Rotten Gods

by Greg Barron

  ‘Pull up here,’ the gunman directs. ‘And get out of the car.’

  Faruq thinks of running, but two men appear out of nowhere, both bearded like the other. One slams him face down against the car and frisks him. The original gunman appears, tucking a dull black revolver into his waistband, exchanging a few quick, congratulatory words with his comrades. They walk through a narrow space between adobe walls and into a courtyard filthy with old rubbish. The smell of shisha smoke and decay fills his nostrils. They move through a door and into the interior. Faruq looks in all directions like a captured animal, seeking assurance that he is not about to get a bullet in the head.

  The room they enter is dominated by a stained wooden table, an open hearth beside it. Benches run along one side. Dried herbs occupy an unfired clay vase, their fragrance long ago exhausted.

  Another man squats beside the table, rising as they enter. Faruq’s eyes are drawn to him, for he is of impressive physical bearing: narrow across the shoulders yet with eyes that mesmerise. Darker skinned than the others; blacker than any Arab. Something about him makes Faruq want to fall to his knees in obeisance.

  ‘Faruq Nabighah,’ the man says, taking both his hands. ‘Beloved of the Prophet, peace be upon you.’ He pauses. ‘You are a devout and godly man. Is that not true?’

  ‘It is true.’ Now Faruq understands: this is an imam, a scholar priest — the signs are unmistakeable. He falls to his knees, overcome by the man’s aura, the overwhelming presence.

  ‘Rise, my brother. Sit with me.’

  Faruq looks around him. The three armed men remain, leaning back against the wall. Is this some kind of test? He takes a chair and sits, looking at the dark face with its compelling eyes.

  ‘My name is Saif al-Din,’ the man says, ‘and I would like to talk with you.’

  ‘It will be an honour,’ Faruq replies. The other man’s name means ‘Sword of the Prophet’, a name that resonates deep in the bones of his soul.

  Those hypnotic eyes settle on his. ‘Do you believe that there is no God but Allah, and that Mohammed is His Messenger?’

  ‘Of course. I so believe.’

  ‘Do you practise Zakat? Do you set aside a portion of your earnings for the poor and needy in order to eliminate inequality among people of the one true religion?’

  Faruq coughs, wondering if such questions might be asked at the bridge to Jannah. He is ready, and proud to have done the right thing for so long. ‘Each week, sayyid, two hundred and fifty dirhams are transferred from my account to the Muslim Hands aid organisation.’

  The man nods. ‘And during Ramadan, do you observe the sawm?’

  ‘Yes, and I break my fast with a date, just as Mohammed did himself.’

  ‘What about the Hajj? Have you performed this most sacred of duties?’

  Faruq’s chest, already proud, swells further. ‘Yes, sayyid, I have journeyed to Maccah, I have worn the Ihram, and walked seven times around the Kaaba. I have stoned the devil with my own two hands.’

  ‘You observe Salat?’

  ‘Always, sayyid.’ Faruq holds his head high, displaying the singda in the middle of his forehead. The callus proves his devotion, caused by a lifetime of observing the five daily prayers, his head touching the earth each time.

  ‘You are a good Muslim, Faruq.’

  ‘Yes, I believe I am.’

  The black man changes, seeming to rise in the seat, his eyes burning with fire. ‘Then why,’ he shouts, ‘have you chosen to help the kufr, the Americans and their filthy pig allies, to dig towards Rabi al-Salah, where your brothers risk their lives to bring glory to God?’

  Faruq swallows, wondering how they found out. It is just a job, he wants to say, but his lips make no sound.

  ‘You are an affront to your religion. Your piety means nothing in the face of such an insult to your God and your people.’

  Faruq’s eyes widen. ‘I am sorry, but …’

  ‘The Americans will always lie, and their lies are like honey. Let me draw your attention to the word of God: “Such companions will divert them from the path, yet make them believe that they are guided.”’

  Faruq’s voice takes on a note of pleading, like a man arguing with his bank manager for a loan. ‘I am familiar with that surah. I am devout, as I have told you.’

  ‘Yes, you are devout, yet now you help the infidel against your own brothers for the shiny dollar — of which you already have a plentiful supply.’ Saif al-Din’s voice lowers. ‘They will use you like a dog, and cast you aside when they have extracted the last puff of benefit from you.’

  ‘I am sorry, I did not think …’

  ‘That’s right, you did not think.’ The black man opens a leather folder on the table. The first photograph shows a high-rise apartment building and the second, a woman and child entering a car on the street outside. Faruq feels his breath catch in his throat and a prickle of pure terror begin at the base of his spine and spread upwards.

  ‘You know who those people are?’

  ‘Yes, sayyid.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘That is my wife, Hamidah, and my daughter, Akilah.’

  ‘And the building?’

  ‘It is my home.’

  ‘Then you understand that there is great danger for them. That if you do not do what I tell you, I and my friends will visit that place where you live. I personally will fuck your girl and your hag of a wife until they regret every jewel and expensive dress they have earned from your whoring with the West. When I and then my brothers have punished them in the way of Ibn Tumart, I will cut their throats and leave their carcasses on their beds. Then you will be next, and your death will be slow. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, but how? I cannot withdraw from the tunnel. The difficult work is done. They will carry on without me. There are others …’

  ‘No, you must continue to give the impression of complicity. This is what you must do …’

  Faruq listens, numbed, for perhaps five minutes, before muttering agreement. ‘In the name of God, sayyid. I will do as you say.’

  ‘We will be watching, my friend, trusting you to serve God and your people. This is your opportunity to bring glory to your name. You have been a good man, a devout man, all your life. You have obeyed God’s law. Let me tell you that if you help the kufr, when the Day of Awakening comes, your devout life will be of no account. When you walk the narrow bridge over the fires of hell, you will fall, while your wife and children walk on to Paradise. Is that the end you have longed for?’

  ‘No, sayyid.’ Faruq is mumbling now, staring at the tabletop, sick at heart, not hearing the final threats … Do not even think of calling the police, or bringing them here. We will be gone, and if you do so, you and your loved ones will be dead before the echoes of your voice …

  Marika rarely dreams, and even when she does so, the images and sounds drain from memory within a moment of waking, leaving fragments of emotions — regret, wistfulness — or just a lingering half sadness that stays with her through breakfast, and occasionally beyond.

  During the night at that palatial desert home, however, her mind takes her on a rollicking journey that jolts her awake more than once, riding on wings of spicy desert air, or choking on a fog of imaginary dust. Wearing jasmine-scented robes she roams a world peopled with the familiar yet unfamiliar, roles reversed and images altered subtly. Shadowy shapes of refugees fleeing from a rising ocean, running headlong into desert, dust, and starvation.

  Marika dreams of the world she knows and has become a part of, where impartial media is just a memory and the public digests bias with the daily news without awareness, seeking out the entertainment factor beyond all else; where self-serving politicians no longer care about the public good and the forward march of nations, nor even civilisation itself in the endless thirst for personal power at the expense of morals. A world where, for a politician, there is only one justification for action and that is votes. A world that fears the end of the age of fossil fuels, the dryin
g up of oil, more than rising seas and the burning sun.

  Finally, she dreams of the acacia hut. The pouring rain, the mud dissolving in runnels towards the river. The cries as the man and the woman encourage each other in their efforts to resist what becomes inevitable. At how just a few neighbours come to help, how most stay inside their own huts. At how only more hands will save it now, more hands …

  The pounding on the door comes when it is still dark. Marika starts awake, ripped from her nocturnal wanderings. The sheets fall away from her chest as she sits up. She clutches at them as if for protection.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Sabah wanaqsan, madam. It is Ghedi.’ She recognises the voice, muffled by the door. ‘Aaba wants you to attend him.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘It is five thirty in the morning, madam, Aaba has been at his desk for some time.’

  ‘Can I have a shower first?’

  ‘Yes. I will inform Aaba.’

  Marika steps from the bed, aware of a vague hangoverish feeling that leadens her limbs. Her mouth tastes sour. She showers and dresses, again using the toothbrush placed there for her. Finally, stepping out into the corridor, she almost collides with Ghedi, who, it seems, has been waiting for her.

  Marika feels a touch of apprehension. The night before, Ghedi seemed, on the whole, subservient and disinterested. Now she notices a sardonic twist to his lips; a half-amused expression. She wonders if Dalmar Asad has told his servant about their deal. Or has the man been looking at the feed from the camera in her room? Watching her dress, watching her sleep. She shudders and follows him down the stairs, feeling revulsion for the largesse of the previous night, most of all for the bargain she has struck. In the cold light of morning it seems so childish, pointless — dirty. No, she decides, Dalmar Asad can have something else — money, kudos — but not her. This little Aussie is not for sale, she says to herself, repeating it several times like a mantra.

  At the foot of the stairs, Ghedi does not lead her towards the bar and dining room but down a wide, carpeted corridor. Closed doors lead off at intervals, and they pass through a courtyard, a skylight two floors high illuminating the space. Here Ghedi pauses at a door and knocks, turning the handle without waiting for an invitation from inside.

  The room’s interior is bright yet disorganised, an oddity after the clinical tidiness of the rest of the house. The first thing Marika notices is books — and not all in neat ordered shelves, either, but stacked on chairs and on the floor. A desk the size of a billiards table dominates one end of the room, and on the wall behind it are maps pinned so closely together that they overlay each other. Even from a distance it is obvious that Dalmar Asad’s interest in geography is not confined to Somalia, but includes Europe, and the Americas. This man, she decides, is one with wide interests — or ambitions.

  His voice reverberates through the room, but it is not until she has penetrated well inside that she sees him — down a side alcove, next to a window that overlooks a desert landscape tinged with the coming dawn. He glances across, yet his face registers no emotion.

  Even when he ends the call, walking towards her, still holding the slim cordless phone in one hand, his voice is brisk. ‘Sabah wanaqsan, I trust you slept well.’

  Marika returns the greeting. ‘Yes, very, thank you.’

  ‘I’m pleased.’ Turning to a tray he pours a hot, aromatic liquid into a tea cup and passes it to her. ‘Cha,’ he explains. ‘You will find it tasty, and while you drink I have some news for you.’

  Marika takes a sip. ‘Your men have found her already?’

  ‘Yes and no. Sufia Haweeya is not here in the local area — nor even in her native village where I expected her to be.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Come with me.’ Dalmar Asad leads her back into the main part of the office, standing in front of a map. ‘This is our location, here. You can see to the west of us a mountain range called the Hamman, deep in the Ogaden Desert, near our border with Ethiopia. It is a place of dust and sandstorms and dry wastelands, the hangout of shifta and outcasts — there is no law there, and even my own men will not enter the area unless in force. The woman you seek is hiding there, under the protection of a family group of nomads. That makes her, I am sad to say, rather inaccessible.’

  Marika nods. ‘Even so, I have to make the attempt — there isn’t much time left.’

  ‘That is already taken care of. I have prepared a ten-man patrol in three vehicles to move into the area and bring her out.’

  ‘I will go with them.’

  ‘There is no need. You may stay here as my guest, and my men will bring the woman back.’

  Ghedi interrupts, bringing two bowls of milky porridge, and placing them on the table.

  ‘Ugali,’ Dalmar Asad explains. ‘Maize meal with coconut milk. Very nutritious.’

  Marika picks up her bowl and eats several spoonfuls. The gruel-like preparation is bland and starchy, but not unpleasant; a step up from the version she consumed in the prison. ‘I insist on accompanying them. My presence might be crucial — I do not want her to come in under duress. Not unless it is necessary. Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course I do. You will be well protected and quite safe. The shifta are like dogs — ready always to attack the unprotected and unwary, but will run to their pathetic hiding places when the victim turns to bite. They will not take on a well-protected patrol, not one with heavy machine guns. I would accompany the venture also but I have already been away for several days, and I have much to attend to.’

  Marika shivers, wrapping her arms around her middle as if to warm her body. The success of her mission now rests in this man’s hands. Looking down at the ground so he cannot see her face, she wonders if, once again, she has misplaced her trust.

  Simon dreams of Isabella so often that at times he wakes with the feeling that they are still together, and he has to feel across the bed to be certain she isn’t there. Other times, these nocturnal visions turn to a darker side.

  This is when his mind conjures the most terrifying spectre he can imagine: the other man, naked and as male as a bull, muscled torso straining against Isabella. He dreams all the detail in the manner of the most graphic pornography. The man has the face of terror: bearded, eyes filled with hatred, eyes that have seen and orchestrated violent death many times.

  The image jolts him awake. At first he has the unpleasant feeling of not knowing where he is, hearing the dull thump of the diesels, conscious of the forward motion of the boat, slicing into the back of a swell, stalling for a moment, then racing as the energy of the wave carries her along. Blinking, he sits up, and sees Ishmael at the end of the bed, staring with an unusual, hazed expression, eyes narrowed to slits.

  The cabin has long been used as a storage room and every available space is filled with boxes, ropes, fenders, polystyrene buoys and even stacked books so that there is no room for two to stand. Ishmael, for this reason, is half out the door, half in. Simon’s anger flares at the Yemeni seaman walking in without knocking.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’

  ‘Lubayd told me to wake you.’

  ‘You could have knocked.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Are we almost there?’

  ‘Two hours, but my brother thought you might like to eat and be refreshed before our arrival.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Simon sits on the edge of the bunk, reaching down to pull on crusty, dry socks, then his shoes. Standing, he is still so drowsy from sleep that he needs to clutch at the doorway as he leaves the cabin.

  In the saloon Lubayd is at the dinette, busy with an archaic Toshiba laptop computer and open books. The helm is controlled by the autopilot, the wheel moving as if of its own accord. There is no sign of the old woman. The strange burnt smell Simon noted the previous day is stronger now, and he recognises it now — hashish smoke. The realisation explains Ishmael’s eyes and behaviour.

  ‘You slept well?’ Lubayd asks.

 
Simon studies the older brother. There is no sign of drug use in his eyes or manner. ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Forgive my books. I am studying a Bachelor of Economics degree by correspondence.’

  ‘Most commendable.’

  ‘King Saud University.’ He pauses as if waiting for a comment, then, ‘Ishmael will prepare your breakfast.’

  ‘How far away are we?’ Simon looks across at the plotter screen, seeing the first islands marked ahead, little more than outcrops in the sea.

  ‘Not far. Soon we will have to reduce speed, for there are uncharted shoals here, and many other dangers. Would you like to shower? There is sufficient time and we have a full tank of fresh water.’

  ‘I would appreciate that.’

  ‘I also advise you not to land on Socotra in Western attire. You will be a curiosity there and draw much attention. I will give you suitable clothes — I have many spares. They are loose, so will fit you.’

  Lubayd hurries below, returning with an armful of clothes that smell of naphthalene. Thirty minutes later, Simon looks in the mirror and cannot believe his own reflection — paler skinned than many Arabs yet, with his dark brows and hair, the shemagh on his head and a loose-fitting kandoura, he would not stand out in any Arab city.

  In the saloon he finds that Lubayd has abandoned his studies and is huddled over the radar set with Ishmael. In his hand he holds a compact USB memory stick, fiddling with the cap.

  ‘What is it?’

  The older brother turns. ‘We have received a distress call from a vessel near a stone outcrop called al-Kahf. You can see them on the radar.’

  Standing between them now, Simon sees the blip on the screen, so close to the stronger return off the outcrop that the two are almost indistinguishable. The VHF radio speaker crackles into life, a desperate voice: ‘Mayday, Mayday. Out of fuel and drifting towards rocks. Any vessel able to render assistance please acknowledge.’

  ‘Ask her to identify herself.’ Simon feels the thud of his heartbeat pulsing down into the deck under his feet.

  Lubayd speaks into the microphone and a voice from the ether responds. The name of the vessel is clear in the stutter of rapid, frightened dialogue.