by Ols Schaber
Rebwar lifted his torch. The man’s mad eyes stared into the bright light.
‘Quick, quick men, they’re coming. Coming.’ And he rushed towards a railing. Rebwar followed him. ‘Keep that weapon clean! I’ve got a heart, I can put it back.’
‘What’s your name?’ Rebwar looked for any signs that he had been a soldier. ‘Soldier! Rank and number?’
‘Corporal Jim Lance, Marine. First class. Three tours – and I have his heart.’
Rebwar had brought a little flask of brandy to keep warm, and he offered it to the man. He drank it to its end and his beard glistened with spit and alcohol.
‘Thanks, son. That did me good… that did me good. Cold night.’
‘Jim, you say you have a heart?’
‘It’s the Colonel. I know it is. Just need to find him to give it back to him. He must be missing it. Lost it he did. MIA he was, but… I know he lost it.’ Jim tapped his heart hard with his fist.
Rebwar put his torch back in his bag. He’d seen this before, men left to carry on fighting a war that had long been forgotten. Injured and scarred, Rebwar remembered his lost friends. ‘Were you here when a scooter crashed?’ He tried to look at the man’s eyes, trying to figure out if he was high on something.
‘Crashed. He died but I can now bring him back, I can. I can, listen, son.’ He grabbed Rebwar’s coat and laughed like he was shouting for someone to come over.
‘Where did you find it?’
‘No, not telling you, I need to find the Colonel.’
Rebwar pointed at the corner of the street. ‘The scooter came from there. Then he swerved, lost his balance and fell. That’s what happened. Were you there?’
‘No, no. He swerved and missed me.’
Rebwar found some sweets in his pockets and he offered him some. He took them and threw them on the floor.
‘No pills. No, no! I need to be clear to find him. It was a sign from him up there. Yeah, it was a delivery.’
‘I can help to find him. Show it to me. I can help you.’
Jim looked around like someone might have been observing him. He walked up to the corner where the accident happened. He looked around it like he was expecting to find something. He waved to Rebwar to follow him. They crossed the road into a forecourt that once served a hotel lobby. Now it had a closed pop-up cafe. Four wooden crates holding some dry-looking plants were dotted on the gravel. Jim went to the first one and dug into the soil. He brought out something wrapped in shiny foil. It was the size of a large burger. Holding it in his two hands his feet hopped with excitement.
‘I can feel it pumping, like it was delivered in that box.’
‘It was in a box?’
‘Where is the Colonel?’
‘I can give it to him. I can do that for you.’
‘Oh yes, you were there too, I can see that in you. Hell, those bodies, the smell and, and…’ He squinted and shook his head like something was rattling inside. ‘The sounds… sounds hard… painful.’
Rebwar took the package off him; he was reliving the moment.
‘I’ll take it to him, and all will be good. All good – you will see.’
Jim fell to his knees and his head slowly fell to the ground. He curled up in a foetal position.
Rebwar picked up the phone, dialled 999 and reported a mugging. Maybe the emergency services would take pity and give him a bed for the night.
Back in the car he took a deep breath before opening the foil. He was expecting something ugly. He ripped up a paper tissue and blocked his nose. This would at least stop him from throwing up. It was well wrapped in a couple of layers. As he got closer, clotted blood flaked off. It was something dark and meaty. He prodded the tissue, he had seen body parts before back in the sandy trenches. He just wasn’t sure if it was human or not.
Twenty-Nine
As Geraldine had said, the case had been passed on to another department, but Rebwar couldn’t let it go. This wasn’t going to turn into a cold case; unlike some of his old Iranian colleagues, he was as stubborn as a mule. Now he was working as a lone wolf. He was going to crack this case for them. Hoping that it would all end happily kept him sane. Who was he kidding? He contacted his old acquaintance from Iran again, Amin Gul, who he’d called when Musa had injured his arm. Gul was an eminent doctor who had left for greener pastures. All the well-to-do friends knew his wife; his lot were thieves and thugs, just like he had been in his boyhood. And these so-called respectable members of society knew which hole he had crawled out of. Even with what he had achieved, they didn’t always give respect. So he wanted to get this meeting over and done with.
Rebwar had picked his local, the Shishawi. Sitting upright at the back of the restaurant was Amin Gul. He had that sleek Persian look: hair finely combed, tailored suit, boyish good looks and prominent nose that got into everybody’s business – though Rebwar didn’t mind that too much if it generally helped his cause. He had been waiting as always with his cup of tea and smiled as Rebwar approached. The crowds were at the front of the restaurant, Rebwar had called in to ask for a quiet table.
‘So you’ve got something to show me.’ Always straight to the point, no chit-chat, that was Amin’s style.
‘Amin, my old friend! You want another tea?’ Rebwar took his coat off and in the motion scanned the restaurant for any unfamiliar faces. ‘Yes, I need a medical opinion.’ Rebwar gestured over to a waiter for more tea.
‘How’s the wife?’ Now came the nose-sticking. Amin leaned in further.
‘Ah, you know, she’s good – still not happy about being here.’
‘You need to find her a good life – to provide for her.’
‘Easier said than done, you know. I still don’t have a visa.’
Amin sipped his tea and his thick black eyebrows furled. ‘And this job?’
Rebwar opened his bag and brought it over for Amin to see inside. It was sealed in a heavy duty ziplock, Amin got his reading glasses out and looked in.
‘Some animal’s heart. Probably a pig.’ Amin sipped his tea.
‘Really? Are you sure? Have another look.’
‘It’s in a bit of a mess.’ Being the medic, Amin took the plastic bag and put it on the table. Rebwar thought he would at least have the decency to take it to the toilet to see it but, no, he was inspecting it in full view of everyone.
‘Do you need that cooked?’ said the waiter. ‘I love a good Del, is that from cow? Could try it.’ He placed the fresh tea next to the specimen. For a moment Rebwar thought Amin was going to correct him, but from his silence he knew what he had seen.
‘Hey, Turan, how’s the kids? Still playing football?’ Rebwar diverted the conversation.
‘Good, good. The older one scored five goals and then got sent off. I nearly hit the ref. Tell me if you want that Del.’
As soon as Turan’s back was turned, Amin turned his head and leaned in. ‘This is human. Where did you find it?’
Rebwar had all Amin’s full attention which didn’t come cheap. He finally had the killer’s motive. He had found the key that would unravel the puzzle. He felt relieved and he clicked his tongue. ‘It’s a long story, but that’s what I need to know. Brandy?’ Rebwar sipped some tea.
‘Hey, this is serious, not funny. I know you were a cop, but I guess someone is missing his heart.’
‘Tell me about organ donors. How does that work?’ Rebwar took another sip and relished the control of the conversation.
‘Simple. You die, they take your healthy organs out and give them to the sick. This one is a little too damaged to have been used. If you were hoping to… Is your heart OK? All those cigarettes aren’t helping.’
Rebwar could feel Amin’s eyes scanning his nicotine-stained fingers. ‘What about rich people? Can they buy replacement parts?’
Amin sat back and Rebwar took the evidence off the table and into his bag.
‘I have heard of some private hospitals out there but you still have to wait.’ Amin looked around, a bit concern
ed.
‘But there is a black market for this?’
Amin leaned in again. ‘Well, everything has a black market, but it’s not my field. What are you going to do with it?’
‘It’s evidence.’
‘Put it in a freezer. It’s going to look a lot worse if you don’t. You have to hand it in to the police, you know. It’s a criminal matter, not your little PI job of extra marital affairs or petty crime. This is serious.’ He looked around him. ‘Are you sure no one is watching us?’
Rebwar’s eyes drifted, Amin had reverted to his I know better. ‘What I would do is to go to that police station around the corner and tell them everything. All the details, every single one.’
Rebwar took a slow lingering sip of his tea, letting the flavours fill his mouth and nostrils.
‘And I would do it now. Right now, Rebwar, for the sake of the visa.’
‘Where would I find the black market?’
‘Did you hear what I said?’
Rebwar nodded.
‘OK, well, you do what you want. But remember I told you. Remember that when you’re inside that cell and I have to comfort Hourieh.’
For a moment Rebwar thought of what his wife would do; probably plead with Amin to run away with her back to Iran.
‘Have you heard of anyone getting a transplant, you know, some rich guy?’
‘No. Aren’t you listening to me? Look, you should be handing that in.’
Rebwar moved his bag away from the table. Amin was getting a little too excited and before Rebwar knew it, would be trying to escort him to the police station. Amin smiled at an old lady who had been watching them. She looked away. Amin turned to Rebwar. ‘On the subject of transplants,’ he said, ‘now that you mention it, my mother’s landlord…’
‘What about him?’ Rebwar put his hand up for another round of teas.
‘As you made me think about it, it’s a strange one. He’s a thief and pretends to be Jewish. A few months ago he was at death’s door. I thought he had days to live… his kidneys had given in. Only Allah could save him or whatever he calls God.’
‘Why do you say he’s a thief?’ Because of his past, Rebwar always tried to stick up for the under-privileged. If he could live his life again, he would have been a solicitor for the poor.
‘He stole my mother’s house – I mean my mother-in-law’s. She’s like a mother to me, you see. She has dementia and he somehow managed to convince her that he should have the house. And before my own eyes he makes her sign a deed, and this was before she was diagnosed. This man will burn in the depths of hell, and he has twenty more houses.’ Amin loosened the top button of his shirt, took out an inhaler and imbibed its contents. ‘I was…’
‘By death’s door.’
‘I was looking forward to his funeral and getting that house back. And then, a few weeks ago, he’s… right as rain as they say. Walking like a new man and boasting about how he bought this new kidney. At the time, I just thought he went to a private hospital, but I now think he got it off the black market. It’s his style, and at his age they wouldn’t give him a transplant – not on the NHS.’
‘What’s this man’s name?’
‘Salomon Brentstein. Google him – he’s been in the press and we haven’t met. I don’t want to get involved in your petty conspiracy. The English have enough of them. If only we’d kicked them out with the Shah.’
Thirty
Rebwar and Hourieh had never been to a Christian funeral. Musa had found some information on the internet about what they could expect. They weren’t even sure if it was Catholic or Protestant. All they were really sure about was that they had to wear black, which was Rebwar’s first problem. In the end he conceded and let Hourieh buy some clothes. It was a colour that carried too many bad memories and one he tried to avoid. Musa had been dragged along; the last funeral he’d been to was Hourieh’s mother’s. He was eleven at the time and it was an emotional event for him, as his grandmother had spoiled him rotten. Rebwar hadn’t been too sure if Musa mourned his grandmother or the end of the good times.
This funeral was different, it carried questions and had uncovered old forgotten secrets. Hourieh was carrying her shock like an old sack of rubbish. She had buried her father nearly a decade before her mother’s death. Time had romanticised his memory. But the news of him having had a mistress had crashed in like a dropped chandelier. You couldn’t tread anywhere without getting cut.
Musa and Rebwar were picking up the pieces. Nothing like a tragedy to bring you closer, but Rebwar was still ambivalent about the whole thing. The old man had fallen off his pedestal. His askew portrait was still hanging on, but it was harder to look up to and not question yourself. Hourieh couldn’t understand why her father had done to this to her. He had soiled their reputation.
Brompton Cemetery was just off Stamford Bridge stadium where Chelsea played and both were impressive sights. Rebwar was hoping that Musa would react. He had his headphones on, head down, looking at the black tarmac and probably listening to some London grime.
‘Musa! Hey, Musa! Look, Chelsea! We can go and see them. They are playing Arsenal this weekend.’
Musa shrugged his shoulders. ‘Yeah, if you want.’
Rebwar smiled. ‘Really? OK, I’ll get some tickets.’
‘No, not really. I was just joking.’
‘Oh.’ Rebwar tried to tap Musa’s head but missed. Musa stuck his tongue out at him and grinned. Pedar sag.1
Hourieh had just gone through the iron gates on the south side of the cemetery, which had two red phone boxes on each side. Rebwar wondered if one had a direct line to heaven and the other to hell. He knew which one he would need today. Hourieh looked back at them; they were straggling and late as usual. Rebwar reluctantly tightened his black tie and Hourieh went up to help straighten it.
‘You look handsome, husband.’
He bit back the cynical remark that it took a death to get a compliment. ‘Wife, you look as beautiful as you did when I married you.’ Hourieh kissed his cheek and, then rubbed the lipstick off. She smiled back. It was then Rebwar realised he had no idea where the ceremony was being held. Bijan had mentioned it but Rebwar hadn’t really paid any attention.
‘Husband, which way?’
‘You know, you didn’t have to come.’
‘I need answers.’
Rebwar looked for a sign explaining the layout. To him, it looked more like a park than a place where you buried memories.
‘I want to pay my respects to that Jendeh.’2
‘Please, Hourieh. We have talked about this.’
Hourieh took out a handkerchief and mopped a few stray tears. Rebwar led on pretending to know where he was going.
‘You’ve forgotten the directions, haven’t you? By Allah, you are useless, husband. Call Bijan, I’m not going to go around like a lost dog.’
Rebwar didn’t wait around to have an argument. After passing a huge domed chapel he turned left. He recognised a woman just behind it but couldn’t place her. He held himself from saying hello and carried on looking, hoping it would come back to him. Hourieh caught up, puffing and jingling. He knew he had another few minutes before her shoes would be hurting.
At the far end, he spotted a little group of people dressed in black. He was hoping it was them. ‘There they are.’ He pointed.
‘Are you sure? How’s my make-up?’
‘Still there. Maybe a little more lipstick. Musa, take off those headphones! A little respect!’
Rebwar looked at the woman again as she tended the grave. He couldn’t see the name on it. She was a pretty natural blonde with striking blue eyes, tight jeans and blue puffer jacket. It was starting to annoy him, he had either met her or seen her recently.
Rebwar let out a sigh of relief on seeing Bijan. ‘Right, smiles and be polite.’
There were about three other mourners and a priest around a fresh mound of earth. The mourners all stared. It made Hourieh and Rebwar feel awkward. Rebwar wasn’t sure if
he was meant to say something or not. The casket was closed and with some flowers on it. Rebwar wondered if they were too late. At all the other funerals he had been to, you would have the body on show and wrapped up in white. And it had to be done by the next day as you had only three days to give your blessing to their spirit.
Bijan was holding himself up with a shiny black stick. His black suit was immaculate, tailored. The shoulders were flush and perfect. Hourieh headed towards him and bowed her head down in a sign of respect. Her headscarf and sunglasses were making her look older. Images of her mourning her dad flashed back to Rebwar. They looked at the grave. Rebwar took out a pack of cigarettes and offered them. Bijan’s skeletal hand trembled over them but passed, Hourieh grabbed one. Bijan and Rebwar presented their lighters. She used Bijan’s and smiled. Rebwar lit his own. On a wooden cross nearby was: Nikki, Rest in Peace. 1949–2016.
Hourieh exhaled smoke. ‘Was she a Christian whore? Can’t they show her face?’
‘Hourieh, please.’
‘Was she your whore too?’ Hourieh turned away from them, wiping a tear from her cheek.
‘Inshallah, let her rest in peace. Let her spirit rest.’ Bijan nodded.
‘Sorry, she’s very angry,’ said Rebwar, looking at the scene. Bare trees, dried dead leaves scattered on the green grass, a woman and two men dressed in black. One of them was Bijan’s butler, the other two he didn’t recognise. ‘Nice send-off.’
‘They all work for me. She had no friends left. You know Nikki died in a care home.’
Hourieh turned, holding her smoking cigarette. ‘Musa, stand over there with the other people and take those-hay avazi3 out of your deaf ears. Respect! Even if she was a jendeh.’ She turned to Bijan. ‘How did you find out?’
‘The care home sent me a letter, which my solicitor opened. I’m sorry for you, Hourieh. Your father was a great man. This was in the past. Let it rest.’
Hourieh’s cigarette trembled and she pursed her lips.