The Good Sister

by Chris Morgan Jones

  ‘What happened, brother?’

  ‘Sniper cunt.’

  He’s striding away, possessed by his mission. With a sweep of his arm he sends me on ahead of him.

  ‘Run. Fuck sake. Find one. He’s in an ambulance out front.’

  As I start to run I see a doctor at the far end of the corridor and I will him to turn back, but the fighter has seen him too.

  ‘You. You! Come here.’

  My father looks at the fighter, looks behind him, and with a sigh I can actually see walks to us.

  ‘Run you fuck. Run!’

  Abraham manages a sort of jog. He hasn’t the strength to run and with each step he can feel the wounds on his back peeping open. His eyes are on Sofia, who still has her gun. That’s good. If she’d been caught they’d have taken it, or worse. This was something else. Some new reversal they didn’t have time for.

  A beast of a man. Massive body and short legs, like a Minotaur, raging and tossing his head and giving off heat. How easy it would be to shoot him through that great wall of a chest. Abraham begins to understand why he and his kind killed so many. It was easy. It didn’t require effort, courage, thought. Anyone could do it, even pharmacists.

  ‘Fucking run!’

  The fighter stomps off towards the entrance, and Abraham does his best to catch up. As he draws level with Sofia he exchanges a look with her through her veil. We have no choice. Let’s go.

  Outside, the fighter walks to the back of an old government ambulance that’s been driven almost into the hospital and is now blocking the entrance. Its back doors are open and inside are two men, one an ISIS medic who Abraham recognizes as a regular driver. Both his hands are bright red with blood and pressed to the neck of a fighter lying on his back on the floor of the ambulance, one leg twitching intermittently.

  ‘Where the fuck have you been? He’s going, brother, he’s fucking going,’ says the driver, who seems to have no idea what to do.

  ‘Do something,’ says the fighter, and Abraham climbs in beside the patient. The blood has stopped spurting, which probably means the heart is giving up, and his face is turning grey from lack of oxygen. Saad had told him about this. Probably a haematoma is constricting his airway and no breath is getting through to the lungs. Stick a tube into his trachea and maybe he can be saved, but it’s a five per cent chance.

  ‘Let’s get him on a stretcher. You two. Let me see the wound.’

  ‘Hurry,’ says the fighter. Now he has nothing to do he’s less certain of himself.

  Abraham applies pressure to the wound while the driver positions the stretcher, and as soon as he touches the man he knows that he won’t live.

  ‘You two carry him. I’ll stay like this. And you, sister, move this thing. It can’t stay here.’

  With his eyes he tells her take it, take the opportunity. There won’t be a better.

  ‘She can’t drive this.’

  ‘It’s a few yards.’

  ‘She’s a sister.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s not ordained.’

  ‘I don’t care what’s ordained, I’m not having someone die because the next ambulance can’t get to the hospital. Give her the key.’

  The driver is shaking his head.

  ‘Every moment you delay is killing him,’ says Abraham, and the fighter growls in agreement.

  ‘It’s in the ignition. Bring it to me after.’

  ‘Get it out of the way. Over there.’

  Abraham gives Sofia a look that he hopes says everything he needs it to say and the three men carry their dying load inside.

  Half of that was brilliant. Really, I didn’t think my father had it in him. But he knows I can barely drive. One lesson. That’s all.

  Then I remember. I’m one of the brigade, I can do what I want.

  I pick one of the older mahrams because I figure he’ll give me less trouble and hate myself for that instinct. An old man with thick grey hair and a black beard and sad eyes that are somewhere else, like he’s waiting for news of something, which he probably is. I ask him if he can drive and he looks at me for a moment as if to say, Really? I’m standing here while my wife or my daughter is inside dying and you’re going to point your gun at me and get me to do the thing you were asked to do? I wish I could explain. But even if I could explain it would make no difference. Who am I, that I deserve to escape from this city? There are thousands, tens of thousands more deserving than me.

  He does what I say. Of course he does.

  *

  I wait with the ambulance. I thank the old man, not that that means anything, and I wait. I’d cut off my hand to know what’s going on inside. How my father’s going to get himself out of there, and whether Zarifa is safe. If they don’t make it I still have to leave. Not for my sake. Nothing is for my sake any more.

  It’s eight o’clock, by Badra’s phone. He’s been in there for fourteen minutes. That’s too long, way too long – they must have found him, and right now they’ll be questioning him, and he’s had enough, poor man, he’ll give me up and quite right, he must. And there’s Zarifa. If someone else finds her I dread to think what could happen to her now, and I realize something I hadn’t before, that by trying to save her I’ve made her life ten times more dangerous.

  So I take the key from the ignition and I go back in. And as I’m going down the ramp, going as fast as I can but trying not to stand out, I see my father coming through the doors pulling Zarifa by the hand, head down and eyes straight ahead.

  ‘Go. Just go,’ he says, and passes me without checking his speed. When I can’t see anyone coming after him, I catch up.

  ‘He’s been dead for ten minutes. Idiot’s had me operating on a corpse.’

  ‘Where’s the driver?’

  ‘I sent him for blood and drugs. We don’t have long.’

  Zarifa and I go in the back, as agreed. Nurse and patient, as per the story. There’s no gurney in here, just a thin mattress on the floor and it’s already covered with old blood and new blood, the fighter’s blood, which is good. I tell Zarifa she has to lie on it and she shakes her head and says no, no, but as we drive off I unveil and I hold her, and I look her in the eyes and tell her again it’s okay, everything’s going to be okay. There’s not much more I can do.

  But slowly I think she’s coming to trust me. There’s a roll of blue paper in here and I tear off a length and spread it over the top half of the mattress. I’m staggering about as we jolt and jump on the rough streets. We’re going too fast, I think, we shouldn’t be doing anything to attract attention, but it’s okay, it’s an emergency, we have the right markings, I’ve seen a thousand ambulances tearing through the city like this. As long as he doesn’t get lost. We went over the route ten times but it’s dark and it’s not easy. If it was earlier and the sun was going down you could just keep it ahead of you and eventually you’d be fine. For the sake of our story we’re heading west, towards Al Tabqah, and when we’re clear of the city we’ll circle back up to the north. Zarifa lies down, and I arrange things as best I can so it looks like some of the blood is her blood. No one will look too closely. That’s the last thing they’ll want to see.

  12

  They must know by now. Word will be out. Even if no one’s realized these are the same people who killed Borz, they’ll be after the ambulance. As clearly as the broken roads in his headlights, Abraham can see the driver phoning a commander, and the commander phoning the checkpoint commander, and the checkpoint commander narrowing his eyes against the dark, tightening his hold on his gun. A stolen ambulance. Was he stupid, to have taken that opportunity? Should he have found a way of sneaking out?

  Have faith in yourself, and in fate. What will be will be.

  Left here, onto a wide and empty street. Two cars ahead of them, a handful passing the other way. Abraham pushes on, waiting every moment to pick out the cars angled across the road and the barbed wire and the fighters doing that slow strut they loved so much. Every time he checks his mirror he expects
to see headlights and sirens, and imagines bursting through the checkpoint pursued by the full might of an angry ISIS. Better to die like this tonight than tomorrow on his knees.

  But there are no sirens, and when the checkpoint comes the fighter who waves them down shows no signs of urgency or tension, just sets his feet squarely on the road and calmly raises a hand, squinting at the headlights. By the arc lamp shining down from a post Abraham can see two more men in fatigues leaning back against a 4x4 parked by the side of the road. All are hugging guns to their chests. The city has almost run out here; there seems to be nothing but wasteland on each side, and concrete blocks have been lined up along the verge to stop anyone pulling round in a wide arc. Abraham slows as evenly as he can, everything nice and smooth, his heart going like bells.

  ‘Evening, brother,’ he says as he winds down his window and puts his arm with the black band on it on the sill. The sentry looks tired; a round man for a fighter, fleshy, his cheeks droop and the lids sit heavily on his eyes. Ten o’clock now, probably a new shift at midnight.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Al Tabqah.’

  ‘Road’s closed this time of night, brother.’

  ‘No one called you?’

  ‘No one called me.’

  Abraham tsks, shakes his head.

  ‘I knew they wouldn’t. Idiots.’

  ‘What’s going on, brother?’

  ‘I have a patient in the back. An important patient. And she’s losing blood.’

  ‘So take her to the hospital.’

  Abraham shakes his head again, a different emphasis this time: I would like nothing more than to be doing that, my friend.

  ‘They don’t have the blood. A rare type. They have it in Al Tabqah.’

  ‘You serious, brother?’

  ‘She’ll die in two hours if she doesn’t get it.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘You can’t say?’

  ‘Really, brother. It’s worth both our lives.’

  He didn’t like that. Don’t tell me what my life is worth.

  ‘Open the back.’

  ‘She shouldn’t be disturbed.’

  ‘Open the back.’

  Abraham shrugs, steps down from the cab, and the brother follows him round to the back of the ambulance.

  The bastard knows, of course he does. He can see the blood pulsing in my throat, the exhaustion in my eyes, the pupils dilating from the fear.

  ‘When I say.’

  The fighter sets himself, gun ready and trained on the doors, and now he nods at Abraham to open them. Inside in the blue light cast by an electric lamp are two black forms, one lying down, the other kneeling by the first.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Wounds to the abdomen.’

  ‘Fuck does that mean?’

  ‘She’s been assaulted.’

  ‘What’s all the blood?’

  Abraham keeps his eyes wide and on the fighter’s: you don’t want to ask any more questions, believe me.

  ‘Who’s that?’ The fighter gestures with the gun.

  ‘A nurse.’

  ‘Why d’you need a nurse?’

  Hand cupped to his mouth confidentially, Abraham steps towards the fighter.

  ‘The girl’s dying. And she’s important.’

  ‘This is bullshit.’

  Just their luck, to get a thinker. Abraham feels panic leap in him as he sees the first leg of their flimsy story begin to buckle.

  ‘Brother. If I don’t get her to Al Tabqah in the hour she’ll be dead. And I don’t want that on my head. Or yours.’

  ‘Get her out.’

  ‘I can’t move her, brother.’

  ‘Get her the fuck out. You. Down here.’

  Sofia is frozen, but almost to his surprise Abraham is still trying.

  ‘Brother, do you know Abu Selim?’

  That checks him. Just a little, but a distinct pause in his reply.

  ‘You think I’m an idiot?’

  Abraham leans in again, almost whispering.

  ‘This is his daughter.’

  He pulls back to watch the reaction. Now the sentry is thinking.

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Fatima. She’s twelve years old. She dies, it’s bad for everyone.’

  A conundrum. A thinker he may be, but the fighter doesn’t seem equal to figuring it out.

  ‘I need to call it in.’

  Oh Jesus.

  ‘To who, brother?’

  ‘This is Abu Selim’s daughter, I’m going to call it in.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that, brother. This isn’t a normal situation. He won’t thank you for it.’

  ‘Fuck does that mean?’

  Abraham stands back, hands on his hips, and shakes his head.

  ‘Don’t make me spell it out.’

  ‘Spell it the fuck out.’

  The fighter turns to Abraham and now the gun is up and on him. Abraham pauses, partly to collect himself, partly for effect.

  ‘Who do you think assaulted her?’

  ‘How do I know who assaulted her? The fuck do I care?’

  Abraham just keeps his eyes on the fighter’s, lets him work it out for himself.

  ‘This is not a public situation, brother.’

  The man’s thoughts turn slowly. Abraham can almost see them, caught in a simple calculation; will it be worse for me if I let them through or if I don’t? The look he finally gives Abraham may even have some sympathy in it. Rather you than me, brother.

  ‘Fucking go. And watch the road around Madan. There were Kurds down there two days ago.’

  Abraham nods – doesn’t thank him, because why should he be grateful? – and under the incurious gaze of the other two sentries gets back into the cab and drives away.

  13

  From the back I hear most of the conversation, with my finger on the trigger under my abaya and the gun ready to fire. If they want to kill me they can shoot me, and I’ll kill as many as I can first. But the first checkpoint was easy.

  I sit on a bench by the door next to Zarifa and through the dirty square windows watch the night slipping away behind us. I see planes high in the sky and orange bursts of flame in the city and wonder at the cruelty of killing a hundred innocents to wipe out maybe one fighter. The old me wasn’t wrong about that. The old me wasn’t wrong about many things.

  It’s lonely here in the back. I can’t imagine what it’s like for my father, staring into the darkness and praying, praying hard that the road is clear.

  Apart from the airstrikes there’s not so much fighting at night and none where we’re going – this whole area was won months ago. Half an hour west, a tiny road like a track goes north and then curves round to meet the main road between Raqqa and Akçakale. The journey is fifty miles at most, and it should be clear. We don’t see anything, don’t hear anything, and I’m beginning to think that we should pull over, rest for a while, work out exactly how we’re going to get across the border once the night is over, when the ambulance starts to slow down and I pray silently to the most glorified that my father’s had the same idea.

  I hate not being able to see. We come to a stop, and my chest tightens, and in the near darkness I pull my veil back across and do the same for Zarifa. I feel her stiffen beside me, and I put my arm around her. We sit and listen, both blind, only one of us able to understand.

  ‘What is this, brother?’

  A voice I don’t know, not friendly. A checkpoint voice. And then my father’s, higher and tighter than it should be, even through the metal between us I can hear the fear in it.

  ‘Picking up a patient from Tell Abyad.’

  ‘This time of night?’

  The story has changed now. We worked on this. We must be ten miles from Tell Abyad now and there’s no earthly reason to be bringing patients here. It has no hospital.

  ‘We got a call an hour ago. That’s all I know.’

  ‘No way I wouldn’t know about
a thing like that, brother. Not a fucking word about an ambulance.’

  Stick to the story. I will my father on. This can work.

  ‘Some fighter’s being brought across the border. Maybe it’s sensitive.’

  ‘So they wouldn’t tell a piece of shit like me, that what you’re saying?’

  ‘It’s just they told me not to talk to anyone about it.’

  ‘You’re talking to me about it.’

  Please God. I close my eyes and pray. I know this kind of brother, the kind that likes to tease before he pulls the trigger. I can smell cigarette smoke seeping in like a bad omen.

  I hold the handgun steady under my abaya. I wish I knew how many are out there.

  ‘All I know is, I have to get to Tell Abyad and pick up a patient.’

  ‘In this ambulance.’

  ‘In this, yes.’

  ‘You’re picking up a patient. In this nice ambulance.’

  He knows. I know he knows. It’s in his voice. All the checkpoints have now been told. The only reason my father’s still alive is this idiot’s love of his own voice.

  ‘Really. I have to go. I was told to be there by twelve.’

  Poor man. He has no idea. As quietly as I can I shush Zarifa and inch towards the door. There’s movement outside, I can see it, one brother at least.

  ‘What’s in the back, my friend? Medicines? Surgeons? How you planning on saving that brother?’

  He hesitates. He shouldn’t but of course he does. These people are experts in making you live at a pitch of fear.

  ‘Nurses.’

  ‘Nurses? Are they pretty? Could they cure a man of his loneliness, brother? Because it’s lonely out here, believe me. Man could fuck his own daughter out here, brother.’

  Now there’s silence outside. My hand is sweating on the gun.

  But we’re finished. If I shoot whoever’s beyond these doors my father’s dead in the same instant. I thought when we came through the last checkpoint that He was guiding us out of here, I felt sure I could feel the soft warm touch of His hand on my back, but now I know we weren’t meant to leave this place. Our destiny is here. I have brought us all to this point.

  Then the shot comes and the metal round the lock tears open. They don’t need to do it but they want to frighten us and Zarifa is shaking, I’m tied in to her now, I feel her terror like my own. One of the doors is thrown open and the light comes on in the back and shows a brother standing there with a machine gun pointing at us.