#11. UNDER AL-JUMHURRIYA BRIDGE, RUSAFA, BAGHDAD, IRAQ
Tuesday May 19, 23:05
BAGHDAD, EVEN in Spring, is cold at night and a denim jacket might look good fashion-wise but it provides little defence against the worming fingers of a damp, chilly breeze or the light patter of drizzle.
The sky was overcast, clouds blotting out the stars and moon. High above, the Al-Jumhurriya Bridge marched across the black slab of the Tigris River which separates the low huddle of buildings and tower blocks of Rusafa from the darkness of the Green Zone. Behind and up the concrete steps, traffic rumbled along Rashid Street. A large brown rat twitched its tail and scampered down the path.
Ali slumped under the bridge, his shoulders resting against the stained concrete support. Everything around him was damp and smelled of urine but he was not depressed. In fact he felt relieved. The aftermath of the bombing was over. His uncle and aunt, the flat, the orphanage, the past, all of it was gone. He was on his own, reliant on no-one but himself. He had moved from being a vaguely spoilt child in a comfortable if not luxurious context to a resourceful, resilient young man who could withstand pain and privation, plot and execute escapes and make decisions about his life. He had also lost his shyness.
He reflected on the failures and betrayals he had experienced in the last two weeks, from Uncle Wagdy's craven cowardice when facing his wife to Sayed and Salah's crumbling courage when confronting Mr Ala'a, from Samir's fear of physical pain to the sisters' failure to curb Gihan's cruelty and finally Mr Suleyman's putting profit before people. Of course there was also the failure of the security forces to prevent the bombing and the betrayal of another Muslim blowing up his fellows. Ultimately, other people would always let him down.
Had he been spoiled? He had never gone to bed hungry. His mother had always cooked up masses of food, even with the rationing and shortages that followed the war. In Ramadan, she had always managed to provide a feast after fasting, mostly vegetable dishes but chicken or fish on a Friday. His father had always managed to put clothes on his back, even if some had been bought from second-hand shops. He had always been clean. His father had always managed to pay the bills that kept the water hot and the power on, cuts permitting. He had been able to watch football on television with his brothers who, despite their derisive comments, had always protected him from harm. He had adored, and been adored by, his little sister whom he remembered as a baby gurgling in her cot, as a toddler pottering round the flat in plastic pants, as a little girl going to school and playing peek-a-boo behind the sofa. Whatever betrayals he had suffered, he would not betray Fatima. He would find a job. He did not need Uncle Wagdy or Sister Gihan or Mr Suleyman. He would do this himself. Sitting by the Tigris, the legendary river of ancient Mesopotamia, he would do this himself, for his sister and for his country. There would surely be someone who needed help in exchange for a place to stay and a little food. He could work at a stall weighing out fruit and vegetables or sweep barbers' floors or carry tea to tables. He might even be taken on as a plumber's apprentice. So, although he was cold, damp and tired, he was not depressed. He was excited. He would survive, and the whole world was open to him.
His body still ached from the beating it had received only this morning. It seemed so long ago. The failed rebellion had been this time yesterday. The Cupboard, the caning, the feigning of sickness, the ambulance, the trolley, the shopping centre, the walk to the flat, the conversation with his uncle…so much in such a short time. Twenty-four hours ago he had been in the dormitory with Sayed and the others. Ten days ago he had been sleeping on his uncle's floor. Two weeks ago he had been safe at home, enduring the taunts of Mohamed and Hussein, enjoying his mother's yellow lentil soup, hiding Fatima's head-scarfed Fulla doll under the cushions, hugging his Dad when he came in from work, thinking of homework and school, of teachers and grades. Now he was thinking about keeping dry and getting a job. Four weeks ago he had been excited by the prospect of turning fifteen, of the opportunities afforded by getting older, of going to secondary school, maybe to college. Now he laughed at his own naivety.
He drifted off into an uneasy sleep from which he woke every twenty minutes or so as the rough concrete floor dug into his bones. Above him the cars of Baghdad cruised from the Green Zone to Rusafa, the police and US military manned their checkpoints and, far away, in the Baghdad Medical City created by Saddam Hussein, Fatima Hassan, tangled in tubes, shifted in her bed and dreamed of her brother.
Dead Boy Walking Page 12