by H M Sealey
“You can’t!” Baraq hissed. “You don’t have a Border Pass.”
“I’ve got money, I’m in a room full of influential people. Money talks, you know it does.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know, I’ll find a place to rent to rent for a while.”
“That might work.” He nodded. “Go to Coventry if you can get through. There’s a restaurant there, the Golden Condor. The staff know me. It’s one of my safe houses. I’ll come and get you in a few days and, Heaven forgive me, I’ll get you and Missy and Alaia to Dover together.”
“What about Elsie?”
Baraq turned his head and gazed at the frightened girl. There was a strange sort of look in his eyes.
“Barbara must have changed her name.” He said softly.
“What? Baraq, do you know Elsie?”
He nodded. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago. She won’t remember. A lot of Biblical names were changed. But if Tariq ibn-Jack is her father then she might want to stay here anyway.”
Asim was dozing when Kit and Sylvester returned. He jolted his head upright at the sound of their feet but both men ignored him.
“I can’t just let them take that girl away!” Kit snatched up his drink and swallowed it without wincing.
“I think you might have to.”
“Don’t sound so bloody pleased about it. Can’t I get her extradited?”
“If it’s proved that her father lives here, then I doubt it. The BSI isn’t cooperative about things like that. Especially if she’s officially dead.”
“But she’s a witness! She must know something!”
“If she does, I don’t think you’re ever going to find out. And if you make any sort of fuss between us and the BSI you’ll be out of a job. Tensions are high, we can’t afford to upset them.”
Kit’s lip curled into a sneer. “They’re savages!”
“Savages who are happy to use guns and swords while we teach our young men to behave like little girls and punish them when they play with toy guns in the playground. There’s an army gathering on this side of the border Kit. Don’t piss them off.”
Kit sank back in his chair and took a bottle of wine from a passing waitress without caring who it was for. He popped the cork with his thumb and drank it straight from the neck.
“This isn’t a competition between us you know.”
Sylvester gazed into the younger pair of eyes. Eyes so like his father’s only colder. Much, much older.
“Isn’t it?”
“Family Matters undermines us at every turn. We’re on the same side.”
“On no Christopher, we’re not. You’re on nobody’s side but your own. You never have been.”
He picked up a card from the table. The card was pale pink and showed thirty-five thumbnails of the girls for sale along with their number and details. Sylvester took a pen from his jacket pocket and drew a line through Elsie’s face.
“To tell the truth, I really do believe she knows as little as she says.”
“Barbara Kessler was part of Family Matters. I refuse to believe the girl was so stupid that she lived in the same house for twenty years and didn’t notice anything?”
“I don’t think she noticed anything at all.”
Sylvester ran his finger along the pictures until he found Missy. Then he stopped and tapped her face.
“This young lady though,” he ticked the box beside her, “She should prove to be much more useful.”
“Who is she?”
“Misaki Hisakawa.”
The name was already known to Kit. “That was the girl taken by the Wolves. The one whose brother stole the money and went after her. I suspected he was something to do with Family Matters then and I still do.”
“Hmmm. Always so near and yet so far.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sylvester sipped the last of his drink, annoyed the ice had melted and diluted the taste.
“Never mind. I think I’ll purchase Misaki though. I rather think she might be useful.”
Kit clutched his hand. “Is she part of it?”
“Possibly. Possibly not. Perhaps I’m just a kind old man with compassion for a frightened girl.”
Kit snorted. “You were never a kind old man. You acted the part well though.”
They both looked up, irritated to be disturbed, to see the large form of Tariq ibn-Jack looming over them, his mood as dark as a stormcloud. Asim shrank backwards, wishing the table would close around him like an oyster shell.
“May we help you?” Sylvester asked with a frosty smile that was barely a smile at all. On the stage the auction was continuing, having been interrupted by Tariq. Sylvester did not intend to miss his chance to buy Missy.
“My daughter says you have her locket.” Tariq held out a large, open hand beneath Kit’s nose.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Give me the locket.”
“If I had a locket then it would probably be valuable evidence.”
“Just give it to me.”
Kit regarded him with the sort of disgust he might reserve for a rat. “I think you’ve had as much from me as I’m willing to give.”
Asim barely saw what happened next, he certainly could never have described it. It was all too fast.
It seemed as if Tariq intended to grab Kit by the throat as he had Zeb, but Kit was younger and cleverer than the trader and he was prepared. He snatched up the bottle of wine by the neck and smashed it over the back of his chair, sending glass shards and wine everywhere, and leaving a lethal, jagged knife of glass in his hand.
An instant later this was slashed across Tariq’s face, drawing a thick, red line and only just missing his eye.
Kit showed no concern, he simply stood erect, holding the broken bottle, his eyes daring Tariq to make the next move. Tariq grunted in pain and moved sharply backwards on instinct to escape the immediate danger.
“If you primitives think I can’t defend myself then think again.”
Tariq touched the wound on his face, there was a great deal of blood. He focused on Kit and the look in his eyes was not pleasant.
“I’m not a woman.” He said in a slow, nasty voice. “I don’t back down at the sight of blood. Give me the locket. And if you don’t give it to me, I will petition the BSI to extradite you for your attack on the ummat al-Islamiyah.”
“Pardon. I don’t speak savage.”
“Ummat al-Islamiyah is the Islamic community, the entire commonwealth of believers. If a Kafir attacks one of us then it is an attack on us all. There are enough witnesses here.”
A good many eyes were watching, not all of them were gazing at Kit kindly. It was an effective threat.
Kit swallowed but did not back down. “You’re attending an illegal slave auction. Are you prepared to admit that?”
“As we already established, the BSI will not take this auction seriously.” He touched the blood running in tiny rivers from his wound and already thickening. “This,” He said, “This they will take seriously. I know. I was extradited twenty-one years ago for attacking a Muslim man on the street. No lawyer in Old Britain could help you if the BSI decided you have insulted us. You must know how terrified your country is of your neighbours?”
Kit had lost, he knew he had. With a growl he reached into his pocket, took out the locket and hurled it into the crowd.
“Take the damn thing then. I don’t need it.”
Then, to everyone’s horror, he lunged forwards and slit Tariq’s throat.
~
~ Twenty ~
Josh
River sits on the edge of the bed staring down at the little bottle clutched in her hand. She opens and closes her fingers around it almost manically.
“I like your dress.” I say, because she looks lovely in the blue silk.
“Thanks.”
“I wonder what happened to Mr. Scott?”
“I don’t know.”
/> “How weird to think he’s been going along with the abuse at the Rainbow Centre, teaching people to believe things he never believed himself.”
“That isn’t weird Josh, it’s grade A hypocrisy.”
A tear drops from her eye and lands on the silk. I think that sort of fabric water-marks.
“River?”
She jumps up from the bed and affects a feigned smile.
“Come on. My mother’s guests have started arriving. Let’s go and join them.”
“I’m not sure I really want to.”
“Oh come on Josh,” She says from the doorway, a little look I don’t recognise dancing in her eyes. “This is your new life now, cocktails and silk while we crush the necks of the people who don’t agree with everything we say. The elite, policing the rest of the world. Gods even, deciding what’s right and wrong while indulging every whim.”
She turns and stalks away, blue silk swirling around her slim waist, head raised up, pride perhaps, or disgust. I can’t tell.
“River!”
“You said you wanted to stay here. You like it.”
“Well, yes. It’s nice!”
“It’s built on the back of slavery Josh!” She grabs a china vase from a plinth near the window. “The rich get richer here, where they can think what they want and do what they want as long as they have the money to pay for it! And while we’re here, sipping drinks, the Wolves carry away victims to work in their factories or indulge their fetishes and people are thrown into the Rainbow Centre for maybe considering God might be real or that capitalism has a point. Do you remember those anti-capitalism lectures in the Centre? Do you?” She turns and flings the vase against the wall and watches it smash. “They’re hypocrites, all of them!”
“River – I didn’t mean….”
“You meant it Josh. You’ve found some sort of comfort and now you’d like to pull the ladder up behind you and leave everyone else to die. I won’t do that. Not ever.”
And she fixes a bright smile on her face again and sweeps down the stairs, her short, feathery dark hair catching the light as she moves.
~
Alaia
“Someone find me a cloth, quickly!”
Alaia tore a piece from the hem of her cloak and helped Baraq stem the bleeding.
If he dies, my secret is safe. The thought flashed through her mind and she batted it away like a fly. Her secrets were not worth a man’s life. Even an unpleasant man. Like this, blood bubbling up over his pale skin, his eyes full of concern for his daughter, he seemed more human than he had ever seemed in the madrassah where he wielded a cane and had thrashed her on numerous occasions.
“Good, thank you Alaia.”
“What do we do for him? He needs to go to hospital.”
“I agree, but not here. I’ll take him outside and call for help. I’ll get him a few hundred yards away first.”
“Alaia nodded. “Will he be all right?”
“The glass didn’t damage the jugular.” He gave a grim look towards the man who was still holding the bottle. “I don’t think it was meant to.” Kit was clearly skilled with a knife. Baraq managed to smile at his niece. “I think he’ll survive.” He looked directly into her eyes, communicating without words as they sometimes did. “You and Ayaan must come with me. As soon as Tariq is in good hands I will take you both home.” He threw a short, worried glance towards Asim, hoping the boy would be safe.
The people in the room drew back to allow them to pass through, more fearful of blood staining their clothing than concern for the injured man. Nobody else offered to help.
Baraq managed to support Tariq’s weight and held the cloth in place to staunch the blood. Tariq, his feet stumbling over the carpet, faint from blood loss, managed to grab the front of Baraq’s garment.
“Rachael….” He managed to croak. “What about Rachael?”
“She’s here, she’s safe.”
Tariq’s fierce gaze had become fearful. “Will you take….care of her?”
“You’re not going to die Tariq, insha’Allah.”
“But you’ll look after her?”
“I promise. I promise I’ll take care of her.”
Alaia came to his side and spoke softly. “I will look after her as though she were my own sister until you are well again.” It was the first time she had ever spoken to him voluntarily, and the first time she had ever spoken to him without wishing she could spit in his face. She even smiled to reassure him. No, she would take no pleasure from his death at all.
Zeb was grateful to see Baraq drag the injured Tariq away, out into the street where he could either bleed to death or not. He really didn’t care either way, although he had no compassionate feelings towards the man who had lost him several thousand Riyal. Dying men were not good for business and he wanted no authorities involved. He cast a swift glance at Kit; he hoped his irritating nephew intended to spend enough money to justify these constant interruptions although he doubted it.
~
Elsie
I slip through the crowd and pick up the locket before Alaia takes my arm and I follow her outside. As we leave she pulls her own cloak from her shoulders, the black thing she wears over her dress and headscarf. She looks very pretty in a headscarf, it shows off her eyes.
The cloak is long and dark, like something the grim reaper would wear, but she drapes it over my head and body, pulling it closed over my short dress.
“You can’t walk around like that.” She tells me. “The Mutaween will arrest you.”
I have no idea who the Mutaween are, but her look is sombre so I assume I don’t want to fall foul of them. Then she takes my hand. “Uncle Baraq’s car is not far and it’s dark.”
“I can’t go!” I stop on the big staircase, a staircase belonging to an old world. “My friend, Missy, she’s still there!” How could I even think about leaving without her.
It’s dark outside, I can see the moon through the huge, arched windows, church windows Gran called them. Somehow it’s darker in that other room, the one full of rich clothing and wine where human beings have become masters and slaves instead of people.
“Come on!” Alaia tries to pull me on, but I don’t move, the red carpet is threadbare beneath my bare feet where generations of people have climbed these stairs, people with their own worries and joys, and yet people who would never have imagined what their lovely town hall, a focal point for the community, would one day become. I know it’s a town hall because of the tarnished bronze plaque, the one that says the foundation stone was laid by Lady Syliva Harrison in 1848 and dedicating the New Town hall to the people of the area.
“I’m here dummy!” The girl in the Niqab grabs my hands and pulls me close. Missy’s eyes stare out at me and I give a squeal.
“Shhh!” Baraq is ahead of us, struggling with Tariq’s weight. I grab Missy’s hand and we follow Alaia down, into the wide hallway where the open door allows us to step out into the night air. The same air I breathed back home, in Gran’s garden.
“Missy?” I whisper. “How did you…?”
“Hush El. Talk later.”
“Where’s Dai?” I saw him, I know he did.
“He’s getting back a different way. Trust him. He got this far. I’d never have credited him with so much tenacity.”
Missy squeezes my hand and we head down, through the fancy hallway with the chipped carvings of what I think are angels above our heads. Lots of people believe in guardian angels, Ms. Weller, my old maths teacher used to say everyone had their own guardian angel looking out for them. If that’s true, some of them do a very, very bad job.
Once outside Baraq and Alaia manage to carry Tariq for about two hundred metres before finally letting him sink to the pavement. I stand close to Missy, staring around at the road illuminated by streetlights in wonder. I’m used to a small, rural village, this is a built up area, grey stone, with three-story houses stretching up on either side of the street and not a patch of scrubby, yellow grass anywhere. On
e or two of the buildings have broken windows, but it’s far less dilapidated than some of the photos I’ve seen of our own cities.
It’s weird to think this was all one country once, where everyone lived together and nobody went to war. I wonder if it was nicer back then? I wonder if it’s possible to have any sort of equitable society without all the intense, pro-equality education we receive in Old Britain? My university professors say it’s impossible, that white people are born to be hate-filled and violent and need to be restrained in our colonial instincts. But, another professor said that all people are born blank slates, and race and gender are social constructs. That contradiction never made sense to me. I remember Missy challenged it once, Missy could get away with challenging things more easily than I could, but she was never given an answer.
Baraq calls the hospital, what Alaia says is the Mustashfa, but he speaks in Arabic, so I don’t know what he’s saying. Alaia, a smear of Tariq’s blood on her face, speaks to us swiftly.
“Don’t talk, English is forbidden in the street. The Mutaween are unlikely to want us as witnesses to Tariq’s accident, our testimony is not worth the same as a man and for once I’m glad. Once Tariq is in the hands of the doctors Uncle Baraq will take us home.”
“You actually have a car?” I find this amazing. Private individuals hardly ever have cars any more and I’m starting to think maybe it’s because Old Britain has no money rather than because we care so much about the environment.
Alaia nods. “It’s very old, and a lot of roads are not passable since the war.” She sighs. “Our authorities place a higher priority in seeing that we do not transgress Islamic law than on mending the infrastructure of the country.”
I swallow. That seems familiar. The government’s targets are always concerned with getting equal numbers of women or minorities into every area of public life, they’re never concerned with the big things like the Wolf attacks. It’s like Wolf attacks are just something we have to accept, but warped thinking is not.