The Ghost Runner

by Parker Bilal

  ‘That’s my room. What are you up to?’ Makana demanded.

  ‘Me?’ Sadig shrugged with an insolent sneer, ‘who knows? I could ask you the same question.’

  ‘Am I supposed to understand what that means?’

  ‘It means you may be able to fool the sergeant, but I know what you’re up to.’ He leaned closer. ‘I don’t think it’s a coincidence that you turn up just when we find the Qadi cut to pieces.’

  He brushed past Makana, making sure his shoulder bumped into him hard. Makana heard him chuckling to himself as he descended the stairs. Makana wondered if Hamama had planned the whole thing. He knew he was staying behind at the doctor’s place. It would have provided them with a perfect opportunity if they wanted to know more about him. And Sadig’s lingering was not by coincidence. It was a reminder that while he was here he was under their control. They wanted him to know they could search his room any time they wanted to.

  It wasn’t that the room contained anything of value. An old holdall, a few clothes, a couple of books. Nothing appeared to have been touched. Makana stood in the middle of the room and then decided to search the place thoroughly. He pulled the wardrobe away from the wall, tipped it on its side, removed all the shelves. Nothing. Then he did the same with the bed, stripping it, taking the mattress off, turning it over to discover a brown stain the size of a body which only made him wonder what had happened here. He lifted up the frame and examined the underneath. Cobwebs and dust, the evidence of woodworm activity, a wrapper from a condom with words in German. There wasn’t much more to go through. A chair, a small mirror which he lifted off the wall. The bathroom was the same, nowhere to hide anything. So they weren’t planning to plant evidence on him or set him up that way. So what had Sadig been doing? Checking up on him, or just trying to scare him? Perhaps both.

  ‘What’s all the noise for?’ Nagy appeared in the doorway. He surveyed the chaos.

  ‘Unwanted visitors,’ said Makana.

  ‘I’ll tell Ayman to spray again in the morning.’

  ‘No, I need another room.’

  Nagy looked at Makana, sizing him up, trying to decide whether he could afford to lose a client and deciding he would be able to live with the inconvenience.

  ‘Take the one next door. It’s already made up. I’ll get the key. And leave this now, we’re trying to watch the football. I’ll get it fixed tomorrow.’

  So much for politics and the plight of the Palestinians. Makana’s new room, whose collection of squashed mosquito corpses stuck to the walls was marginally smaller, afforded him a view of the conical minaret he had only heard previously. Now he could stare at the battered metal loudspeaker that seemed to have been pinned as an afterthought onto the side of the stubby, uneven brown pillar of clay and bricks. Once installed, Makana sat on the bed and reached for the telephone to call Zahra. She took a long time to answer. He was about to hang up when she said hello.

  ‘I thought you must be out.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she laughed lightly. ‘It’s a mobile. You are never out with a mobile.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he said, feeling a little foolish.

  ‘I was hoping you would call.’

  ‘Really?’ That his heart was capable of somersaults startled him.

  ‘I was wondering how you were getting on?’

  ‘It’s hard to say.’ Makana settled himself back against the wall with his feet on the bed, and went on to explain about the Qadi’s untimely death.

  ‘But why have they involved you in that? Surely that will just delay you?’

  ‘I think it’s their way of keeping an eye on me. It’s all right. If it means they will help me I’m happy to co-operate.’

  ‘So, you’re helping the police?’

  ‘In a way, although that doesn’t seem to deter them from searching my room.’

  He heard her sharp intake of breath. ‘I don’t think you should stay there, really. It sounds dangerous. Can’t you just come back and tell Ragab that you found nothing?’

  ‘The truth is there is little sign of Musab here. Nobody has seen him for years.’

  ‘It just seems so remote and . . .’ Zahra hesitated. ‘Isn’t it possible the answer lies here in Cairo?’

  ‘This is the perfect place for him. It’s quiet and isolated and there is only a small police presence.’ Makana felt like a fanatic insisting on his version of the truth. His enthusiasm faded as no response was forthcoming. ‘He must still have friends here. I just haven’t found them yet.’

  ‘It sounds like you are settling in there.’

  Makana laughed like a teenager. ‘Don’t worry, I already miss Cairo.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Certain aspects of it.’

  ‘Such as what?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, I don’t know. It’s very quiet here,’ he said, realising his mistake only after he had spoken.

  ‘Ah,’ said Zahra. ‘I thought you meant you missed the people here.’

  ‘That too.’

  After that they both seemed stuck for something to say and Makana found himself on the one hand wishing the call over, and on the other not wanting to put down the receiver.

  ‘Well, I wish you luck with your investigating.’ There was a long silence. So long that Makana began to think the line had been cut. ‘Is it okay for me to call you on this number?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘I imagine I will be here most evenings.’

  ‘Because it’s so quiet, yes, I know,’ she said. He heard her laughter ringing long after he had hung up the phone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nagy was slouched over the reception desk when Makana came down the next day. He folded the newspaper he was reading and straightened up. There was something about his manner which seemed different to the previous day. An odd combination of fear and respect. Makana realised that word had already spread of the Qadi’s death and his own involvement in the investigation.

  ‘How do you find the new room, effendi?’

  ‘It’s fine, thank you.’

  ‘If there’s anything you need, all you have to do is ask.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind. I need some cigarettes. Where is the nearest shop?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll send the boy.’ Nagy stepped to the doorway behind him and called through it. ‘Walad! Where is that idiot boy?Ayman!’

  ‘Never mind. I can walk.’

  Makana exited the hotel before Nagy could stop him, though his voice echoed down the street still yelling for the porter. Makana walked in the direction of the bus station where he was sure he had seen a shop. It was closer than he imagined. The whole town could be circled in twenty minutes. The sign outside the shop read Wad Nubawi’s Supermarket. A shop with aspirations. It was remarkably well stocked, and crowded. A table by the entrance was stacked with plastic bags of melting frozen beans, okra, falafel, all on offer. They were sprinkled with frost that slid away to join the swelling pool of water forming beneath the table. A dusty rectangle marked where a freezer had once stood. A man in his fifties with the sharp cheekbones and a Bedouin scarf wrapped around his neck was counting up items at the register. Three women in black were demanding answers. It took Makana a few minutes to realise that the women were speaking a language he did not recognise. When he spoke, the Bedouin addressed them in Arabic, probably for Makana’s benefit.

  ‘What could I do? They said they needed it for something. It’s not my business what they do with it. The police have authority. We’re all under their command. Now these beans will last a week in your refrigerator at home, but you’d better take them now because they’ll be gone by midday, as Allah is my witness.’

  The women bustled out of the shop, cawing to one another in excitement. The Bedouin straightened up and narrowed his eyes at Makana.

  ‘What service can I offer you?’

  ‘You seem to be busy.’

  ‘Never too busy for new customers,’ the Bedouin smi
led. ‘You’re the one from Cairo everyone is talking about.’

  ‘Everyone?’

  ‘I heard you’re here to find the man who cut the Qadi up from one end to the other.’

  ‘You must hear a lot of interesting things,’ said Makana. ‘I’ll take two packets of Cleopatra.’

  A bony hand set the cigarettes on the counter. As Makana went to take them the man swiftly withdrew them. He was grinning now, revealing a gold tooth.

  ‘Maybe you can tell me what’s going on?’ It was only half playful. Underneath the smile was a hint of menace.

  ‘It’s police business. You should ask Sergeant Hamama.’

  ‘Ah,’ he waved dismissively. ‘He never tells me anything. They took my freezer.’

  ‘I can see that,’ nodded Makana. ‘It can’t be easy.’

  ‘I think I have a right to know. I have a delivery in three days. What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘I suppose you’ll have to cancel it.’

  ‘Naturally. And how am I supposed to make a living like that? I have a family to feed.’ He reached into a plastic bag alongside the cash register and selected a dried date which he bit into, spitting the stone out through the doorway with practised skill. There was an aspect of quaint theatricality about him and a certain bitterness.

  ‘Are you going to sell those to me or what?’

  The man looked down as if asking how the cigarettes had got there, then he pushed them across the counter and took Makana’s money.

  ‘I don’t really see why they need outside help. We take care of things our own way around here.’

  ‘Maybe that’s exactly why,’ said Makana.

  Outside, the karetta hurtled by and wheeled in a tight circle, the skinny donkey scuttling to stay upright, hooves skidding on the tarmac as Bulbul mercilessly flogged its raw hind quarters with his whip.

  ‘My Sudanese brother! Have you seen Jebel Mawta yet? How about the tomb of Ar-Simun? And Cleopatra’s Eye?’ The plump boy brought the cart to walking pace and leaned down to whisper. ‘Perhaps the brother would like something more interesting? Hashish, very good quality. Johnnie Walker black label?’

  ‘Where would you find such items in a place like this?’

  It was the opening he had been waiting for. The boy’s face lit up like a stage performer feeling the warmth of the spotlight. ‘Bulbul can find anything you want, even women. You want to go to Abu Sharaf?’

  ‘What is there at Abu Sharaf?’

  Bulbul stamped a sliver of blue plastic that passed for a flip-flop and cackled. ‘You really don’t know anything, do you?’ Eyes darting around he leaned down from his perch once more. ‘Don’t you know why there are no female donkeys in this town?’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed,’ admitted Makana.

  ‘Well, it’s true. People are very religious here. They would be offended if they saw donkeys mating in the street. So they banished all female donkeys to Abu Sharaf. So when someone asks you if you’re going to Abu Sharaf, they are really asking if you are looking for a woman.’ And with a final flourish of laughter he skidded away, whipping the poor donkey while standing up like a Roman emperor in his chariot. As he veered around the edge of the square he leaned out of the cart and spat deliberately on the road, right in front of the big house on the corner.

  The local girls’ school comprised a dull, single-storey building surrounded by a high wall, all of which was constructed of the same grey breeze blocks. It was hard to imagine a less inspiring sight. The sound of children reciting multipication tables trailed behind him as Makana walked along the veranda that connected the classrooms, aware of the attention he was attracting. Small faces turned towards him, distracted by the appearance of a stranger in their midst. Finally, a teacher stepped out to ask what he wanted, children crowding into the doorway behind her. Before Makana could speak another woman appeared at the far end. She made a signal with her hand and the teacher gestured for him to proceed.

  ‘Madame Fawzia will speak to you.’

  Madame Fawzia, when he finally reached her, was a stout woman with a set expression on her face. The emotionless look and presence of an official who knows their own importance. With a nod she gestured for him to follow and they turned along the L-shaped arm of the veranda which appeared to be the administrative wing.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘No doubt you have heard the terrible news about the honourable Qadi? Well, I am here to help the local police with their enquiries.’

  ‘Ah,’ the warden’s headscarf bobbed. ‘You’re the one who came from Cairo.’

  ‘That’s correct.’ It seemed there were certain advantages to working in a small town. News travelled fast, so fast indeed that she didn’t even question his authority. He had been seen in the company of Sergeant Hamama. That was commendation enough.

  ‘Ahlan wasahlan. You are very welcome here.’ She almost managed to squeeze a smile out of her constricted features. ‘Thank you for coming to aid us in our time of trouble.’ There was something flat about her performance, as if she were merely going through the routine of what was expected of her. Sighing heavily and using a series of keys attached to a long chain that she drew from somewhere inside her clothes, she unlocked the door to her office, which was stale and gloomy, with only one window high up in the opposite wall providing any glimpse of the outside world. She went round behind the desk, saying, ‘I don’t really see why you have come to me. One of our students is not involved in anything wrong, I hope?’ Gesturing wearily for him to take a seat, the warden sat down, rested her elbows on the table and waited.

  ‘Nothing like that,’ Makana smiled to put her at ease, although the stern frown showed no signs of fading. Smoking, he decided, was out of the question. ‘Actually, I am conducting an enquiry in parallel to the investigation into the Qadi’s death.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Are the two investigations related?’

  ‘They may be.’ Makana changed his tack and stopped smiling as it seemed to be having a contrary effect, making Madame Fawzia more nervous rather than less. A woman who admired authority expected someone working with the police to reflect the sobriety of the office. ‘Such enquiries are complicated and may not make sense to untrained persons. The key to any investigation may lie in an entirely unexpected direction. We would be failing in our duty if we did not explore every possible aspect of a case.’

  ‘Of course. Then how can I help, Mr . . .’

  ‘Makana,’ he said tersely. ‘A woman who I believe used to attend this school, Nagat Abubakr, she married a man named Musab Khayr.’

  ‘That is correct.’ Madame Fawzia twisted the engagement ring on her finger. ‘Though it was a long time ago. I don’t see—’

  ‘You knew her?’

  ‘I know Nagat. I attended this very school with her, many years ago.’ The memory temporarily eased the fierce look on the woman’s face, which was round and hard. ‘Why are you asking about her? Has something happened?’

  ‘I’m afraid Nagat passed away a couple of years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Madame Fawzia lowered her eyes to stare at her hands, clasped together in front of her on the chipped surface of the desk. The ring was tarnished and around her high neck a simple pendant hung on a thin chain.

  ‘I am here in connection with her daughter, Karima, who died in a fire.’

  ‘Her daughter?’ Madame Fawzia’s eyes floated towards a curling, desiccated map of the world that hung on the wall to her right. The colours were faded to soft browns and khakis, as if the world were a forgotten kingdom. ‘This is all very sad news, but we lost contact when she moved to Cairo.’

  ‘That would have been in nineteen eighty-one.’

  ‘Yes, exactly. The year the president was shot.’ Madame Fawzia fiddled with her ring. ‘It must be sad to lose a child.’

  ‘You have children yourself.’

  ‘No, I never had any of my own. I console myself with the thought that most of the wives of the prophet, may peace
be upon him, never bore him children either.’

  ‘Nagat’s family was once quite wealthy. I understand the family used to own a lot of land?’

  ‘They had a few fields, but Nagat’s father was a lazy man. He didn’t do much with it, even the house was in ruins. He carried himself grandly, but they couldn’t afford to fix it up.’

  ‘Musab Khayr. What can you tell me about him?’

  ‘Musab? Well, they left together. Everyone knew they wouldn’t be back.’

  ‘What made people think that?’

  Madame Fawzia shrugged her shoulders. ‘We just knew.’

  ‘What can you tell me about Nagat’s sisters?’

  ‘Her sisters?’ Madame Fawzia seemed momentarily confused. ‘Her sister. She only has the one, Butheyna.’

  ‘I thought there was a third sister?’

  ‘Oh, there was Safira, but she ran away.’

  ‘Ran away?’

  ‘Disappeared. She was strange that one. People said she spent more time in the company of jinn and afreet than with real people.’ Madame Fawzia regarded him carefully as she spoke, as if conscious of not wanting to sound too far-fetched.

  ‘What about Butheyna. Where can I find her?’

  ‘Oh, she left. Her husband got a job in the Gulf somewhere. Kuwait, Qatar, one of those. I can find a telephone number for you.’

  ‘That would be helpful. And Musab Khayr, what kind of man was he?’

  ‘I didn’t really know him.’ Madame Fawzia’s eyes were fixed on the light coming through the high window. ‘We were at school together, you know. Me and Nagat. In the same class. I think we even shared the same desk one year.’

  ‘Did she ever come back here to visit, with her daughter?’

  ‘She never came back.’ Madame Fawzia grew still, her eyes narrowing as they came back to find Makana. ‘The truth is she wasn’t welcome here. That man was trouble and nobody ever understood why she ran away with him. I still don’t see how this relates to the Qadi’s death.’

  ‘Like I said, these are two parallel investigations. It’s purely routine.’

  ‘I see.’

  Getting to her feet, she came round from behind her desk and peered at the framed class photographs that covered one wall of the office. ‘She must be here somewhere. Let me see.’ She traced her way back along the years until she came to the right collection of students. Leaning closer she frowned. Finally, she stabbed a stubby finger at the glass. ‘There.’