Amazir

by Tom Gamble

  Badr tried as best as he could to bathe the shattered fingers, disentangling them one by one and setting them straight. The little finger on the left hand was almost completely severed and hanging on by a shred of skin. Badr deftly cut it off, carefully placing the bloody digit on a rag on Summerfield’s bed. Abrach’s gold ring, twisted and flat, was removed using a pair of pliers, the snapping sound as they cut the metal sending a shudder through Summerfield. Once finished, Badr wrapped the merchant’s hands in bandage and stood up. He gave Summerfield a wild glance, suddenly gagged and walked to the adjoining room where Summerfield could hear him taking a series of deep breaths. Presently, he returned, looking calm and determined.

  ‘A friend will soon arrive with transport. We had to abandon the car—too obvious.’

  ‘What’s going to happen? It’s something to do with Lefèvre, isn’t it?’ said Summerfield, walking across to the drawer and taking out his flask of whisky. He offered it to Badr who frowned and shook his head. Summerfield took a nip and screwed back the cap. ‘I knew nothing good would come of the idea!’

  ‘Friends will take Abslem to a doctor. I hope they manage to get through the checkpoints. The police—’

  ‘What a mess,’ said Summerfield. He sat down. ‘This was no accident.’

  ‘They spotted him—he was caught.’

  ‘Who is they?’

  ‘People, the police—it is of no matter. We were on a mission,’ added Badr, curtly.

  ‘A mission? The explosion—was it you? What are you—revolutionaries or something?’

  ‘A mission of observation,’ redirected Abrach, who had gained consciousness and was listening. ‘A simple act of tourism.’

  ‘And the police nearly amputated your hands?’ Summerfield shook his head and snorted. ‘Please—Abrach—Abslem, if it’s your real name—tell me the truth.’

  Badr glanced anxiously at Summerfield then at the merchant and Abrach tilted his head squinting with pain, as though conceding.

  ‘The last time we talked, Harry…I should have known it would cause her alarm.’

  ‘I knew it,’ said Summerfield again, drawing breath and fighting back the urge to curse the man. ‘Jeanne—is she all right?’ he asked. Then: ‘She did that to you?’ Summerfield was nonplussed.

  Abrach shook his head. A whimper escaped his lips and he gave a shake of the head as though reproaching himself.

  ‘I should have listened to you, Harry. It all went terribly wrong.’ The merchant slowly shook his head again, a gesture of sadness mixed with bitter irony. ‘After all this time, Harry. After all this waiting. I brought disaster upon myself in a moment’s impatience. I thought your hearts would spell the end of my plans.’ Abrach’s voice hardened and grew bitter. ‘What a stupid fool…’

  ‘And Jeanne—are you sure she’s all right?’ repeated Summerfield.

  ‘I believe so. I can hardly comprehend it was me,’ continued Abrach, suddenly thrown into gloom.

  ‘A fucking mess,’ repeated Summerfield, angrily and turned away. He imagined Jeanne and the state she must be in and silently cursed Abrach.

  Abrach, the morphine deadening his senses, looked up with glazed and distant eyes.

  ‘It was not in my nature, Harry. I was not meant to do this. But I did. I am sure to lose everything now. As if my family wasn’t enough.’

  Summerfield stared back, lost for words. He shook his head in a dismissive gesture and smartly stood up as the sound of more footsteps came from outside.

  Badr walked silently to the window and peered carefully out.

  ‘It is Radoin,’ he said, and hissed to the figure below. Returning to the bedside, he gave Summerfield a glance and knelt next to Abrach. ‘Master, Radoin has come with help. He will take you to a doctor—one of our friends. Go with him now. I will see to Mr Summerfield’s discomfort for I fear you have lost much blood on his sheets.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Summerfield, mechanically. ‘Take care of Abrach—that’s the priority, I suppose.’

  ‘This Radoin will do,’ repeated Badr, giving him another meaningful glance. ‘Do not fear for Abrach. I will join him later and ensure he is looked after. Quickly now—the police must not find you,’ added the young man, lifting the merchant to his feet.

  ‘I thank you, Harry. Forgive me. I did her no harm,’ grimaced Abrach.

  Summerfield gave a wave of his hand.

  ‘Don’t be foolish, Abrach. It’s me. I—I apologise.’

  ‘Apologise?’ said Abrach with effort and halted in the doorway. Summerfield thought he saw laughter come fleetingly to the merchant’s eyes—that and a faint glimmer of bitterness. ‘Whatever for?’

  Summerfield watched from the window as Badr and the third man, Radoin, led Abrach away and disappeared around the corner of the street. Hardly a minute passed and then Badr came back into sight. He gave a quick glance up at the window and nodded to Summerfield before taking to the stairs.

  They worked in silence, folding the soiled bed sheets and gathering the detritus of their hasty work including the severed finger that Badr deftly wrapped in the strip of cloth and placed in a pocket. Despite Summerfield gesturing to the contrary, Badr began to wash the bloodstains on the floor and carpet. Once finished, the young man cleaned his hands and joined Summerfield.

  ‘I will ask your neighbour to burn all this when I go.’

  ‘Thank you, Badr,’ nodded Summerfield, pushing across a plate. ‘Eat—I’m afraid it’s yesterday’s bread, but the honey makes it edible.’

  They chewed in the morning stillness and Summerfield noted, despite Badr’s education, the young man’s eating habits that betrayed humble origins. When the bread was finished, Summerfield poured more tea.

  ‘Tell me what happened, Badr.’

  ‘I saw you talk to Abrach—I was one of the men in the car. He insisted on meeting the young woman that night. And like you, I tried to dissuade him.’

  ‘I didn’t know he could be so blind.’

  ‘When one has suffered one often is,’ said Badr, almost introspectively. ‘Our presence coincided with the arrival of a police guard.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Summerfield. ‘I heard Lefèvre on the phone—so that was it.’

  ‘Abrach tried to get away.’

  ‘And was caught.’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Badr. ‘He spent all of yesterday in the special detention centre. By the time we knew of his whereabouts and got organised, it was too late.’

  ‘The explosion, the gunfire—it was you.’ Badr nodded. ‘We had to get him out. Abrach—Abslem—is very influential. He regularly has contact with Zayni’s successors who still resist the French in the mountains.’

  ‘What—what happened to him?’ asked Summerfield, timidly. ‘His hands…’

  ‘Have you never heard of the methods they use to extract information?’ said Badr, grimly. ‘I was told Lefèvre paid a visit. We cannot be sure, but it was probably he who finally gave consent to go ahead…’

  ‘With torture?’

  Badr nodded. ‘We cannot prove what happens behind those walls,’ he added, bitterly. ‘They say that accidents happen. Abrach’s happened to involve a winch. From what I understand, they forced his hands into the teeth,’ he added, his voice turning almost to a whisper. ‘They slowly, purposefully crushed his fingers.’

  Summerfield shuddered. ‘That’s—sickening.’

  ‘It is usually effective, I am told.’

  ‘You got him out, thank God—the poor bastard.’

  ‘We lost two men in the process, Summerfield. Altogether, this has been quite a disaster.’

  The two men remained silent for some moments and in the stillness they heard the sounds of the city begin to stir, the distant clang of a police car.

  ‘I’m afraid most of this is my fault,’ said Summerfield, unable to hold it in any longer. ‘Badr—I’m the one responsible for Abrach’s actions.’

  Badr straightened up, returning to the shrewd and alert, his habitual traits. ‘
I think we are no longer obliged to call the master Abrach,’ said Badr, without emotion.

  Summerfield lifted his head and looked at the young Berber. ‘He told me about the village and a family—obviously his family.’

  ‘Do you know what Abrach actually means?’ added Badr. ‘He has lived many years under that name. It means a cover, a blanket under which the people of the mountains hide from the cold. And he is also very good at the trade he chose to hide behind. Abslem is a very rich man by our standards.’

  ‘And a benefactor to the cause.’

  ‘Do not blame yourself for what happened, Harry Summerfield.’

  Summerfield let out a bitter laugh and shook his head.

  ‘How can’t I? You both know how I feel about Jeanne Lefèvre.’ Summerfield dropped then raised his gaze. ‘I betrayed him, Badr.’

  ‘You did what was asked of you.’

  ‘No—I betrayed him.’ Summerfield lit a cigarette and exhaled noisily. ‘The poor bugger. It’s not only his fingers that are mashed. And what,’ added Summerfield, his mind suddenly falling upon the obvious, ‘will he do to me when he’s in good enough shape? I deserve to be shot.’

  ‘You are a man very sensitive to guilt, Harry,’ said Badr, almost bemused.

  Summerfield looked up and glared at him.

  ‘I do not think it all so necessary,’ added the young man. ‘I repeat: you did what was asked of you.’

  Summerfield frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Perhaps Abrach’s heart was indeed captured by the young woman. What is certain is that it was sick with the loss of his family. What happened between you and Jeanne Lefèvre just added the pressing element of time into things, that’s all. At some moment he would have confronted her. It was written.’ Badr seemed to hesitate, pulled softly on his immature beard and sighed. ‘Abslem El Rifni was of noble family—a warrior family. But he was also a cultured man. He studied at university—almost an unknown thing for a Moroccan to do. He is also, as I’m sure you are aware, a very warm-hearted man. Unfortunately for him.’ Badr rose, wiped his hands on his gown and gestured to Summerfield. ‘I would have had no hesitation in putting a bullet in Lefèvre’s neck. And now, after this, I do not doubt that Abslem El Rifni will either.’

  27

  Jeanne sat on the veranda, staring emptily at the khaki form of the policeman quivering in the heat by the gate. He had been there since lunch, replacing another, and had hardly moved. Her mother tapped her on the forearm and offered her tea.

  ‘Poor girl. All this has so upset your capacity for study.’

  Jeanne sighed and turned her head. It all seemed so unreal.

  ‘What do you think?’ added her mother. Jeanne frowned, unsure of what she was referring to. ‘Will you be ready?’

  It took a second or two for Jeanne to realise. She felt like shouting—how her mother could speak of her studies when she’d nearly been killed!

  ‘Yes, mother. I’ll be ready.’

  ‘Good. It will please your father to hear it.’

  The silence came again and Jeanne, bothered by her mother’s presence and the overbearing attention to her as though she were some sort of a diseased victim, made it difficult to return to her books. Her mind wandered to Harry. How she wished he were here to hold her in his arms. He would know how to comfort her. She would heal in his words and in his embrace.

  Time chimed from behind her in the hallway. Housebound for a week. It was so ghastly. For the first time in her life she saw just how awfully boring her parents and their lives really were. They lived in a routine of silences and staid formalities, from breakfast until night, a never-changing agenda of words and acts that must have been repeated tens of thousands of times over their twenty-two years of marriage. Nice weather today. Le fond de l’air est frais. Bisous. How is Mrs Lefèvre this morning? Take care, chérie. I’ll call from the office. See you at 5. Allez—au travail. Allez—time to check the housework. And the worst, the very worst, was that they didn’t even seem to notice. Father was driven to work and Mater, with the new preoccupation that seemed to interfere annoyingly with her schedule, tried to mother her until, come afternoon, and evidently satisfied that she had done her bit, she returned to her routine, pottering about the garden rectifying Mohammed’s work.

  Jeanne had never known so much tedium. After two days, it was so strong that it smothered the effects of Thursday night and the stranger’s intrusion. Only Harry’s presence, only his memory was strong enough to carry her through. She bore him like baby, though the warm, glowing weight filled her heart not her belly. She felt like shouting his name into the air and writing it on every page of every book. And tomorrow, Sunday, he would come to dine.

  The thought of seeing him again made her feel light and giddy. How she hoped they could find a few moments alone to hold each other. She would tell him what had happened, the whole horrible story and he would kiss her softly and cradle her head upon his shoulder. She imagined the touch of his fingers in her hair, soft protecting strokes as he soothed her, the hardness of his muscles as she held onto his arms.

  Lefèvre came back punctually at 6.15 and, saluting the police guard, approached the house with an habitual I’m a little late—Sorry—work at the office to which her mother replied only a ‘little’ fifteen minutes, chéri—welcome back. Jeanne shuddered. How her mother could keep up the hypocrisy of it made her feel angry. It was as though her father were returning from a crusade instead of an office.

  Lefèvre sat down, took off his hat which he placed neatly on top of his briefcase and leant over to kiss his wife on the cheek. He seemed to forget Jeanne in this ritual. True, she was usually upstairs in her books when he came home.

  After a few moments of enquiry into his day at the office, Jeanne’s mother called for Soumia and drinks. It was yet another habit—the apéritif upon returning from work.

  ‘Everything in order? Nothing to report?’ said Lefèvre, looking at the two women and giving a wane smile. ‘Office talk, I’m afraid. Takes some time to switch off. So?’

  ‘Bien,’ said Jeanne’s mother. ‘Jeanne has been trying to work and assures me she’s on form for her exams. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Good. And yourself, chérie. Hard day?’

  ‘Oh, the usual. Mohammed’s such a clumsy hand at pruning. You’d think he’d have a clean cut.’

  ‘The Arabs have a reputation for using the blade,’ commented Lefèvre. ‘Though not our Mohammed, chérie!’ It seemed to make them both laugh and Jeanne squirmed uncomfortably.

  ‘He’s not an Arab, father.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s of Berber origin.’

  ‘Quite,’ muttered Lefèvre, giving his wife a grimace. ‘Ah, drinks. Thank you, Soumia.’

  The chink of the ice in their glasses was like the chiming of the clock in the hallway—somehow institutional. As was the sigh of contentment her father let out after the first sip. She shivered. She felt even more disgust for her father than the man who had tried to abduct her.

  ‘Mother—what are we going to eat tomorrow? Perhaps Soumia could try to make something English for Mr Summerfield—’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘I’m sure that would please him.’

  ‘Good God!’ repeated Lefèvre. ‘I’d completely forgotten him.’

  ‘Tomorrow is Sunday, father.’

  Lefèvre snorted. ‘Well we can’t invite him under these circumstances. We’ll have to call it off.’

  ‘Daddy!’ Jeanne nearly jumped out of her seat in alarm.

  ‘No—I’m afraid we can’t. Impossible. After everything that has happened.’

  ‘I’m not a cripple, father.’

  ‘As I can see. However—this is really not the time for gayness and chit chat. What happened was a very serious affair. You require calm and silence, my dear.’

  ‘You brute!’ shouted Jeanne, unable to contain herself and slapped her books shut.

  ‘Jeanne—whatever?’ gasped her mother.
>
  ‘Doesn’t matter, chérie. She’s fraught. Shock and all.’ Lefèvre placed a hand on his wife’s arm to soothe her. ‘Afraid we have to be firm here.’ He turned to Jeanne and looked steadily at her. ‘I understand your condition, my girl. Mr Summerfield will just have to come another time.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Difficult to say.’

  ‘When?’ demanded Jeanne and she saw her father’s eyes harden.

  ‘When you have managed to completely calm down,’ he replied slowly.

  Jeanne looked away from those eyes and then suddenly remembered.

  ‘And what about the document? Isn’t it important?’

  ‘I’ll send Mohammed to pick it up,’ answered Lefèvre with a wave of his hand. ‘Where does the Englishman live, anyway?’

  ‘Mr Wilding mentioned he had lodgings in the old town,’ said Mme Lefèvre, taking care with her voice.

  ‘The old quarter? Good God—what’s he doing there?’ Lefèvre’s face creased into something approaching disgust. ‘He’ll catch something.’

  ‘Sarah’s father lives there too,’ added Jeanne, secretly outraged at the direction the conversation was going. Her father made a humming sound that suggested he wasn’t quite in accord with all of what the Bassouin family stood for.

  ‘Mr Wilding also mentioned that Mr Summerfield was something of an artist,’ added Mme Lefèvre, this time her voice carrying a hint of excitement.

  ‘And a Socialist!’ added Lefèvre. ‘Look what they did to France in ’36! He started telling us about his intentions of going to Spain. Well—that’s a lost cause in any case.’

  ‘He can’t be very well off,’ said Mme Lefèvre, sneaking a glance at her daughter.

  ‘Mummy!’

  Her mother gave a little laugh and grinned.

  ‘I knew it!’

  ‘What?’ Lefèvre suddenly seemed quite lost.

  ‘Jeanne,’ continued her mother, wagging a finger. ‘I knew you had a little inclination for our Englishman!’

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Lefèvre, once again.