The Face in the Cemetery

by Michael Pearce

  He inched his way deeper into the cane, away from the track. The problem, oddly, was not so much now the density of the undergrowth as the dust on the leaves, which rose up and threatened to choke him. Several times he had to stop because he thought he was going to gasp and they would hear him.

  Once, they fired and he froze. But the bullet was nowhere near him and he realized that they didn’t really know where he was, they were just firing at some false disturbance in the cane or else at random.

  Lying there, deep beneath the cane, he could not tell how dark it was. It seemed to be getting darker, though.

  There were one or two more shots, but these were certainly at random.

  His hands closed on a large stone and he pulled it towards him. It was not much but better than nothing.

  And now it definitely was darker. They would not be coming into the sugar cane to look for him now.

  He stretched out and tried to make himself comfortable, listening for any noise. But there was no noise now, not even from the insects. There was just the fidgeting of the night crickets.

  Later the moon came out and for a few moments he was alarmed because it was so bright that surely they would be able to see him.

  But then the light faded and gradually the darkness changed and became the remote greyness of before dawn. He lay on, lay until it was grey no longer but bright sun, which he could see in speckles beneath the cane and which slanted through the leaves towards him. Only then did he begin to wriggle back towards the track.

  He had decided that what he would do was to get as close to the track as he could and then lie there, still under cover, until he heard the searchers coming along.

  It took him a surprisingly long time to get back to the track. He must have crawled further than he had supposed. At last, however, he could see the bright sunlight ahead of him. He lay and listened. He could hear nothing; no sound either of searchers or of brigands. He lay on, lay until he was sure that the sun was almost directly overhead. Then he wriggled forward.

  He looked along the track in both directions. It was empty. He pushed his head and shoulder cautiously out into the sunlight.

  And then there was a crack, and a stalk just ahead of him, on the opposite side of the track, jumped and he heard the bullet winging on into the undergrowth.

  He pulled his head back into the sugar cane. Almost at once there was another shot and this time it hit the cane directly above him. Another shot went into the cane a yard or two away from him, and then another.

  He wriggled back quickly, going deeper and yet deeper. More shots came, but they were not close.

  They knew where he was though. They knew, too, that he didn’t have a gun. This time they would follow him in.

  He could hear them now on the track. There was no longer any need for concealment. They fired again.

  And then they were joined by another gun, from further along the track. It took him a moment to realize. It couldn’t be firing at him. It was firing at them.

  ***

  The men on the track near him began to fire back. Whoever it was along the track replied. In a moment a brisk exchange of shots was going on.

  Owen was so relieved help had arrived that for quite some while he just lay there thankfully listening to the shooting.

  Then he began to feel puzzled. There seemed to be just one gun further along the track. Whoever his friend was, he was on his own.

  He felt worried. One man against two. And probably a man much less experienced at this kind of thing than the brigands were.

  If only he had a gun!

  But if he didn’t have a gun, at least he had the experience. He began to worm his way through the undergrowth towards the solitary gunner.

  The shots continued, in more desultory fashion now. But at least no one was doing what he was doing. Both sides seemed content to maintain their distance.

  The occasional shots gave him a direction and even a rough indication of distance. It couldn’t be far. They were firing by sight along the track, and the track, although straight, was not that clear.

  He worked his way until he was parallel to the track, as far as he could judge at right angles to his ally. Then he struck in, cautiously. He didn’t want to be shot by his own side.

  When he got to as close as fifteen or twenty yards from the track he stopped, huddled tight to the ground, and then called, softly.

  There was a silence.

  He called again.

  No one answered. He waited and called again, but still there was no reply.

  ‘Owen,’ he said. ‘The Mamur Zapt! Effendi!’

  Nothing.

  He decided to risk it.

  ‘I’m coming forward,’ he called, and then began to wriggle towards the track, keeping as tight to the ground as he could. Why the hell didn’t they answer?

  ‘Effendi!’ he said again. ‘Friend!’

  A little way in front of him he heard something stir.

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ he said urgently. ‘I’m on your side!’

  Then he worked his way forward, no longer trying to keep himself hidden.

  He could see something, someone, lying close to the ground among the sugar cane roots.

  ‘Come forward!’ a voice said.

  He stopped in his tracks.

  It was a girl’s voice.

  Then he heaved himself forward.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he said.

  It was the girl ghaffir.

  ***

  ‘I saw you go,’ she said, ‘and I saw the donkey come back. The omda has sent to the sugar factory for help. But I thought I wouldn’t wait. Haven’t I a gun? I thought you might need me.’

  ‘Never more have I needed anyone! Listen, there are two men.’

  ‘I know. I saw them.’

  ‘They are dangerous. We must take care. It is hard for one gun to fight against two.’

  ‘That is what I thought,’ said the girl. ‘And therefore I hid in the cane and waited for them to show themselves, so that I could be sure I would kill them.’

  ‘That was wise. But perhaps it is also wisest, it being one gun against two, not to try to kill them unless one has to, but to wait for aid to arrive.’

  The girl considered. Her thumb went to her mouth.

  She took it out again.

  ‘The trouble is,’ she said, ‘that I think they advance. The last shots came from closer.’

  ‘Then in that case we must make ready. How many bullets have you?’

  ‘Two,’ she said, showing him.

  ‘Two!’

  ‘One each,’ she said.

  ‘Enough, but only if one can be sure of hitting.’

  ‘That is why I hide and wait.’

  Owen took a deep breath.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Na’ima.’

  ‘Look, Na’ima, you are a mighty warrior and have fought like a true soldier. But I have fought for more years than you and know these guns as I know the back of my own hand. I think that, although you are sure of shot, I would be surer. Would you let me take the gun?’

  The girl’s thumb went back to her mouth. She considered for a long time. Then she took it out of her mouth again.

  ‘All right,’ she said reluctantly.

  ‘Bless you, Na’ima!’

  Where she lay was a good natural position and he saw no reason to change it. They lay there and waited.

  For a long time nothing happened. The insects buzzed about their heads. The heat, in the dense undergrowth, was terrific. He had to keep wiping the sweat from his forehead. He didn’t want it in his eyes just at the crucial moment.

  Na’ima lay cheek to the ground, looking along the track.

  She touched Owen on the arm and pointed.

  He saw the movement t
oo. It was on the opposite side of the track about twenty yards away.

  They watched, and a few moments later it was repeated, this time five yards closer.

  Another few moments, and another five yards, and this time he could see the man clearly. But where was the other man?

  He showed Na’ima one finger and then put up two. She nodded, and then wriggled a little way away to get a different view.

  Then things happened quickly. The man on the opposite side of the track appeared again, only now much closer, a bare five or six yards away, and this time, as he peered into the sugar cane, their eyes met.

  Owen fired first.

  The man fell, but then Na’ima screamed, and Owen, turning, saw the other man on their own side of the track. He fired and missed. The man’s gun steadied.

  And then a long, thin, black arm reached out from the cane behind him and pulled his head back, and another hand, holding a knife, came up and expertly cut his throat.

  Chapter Seventeen

  She was tall, very tall for a woman, over six feet, and quite black. Her face was long and her hair curly and clipped short. She wore only a loin cloth about her middle.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ asked Owen.

  She stood there considering him. The flies were already buzzing around the man at her feet.

  ‘I know you,’ she said at last. ‘You were there that day, that day when they raised her body. I saw you. I saw your face. It was like stone. They said you had come from the city to hunt them down, and I said, yes, I want a man like that, with a face of stone. But then you went away again and nothing happened for a long time. Then that other man came down, and they said that you were two dogs that hunt together, and I was glad, for I knew then that you had not forgotten my friend.’

  ‘I had not forgotten her. I was following a trail in the big city.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I thought that might be so. For she came from the big city and it was reasonable to suppose there might be a trail there.’

  ‘It is strange that she, coming from the big city, and you, a woman of the sugar cane, could be friends.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘We were women together,’ she said.

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘Through her man. I was bidden to go to him and while I waited outside I saw her. She had little cats in her hands and was feeding them. And I went up to her and spoke to her, for I could see she would do no harm. And she did not, and spoke to me kindly. And after that I looked for her every time I came. And she for me, I think.’

  ‘She was lonely; as perhaps were you.’

  ‘We had both been cast out; she from her people, I from mine. She told me her story and I told her mine. We wept for each other. And yet our stories were not the same, for her man loved her.

  ‘However,’ she said, ‘he did not love her as I loved her. To him, the little cats were nothing, but to me they spoke of gentleness. And I needed gentleness. I needed to believe again that there was gentleness in the world. Shall I tell you what a life is like without gentleness? It is like my life. I would not wish such a life on anyone.

  ‘And yet it is not the worst life. The worst life is when they take everything from you and laugh. For then you know that it is no good being gentle, but that you have to be fierce, as fierce as they—no, fiercer. So I was fierce and I am glad of it. Afterwards, I fled, for there is no living with a people once such a thing has happened. I am not sorry; yet I knew that something was missing, and when I saw her, with the little cats, I knew what it was.’

  ‘She meant much to you.’

  ‘She was like the sun, which warms everything; or, since the sun here is unfriendly, like the moon, which shines even in a dark night.’

  ‘It is right that you should mourn for her.’

  ‘It is right,’ she said, ‘that I should take vengeance.’

  ‘But do you know who it is on whom you should take vengeance?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Owen, ‘what it is that you know.’

  ***

  ‘One night,’ she said, ‘I was making my way home from the village. It was late and all were sleeping. I thought suddenly that I would like to see my friend. Not to speak with her, just to see her. And I went to her window and looked in. It was dark and I could see nothing, but that did not matter. It is easy for me to enter through windows and I thought I would climb in and look at her while she slept and then go.

  ‘Then I saw that there was a lamp lit in another room and I thought: “Perhaps she is there.” But it was only the old woman, the mother. And I turned to go.

  ‘But as I turned, I thought: “What is it that she is doing?” And I looked again. She was holding something white, and I thought at first that it was swaddling clothes, but then I saw that it was bandages, many of them. They lay all over the room.

  ‘Well, I thought no more of it at the time. I decided not to go and see my friend after all but to continue on my way. It was only later, when I heard about my friend, and went down to the Place of the Cats to see her, that I remembered the bandages. For I knew at once that they had been meant for her.

  ‘Still I was puzzled. For I did not yet know who it was I had to kill. Was it just the old woman? Or did others have a hand in this? And then the other man came, your friend, and then you, and I knew that you would find out. And so I waited.’

  She looked at Owen.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘you must tell me. I saved your life. You owe me a blood debt and must repay it. Tell me who killed my friend.’

  ***

  For some time he had been aware of the truck coming. Now it came into sight. In it were Mahmoud, Schneider, the omda of the nearest village and several sturdy but apprehensive villagers.

  Mahmoud jumped down. His eye took in the two bodies lying on the track.

  ‘This one I can understand,’ he said, looking at the man Owen had shot. ‘But this one?’

  ‘Some help from a friend,’ said Owen, nodding towards the Cat Woman.

  Mahmoud went up to her.

  ‘I have been looking for you,’ he said. ‘There are things I would ask you.’

  ‘I will tell you what you want,’ she said. ‘But, remember, you must also tell me. Your friend is bound by a blood debt; and, since you are his friend, you, too, are bound. I have required him to tell.’

  Mahmoud nodded.

  ‘What is it that you have required him to tell?’

  ‘Who killed her.’

  ‘That you may take vengeance?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We are bound, and will tell,’ said Mahmoud. ‘But you will not take vengeance. That is for us.’

  The Cat Woman was silent.

  ‘She has an interesting thing to tell,’ said Owen. He told Mahmoud about the bandages.

  Mahmoud nodded. He did not seem surprised.

  ‘I think it best if you come with us,’ he said to the Cat Woman. ‘You were her friend and it is right that you should hear.’

  They all climbed up into the back of the truck. The villagers meanwhile had thrown the bodies in.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ said Owen. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘The omda sent a message,’ said Mahmoud. ‘When your donkey came back without you.’

  They stopped at the village to let the omda and the villagers get down.

  The girl ghaffir got down with them.

  ‘You will be looking for a new ghaffir,’ said Owen. ‘May I recommend this one? As a fighter, she has no equal.’

  ‘And I can scare away the crows,’ said the girl, taking her thumb out of her mouth.

  Owen saw that she now had two guns slung over her shoulders.

  He left it at that.

  ***

  Schneider was driving and Owen and Mahmoud were in the cab
with him.

  ‘Yes,’ said Schneider, ‘of course I knew about the brigands. But they didn’t interfere with me so I didn’t interfere with them. In this job you’ve got to live and let live.’

  ‘Did you know about Hanafi’s contacts with them?’ asked Mahmoud.

  ‘I guessed. But I didn’t inquire too closely. It was between him and the mudir.’

  ‘You should have done something,’ said Mahmoud.

  ‘What? Go to the authorities? The mudir was the authorities.’

  Schneider stared out through the windscreen.

  ‘You’ve got to make accommodations,’ he said.

  ‘With the mudir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The brigands, too?’

  ‘A bit. Money, mostly. On the whole, they left us alone. It was the villagers that they were interested in.’

  ‘They paid protection money?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You should have done something,’ Mahmoud said again.

  ‘What could I do? They’d got the whole area stitched up. They and the mudir between them. There wasn’t anything anyone could do. The brigands controlled the whole district. They put in the ghaffirs, of course. Every one. It was their way of controlling the villages. As time went by, that didn’t matter so much. They grew careless, put in anyone. Even a girl.’

  ‘And the guns?’

  ‘The guns were for them. The brigands. They could pay for them. In fact, two hundred was more than they needed, so they gave them to their ghaffirs as well. That made it look as if they fitted in with the general policy.’

  ‘Who did they pay?’ asked Owen.

  ‘The mudir. And whoever was in it with him. It was the kind of thing he did.’

  He looked at Owen.

  ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘Fricker was right. The brigands were an army and you needed another army to root it out.’

  ‘There’ll be another army,’ promised Owen. ‘Only it won’t be a ghaffir one.’

  ***

  When they got back to the sugar factory, Mahmoud asked if he could speak to Hanafi. He came out to them in the yard, looking nervously up at the bodies in the back of the truck. Schneider had asked Mahmoud if he wanted anything done with them, but Mahmoud said no, he would be taking them into Minya very shortly; that is, if Schneider could spare the truck just once more and find a driver. Schneider said he would drive them himself and then hung around until Mahmoud made it courteously clear that he wished to speak with Hanafi alone.