by Henry Porter
He’d been going for about forty-five minutes and was confident that he would catch Naji in the next hour or so when he heard voices. He stopped in his tracks and bent his ear to the mountain above him. The voices came again, moving high on the slope above him. The rhythm of the speech suggested Arabic, although he couldn’t hear what was being said. There were two voices and neither belonged to a thirteen-year old boy. He waited so he could work out exactly where they were coming from. The voices moved ahead of him, then stopped altogether.
He went for another hundred metres, pausing and listening. He was aware of a sudden drop in temperature and the mist being pushed along by a sharp new wind from his right. He had the impression of looking out of the cockpit of an aeroplane onto the clouds, seeing flashes of the mountains on either side – a long dark slope to his left, a dark spur to his right and some wild, shaggy goats peering over a parapet of rock, as still as if they’d been hewn from stone. The wind was getting stronger by the minute, making the ties on the outside of his pack hum and snap against the fabric. He continued with his head bent against the wind, thankful for the beanie he was wearing and the stick Andrej had pressed into his hand.
Five minutes later, he was moving down the slope to get out of the wind when he was brought up short by the sound of two shots being fired, as clear as if someone were cracking a whip beside him. He crouched down against a large rock, though certain that he was not the target. He waited. The mountain was silent again. He took out the satellite phone and dialled Munira.
‘Did you get through?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I try many times.’
‘Text him and email him. He may look to see if you replied to the one he sent this morning.’
‘I’ve emailed him,’ she said.
‘Can you text him also? Then I will call him. We’ll speak later.’
‘Please tell me what’s happening – we are very worried for Naji.’
‘I will when I know,’ he said.
Munira was silent.
‘Are you there?’ he went on. ‘Is there something the matter?’ He glanced up the mountain to make sure he still had the cover of the mist.
‘Yes, I am here. It is a difficult time – we all are very worried. It’s my little sister Yasmin. She is sick. My mother has gone with her to the camp medical facility. It is hard having a brother and a sister in danger at the same time.’
‘I understand,’ he said sympathetically. ‘I will do everything I can to help Naji. Good luck with your sister. We will speak soon.’ Although Samson was capable of an exceptionally cool objectivity in his work, he felt for the widow and children of Faris Touma, and understood all too well what they were going through. The added anxiety of knowing that Naji was on the road by himself must be almost unendurable. He said goodbye, pleased that he seemed to have gained her confidence.
He dialled the policeman’s number three times, but got no response from Naji. He stood up from the rock and continued down the mountain, away from the source of the gunfire, as well as the wind that had made him suddenly feel so stiff. When he’d dropped to eleven hundred metres, he followed a contour on the satnav map that led to an area of green – the sprawling forests through which Naji would have to pass to reach Pudnik.
*
Naji and Ifkar ignored the paths and forestry tracks they encountered, crossing over them and moving through the dripping trees. The forest seemed to go on forever, but that suited them fine because they had no plan to enter Pudnik yet – they simply needed to find good reception so Naji could call Munira. So far, the service was worse in the trees than up the mountain – Naji didn’t have even one bar. They walked without speaking, although Ifkar occasionally gave Naji reassuring glances and murmured endearments to Moon.
In the middle of the afternoon, as a watery sun broke through the cloud, they stumbled into a clearing full of tall grasses and found eight young migrants – six men and two women – sitting under a tree in the centre of the clearing. Ifkar glanced at Naji, who murmured that maybe it would be better if they didn’t get involved. But as they turned to go back into the trees, one of the young men shouted out, ‘As-salaam alaykum ya ikhwani’ – Peace be upon you, brothers.
They gave the traditional reply: ‘Wa’alaykumu as-salaam’ – And upon you be peace.
One of the girls called out, ‘Would you like some nuts? These are the best.’ She held out her hand.
‘Shall we get some nuts?’ Ifkar asked, smiling at the girls. ‘We can find out about the border.’
They walked towards the group and saw that they had a pile of walnuts, around which the fleshy green outer shells were littered. Everyone was seated on the ground.
‘Where did you find the dog?’ a man asked.
‘She found me,’ Ifkar replied, grinning.
‘And where are you from?’
They didn’t answer.
‘Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan?’ the man persisted.
‘We came from hell and now we are in paradise,’ said Ifkar, looking down at the two young women who were stripping the nuts. Naji was amazed by Ifkar’s sudden confidence. The women looked up at him with interest; one pulled back the scarf on her cheek and smiled.
‘Where are you going? Are you going to cross the border?’ one of the young men asked. ‘They are putting up a fence between Serbia and Macedonia – maybe they have already completed it.’
Ifkar shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ he said, taking one of the nuts and cracking it in his hand. He picked out the two halves and gave one to Naji. ‘But there are always means of getting over.’
‘With a dog?’
‘Sure, with a dog.’
‘Take some more nuts,’ said one of the women. ‘We have lots. Does your young friend talk?’
Ifkar turned to Naji and looked down at him with sympathy. ‘He’s not right in the head. He is simple.’ Naji gave his most gormless smile. He was enjoying this.
‘Where are you all from?’ asked Ifkar, bending to scoop up a handful of nuts.
‘We six are from Aleppo,’ said the man who had done most of the talking, gesturing towards the two women and three men who were together. Naji had noticed how people on the road generally kept as clean and tidy as possible, but these people were dishevelled and looked exhausted. ‘It’s been hard,’ he continued. ‘We have no money because a people smuggler stole from us. Then three of us got sick with food poisoning and it knocked us back for weeks. The time limit on our papers ran out so we cannot cross the border to Serbia legally, and we cannot risk being sent back to Greece.’ He gave his name as Rafiq, and introduced the others in his party. He told them that they were either related or were friends and had known each other all their lives.
‘Your dog is beautiful,’ said one of the women. ‘I don’t like dogs usually, but this one is really something – like a white lion.’
Ifkar smiled at her and she giggled.
Rafiq looked over to the other two men. ‘And our brothers here joined us half an hour ago,’ he said. ‘They walked out of the forest, just like you. They are headed for the border, so we have just agreed to all go together.’ Naji saw a flicker of unease in Rafiq’s face, as though he did not know what to say next. He a bad feeling about the men who’d walked out of the forest. One had a couple of days’ growth and a mass of curly black hair, but it was the hard, dead look in his eyes that struck Naji. He’d only just noticed it because both men had been smiling manically. And there was something familiar about the fidgety behaviour of the other man, who sat cross-legged, smoking, and whose gaze moved restlessly across the group under the tree. Al-munajil used to get the same look when he used that drug that kept him awake and made him unpredictable and extremely violent. Naji shot a glance at Ifkar, who knew exactly what he was thinking, though he did not allow his sunny demeanour to change. And Moon seemed to pick up something because she let out several squeaks, whi
ch always meant she was impatient to be on her way.
‘Well, thank you for the nuts,’ said Ifkar. He wished them good fortune and said ‘Al-wadā’ – So long.
They would have left right then, but the phone in Naji’s pocket started vibrating. He took it out and moved away to answer. One of the two men muttered, ‘Not so retarded that he can’t use a phone.’
At that moment, Naji heard his sister’s voice and his heart leapt.
‘Oh, Allah be praised – you’re alive!’ she said through tears of relief. ‘I was so worried. Did you get my text?’
‘It’s so good to hear you, dear sister.’ Naji was on the edge of tears also and he moved a little further away from the walnut tree.
‘There’s so much to say,’ she sobbed. ‘I don’t have an idea where to start.’
‘Then you must try not to cry. Tell me everything in the right order. Tell me how everyone is.’
‘Oh Naji!’ Munira sobbed again.
‘Who is this man who contacted you?’ said Naji. ‘I do not understand why he wants me.’
She controlled herself. ‘You spoke to someone – a woman in Greece. Was she a doctor? You told her things and you said what’s on your phone. They sent a woman spy to speak to our mother – all the way from London.’
‘They? Who’s they?’
‘British spies.’
‘How do you know the woman was a spy?’
‘Her questions were those of a spy.’
‘How do you know what a spy says?’
‘I just do! Listen!’ He couldn’t help but smile. ‘Look, Naji – they even gave me this phone so I could make international calls. What do you know that is so important to them, Naji? Why have they sent a man to save you? He is with you in the mountains and he says two men are following you and they may hurt you.’ She stopped for a second to get her breath. ‘I can barely believe I am saying this to you – it’s all so strange and frightening. His name is Paul – Paul Samson. He speaks Arabic and he’s been hired to protect you by the lady spy. I talked to him twice. I trust him, Naji. He wants you to call him. Will you do that? Will you promise to do that immediately? You have his number. I sent a text with it.’
Naji’s head was spinning. ‘How do they . . . What do they . . . I mean . . .’
‘Ask him to explain. Promise you’ll call him, Naji. I know he will help you.’
‘I will,’ he said, still struggling with the idea that anyone could have found him in these mountains, and amazed that his phone was the subject of such interest, because he hadn’t mentioned anything to the woman in Greece about his phone. There were things on it, but how could anyone know that? And anyway, the phone was long gone.
‘How is everyone?’ he asked again.
‘Yasmin is not well.’ Munira’s voice faltered. ‘I cannot lie – we are all very anxious about her, Naji. She is sick.’
‘What with?’
She cleared her throat loudly – she was trying to control herself. ‘She has a sickness called meningitis. It is dangerous. Our mother is with her now. She is having treatment.’
‘Is she going to be all right?’
‘We must pray for her, dear Naji.’
He turned away from the walnut tree, his eyes brimming with tears. ‘I will,’ he said, blinking furiously. ‘I will pray.’
‘And call that man now. Please do that for me, Naji, so I don’t have to worry about you. And call me again. Tell me what’s going on.’
‘Yes,’ he said. He nearly asked how his father was doing, but something stopped him – the shadowy taboo in his mind that prevented him thinking about his dad now blocked the question. He said goodbye and allowed the hand holding the phone to fall to his side. He felt utterly exhausted, but he told himself he had been walking for nine hours. That made him think of the challenge ahead of him and very soon the image of Yasmin left his mind, for that was the only way he could survive on the road. He sneaked a look at the people beneath the walnut tree – they were eating nuts and laughing – and then he dialled the number.
Seconds seemed to pass before the call went through. When the voice answered, he was silent. ‘Hello? Who is this?’ said a man in Arabic.
‘This is Naji Touma.’
‘Great! I very much want to help you and your friend, Naji. I believe I am quite close to you.’
Naji was about to ask the man who he was and how he knew which number to call when there was a sudden rush of air to his left and one of the men took hold of him roughly, prising the phone out of his hand in one rapid movement that was impossible for Naji to resist. And then he was aware of a lot of shouting coming from beneath the tree. Somebody yelled, ‘Don’t shoot!’ He heard a ferocious sound, halfway between a growl and a bark, and he was aware of a white blur to his right. The man who had got hold of him screamed at the first bite. The gun fired from somewhere behind them. Naji ducked but Moon kept on and forced his assailant to the ground. Naji saw her teeth bared and her ears flattened like a wolf’s. She repeatedly lunged for his throat and face, and each time she pulled back there were more lacerations on the man’s cheeks and jaw and also on the arm he was using to defend himself. Blood spatters appeared on her dazzling white coat. Naji knew it wouldn’t be long before she ripped his throat out. This man with the curly black hair and the hard look in his eyes was the individual who was now going to pay for all the brutality she had suffered in her life.
She straddled him and took the front half of his head in her jaw, which opened wider than Naji could ever have imagined, and began to shake him. The man’s eyes bulged with helpless terror and blood poured from somewhere on his scalp. Another shot rang out and Moon let go with a yelp and fell back. The man struggled to get to his feet but slumped back, his face a mess of blood and skin.
Naji turned to see the second man moving towards him with the gun pointing at Moon, and he realised he meant to finish her off, but for some reason – maybe the sight of his companion’s face – he hesitated for a fraction of a second and that gave Ifkar the chance to rush him, which he did with incredible force, knocking the man sideways. As he toppled, he let off a couple more shots, the second of which seemed to cause Ifkar to jerk upwards. There were more screams from the party beneath the tree, but none of them came to help. Naji dived to wrest the gun from the man’s hand as Ifkar stamped on his arm and chest. As soon as Naji had the gun, Ifkar stopped beating him and stood back to contemplate his victim. The man plainly thought he was going to be executed by Naji, who had the gun levelled at his forehead, and he let his head fall back onto the grass with a bitter smile, which seemed to acknowledge that after all his years of violence and fighting he was going to be killed by a kid. Naji moved back several feet so he could cover both men and assess the situation. They weren’t going to cause any more trouble – that was plain – but he raised the gun anyway, aimed carefully at its owner and gave him a long, hard stare. Not long ago he’d seen a man executed by Al-munajil – or rather, he’d seen his body keel over just after the shot had been delivered to the side of his head. The terrible ease of this movement and of the extinction had stayed with him. He lowered the gun, ran a dozen metres, drew his arm back and flung it as far as he could into the trees.
The last few minutes had passed with such speed that Naji doubted he had taken more than a couple of breaths, but now things slowed down. As the gun sailed through the air, he noticed big black birds of prey flying in a spiral high above the clearing. In that moment, he remembered his father remarking once how odd it was that birds continued as normal whatever the chaos and brutality humans contrived in the world below them. They mated and hunted and migrated as though nothing was happening.
He turned back in this oddly detached state and saw his friend kneeling by Moon. He was telling her she wasn’t hurt badly – just a long flesh wound on her flank and maybe a broken rib. It was as if she understood him perfectly, because she sh
ook her head and then commenced a rhythmic licking of the gash on her side. He rose and threw a look towards the man she had savaged. He went over to him and sat on his haunches with his hands resting on his knees.
‘He’ll be okay. It looks worse than it is,’ he said to the two women, who had moved forward. ‘If you take him to the village they will look after him.’ From his pack, he pulled a large pot of antiseptic ointment, which Naji knew he’d used to treat Moon when he rescued her all those months ago, and asked the women to smear it on the man’s cuts to keep them from getting infected.
‘What about you? You’re bleeding!’ said one of the young women after they had applied the cream. Ifkar looked nonchalantly at his right side. She motioned for him to remove his jacket. Naji saw his bloody shirt and T-shirt, which the women lifted from his torso. They knew what they were doing; they had come from Aleppo, and wounds like this were nothing new to them. The bullet had cut through his flesh twice – on the right side of his chest and then through the skin on the other side of his armpit, close to the lateral muscle. They dabbed the blood away from the wounds and spread the cream, though Ifkar insisted they go easy because he wanted to save some for when Moon had finished licking her injury. He grinned mischievously at their touch and told Naji it didn’t hurt at all, but Naji knew this wouldn’t last. He had once been in the back of Al-munajil’s pickup with a young fighter who was hit in the leg. In fact, it wasn’t long after they left the body of the executed man in the wadi. The fighter climbed in saying he was fine, but by the end of the journey he was screaming.
As they bandaged Ifkar’s gunshot wounds as best they could with spare headscarves, the women murmured their admiration of his impressive build. Naji remembered how the well-endowed store assistant had given Ifkar a double take and stared at his eyes, allowing Naji to lift a couple more chocolate bars from the display. Ifkar held something for women that he was only just beginning to appreciate, and these two seemed full of things they wanted to say to him. They mentioned, quite casually, that the pair with the gun had threatened them when Naji and Ifkar stumbled into the clearing. The men had only been there for ten minutes and they seemed friendly enough, but the moment they spotted Naji they became deadly serious, showed them the gun and told them to call Naji and Ifkar over and to act normally. They said Naji had stolen a phone that belonged to them.