All he could see was this new man’s outline against the light: huge, stocky, thick arms, thighs so big his legs splayed out. He walked up to one of the fighters and with the flat of his hand pushed him hard in the chest like a punch, sent him staggering back.
‘Didn’t you hear me?’
He pushed him again. Everything else was quiet now; it was impossible to imagine anything outside this tiny circle of light.
‘I’m guessing you didn’t hear me earlier, either. Huh? Were any of you cunts listening?’
Pulling the fighter out of his way he moved closer in. No one was about to answer, let alone challenge him. In his right hand by his side hung a pistol.
‘Who the fuck is this?’
Silence.
‘One of you cunts is going to answer me. You.’
He pointed at the Englishman, who looked down at the ground and started muttering a reply.
‘Daesh maybe. We were finding out.’
‘This guy?’
The Englishman kept his head down.
‘This sack of shit? I should shoot the fucking lot of you. This is how you win a war? This is the respect you show your commanders?’
No one so much as looked up at him. He took a step towards the Englishman. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘No sir,’ he said, shaking his head violently. Abraham could feel the fear in him now.
‘Any one of you cunts has been drinking I will shoot them here and now.’
He looked around at them, taking his time, staring hard at each face.
‘Babies. You call yourselves soldiers but you need to play like fucking babies. Now fuck off to bed. Tomorrow we have more than one cunt to send to hell. Fail and I will come for your heads. Better you die in battle. Understand? Go. Go!’
As one the men scattered, ran together up the street the way they had come. Abraham watched them go but without relief. It wasn’t over.
‘Get up.’
The voice was still hard. Abraham didn’t so much hear it as feel it in his chest. Pushing himself up he stood, and against the pain and the natural recoiling of his body did his best to face the man.
‘Who are you?’
Abraham brought his hand up to shield his eyes from the light.
‘An Egyptian. A good Muslim, trying to get a message to family in Raqqa.’
For a good ten seconds the man stared at him. His face was like his body, round and blockish.
‘Lucky for you you’re not important today. Now fuck off.’
8
Abraham went. Recovered his bags and ran with them swinging out of sync at his side. A car started and its lights swept across him but he just ran, all the way to the crossroads and round the corner and finally into the street Murat had given him, until he was outside the house with the two olive trees, just discernible in the thin moonlight. Now it was really night. No one, surely, would open their door, and if they did they would close it the moment they saw him.
Panting, he put his bags down, smoothed his hair without effect, did his best to straighten his stinking shirt, and knocked.
A wind was getting up, and as he waited, straining to hear, two cars raced past at the bottom of the street. A good minute he gave it, knocked again, and when he could no longer fool himself he bent down to pick up his bags and turned to leave. Where to? He couldn’t go on and he couldn’t go back. No one would have him inside and he couldn’t be out on the street. He was nowhere. Nowhere was all he had.
If he had some oxycodone he could take four and curl up under a bush and nothing would matter.
Behind him he heard a voice, a woman’s voice.
‘Who are you?’
When he turned he saw the door was open an inch, on a chain, but the woman herself wasn’t there.
‘I . . . Murat sent me.’
‘Murat who?’
‘I don’t know. Murat. From the Tarcin Cafe. He said you sometimes take lodgers.’
‘Not after dark.’
‘I was . . . some people attacked me.’
‘That’s what happens after dark. You’ll have to leave.’
‘Do you know where I might go?’
Behind the door there was a cough, and a pause.
‘Your Arabic is strange.’
‘I’m from Egypt.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘I have to go to Raqqa.’
‘My advice, go back to Egypt. Go now. Don’t go to Raqqa.’
‘My daughter is there.’
Another pause, and when it spoke again the voice was harder.
‘Is she one of them?’
‘I want to bring her back.’
The door shut, with great finality, and then after a pause it opened again, and standing in the light was an old woman, holding a walking stick but completely upright, her eyes burning into his.
‘My husband, he would take anyone, but he is a fool. He would rather have money now than a house later. But you are not a devil. Devils do not come with plastic bags looking like they have been dragged across the desert. Devils are vain creatures, all of them.’
She had a long, straight nose, and tilting her head back she looked down it now from hard, frank eyes. Her forehead and cheeks were crossed with deep wrinkles, her mouth a fixed line across her face, and she wore a headscarf, tightly tied and covered in bright yellow and orange flowers.
‘Come in. But I have more questions.’
Abraham picked up his bags and stepped into the hall. Outside, the house had looked nondescript, featureless. Inside, it was decorated like the houses of the grander families Abraham remembered visiting in Cairo with his mother as a child: fading yellow walls, oil paintings of scenes from country life, dark wood furniture, lace curtains across the windows, the air cool and smelling richly of wood polish. Abraham keenly felt the filth on him, and with a measure of shame. He shouldn’t be polluting this poor woman’s home.
‘What is your name?’
‘Abraham. Abraham Mounir.’
She nodded to herself, as if he had passed the first, minor test.
‘I am Mrs Demirsoy. What is in those bags?’
‘Clothes. I had to buy new clothes.’
‘Hm. Are you a holy man?’
Abraham hesitated. That wasn’t the question he’d been expecting, and probably it wasn’t for him to say.
‘I go to church.’
Mrs Demirsoy’s head clicked a degree, like a bird’s, and she frowned.
‘I’m a Christian,’ said Abraham. ‘A Copt.’
‘I know about Copts.’
It wasn’t clear if that was a good or a bad thing.
‘I’m not a good Christian. I try to be holy and mainly fail.’
‘We all fail. How could we succeed?’
This question didn’t require an answer, and she asked the next immediately.
‘Your wife. Tell me about her.’
‘She is ill. Lost. In her head.’
‘She has devils too. I am sorry. You have sons?’
‘No. Just my daughter.’
‘Probably she thinks she is special. Does she think she is special?’
It was like being back with Vural, only with better questions. Yes, she probably did think she was special. It had never occurred to him before.
‘Perhaps.’
‘Of course she does. She is young and has no family to keep her hands in the soil. And you? You think you can change her now?’
‘I’m hoping she’ll wake up.’
‘All is dark there. Waking, sleeping, it’s the same thing.’
The eyes that looked up at him were full of a hard sympathy: I have no consolation for you, but then there’s no consolation for anyone.
‘So you are alone? In the world?’
Abraham nodded. Part of him felt like he might cry; not from self-pity but simply from relief in having it acknowledged.
‘And you seek death.’
‘I don’t . . . I just want to save her.’
�
�But not yourself. You would give yourself for her and it would be a relief. Some parents are like you. I am more selfish. How can we expect our children’s lives to be better than our own? There is no right way.’
Maybe she was crazy. Maybe all the death and horror had found their way into her. But her eyes were clear, as they stayed on his, and sharp, there was a lifetime of sharpness in them. She gave him one last look and nodded.
‘Some things are easy. Washing is easy. Sleeping is easy. You, you need both before you know who you are. But I am satisfied. You are a man and not a devil. Definitely a man. Come.’
Mrs Demirsoy opened a drawer in the desk, picked out a key, took her stick and led Abraham briskly up the stairs to the first floor and a room at the back of the house. A neat, clean, single room furnished with a bed, a bedside table, a chest of drawers and nothing else besides a small rug on the floor and a sink in the corner. A thick velvet curtain had done little to keep the heat of the day out, but it was wonderful, perfect, like falling into paradise.
‘You smell like old meat. Bath is next door. Clean it afterwards.’
‘Thank you. Really. I don’t think I deserve this.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Nonsense. You are hungry. Wash, put on your new clothes, come downstairs, I will find something for you. Full board is a hundred lira each night. How many nights?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Really, it is a miracle you have come this far. God must smile on you.’
9
My dreams are a mess of animals, sand and blood. I wake ten times in the night soaked through and each time I fall straight back into sleep, but I don’t want to be there. Nothing’s right, I have no control, all I can do is watch.
When I come out of it the sun is burning against the curtains and my hair is cold and wet on my face. My first thought is for Khalil, and just for a second I feel so low that he isn’t here to look after me, bringing me water, changing my sheets. Talking through whatever the hell it was Badra was trying to tell me last night.
Then I see the time.
I have three missed calls, all from an hour ago. Two from Umm Sharik, who usually picks me up. I call her straight away. No answer. I want to call again but there’s no point, they’ll be out on patrol already.
My head splits right open as I get out of bed but I force myself into the shower and turn it to cold and wish I had longer because it seems to be doing some good. By now my team will be out on the streets, and I have no idea how to find them or what to say when I do. I don’t want to tell them I’m ill. Only weak people get ill, and I curse myself for my weakness. Every bit of me aches and I get exhausted just drying myself.
It’s a sign of how bad I’m feeling that I don’t realize until I’m leaving that this isn’t just random, it’s a test of my strength, of course it is, like everything else. I can do this. I will not fail Him.
But I’m sweating before I even leave the building, and in the heat of the day each step needs will. The clouds have gone and my niqab feels like it’s pulling in all the heat from the sun, as if every ray was channelled right at me. The sound, too. It’s so noisy today, and there’s nothing I can do to escape it, the horns and the engines and the shouting. My gun’s as heavy as a body on my shoulder. Even the smells are getting to me, and each breath makes me feel like the world doesn’t want me here.
I will tell them I’m ill. The truth is all I have.
It’s a mile and a half to the brigade office. The harder I work the more I think I’m not going to make it at all. I need a bench, to rest, just for a minute, but I can’t find one. When we aren’t at war and Badra’s been proved wrong and peace flourishes here then there will be benches, and green parks, and the sound of birdsong everywhere and we will assume our true role, the women, the foundation. I picture the parks, the people in them, the ancient balance of the world in place again, but Badra’s words are still in my head, all broken up and shuffled, more images than words, Khalil polishing his gun and tanks in the sand and the fortress we are building here, the war we are fighting because we have no choice, she’s so right about that, we didn’t start this war, and the brave brothers, the brothers killing the kafirs, brothers killing brothers, the commanders commanding and the stones rain down from a clear sky so that when I crouch down He will protect me—
*
I wake in darkness and it must be the end. I have died failing Him. My body is dissolving back into heat and water and I await His judgement without thought. Love and fear pulse through me, the sounds of the world die away.
Then voices nudge me. Voices I don’t recognize, women’s and men’s, ghostly, questioning. In time I understand them, but I can’t reply, it’s like they’re out of range. Leave her where she is. Take her up. We cannot leave her. I am being judged.
I feel a touch on my arm. It lifts me, supports me across my back, which is cold and hot at once. It pulls my veil down for a second and light comes in, and as I focus I see another veil in front of me and behind it people standing and cars passing. The world’s noise returns. My head feels like it’s going to crack.
The veil is asking me if I’m all right. I have no idea. I look up at the faces above me, the men stern, the women veiled, all dark against the sky-blue sky, and I think I say something.
Leave her, someone says, a man’s voice. Would she do the same for you?
I long for water, and air. I try to stand, hold on to the figure by me, feel my legs buckle like straws. Something weighs on my shoulder. I reach for it and take a moment to recognize my gun. It brings me to myself, and I clutch it close. For the first time I realize the danger I’m in, and I shrink away from the figure’s touch.
‘Are you all right?’
If I could just get on my feet. I use the gun to push myself up but it slips from under me and I fall back down. New voices come, louder, and the people around me move away.
A brother is there. He has a gun round his neck and it swings forward as he bends over me. I can see the brown skin through his beard and the dark bags under his eyes. I have the strange sense of wanting to reach out to him and at the same time to pull back.
He tells everyone to leave, and then it’s just him and me.
‘Who are you?’
I tell him my name. Umm Azwar, Al-Khansaa Brigade.
‘What’s wrong with you? Why are you here? Your ankles are showing.’
I apologize, and try to sit up.
‘You’re not safe with that. Fucking joke.’ He wrenches the gun from me and my eyes follow it as he hands it to someone behind him. ‘Are you drunk?’
It’s even an effort to shake my head. I manage two words.
‘I’m sick.’
‘Where are you going? Who knows you?’
I reach out a hand for him to help me up but he doesn’t take it, and then the heat and the pain in my head are too much and I feel a surge of sickness and try to unfasten my veil in time, but I vomit against the cloth, a stream of it, and the wet and the stink of it panic me.
‘Fuck. Fuck.’
The brother steps back in disgust.
I tear at the veil, and finally pull it away, and use it to wipe my face and mouth. Only now I see myself as the others must, and a deep shame washes through me, and a deep fear follows it, more powerful than this illness. My time here is over. I have insulted our faith, and if I do not die now they will be right to kill me.
10
How I got from there to here I don’t remember. I wake up in my old bed in the makkar, on my own, under clean sheets. It’s dark outside but the door is open an inch or two and some light gets in. There’s a glass of water on the floor beside me, and as I prop myself up on an elbow and reach for it the pain in my head returns. I give up and lie back. Planes fly overhead but no bombs fall, none that I hear.
At some point Badra comes. She’s her usual self, impossible to know what she’s thinking, but she brings me more water and asks me if I want medicine
. Something for my head, perhaps, Nurofen. Paracetamol would be better, she says, and gives me three pills to swallow. The water tastes like metal and feels like it doesn’t belong in my throat.
She lays her hand on my forehead and tells me I’m still burning up. I want to know who’s doing my work, what will happen to me, but she doesn’t answer. Just rest, she says.
I’m not well enough to read, but I pray. I pray for the strength to get through this, and to take whatever punishment is due to me. I expected to wake up in a cell but with Badra you can never tell. Is she curing me or holding me? I can feel the sense of disgrace waiting for me, just there, waiting until I’m well enough to realize how bad it truly is.
When I get reception I manage to text Khalil that I’m ill, I don’t mention anything else, and then the signal goes and I wait hours for his reply. Not knowing if he knows what I’ve done is worse than everything else.
I know I should sleep but my dreams are still crazy and I’m not enjoying them. Nothing makes sense in there. Sometimes I’m inside this huge machine, and that’s all there is, wheels and cogs and steam and noise, banging and crashing and clanking. It’s like a metal hell. I want to find a way out but I can’t.
I get a text back from Khalil, telling me to hang in there. I have so much to say to him but don’t want to burden him with my weakness when he’s fighting. I let him know I’ll be okay. Not long now, he says. And that thought, which should be the happiest one, is the one that eats me up. When I disgraced the khilafa I disgraced him. I should tell him now but I can’t bring myself to because what if he leaves me?
Badra comes to me and says I have a visitor. Just like that, you have a visitor, no explanation, no suggestion of who it is or what they want. This is it, I think. Of course, they wouldn’t punish a sick person because the punishment wouldn’t register. If you’re out of your mind, how are you meant to understand? Where’s the pain or the improvement?
It’s Umm Karam, and when I see her I actually feel relief, like someone who’s been condemned to death who finally sees the electric chair. I sit up in bed, try to make the covers neat. My heart is still going at a thousand beats a minute, and in my pyjamas I am so exposed. Ready for judgement, I guess. She’s unveiled, and I look for signs in her face, but she’s like Badra, a sphinx, there’s nothing there. Badra follows her with a chair from the kitchen, sets it down for her and she sits. I say nothing. I don’t even have the confidence any more to greet her.
The Good Sister Page 12
