The Good Sister

by Chris Morgan Jones

  Abraham’s head ached. He needed aspirin, and water. Food, too, he realized, he hadn’t eaten anything all day. This man wasn’t a doctor. He was an idiot and probably a psychopath, a pinched, bullying spirit that had come here not to cure suffering but to cause it.

  Forcing a look of respect, he nodded. Probably he should bring himself to say something, something zealous and committed, but he didn’t have it in him.

  ‘I will do my best,’ was all he managed to say.

  ‘I will find you scrubs.’

  Abraham thanked him, but he wasn’t done.

  ‘The doctors with black armbands are ours. The others are civilians. We have them under control but do not trust them.’

  Abraham nodded again, now an impostor twice over.

  4

  That night I don’t feel like eating, I feel a bit sick, and so I go straight to my room and try to read but the words won’t stay in one place. Khalil and my father, my father and Khalil. My brain flits from one to the other, seeing nothing, learning nothing. I hate being like this. So weak.

  Do not fail this test. None will be more important.

  If Khalil was a lion – and if the Yazidis are sheep and I am their shepherd – then my father is a crippled dog dragging himself round the world in search of food and water and some pitiful love. He sent me a DM today. I can hardly believe I am saying those words. What is there for us to talk about? I don’t even want to hear him explain himself. In the end, I deleted the reply I had started to write.

  I miss Khalil. I realize I shouldn’t but I do. The good part is I can feel his spirit by me, always there, but when I’m down like this it doesn’t pull me up, it just reminds me of what might have been. I guess I’m taking longer to adjust than I imagined. Even my body isn’t coming round. I’m late. Everything seems to have stopped.

  In the night, the woman who runs the widows’ house comes and wakes me from a deep sleep full of frenzied dreams. She’s never touched me before and it’s strange that she’s even in my room, and through the haze I can hear fear in her voice like something’s urgent.

  ‘Brothers are here for you. You must get dressed.’

  They drive me in silence through the dead streets to a big house with a heavy guard on it, four more brothers in a circle of light by the front door. They greet us with ‘allahu akbar’ as we get out of the car and let us straight in. Inside it’s like Imam Talib’s house, clean and marble everywhere, with the air conditioning turned right up. The brothers take me into a room that looks like a dining room, with a table and eight chairs, and tell me to wait, and that’s when my mind starts racing again, turning over the possibilities – that I’m here because of something to do with Khalil, or my father, but the one I keep coming back to is I failed to control that old woman and now I’m going to lose that job too. Why is life suddenly so difficult? Why am I not equal to it? Thank God my husband isn’t here to see my disgrace.

  I wait for ten minutes, twenty minutes, and although the brothers closed the door on me I can hear noises from inside the house, voices, shouting, and what sounds like a baby crying but through the walls it’s hard to tell. Dim fears build in me. I don’t know whether I should sit down so I stay standing. It’s icy in here and I’m starting to get cold when the door opens and the brother from yesterday comes in, from the classroom, the huge pale fighter with the straw beard and the green eyes that own you.

  This is his home, I know it. Somehow he has even more command here. For a moment he stands and looks at me with that same look of calm and control and underneath my veil I’m probably blushing, not from embarrassment but a sort of shame for my faults as a Muslim. I get that same sense that he can see each one.

  ‘Take off your veil,’ he says, pulling a chair out with one hand and sitting down a yard back from the table, his legs wide apart and the skirt of his dishdasha hanging down. His voice is higher and clearer than the look of him. ‘Sit.’

  I unhook my veil, hoping the blushing doesn’t show, and sit close at the table, straight as I can, clasping my hands together in my lap. I want to wipe them on my niqab they’re so cold and sweaty but something tells me I should keep as still as possible.

  First he just looks at me, as he looked at the old woman, as he looked at Besma, as I’m certain he looks at everyone. Any question could be going through his head. Whether to sack me, or kill me. He doesn’t project any emotion but I’m not sure there is any. The control is on the inside.

  It’s like he’s inspecting every last cell. I can almost see the blood rushing in panic round my veins.

  ‘How old you are.’ His Arabic is fine but the words are in the wrong order. Also it doesn’t sound like a question, there’s no rise in it.

  ‘Seventeen.’

  He doesn’t answer straight away.

  ‘English?’

  ‘Egyptian. My family . . . my father moved me to London when I was seven.’

  Again there’s a long pause, and this time I try my best to hold his eye.

  ‘Why you come?’

  At first I don’t understand what he means and then I realize he means to Raqqa, to Sham.

  ‘To build the khilafa. To honour Allah, the most glorified, the most high.’

  ‘You are good person?’

  ‘No. Not yet. I am weak and I make mistakes.’

  ‘You know the Qur’an?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He sniffs, and jerks his head like a nod. I can’t tell if it means anything or if it’s just a physical thing.

  ‘You are widow.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Also virgin.’

  This is so abrupt I don’t know what to say. And I don’t know why he’s asking. What choice do I have but the truth with him?

  ‘I am not a virgin. My husband, we . . .’

  I expect him to help me but he doesn’t, he leaves me hanging, and now I feel myself blushing bright red. Why does he want to know? Are they considering me for some new position, some special mission that can only be performed by the pure? I expect disappointment to register in him somewhere but he keeps asking questions.

  ‘Your husband, when he die?’

  I don’t have to count the days, I know.

  ‘Eight days ago.’

  He sniffs again, takes in a roomful of air until his chest is pushed right out, then he bites down on his lower lip, keeps his teeth there, lets the lip slowly spring back. Like he’s deciding something.

  ‘You live in widows’ house?’

  I tell him yes.

  ‘Now you live here.’

  I don’t understand. I want to say so but daren’t.

  ‘Someone bring your clothes.’

  My face must show my confusion because he answers my question.

  ‘You live here. You are good Muslim. I make you my wife.’

  I think my mouth drops. I can’t help it. My confusion has turned to horror.

  ‘I have been a widow only eight days.’

  ‘Virgin. Special case.’

  This man sets his own truth. Something in his eyes has changed, from a lion at rest to a lion near the end of its hunt, and I realize Khalil was no lion at all.

  He stands up, sniffs again, as if we’re all done, and leaves, leaves me sitting there wondering what my life has just become.

  5

  I’m sharing a room with one of the Russian’s other wives. She is called Maysan. She is his second, I am the third.

  At a guess she’s younger than me, a local. She reminds me of girls I knew at school, the ones who had the strictest parents and you hardly knew they were there, they spent their whole time trying to disappear into the corners. Pretty, but skinny, and timid. She comes in while I’m unpacking and nods a greeting before busying herself in a chest of drawers, looking for something that I’m not sure exists. I leave her to it.

  The first wife shows me round. A big woman, under her abaya, she must be nearly six foot, a proper wife for him. I can’t tell where she’s from. She has an odd accent, not Russian,
her voice is hard and harsh, and she barks out short sentences like she doesn’t want any conversation. I don’t think she’s thrilled to find me here. I get the impression she’s been told to take charge of me but would much rather the house was hers alone.

  There are rules. So many rules. Which bathroom I’m allowed to use and when, the places I’m not allowed to go (his office, the dining room and sitting room unless invited, the garages for his cars, the basement, the main bedroom, the main bathroom), when I will be eating my meals, what to do if I need the toilet in the night. Mealtimes are complicated. If he is away fighting, the three wives eat in the kitchen at seven, but when he’s home the four of us sit down at eight, unless he has fellow commanders in the house, in which case he may choose to be with none or all of us, with the rest making do in the kitchen. The children eat separately, except on feast days. Under no circumstances can he see any of his wives before he has had his breakfast, unless he has spent the night with them, in which case he may ask that wife to join him, or he may not. To be safe – the way she says it it’s more like an order than advice – it is best to wait until he has eaten before going to wash. The same goes for the children.

  We aren’t meant to cook, but together we are responsible for overseeing the Yazidi girl who prepares all our food. If it isn’t good enough, he will punish us and we will punish her, and she’s Yazidi, a teenager, so you have to be on top of her the whole time. Basically we do quite a lot of it. He likes chicken, and fattoush, and the bread has to be very fresh, as does the baklava, so she checks it at the baker’s each day and if he tries to palm her off with yesterday’s muck – well, he tried that once and he probably won’t try it again. Still, it’s important to look over his shoulder, make sure he’s concentrating. Sometimes if she can’t do this, when she has other things to do, maybe I could go there in her place, with one of the guards (we do not speak to the guards). When I tell her that I work all day with the Yazidis she throws her hands up and asks no one in particular what she did to deserve two such useless wives.

  There are three children. She doesn’t say who their mothers are, or whether they’re girls or boys, but I know from the crying I’ve heard that one of them is a baby. They all share a room. I’m not to go in it.

  Her name is Hafa. His is Borz. He is from Dagestan, a great warrior in his homeland who established a caliphate there before joining this greater battle. She corrects herself. This greater war. That is all I need to know, except that some of our most glorious victories have been his, and that it is a great privilege to be his wife. As she says it she tries to give me the kind of stare her husband does but it has nothing like the same effect.

  Borz and I are married in the house the next day, Saturday. When I lay my best niqab out on the bed that morning it’s like the old me is still inside it, being joined to Khalil, first by God and then on earth. The only time I ever put it on was my wedding day. I swear I can feel him in the room with me, and it’s all I can do not to break down. I’m honoured, of course, to be the wife of a truly great warrior. When I left London how could I ever have imagined such a thing? It’s a fairy tale, and I should be glad. First I married a prince, and now I am marrying a king.

  As I come downstairs I see Imam Talib in the sitting room. It’s fitting, that it should be him again, and it must mean that I am a special case after all, that the waiting period can be shortened. That puts my mind at rest. To maintain the dignity of the occasion he doesn’t look at me as I come in. Umm Karam is there as well. It feels like they are there to bless me into my new family.

  Borz is in white, as he always seems to be. He nods to me as I stand by him. His eyes are at rest again.

  The words are said, and we are husband and wife. Afterwards Borz leaves the house and says nothing to me before he goes.

  6

  sister it’s me. how are you? are you coming?

  — Nearly there, sister. Crossing tomorrow, inshallah

  may God swt give you safe crossing sister.

  — Merci ma soeur. I’m ready I think. How are you?

  pretty good. my life here gets more and more amazing

  — Why sister, what’s happened?

  i’m married again. yesterday, to a great warrior.

  i know it’s soon but it’s fine, the first one was so short. the imam married us.

  — Who is he sister?

  one of our greatest fighters. such an honour. Khalil was a boy but he is a man.

  — Does he have a name?

  of course he has a name. Borz. Khasan Borz.

  — He seems a famous man sister. I can see pictures of him. A serious man.

  not as famous as he will become.

  — Why do you think He swt has chosen this honour for you, sister?

  i don’t know sister. must go now. i don’t know.

  7

  I eat with the other wives in the kitchen. Borz will not be home tonight. I ask whether he has gone to the front and Hafa gives me a look that says I’m not to concern myself with such things. The Yazidi girl puts the food on the table and then disappears, and I don’t ask her her name because I know Hafa won’t think it’s important. She is young, I think maybe just thirteen. A little younger and she could be in my class. It’s strange having her around us, clean and dressed in a niqab, so unlike the ones I teach during the day. I don’t suppose she’s had any education, before or after she was brought here.

  No one says a word. Hafa sits at the head of the table and Maysan opposite me. I watch them eat but they don’t see me because their eyes are just on their food. There are currents flowing about between us that I can’t begin to pick up. I think Hafa might hate me but anyway, I don’t much feel like speaking either.

  I find it hard to sleep. I have work in the morning and no idea how I’m going to get there – I mentioned it to Hafa but she didn’t seem to register what I said, just waved me away with a hand and went to sit in the sitting room where I couldn’t follow, she doesn’t invite me in. I don’t want to be late tomorrow. I text Badra and tell her where I am and what I’m doing and ask for her advice. Funny, how I didn’t used to trust her. She doesn’t reply, at least not before I eventually drift off.

  Khalil is in all my thoughts. I wish he wasn’t because now I’m married to someone else, it’s time to move on, but every time I close my eyes there he is, so young, so innocent. I can even feel him, the warm push of his skin on mine, his breath on the back of my neck, the curl of the hair on his chest. My legs round his. I feel close to him and so far away, warmed by him and yet so lonely, so cold, like a moon that’s lost its planet and is spinning out into space.

  I’m woken by a hand on my wrist jerking me out of bed so hard I’m still asleep as my feet hit the floor. The hand is strong and rough and dry, and it holds me tighter than it needs to. I want to pull against it but I daren’t. If I’m his wife, I’ll come when he asks. He doesn’t need to drag me.

  Borz is naked. Pale skin gathers at the base of his back, which is thick with pale hairs. The landing is lit by the light from his bedroom, where Hafa is wrapping a dressing gown around her, her face full of sleep and irritation, her cheeks and eyes puffy, and this unwanted image enters my head of me in her place some years from now, thrown out of my own bed by the new arrival – and it’s strange how the mind works, because in that instant I think two things that seem to mean very little, that I will never be the first wife, and that I have no idea where Hafa is going to sleep. Perhaps in my bed.

  This is my husband. It’s natural, what’s about to happen. I concentrate on my breath, letting it out slowly. To be married to him is an honour, and I must honour him. I keep my eyes on the bed, because I don’t want to look and because it seems decent not to, but I’m conscious of his big white form in the room, all that skin and flesh, and I can feel a shaking in my legs that I can’t control, a quivering I don’t want to show through my pyjamas. He says something to Hafa in Russian, the first time I’ve heard him speak it, and whether it always sounds like that I do
n’t know but there’s something fearsome about it that fits with the rest of him. He has power, and power is everything.

  Hafa says something back and Borz shouts at her, tells her to get out, I guess, and she goes, shutting the door.

  How I want to follow her.

  ‘Your clothes.’

  I hesitate, and he says it again, his eyes now hungry, lazy. The sight of him, he’s so big, his chest inflated, the full strong belly, his penis – even like this – looks small against it all. I cannot see us together. I try to tell my body to accept it but it won’t. My legs won’t stop shaking. We are like two different species, and somewhere between my mind and my senses I feel the fit Khalil and I had, the belonging, and with the same certainty I know that there will never be belonging with this man.

  But that is the test. If it was easy, there would be no progress. And has not each test brought me closer to Him?

  I unbutton my pyjama top, slip it off, step clumsily out of my bottoms, feel the cold blowing on my skin from the air conditioning. I try to stand straight, natural, but I’m aware of all my body’s weakness like I never have been before, and it makes me want to wrap my arms around myself. My want of power is complete. Maybe that is the balance. He could do anything with me, and all I could do with my feeble hands is flail and scratch.

  His eyes go from my face to my breasts to my loins, until every familiar flaw on my body – every blemish, everything I have ever obsessed over – is like a new and shameful discovery. In front of him I am a child and an old woman at once, not ripe enough and yet beginning to rot. I don’t know what he wants, there is no communication between us. Just him deciding and directing.

  He does that sniff he does and tells me to get on the bed. I am the other side of it from him, and I slide in on my back, pulling the duvet up over me as I lie back and try to look him full in the face, to encourage him to think of me as his wife. There must be a reason he took me. Perhaps it is my duty to discover it.

  He yanks the covers off, and now it’s worse than when I was standing. An image comes into my head of me in the desert, at night, naked and curled up on the sand in the cold under the stars and waiting not for His love but for nameless jinns and demons, creatures of the devil who I know are there in the darkness, drawing closer, ready to tear my flesh apart. The demons are Borz, I think, but then I realize my mistake, and why this image has been given to me. I have this the wrong way round. The temptation is to refuse my husband. That is what the devils want. The path to God is to do my duty.