by Anna Smith
‘Morning, Rosie. You’re looking chilled.’ Omar quipped as he folded a piece of flat bread filled with vegetables.
‘Yeah, but below this steely exterior is a woman who’s basically shitting her pants about the day ahead.’ That was the truth, but it sounded better if she made light of it. It wouldn’t do to wimp out in this kind of company.
Ismal gave her a sympathetic smile.
‘Don’t worry too much. It should be fine.’ He motioned for Rosie to sit. ‘We’re on, by the way. I’ve had a phone call this morning, so we have a definite plan. Sit and we can discuss it.’ He looked up at Asima as she put fresh flatbread on the table. ‘And you must taste my Asima’s wonderful breakfast vegetables and bread. She spoils me with her cooking.’
Matt came shuffling in, his blond hair messed up.
‘Hey, Matt. You look wrecked, man. Your hair’s like a burst couch. Did you hit the night club last night?’ Omar said.
‘Oh yeah. Just got home.’ He sniffed and plonked himself onto a chair. ‘Couldn’t sleep a wink. So bloody hot.’
‘Have some coffee and breakfast, then we’ll be on our way. It’s going to be a stormer of a day,’ Omar said.
Rosie followed Omar’s example and spooned some vegetables onto the flat bread and folded it. She bit into it.
‘This is wonderful, Asima. Thanks,’ she said, then looked at Ismal. ‘But I might need to wear a bin liner, eating this kind of stuff for breakfast. There’s not exactly a loo on every corner.’
‘There is,’ Omar grinned. ‘It’s called the side of the road.’
‘Cheers for that, Omar. I might just overdose on the Imodium before we leave.’ Rosie smiled and swallowed a mouthful of coffee. What the heck, just bung everything up with medication and worry about your guts when you get home.
*
An hour later they were packing everything into the 4x4, the guard standing by the car drinking coffee, greeting them with what passed for a nod. They piled into the vehicle. Ismal had told them the plan was to go to the market place and walk around like travellers, shopping and buying some trinkets and vegetables. He’d been told that Laila would be taken there by a relative, and they were going to try to make contact with her, to pass the information on for the escape plan later in the day. It sounded good around the table, but Rosie was jittery as the car wound its way out of the narrow track from Ismal and Asima’s cabin and on to the road towards the village. Asima was staying at home, preparing the plans for later.
Ismal pulled the car up on a layby at the side of the road, then shifted so he could see Rosie and Matt in the back seat. She looked out at the crowded market nearby.
‘Okay, guys. As you can see, the bazaar is heaving with people buying and selling all sorts of stuff. It’s always mobbed at this time of the day, which is good for us, as we’ll just be in there browsing or buying a few things, melting into the crowd. It can be quite a suffocating atmosphere in this place, so we need to stick together at all times, okay? Don’t go wandering off on your own.’
Fat chance of wandering, Rosie thought, as she and Matt exchanged glances. Her eyes scanned the bazaar, instinctively looking for an escape route. But there were only two endless rows of shacks and huts that made up the village main street, and tiny alleys leading off them to the foothills surrounding the village.
Ismal drank from a plastic bottle of water and wiped beads of sweat from his top lip.
‘Hopefully, Laila will turn up in the market quite soon. The woman she is with knows me by sight. She’s a friend of Asima, so she knows what we’re doing, and she’s on our side. When I spot her and Laila, I’ll give you a signal.’ He turned to Rosie. ‘Rosie. Have you got a good enough relationship with her to let her know it’s you underneath all that garb?’
Rosie nodded.
‘I think so. It was Laila who was the most outspoken when I talked to her and her cousin, Sabiha. I think she’s the one who’s driving this, and it was she who urged Sabiha to talk to me. So I’m okay with approaching her. As long as she’s not too shocked or does anything that might attract attention.’
‘She won’t be. The note I will slip to her will tell her you’re here, and that she must stay calm. You alright with that?’
‘Sure,’ Rosie said. She swallowed a ball of dryness and rummaged through her rucksack for some water. Sweat trickled down the back of her legs. She pinched her lips together to stop the little tremor that would give away how terrified she was.
‘Right. Let’s do this,’ Ismal said.
Rosie pulled her headscarf tight over her mouth so that all that was showing were her dark glasses. Apparently some tourists and travellers still ventured this far into the valley, and Rosie scanned the crowd in the hope she could see any others. But there was nothing but a sea of burkas and men with pashtun caps, or the dreaded black turbans.
‘Watch out for the guys with black turbans. They’re Taliban,’ Ismal said. ‘Some of them are just parading around looking for a reason to arrest someone. They’ll all be carrying Kalashnikovs. Whatever you do, don’t make eye contact or engage them in any way.’ He turned to Matt. ‘And it goes without saying – no pictures, Matt.’
Matt slung his rucksack over his shoulder and nodded. He and Rosie had decided late last night to take a risk and rig him up with a secret video camera. Ismal had said that although tourists did come here and take the odd picture, it could complicate things. You couldn’t just take a snap of a Muslim in the street as if you were on a jaunt to the Greek islands. You had to ask permission, and in this tense climate it wasn’t a good idea to draw attention to themselves. But Matt had pleaded with Rosie that he needed a record of where they were for the full story, and she realised that as much as he did. Eventually, she agreed. Discretion, as he’d kept telling her over the years, was his middle name.
They walked together towards the bazaar, Ismal pointing things out as though they were visitors. They kept close to each other.
‘Is the camera working?’ Rosie murmured to Matt.
‘It was when I got out of the car,’ he whispered.
They strolled past stalls with garishly embroidered shawls and table covers, and others with wood carvings and hand-made jewellery. Rosie looked around the busy little streets off the market area where there were shacks and workshops, and wondered if these were also people’s homes or if they lived further out in the country.
‘I see my friend,’ Ismal said suddenly. ‘Follow me, slowly.’
Rosie peered through the crowd at the woman and girl browsing at the jewellery stall. The girl was trying on some bracelets. She was covered from head to toe, and only her eyes and nose were showing. Rosie couldn’t be sure, but once they got a little closer, the lady spotted Ismal and turned around, nodding discreetly. Ismal approached very carefully and nudged the girl, who turned, a little startled. Rosie barely saw him hand her the note and watched as she glanced at the woman, who nodded her approval. It was hard to see if she was confused. But she opened the small palm-sized piece of paper in her hand, and suddenly she stood rigid, her eyes anxiously scanning the crowd. Rosie watched her, moved a little closer, and then the girl turned and she saw a flash of recognition in her frightened eyes, the shadows even darker than now than when she’d seen her in the park. Rosie reached out a hand and squeezed her arm. She didn’t dare speak, but only nodded. Laila nodded back, her soft brown eyes full of hope and relief. Then she turned to the woman who was with her, and went back to browsing the jewellery. A wave of sadness choked Rosie at the sight of this Glasgow kid in the midst of all this land that was alien to her, a prisoner in the bloody mountains, so far from home and all she knew.
Then, suddenly, all hell broke loose. Rapid gunfire – three or four shots – echoed around the bazaar and everyone stopped in their tracks. It was all happening in a blur. The roar of a motorbike racing down the dirt track in the middle of the bazaar sent people stumbling into stalls out of the way. It was being chased by another motorbike, with a man with a black turba
n on it, shooting wildly. People dived to the ground as another motorbike raced through, knocking everything flying. Some people scurried up side streets. Rosie jumped out of the way of a motorbike heading straight at her, and it clipped a stall as it passed, which collapsed on top of her. In the mayhem she tried to scramble from beneath pots and pans and bits of tin sheeting piled on top of her. When she sat up, people climbed all over her and rushed up a side street. Where was Ismal? Matt? Where the Christ were they? Her scarf had come off and she hurriedly pulled it back on, covering her face. She moved over and crouched, but spotted a man across the street looking straight at her. She pulled herself to her knees, then got to her feet. As she steadied herself, dizzy with panic, she was swept along by the wave of the crowd until she was suddenly up an alleyway, away from the bazaar. She tried to catch her breath, pushing past people to head back to the bazaar. But they were shouting and pushing her, and still the sound of gunfire echoed in the distance. Everyone seemed to be going in the opposite direction. Then towards the middle of the alley, people dispersed into tighter dirt roads that forked off into a warren of shacks. She was in the heart of the village, and terror swept through her. She staggered around, trying to find a way out, stumbling towards what looked like the end of the road, praying it would lead her back. But when she reached the end, there was a crowd of men all frantically shouting at each other. She stumbled into a busy cafe. Suddenly, all the men turned to her and began shouting angrily. Wherever the hell she was, she was the only woman, and clearly shouldn’t be here. They surrounded her, and began pushing and shoving. She had to get out of here. She had to run. She turned to try to move, when suddenly a hand grabbed her by the hair, and an irate voice shouted in her ear. Then she was being dragged into a side alley towards a shack, a door was pushed open and she was thrown inside. She stumbled and fell onto the dirt in the darkness, tasting earth in her mouth. She was afraid to turn and look up. When she did, there was a woman standing over her and two children with dark, haunted looks on their faces. The small girl smiled, with perfect white teeth, and poked at Rosie’s bare arm, which had become uncovered in the struggle. The other child poked and scraped at her white arms, and they both giggled. The woman shouted something at them, and they stopped. Rosie looked up at her, and the woman looked back, unblinking. Rosie swallowed and sniffed, trying to hold back the tears. Then the door burst open, and two men in black turbans came in. Her heart thumped like a drum against her ribs.
Chapter Eighteen
Rosie could smell the acrid sweat from the Taliban soldier as he circled her, leaning close, prodding her with the butt of his rifle. She shifted her position so her back was to the wall of the small, musty room. The children weren’t smiling any more, and the woman busied herself at the far side of the room with her back turned. The soldier came close to Rosie again, and her body jerked as he barked something into her face. She shook her head, raising her hands submissively. Make a gesture, she told herself, any gesture, that will make this bullying bastard understand she was lost and terrified, and no threat to him. He fixed her with dark eyes full of anger and contempt. She looked away, choking back the whimper rising in her throat. Don’t, she told herself. Man up. Not one word of bloody Urdu did she have to communicate. Nothing.
‘Ismal!’ she finally managed to whisper. ‘Doctor!’
She gestured, with hands on her chest that she was with Ismal, hoping they would know him, but it didn’t seem to register with him as he stared through her.
‘Ismal,’ she repeated. ‘Doctor.’ Then, the name of the border refugee camp suddenly flashed into her mind. ‘Dangam! Ismal. Me . . .’
Nothing. Then, behind him, the man who had dragged her into the house suddenly spoke. She thought she caught the name Asima, but she was too afraid to risk speaking. The rage seemed to slip from the Taliban’s face and he immediately turned and left the room.
Rosie broke down, covering her face with her hands. The children eyed her, bewildered, as their mother came over to her and put her finger to her lips.
‘Ssssh.’ She reached out and gently touched her arm. Then she crossed the room and brought back a small glass with what looked like tea in it. She handed it to Rosie and smiled.
Rosie gratefully sipped the warm, sweet mint tea.
‘Asima,’ the woman whispered.
‘Asima?’ Rosie said, hopefully. ‘She’s your friend.’ She wished she had a gesture for friend.
The woman nodded.
Then she pulled up a small wooden stool and beckoned Rosie over to sit. She brushed her finger on Rosie’s cheek, wiping away a tear, and Rosie struggled not to start blubbing again.
Rosie stiffened as she heard raised voices outside. The woman moved swiftly to the other side of the room, gathering the children around her. The door was thrown open and Rosie braced herself. To her relief, Ismal came in, behind two Taliban soldiers and two other men. He was speaking in Urdu all the time with an air of confidence and the men stood back as he looked at Rosie.
‘It’s okay.’
She suppressed the urge to throw her arms around him.
‘Thank Christ you’re here, Ismal. I thought . . . I thought . . . Jesus. I don’t know what I thought. I was terrified.’
‘I know. When all the crap happened at the bazaar, we looked around and you were gone.’
‘A stall fell on top of me – pots and pans. When I got up, there was nobody there. And then I got swept away in the deluge of people.’
Ismal smiled.
‘Don’t worry. It’s all okay now. The problem is, I’m told you wandered around on your own and went into one of their cafes. That’s just about a hanging offence here, a woman walking into a place full of men. You’re not in Byres Road now, pal.’
‘What would have happened if you hadn’t found me?’
Ismal shrugged.
‘Don’t know. Maybe nothing, maybe something bad. It depends on which headcase you come up against, and what he’s trying to prove to others. But put it this way, you don’t want to be at the mercy of these guys. Come on, let’s get out of here. The lads are in the car.’
He turned to the Taliban and shook all of their hands, totally ignoring the woman who was standing with her back to the stove. Rosie glanced over her shoulder, and the woman was still looking at her.
*
‘We heard you were getting stoned to death.’ Matt grinned as Rosie climbed into the back seat behind him. ‘In fact we were just finishing our lunch before going up to get a ringside seat.’
‘Yeah, very bloody funny, you.’ Rosie couldn’t help but smile. She was glad Matt hadn’t given her a sympathetic look or she might have completely lost it. ‘I was bloody terrified.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Where was I? Christ! I stumbled into some men’s afternoon domino session and got banjaxed by the Taliban.’ Rosie shook her head and rolled down the window. ‘Honestly, Matt, I thought I was a goner.’
He turned close to her, and peered at her face.
‘You’ve got dirt all over your face.’ He rubbed it with his thumb.
‘I fell, or rather I was thrown, into someone’s house. I’ll tell you about it later.’
‘Okay, guys, all safe and well. Let’s go.’ Ismal switched on the engine and headed down the hill.
Omar turned around to face Rosie, a big smile on his face.
‘I reckon, with the right negotiations, we could get good money marrying you off to some Taliban bloke. I mean, you’re white as a sheet – that’s got to count for something if they want to widen the gene pool up here.’
‘Yeah, right. Everyone’s a bloody comedian.’ Rosie smiled back at him, glad of the banter.
*
Over lunch back at the house, Ismal and Omar set out the plan for early evening, when they would pick up Laila, and, all being well, head for Islamabad.
‘I’m friends with a Scottish couple at the British Embassy in Islamabad,’ Ismal said. ‘I met them at one of these charity functions for th
e Afghan refugee camps. They’re good people – very much onside with our sentiments over forced marriages.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. We got on well and we’ve had dinner once. Asima told them about the work she does with the group she’s involved with to help young girls. I talked to them the day before you arrived, actually, and told them the situation. So, they’ve agreed to help.’
‘But what can they do?’
‘Well, once we leave here, we’re very much on the run until we get flights sorted for tomorrow.’ He glanced at Rosie. ‘Listen. I’m confident this is going to work. Once we get out of Swat, we just hammer it to Islamabad, so you should get your office to book you, Matt and Omar on a flight out of there tomorrow morning. I’ll sort out Laila’s flight – but not till the very last minute. We don’t want to alert anyone, especially if we get followed once we’ve picked her up.’
Rosie nodded slowly, a blur of images flashing through her mind of getting collared at the airport and flung into a jail cell.
‘So, how will the Scottish couple help?’
‘We stay with them tonight. Their house is on British Embassy grounds, so once we’re in there, nobody can touch us. And they have diplomatic plates on their car. So Gerry – that’s the husband – will drive us to the airport in the morning. That way, we go right through to security. Just a quick check of your bags – it makes things quicker and gets you off the main concourse of the airport. It’s how the diplomats travel.’
‘But how is, er, Gerry able to do this?’ Rosie asked, puzzled. ‘Will he have to tell people in the embassy to get the authority, or can he just go ahead and do it?’
Ismal shook his head.