The Good Sister

by Chris Morgan Jones

  ‘I have family in Raqqa.’

  The man continued to stare at him, not satisfied.

  ‘I need someone to take me there.’

  The kid couldn’t hold it in. ‘He needs a taxi!’

  Ignoring him, the man kept his eyes right on Abraham.

  ‘Why did you come here?’

  ‘A friend sent me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A man called Erol. He runs a bar in Antep.’

  The man thought for a moment more. He was greying, balding, a little out of shape, his authority settled in him like his paunch.

  ‘Have you been here before?’

  ‘I’ve never been to Turkey before.’

  ‘Can you prove that?’

  What was there to lose? From the back pocket of his trousers he produced his passport, and hands passed it to the head man, who started to flick through it.

  ‘You haven’t been anywhere.’

  ‘Not really.’

  The man thumbed through the pages once more from start to finish, as if it were a flick book, then threw it spinning back to Abraham, who trapped it awkwardly on the table.

  ‘If someone here wants to help you that’s their business,’ said the man and, holding up a finger, signalled to the owner for more coffee.

  Now Abraham was of no interest, and slowly the conversation started up again. First the talk was about him, and then it seemed to move on, and he was left to drink his tea at the corner table in peace.

  Peace, of course, he didn’t want. The sun had gone down, the call to maghrib, the fourth prayer of the day, had been sung – two men had left the cafe, the rest appeared not to register it at all – and before long the minarets would sound for the last time. What he was going to do when night fell he had no idea.

  But no one seemed to want his business. The men were still talking, more confidentially now, conspiratorially, leaning in over the tables. The cafe began to empty as they left in ones and twos, and at last the final prayer began to be called. The owner was clearing up, emptying ashtrays and noisily stacking plates and cups. Abraham got up and went to stand by the nearest table. The kid was still there, with two of his friends and two older men. The head man had gone home, or wherever it was such people went.

  ‘Hey, it’s the beard.’ The kid was still grinning. ‘I thought you’d left.’

  ‘I can pay five thousand lira.’ About a thousand pounds – a lot, here.

  ‘You have papers?’

  This was one of the friends, but he had a different quality to the others. Calmer, less excited by the moment, his voice deeper, slower. He was sitting with his back to the wall and his legs crossed, one elbow on the table and in his hand a cigarette with no filter that he seemed in no hurry to smoke. The others were all in nondescript clothes but he wore a suit, a sharp grey suit with thin lapels, and under it a cherry-red shirt. He might have been in the wrong place: a film set, or the bar of some Buenos Aires hotel. In this little group, he had authority.

  ‘I don’t,’ said Abraham. ‘I need papers.’

  The man took a drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke out in a slow stream. Next to his friends he was handsome, too: black eyes, a narrow face, brown hair that was neither messy nor neat, and about him the air of being more experienced, wiser, though he couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.

  ‘You want everything, don’t you?’

  ‘I just want to get to Raqqa.’

  Another drag. Abraham felt everything slipping from him.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me why you really want to go?’

  ‘I have family there. My wife’s family.’

  ‘What are their names?’

  Christ.

  ‘Labib. Sami Labib. That’s her father.’

  ‘And his wife?’

  ‘Ester.’

  ‘Where do they live?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Next to him the kid laughed and shook his head. His friend went on.

  ‘You don’t know? What you going to do, knock on every door?’

  ‘I have the address, just not here.’

  ‘With all your other things?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  They didn’t believe a word.

  ‘You’re going to have to tell me why you’re really going or this conversation is going to end real soon.’

  Abraham looked from him to the others and back again. If he was going to come clean he didn’t want an audience.

  ‘Just you.’

  The man jutted his chin at his friends.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Seriously?’ said the joker.

  ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’

  ‘Fuck sake.’

  It took a minute for them to collect their cigarettes and their matches, drink the last of their coffee, demonstrate that they were only going on sufferance.

  ‘Here. Sit.’

  Abraham glanced at the owner, who was wiping the table next to them. They were the last ones left now.

  ‘Don’t worry. Sit.’

  Abraham sat opposite the self-possessed young man and wondered where on earth to start.

  ‘I’m Abraham.’

  He held out his hand. It was hard not to shake a hand.

  ‘Murat.’

  ‘Thanks for talking to me, Murat.’

  ‘I’m just talking.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Murat crossed his arms. Go on. Convince me.

  So Abraham gave him everything. The truth. Who he was, why he was going, how little he knew about what he was doing. How his daughter had been tricked, duped at least, and how he feared that she’d be dead within weeks.

  ‘The women can last a long time,’ said Murat.

  ‘I think that might be worse.’

  With a flick of a finger Murat spun his packet of cigarettes round on the table, twice, three times, then picked it up, opened the lid with his thumb and held it up to Abraham, who told him no, thank you. Murat took one for himself, lit it, blew out the match and let the smoke out in a thin stream. Everything he did was self-conscious but at the same time relaxed, controlled.

  ‘I go. But I don’t take people.’

  ‘I need to get there.’

  ‘People are unpredictable. They do stupid things. Or they lie to you.’

  ‘I’m not lying.’

  ‘You lied to begin with.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not lying now.’

  Murat raised his eyebrows and drew on the cigarette.

  ‘Also, the price. Five thousand is nothing.’

  ‘I have more.’

  ‘Hundred thousand.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t have that.’

  Twenty thousand pounds. Impossible.

  Murat shrugged, sighed, tapped the ash off his cigarette.

  ‘My friend, you’re asking too much.’ He pushed his chair back. ‘I can’t do it.’

  Unconsciously, Abraham reached out and rested his hand on Murat’s forearm.

  ‘Please. I have to get there.’

  ‘I can’t do it.’

  ‘Do you know anyone?’

  ‘Come back tomorrow. Maybe some bastard’s crazier than me.’

  ‘I have to go as soon as possible.’

  Murat frowned mid-drag, squinting against the smoke rising into his eyes.

  ‘What’s the hurry? Don’t you like it here?’

  Maybe if he mentioned the police it would be a good thing. Establish his credentials as a serious person.

  ‘It doesn’t seem safe.’

  ‘Not safe for any of us, my friend.’

  Murat stood, pulled a wallet from his back pocket and from it a note.

  ‘I’ll pay for this,’ said Abraham.

  Murat thanked him, said goodnight to the owner, and left. Abraham caught up with him outside.

  ‘Here. My phone number.’

  He had written it down in preparation.

  ‘I’m not going to change my mind.’

  ‘Please. If you thin
k of anyone.’

  Murat took the piece of paper as if it was a bill or a summons or something else he didn’t want, and with a nod stuffed it into a pocket and began to walk away to his friends, who were waiting for him in an old white Nissan.

  ‘Can you tell me – I’m sorry.’

  Murat turned slowly, eyebrows raised again. The square was almost dark now and almost empty; the last worshippers had left the mosque and were hurrying in twos and threes down the side streets that led into the square. Four or five cars had gathered in the far corner, their doors open and the young men inside shouting from one to another, lolling like cats in the heat.

  ‘I have nowhere to stay.’

  ‘You’re serious.’

  What a sight he must be. No one would have him. But it was a warm night, and maybe there was an empty house, or one of those abandoned-looking warehouses he had seen on the edge of town.

  ‘Is there a park, or a . . .’

  ‘You tried the hotel?’

  Abraham nodded.

  ‘Son of a bitch. You’re serious.’

  ‘I’ll be all right, I just need . . .’

  ‘You can’t sleep on the street.’ Murat shook his head, looked across the square, and for an instant held the eye of a man who was standing there against one of the cars, arms crossed. ‘You won’t last till morning. Son of a bitch. Here.’

  He beckoned Abraham to him, put his hand on his shoulder and pointed beyond the mosque.

  ‘That street there? Take the third left off it and five or six houses down you’ll see a white house on the right, very neat, there are two olive trees growing outside. A crazy old woman lives there. Sometimes she takes people in. That’s all I can think of. I’d take you myself but I’ve got to go.’

  Abraham tried to fix the directions in his mind.

  ‘Get fucking going, Cairo. You don’t want to be out when it gets dark.’

  Murat slapped him on the back and left him standing alone in the square.

  7

  As Murat drove away, Abraham dropped his eyes to the floor and set off across the square, quickly but not so quickly that he might become more interesting than he already was, the only moving thing in the last of the dusk. Somewhere towards the border, a little way off, came four flat cracks that were almost certainly shots being fired. Christ, what a place this was.

  The street he turned into was empty. All the worshippers had vanished into the low houses either side, every window dark. It was as if some silent siren had sounded and shut down the town.

  Abraham kept his head down and walked faster. A left here would bring him up past the mosque to the street Murat had pointed out. Then right and second left. Easy. Just keep your wits about you and go as quickly as you can.

  He broke into a jog, almost unconsciously, feeling a prickle of fear start across his back and up the nape of his neck.

  As he approached the crossroads he slowed and pulled in to the wall of a building so he could peer round the corner back towards the square. If it came to a chase, he was done for. His lungs were burning and he could feel sweat damp on his chest.

  Fifty yards away, ten men were walking towards him. Ten, a dozen. The loping, casual walk told him they were the same men from the square, not locals, not the good Muslims who had come out in the dark in this hellhole to pray to their God, but the fighters, as they called themselves, full of that aimless purpose, as if they needed something to do and the first person they met would be the best prospect they had. In their hands, silhouetted against the light from the square, he was sure he saw guns.

  He pulled back against the wall. If he was quick and fast he could go back the way he had come and make a loop around them, maybe. But the street he was on was too long – he’d never clear the bottom before they appeared at the top.

  As quietly as he could, he retraced his steps, staying close to the wall, until he felt it give way behind him. Set back from the street was a chain-link gate about three feet high and beyond that what looked like a patch of garden, thick with plants; he fumbled for the catch, cursing it as it clinked in the silence, and when it wouldn’t open he straddled the gate awkwardly, dropped his shopping bags on the other side, and half fell onto the dry ground, shrinking into the darkness.

  The breeze and his breath, that was all there was. He kept his eyes shut because he thought that would be better, but it wasn’t; the fear built inside him until it was only with great effort that he managed to stop himself bolting over the gate and running, feet slipping on the loose surface, running across town and out onto those endless dark fields to some place where he might forever lose these bastards and himself. He opened his eyes. Nothing. No one there, no sound. They had kept straight on. They weren’t coming this way.

  In his corner, Abraham crouched right down. Now he could hear the individual crunch of boot on dirt. Keep still, barely breathe. They don’t know you’re here.

  Through the leaves he saw feet, three pairs. His breathing stopped. The men were quiet, too, walking slowly and not talking now, until they were a few yards past him and someone hissed something in Arabic that Abraham didn’t catch. Two men stopped, the rest kept walking. Abraham looked up and saw a figure coming back towards him, taking its time, scanning the ground. It came to the fence, perhaps twelve feet away, looked over it, left and right, saw enough and turned to join the group; thought better of it, and turned again to make sure. Abraham squeezed himself still closer to the wall.

  ‘Here!’ the figure shouted. ‘Fucker’s doing some gardening. You. Up.’

  Abraham pulled himself awkwardly up by the fence and unconsciously raised his hands in the air. The man in front of him had a machine gun that he held down low, pointing at Abraham’s belly.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing? You a fucking spy?’

  ‘No. No. I’m not a spy.’

  ‘Well who the fuck are you, brother?’

  The others were grouping round now, some laughing, some shouting, all enjoying themselves, all terrifying. Maybe ten of them, younger than him, stronger. Four had guns. By the light coming from the house Abraham thought he recognized two of them from outside the hotel earlier, and coming up behind them the Englishman from the lobby.

  ‘Get the fuck out of there, Daesh cunt.’

  The one who had found him grabbed hold of his shirt at the shoulder and hauled him hard over the fence. Abraham landed awkwardly on an outstretched hand before feeling himself pulled up again.

  ‘Get the fuck up. What you doing in there, motherfucker? Weeding?’

  Money. Could he offer them money, or would it make things worse? How could they be any worse?

  Abraham raised his hands in a futile conciliatory gesture.

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Hey, it’s the lanky fuck. Why you hiding, motherfucker?’

  The Englishman came forward and stood all of a foot away from Abraham, tobacco and beer on his breath and in his right hand a pistol, which he brought calmly up to Abraham’s face, touching the barrel to his cheek. So young he looked grotesque. He was no man. He was a boy with a gun, twenty at most. Even his voice was trying hard to be older than it was.

  He waited for Abraham to answer the question.

  ‘I . . . I thought you might be Daesh.’

  The gun drove harder in, pushing the flesh towards his eye.

  ‘Fuck does that mean? I look like fucking Daesh?’

  ‘It’s dark, I couldn’t see.’

  Now the man twisted the gun’s barrel hard into the skin, into the upper jawbone. Abraham felt the cold of the metal through his beard and found himself praying, please God, not here, I’m not finished yet.

  ‘What sort of Arabic is that, cunt?’

  ‘Egyptian. Cairo.’

  Still pressing the gun into Abraham’s face, he turned, grinning.

  ‘Fucking Egyptian.’

  Some laughter, not from everyone. He turned back to Abraham.

  ‘Why you here?’

  Probably there was no correct answer.
The truth would get you killed. A lie would get you killed.

  ‘I’ve come to deliver a letter.’

  ‘The fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘My wife died. She was from Raqqa. I have a letter for her family.’

  ‘A letter. Really? Important letter, for you to come here.’

  ‘It is important.’

  ‘There money in it?’

  ‘No money.’

  ‘Where is this letter?’

  ‘I don’t have it.’

  ‘What do you have, brother? Apart from this lovely beard.’

  He laughed, others laughed. Abraham felt them pressing closer, impatient now for this to move on, for the fun to start.

  ‘You going to Raqqa with the letter, is that it? You planning on putting down roots?’

  ‘Please. I’m not part of any of this.’

  ‘Any of what? What are you part of?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m on my own.’

  ‘You want to tell me why I should believe you? Empty your pockets. Empty your fucking pockets.’

  Before Abraham could do anything, another man stepped forward from the pack and pulled the Englishman out of the way. He was older, squat, with a thick neck and the blackest eyes, and now he shoved Abraham hard in the shoulder with the heel of his hand, so hard that the bone seemed to crack.

  ‘Get on your knees.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Get on your fucking knees.’

  With his foot he buckled Abraham’s legs and drove him down towards the ground.

  ‘I don’t give a fuck if you’re Daesh or not. If you are, they’re one down. If you’re not, so the fuck what. But first I’m going to shave off this fucking beard and then who fucking knows.’

  From his belt he drew a hunting knife and with his free hand pulled taut the skin on Abraham’s cheek. The others crowded in, shouting and laughing with release.

  Then Abraham heard a single shout above the rest, and the grip on his face relaxed. Space opened around him, and through the men’s legs he saw the headlights of a car and black against them a figure walking towards him.

  ‘What is this?’

  The voice was like iron.

  ‘You. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  The man with the knife let go and stood. No one was interested in Abraham any more; he might have not been there. Kneeling on the ground, he felt his shoulder.