The Ghost Runner

by Parker Bilal

  ‘That’s why there was no trial?’

  ‘The case was brought before the Qadi but he dismissed it, of course.’

  ‘He was paid off?’ Nagy gave another nod. ‘And your wife?’

  ‘My wife said she could not live with a person who had done something like that. So she left. She went to Port Said to live with her sister.’

  ‘Why didn’t she take Rashida with her?’

  ‘She said that every time she looked at the child she saw me.’ Nagy coughed and spluttered. He wept into his hands.

  ‘Who arranged it? Who asked Rashida to set up the meeting with me?’

  ‘I don’t know. I swear.’

  Makana straightened up with a sigh. He wanted to get out of here, away from this pathetic figure of a man.

  ‘What did they do with her, the bones I mean?’

  Nagy looked lost. ‘They buried her, in the cemetery.’

  As he turned to go, Makana said, ‘You should bear in mind that whoever killed Ayman and the Qadi will not stop there. If they are looking for revenge then they will be after all of those involved. And that includes you.’

  Makana saw the fear in Nagy’s face turn to despair.

  ‘What does it matter? What do I have left to live for?’

  Makana found the Norton where Kamal had left it. The workshop was closed. The motorcycle started instantly and once more the steady hum of the engine had a reassuring effect on him as he rode through the backstreets. Skirting around the square, Makana picked up the road out of town towards the north-west.

  The cemetery wasn’t much to look at. In contrast to the ancient world, contemporary graveyards were simple, unadorned. In this case most of the mounds of earth were unmarked. Here and there a simple piece of wood or metal bearing the name of the deceased. Most of the time there was nothing to mark the passing of a life through this world, and perhaps that was the way things ought to be. Makana parked the Norton and wandered along between the rows. He wasn’t really sure why he wanted to do this. He didn’t expect to find anything, but he felt somehow that he owed it to Safira to at least try. A dog the colour of sand leapt up out of a hollow, startled. It stared mournfully at Makana before turning and loping away through the graves.

  ‘You won’t find any answers here.’

  Makana turned to see an old, frail figure standing behind him. He recognised him as Amm Ahmed, the living record book that Sergeant Hamama had taken him to visit on his first day here.

  ‘How do you know what I’m looking for?’

  ‘Because everyone wants the same thing.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘The answers that will explain everything, once and for all.’ The old man’s lips flapped around toothless gums.

  ‘There was a girl buried here. They found her remains out in the desert.’

  ‘I know the girl you mean. Her spirit hangs heavily over this town.’

  ‘Maybe if someone had tried to bring her killers to justice . . .’

  Amm Ahmed smiled. ‘You are young. You still think the law can bring justice.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘An eye for an eye. That is the law according to Allah.’

  Makana turned to survey the cemetery once more. ‘I thought I might find her here.’

  ‘You won’t find her.’

  ‘Maybe that’s just the way of things,’ said Makana.

  ‘Is that the reason you came here, because of something that happened long ago?’

  Makana thought about the question. ‘In a way, yes.’

  ‘You can’t find your way back into the past.’

  ‘Because it’s gone?’

  ‘Because it’s always there with us.’ The toothless smile broadened. ‘You won’t find any answers here. Take the advice of an old man and leave while you can.’ With that he turned and began walking away.

  ‘What about Musab Khayr?’ Makana called out. ‘Is he back?’

  The old man turned and smiled again. ‘You know the answer to that one too.’

  Then a gust of wind swept across the graveyard, enshrouding the figure in dust. The white cotton flapped in the breeze and he was gone.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  By sunset Makana decided that it was safe enough to return to Doctor Medina’s house. He was disappointed to discover Sadig’s police Chevrolet parked across the entrance. Killing the engine, Makana pushed the Norton in through the gate and round to the back of the house. Setting the bike on its stand Makana went over to take a look at the pickup. Coiled in the back lay a collection of tools. A shovel, an axe, an old canvas tarpaulin and a length of steel cable.

  The lights were already on in the clinic downstairs and the door was open. Makana walked through the waiting area and into the back to find the place crowded with people. Sadig was there, as well as what looked as close to a lynch mob as he would like to get, except that they didn’t seem too interested in Makana. In fact, as he pushed his way through the crowd, Makana found himself largely ignored. Doctor Medina was at the centre of the tumult and appeared to be working on a patient. When he saw Makana he threw up his hands in exasperation.

  ‘I need room to work here! Get them out, all of them.’

  Sadig hustled the men in the direction of the door. He seized Makana by the arm.

  ‘I’ll deal with you later.’

  ‘Leave him alone.’ Doctor Medina tugged Makana firmly into the clinc and shut the door behind him, taking care to lock it. ‘You shouldn’t have come back so soon.’

  ‘I’m not very good at hiding. What happened here?’

  At the centre of the room, laid out on the examination table, was Wad Nubawi. He was unconscious and bleeding from an open wound in his neck. His shirt was clotted with blood.

  ‘Half a centimetre to the right and he would have sliced through the carotid artery.’

  ‘How did it happen?’ Makana asked.

  ‘Nobody seems to know.’ Doctor Medina mumbled as he leaned over to tie off a thread he had just used to sew up Wad Nubawi’s chest. Aside from the wound to the neck there were three cuts to his upper body. There were also lacerations on both hands and forearms.

  ‘What does that look like to you?’ Doctor Medina asked.

  ‘He was involved in a fight?’

  ‘Exactly.’ The doctor lifted one of Wad Nubawi’s hands and turned it over. ‘He was trying to fend off an attacker armed with a knife. A short blade, very sharp.’

  ‘Like a scalpel?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Where did this happen?’

  ‘In his supermarket. He’s lucky he didn’t bleed to death. Apparently they were out looking for you when they found him.’

  ‘I’m honoured.’ While the doctor was cleaning up the mess in the clinic, Makana went out to talk to the men who were ranged around the waiting room.

  ‘How is he?’ one asked.

  ‘It’s too early to say,’ Makana replied. ‘The doctor has finished sewing him up but he’s asleep for now. Who found him?’

  ‘Who put you in charge of this?’ Sadig asked. He was standing by the entrance, smoking a cigarette which he now dropped to the ground before stepping inside. The screen door slapped closed behind him.

  ‘Where’s Sergeant Hamama?’

  ‘He’s busy talking to his superiors about his promotion. That’s about all he cares about these days.’

  There were a few sniggers around the room. Makana wondered if Sadig was making his own bid for promotion.

  ‘Because I don’t see anyone else asking questions,’ said Makana.

  ‘Let him ask,’ said the first one. ‘He might help us to find the person who did this.’

  Sadig stared sullenly for a moment and then nodded his consent.

  ‘Who found him?’ repeated Makana, looking around the group.

  ‘I did,’ said a short man with a large mole on his cheek. ‘I came to do a delivery. The door was open so I walked in. I saw a trail of blood leading through to the back room. There�
�s another door there that leads into the street behind the supermarket. I followed it out and there he was, lying on the ground.’

  ‘You didn’t see anyone? Nobody at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you probably saved his life. The killer heard you and ran away.’

  Sadig said, ‘Is that it? Is that all you can tell us? Maybe I have a question.’

  ‘All right,’ said Makana. ‘Let’s hear it.’

  ‘Where were you when he was attacked?’

  ‘Why would I want to kill Wad Nubawi?’ asked Makana.

  Sadig began to pace around the room, circling Makana. ‘Who knows what sick thoughts go through your head. All I know is that ever since you arrived here people have been dying.’

  ‘People began dying long before I arrived.’

  Sadig swivelled to face Makana. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’re the policeman, you work it out.’

  There was some laughter, some shifting of weight around the group.

  ‘Why did you come here?’

  ‘We’ve been through all that.’

  ‘No, I mean why are you really here? Are you with State Security?’

  ‘Is that what you’re worried about?’ Makana glanced at the men gathered around them. ‘Are you afraid State Security is going to come here and start asking questions?’

  ‘We do things our own way around here. We take care of things our way.’

  ‘Sure, like Rashida and Captain Mustafa.’

  ‘Captain Mustafa had a bad accident. A faulty fuel line. The car just . . . exploded.’ Sadig snapped his fingers. ‘You see that’s the thing about police work, and you ought to know this.’ Sadig smiled. ‘You need evidence. And what you don’t have, my friend, is evidence.’ He jabbed Makana in the chest with his forefinger. ‘You’re a long way from home, and bad things happen to people sometimes when they are far from home. You should be very careful.’ Then Sadig turned around and signalled his men.

  As they filed out past him behind their leader, Makana had the sense that he was watching a master perform an act of sleight of hand. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was happening right in front of him. He watched the men walk out and hop up into the pickup. As it bounced away he recalled the shovels and the rolled-up canvas he had seen in the back. A tarpaulin big enough to hide a girl’s body in.

  Back inside the clinic, Doctor Medina had finished his work and was sitting on a battered wooden stool smoking. His face was slick with sweat and he was staring vacantly. Wad Nubawi seemed to be sleeping peacefully. The doctor looked up when Makana came in.

  ‘He’s a monster,’ he murmured quietly. ‘They all are. Brutes who use force to take what they want. The world is full of people like him.’

  ‘He’d be dead now if not for you.’

  Doctor Medina stirred at that, getting to his feet. ‘I’ve been saving them all for years. Patching them up so they can go out and hurt more people.’ Throwing out a hand, the doctor swept the counter clear, sending glasses, flasks, metal trays and bloody dressings, test tubes, vials, all flying. They crashed into splinters and spun around the floor. The doctor bowed over. ‘I’ve never had the courage to stand up to them.’

  ‘They wouldn’t hesitate to kill you, then or now. You know that.’

  ‘Well, at least I would have died with some remnant of dignity.’

  Doctor Medina peered down at his patient. ‘He has a family, you know. A wife who has stood by him for thirty years and about five children. He’s a local hero, like the warlords of old. He has his own army of helpers, mostly young men who are tired of tilling fields and harvesting dates. They look at the world out there on their television sets and wonder why they don’t have that kind of life instead of this.’

  ‘And he gives them what?’

  ‘He gives them more money than they could dream of, and refrigerators and televisions, and expensive toys for their children. All of it comes out of that great sea of sand out there. He’s the grand magician, the sorcerer, the genie in the lamp. He conjures it all up out of nothing.’

  ‘The killer was surprised by the delivery man.’ Makana lit a cigarette. ‘Did you check his blood for any signs of a sedative?’

  ‘You think that’s possible?’

  ‘Supposing he didn’t consume enough of whatever it was put in to. Enough to make him a little groggy but not enough to knock him out. He’s a tough man.’

  Doctor Medina nodded. ‘That would explain the cuts. He was still alert enough to try and fight off his attacker, and then the man with the delivery arrived. I’ll take a blood sample.’ As he drew the blood into a syringe, the doctor stopped.

  ‘What is it?’ Makana asked.

  ‘Why am I trying to help him?’ Doctor Medina set down the syringe. He gazed down at Wad Nubawi, the gentle rising and falling of his chest. His hand reached out and picked up a pair of sharp scissors lying on the counter. Makana put out a hand to grasp his wrist.

  ‘Maybe it’s time for a break, Doctor?’

  Doctor Medina stared at him and then, very slowly, he released his grip on the scissors. They clattered to the floor as he stepped back from the examination table. Then he began to laugh. It started out as a kind of cough deep down in his throat, but it went on, gathering intensity. Wiping tears from his eyes, he staggered sideways. Makana watched him lean over and pull open the refrigerator to extract the flask containing the clear spirit set among ampoules and tubes, vaccines and syringes. He located a grimy glass that was still intact, filled it to the rim and drank greedily.

  ‘What would be the point, anyway? I mean, me? When have I not made things worse?’

  ‘Maybe you should take it easy with the drink. Sadig and his men will be back in a while.’

  ‘So what?’ Doctor Medina poured another liberal dose into his glass. ‘What would be the point of ending his life? Would that bring her back? No, of course not. And as for guilt, well, I might as well take my own life.’ He raised his glass in salute before draining it.

  ‘You’re not making much sense, Doctor.’

  The doctor’s eyes were bloodshot and weary. ‘I feel so tired. All of this . . .’ He swayed for a moment and looked as though he might fall to the ground.

  ‘Maybe you should sit down.’

  As Doctor Medina sank down onto the stool he shot Makana a wary look.

  ‘You’re a sly one, you know. You don’t appear that way at first, but you are. Always there, one step ahead.’ He poured himself another drink. ‘Do you never give up and go home? Maybe you don’t have a home to go to. Is that it? You’re like me, lost in this ridiculous mess we try to make sense of. I was a doctor. You understand? I believed in what I did, but look at me now . . .’ He rolled his hand at their surroundings. ‘I’m an actor in a play who no longer believes his own lines.’ He held up his glass to examine the cool, clear liquid in the light. ‘I need to keep a clear head,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Those animals will be back and they will rip me limb from limb if they think I’m drunk.’

  ‘He’s back, isn’t he?’ Makana said quietly. ‘Musab.’

  Without looking up, Doctor Medina nodded his head. He was staring at his glass. ‘He came to see me today while you were . . .’ He waved a hand absently at the outside world, then he raised his eyes. ‘You knew that already.’

  ‘I thought he would be busy running for the border.’

  ‘He doesn’t need to.’ The spirit vanished down Doctor Medina’s throat in one gulp leaving him staring at the empty glass wondering what had happened to it. ‘He’s made a deal.’

  ‘With State Security?’ The image of Sharqi and his men camped out on Jebel Mawtah resurfaced in Makana’s mind.

  ‘I suppose so. They agreed to let him have his old life back.’

  ‘In return for what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The doctor shrugged his shoulders and licked his lips. ‘He’s come back for what belongs to him. He still thinks he should be ruling t
his part of the country like some emperor of old, like Alexander.’

  A tremor went through Wad Nubawi’s body, as though he was shuddering at what the doctor had just said. To explain the presence of Sharqi and his men would have to mean that State Security had allowed Musab to escape. But why? What was the purpose of bringing him back here?

  ‘If Musab did this, why the Qadi? Why Ayman?’

  The doctor didn’t seem to hear. He was busy measuring out another glassful with all the care of a man handling nitroglycerin. ‘He knows all about you,’ he said, never taking his eyes off his task. ‘Everything. Where you come from, what you are doing here. He knows things about your past.’

  ‘How could he know that?’ Makana was mystified. It had to be connected to Sharqi.

  ‘He’s older, and heavier than he was, but he’s just the same as always. People like Musab know that the rest of us are weak because we have a conscience to struggle with. We think we can rise above being mere beasts, but we are wrong and he knows we are wrong. We’re all capable of evil,’ growled the doctor, spittle hanging from his lower lip. He seemed to be reaching the point of no return. The little round flask was emptied as he drained the last drop into his glass.

  ‘I have more upstairs.’ A wave of weariness passed over him and he leaned his head against the high cupboard in front of him. Then he turned and lurched from the room. Makana, with a brief backward glance at the still unconscious Wad Nubawi, followed. When he got up to the apartment the doctor was nowhere to be seen. A sound brought Makana’s attention round to the kitchen doorway, where Doctor Medina was leaning. In his left hand he carried an automatic pistol which he levelled at Makana.

  ‘Why did you have to come back?’

  ‘My work here isn’t over yet.’