The Good Sister

by Chris Morgan Jones

  ‘You.’

  He doesn’t point, he just looks at me, and he doesn’t wait, he turns back to his room and there’s Hafa, a plaster on her cheek and her eye a livid black. As I pass I give her a sympathetic look, which she doesn’t return. Maybe it isn’t so sympathetic. Her position is the same as mine, but the difference is that after dinner I heard her shouting at Zarifa and I’m pretty sure I heard her hurting her too. The girl doesn’t need that. She’s had enough. She may be a kafir, but Hafa taking out her own pain on her won’t make her any less ignorant.

  I’m scared of Borz tonight. Last night I was nervous, now I’m scared. I know what he can do. I know what he does. And the anger in him, like his other energies, takes a long time to go. I can feel it in him as I follow him to his room.

  Once we’re in there he nods at me – which means undress – and starts taking off his dishdasha. As he pulls off his undershirt the smell of him spreads through the room, sweat and something sharper, it makes me think of death and deepens my fear. My legs aren’t shaking tonight but I feel a sort of ache inside, in my groin, like you get when you see someone in pain and your body imagines it happening to you.

  Now he’s naked, in all his whiteness. It’s not like the men’s bodies you see in the west on television, all smooth and taut, it’s almost pudgy, like wet clay, but it’s stronger, or it looks stronger, somehow, because there’s no vanity in it. He’s never spent a moment worrying about what he looks like. Down his left side runs a scar I didn’t notice last night, all the way from his ribs to his hip, and it reminds me that whatever else this man might be he is a warrior who has done great things for the khilafa, and for all Muslims. I try to remember this.

  Tonight he shows no excitement at seeing me, and for the first time it occurs to me that maybe we will just lie together, husband and wife.

  As before, he tells me to get into bed and I lie on my side, facing in. I try to smile, and feel some small relief when he switches off the light, but somehow in the near dark it’s as if there’s more of him, he seems to fill the space.

  Maybe he doesn’t want me to see what state he’s in. I can tell he’s bothered by it and pray that he doesn’t decide it’s my fault. I keep my arms up to my chest but as he gets into bed beside me he pulls the upper one away and grabs my breast with his hand, which is cold and rough with calluses and damp with sweat. He leaves it there for a moment, squeezing the flesh, his eyes on mine daring me to look away, squeezing harder until it begins to pinch and the pain starts spreading through me. Something like a smile shows through his beard and in his eyes and I have to turn from him. Every instinct is telling me to push him off me and run, but I can’t. It will be so much worse.

  I can feel the bruises starting, and the pain is like I’m being electrocuted, like he’s sticking knives into me. Eventually he relaxes his grip and I let out a gasp, but I won’t cry, there’s no way he’s making me cry.

  Now he pulls my arm to him so that I’m forced to lie on my front, and he gets up on me like before. I guess this is what he likes. His hand goes to my neck again, and the weight is there, and that’s okay because at least I know what to expect and I’ve got through it once. And as I think that I get an image, or a sense, I feel it like a new blow, like a kick in my stomach, of a lifetime of nights exactly like this in front of me.

  He’s pressing himself against me, writhing, and his grip on my neck is tightening, and he rolls right on top of me, his whole weight, as the hand that was supporting him starts smacking my thigh and the side of my buttock, hard, like it hit me earlier. I can’t get enough air. The pain and the pressure are nothing, I just want air. What he likes doesn’t seem to be working and I have a new fear, that unless I can give him what he wants he’s going to kill me trying.

  I didn’t see it going this way.

  His grip gets stronger and stronger and I can’t even cough, my breath has stopped completely, there’s black behind my eyes and fire in my lungs and my body starts to panic and tries to thrash against him even while I’m thinking, okay, this is it, this is what he does, he kills. He’s going to kill me.

  Then he’s off, and he’s gone. Like a bear that’s finished toying with its prey. With my face in the pillow, I see him pad heavily to the top of the stairs and then down, and I think of Zarifa and wonder how long it will take for the wailing to start.

  16

  My neck is bruised front and back, but the niqab hides it. The brother who’s driving me to class this morning was on duty last night. Does he hear? Does he listen to her screams night after night? Does he know? Under my veil I must be flushing red from anger, and from shame. I feel so alone in here today. It hurts when I swallow, when I breathe.

  I got no sleep. When Borz came back to bed he told me to leave, and that was a relief, but I had nowhere to go. Hafa was in my bed, and I couldn’t sleep with the children, or with Zarifa, and I’m not allowed in the sitting room without permission. So I sat in the kitchen, in the dark because somehow the dark was better, I didn’t want to see anything – not my body, my feet, my hands, no part of me. In the dark, I can find moments where I don’t exist.

  It was so cold in there I began to shake. Even wrapping my arms round myself reminded me of him. Thank heaven I’d put my pyjamas back on, but when Borz threw me out I couldn’t find my dressing gown as I scrabbled about in the dark, and the air conditioning in the kitchen just blew all night.

  No bed, no shelter from His judgement.

  In the cold my father appeared to me like some messenger from the darkness. He was young again, and handsome, and music played as he reached out his hand to me. Come back. You are not worthy to remain in the light. Come back with me where you belong.

  I saw him, literally saw him standing there beckoning to me, and in an instant I imagined my life like his, empty of feeling, numbed by his drugs, meaningless. And then some last divine spark lit a corner of the darkness, and by His grace I began to see. To see at last.

  My father is a jinn. He is the demon come to tempt me. And the temptation is a test, of course it is, the biggest test of all, and I failed it. When I vouched for him, when I let his black heart into the khilafa, I betrayed everything I had been reaching for, and now I am being punished. Punished, and shown what hell lies waiting for those who doubt.

  How did I not see this? The day after I betrayed the khilafa, Borz came for me. Maybe he’s been chosen as the instrument of my punishment. Maybe that’s why he married me. One thing I do know – I am being shown a way back. For me and all I’m responsible for. I need to repair my mistake.

  17

  sister I can’t see you

  — Sister, no. why not?

  too hard to get away

  — Tomorrow?

  maybe never

  — Don’t say that sister. He swt will provide. What’s wrong?

  He is testing me sister. The test is hard.

  — Tell me.

  — Sister please, tell me. I can help you. We can talk.

  — Sister

  18

  Huq doubled his watch on Abraham. When they could be together, they were together; on rounds, in consultations, at prayer. Like a bad dancer learning new steps, Abraham did his best to copy his neighbour and prayed hard that he wouldn’t be found out. If circumstance forced them apart – because Huq was needed in another part of the hospital, or when the weight of new cases simply overwhelmed them – he had Abraham report back to him at the shortest possible intervals, like a husband jealous of his new wife’s minor freedoms.

  Not that they felt like that. Abraham had never worked so hard, nor so intensely. Dying fighters, wounded fighters, fighters with dysentery from the filthy water, one who’d taken too many of those pills they all took; Abraham treated them as he would anyone else, doing what he was told and tamping down his revulsion by telling himself that each of these human disasters had once been a child and was probably still a son. That helped – it all helped. It was hard to think a man a monster when he was struggling
for life.

  At some point Vural sent him a second message that, despite the tumult, sat in his head, scratching at his conscience for no reason.

  A, your phone is on. Tell me something.

  Sometimes the flow stopped, and with permission he was allowed upstairs to do what he could for the people who didn’t matter. Dr Saad would often seek him out – why, he didn’t really understand – and in the snatched hours he spent at his side, cleaning instruments, sewing wounds, bandaging wounds, Abraham finally felt useful, properly useful, at the centre of something, not his usual, marginal self.

  After each of these trips, Huq would give him a look that said, you’re pushing your luck. But Abraham thought he detected something else there, something rather like envy – perhaps because Saad had smiled on him, or because he had the courage to step outside the suffocating walls of the basement from time to time. Who could tell? Who even had time to care?

  His day seemed to finish at ten, unless there was night fighting, or airstrikes, in which case it was endless, and it started again at seven every morning. Why had Sofia cancelled? Every sign could be good or bad, it was exhausting. If he was going to go to her house it had to be during the day, and even if he managed that, the chances were she wouldn’t be there – she worked, she had her filthy job, whatever it was now, she’d be out all day just as he was. Friday. Friday was his only hope.

  That morning his luck switched. The medicine he had delivered two days earlier should never have left the hospital. Huq dressed him down, told him they’d both be tried for insubordination or treason or some fucking thing if he didn’t correct his stupid fucking mistake, and sent him on his way. Back immediately. Don’t screw it up.

  The Dar al-Shifa surgery was across town, maybe a mile away, but half the roads were shut and the traffic clogged. When he finally arrived, he had to argue with three people to get the drugs returned at all, and then there was a problem with the paperwork – and this was bad, because it meant that no record existed of how much had been used and therefore how much should be returned. Abraham had seen enough by now to know that when he got back to the hospital there would be accusations and shouting, but it was also an opportunity, because these were good drugs, powerful painkillers. As he drove back he took two blister packs, one from each of the fuller boxes, and slid them into his trouser pocket.

  He was late now, and Huq would be fretting. Let him fret. Abraham made his way towards Borz’s house and by stopping often to ask his way finally closed in on Hamra Street, which by the look of it was where the traders and the businessmen and the corrupt politicians had lived before the Islamic State had turfed everybody out. Proper houses, maybe fifteen on each side, detached, white, whole, and so utterly out of place here that it was a shock to see them lined up against the scrub and the desert and not some perfectly tended golf course.

  Several had guards, a couple here, a couple there, standing in the pose that Abraham knew so well, feet spread, machine gun clutched high on the chest, chin out, beard foremost. God, the vanity of them. There wasn’t one who hadn’t admired himself in the mirror with his gun or felt a thrill of power in his loins every time he slung it across himself. And yet here they were, protecting the lifestyles of their leaders for the sake of the revolution. Who was going to tell them? Was there any way of making them see? As he drove, Abraham felt each pair of eyes on him and a dozen fingers tighten on the trigger. Oh, to kill something. Oh, to justify their existence with a kill.

  The street ran out into wasteland, and three plots from the end was Borz’s house. Plainly Borz’s house, because there were six fighters on duty and two of those sand-coloured 4x4s parked on the road outside. And it was the biggest of them all, a grand villa with a portico for cars to sit under and clean windows and a roof of terracotta tiles. There were no flowers in the window boxes but it was neat, well kept. Borz was house-proud.

  Abraham saw the six guards tense as he drove slowly towards them and parked by one of the 4x4s. Was this insane? Did he share their death wish? There was no reason for them to shoot him. He was their commander’s father-in-law, come to see his daughter. What could be more proper? Borz might not see it that way but then with luck Borz would be at the front, killing people, or in a room elsewhere planning how to kill them.

  Engine off, door gently open, lightly down from the van, hands at his side and just a little to the front in case anyone worried that he had something under his dishdasha, papers at the ready. No smile, just an easy countenance, don’t look away but don’t hold their eye either or they’ll take it for a threat.

  ‘Stop there, brother.’ One of them moved forward from the rest and motioned at Abraham with his gun. ‘Not another step. I don’t know you. Tell me very carefully who you are and what you’re doing here.’

  Abraham stopped and by instinct held his hands up. ‘It’s all right, brother. Borz was married three days ago to my daughter. I’m her father. I’ve come to pay my respects and give the couple their gift.’

  ‘You for real?’

  ‘I’m for real. I have these.’

  The fighter walked towards him and took the papers. This was one of the unlikely ones – plump, squat, with eyes that bulged and took in everything. He came up to Abraham’s chest. How did one of these people get ahead and not another? Did he have more brains? Less conscience?

  ‘You’re a doctor.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And your daughter’s here.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do I know she’s your daughter?’

  ‘You could look at her papers.’

  ‘I don’t have her papers, brother.’

  ‘Is she here?’

  ‘I don’t know who’s here and who isn’t.’

  ‘Can you find out?’

  The fighter stroked the beard on his chin. Maybe it made him feel wise.

  ‘I don’t do things for you.’

  To show his submission Abraham held his hands up again and looked at the floor.

  ‘Where’s the gift?’

  Abraham signalled that he was going to put his hand in his pocket and received a nod of approval.

  ‘Here.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A gift.’

  ‘You taking the piss, brother? You told me it’s a fucking gift. Tell me what’s inside.’

  ‘It’s nothing, just a gift.’

  ‘Open it.’

  Abraham ran his thumbs over the brown paper of his clumsy wrapping, held in place with string. Only Sofia could have it. He wouldn’t part with it otherwise.

  ‘Brother, you’ve got five seconds to fucking open it or I’ll destroy the fucking thing.’

  ‘It’s personal. It’s not a bomb.’

  ‘Okay. Enough. On your knees. Put your hands on your head.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Do it or you’re a dead man, brother, doctor or no doctor.’

  He meant it. Never doubt that they meant it. Abraham knelt down and closed his fingers over his head. The guard reached into Abraham’s pockets and pulled out money, leftover string, toilet paper folded to be used as a tissue, and two bubble packs of Roxanol.

  ‘What’s this, brother?’

  Abraham concentrated on his breath and kept his voice as level as he could.

  ‘Drugs. Medication.’

  ‘What kind of drugs?’

  ‘Painkillers.’

  ‘You in pain, brother? Or are you planning to be?’

  He was pleased with that. He grinned over his shoulder at the other guards, who stood motionless in the sun, sunglasses and guns glinting.

  ‘They’re for my patients.’

  ‘That’s a personal service you provide. Do you test the drugs yourself, brother, make sure they’re okay?’

  This one wasn’t stupid. Why couldn’t he be stupid like the rest?

  ‘They’re for one patient. A fighter, he lost a leg. He’s in a lot of pain.’

  ‘So what are they doing out here, brother?’

 
; Over the fighter’s shoulder, the door of the house opened and a veiled figure appeared at the top of the four steps that led up to it. Again, Abraham knew her instantly, just by the way she stood. Oblivious, the fighter had his hand on the package and now Abraham pulled it away.

  ‘You serious, brother? Fuck me.’

  Sofia spoke, and the fighter turned.

  ‘Tell him to leave.’

  ‘He says he’s your father.’

  ‘He was my father. Tell him to leave.’

  ‘Please. Sofia. I just have a gift for you.’

  The fighter brought the gun back above his shoulder so the butt was pointing at Abraham.

  ‘Brother, shut the fuck up or I will break your fucking face.’

  ‘Why are you here? Are you crazy? Why do you think this is okay?’

  Abraham stood up and made to step around the fighter, who held a hand to his chest to stop him going anywhere. But the veil was the greater divide; if he could only see her eyes, see what was hidden in them.

  ‘I wanted to congratulate you, and give you this. A wedding present.’

  ‘No you didn’t.’

  ‘Please. Just take it. And I’ll go.’

  For a moment everyone held their positions – Abraham appealing, the fighter with his gun up, Sofia standing in judgement over it all – and no one spoke. Abraham kept his eyes on his daughter and offered the parcel to her.

  ‘Give it to me.’

  The fighter turned to confirm and received a nod. He took the parcel, and handed Abraham back his money, tissue and string. Of course. He’ll keep the drugs, thought Abraham, and cursed his own stupidity. Why hadn’t he just left them in the car, or hidden them in the hospital?

  He kept his eyes on Sofia for as long as he dared and turned to walk back to the jeep, half dejected, half satisfied. At least she would see what he wanted her to see, and that would be more persuasive than any conversation.