Dead Boy Walking

by David Brining



  Written and published by David Brining 2014.

  Copyright registered and all rights reserved

  Ali Al-Amin is

  Codename: Salawa

  MURAIDI MARKET, SADR CITY, BAGHDAD, IRAQ

  Friday May 1, 11:54

  SADR CITY'S Friday Market was a sustained assault on the senses. Each stall was a riot of colour: the vivid orange, yellow and green of fruit and vegetables, the pink and purple of T-shirts, baseball caps and socks, the black and brown of plastic sandals hanging from strings, the red, pink and white of meat spread-eagled on slabs, the grey, blue and silver of fish stuck in ice, and everywhere noise, overwhelming noise. People shouted, haggled, bargained, argued, laughed, and shouted some more. Bodies jostled bodies as women and children shoved through the throng. The air stank of dust and sweat and humanity. Over it all rose the call to prayer, ''Allahu Akbar'', GOD IS GREAT, amplified, commanding, resounding, inescapable. On the corner, American soldiers in desert-khaki camouflage, stab-vests, flak-jackets and helmets cradled semi-automatic rifles, chewed gum and observed every movement.

  Ali Al-Amin followed his mother's broad black-clad back. She had the shoulders of an American footballer and she used them in a similar way, charging a goal-ward path through the scrum. Heba had once been slim, something of a beauty, but bearing four children had taken its toll and she had thickened to the point where her hips were indistinguishable from the rest of her frame. Ali's twelve year old sister, Fatima, in pink skinnies, pink plastic sandals and a white T-shirt with pink flowers, tried to keep up. Ali's older brothers, Mohamed and Hussein, slunk beside him, eyeing up girls and complaining about having to carry the shopping.

  The call to prayer rang out again. ''Allahu Akbar!'' GOD IS GREAT, the muezzin cried.

  "Let's go pray," muttered Mohamed, "Get out of the sun." There was a small mosque in the centre of the market.

  Hussein handed Ali the plastic bag bulging with fat purple aubergines, ripe scarlet tomatoes and small, thin yellow-green cucumbers. "Here, squirt. Don't drop it."

  Ali felt the jerk in his muscles as the bag hit the road.

  "He couldn't lift a banana," said Mohamed.

  ''Not even his own,'' scoffed Hussein. The brothers laughed.

  ''Why are you wearing those shorts?'' Mohamed demanded.

  Ali had dressed carefully today. He had put on his favourite grey T-shirt, the one with Mickey Mouse on it. He had chosen beige Bermuda shorts in light cotton. He had selected grey socks to match his T-shirt and the white Adibass trainers his father had worked so hard to buy him for his fifteenth birthday last week. He was hoping to meet Sour, the girl from school that he liked. She had fair skin and a pretty face, although she wore glasses, and always wore a fashionably coloured headscarf. He thought she was a Sunni but, since he had never really plucked up the courage to say more than ''Hi Sour'' when they met at the school gates every so often, he did not really know. Today he had decided to ask her to help him with his Maths homework. He was lousy at Maths, but she was really good.

  ''Don't you know it's a sin to show your knees in public?''

  ''That's only for men, brother,'' Hussein said spitefully, ''Not 'ickle boys who wear Disney pictures on their chests.''

  ''I like it,'' Ali protested.

  ''Course you do,'' sneered Mohamed. '' 'Ickle weed.''

  ''Shut up,'' said Ali, ''Leave me alone. Anyway, the shorts cover half my knees so is that only half a sin?''

  ''Tch,'' said Mohamed, slapping Ali lightly on the back of the neck. ''Argumentative dog.''

  "Mum!" cried Hussein, "Mum! We're going to pray!"

  Their mother was too busy arguing over the price of oranges to hear.

  "I'll come," said Ali.

  Mohamed mimicked his reedy voice, still settling down after recently breaking.

  "You stay with the women," Hussein added, ''Where you belong.''

  ''I want to pray too,'' Ali protested.

  ''Not with the men.'' Hussein smoothed his black hair. ''You go in with the girls.''

  ''Besides,'' added Mohamed, ''If you come with us, people might think we're related.'' Cackling and nudging each other, the brothers made for the mosque.

  ''Hussein,'' called their mother. ''Call in at the coffee shop, will you? See if your father wants anything special for dinner.''

  Every Friday, before midday prayers and while the family was shopping, Ali's father took himself off to Islam's tiny coffee shop facing the market-place mosque to read the paper, play backgammon and 'chew the fat' with his friends. Several cups of bitter-sweet Arabic coffee were consumed and maybe the odd water-pipe smoked before the Call to Prayer drew them from their earthly pursuits to things more spiritual.

  ''I'll go,'' Ali said quickly. He loved Islam's coffee shop. He loved the smells of cardamom and coffee and the smell of apple and aniseed from the pipes. He loved the hissing sound as coffee boiled over the rim of the little bronze pot to sizzle fiercely on the hot stove. He loved the sight of the old men, their wrinkles, furrows, knots and gnarls, clicking dice and shifting counters on the backgammon boards. He loved it when Islam, ancient and wizened, called out ''Here's Ali, son of Hassan'' and gave him a fruit drop, usually orange. He would watch his father's strong, hairy fingers manoeuvre the counters and breathe in the aroma of coffee, sweat and aftershave.

  ''Bah,'' said Hussein, ''The coffee shop's a place for men. No room for the squirt.''

  Mohamed slapped the back of Ali's neck again. ''Stay here with the girls, squirt.''

  Ali often hated his brothers. He was five foot four, weighed forty-six kilograms whilst they were tall, stocky and broad-shouldered like their father. Mohamed even had a moustache coming.

  They shared a room. Mohamed slept on a couch whilst Hussein and Ali shared a bed. Every night Ali went to sleep with the sweet stink of aftershave, the cheesy smell of sweaty feet, the boiled cabbage scent of stale farts and the reek of testosterone clogging his nose. He hated his brothers even more at night.

  On the other hand, they had defended him against a neighbour's boy. Sherif had demanded Ali hand over his bicycle then punched him in the stomach and taken it when he had refused. Ali had gone home crying so the brothers had tracked Sherif down, blacked his eye, bruised his lips and bloodied his nose. When they returned, Hussein had slapped Ali's neck.

  ''Toughen up, squirt,'' he had growled. "It's a cruel world and we won't always be around to protect you."

  Ali caught up with his mother and sister. The handles of the plastic bag were cutting into his hands. "Mum, Mum …," he started.

  "Be quiet," she snapped, picking an orange off a pile and squeezing it. "This fruit's soft," she told the greengrocer, a wiry man with rolled-up sleeves. "You're selling old fruit."

  "Do you know how difficult it is to get fresh fruit these days?" snorted the trader. "There's a war on, in case you hadn't noticed. Fruit trucks get hi-jacked, you know."

  One of the oranges, dislodged from the pile, rolled slowly along the table. Ali watched it turn over in the air and bounce into the gutter.

  "You gonna pay for that?" snarled the man.

  "Mum…," Ali tried again.

  "Oh, for God's sake, Ali, do shut up." His mother poked a strand of grey hair back inside her head-scarf and turned back to the fruit-seller. Fatima smiled maliciously and stuck out her tongue. She loved it when Ali got into trouble.

  "But Mum..."

  "You're giving me a headache!" she snapped. "Go and play in the traffic!"

  ''I wanna find Dad,'' he said sulkily.

  ''Make yourself useful for once in your life and go get some bread,'' growled his mother.

  Ali glared triumphantly at his twelve year old sister and returned the stuck-out tongue.

  "You take the shopping," he
hissed, shoving the heavy bag into her hands.

  ''Muuummmmm!'' bawled Fatima, letting the shopping sink onto her sandals. ''Ali stuck his tongue out at me!''

  Before his Mum could slap his neck, Ali slunk under somebody's arm and into the crowd. God, his family was driving him crazy!

  The bread-stall was at the far end of the street. Ali squirmed through the press of bodies, wiped the sweat from his face and asked for ten pieces. An American soldier was standing nearby. His smiling face, under the desert-camouflage helmet, was deeply sunburned.

  "All right, kid?" he said.

  Ali nodded. A sharp jolt against his shoulder made him look round. A boy had knocked against him.

  "Hey!" Ali shouted irritably. "Watch where you're going."

  The boy looked through him. He had a weasly face, bad pus-oozing acne, furry brown teeth, the look of the gutter. He stank of garlic and fear.

  ''You like Mickey Mouse?'' The soldier indicated Ali's grey T-shirt.

  ''Hmm.'' Ali nodded uncertainly.

  ''Me too,'' said the soldier. He had blue eyes. Ali had never seen blue eyes before. He handed over two faded banknotes and took the plastic bag of flat bread.

  ''Want some gum?'' The soldier held out a stick of Wrigley's Spearmint.

  ''Sure,'' said Ali.

  ''Live round here?''

  ''Near,'' said Ali. His English was not so good and the American's Arabic was patchy. He unwrapped the stick of gum and put it in his mouth. ''Sank you.''

  The soldier's weather-beaten features crinkled into fine lines and crow's feet. ''Got a kid about your age back home,'' he said conversationally.

  ''Vere zat?'' Ali said through the gum. The mint flavour was strong.

  ''Oklahoma,'' said the soldier. ''Farming country. Lots of wheat.''

  ''Huh?'' Ali did not understand.

  ''Wheat,'' said the soldier. ''Makes bread.'' He pointed to the bag in Ali's hand.

  ''Ah.'' Ali glanced back towards his mother and sister. Mother was still arguing with the greengrocer, this time waving a cucumber under his nose. Fatima was shuffling her feet under the heavy bag, shifting it from side to side. She saw Ali looking and stuck out her tongue again. Behind her, Ali could see the mosque where his brothers were praying, a bunch of sandals piled on the steps. He thumbed his nose at Fatima then stuck out his own tongue and waggled his splayed fingers for good measure.

  ''Your sister?'' asked the American.

  ''Yes,'' said Ali grumpily. She's such a princess, she…''

  There was a sudden, loud, ringing cry of "Allahu akbar!", a rumbling roar shredded the air, the front of the mosque erupted outwards in a brick-dust volcano, and the world exploded. Everything went silent, totally, utterly and scarily silent.

  Blasted off his feet, Ali was hurled backwards like a rag-doll and crashed down, onto and through the bread table which, smashed in half, fell across him and pinned him to the ground. A cascade of bread poured over his head. Oranges, aubergines, onions, apples bounced around him. Thick wooden splinters thudded like arrows into his shield. One sliced open his shoulder. He howled in pain as blood poured down his left arm. Blood and glass rained from the sky, spattering him and everything round him. He grunted as something punched him hard in the chest then a heavy weight on the table began forcing the air from his lungs as it pressed down upon him. It was the American soldier. Another pain-wave flooded his frame and something hard and wet smacked into his foot.

  He could see smoke, thick, black and oily, billowing out of the ruined mosque, fire too, orange flames worming up the walls. Smaller fires flared on the ground. He could see people running, some in clothes rent ragged, some totally naked, all streaming blood, all caked in dust, their hands aloft, their mouths open in silent screams, curses or prayers. He could also see people lying dead in the street. To his right, the bread-seller was crawling through a carpet of glass. To his left, he could see a young woman stripped down to blood-stained pants sitting in a puddle of water, mouth open, tears streaming. Her hair was covered in dust. Her bare breasts were smeared with blood. In front of him, on the wooden half-table, lay the soldier. He was very still.

  It was so quiet, as though the whole world had been rendered dumb by the blast.

  It seemed to be raining blood.

  Suddenly sound returned, a deafening roar of screaming, sobbing, shouting and sirens. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a low, animal moaning, a constant keening, like a cow mooing. He frowned and glanced round for the source of this inhuman, animal sound, then he realised it was coming from him. He was moaning like a gutted cow.

  The weight of the soldier was crushing his chest. Squirming, he tried to shift it. Pain shot through his body. He raised his hand, realised he was still holding the bag of bread. It was covered in blood.

  More pain swelled through his limbs. More blood surged down his arm. Every inch of his body ached. He screwed up his face. The chewing gum tasted of blood. He spat it out, gathered his strength and strained every muscle. His body screamed a protest. Blood gushed from his shoulder. His legs hurt. Nevertheless, with a near-superhuman effort that drained every last drop of strength, he managed to push the wooden trestle aside. The soldier tumbled onto the stones.

  Ali looked down. His clothes had been shredded. His T-shirt was ripped into strips and his shorts hung in tatters round his thighs. There were cuts and grazes all over his chest and legs. His trainers were gone altogether. His left sock was wet with blood but then he had blood all over him anyway. He could now see what had smacked into his foot. It was a blood-soaked bundle of fur, the remains of a cat with its guts hanging out. Perhaps it was the cat's blood on his sock, not his. Nevertheless, his ankle, like his shoulder, throbbed with fire and his head and ears were still ringing from the blast. Otherwise he seemed unhurt. Tentatively he sat up and saw a scene from Hell.

  Every part of the market was burning. Water from a fractured pipe surged into the sky. Dust clogged the air. Fragments of glass, spars of wood, pulverised bricks and twisted pieces of metal lay strewn on the ground. The mosque had vanished behind a curtain of choking smoke. Most people were lying, sitting or crawling. Very few were standing or walking.

  He crawled to the American soldier, now lying on his back. The face was a mask of blood and dust. He put his ear to the mouth and heard a faint gurgling sound. With his fingers, he scooped out thick, bloody saliva then rolled the man onto his side, manipulating the limbs like one of his old Pokémon action toys. The soldier muttered something then vomited over the pavement. He was alive.

  Ali thanked God and stood up. The pain in his ankle got suddenly worse and his head span, everything blurring for a moment. He waited for it to pass, understanding that he would not be able to walk far in his socks without shredding his feet. His arm was still bleeding.

  He tore the rags of his T-shirt into three pieces. One he used to bind the gash at the top of his left arm, tying the knot with his teeth. Then he stripped off his socks, grimacing as he realised the blood on his left foot was not that of the dead cat but his own, leaking from a large, deep wound on the top. He wrapped the T-shirt strips round his feet and started to move but pain shot through his ankle again. He cursed and sat down again. The ankle was swelling rapidly. There was nothing else to do. He removed the tattered remnants of his shorts and tied the broken table leg to his left ankle. Now he really was showing his knees in public, and more. His brothers would make his life a misery if they could see him now, limping through the streets in his Spiderman undies, he thought.

  He carefully placed a coat round the naked woman's blood-spattered shoulders then crawled to the blinded bread-seller and wrapped a cloth round the bloody face. There was little he could do. He had to find the trainers. Although they were fake, his dad had worked so hard and had been so proud when he had presented them as his birthday gift last week. ''Now you're a fifteen,'' Hassan had said, ''You are nearly a man. Time for some proper shoes.''

  They had ice-cream and chocolate and his favourite syrup-th
ick mango juice and sung songs and everyone, even his brothers, had been happy. Fatima had hugged him and given him a hairbrush, Hussein and Mohamed had got him some perfume, Uncle Wagdy had brought a roasted chicken and Aunty Nour had danced. Bombs had burst in the Baghdad night, fireworks lighting up the sky for Ali's birthday, and everyone had been happy. So he had to find the trainers. For his family.

  He limped through the fires, glass crunching under his feet as he squinted through the falling white dust, the spiralling ash and the smothering haze. The smell of burning was horrific, rancid, fatty. It was burning people. He had smelled it before.

  A little boy sat on the ground bawling. Ali went to comfort him.

  ''It's all right,'' he said, ''It'll be all right.'' Knowing it would never be all right ever again.

  The boy continued crying. Ali used the back of his hand to wipe snot from the kid's face.

  ''What's your name?'' he asked. The crying continued. ''I'm Ali Hassan. What about you?''

  ''M…m…mah…moud.''

  ''OK, Mahmoud,'' said Ali. ''I'm going to get you out of here and home. Hold on to me.''

  Sirens wailed somewhere as he gathered the boy into his right arm, fighting the pain, trying to balance the weight with his makeshift crutch. His ankle screamed at him to stop. Mahmoud needed him. He gritted his teeth and took a few paces forward. The boy was surprisingly heavy. He stumbled. He felt blood leaking from his wounds. He bit his lip hard and felt his face contorting with pain. Suddenly he spotted a white shoe lying on its side in the shards of glass and splinters of wood.

  He stooped, fighting the fire in his ankle, the fire now spreading to his thigh.

  The boy, Mahmoud, clung to his shoulder, still sobbing but not so loudly now.

  American soldiers and white-coated medics were running through the mist, yelling orders, someone stretching out for the child.

  Ali reached down, then stopped, his blood running cold. There, on the ground, next to his shoe, in a small pool of blood, was a foot and part of a leg. A white sliver of bone stuck out from the ragged edge. It was a small foot, the foot of a child. It was still attached to a pink plastic sandal.

  ''FATIMA!'' Ali screamed.

  An American soldier, yelling for a medic, threw a silver blanket round him. A white-coated figure holding a needle loomed out of the mist.

  ''Fatima!'' Ali screamed again.

  Then he collapsed onto his hands and knees and was violently sick.

  DEAD BOY WALKING

  by

  David Brining

  ''Even those who kill people with suicide bombing, these shall meet the flames of hell.''

  Ayatollah Youssef Saanei

  Interview with CNN, Feb 6 2007

  For Ali