The Good Sister

by Chris Morgan Jones

  Thought left him, and soon there was only the heat, and the flat rows ahead, and the dark earth newly crumbled at his feet.

  17

  I texted Khalil last night to tell him I was thinking of becoming a Yazidi, but he got quite worried and I had to tell him it was only a joke. He sounds tired. Only three days until he’s back, and every moment seems like a week. Three Kurds, he has killed! Three he knows about, it could be more. Yesterday he was part of a troop that used the wind and the sandstorm to ambush this house on the Peshmergas’ front line where their snipers had been based. That’s the weather they were waiting for. So clever! He’s going to tell me exactly what happened when we see each other and how I long to hear every second, every detail. I’m so proud, imagining him there, hidden by the dust, gun across his chest, not an atom of fear in him. And I so want him to be proud of me.

  I must remember not to crowd him when I see him. I’ll want to cover him in kisses and smother him with attention but after what he’s been through he’ll need time.

  I send something about the Yazidis to Irene but she doesn’t reply.

  My phone rings. I don’t know the number, and I have this strange feeling, for no reason, that it’s going to be some kind of intrusion from my old life. I look at the phone as if it’s some kind of impostor before I answer.

  It’s Umm Karam. She’s never phoned me before, and hearing her voice comes as a relief, first of all, but then she says she wants to come and see me and that rocks me a little. Has she heard something about my first day with the Yazidis? Who could have told her?

  I tell her that I wasn’t planning to leave for another hour at least and of course, she is always welcome in my home. Then I make sure everything is super tidy and wait, my thoughts going this way and that and preventing me from reading, even. Finally, I write out my lesson plan in case she wants to discuss it, and as I’m finishing it she arrives.

  Badra is with her. They come in and unveil, and Umm Karam smiles. Badra nods, like she does. I lead them into the sitting room. Umm Karam has a way of seeming to glide under her niqab, and her face is the same, somehow, always calm and unmoved. It’s impossible to imagine her getting worked up.

  I ask if they’d like tea and she says no. We sit, and for a moment she just looks at me with the same kind, wise, almost blank expression.

  ‘I have news for you, my sister.’

  The way she says it I think it must be good, and I almost feel nervous at the luck being heaped on me. I’m sitting on the edge of the armchair, expectant, and I don’t say anything.

  But something changes in her eyes, something most people wouldn’t notice, something I wouldn’t notice if I wasn’t trying desperately to read every sign. I’m sure I see sympathy there, and straight away it makes me panic, my heart goes up into my throat. I manage to say his name. It’s not even a question.

  ‘Khalil.’

  She nods. ‘Khalil.’

  I close my eyes and all I can see is his sweet innocent face the day he went back to battle, so strong and young. There was no mark on that face. Allah had not marked him out, I knew it! I felt sure I couldn’t see it on him, that I had some special power to read his future, that he would be back. That he would be different. That we would.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last night. A rocket to the house he was in. He died with one other brother.’

  ‘Peshmerga?’

  ‘American.’

  I know how it looked. The explosion, the burst of flame, the crumbling of brick and tiles, the dust and the shouting and Khalil inside it all, blind to his brothers screaming and searching for him, finally at peace. The finger of some kafir pig pressing the launch button and the rocket firing through the air to do no more real damage than send my lion to his rightful place in Paradise, to sit by the side of Allah, the most glorified, the most high. The Americans do not realize that we are stronger in death. I see him there, happy, free of the pains and torment of this world, his work done, blessed by the love of the one true God.

  I see all this in an instant, and my heart feels like it has truly been split in two. One half mourns, the other rejoices. My lion, my lamb.

  Umm Karam has leaned forward and taken my hands in hers. I barely notice.

  ‘The greatest death of all is to die for jihad,’ she says, her eyes piercing mine.

  ‘And to be the widow of a jihadi the greatest honour.’

  Badra is looking at me with proper sympathy, I can see it in her eyes.

  ‘If I was not married to an imam, I should wish it for myself.’

  It is not a worthy thought but right now I wish Khalil had been an imam, that his battleground had been the spirit and not the body that is weak and fails. I am more proud of him than I have ever been, but I don’t think I’m ready to let him go. Twelve days! Twelve sweet sweet days are all I have spent with him. And one of those was really only half a day. I do not question His wisdom but how I wish it could have been doubled. To have spent even a few hours more together would have been the greatest blessing.

  He is a martyr, but he was my husband. I am tossed up and down between Paradise and hell.

  ‘You will survive this, my child. We will support you.’

  Her warmth and her practicality bring me to myself. I think I’m crying, but these few tears are so few and so controlled that they’re the same as the driest eyes. They do no good, nor any bad. I breathe, deep and slow, the air catches in my throat but I just keep breathing, in and out, and soon I manage a nod and a smile that is not a smile.

  Umm Karam smiles back. For a moment I think she is going to hug me but she doesn’t, and thank goodness because I’m not sure I could take it.

  ‘I will take you to your work, and when you return tonight Badra will help you with your things.’

  I don’t know which part to try to take in first. Of course I should work, what else would I do, just sit here and mourn? I cannot let myself descend into that prison of self-pity. That makes sense.

  I thank her and ask her what she means about my things. Badra answers.

  ‘You cannot stay here now. A widowed woman cannot live on her own.’

  I try to be strong, but I realize that almost without thinking it I have imagined being here, with him, letting his spirit go slowly from me. I need it. A little more time with him.

  ‘Just tonight.’

  Umm Karam shakes her head. The line is clear.

  ‘We must move you tonight. You will like the place. There are other widows there. And then in time, when you have grieved, you can marry again.’

  18

  The words come out of me that day but I don’t hear them. I like to think they’re guided by Him, the most glorified, but maybe they’re just nonsense, nothing, the dust of my grief. And maybe the women don’t notice or care.

  Two things happen that day, neither good. The old woman, Emina, she challenges me. That wakes me up. When I finally get Besma to translate what she’s said I find out that what I thought were little pieces of encouragement were terrible blasphemies, some of them I couldn’t bring myself to say. She’s been calling me a liar, and a she-devil, and a hypocrite, which in their basic stupid language is she whose heart fights her tongue.

  I don’t argue with her. I’m sending her out of the room when I hear shouting outside and three brothers come in. It takes me a while to place them but they’re Russians, they speak Arabic with a weird accent and Russian with themselves, I recognize the niets and das.

  I’m wary of them, straight away, the moment they come in the room. They treat me like I’m nothing, and most brothers don’t do that – they may not show respect but they know we’re in this together. Not these ones. There’s something wild and alien about them, like someone’s kept them in a dark room their whole lives and the rules they play by aren’t our rules, aren’t anybody’s rules. They have pale skin like animal fat and bad teeth. I know I shouldn’t react to them like this. Honestly, they scare me.

  The leader – God has blessed most
brothers, you can see the blessing on them, but not this one. His black beard is patchy, I can see the whitest pockmarked skin underneath. He leers at me like a dog, showing his shining teeth, and from instinct I step back. I almost pity the enemies that have to face him.

  They’ve come for women, but when they see there are only girls and grandmothers they lay into me like it’s my fault, then one of them starts on Niran, touching her face, running his fingers down her arm. She takes it. She’s terrified, watches him like he’s a scorpion, but knows she has to sit still and do nothing to provoke him. Her mother keeps her hand on her shoulder and she’s looking at me like I should do something. I want to pull him off her but that would be the worst thing.

  How old is she, he wants to know. I tell him eight. You sure she’s not nine? She must be lying, she’s clearly old enough. Either she’s lying to you or you’re lying to me. How do you know she’s eight anyway? None of these kafirs have papers. It’s bullshit.

  I tell him to watch his language and for a moment there’s a stand-off, and then the leader loses interest. Leave the girl, he says, and the fighter stares at me, squeezes Niran’s chin in his great fist, stands up and yanks her mother up by the hand.

  Old but okay for now, he says, and marches from the room, dragging her screaming behind him. As the leader leaves he holds his gun up and silently sprays it across us all, back and forth, laughing.

  That night Badra comes to help me move. She doesn’t smile, or offer me any sympathy, but there’s a softness about her I haven’t seen before. I wonder if she’s remembering the day her husband died, or knows I’m suffering like she did. Both, I guess. We don’t say much, but there’s an understanding between us and it feels like the only silver lining on this dark dark cloud of a day.

  I pack my things, and she sorts out the kitchen, empties the fridge, makes sure everything’s in good order. Then I find some black sacks and take everything from Khalil’s drawers and stuff it all in. I can hardly bear to look at it, let alone touch it, I just want it to be gone. One T-shirt I take. The black one, his favourite, with Islamic State written across the front in bold white letters. He looked so handsome in that.

  In the wardrobe there’s one smart jacket and his father’s thawb, the one he was married in. The jacket goes, but I take the thawb from its hanger and fold it carefully until it’s a neat square. As I’m opening my suitcase Badra comes in, sees me, and stands for a moment watching me repack and then zip the case.

  ‘You should leave that.’

  This isn’t stern Badra. She’s not telling me off, she’s giving me advice.

  I don’t reply, I just look at her.

  ‘It is easier to forget. Really.’

  ‘I don’t think I can forget.’

  ‘Your pain now is healthy pain. But in dark times it can be bad to look back at the light.’

  19

  How quickly a man could forge a routine. Rise early, and walk in search of a signal to check his phone. Find nothing, breakfast on crackers and water, work until the heat grew unbearable, then lunch and a doze in the shade of the shed, because by noon it was too hot to be inside it. A phone run, then work and food and finally the phone again, carefully switching it off after each attempt to preserve its precious charge.

  The day was hard, and he came to relish it. The pain in his arms and legs, the headaches, the drops into that habitual fear he couldn’t remember being without – while he was gripping the plough and the sweat was running from him and his heart was going hard in his chest, all that might never have existed. He began to feel strong, like he could accomplish things. The future was no longer something that needed to be dodged. What might the last ten years have been if he had learned this sooner?

  He saw no one; he was alone on his plot. The noises from the road a mile away reminded him that the world was still there, and on the third evening it came for him. A text from Murat, telling him to be ready to make the crossing the next day.

  20

  sister he’s gone my precious boy my beautiful man

  — what do you mean sister? gone where?

  to Paradise, to sit alongside our God swt

  — sister I am sorry

  i wish i could join him

  — don’t say that sister, you don’t mean it

  never meant anything more but i won’t, not what He swt wants for me

  — who’s with you sister?

  no one i’m in the widows’ house

  — stay safe sister

  you always say that, why? why do you say that?

  — I don’t know

  you need to stop. safe isn’t important, He swt doesn’t care about safe

  Khalil wasn’t safe but now he sits in glory in Paradise

  — just worried there’s no one to look after you

  i don’t need looking after i have Him swt that’s all i need

  — everyone needs someone

  worried about you sister. i have someone, i have a whole family, the khilafa is a family and i have Allah the most glorified the most high

  — Okay good sister as long as someone is there for your grief. I am sorry.

  don’t be sorry it’s His will swt

  — of course. Still I will think of you.

  21

  Abraham was woken by a dull sense of noise outside the shed, tyres crunching slowly on stones, and as he opened his eyes he saw the trees briefly lightening through the window. A car door slammed shut, and footsteps started in the dust. He didn’t need to consider his options to know he didn’t have any.

  Arms feeling in front of him, he went to the wall by the door and reached for a tool of some kind from the dozens hanging there, setting them knocking against each other in the near silence. He came away with something, a hoe by the length and weight of it, and stood in the crook of the door with his mouth as dry as the field he’d been ploughing all day. The muscles in his arms ached as they tensed.

  But whoever this was, they were in no hurry, and the footsteps took their time before stopping just outside. In the silence Abraham closed his eyes and forced his breath to come slow. Then a polite knock, one two three, like a neighbour worried about intruding.

  ‘Abraham.’

  That voice. He knew the voice.

  ‘Abraham. Sorry to disturb. Please. Open door.’

  Please God. Why couldn’t anything be simple?

  Resting the hoe against the wall, he opened the door and stood back a pace. Vural was there, the dim silhouette of his form against the little light outside.

  ‘Hello, Abraham. Is good to see you.’

  Abraham nodded in the darkness.

  ‘You have light here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come. To car, there is light. Sit.’

  ‘I’m not coming with you.’

  The familiar sound of Vural sniffing.

  ‘I can force. But okay.’

  Checking each of his pockets, he finally found his phone, switched on its torch, and swept it across the shed.

  ‘Nice. Nice room this is. You are farmer now?’

  ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘Please, Abraham, I can sit? We must talk.’

  Abraham knelt down, straightened out his bed and gestured for Vural to join him on his bedroll. With a groan Vural sat, holding his knees and ending up awkwardly cross-legged with the phone’s light shining on the patch of sheet between them. He smelled of garlic and his breath was sour in the clean cold air, but Abraham was strangely comforted by him being there. After a pause and a sniff, he spoke.

  ‘Abraham, what you do? Why not go home?’

  ‘I don’t have anything else.’

  ‘Is stupid move. Stupid move. Here police want you, Syrians want you. Now London police want you too. You know this?’

  Abraham didn’t answer. He didn’t. He hadn’t thought about London for days.

  ‘You go home when I say, you okay – but no, you come back, you are like cat in the night and now even London police want yo
ur head.’

  Abraham shrugged. He had given his explanation.

  ‘Okay, my friend, here is facts. Before, there was choice. You go on, you go back. Now choice is you go on or police find you here.’

  ‘Why are you threatening me?’

  ‘Not threat, facts.’

  ‘Okay. I go on.’

  ‘To Raqqa?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And in Raqqa you talk to me. Yes?’

  So we were back here.

  ‘I’m not joining them.’

  ‘You want your daughter, no other way.’

  Lit dimly from below, Vural’s face looked severe, stony. His rheumy eyes were now black, and Abraham could see no way round him.

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘In Akçakale, good market for secrets. Only market now.’

  Murat. Or one of Murat’s friends. Or one of their friends, God knew, but it wasn’t good.

  ‘Talk to you how?’

  ‘You SMS. I will tell you what I want to know.’

  ‘They’ll check my phone.’

  ‘Delete as you send. But they all use their phones, all the time. Abraham, they are clever. But they are stupid also.’

  Vural was smiling now. It was meant to be a charming smile.

  ‘Will be good work, Abraham. Useful work.’

  Abraham looked down at his hands, clean now but for the neat lines of black soil under the nails. The hands of a chemist turned fugitive now spy.

  22

  Two o’clock, was the rendezvous. Abraham let the Demirsoys know, and by noon he was waiting with his bag packed and the last row finally dug, looking across the field with a certain pride in the order he had left; if he achieved nothing else he had at least achieved this.