Dead Boy Walking

by David Brining

PARTS. Amun knew he ought to open them all. Clambering up into the truck, he tried to drag one of the stacks closer but failed to shift it even a centimetre.

  ''What kind of machine-parts?'' he asked.

  ''For turbines,'' said Youssef Abdullah, ''On wind-farms. In the desert. You know?''

  Amun tried another, without success. The crates refused to budge. They were just too heavy. Unable to lift the crates down, he was unable to open the ones at the bottom. Jumping down from the truck he went to the hut. He could barely see the others through the smoky fog.

  ''Need to inspect the contents,'' he coughed.

  ''It's three in the morning,'' the sergeant said wearily. ''It's Youssef Abdullah. He comes through every week. He always has the same stuff, turbines for windmills, it's always too heavy to shift, and those paranoid Syrians will already have broken their butts to stamp the documents so why should we do it twice?'' Crowing victoriously, he slapped down a King of Hearts.

  Annoyed, Amun returned to the truck. There were probably eighty cases and his colleagues were clearly opting out. He could order Youssef Abdullah to do it.

  ''Oh man,'' whined the driver, ''I gotta be in Amman by six.''

  ''I don't care.'' Amun grabbed a crowbar. ''You wait till the job's done.''

  The first four crates contained rounded black metal sheets.

  ''Hi, Youssef. Wanna drink?'' The sergeant, materialising from the night, slung his arm round the driver's shoulders.

  ''Sure,'' the driver replied. ''You got tea?''

  Amun, regarding the seventy-six crates still to be opened, felt his jaw drop.

  ''Don't worry,'' the sergeant slurred. ''He'll nail 'em all up again before you go.''

  ''I'll be here till morning,'' protested the driver and Amun together.

  There was a momentary pause whilst the three men looked at each other.

  ''The Syrians have already cleared this stuff,'' said the sergeant quietly, ''And all the paperwork's in order.''

  ''But…,'' Amun began.

  ''Up to you,'' said the sergeant.

  ''It's for Moustapha Al-Sekem,'' added Youssef Abdullah softly. ''If I'm late, he'll complain to the King.''

  ''You might find yourself posted to Bethany facing the Israelis across the Jordan,'' said the sergeant. ''You wouldn't want that, would you? They're mental. They shoot at rabbits for kicks.''

  ''Okay,'' said Amun, conceding. ''Off you go.'' His hands fell helplessly to his side. For some inexplicable reason he felt like crying.

  ''Good lad,'' said the sergeant. ''Cup of tea?''

  The smoky sound of a Fairouz song, 'Qudak ranan', filled the cab as a grinning Youssef Abdullah changed gear and shifted the cigarette between his lips. He had got through unscathed again, as smooth and simple as always. No-one asked too many questions at this hour, especially of someone who had made this journey dozens of times. It had become so easy.

  He tapped his fingers against the wheel. Only ninety minutes or so till he delivered his cargo, got his money, had a bite of breakfast with Al-Sekem's men and got back on the road. He would be home by mid-afternoon. His wife would have a dinner waiting. He thought of the beaded bracelets he would buy his girls. The reward was worth the risk. He eased into fifth gear and roared alongside the gleaming white ribbon of the River Jordan a hundred metres below.

  Perched on top of a ridge, the town of Ajloun overlooked the whole fertile plain which spread all the way to Amman. Fig trees, vineyards and orange groves made a nice change from the barren wilderness of the desert. Changing gear, Youssef eased the Renault up the steep hill towards Ajloun Castle.

  Al-Sekem's compound was enclosed inside a razor-wire, chain-link fence and patrolled by khaki-clad guards with M-16s and rusty brown Rottweilers with massive heads. Moustapha Al-Sekem was developing alternative energy sources. Frequently on television, he was famous, respected and rich, which was useful for intimidating raw young soldiers. He also paid well.

  At Youssef Abdullah's single, low hoot, the striped wooden barrier lifted to let him pass. He gently nursed the truck towards a large brick shed with an enormous steel door. This bore the name AL-SEKEM ENTERPRISES in big black letters and slid sideways noiselessly as the truck approached. Once inside, Youssef cranked on the handbrake and switched off the engine. Al-Sekem's assistant signed a form then signalled for a fork-lift driver to unload the crates.

  This guy gave Youssef the creeps. He was short and square with arms like steel cables and a neck that merged with his shoulders. He was also a piebald freak. His skin seemed to have been scorched and blackened whilst other areas seemed bleached white. Most of his face had been burned away in some terrible accident leaving him with lumpen, misshapen features as though he had been drawn by a small, uncoordinated toddler with poor motor skills who had just stuck things together for a laugh. A patchwork of long, fine ginger hair sprouted in seemingly random places on his scalp. This was Uthman. He did not speak. Youssef had heard that, in the torment of the fire-storm that had maimed him and killed his wife and children, he had eaten his own tongue.

  ''Crate Thirty-One,'' said Youssef Abdullah, accepting his one hundred dinars.

  Crate Thirty-One was carefully unloaded and the lid was shifted aside. To no-one's surprise, a boy in white socks, white trainers, dark green shorts and a dark blue T-shirt clambered out and stretched. A blue Pokémon rucksack dangled from a hand. A cheap silver Timex glinted from the wrist.

  ''Phew,'' he said, ''A little warm in there. Hi.'' He flashed a smile. ''I'm your special delivery from Damascus, compliments of Talal Hafez. My name is Hisham.'' Nodding at Uthman, he added cheekily ''You're a fine-looking fellow.''

  ''Don't joke with him,'' hissed Youssef. ''He'll rip off your head with his bare hands.''

  By way of demonstration Uthman picked up the crowbar with which they had opened Crate Thirty-One. Holding it in both hands, he bent it into a circle as though it were made of plasticine and tossed it onto the floor with a clatter.

  ''Very impressive,'' the boy remarked, slinging his rucksack over his shoulder and sounding distinctly unimpressed. ''What do you do for an encore? Eat the bar?''

  ''Youssef Abdullah is right,'' said a new voice mildly. ''Uthman is not a man to provoke.''

  The boy turned to see a tall, slim, middle-aged man standing behind him. He was dressed in pale grey slacks and an open-necked white shirt. A gold chain nestled in the V. His dark hair was cut short and slicked back with a gel which glistened in the harsh light of the warehouse. He was wearing several gold rings, a gold Rolex Oyster Perpetual watch and dark Oakley glasses. He was strikingly handsome, with brilliant white teeth and a smooth, lineless face. This was Moustapha Al-Sekem and he looked vaguely familiar.

  ''Welcome, Hisham, to Al-Sekem Enterprises.'' He did not extend his hand. ''I trust you travelled well.''

  ''Not really,'' said the boy. ''Crammed inside a crate and bouncing over a pot-holed road for four hours isn't my idea of fun.''

  ''Nevertheless, we got you here,'' Al-Sekem said flatly. ''I hope you're not a complainer. I cannot abide complainers.'' He gestured to Uthman. ''Take him to his room.'' He fixed his dark glasses on the boy's tawny eyes. ''You will stay as my guest in my villa. You will find the view spectacular. If you need your clothes laundering, place them in a bag and hand them to the butler. If you want anything to drink or eat, dial zero from the phone in your room and it will be brought to you. I will meet you for lunch at four. Do not be tardy. I cannot abide tardiness.'' He raised his voice. ''Unload the crates,'' he ordered, ''And someone deal with this driver.''

  Youssef Abdullah watched the boy leave. Poor little sod, he thought. He was different from the usual lot. Most were dulled by fatigue or fear or fanaticism but this one seemed almost excited by it all. Youssef shook his head. Poor little sod, he thought again.

  The boy followed Uthman through a plain grey door into a plain grey corridor then up a gentle slope towards another grey door at the end. The corridor was undistinguished but for the hum of the strip-lights
and the low murmur of air-conditioning.

  Uthman leaned against a push-bar and the second door swung away opening onto a lushly carpeted, richly decorated reception room with cream and gold-painted walls which were covered, at regular spaces, ornate gold lamps and dingy gold-framed oil paintings. Beneath a large gold-framed mirror stood an antique table on which rested an expensive-looking Japanese vase decorated with entwined yellow and purple flowers. In a facing alcove was a meter-high marble statue of a flute-playing faun sitting on a rock. Next to the faun, a white door led into a room which contained a king-sized bed covered in white sheets, another huge mirror, a plasma-screen television and DVD player, a mahogany writing desk, a deep armchair piled high with cushions, a chest of drawers and a thick white rug. There was also a rather poor, vaguely impressionistic portrait of a multi-robed Bedouin riding a fairly scrawny camel. There was no balcony and not much of a view, just a bank of scrub-covered earth, but there was an en-suite bathroom with a deep tub, the white marble shot through with threads of gold and a matching wash-basin and toilet. A fluffy white dressing-gown hung on the back of the door and six fluffy white towels were heaped on a shelf. Little bottles of Moulton Brown shampoo, soap and conditioner were lined up under the mirror. It was even better than Room 1212.

  Dropping his rucksack on the carpet, Ali flopped down on the unbelievably comfortable bed. The absence of door-locks made him uneasy. Nevertheless, he phoned for a mango juice and a grilled chicken sandwich with mayonnaise, then took a hot shower. The snack arrived ten minutes later while he was looking through the drawers. They were full of clothes, jeans, shirts and football shirts, socks, trainers, boxer shorts, swimming trunks, sports shorts, sandals, trainers, shoes, everything he might ever need. It was all freshly laundered and freshly pressed. The cupboard under the television contained a stack of recently released DVDs, Bee Movie, Horton Hears a Who, Happy Feet, Cars, Ratatouille - all safe, child-friendly choices.

  ''This is great,'' he told the man who brought the snack.

  ''We were expecting you,'' the man replied.

  Ali selected Ratatouille, lay on the bed in the fluffy white dressing gown to watch the adventures of a rat who cooked, ate his sandwich and reflected that, two days ago, his mango juice had been consumed in the Journalists' Club of Damascus with Hamza Madani. The big basement-bar up Qassioun Hill had long wooden tables covered in plastic cloths, plastic plants in plastic pots and a garden out the back. They had chosen it because it was noisy with a mix of shisha-smoking Syrians and Stella-swigging Westerners and they were unlikely to be overheard.

  ''I can't believe you abandoned me,'' Ali said for the thousandth time.

  ''It had to be done,'' said Hamza again, ordering thick, syrupy Arabic coffee with several mounded heaps of sugar.

  ''I knew you didn't like me,'' said Ali, sulking still.

  ''Grow up,'' said Hamza scornfully. ''It was nothing to do with you. It was all about Mokhtar, what those bastards did to him, what they did to my sister and parents. There was always more for me than just looking after you.'' He piled more sugar into his cup. ''The world does not revolve round you, you know.''

  ''I thought you were dead,'' said Ali angrily, ''Or a prisoner. I surrendered to find you. I got tortured and strapped into a bomb because I wanted to find you so don't say I'm selfish, you prick. If anyone's selfish, it's you because you didn't tell me what you were doing. You left me to get hurt. You left me to die.'' The force of his fury surprised him. He grabbed the packet of Gitanes Blond and, lighting one, recounted his story, how he had found the flat wrecked, assumed Hamza had been seized, encountered Moussa, fought with Tamer, escaped over the roof, fought Talal's gang, surrendered to save Firas' life, was tortured, struggled with Hisham, defused the vest…

  ''Yeah, yeah,'' said Hamza, waving a hand. ''Change the record, Ali, you're boring me.'' Ali's back stiffened sharply as though he had been slapped in the face. ''It's what agents do. It's part of the job. You want to be a spy? Well, this is the life you have to lead. Get used to it. I took our stuff and escaped through the doctor's flat across the hallway.''

  ''You left me for dead, and without any papers.''

  ''I had to take your papers in case they found out who are,'' Hamza glared across the table. ''I had a job to do.''

  ''Yeah,'' Ali sneered, ''Getting revenge for your friend. Well, Hamza, your quest for revenge got me tortured and nearly blown up.'' He stirred the thick juice with his straw. ''You can't let your personal feelings interfere with a mission.''

  ''What are you saying?''

  ''You're driven by revenge,'' snarled Ali.

  ''So are you.''

  ''I'm driven by the mission.''

  ''The hell you are, you pompous, jumped-up little shit,'' said Hamza angrily. ''You're as driven by revenge as anyone else. You just won't accept it. They killed your parents, and your brothers. Your sister lies crippled in a hospital bed. You can't tell me you don't want revenge.''

  Falling silent, Ali stuck his face into the mango juice. He had thought himself beyond personal feelings. Maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was motivated by hatred. He tried never to think about the bomb, or his family, or the war. It was easier to start again. But the feelings that had overwhelmed him when he had killed Talal Hafez, that black rage… this was a side of his character he had never, never seen before. Just remembering the intensity frightened him.

  ''We need to finish it,'' he told Hamza softly, ''Finish the mission. We need to know what Al-Sekem's doing. We need to know what he's planned for the Festival. I can find out, travel through the Al-Houri pipeline, pretend to be Hisham. That's who they're expecting, that's who they can have.'' He felt he knew enough about the other boy to borrow his identity. ''It's the final delivery. It must be something bigger than a suicide bomb.''

  Hamza pointed out that security at the Festival would be immense.

  ''Security everywhere is immense,'' said Ali. ''They still get through.'' He slurped the last of the juice. ''Listen, if there's going to be some kid with a bomb strapped to his back, it'd be better, surely, if that kid was me. You get Colonel Ibrahim there. Get Rashid. Get anyone. I'll find out what he's up to and you lot do the rest.''

  It sounded foolproof.

  Hamza took him shopping in trendy Hamra Street, pedestrianized with potted trees running down the centre and dotted with traditional box-shaped street-lamps mounted on black metal posts. Here, in a fashionable boutique, he had got an orange Quiksilver T-shirt, genuine blue Levi 501s and new white trainers, real Adidas this time, no fakes. Hamza also returned the money he had taken from the drawer but said he would hold on to the ID, refugee card and passport given that Ali was supposed to be Hisham Mahmoud and there was no time to get new documents issued.

  ''By the way, where did you hide your phone?'' Hamza inquired as they kissed goodbye.

  ''You really don't want to know,'' Ali grinned, running his fingers through his thick hair.

  Startled by a sudden noise, he woke to see Uthman standing by the bed.

  ''What do you want?'' he shouted, scrambling upright and regarding the ruined figure, the black-and-bleached skin, the wispy strands of orange hair, the lumpen, misshapen nose, the lopsided, letterbox, lipless mouth. ''What do you want?'' he repeated.

  Uthman pointed to the watch on Ali's wrist and grunted. It was already four. The DVD had finished. Ali had fallen asleep somewhere around Remy's family reunion.

  ''Anyone can cook,'' he quipped to Uthman, ''Even a rat.''

  Uthman grunted. Ali shrugged and turned it off, deciding to watch the rest after dinner and wondering briefly it was weird to fancy animated, flame-haired cartoon women like Colette. Self-conscious under the creature's steadily appraising gaze, he sloughed off the bath-robe like a tired, heavy skin, pottered to the toilet then dressed again in the green shorts and dark blue T-shirt he had brought from Damascus, slipped his feet into some black and orange thongs and followed Uthman down the short corridor to the dining room.