The Ghost Runner

by Parker Bilal

  Mother and daughter had set up the shop some twelve years ago, which would have meant around the time Musab came out of prison and went abroad. There was some confusion about where they came from originally. Some said Siwa, others Alexandria. There was nothing unusual about people arriving in the city from one corner of the country or another. Details grew even more sketchy when it came to why Musab went to prison, but what was clear was that he never came back here after that. The stallholders and merchants, the porters and tea boys, all grew vague on the matter. Some said they had heard he had gone abroad, others that he was dead. Nagat had carried on. It was the girl who made the difference, explained one woman: ‘That was the best thing that useless man ever did. He gave her a child and then took himself away. What more could anyone ask for?’ Everyone remembered the girl, from when she was little. They wiped away tears as they recalled how she would run through the streets on errands, never too busy to talk. ‘Everyone loved her.’ When Nagat fell ill everyone rallied around to help out. They had nobody else to depend on. The two women were alone. ‘Around here it’s like one big family. Anyone who has something will give to those who don’t.’

  The sun was beginning to wane and people began to drift away. Makana decided it was time to pack it in for the day. He made his way back in the direction of the main road and Attaba Square, hoping to find a taxi quickly that would take him home before the rush. He had his hand in the air when a voice behind him said:

  ‘Mr Makana?’

  Turning, Makana found himself looking straight into the eyes of a young woman. The first thing that struck him were the eyes themselves. He couldn’t quite work out their colour. The light from the setting sun was refracted over the rooftops of the buildings behind him, which had the strange effect of making them appear to change colour, going from brown to green, turning through a spectrum of shades in between. The second thing that struck him was that he had seen this particular set of eyes before. They darkened as he watched her.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Excuse me for bothering you. I was wondering, are you a lawyer?’

  Makana shook his head stupidly. Not a lawyer.

  ‘Only the people in the clinic told me that you were working for Doctor Ragab?’

  He remembered her now. Then she had been wearing a midnight-blue headscarf. Now she wore something that was more like a turban that left her face free. She used the word doctor as a form of respect, for someone with an education. A professional. She frowned as if confused. He noticed that she was observant, taking stock of his clothes and general appearance. Makana felt somewhat like a rabbit on a dissection table.

  ‘That is correct.’ Which it was, now.

  ‘I happened to be passing. I understand you are asking questions about Karima?’

  ‘Did you know her?’

  The woman folded her arms, determined to hold her ground.

  ‘Might I enquire as to the nature of your business with Doctor Ragab?’

  They were beginning to draw a crowd. People were stopping to see what was going on. Two fat ladies carrying boxes of cakes tied with string were nodding in their direction.

  ‘You were at the clinic. You knew Karima.’

  ‘Why do you use the past tense?’ Her expression froze.

  ‘She didn’t make it.’ Makana gestured. The fat ladies had engaged the interest of a bored traffic policeman. ‘Perhaps we should walk.’

  Reluctantly, she stumbled along beside him. ‘Are you a journalist?’

  ‘Doctor Ragab has asked me to make some enquiries.’

  ‘Enquiries, into the death of Karima? You mean you don’t believe it was suicide?’

  ‘He doesn’t. I am open-minded on the subject. Now it’s your turn. How did you know her?’

  The woman produced a card from somewhere in the folds of her outfit and handed it over.

  Makana examined the card. It read: The Association for the Protection of Egyptian Women’s Rights. The name printed underneath read: Zahra Sharif.

  ‘You were trying to protect her? From what?’

  ‘Nothing specific. I became involved with Karima some years ago. When her mother was still alive.’

  ‘And what exactly do you do for these women?’ Makana took a moment to examine her. She was slim and fairly tall. Her clothes were dark and heavy. A long coat reached down to her ankles. He recalled now that he had spotted her in the crowd, standing off to one side, when he and Okasha had emerged from the burnt-out building. Had she been following him around all day, he wondered?

  ‘Our concern is the condition of women in general. We offer certain services, advice, the little help we can provide. That kind of thing.’

  ‘And your interest in Karima? Did she give any indication of suicidal tendencies?’

  ‘Not at all. Suicide is usually a cry for help.’

  Makana was intrigued. What exactly was her connection to Karima? She seemed to comprise a combination of unrelenting ferocity and emotional instability. Clearly she cared. A glance up the road told Makana that the traffic policeman had lost all interest in them and was now flirting with the fat ladies who were laughing so hard they had to clutch their sides.

  ‘Do you think she killed herself?’

  ‘I . . . don’t know.’ The woman’s eyes darted away, and he noticed a tremor in her lower lip. ‘Which direction are you going in?’ she asked as a taxi pulled to a halt alongside them.

  ‘Towards the river. Imbaba.’

  ‘Can I ride over with you? We can talk on the way.’

  There was no reason for him to feel that he ought to trust this woman and yet Makana felt that he could. As the last rays of the sun’s light dwindled to a crimson sliver in her eye, he had the feeling that she had been crying. Her eyes were swollen and the tip of her nose was slightly red.

  So he opened the car door and gestured for her to enter. Instead, she walked around to the other side and got in there. As a matter of courtesy, Makana sat in front beside the driver. The traffic through the centre of town was fast-moving most of the way. The lights were coming on, bringing with them that twilight sense of uncertainty as people emerged from the shadows of their daily routines into a new nighttime existence. The sky swirled with inky patterns as the last of the daylight was quenched by darkness. Makana recalled following the sleek Bentley through these same streets a couple of days ago. The lights flowing over the car’s smooth surface as though it were tarry oil.

  ‘Tell me about Karima?’ he asked, turning to look over his shoulder at the woman who sat pressed up against the opposite door.

  ‘I met her a few years ago. I had several cases in the area. Women who were abused, or afraid. My job basically involves counselling, talking to women, advising them of their rights, or lack of them, and offering them the resources we have available, which isn’t much.’

  ‘So did either Karima or her mother ask for your help?’

  ‘I spoke to Nagat a couple of times. She had joined a support group for women whose husbands were in prison.’

  ‘She had decided she wanted nothing more to do with him.’

  ‘I got the impression he had done something very bad, a long time ago. She was very young when they married. They ran away together but over the years she realised she had made a mistake. It often happens. She wanted a divorce, but he wouldn’t agree. Then he went abroad.’

  The passing light swept over her face, so that he caught brief flashes of her features, like fragments of a puzzle that refused to come together to form a whole.

  ‘How did you know where to find Karima?’ Makana asked.

  ‘I have my sources. People call me when there is something they think could be of interest.’

  ‘Women suicides, you mean?’

  ‘It’s not always what it appears.’

  Makana noticed the driver giving her odd looks in the mirror. Zahra had also noticed.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘What smell?’ sniffed the driver.

 
‘It smells like burnt plastic.’

  ‘La, ya sitti, this is an air freshener.’ He pointed at a plastic pine tree bobbing from the rear-view mirror. ‘It makes the air better.’

  ‘It’s making me ill.’

  Makana managed to wind down the window a couple of centimetres before it jammed. The driver fiddled with the air freshener, still watching Zahra and narrowly avoiding several collisions.

  ‘Ask him to pull over please,’ said Zahra.

  When they came to a halt, Zahra got out without a word. The driver began apologising again. ‘It’s just a piece of plastic that smells. I swear. I can throw it out. Wallahi.’ He reached for the offending object and was holding it out of the window when Makana stuffed some notes into his hand. They were alongside the river now on the eastern side of Zamalek. A nursery under a bridge. Plants were laid out in buckets and old gallon tins that had once held olive oil. A man in wellington boots and ragged clothes wandered up and down with a watering can.

  When he reached her she was standing by the metal railings. Her body was shaking and he waited at a distance as she sobbed quietly to herself. Lighting a cigarette, Makana exhaled and watched the slow-motion fireworks exploding across the river. Lights of every colour and shape, arching out of the ground on roads and flyovers, outlining the towers of the hotels and the squat insurmountable wall of the National Democratic Party. Alongside it the glow coming from the National Museum. The whole city seemed alive with ghosts that floated on electric currents. The air off the water cleared the warm petrol fug of the traffic.

  ‘Thank you. I really think I might have fainted or something in that car.’ When Makana shrugged, she gave a little laugh. ‘I’m sorry, I must seem a little unbalanced to you.’ A few strands of dark hair had escaped from the headscarf. Tucking them out of sight she smiled wistfully. ‘It must seem very unprofessional of me to react like this.’

  ‘You became friends with Karima.’

  ‘It’s not so strange. Some women seek legal advice, others are looking for a place to hide, but most of them just want someone who will listen, someone who cares about their problems.’

  They had reached a bench that was more or less intact. It resembled a museum piece, weary from all the memories it had to bear. A long procession of lovers’ names. Where were all these people now, Makana wondered? Overweight and middle-aged? Married to other people and not knowing why? With children of their own who had no idea that here lay the evidence of the passion their parents might have once felt for a stranger?

  ‘When I first met Karima her mother was ill. She was dying, in fact. I felt sorry for her at first and later I felt admiration. She was very brave.’

  ‘You must feel strongly about women to get involved in this kind of work.’

  ‘Women?’ He was surprised at the vehemence in her. ‘Why is it always assumed that this is a matter which concerns women alone? Don’t you think men need to take some responsibility?’

  Makana stopped in his tracks. ‘I’ve never really thought about it.’

  ‘Well, at least you are honest about it.’ She turned to walk on and then stopped. ‘I’m sorry,’ she sighed. ‘I have difficulty separating my emotions from my work. Most of the time it isn’t a problem. I mean,’ she laughed, ‘I’m not like this every day.’

  ‘You see a lot of cases like this?’

  ‘Like this? No. This was special.’ The breeze from the river stirred the palms overhead.

  ‘Special in what way?’

  ‘I’m not sure how to explain it.’ She avoided his gaze, turning towards the river. ‘When you have been involved in this kind of work for as long as I have you get a sense for cases.’ She gave a laugh, self-conscious this time. ‘I don’t know why I am telling you all this. I barely know you.’

  ‘Sometimes that makes it easier to talk.’ They strolled on for a time. ‘How would you describe Karima’s state of mind?’

  ‘If you’re asking whether she killed herself, the answer is no.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘She wasn’t the type. I mean she was angry, not depressed.’

  ‘What was she angry about?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Zahra shook her head helplessly. ‘All too often what is called suicide is simply a polite excuse for not wanting to face the truth.’

  ‘What truth are we talking about?’

  ‘That family honour is more important sometimes than the life of a loved one.’

  ‘Who would kill Karima for family honour?’

  ‘Somebody who believes his honour has been offended.’

  ‘Musab?’

  Zahra picked at a thread on her sleeve. ‘All I know is that I don’t believe this was suicide and I’d like to know who killed her and why.’

  Musab had been out of the country for the last seven years. Why would he decide it was time to avenge the family honour?

  ‘You don’t have much faith in the justice system?’

  ‘I would be a fool if I did.’

  ‘Ragab hired me because he believes Karima did not take her own life. If I find evidence of a cover-up then the police will have to open an investigation.’

  She looked him in the eye. ‘Maybe you’d like to believe that, or maybe that’s what Mr Ragab would like you to believe.’

  ‘Now, wait a second.’

  ‘No, I’ve done enough waiting.’ She was furious, not so much against him as what he stood for. And what was that exactly? The legal system? The police? The male of the species in general?

  ‘I’ve seen plenty of cases where nothing was ever done,’ Zahra continued. ‘A father smashes his daughter’s head in with a stone because she was seen speaking to a boy. A brother drowns his sister in a canal because he suspects her of talking to the wrong person. Why do you think it goes on and on? Because nobody ever has the courage to stand up and change it.’

  Her words hinted at a hidden menace that lurked beneath the familiar and the mundane.

  ‘All over this city there are families so poor they only have one room. Maybe they have to share the same bed. If a father gets his daughter pregnant, is it so surprising? What is surprising is the degree to which society will go to deny it ever happened. Most people would rather not know. Far easier to simply kill the girl.’

  ‘The police let it go.’

  ‘Even if they didn’t, the judges are always men. They understand the temptation the perpetrator was facing.’ She got to her feet and Makana followed suit. The promenade along the riverbank was deserted now but for a couple holding hands.

  ‘Ragab doesn’t strike me as the type.’

  ‘They never do. They all seem like nice, decent people.’ Zahra came to a halt. ‘Thank you for this, for listening. Most of the time I manage fine, but once in a while I lose my balance.’

  ‘You don’t have to apologise.’

  ‘I wouldn’t if I didn’t feel I wanted to.’

  With that she walked away without another word. As he watched her go, Makana realised that she had somehow raised more questions than she had answered.

  Chapter Seven

  Musab Khayr was the missing piece in the puzzle. According to Magdy Ragab, he was still in Denmark, the country which had granted him political asylum. Ragab claimed to have lost contact with him over the years and indeed had no way to inform him that his daughter had died, assuming he even cared about a child he had made no effort to see for so many years. Then again, Makana thought to himself, perhaps there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for that. Did he ever stop caring about his own daughter? Wasn’t that what she would have concluded after all these years? Why hasn’t my father tried to find me? It was an uncomfortable thought and one which dislodged Makana’s mind from the track it had been on.

  As he crossed the square in front of the Husseini mosque the following morning, Makana wondered if Musab could be as hard hearted as Ragab made out? Had something turned him against his wife and child? Perhaps he had changed. Who doesn’t? Could he really claim he was t
he same person he had been when he first arrived in this city, lost and bewildered, trying to find a foothold to restart his life when the last thing he felt he deserved was to go on living? Musab had been in prison, and a lot of things could happen to a man in prison. The brief time Makana had been incarcerated all those years ago remained with him as a vivid memory. It crept up on him in unsuspecting moments. Enclosed spaces. The sound of a door closing. He avoided using lifts whenever possible. It woke him in the middle of the night leaving him drenched in sweat and kicking out, convinced that darkness was closing over him like a grave.

  Aswani’s was almost deserted save for the flies that buzzed furiously inside the glass-fronted cabinets, dizzy over the feast of raw meat on display. Aswani’s face was the usual rumpled map, puffed up and sprinkled with a generous handful of grey bristles.

  ‘Are you paying for him?’

  ‘Where is he?’

  Aswani nodded across the room. ‘He’s already eaten two bowls of humous.’

  Sami was seated half concealed behind one of the ugly red pillars that jutted out like unwanted furniture at various points around the room.

  ‘Ah, there you are.’ Sami licked his fingers before extending a hand which Makana managed to avoid taking as he pulled out a chair and sat down. Unperturbed, Sami made some pretence of tidying up the debris strewn across the table: napkins, empty plates, scraps of bread. ‘I ordered lamb. He has some chops which look excellent, worth waiting for.’

  ‘Are you sure you’ll have any appetite left?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I missed breakfast this morning.’ Sami grinned, restoring a certain boyishness to his face. ‘You know how married life can be.’

  Sami Barakat was the source of most of Makana’s information when he needed research doing. As a journalist, he had access to more archives and resources than Makana could ever reach. In addition, he had the private numbers of high-ranking army officials, ministerial assistants, press officers at a dozen embassies, as well as a field of colleagues who had their own networks. Sami’s help had often proved invaluable.