A Single Source

by Peter Hanington

  Carver stood and watched. His heart was pumping furiously; adrenalin flowed like mercury through every vein. He felt exhilarated. Then he felt guilty and then he felt nothing because Steve had punched him into the middle of next week.

  The Way of Sorrows (v)

  Omdurman, Khartoum State, Sudan

  Gebre was woken by the sound of the driver wrenching open the back of the pick-up and urgently ordering his passengers out. Simon put his bony hand on Gebre’s arm and explained.

  ‘It is still the early hours, brother, but we are here. We will wait inside this warehouse; can you help me with your case? My legs are still asleep.’

  There were already three or four Toyota truckloads of people waiting inside the warehouse, lying exhausted underneath blankets, tarpaulins or whatever else they could find for bedding. The three men found a space on the floor and lay down in the hope of getting some more sleep; Gebre used their suitcase as a pillow. Just the feeling of stretching out on the ground was sweet relief for Solomon after hours in the back of the pick-up.

  The next leg of the journey began sooner than the boys had dared hope; the lorry that would take them across Sudan’s northern desert and over the Libyan border arrived later the same day. No one, including the usually well-informed Simon, was prepared and the scramble that began when the burly looking lorry driver arrived and told people he was leaving in twenty minutes was chaotic and cruel. Eritreans, Ethiopians and Sudanese climbed over each other as they tried to gather their belongings, other family members and in some cases small children and board the lorry. A few fights broke out. This unruly loading was overseen by the driver’s associates; two light-skinned Sudanese men with revolvers sticking from their belts.

  Simon explained that this part of the drive could take anywhere between three and five days. He said it was not just the longest but also the most hazardous leg of the journey: ‘If you fall from the truck they will not stop – dehydration will kill you in a few days. If the sand storms come then they can bury a truck in a few hours and everyone will die. Then there are the bandits, the militia, border police.’

  Gebre stared at Simon. ‘You have made this journey before?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Simon told Gebre that the traffickers he’d paid to take him to Libya had sold him to a militia who had tortured him until his family agreed to pay for his release. He undid the top few buttons on his shirt and pulled it down to reveal his chest – burned black and scarred.

  ‘They telephoned my wife and make her listen while they poured burning plastic on me. Over my chest and my back, my legs … everywhere.’

  ‘But you are trying again?’

  ‘I have no choice. I will go to Europe and work all day and all night and send this money back for my wife. This is the only useful thing I can do for her now – the only way I can be a man.’ He rebuttoned his shirt.

  It soon became clear that any stops during this part of the journey would be few and far between; the hundred or so passengers learned to urinate in bottles which were then passed to the back of the truck to be poured over the side. Occasionally the driver or one of his colleagues would need to stop and then the people would pile from the back of the vehicle, running back when the horn was sounded. The only other breaks were ones that were forced on the Sudanese traffickers: several times the wheels of the overloaded truck got stuck in the desert sand and the men would enlist passengers to help them dig the wheels free and wedge planks of wood underneath for purchase.

  It was halfway through the first day’s driving, while helping dig the truck out of the sand, that Solomon saw what looked from a distance like a pile of discarded clothes at the foot of a nearby dune. When he’d finished digging and others were placing the wood under the wheels, Solomon found his brother and together they walked over to take a closer look. Gebre was just a few feet from the bundle when he realised that the clothes contained a corpse – a girl, younger than them.

  Death and the sun had withered the girl’s body to such an extent that she appeared too small for the clothes she was wearing. Around her neck was a Christ-less cross and in her outstretched right hand some kind of parcel. Solomon took the package and unwrapped it – realising as he did so that the girl had used her hijab as wrapping. He handed the contents – a thin blue notebook – to Gebre who recognised the book straight away. It was the same sort of lined exercise book that he and most other Eritrean schoolchildren were given to do their homework in. Gebre flicked through the pages, each carefully numbered and dated – the dead girl’s diary. He stopped at the last page that had writing on it; the date at the top of the page was just over a month ago. He read the short entry, written in a blunt pencil and in large script:

  My name is Veronica Redda of Akordat. [Gebre knew the town; it was only a few hours’ drive from his own home in Asmara.] I listened to something I should not have listened to and the men pushed me from the truck. I chased a while but the driver would not stop. I have no water, only thirst. I will die soon.

  If you find my message and it is possible, I beg you please take my body back home to Eritrea or onwards to Libya. Please put me in the earth and pour a cup of water on my grave so I may drink.

  He handed it to Solomon to read.

  ‘We should do this.’

  Gebre shook his head. ‘We can’t. You know we can’t.’

  ‘We must do something.’

  The brothers used their hands and feet to dig as deep a grave as they could manage in the little time they had. Solomon lifted the girl – she weighed almost nothing – and placed her gently down. He covered the thin body with sand while Gebre muttered a few words of prayer. When Solomon had finished burying the girl and he turned around, Gebre was dismayed to see that his brother’s eyes were wet with tears. Looking back towards the truck he saw that the other passengers were getting ready to leave.

  ‘Sol, we need to go.’

  ‘Give me the water.’

  ‘What? No, Sol, this is useless.’

  ‘Please.’

  They had just over half a litre of clean water left and no more in the truck but Gebre handed the bottle to his brother who poured its contents slowly into the sand where the girl’s head was buried. Once it was done he handed the bottle back to Gebre.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Gebre nodded and led them back towards the lorry. One of the armed Sudanese smugglers was waiting for them; he had watched the whole performance and was wearing a snide-looking smile.

  ‘So you brothers are grave diggers now? This is very good; there will be lots more work for you between here and our destination I think. I wonder which one of you will end up burying the other?’

  As Solomon brushed past the man and jumped into the truck he spat a few words in Tigrinya: ‘Maybe we will bury you first.’

  The Sudanese grabbed at Gebre’s sleeve. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said blessings on you, sir – for waiting for us.’

  Once they were under way Solomon reached again for the dead girl’s blue notebook. The pages that followed her dying wish were blank – right up until the last page where there was one more sentence.

  They take the people north but I heard them say that the real money they make is by bringing the boxes south.

  Solomon handed it to Gebre. ‘What do you think it means?’

  His brother shook his head. ‘Who knows? She was dying, nearly dead. Probably it means nothing.’

  20 Good Riddance

  DATELINE: The Seti Hotel, Cairo, Egypt, January 31 2011

  ‘I need some painkillers.’ Carver lifted himself up on to one elbow and looked around the room. ‘Patrick?’ A pile of blankets and sheets heaped against the far wall started to move and before long resolved themselves into his producer. ‘How come you’re kipping down there?’

  ‘I’ve been here all night. I’ve been looking after you.’ He rubbed at his eyes. ‘Jean and me. But mainly Jean.’

  ‘Where is she?’ />
  ‘She was here most of the night too, she had to go meet someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  Patrick shrugged. ‘I don’t know, some bloke. How’re you feeling?’

  ‘Sore head. How long have I been out?’

  Patrick looked at his watch. ‘He decked you around six last night, so …’ He counted three hands worth of fingers. ‘About fourteen hours. Jean had a doctor come check you out; no serious damage apparently.’

  ‘I need to piss.’

  Patrick helped Carver to the toilet. After emptying his bladder he took a tentative look in the mirror – it wasn’t great. His left eye was swollen and bruised an interesting shade of purple. He had a long cut above the eyebrow that had been butterfly stitched, the whole of the left side of his face looked yellow and significantly larger than the right side. ‘I look like the bloody Elephant Man. Or half the Elephant Man anyway.’

  Patrick nodded. ‘You should see the other guy.’

  Carver turned sharply. ‘Yeah? Was it bad?’

  ‘No, not a scratch on him. He’s gone, though, Zahra said he cleared his room and checked out about an hour after he decked you.’

  ‘Good riddance – mercenary toerag or whatever the hell he is.’

  ‘You think Steve took your inhaler on purpose?’

  ‘I know he did. I know a few things now that I wasn’t sure about before. That ox knocked some sense into me. Can you go and see if Zahra can come up here for a few minutes?’

  While Patrick was gone, William tried to clean up his face a little with some damp toilet roll. He was annoyed that Jean had had to see him looking like this. He went and set his laptop up and checked his emails; he’d got a response from his contact at Jane’s Defence. The person had emailed from an anonymous-sounding Gmail account and titled the email PPI Latest. Carver opened it and read.

  Hard to say without seeing it but the company in question has a new product in that area, stronger dose of gas and longer to accommodate a gyro in the nose to make it hop about – harder for the rabble to pick up or chuck back.

  Carver’s mind turned to Nawal – harder but not impossible. He got up from the desk and starting rifling through his bag, then the cupboard drawers and finally his suitcase. He was on his hands and knees next to his case chucking the contents around the room when Patrick returned with Zahra at his side.

  ‘What’re you doing?’

  ‘Gas canister’s gone.’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘Jean’s got it.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘She said you were mumbling about how important it was, so she took it. For safe-keeping.’

  Carver pulled himself to his feet using the side of the bed for leverage. ‘Good, fine. So, Zahra, listen …’

  Carver told her about his visit to the internet café, leaving out the part where the computer started to behave a little strangely. He told her that Nawal had been right, that she was on to something. Something important.

  ‘I need to talk to her and record that interview. Can you get her to come to the hotel? Soon as possible, how about …’

  Zahra was shaking her head. ‘I will make a meeting, but not here. Someone followed her when she left the hotel last time. She was able to lose him with no problem but I don’t want her to risk this again.’

  Carver agreed. ‘Fine, not here but somewhere nearby and soon.’

  ‘There is something else …’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Mr Akar wants to meet with you.’

  ‘Is this about the fight? Just tell him—’

  Zahra interrupted. ‘It is not about the fight. Not just that anyway. He wants you to be his guest, later today, for a drink upstairs in the Garden Suite.’

  Carver could tell from Zahra’s tone that this unwanted invitation was bad news.

  She answered his question before he was able to ask it. ‘He will not take no for an answer.’

  The Way of Sorrows (vi)

  Near Dongola, Sudan

  The truck did not stop again until one in the morning when the driver pulled his rig and restless load to a halt and announced that they would stop and sleep for a few hours. Some passengers stayed in the back of the truck, which was cramped but warm, while others tried to make themselves more comfortable away from the lorry. Both brothers chose the latter and together with a dozen or so men made camp a few yards from the truck. Simon stayed with them and Gebre opened the suitcase and shared out the clothes so all three could wear as many layers as possible to protect them against the cold desert night. In return Simon handed round a paper bag of figs and some water. The three ate and drank then lay down, side by side, to sleep.

  Gebre was woken by an urgent need to defecate; he stumbled away from the group of swaddled and snoring men to find somewhere to relieve himself. The moon was full and bright enough to see by and Gebre found a patch of scrub and crouched and shat then did his best to clean himself with handfuls of rough grass and sand. When he stood, he saw a shape – a vehicle – half buried in the sand. He moved closer and saw that it was a pick-up truck, a Toyota similar to the ones the smugglers used. The car was facing south, back the way they’d come. Gebre was wondering why the truck had been left and worrying that he might stumble across another dead body, when he saw that although the outline of the vehicle was intact, there was a huge blackened hole where the back of the truck should be. He moved nearer and saw a mess of twisted metal; the base of the truck had been blown down in the sand and lying on top was a long black metal box the size and shape of a coffin. Its lid was gone, sides distended and the thick clips at each end twisted into corkscrew shapes.

  Gebre turned and walked away but after a minute’s walking he started to worry that he was moving away from his camp instead of towards it. He was on the point of turning and trying another direction when his right foot found a hole of some sort and he fell. The sand that he landed face down in was as fine as flour and Gebre was thankful for that; he sat up gingerly and massaged his foot and ankle for a while.

  From a nearby sand dune, Gebre sensed movement; he stayed very still and stared at the base of the dune. In the dark crease between the flat of the desert and the rising dune he could just make out a face and most clearly a pair of bright black eyes staring back at him. A dog? The animal climbed from what he guessed must be its burrow and moved closer. It was no more than a foot long and thin in the body but with a large head and bushy tail. It had thick cream-coloured fur. It was bold to come this close; perhaps it sensed the possibility of food, perhaps the animal was as desperate as they were?

  Gebre heard a shuffling noise from behind him and the animal heard it too and took a few paces backwards, cautious but not fearful. Perhaps these creatures saw so few men that they had not yet learned to be scared. It lifted its ears to hear better and Gebre could not help but smile; the creature reminded him of cartoon characters he and Solomon used to watch on TV, with huge ears, nearly as long as its body, or so it seemed from where he was lying. The person he’d heard crawling from behind him, snaking through the sand, now drew level. Gebre glanced sideways and saw it was one of the Sudanese smugglers; he had his revolver in his hand. He jogged Gebre with his arm.

  ‘You see it?’

  ‘Yes, a dog?’

  ‘Not dog, fanak. A fox.’

  Gebre looked again, he could see that now, the sharp muzzle and long tail.

  ‘I will not hit it with this …’ The smuggler lifted the handgun. ‘Stay quiet and watch it, I will get my rifle.’

  ‘Why? For food?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Not food, fanak meat is sour. We kill them for the fur; the Tuareg will pay us for the skin.’

  Gebre shrugged and the man shuffled backwards through the sand.

  In his absence the fox moved closer, eyes fixed on Gebre. Seconds passed and from behind the fanak there was more movement. Gebre strained his eyes and saw two smaller heads peering from the burrow – cubs watching out for their mother. Gebre reached into his pocket and found on
e of the figs Simon had given him. He threw it with as little motion as he could manage and the fruit flew over the animal’s head and landed close to the cubs who ducked back into their burrow. The adult fox turned tail and ran to the food, sniffed it once, grabbed it in its mouth and disappeared back into the sand. Moments later the smuggler was back, snaking through the sand on his belly, rifle in hand. He stared at the sand dune and sucked his teeth in frustration.

  ‘Matha hadath? What happened?’

  ‘The fox run when it heard you.’

  Gebre stood and stretched, putting weight carefully on his right ankle. It seemed to him that the fox had more right to be in this place than they did; the fact that any living thing could survive here was some kind of miracle. He looked down at the smuggler. ‘Sir? The Toyota back there in the sand, what happened to it?’

  ‘It was shot at. Blown up.’

  ‘Bullets do not do that.’

  The smuggler grinned. ‘They do if they hit the wrong thing.’

  ‘What did they hit?’

  The man waved Gebre away. ‘Enough. You are cargo. Cargo does not ask questions.’

  He lay back flat on the ground, his rifle aimed at the sand dune. Gebre hoped the fig would keep the animal occupied until the smuggler either grew bored or fell asleep. There was enough death already in this desert without this man adding his quota.

  21 Patron Saints and Pictures

  DATELINE: Tahrir Square, Cairo, Egypt, January 31 2011

  @tsquarelawan

  No more votes for the Titanic movie! We want inspiring films. About people like us! With happy endings!

  Nawal bought herself some breakfast – an ear of buttered corn – and made her way across Tahrir Square. The occupation was growing every day: organic but somehow also organised, and for the first time in her life Nawal felt at home. It was not a utopia – it was too real for that and too dirty although people did their best to keep it clean. She had helped draw up a litter-picking rota and several of the many colourful posters displayed around the place urged people to tidy up: Cleanliness is half of faith.