Dead Boy Walking

by David Brining

  #20. 5 RAFEEK SALLUM STREET, SHA'ALAN, DAMASCUS, SYRIA

  Saturday July 11, 10:22

  NANCY Ajram's 'Ana Yalli Bahebhhak' blared into the narrow living room from the Mazzika channel. Ali, in dark green knee-length shorts and a dark blue T shirt, curled up in a corner of the sofa with a carton of mango juice and some cheese and chilli crisps, was singing along as he watched the dancers cavorting across the screen. Hamza, in black jeans and a white shirt with a Harley Davidson motif, was sitting at the desk working at the laptop.

  ''These deliveries,'' said Hamza. ''Any idea what they are?''

  Ali shook his head. ''It's why I need to get into that desk,'' he said.

  ''No way,'' said Hamza. ''Your orders are to stay here till your boss comes.''

  ''What if they get away?'' said Ali. ''At least let me go back to keep an eye on them.''

  Hamza grinned. ''Drink your juice and don't sulk!'' The Pussycat Dolls replaced Nancy on the Mazzika channel. ''Watch your hot ladies instead and try not to get a hard-on.''

  ''Hamza!'' Ali was scandalized.

  ''I've seen you sleeping, don't forget. I know what you dream about.'' Hamza returned to scrolling through documents on the Acer Aspire. ''It sure ain't rainbows and bunnies.''

  Ali watched Nicole Scherzinger's gyrating hips and long bare legs and, conscious that he was wearing shorts, tried to keep his thoughts clean.

  ''Baby, can't you see? How these clothes are fitting on me

  And the heat coming from this beat

  I'm about to blow, I don't think you know

  I'm telling you loosen up my buttons baby, uh huh…''

  The harsh squawk of the front-door buzzer distracted him.

  ''Yes?'' said Ali, keeping one eye on some jiggling breasts.

  ''I need to see you,'' gabbled Hisham. ''There's a terrible problem at the madrassa. Talal Hafez is going crazy and throwing stuff about. He says the police are coming. He says they're coming for you.'' All this was said in a breathless rush. ''I gotta see you, Ali. NOW!''

  ''He sounds frantic,'' Ali said, releasing the buzzer.

  ''They might have had a tip-off,'' said Hamza uncertainly. ''Don't see how.''

  ''Ahmed Ahmed?'' Ali suggested dubiously. ''He's in charge. It would explain how these bombers get across the borders so easily.''

  The buzzer sounded again.

  ''Just a minute,'' Ali said into the grille. ''I'm getting dressed.''

  ''Is your cousin there?'' asked Hisham.

  ''No,'' said Ali.

  ''So let me up.''

  ''Wait,'' barked Ali, releasing the button again. ''What do you want to do?''

  ''Hisham.'' Hamza frowned. ''I know that name. I've heard it somewhere before.''

  The buzzer shrilled desperately.

  ''Yeah,'' said Ali impatiently, ''From me. I talked about him. He's Moussa's friend.''

  ''No,'' said Hamza, ''Somewhere else…''

  The buzzer drilled into the flat.

  ''Go,'' said Hamza. ''Find out what's happening. Stay on the street where I can see you.''

  Ali slipped on the red and purple flip-flops and half-ran, half-jumped down the stairs.

  Hisham was waiting, dressed in his usual olive joggers and grubby beige T-shirt. He was clearly agitated and dancing from foot to foot.

  ''Talal says someone's stolen a load of money from his office. He's called the police. Ten thousand pounds in notes.'' He looked at Ali mournfully. ''He says it was you when you were making tea. He said he caught you sneaking about, acting shiftily, trying to open his drawers.''

  So they weren't on to him, there hadn't been a tip-off and they were stressing for nothing.

  ''It wasn't me,'' shrugged Ali. ''Maybe he put it in the wrong pocket.

  ''He's getting the police after you,'' repeated Hisham. ''You can hide at my house till the heat is off.'' He seized Ali by the elbow. ''Come on! Quickly! Before the cops come.''

  Hamza, concealed behind the net curtain, suddenly realised, appalled, where he had seen him before. He was the boy in the film who had urinated on a dying man, on Hamza's tortured best friend. Hamza felt his rage rising, his jaw tightening, his fist clenching the butt of his gun…

  Somewhere a siren sounded.

  ''Come on!'' Hisham urged. ''Let's go!''

  Hamza threw open the balcony window. ''ALI!'' he shouted.

  But the boys were running away up Rafeek Sallum. The police siren wailed closer.

  Hamza dashed from the flat as a gang of men burst into the building. Someone shouted. Ducking behind the banister, Hamza raised his army-issue JAWS Viper and took careful aim.

  Hisham and Ali dived into Mamoun's fruit shop.

  ''Hide us,'' urged Hisham.

  Mamoun, a big, fat, galabeya-ed man with a scruffy grey beard, asked no questions, simply ushered them into the back where they crouched behind cardboard boxes full of oranges.

  ''What now?'' Ali hissed.

  ''Wait till the coast is clear, then come back to mine,'' whispered Hisham. ''I'll hide you.''

  Suddenly two sharp gunshots rang out – BANG BANG.

  ''Hamza!'' cried Ali.

  ''Wait!'' Hisham caught his arm.

  Pivoting on his heel Ali smacked a roundhouse kick into Hisham's ribs which sent the other boy flying backwards into the boxes. Oranges spilled over the cracked concrete floor and collected round Hisham's body, now lying limp on the crushed cardboard.

  Ali exploded into the street. A crowd was gathering in Rafeek Sallum, people from the Harley Davidson shop, neighbours and passers-by pooling together in the road. Police sirens wailed again. Several policemen were pounding up from Amin Loutfy Hafez. Damnation. An encounter with the local lawmen was not going to help.

  He pushed through into Number Five, dragged the heavy metal door behind him till it locked, jammed a broomstick through the handles and sprang up the stairs two at a time.

  A man, one from the mosque, one of yesterday's tea-takers, lay dead on the second floor landing. He had been shot in the chest. A pool of blood was settling round his out-flung left arm. Ignoring it, Ali patted the leather jacket and found a Sig-Sauer M11 in the pocket. Grimly, he flicked off the safety-catch, crept to the third floor then to the fourth. Everything was eerily still.

  The door to the flat stood wide-open displaying vivid scarlet blood-splashes on the floor and wall. Ali held the gun in both hands against his right cheek. Which way should he go first? Living room? Kitchen passageway? Bedroom? There was no sound inside, no clue, nothing to help him decide where to go.

  On the far side of the landing, the doctor's parents peered anxiously through the sliver of their fractionally opened door. They saw Ali holding a gun and, squeaking slightly, withdrew. Ali heard bolts grating across the metal.

  Kicking off his sandals, he slid barefoot round the door-frame bringing the gun down to his eye-line as he checked the living room to his right. It was clear but bloody prints marked the floor. Where the hell was Hamza?

  He crept to the bedroom door. It was open. He stood with his back against the wall, counted to five, then repeated his round-the-frame roll-and-point but the bedroom too was empty. So was the kitchen. He did not know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

  He scanned the empty flat. The living-room table had been overturned. The remains of his breakfast were squashed into the rug. The laptop had gone. The desk had been broken into. The drawers had been ransacked. The bedroom had been searched. His clothes were strewn around, the mattress had been ripped open, the bed itself tipped onto its side. Of Hamza there was no sign but there was plenty of blood streaking the bathroom tiles, floor and passageway.

  Clicking the safety-catch on, he pushed the gun into the waistband of his shorts. The safe-house was compromised, Hamza was missing, Hisham claimed the police were after him and he had no idea where Syria's Secret Service was based. Worse, he could see from the drawer that his ID, visa and passport had gone. He now had no legal status in this country. Downstairs he could hear banging on the
street-door. People were shouting. He had to disappear quickly but without using the street. He peered at the roof-ledge twenty feet above his head and made a decision.

  He pulled some blue tracksuit trousers over his shorts, put on a pair of white socks and his trainers and slipped his light grey jacket over his T-shirt. The gun was too heavy to go in a pocket and would also be difficult to draw in a hurry so he tucked it into the back of his trackies, just above his buttocks. Taking the Walkman, he inserted the red cassette, pressed a headphone to one ear and pressed Search. While the machine scanned for shortwave radio activity, he put the Chiclets in one pocket and the specs in another. He went through the flat and found the Nokia phone tossed under the sofa. He pocketed that too along with the can of Axe.

  The Walkman fixed onto the police channel. Through the static he could hear orders for oxy-acetylene to cut through the door. He had a matter of minutes. Slipping a tablet of gum into his mouth, he photographed the flat he had shared for nearly two weeks with the specs and grimaced at the tooth-powder taste.

  When the gum was soft, he poked it into the lock of the iron gate that closed off the stairs to the roof and counted to five. The gum exploded with a sharp crack. The gate swung open. At the top of the stairs was a flimsy wooden door which gave way in a shower of splinters under his kicking. On the Walkman he could hear the police cutting through the street-door and squawking nervous calls for armed back-up. Apparently a boy had gone insane and murdered his cousin.

  Stepping on to the roof, he scanned the jungle of cables and satellite dishes. Abseiling into the back-yard was the only way down but he did not know if there was an exit into the street from there, or where it might be. He looked at the pigeon-loft across the road and the hundreds of grey, blue and green birds cooing and pecking beyond the open window. Maybe one of the ladders would reach across the street. If so, he could crawl over the heads of the policemen beneath, if he moved slowly and did not look down.

  He carefully picked a route through the hosepipes, buckets, paint-pots and battered, rusting wheelbarrows. Then he froze. From behind a satellite dish stepped Tamer, who seemed stoned, and Moussa Bashir.

  ''Good morning, Master Amin,'' he smiled slyly. ''We've been expecting you. I guess you thought you had got away.''

  ''With what?'' Ali slipped the headphones down and round his neck. His mind was working overtime. He must keep his distance, create a diversion, use the gun.

  '''Breaking into the office,'' said Moussa, ''Stealing the money, rifling through papers…''

  ''Right,'' said Ali. So his cover seemed intact, for now. He decided to play along with it. ''I needed the cash.''

  ''But you won't live to spend it.'' Moussa drew a knife. The sun glinted off the blade. ''We are taking you back to the mosque where Talal will slit your throat like an Eid lamb but only after I have castrated you and feasted on your pretty little testicles.''

  ''I hope they choke you,'' Ali grunted. ''How did you find me?

  ''I followed you,'' said Tamer.

  Ali cursed his own carelessness. ''How did you get up here?'' he asked.

  Moussa held up a key. ''A gift from your cousin.''

  ''He betrayed you,'' gloated Tamer, ''Led us to you.''

  ''Didn't want any trouble with the police,'' said Moussa.

  Ali kept his face impassive and asked where he was.

  ''Safe,'' smirked Moussa, ''In the arms of Allah.''

  ''You killed him?'' said Ali.

  ''Of course not.'' Moussa's vulture-features twisted into a smile. ''At least not yet. It will take some time for him to die, despite the amount of blood he shed. Have you ever seen a calf being bled for veal? It's somewhat similar.''

  The urge to shoot them both on the spot was almost overwhelming. Ali dug his fingernails into his palms.

  ''Don't worry,'' Tamer added, ''You'll be joining him soon, you thieving rat.'' He had clearly been huffing. His face was flushed and his eyes were struggling to focus. Ali realised that Moussa had brought a liability up to the roof.

  ''Why do you care?'' he said. ''You're a glued-out, doped-out, washed-out excuse for a prostitute who's just waiting to get strapped into a bomb-vest and blown to Hell with the rest of the street-garbage.'' Tamer coloured angrily. ''What were you doing behind that satellite dish? Sucking him off like the dirty little street-whore that you are?''

  Tamer swore, spat and lurched forward, shaking off Moussa's restraining hand.

  ''Steady,'' murmured the man.

  ''Is that what he says when you're sucking too fast?'' Ali jeered, ''Steady? Whore?''

  His right hand moved to the gun-butt digging into his back. He eased off the safety catch.

  ''Sorry, Moussa,'' he piped mockingly, ''I just want to please you. Take me up the arse, Moussa. Use me like a woman, Moussa. Fuck me like a dog, Moussa. Let me be your dog, Moussa. Please let me be your puppy dog… I bet you love it, you tart.''

  ''You lousy fuck!'' Tamer screamed and hurled himself forward.

  Whipping out the pistol, Ali fired one shot, not at Tamer, who he side-stepped comfortably, but into the pigeon-loft across the road. The birds erupted into ear-splitting squawks and, in a grey-blue mass of beaks and feathers, exploded into the sky, screaming, flapping and fluttering as they swarmed the roof in frenzied panic and engulfed Moussa Bashir. His arms flailed as he tried to fend them off but there were hundreds, coming in waves.

  Ali clubbed Tamer round the head with the pistol and kicked him under the wheelbarrow.

  Screaming shrilly like a wounded dog, Moussa staggered blindly towards the edge, his bald head bleeding from a hundred pecks and stabs. He twisted, lurching, on the ledge then, still covered in a mass of pecking pigeons, he fell, disappearing from view with a horrible, heart-rending wail. From the street they heard yelling and a thunderous crash as Moussa, limbs sprawling brokenly at unnatural angles, crashed at thirty miles an hour through the roof of a car.

  ''Don't get in such a flap,'' said Ali, striding across to Tamer who was getting shakily onto his hands and knees. Ali kicked him hard in the ribs. One cracked loudly. Seizing Tamer by the hair, Ali wrenched back his head. Anger surged through him

  ''Where's Hamza?'' he demanded, smashing Tamer's head onto the concrete. Blood blossomed on the forehead. ''Where's Hamza?''Fury surged through his system like a tidal wave.

  Tamer gasped something unintelligible.

  Ali smashed his head on the concrete again. This time the nose broke. Tamer howled like a frightened baby.

  ''Last chance, Tamer. Tell me, or I'll put a bullet through your skull.''

  He pressed the Sig-Sauer's muzzle against Tamer's temple.

  ''At the mosque,'' Tamer sobbed. ''They took him to the Bin-Rahman mosque.''

  Ali tied him to the wheelbarrow with a length of hosepipe.

  The police were entering the building five storeys below. They would be charging up the stairs any second. It was time to go.

  He walked to the ledge. People were gathering round the broken doll that had been Moussa Bashir. The owner of the pigeons was waving his arms and yelling. Not that way then.

  He ran and jumped the ten foot drop from Number 5 to Number 3, springing off his ankles into a shoulder-roll and back onto his feet then leapt the two metre-gap onto the roof of Number 1.

  Now at the corner, he fired the diamond-tipped Walkman plug into the concrete just as the police reached the roof of Number Five. One shouted something. Another squeezed off a shot, the bullet ricocheting off a satellite dish with a shrill metallic whine.

  Ali ripped the headphones apart and wound the wire harness round his waist. Another bullet smashed into the concrete ledge. He fired back, twice, three times, and the police ducked away behind a low wall. Gulping, he stepped on to the edge of the building. It was a long way down to the street. One deep breath, then he muttered ''Dr Rashid, don't fail me now,'' and threw himself backwards into space.

  The wire jerked taut.

  He hung for a second then pressed the button to release th
e brake, rappelling down the four storeys and bouncing off the walls with his feet. Hitting the pavement, he unlatched the harness and sprinted for the park.

  By the time the police arrived, all that remained was the wire and a pair of headphones dangling outside a window.