countless innocents?” said Mariam.

  “The lightning tells us the King already walks amongst us; once the False Messiah has gone, the King will rise. It is written and I will be his right hand, dispensing justice and vengeance in equal measure. And you will be the first to be judged,” said Ashen jabbing his finger at Mariam. “The tamed whore of the False Messiah. Now take me in.”

  “We weren’t planning on taking you anywhere,” said Mariam grimly. Ashen saw a flash of steel as Mariam swept the Tanto through the air slicing through his outstretched finger. The severed digit bounced once on the table and then skittered away amongst the chairs of the cafe.

  Ashen’s face turned pallor with pain and shock. He opened his mouth to scream but Stefano leapt at him, yanking back his head, ripping the skin away from his scalp. Stefano rammed the muzzle of Dressler’s 357 deep into Ashen’s open mouth. Ashen’s teeth ground down on the metal barrel as Mariam reached forward and plunged the Tanto into his chest. Stefano took a fraction of a second to check that nobody was directly behind Ashen then pulled the trigger blowing the back of Ashen’s head across the cafe.

  The screaming started instantly. The waitress cowered under the table. Some of the braver patrons bolted for the exit, but most remained rooted in place. Nobody challenged them. Stefano took his time and coolly wiped the blood and brain off Dressler’s 357. Mariam pulled the knife from the dead man’s chest and then sheathed and dropped the Tanto into her rucksack. Ears ringing, they both turned and walked calmly out of the cafe keeping their heads down and leaving the empty travel bags behind. They went through the door and into the meandering souk beyond. Stefano peeled off his blooded hoodie to reveal his usual business suit. He tossed the top and his sunglasses into the nearest rubbish bin and felt the hot muzzle of the 357 press against the inside of his jacket. Mariam slipped her wig into her rucksack freeing her long black curls. She kept her sunglasses on lest she be recognised. They weaved their way arm in arm through the morning shoppers, looking like a corporate couple on their commute to work.

  ***

  VICTOR was midway over the Mediterranean. He had given strict instructions to the crew that he was not to be disturbed. He was busy tacki
ng a white sheet into the leather upholstered walls of the master suite in his Boeing Business Jet. The scandalous desecration of artisan workmanship pained Victor but it was necessary as he wished not to show any wealth in the background of the video he was about to shoot.

  Victor had chosen to pre-record his video so it would be ready for distribution shortly after the switch off of Samuel Srour’s life support. Following Samuel’s death he wanted the video disseminated as widely and as quickly as possible so he had lined up the old and new media corporations under the Chaput Capital umbrella to distribute it. Victor’s contact at CNN would ensure that his message was played on the global news network, with the other major networks inevitably following suit.

  Dressed casually Victor duly finished tacking the sheet into place. He carefully checked the lighting and the framing on his recording equipment. He had written the content hours ago and only needed to glance at his notes before he was ready to deliver straight to camera.

  Victor reshot a few small parts of the video which he believed weren’t quite sincere enough or where he had stumbled over his words. He spent the next fifteen minutes editing the footage and then attached it to a series of draft emails ready for global distribution. He then dismantled his makeshift studio grimacing at the holes in his leather walls. Victor settled back into his double bed and ordered a martini while his mind raced through the planning for the hours to come.