by Max China
Despite her insistence, Mohammed would not go to the hospital.
‘If I go, what happen to you? What you do, lady, you stay here? Mohammed, he say, no, you go.’ His brown eyes settled on her face; he wouldn’t meet her gaze.
She stared at him; amazed at his loyalty to someone he didn’t really know. ‘I have to go,’ she said simply.
‘Then I take you. Where you go – aeroport?’
She thought ahead. She needed to lose Mohammed. She couldn’t allow him to place himself in jeopardy; it was imperative she stayed put. How am I going to work this out?
‘Lady—’
‘Shush, Mohammed, I’m thinking,’ she said. The boy placed his hands together and gazed skywards in mock prayer.
Boyle would think she’d run. He would know she couldn’t go to the police. Maybe I’ll have to. She was in two minds for only a few moments. Can’t risk the airport. Boyle would go to the docks, thinking she’d try for a boat. Weighing possibility against chance, her face lit up with inspiration. Overland!
She’d wait until morning and go cross-country, while he was busy watching the harbour. Where could she stay meanwhile? With no passport, a hotel was out of the question. Mohammed.
‘Where is your bike?’
‘In car park. Why – you want me take you somewhere?’
She bit her lip. ‘Do you think your father would mind if I—’
‘Lady, when he is not here, I am the father. You wanted stay at mine house?’
She lowered her eyes demurely. ‘Yes.’
‘I go then, for bike,’ he beamed. ‘Wait here, I come back.’
A slab of light cast itself across the tiled floor as he opened the door, disappearing as he shut it behind him. Her eyes, dazzled by the sudden glare, gradually readjusted, and she took in her surroundings for the first time. Light penetrated the small windows at high level. It appeared he’d pulled her into the lobby of a disused building.
She started to think about Boyle and wondered if he’d actually picked up a copy of her book, and if he had – if he’d got to the passage where she’d summarized everything she’d learned to date. That part had followed her visit to one of his former neighbours. A previous interviewer, acting under the guise of researching material for a book on the greatest bare-knuckle fighters of the twentieth century, had almost blown it for her with his insensitive handling of the Gypsy elder.
She recalled the initial meeting she had with him.
‘Who did you say sent you again?’ Archie Brooks eyed her with suspicion.
She smiled, dipping her head so that she looked at him from beneath the spiky fringe of her black hair. ‘Didn’t I tell you on the phone? Nobody sent me; I was passed your details by a fellow writer, Mr Quinn. I believe you met—’
‘Him!’ he spat. ‘Something I didn’t like about that boy, asked too many questions he did.’ He paused, light glinting in the stony chippings his narrowed eyes had become. ‘He’s not your man, is he?’
‘Good Lord, no! Is it all right if I call you Archie?’ She extended her hand, adding: ‘I’d have to be dead to be lying with him.’
Brooks grinned. ‘Come in, Clara,’ he said.
‘Carla,’ she corrected, and stepped inside.
She hoped that he’d forgive her for misquoting him, justifying it, just as she had when she first wrote the piece. It’s for the greater good and not only for the people, but my purse too. Taking the voice recorder from her bag, she dictated an update to her story so far.
It was the sound that drew her back from recording the notes or, more correctly, an explosion, followed by a dread moment of silence. Followed by screams. She floated as if disconnected from reality as her body lurched towards the door, and opened it. The harsh glare of sunshine stung her eyes, and she was torn in two.
Lying mangled in the road, a white and chrome scooter pop-popped, engine dying, headlight pointing upwards at a crazy angle – and underneath, crushed, rag doll-like and staring with sightless eyes ... Mohammed.
Women wailed. A lanky tourist, in a desert outfit of military-like khaki, attended on the boy, and then stepped away, shaking his head. A woman covered her face, and began ululating. Other women joined in. Realizing nothing could be gained by her continuing presence, Carla took flight.
Chapter 10
Pain. Not his. Someone else’s. Miller gazed out through the passenger window thinking the source lay beyond, in the streets.
A dark shape lurched across his field of vision. Bracing himself, he jammed his foot down on imaginary brakes.
The driver reacted to his passenger’s physical cue, his foot leaving the accelerator, touching the brake pedal. The taxi’s speed dropped. He scanned the road ahead for what had caused the reflex action of the man next to him. Nothing.
‘What for you do that?’ the driver said.
Miller closed his eyes and applied pressure to the length of his nose with his forefinger, the tip curling across its bridge to a point between his eyes. The relief was instant.
‘Oh, that ... it was nothing. I do that sometimes. I have this pain. It makes me do that.’
The other man nodded. ‘Sometimes, after many hours’ drive. Mine head with pain.’ Two fingers forked as he indicated his eyes. ‘Too much look. You understand?’
Miller stared out of the window. ‘Yes, too much look. I understand.’
‘English, no? If I practise the English ... speak with you, you don’t mind?’ Without waiting for agreement, he pressed on.
Miller switched off. Something had happened, somewhere. He knew it. He felt it. He just couldn’t see it. Yet. And that was something else he knew. He would see. Turning over the impressions forming in his mind, he tuned in to them, unable to get beyond a barrage of static interference. The driver interrupted his thoughts.
‘You like music? Here very big festival in June, you miss. Ten, twenty thousand people, they come. That place, you see?’ Leaning over, he pointed up the street. ‘In there, you cannot see from here. Always there is music. Always. Today is very special man play guitar. Him, Spanish. With him, blind man. He play the ...’ Lost for words, he blew out his cheeks, one hand at his breast, the other at his abdomen, waggling his fingers on invisible keys.
‘The saxophone?’ Miller ventured.
‘Saxophone,’ the driver repeated slowly. ‘Yes, that is him.’
The car turned right into the next street. A crowd blocked the road. All heads were facing in the same direction. Nobody moved.
The blind man ... You see ...
Miller zeroed in on the scene and triangulated points that had previously made no sense. A broken boy, seen from above.
Magnetism, manifested and mingled, mixing with the man next to him. He felt what the driver wouldn’t feel for a few moments yet.
Pain. A knot formed in his belly. At last, he understood. He’d had a premonition. It was linked to the man next to him. The warning had come too late, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.
‘I’ll get out here,’ Miller said, erasing the image of carnage from his mind’s eye. The taxi crawled to a halt. ‘Thank you,’ he said, overpaying the fare. The driver’s jubilant thanks fell on deaf ears as he strode down to the next street. From there, he’d make his way to the music bar. He didn’t need to walk past the accident scene. He’d already seen it.
Carla pulled the niqab about her face and forced herself to walk, her head a busy terminal of thoughts landing and taking off again. There was a danger of losing it, she knew that. The what-ifs and self-recrimination built up uncontrollably, blocking her escape. Possibilities needed to land. What would happen to Mohammed’s family? How would they cope? It was her fault. All of it. Nothing she could ever do would make it right. And here she was in his mother’s clothes, unfit to wear them.
Not given to God-fearing, she surprised herself by making up the words to a prayer and mouthing it, imploring God, whoever He may be, to smile on Mohammed, and look after him. He was but a child after all. She conju
red a vision of him standing in a radiant white light. His mother emerged from its brilliance, serene, welcoming, holding out her hand. He took it. They turned and walked away, the light clothing them. Her teeth hurt. Tears smarted her eyes. She sniffed once and wiped them dry. She hurried away in the direction of the hotel, convinced Boyle – if it was him – would have been going the other way.
A single saxophone parp caught her attention. A crowd had gathered. A bluesman had elevated himself from the ground, standing on something she couldn’t see. He tilted his head back, jet-black glasses reflecting the sun, and raising his instrument, fingers flying, he blasted out an Ali Baba snake-charmer’s tune. The mass of people roared its approval. Momentarily losing her bearings, and unsure which way to go, she turned from the throng in time to see people parting in waves, barrelled aside from behind by an as yet unseen force. A few feet in front, the crowd parted. A huge woman in a full black burqa bore down on her. Through still with misty eyes, she looked down below the hemline. Cowboy boots? Jesus!
Spinning on her heels, she dashed into the crowd heading for the keyhole doorway behind the sax man.
Chapter 11
Despite the crowd, Miller found some elbow room at the bar and waited his turn. In the far corner a space had been cleared, and a guitarist plucked the strings gently, his ear close as he tuned the instrument.
Miller returned his attention to buying a drink. In the mirror behind the barman, he thought he saw Carla’s reflection race by. Turning, he saw her unmistakable spiky black hair bobbing as she pushed her way towards the rear exit. In an instant, he went after her. His superior weight gave him an advantage and he caught up with her, steering her into the male toilets, pushing her into a cubicle. ‘Shhh!’ he whispered. The whites of her large blue eyes were wider than he’d ever seen them.
‘I thought you were—’
He put a finger to his lips.
At the door, a burly bouncer stepped from his stool to prevent a woman entering. Boyle threw off his headgear and glared at the stunned doorman, who – confused by the second Westerner to approach wearing Muslim garb, only to discard it on entry – shook his head in disbelief as the man entered the bar behind him.
Boyle’s vision quickly adjusted to the gloom. He scanned the crowds. A man in a black Stetson was tuning his guitar. Next to him, smoke curled thickly from a hashish cigarette on the edge of an ashtray, twisting upwards in the dim light. Not here. He spotted the exit door and brushed through the crowd. He pushed it. Locked.
Grinning, he pushed the ladies’ toilet door open. No one here. Returning to the exit door, he rechecked it, pushing harder; it opened. He charged outside and, seeing no sign of her, headed for the docks.
‘He’s gone,’ Miller said.
Her knees buckled; he caught her as she staggered.
‘Should’ve c-come before,’ she slurred, her voice drunk with emotion, and fell against him, blurting out the whole sorry story.
He stood with his arms around her, steadying her. ‘Let’s get out of here before anyone else comes in.’
She wiped her nose and mouth on the back of her hand and stopped by the washbasin. ‘I must rinse my face,’ she said.
‘Nothing to dry it on.’ He jerked a thumb at the filthy roller towel. ‘Unless you want to use that.’
‘You should have been here ...’ she said, accusingly.
‘Carla, it wouldn’t have made any difference.’ He remembered the rope analogy passed on to him by the Sister. ‘Maybe the strand of his life was destined to be short. Don’t worry, we’re going to get you out of here.’
‘Don’t worry …? You have no idea.’ She slapped at his face.
He caught her hand.
Snatching it away from him, she said, ‘That’s it. I’m not talking about it any more. I’ll deal with it in my own sweet way.’ She turned on her heels, opened the door, and crossed the lobby to the ladies’ toilets.
He followed as she disappeared inside, opened the door a crack and called through. ‘We’ll stay here until it gets dark. I’ll be at the bar.’
She didn’t answer.
The press of the crowd was too much. A potman, eyes half-closed, collected glasses. Miller caught his attention, gesturing with a rolled-up note that he should get them drinks. The man came over.
‘One beer, one gin and tonic, s’il vous plait,’ Miller said, pushing the note into the outstretched hand before him.
Two people vacated a table, and he wasted no time sliding into one of the empty chairs, dragging another in close with his foot.
The guitarist was three tables down. Smoke curled from the joint in his mouth, one eye squinting against it as he fine-tuned each string. He seemed to take forever. Close-up he looked older than he did from a distance. His hair, blacker than the cowboy hat he wore, seemed at odds with the lines on his face. With thin lips and hooked nose he looked cruel, yet flaming passion glowered in his hawkish eyes, awaiting release. He adjusted the microphone, directed it at the soundboard of his flamenco guitar, and switched it on. It picked up the background noise and fed it back into the room, creating the illusion that the crowd had doubled in size. Excitement rose in the voices of the tourist spectators. The locals showed little interest as the sax man walked behind the gorilla from the door, one hand on his shoulder as the big man cleared a path for him to join the waiting guitarist.
Carla appeared at the table. ‘I thought you’d be by the bar,’ she said, raising her voice.
‘I was, but you’ve been ages ...’
She’d scrubbed every inch of her face clean of make-up. The strain of her recent ordeals had left her looking drawn, anguish evident in her expression, her sparkle lost.
They stared at each other without a further word. She picked up her drink, took a sip, and then downed it.
Miller raised an eyebrow.
She leaned across the table and hissed, ‘How dare you raise an eyebrow at me after all I’ve been through.’
‘Would you like another?’ he said, calmly. ‘By the way ... the natural look. You should do it more often. You’re a corker.’
A glimmer of life returned to her face. ‘I am? I don’t feel it, and yes, I do want another. And another after that.’
The two musicians had taken up their respective positions. In the gloom, chinks of light cut through the gaps in the shutters, alive with minuscule particles of dust and twisting hashish cigarette smoke. It was clear there would be no singing. From his seated position, the Spaniard leaned down to the microphone and introduced himself, and then the saxophonist, in French. He was met with a ripple of applause.
Miller caught the potman’s attention and, with another rolled-up note, he pointed at each of their drinks. He nodded, and continued to fill his arms and hands with bottles and glasses.
A simple strumming was how it began. A rhythm building background. With fingers delicately plucking out single melodic notes, eyes closed, and the other hand feeling for frets, he had no need of seeing; the tune unfolded from his mind, transferring to the instrument as if it were part of his body.
All eyes were on him, except those of the sax man who stood swaying, knees bent, twisting in the opposite direction to the swing of his upper body. Holding his golden instrument in both hands he moved it up, down, left and right like a ceremonial weapon, the beat driving faster and faster as the musical train rolled out free and onto the tracks. The guitarist’s head bobbed in metronomic time, and he introduced a slap against the soundboard, and then another, punctuating and further driving the speed at which he played.
A curtain parted behind him and out stepped a Spanish dancer in full flamenco dress. The audience went wild.
Clothed in a red and black polka-dot dress – face pale, eyes flashing, ruby-red lips curled – she twirled and stamped, raised her arms high, one at a time, alternating between head and hip as she advanced on the guitarist. Miller was transfixed.
‘Don’t you think we should go somewhere quieter?’ Carla shouted. Unable to make him
hear, she moved her chair further round to sit right next to him. ‘We need to talk,’ she said directly into his ear.
‘I’m enjoying this, Carla,’ he said.
She queried his words with her eyebrows and, turning her head, pointed to her ear.
He leaned further towards her. ‘I said, I’m enjoying this.’
She pulled his head in close so that each had their mouths at the other’s ear. ‘Don’t watch her, talk to me,’ she said, breathily. Her warm breath sent tingles through him, and he detached himself. The cries of seagulls penetrated his consciousness from outside. He was looking down at the docks.
‘We’re safe here for a while,’ he said.
‘This is totally bizarre,’ she replied, perplexed.
The sax man blew a low, snake-charmer’s tune. The lid rose from a giant basket, and a scantily dressed exotic dancer emerged. Hands steepled above her head, she shook her body vigorously; the short diamantè chain adorning her belly button circled like a miniature propeller. An eastern twang crept into the guitarist’s repertoire. The blind man blew for all he was worth and a duel ensued, dancer to dancer, player to player, as the quartet reached a crescendo of music and movement. Someone in the crowd joined in on their souvenir bongos, and when the sound could get no higher, it abruptly ceased.
Along with the rest of the crowd, Miller applauded rapturously.
‘Are you stoned?’ Carla asked, accusingly.
‘You don’t know how high I’ve just been,’ he said, ‘but don’t worry, I’m OK.’
Their drinks arrived. It had been a mistake allowing her to drink two so quickly in succession. The heady aroma of hashish filled the air and seemed to have an effect on her.
Determined not to dwell on Mohammed’s fate, she ventured, ‘You never talk about you, do you? Or your parents ...’
His eyes took on a faraway look. ‘They belong to a separate part of me, a part I keep for my family ... My mother was horrified when everyone started calling me Miller, so I keep him and those thoughts segregated.’