by Lee Stone
He thought about lying back on the bed. He had been sitting down all day, and it had worn him out. Instead, though, he showered and pulled on a fresh shirt. Eventually, he took his discarded clothes down to reception to see if they could be laundered overnight. At first the receptionist was dubious about whether his clothes would be ready in time for his early checkout, but a twenty-dollar tip seemed to ensure that his bundle would be next into the machine. She stuck his name onto the netted wash bag and threw it under the desk. She pocketed the twenty and smiled at him for his kindness. Turkmenistan was a place where money talked, and Lockhart had plenty to offload.
The lobby was air-conditioned, and when Lockhart walked back out into the last of the sunlight, it was like walking into a greenhouse. The motel owner watched him go, still rubbing his neck. Still sore from lunchtime. He watched Lockhart stroll up towards the market, took a breath, and shook his head. It was the second time today that trouble had checked into his guest house, and it was time for him to pick a side.
He had been sweating on a decision since the tourist had arrived an hour ago. Finally, he reached for the phone and called the number that he had written on a scrap of paper earlier. He pulled it out of his top pocket and looked at the number. He didn’t recognize his own writing; his hand had been shaking uncontrollably when he wrote it.
The giant had been pinning him against the wall by his throat when he gave him the number. He had been looking for another Westerner and had left the cell phone number for the owner to call if any strangers checked in. An hour later, Lockhart had shown up with his empty bus.
It was a problem that the motel owner could do without. Tyler’s rough hands had crushed tighter and tighter around his throat as he explained the consequences of him not calling the cell phone if another westerner arrived. He had explained the consequences for the owner and his guests and his family. Then he had left as quickly as he had arrived, probably to scare the shit out of the rest of the motel owners in Mary. The owner shuddered, took a breath, and dialed the number he’d been given.
The marketplace was only around the corner from the hotel, and although some of the stalls were packed up and empty, there was still plenty of trading going on when Lockhart arrived. The place was a permanent structure with a fixed roof that gave shade from the sun. The traders displayed their goods on long concrete blocks which rose about three feet from the ground and were as thick as they were long. They reminded Lockhart of the blast walls he had crouched behind outside Kirsten Miller’s tattoo parlor during the missile attack in Kandahar. These were worn and chipped by daily life though, unlike the freshly molded military versions.
The market traders covered the concrete tops with colorful rugs and displayed their goods on top. All of them were women and their clothes were bright and eye-catching. Their heads were covered, but their faces were open and warm.
Lockhart hadn’t shaved since he left Kandahar and his beard was beginning to disguise his face. He wore a slightly beaten hat which he had found on the driver’s seat of his coach, and was still wearing the cotton trousers that the scrap dealer in Herat had found for him. A market girl in a bright red sack dress spotted him instantly as a tourist and beckoned him over to her. She began to talk him through the fruits and vegetables on her stall, pointing and nodding at various items which she thought he would like. Lockhart promised the girl that he would come back later and then pushed deeper into the market to look for money dealers.
Turkmenistan was totalitarian, and in towns like this, Lockhart knew that there would be black market traders hungry for dollars. Currency was power. Lockhart knew that dealers couldn’t be trusted, but he found them easily and there was no fuss. Within five minutes he had a wad of local notes to spend in the market.
There was a tea shop right at the heart of the marketplace, with an amazing array of bottled syrups on the counter. The bottles were different shapes and sizes, and the purple and yellow and orange liquids inside clashed violently with one another as they jostled for attention on the concrete counter. Behind them were bottles of water and piles of fresh lemons and apples. An electric urn was steaming away to one side.
A beautiful young girl with hazel eyes observed him from behind the counter. All Lockhart wanted was a place to sit and watch the market for a while. He was enjoying soaking up the exotic feel of the place. The air was perfumed by a spice stall a few meters away, which had nutmegs and cinnamon scenting into the atmosphere.
Behind the counter, an old woman pushed gently past the beautiful girl. She had the same hazel eyes, but they were milked by heavy cataracts. Her manner was brisk but not unkind. Years of work had bowed her back, and her face had become lined with life’s slow lessons.
The girl’s skin was olive, but the old woman’s was darker and more weathered. She wasn’t much over four feet tall and had trouble reaching some of the items on her counter. Still she looked proud, and the young girl seemed to know better than to interfere with her work. Lockhart wondered how many years of working in the market it would take before the elegant young woman began to look like her grandmother.
The old woman didn’t waste time with language, but pointed at everything on the counter until she got to the grape syrup and Lockhart indicated that she had found what he was after. She was efficient and brusque, and Lockhart imagined that in another life she would have made a good New Yorker.
He held out some local currency, apologetic for not understanding the price. The woman carefully took the right amount, unabashed. She rummaged around in her pocket and gave him change, which he left on the counter. Despite her business-like manner, when the transaction was complete, she gave him an ancient smile which lit up the whole market.
There were two plastic seats at the side of the stall, and the old woman invited him to sit down to drink. The girl offered him some fresh bread which he accepted gladly, and he sat watching the business of the market for the next few minutes. The young woman tried to strike up a conversation with him, but he couldn’t understand her. She turned towards her grandmother and shrugged in embarrassment, and all three of them laughed. She went back to her grandmother’s tuition, removing one bottle at a time and cleaning it methodically. Lockhart went back to idly studying the buyers and the sellers.
Things felt different; more dangerous than before. Maybe it was because the military paranoia of Kandahar had rubbed off on him, or maybe because of the close calls he’d had in the last few days. Whatever the reason, something didn’t feel right. He couldn’t settle. He was halfway through the sweet grape juice when he realized. He was watching the girl writing the names of the infusions on the labels of the bottles. Just like the woman in the motel had written a name on his washing. Not his room number, but a name. Fearless.
There was only one way that she could have known the name: someone had reached the motel before him. Somebody was already here, in Mary. Somebody was looking for the bundle of dollars hidden in the bus.
Lockhart looked carefully through the marketplace and saw a guy in a black jacket standing a good foot and a half taller than anyone else in the market. Tyler was working his way into the market from the other side, heading towards the moneymen in the shady center of the place. He stood out a mile, but so did Lockhart; they were probably the only Westerners in the town. The only reason Tyler hadn’t spotted Lockhart was because he was on his phone, head down and animated. He was zipping through the crowd towards Lockhart’s motel. If he didn’t change direction, it wouldn’t be long until Tyler walked straight past the tea stall where Lockhart was still sitting.
“Hey,” Lockhart called to the girl behind the counter. She looked over her shoulder and he placed a fifty on the counter. Enough for a couple of hundred drinks at market prices.
“Drinks for everyone,” he pointed around at the people nearby. He gave the girl another hundred dollars for herself. Maybe she’d have some fun with it before she eventually turned into her grandmother. The girl latched on and started calling to the customers a
round the stall. Word went around quickly, and Lockhart slipped away as the customers started to draw to the tea shop like it was a magnet. Lockhart did the same at the spice stall, and at the edge of the market again he pressed money into the palm of the girl with the red sack dress and began handing out her fruit.
Tyler spotted the movement like a big game hunter. Watch the birds, and they’ll tell you where the beasts are. Watch for the patterns and you’ll find your prey. Something was happening, so he needed to react. He reached for his weapon and waded into the crowd. He was huge, and he tore through them. But the more people he shoved past, the more people he found in front of him. Word was spreading along the street outside the covered market. There was a crush. Everyone wanted something for nothing, and Tyler was swimming against the tide. Lockhart slipped out of the marketplace and into the open street.
Deep inside the market, Tyler’s rage was kettling. He was punching people out of his way and trampling them down. But it was like swimming through tar. Suddenly, he broke through to the eye of the storm. An old woman was handing out grape juice as fast as she could. Jamming up the place. Losing him three hundred million dollars. She smiled at the giant and offered him a plastic cup. Tyler shot her right between the eyes. A ribbon of blood flicked across the clean bottles on the counter as the old woman dropped like a stone. The brown-eyed girl screamed as her grandmother hit the floor. It did the job. The crowd split like a flock of birds speared by a hawk.
Lockhart heard the shot, but there was nowhere to hide, so he tore up the street without looking back. Tyler moved fast for a big man as he burst out of the marketplace. Locals scattered all around him as he scoured the street. Lockhart had a hundred yards on him and kept the pace. By the time he rounded the corner to the hotel’s courtyard, his lungs were burning, but it was his lucky day. The motel owner was shunting the bus around in the courtyard. Lockhart flew through the open door and pulled the owner from the driver’s seat. He hit the gas hard, and the bus lurched forward onto the street.
As Tyler rounded the corner, he saw Lockhart at the wheel of the passing bus. He sprang full length at the open door and grabbed for the chrome handle just inside. Lockhart sped up; tearing back down the street towards the market as fast as the bus would go, pulling Tyler with him. The motel owner was standing at the front of the bus, trying to make a decision. Then suddenly he picked a side all over again, leaning forward and stabbing his finger at the button which closed the bus’s pneumatic door. It slammed closed like a shark’s mouth over Tyler’s muscular arm. But the soldier hung on. His feet dragged along the tarmac as he kept a grip of the bus.
Lockhart could see tendons flexing in Tyler’s forearm as the door hissed and complained, halfway between open and shut. Tyler was winning. As the bus sped past the market, an angry crowd came running out, trying to get hold of the soldier to avenge the innocent old woman from the tea stand. Lockhart leaned forward and hit the button to re-open the pneumatic door. He came off the gas to allow the crowd to catch up, and he slammed his foot into the side of the motel owner. The guy toppled out of the open door straight on top of Tyler. The weight was too much even for the giant. He released his grip on the handle and both men fell away from the bus, rolling into the baying mob. As Lockhart’s eyes flicked up to the rear-view mirror to check their fate, he saw two things.
The first thing was that the angry crowd had closed in on Tyler and the motel owner. Tyler was swatting them away, more focused on his main task of strangling the guy who had just fallen on top of him. Keeping his promise. The second thing that Lockhart saw in the rear mirror was that there were about twenty startled passengers sitting in his bus, all wide eyed and staring straight back at him.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Gun Quarter, Birmingham. September 2010.
Across the lines, who would dare to go over the bridge, under the tracks that separate Whites from Blacks? – Tracy Chapman
The man driving the white ford transit parked up three streets from the Crown and Sceptre. He killed the engine and pulled the keys from the ignition. He left the goods safely hidden in the back and put the keys under the wheel arch, just in case things didn’t work out.
As he set off towards the Crown, he pulled a pack of Superkings from the pocket of his leather jacket and lit up, sucking in the warmth. His hair was pulled back from his face; he’d reached an age where he didn’t need to shave it to look menacing.
It was an hour since the phone call, and the guy should be in the pub by now. Unless he was a chancer, or worse still a cop. Most likely a chancer, judging by the shaky conversation they’d had earlier.
The man had been loading the last of his crates into the back of the van when his phone had vibrated. Number withheld. He ignored it.
It was three in the afternoon and the fish market in Birmingham was closing. Everything was wet and washed off, but the stench of fish hung around the place. The mobile had rung for a second time. Withheld. Ignored.
The third time it rang, the fishmonger was hurtling down the Aston Expressway out towards the motorway. This time, the number had flashed up, so he had picked up the call. The guy on the end of the phone had sounded nervous and naïve.
“I need a gun.”
The fishmonger had been inside enough courtrooms and prison cells to know better than to get involved in that sort of conversation on the phone.
“Who gave you this number?” the fishmonger had shouted, over the din of the juddering chipboard panels inside the transit van.
“Mo,” the reply was hesitant. “Mo gave me your number. You know Mo? The security guy?”
The fishmonger knew Mo, and he was an alright guy. He was fat and sweaty, busting out of his uniform, but happy to put the boot into anyone who messed with the vans during the day. He was also happy to turn a blind eye to late night activity in exchange for a bit of lobster. Yes, all in all, Mo was all right.
“Do you know the Crown and Sceptre, in Smithfield Street?”
“No,” said the voice on the phone, curtly. Defensively. The fishmonger had already put the guy down as Asian, and figured he was probably Muslim. Probably never set foot inside a pub.
“Well, sort your shit out, find a map, and I’ll see you there in an hour.”
The fishmonger had only been to the Crown and Sceptre once before. It was a tiny backstreet pub in Birmingham’s Gun Quarter. The kind of place where there’s always a deal going on. The kind of place where nobody ever notices anything, and nobody asked questions.
The weather had turned wintery in the last couple of weeks, and by the time the fishmonger arrived in the Gun Quarter the late afternoon sky looked threatening. All the same, it took him a moment to adjust his eyes to the gloom inside the pub as he slipped through the heavy green doors into the bar.
The front room was dark, and the carpet was soaked in years of beer and ash. Daud was in the corner with a coke and a scowl. The fishmonger had guessed right; Daud didn’t drink, and he was uncomfortable in the pub. When he looked around the place, he didn’t feel he was missing out. Broken men coughed and wheezed from their chairs to the bar and back again. Bulbous noses, bronchial lungs and hard stares. Cast off like clinker.
Things were unraveling for Daud. He was the first son of a first son, a proud family of good men. But first Ajmal had gone off the rails, then the community he had worked hard for had ostracized him. Now Daud’s heart lusted for revenge, and here he was buying a gun from a stranger in a pub.
In his pocket he had three thousand pounds. It was money which he had collected at the mosque for families suffering in the Pakistan floods. It was charity money that people had thrown in his bucket, and he was spending it on a gun to avenge his brother. The brother that everyone else at the mosque seemed to have forgotten about. Daud justified it to himself. He told himself that it was his duty to seek revenge for Ajmal. But deep down in his soul he knew it was wrong. Deep down, he knew that his soul was lost.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ashgabat, Tur
kmenistan.
“Many rivers to cross, But I can't seem to find my way over.”
- Lorraine Ellison, Many Rivers to Cross
As the dust and the crowd from the market consumed Tyler and the motel owner, Lockhart drove the bus on. The motel owner would be fine; Everyone in the marketplace was on his side. Lockhart was worried. He had expected someone to chase after him, but the huge man who had chased him from the market had already been looking for him in Mary when he arrived.
Lockhart could think of two possibilities. Either there was a tracker inside one of the blue bales, or else the soldier had guessed the route that Lockhart would use to escape. As he drove, Lockhart thought about it. He had headed past Herat and gone for the border. He had tried to get out of Afghanistan as quickly as possible. That was the obvious thing to do. Then he had avoided Iran, which would be predictable. Instead, he had chosen the biggest road on the map and followed it to the first big city on the route back to Europe. He had made it easy for Tyler.
Just as Lockhart was thinking about taking a detour, one of the passengers tapped him on the shoulder. It was an old guy who spoke a little English. Apparently, he was the best linguist among them. He explained that their regular bus had broken down so the motel owner, ever the entrepreneur, had sold them tickets to hitch a lift with him.
There were about twenty of them in all; mostly women wearing bright clothes, a few men dressed more soberly, and a large woman who looked like she was in mourning wearing a black burka.
“Where are you all going?” Lockhart called over his shoulder.
“Ashgabat,” said the old man. “Same place as you.”