‘Tell me about him,’ she said quietly.
Layla turned to her. ‘You must help him. Can you help him?’
Ellen put her hand on hers. ‘I don’t know. Tell me what you can.’
The driver was banging the horn with the heel of his hand, slipping through the traffic around him. It was late afternoon and the light was softening. The rain had stopped.
Ellen listened as Layla struggled to tell her in English about Marva and Adnan’s attempt to rescue her and the price the fighters had forced him to pay.
‘Do you think he understood what they’d sent him to do?’
Layla shook her head. ‘He is a good boy but he is not clever. He is like a child.’
Layla suddenly unknotted her fingers and grasped Ellen’s hand. Her fingers were hot, tight round Ellen’s. They fell silent, sitting close together in the back of the car as they drove. Ellen wondered what was happening to Adnan now, if he were being punished for the things he’d told her. Outside, the fields were glistening, hung with brown mist. A distant range of mountains ran along beside them, its peaks blurred with cloud.
Chapter 17
When she switched her phone on again back in the camp, a text message bleeped. From her editor in London, Phil: Call me. That was rarely a good sign.
She walked past the admin building to the wilderness at the back, searching for quiet. The base of the border fence was littered with debris. Scraps of plastic and polystyrene packing had been swept there by rainwater flowing through to the ditch beyond. There was a rank, heady smell of decay.
She walked in brisk circles. Beyond the fence the mudflats made a gently undulating sweep, interrupted only by the dirt track. A few youths were playing cricket, using sticks for stumps. In the distance, the slowly trudging figures of newly arriving families were picking their way wearily towards the camp.
Phil answered at once. Here the light was already starting to fade, the mountains casting long shadows. In London, it was only lunchtime. She could tell at once that he was in a bad mood.
‘You seen The News? Their magazine?’
She scuffed her feet in the dirt, playing for time. ‘Khan?’
Phil was flicking through paper on his desk, the rustling amplified by the line. ‘You knew?’ He grunted. ‘Six-page spread. Colour shots of him in the camp. With the top brass in Islamabad. Travelling. The works.’
She bit her lip, inwardly cursing. She’d assumed John had been exaggerating. He usually did.
‘Blows us out of the water.’ Phil’s voice was measured but he was speaking slowly and deliberately, a sign he was furious.
‘Well, Phil, I did—’
He cut her off. ‘They got a news line out of it too. He’s tipped for a peerage.’
‘That’s speculation, Phil. Come on. He probably started that rumour himself.’
A flock of dark birds was swooping low through the sky, wheeling over the tents and arcing back towards the mountains. In London, Phil had gone quiet. Ellen strained to think.
‘It may not hurt, Phil. I’ve got great material on the camp. I could do something substantial.’
‘No bleeding hearts, Ellen. Heard it all before.’
She took a deep breath. ‘It’s not just that. I’m working on something much harder.’
He paused. ‘Like what?’
‘I can tell you more in a day or two.’ The blood was booming in her ears. If Phil didn’t go for this, he was perfectly likely to call her home and the whole trip would be branded a failure. ‘It’s on links between the camp and the Taliban.’
‘What links?’
‘I’m still standing it up. You know that family I wrote about? One of them’s been arrested for being a suicide bomber. I’ve just interviewed him. It’s an exclusive.’
Silence from Phil. She kept talking. ‘And I think the Taliban’s siphoning off supplies to the camp. And putting their own people in here to stir up trouble.’
A slow tap, tap. Phil was bouncing his pen lightly on his desk.
‘If that happened . . .’ He was thinking. ‘Embarrassing for Khan. Messes up his showcase.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Embarrassing for The News too, after this puff piece.’
His office door opened and voices spilt in. Ellen strained, trying to identify them. Phil was saying, ‘Come on in, won’t be a moment.’
He came back on the line. ‘How much longer do you need?’
She hesitated. ‘Another couple of days?’
‘No more.’
‘OK.’
The line was already dead. Ellen switched off her phone and let out a long sigh. Damn John. He’d be so smug. Khan’s people would be all over him.
She paced back and forth in the dirt for some time, thinking about what she’d just promised. She had so little. Somehow she had to pull this into a decent story in a day or two. Phil had sounded short of patience.
She was walking aimlessly, tracing a wide circle at the back of the admin building. As she approached her starting point, a movement near the back of the women’s medical tent caught her eye. She looked up. A man was loitering there, keeping to the shadows. Ellen edged closer, trying to see. It was Doc in his grubby salwar kameez. He was standing with his back to her and he seemed to be talking to someone, his arms flapping as if he were remonstrating with them. It was too far away for her to hear their voices but she sensed tension.
She inched towards him. A moment later, he turned on his heel and walked abruptly away, heading directly towards her for a few steps, then cutting left down the side of the small administrative tent and disappearing. She hadn’t been able to see who was inside, talking to him. They had stayed carefully hidden from view. By the time she reached the ward, the partitioned back rooms were deserted. The main ward too was still and quiet.
Back in the hotel, she stood in the shower for a long time, scrubbing her body and running the water so hot it turned her skin red. Adnan shouldn’t be in that police cell. It was pitiful, the way he’d surrendered to her to have his tears wiped. The bruises on his face showed what sort of interrogation he’d been through. That was what she should write about. She tipped her face to the running water, letting it splash on her cheeks, mouth, and cascade in rivulets down her neck. No bleeding hearts, Phil had said. But he was being ridiculous.
She wrapped herself in a towel and walked through to the bedroom. She called room service and ordered dinner. She ought to tell Frank about Adnan. There might be something he could do.
The hotel’s Internet connection was slow. It took her half an hour to log on and download John’s piece from The News’s website. A young waiter arrived and wheeled in her food on a trolley. She sat in her bathrobe on the twin bed, dipping naan bread in vegetable masala with one hand and scrolling up and down the story with the other.
It was typical John, full of hype and riddled with references to his own feelings. There was a whole paragraph about how deeply moved he’d been to witness the conditions in the camps. That was despite the fact he hadn’t actually spoken to any of the refugees. All he’d done in the camp was stand around gossiping and eaten the aid which was in such short supply.
The article dripped with praise for Quentin Khan and his saintliness. Ellen narrowed her eyes. John seemed to be campaigning for Khan to become a lord. He must be after something, a job or some other reward. John had written some very fanciful descriptions of the hardships Khan was enduring in Pakistan. Hard to reconcile with her own memories of his hotel suite and the lavish party.
The business content of the profile was more useful. John had a whole page on the growth of Khan’s transport empire, including some loosely rounded figures about his multimillion-pound annual profits. She saved that whole section. John would have been spoon-fed the figures by Khan’s people and no doubt they were massaged. But even so, she was surprised at how well Khan was doing, despite tough economic times. She tore off a final strip of bread and ran it round her masala dish, remembering Khan’s poise as he firs
t emerged from the helicopter and raised his hand to the watching camp. Maybe he was a more wily businessman than she’d realized.
She was just getting into bed when there was a timid knock at her door. Frank, she thought, with his whisky. She could do with some. She stacked the dinner dishes to one side and padded to the door, realizing with a smile how much she was looking forward to seeing him.
‘I’m sorry. It’s late.’ Britta looked dishevelled. ‘You’re going to bed?’
‘Not yet.’ She held the door open. ‘Come on in.’
Britta unlaced her boots and left them at the door with her rucksack. They were damp and muddy. Britta too looked mudsplattered. She paced into the centre of the room and stood, looking round vacantly.
Ellen filled the kettle and switched it on. Britta went into the bathroom. There was a clink and thud as she set down her keys and wallet on the faux marble surround, then a gurgling of water as she washed her hands.
She came back, looking bewildered. Ellen sat on the edge of the bed, motioned her to sit on the other bed and waited. Britta sat heavily, her head lowered. She was silent for a while. When she finally spoke, the words came out in a torrent.
‘Four more deaths today. I don’t know what to say to people. I can’t understand. Really.’ She raised her eyes for a second, scanned Ellen’s face, then let them fall again. She had a desperate, haunted look. ‘I’ve worked in places with typhoid but I’ve never known this. This lack of response to treatment. Such a high fatality rate. And this is just the start. Water is everywhere. Hygiene is terrible. I don’t know what to do.’ For a moment, she seemed about to cry. Instead she gave a shuddering sigh.
‘Can’t anyone else help?’
‘I’ve asked for help. I need another nurse. Fatima is always there late into the night, I don’t know how she manages. The doctor running the men’s unit wants more staff too.’ She shrugged. ‘They say they’re processing our applications. We’re only a tiny charity.’
The kettle shook on its stand and boiled. Ellen made tea and put a mug into Britta’s hands. She sat, holding it, dazed. Finally she seemed to shake herself and looked up at Ellen with new concern.
‘I haven’t said: two of these four female deaths today, they weren’t in the medical unit. They were out in the camp. There are so many rumours about us now that people are too frightened to come. They think we’ll kill them.’ She pulled a face as if to say: Who can blame them? ‘I only just heard about the last death. That’s why I’m late.’ She was staring into her tea, suddenly awkward.
‘There are always rumours,’ Ellen said, ‘in situations like this. It’s—’
‘It’s that girl’s mother.’ Britta wouldn’t look at her.
Ellen hesitated, taking a moment to understand. ‘Layla?’
She nodded miserably. ‘That’s what I came to say.’
‘Her mother?’ Layla had been with her just hours ago. Why hadn’t she said her mother was ill? She shouldn’t have taken her. How awful. She hadn’t known.
‘They kept it hidden,’ Britta said. ‘Worried about what we’d do, I suppose. She had fever, headache, diarrhoea. Not so unusual.’
‘When did she die?’
‘Just now, this evening. They’ll bury her tomorrow.’ She looked at her watch and her mood changed. ‘I must go.’ She got to her feet, her mug full in her hands.
‘At least finish your tea.’
‘No.’ She looked distracted. ‘I’m sorry. It’s late. I hadn’t realized.’
‘Are you OK?’
Britta didn’t answer. She turned to put her mug on the table, hiding her face. When she straightened up to leave, her cheeks were flushed. She said goodnight, gathered up her keys and wallet from the bathroom, her boots and rucksack at the door, and was gone.
Ellen switched off the lights and sat alone at the window, looking down into the hotel grounds. Reflections from the dining room were skimming the surface of the swimming pool, making it gleam in the darkness. Layla’s mother must be younger than she was. Had they known she was so ill? Layla never mentioned it. Neither did Ibrahim. She wrapped her arms round her knees and rested her chin on them. She thought back to the first time she’d met Ibrahim. He’d seemed so desperate, so alone. How had she helped his family? Barely at all.
Outside, the rain had stopped but the windows were still splattered with water. A drop slowly formed, swelled and broke free, meandering down the pane. Layla was too young to lose her mother. It wasn’t right. Behind her, the air conditioning clicked on and started to blow. In the next room a telephone rang out.
Down below, the shadows under the trees were shifting. A night breeze. The figure of a woman appeared. Ellen sat up straight. She was crossing the grass near the swimming pool. She was big-boned and European, her head covered with a chador. Ellen got to her feet and moved to the far edge of the window to get a better view.
Britta’s rucksack was bouncing lightly on her back. Strands of blonde hair, spilling out from her headscarf, shone in the half-light. She was moving cautiously. As she approached the trees and bushes, she raised her hand as if she were greeting someone, then disappeared into the dense blackness of the shadows.
The next morning was dull with rain clouds. They sat low on the mountains, covering the peaks, and formed a grey canopy over the plains. Ellen picked her way cautiously along the camp’s slippery paths. Everywhere the dirt was churned to mud.
The wet had unleashed new smells, of the people and of the earth. A stout man along the path was repairing a shelter, scraping a coating of sludge off the plastic with his bare hands. Further on, the latrines had flooded. Two workers in fluorescent tabards were pumping the filthy water out with a noisy sucking machine.
She turned the corner to see a group of about twenty people walking out of the camp gates. The funeral procession had already left. They turned a sharp right along the border fence and headed towards the new, small graveyard on the far edge of the plain. She hurried to catch them up.
The body of Layla’s mother, wrapped in a sheet, was being carried on a hospital stretcher. Four men were holding it high on their shoulders. Ibrahim’s slight figure was in the front. More men were following, Uncles and brothers and cousins. Finally came the women, a ragged group, some staggering, some supporting, their arms threaded round each other. Their high-pitched wailing rose and fell, a ghostly ululating. Ellen walked alone, some distance behind, watching. Layla was amongst them, made smaller by grief. She was walking between two older women who kept their hands always on her shoulders, her neck, her back, earthing her.
The burial service was short. The imam recited from the Holy Book in a sing-song voice full of loss. Ellen looked down the row of freshly dug mounds. There were more than a dozen unmarked graves now. The waste ground was desolate, made more depressing by the dark low cloud.
The imam finished and the body was lowered slowly into the clay. The women wept and lamented together, tearing at their clothes and clawing at their faces. It was a lonely scene. The dead seemed abandoned, far from their villages and fields and family graveyards.
As the final prayers began, rain started to fall, splashing down onto the covered body as the first heaps of earth began to cover it. The mourners huddled together. Finally they began to turn and start the straggling walk back to the camp. Layla, taken up by the older women, looked befuddled. Ellen thought of her sister in the medical tent. She wondered if she even knew about her mother’s death.
The imam led the remaining relatives away. Ellen lingered at the graveside, watching the young men spade the muddy soil. The rain fell more heavily, wetting their heads and shoulders, bouncing off the earth. I ought to go back, she thought, but her feet didn’t move. The wet earth weighed down the young men’s spades. Their shirts were wet on their backs. They were muscular, full of strength and life. Layla’s eyes had seemed so dead.
She turned and looked back across the muddy plains. The distant mountains were chopped in two, their peaks swallowed by sunken cloud. The
darkness of the land was broken only by the glistening of thin sunlight on the surface water. The camp sat, bedraggled, a ragged collection of torn polythene and leaking canvas, heavy with falling rain.
The mourners had shrunk to small black shadows at the edge of the fence. Some distance away, to the right, a broad-shouldered young man was standing, turned towards her. She narrowed her eyes. He was alone, quite still in the rain, watching the activity around the grave. She thought she recognized him. Was he spying on a young woman’s funeral? She felt a sudden rage, an urge to drive him away, to defend Layla and all the grieving families who mourned here with so little privacy.
She started to stride towards him. She expected him to turn and leave. He didn’t. He stood his ground, his eyes hard on hers, waiting as she closed the gap between them. It was the same youth. The one who’d hung around the tents, eavesdropping, when Ibrahim had spoken to her. The one she’d seen waiting for Frank outside his room.
‘Who are you?’ she called out to him from a few paces.
He scowled. Maybe he didn’t speak English.
‘What is your name?’ She spoke more slowly.
‘My name is Saeed.’ His accent was thick but his voice was confident.
She had reached him now. He was a handsome boy, strong and angry and full of conviction. They stood for a moment, an arm’s length apart, taking each other in.
‘Why are you here?’
He pointed past her to the grave. The workers had almost finished. The earth formed a long low pile.
‘I saw you at the hotel. You’re a fighter, aren’t you? Spying for them.’
He didn’t reply. He stared her full in the face, his look direct and full of contempt.
‘Mohammed Bul Gourn.’ She said the name loudly and clearly and saw recognition in his eyes. ‘He is your friend. Your boss.’
He didn’t move. The rain was running off his wet hair, falling down the contours of his cheeks and through his young beard. His shirt was sticking to his shoulders and chest, emphasizing the muscle there.
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