The Djinn Falls in Love and Other Stories

by Mahvesh Murad

  “The Chinese want us to go into orbit,” he said. The Arwa’s continued presence was costing the port. Soon those costs would be passed to Bukhari’s employers, and Bukhari would be in the firing line. He wiped his brow. The perspiration no longer itched, but he knew it was there, leached from his pores with every moment the Arwa was in sight. The ship was steadily dehydrating him. He looked to Fahima. Her skin was dry.

  “Can you feel it?” he asked.

  “Have you considered that one of your crew may be possessed?”

  “At least one of them was.”

  “How many do you think there are?”

  “Isn’t that your job?”

  She shrugged. “The more information I have...”

  “At least three. Maybe four.”

  “And they are not benign?”

  It felt like bad luck to speak of bad spirits. Bukhari chose his words carefully.

  “There have been...” he hesitated. “Incidents.”

  “They like space.”

  Fahima’s gaze rested on the ship, unflinching. The Arwa had fully engaged her attention where Bukhari had not. He hoped she was seeing through that beautiful hull, tempered like the armour of a Saharan silver ant, to the heart of the things that lurked inside. He hoped she would deliver them.

  The lemur pawed at Fahima’s cheek. She gave it another piece of fruit.

  “Can’t blame them, really,” she added. “We colonized it. Why shouldn’t they?”

  The lemur spat out a seed, narrowly missing Bukhari’s shoe. They had been in one another’s company for less than thirty minutes and already he hated the animal.

  “What happened to Ajam?” he asked again.

  “He was diverted.”

  There was no way of checking. Ajam lived on the outskirts of the Arabian Desert, divorced from any form of digital communication. He could only be contacted in person.

  “So how long will it take? The cleansing?”

  “Do you think I can answer that?”

  Her abrasiveness wounded him. If nothing else, he expected sympathy. He blinked across the reports.

  “You’ll want to read these.”

  “I’d like to interview some of the crew myself.”

  He sighed. “I can arrange appointments, though I doubt you’ll get anything more out of them. It’s all in there.”

  THE LOCAL COFFEE was an abomination, so Fahima settled for a pot of rooibos tea. She buried her nose in its steam, letting the fresh aroma clear her sinuses and her mind. Listening. Past the hubbub of the café around her, the relentless chatter of the port beyond. There. A tug of something. A thread. Thud, thud, heavy as mud – It had been there, as they stood surveying the ship. It – they – were still there.

  Her first interviewee arrived. A stocky, muscular man with a shaven head, he could have made an imposing figure. The effect was diminished by his movements – furtive, like those of a small animal – and the alcohol on his breath. He scanned every corner of the café before easing into the seat opposite.

  “Captain said you wanted to see me?”

  “You’re Faris Darzi, the technician?”

  “Yes...”

  “Fahima,” she introduced herself. “You know, Faris, if a spirit chooses to appear to you, it will not do so behind your back. Would you like some tea?”

  Faris shook his head, then yelped as the lemur’s head popped up above the table.

  “What the fuck’s that?”

  “A Madagascan lemur. You’ve never seen one?”

  He glared at the animal. “I’m Mars-born. Local boy.”

  “Tell me about the cryopods. You were on duty that day, yes?”

  “That’s right.”

  Faris struggled to recover his composure. The faulty pod had been discovered through a routine maintenance check, the day before the Arwa’s scheduled departure. As usual, a monkey was placed inside one of the units, its stasis set for an hour. When Faris returned, the monkey did not revive. The pod was checked, first by other crewmembers, then by external engineers. It had not malfunctioned. The monkey was examined by the ship’s veterinarian. It had not suffered a heart attack, or any other form of trauma. There was no reason the monkey should not have woken.

  “It didn’t make sense,” said Faris. “If it hadn’t been for the eyes, I would have said it was sabotage. There’s plenty of people’d like to see this mission fail, I can tell you –”

  “The eyes?”

  “Yeah.”

  He tore his gaze away from the lemur. She noticed he had started to sweat.

  “Its eyes were open, you see. When I started the stasis, they were closed. When I came back it was staring straight up at me, and the look on its face – I’ve never seen anything so evil. At first I thought it had woken prematurely. But it didn’t move. I checked the life signs and it was dead.”

  The lemur mewed. Faris squeezed his hands tightly together. It was clear that all he wanted to do was get up and run until his limbs gave out.

  “That’s when I knew it was a spirit,” he said. “It was right there, behind the eyes. It knew I could see it. It wanted to be seen.”

  “And after that?”

  “We checked the other pods. Three of our monkeys survived. The others – well, I suppose you’d say they were sacrificed. We checked everything. There was nothing to choose between the pods. But of course, they had to be replaced.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then the other stuff started.”

  “And there’s no question in your mind it was a spirit?”

  “Listen. I –” He glanced around, leaned in close. She could smell the sourness of alcohol. “I was never what you might call a devout man. Done my duty, but the minimum, right? Since this started, I’ve been in the mosque five times a day, I’ve prayed and prayed and prayed and I tell you, there’s nothing in this world or the next that would get me back on that ship. It’s cursed.”

  THE CRYOPOD COMPANY had recalled all machines from the same production line, although no other malfunctions had been reported; many of them were in use, their occupants drifting millions of miles away. The company directors were furious over the loss of income, but what choice did they have? It was a matter of reputation.

  Whilst the crew waited, a spate of minor thefts and pranks rippled through the ship. At first it was childish in nature, almost playful. Socks and underwear were switched. Chilli powder was rubbed into bedsheets. Zero gravity activated at mealtimes.

  Inevitably, the thievery escalated. Personal possessions disappeared. One copy of the Quran vanished, another was desecrated with illegible scribblings and drawings of genitalia. A cherished ring was stolen from the research team’s petrologist. The ring had belonged to her father, who had died in the south Martian mines, and its value was immeasurable.

  Only after a military-grade spacesuit went missing did the port police agree to take action. Local thieves were interrogated, and some incarcerated. The police advised Bukhari to increase his ship’s security. But by then the murmurs could not be quelled. None of the stolen items were recovered. It was clear the jinn had taken them to their own realm.

  Bukhari received word that the new pods had been dispatched. The thefts abated, a cautious departure date was agreed, and for a few days it felt like things were back to normal.

  Then a junior chef was discovered screaming and delirious in his bunk. He had woken in the night to find a dark figure standing over him. Gripped with terror, he had been held in its presence, unable to move or even to cry for help, for several hours.

  Sleep paralysis, said the doctor. But the condition spread like a plague. Within days, at any one time six or seven crewmembers were frozen in their bunks, rigid and petrified in the conviction that they were not alone. Someone – something – was in their cabins with them.

  THE IMAM HAD the look of a woman whose serenity had been snatched from her in the night, although not without a battle. She sat erect and proud, ignoring the clamour around them and appraising
Fahima openly – although what conclusions she came to, the jinn hunter could not say.

  “You’ve been on the ship since it departed Earth?” Fahima began.

  “Yes, I was present for the blessing.”

  Fahima offered her a cup of rooibos. The imam accepted. She had slender, delicate hands, at odds with the sternness of her expression. Every minute or so, a tremor ran through those hands. The imam ignored that too.

  “And you were amongst those who suffered sleep paralysis?”

  “We all did – all except one. Have you experienced it yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Imagine you are awake, in the safety of your own bed, but there is an entity in the room with you. Sometimes it stands at the end of the bed, sometimes it sits upon your chest. Your lungs are crushed. You can barely breathe. You have never known such terror. Your rational mind knows this is the torment of malignant spirits, but you cannot bring any part of your body to move. You are, in short, at its mercy.” The imam paused. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “One does one’s best not to indulge vices, but...”

  “You told Bukhari the jinn were breeding.”

  The imam lit her cigarette. “The doctor and I were in agreement on that. It was the only explanation for so many concurrent cases of paralysis. And then there were the voices.”

  “Your second pilot.”

  “Yes. Dima.” A brightness rose in the imam’s eyes; she blinked it hastily away. “May her soul find peace.”

  THE VOICES WERE benign at first. Surprising, because Dima had never experienced auditory hallucinations, but benign. The voices commented on what the pilot was doing at any given moment, from cleaning her teeth to deep-level navigational immersion. They joined her in her prayers. They offered compliments. How marvellous, said the voices, to lead an expedition to Jupiter’s fabled moons! How she would be celebrated, what feats she would achieve – why, even the great Saga Wärmedal could not compare! At mealtimes in the canteen, the second pilot gained a new lease of energy. Where she had been taciturn, she was ebullient. Her talk turned boastful, packed with accounts of past glories, but the rest of the crew forgave her because she told her tales with such verve and wit. With the unspoken weight of the cryopod situation hanging over them, everyone was in need of entertainment.

  After a few weeks, a new voice insinuated itself with the others. This voice was less complimentary. It had questions, doubts. A tendency to sneer. Why was Dima, with her qualifications and experience, only second on the pilot’s register? In years to come, who would remember her name when all the credit would be attributed to another?

  Dima tried to argue. The voices weren’t right, she knew that, but every time she thought about telling someone, they began to sing in the most exquisite chorus. It’s not about the glory, she told them. We’re all pioneers. But even to her ears, the statement sounded false. Pathetic, really. Everyone knew the name Neil Armstrong, but who remembered Michael Collins, the first man to see the dark side of the Moon? Was it enough, for only Dima to know the truth of her worth? Could she live with herself, knowing she had not fought for what she deserved?

  There was a way, the voice suggested, that this oversight could be overcome.

  “YOU WITNESSED THE attack.”

  “Myself and fifty others. It was at breakfast, and most of the crew were present. Dima was telling stories as usual – some Moon exploit or other.” A tremor caused the imam to spill ash on her saucer, and she looked for a napkin, irritated. “I give every woman and man the benefit of the doubt, but by then it was difficult to know what to believe with her. Anyway, Joumana, our first pilot, asked her to clarify something, I can’t remember what it was. And Dima attacked her.”

  “Physically?”

  “Oh, yes. It was extraordinary to witness. The others were trying to pull her off, but she had gained such strength. I heard her break a man’s arm like a twig.”

  “Was Joumana badly hurt?”

  “Did you not read the reports? She required an eye transplant, and cranial reconstruction. Yes, I’d say she was badly hurt. Bukhari and I visited Dima in hospital afterwards. Sedated, obviously. Bukhari knew he had to ask her to leave, but she’d come to that conclusion herself. ‘There are malign spirits on board this ship,’ she told us. ‘And they will not leave, so I must.’” The imam sighed. “The poor woman.”

  “She believed she was possessed.”

  “She knew she was.” The imam gave Fahima a penetrating look. “Not every crewmember is a believer. I am there for those who are. Dima was one of them. She would not have harmed a soul.”

  “Why didn’t you speak to her sooner, when the changes began to manifest?”

  “I tried.” Her face grew troubled. “Perhaps I could have done more. But the harder I pushed, the more she distanced herself. I prayed for her every day. In the end, the creature was too strong.”

  The second pilot had departed for Earth, and everyone was deeply relieved. It was a dreadful business, but better for all concerned if she were possessed elsewhere, preferably on another planet, and in a remote location where she – or rather, the spirit – could not assault anyone.

  “One more question. You said there was a crew member who didn’t experience sleep paralysis. Who is that?”

  The imam lit a second cigarette.

  “That would be Dr Samara.”

  FAHIMA ASKED THE café to connect her to Bukhari.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “I assume your crew underwent a full psychiatric evaluation before you departed Earth?”

  “Of course they did. Do you take me for a fool?”

  “Just getting the facts. I’ve been called in before for cases of mass hallucinations that proved to be no more than that. Strange things happen in space.”

  “This isn’t one of those cases,” he said, and cut the call.

  HER FINAL INTERVIEW was with a young astrophysicist on a post-doctoral placement. He refused the tea, but ordered a slice of carrot and cardamom cake, his appetite evidently unaffected by recent events.

  “Tell me about Dr Samara.”

  Raheem nodded enthusiastically. “Incredible scientist. I’d wanted to work with her ever since I entered the field.”

  “And how was she? To work with?”

  “Strict, I suppose. She wanted everything done just so. But very fair. She always gave me credit for my work. Not everyone does that. Some of them want all the glory for themselves.”

  “You spent a lot of time together.”

  “Yes. The others started living off-site, but all our equipment was on board, so we stayed.” He paused, fork halfway to his mouth, a smear of buttercream on the mouthful of cake. “I don’t know what to say. There was no warning.”

  Dr Samara had not displayed any signs of instability. Alone amongst the crew, she was not tormented by sleep paralysis. She continued her research as she always had, remained stoic in the face of delays (the pods had not yet arrived; the first pilot was recovering from major surgery), and quietly optimistic about the voyage ahead. When others expressed doubts or fears, Dr Samara was always ready with a bolstering quote: she spoke seven languages, and anything from the Quran to Ibn-al-Nafis to Malala Yousafzai would do.

  One morning, the physicist took herself to the decontamination chamber and removed all of her clothes and her shoes. Naked, she stepped inside the chamber, where she locked the doors and activated the chemical decontaminant. It was hours later that her body was discovered. The engineer who found her could not prevent himself from vomiting on site. Such was the extent of the damage, it was not until a register of the crew had been taken that it was possible to identify the corpse.

  The physicist had left a message in her cabin:

  The life of this world is nothing but the enjoyment of deception.

  She had deleted her database of research. A virus was squirming its way through each of its backups. The impact to the scientific community would be devastat
ing.

  That was when Bukhari requested the services of Aamir Ridha Ajam.

  “SHE LEFT NOTHING for you, Raheem? No note or explanation?”

  “Not a word. Look, I’m not religious myself. I always look for a scientific explanation, and so does – I mean, did – Dr Samara, and she was a Muslim. But I’ve never known anyone who loved their work as much as she did. Even if she wanted to kill herself, she wouldn’t have deleted the work.”

  “I understand.”

  Raheem scooped up the last few crumbs of cake.

  “I was so excited about Ganymede,” he said. “When I got the confirmation – I can’t tell you how that felt.”

  “Well, the Arwa’s mission is only postponed.”

  “Kind of down to you, isn’t it? Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  She sensed the curiosity behind his words. The young researcher would love to analyse her, to extract a scientific explanation for her work. She smiled, deflecting his interest.

  “I suppose it is.”

  “I’ll still go,” he said. “With or without jinn – if that’s really what this is. Ganymede is worth the risk. But not many of us would say that.”

  FAHIMA STOOD IN the shadow of the ship’s hull, the lemur’s tail wrapped around her throat. She thought of the long journey to Ganymede, the ship a mere speck hurtling through the vault of space. The arrival. How would it feel to look upon an untouched moon? To hold its landscapes in your gaze, and know that its secrets were yours?

  The lemur was agitated, mewing continuously as they approached the boarding ramp. She reached up to stroke his head, and ran her hand along the animal’s spine.

  “I know, I know.”

  She felt his fur separate into ridges against her palm.

  “I can hear it too,” she said.

  ON BOARD, THE sensation of both presence and absence was stronger. Without its crew, the ship was a network of veins drained of blood. It contained the most advanced technology in the solar system, but it felt like an antique.