Dead Boy Walking

by David Brining

  #29. SOUTH THEATRE, JERASH, JORDAN

  Thursday July 16, 20:09

  HE shuffled on-stage in his Aladdin costume to a wave of applause from thousands of people. The spotlight glared in his face. Al-Sekem put a fatherly arm round his shoulders.

  ''Ali is originally from Baghdad,'' he told the crowd. ''He was brought up in an orphanage which happens to be funded by Hands across the Sands.''

  More applause, sympathetic this time.

  Ali tried to still his trembling knees and quell his sudden feeling of sickness.

  ''Discovering Ali's wonderful voice, the Principal sent him to Damascus, to the renowned academy of Dar El-Tawhid, the House of Unity, another organisation sponsored by Hands across the Sands, where he learned The Qur'an and developed his singing talents.'' Laying his left hand on his heart again, he added modestly that he was humbled that his money was used so wisely, taking a poor boy from a Baghdad slum to a caring orphanage, a Damascene school and the South Theatre stage on the opening night of the most prestigious regional arts festival. ''What a long journey,'' he concluded, ''But what a fruitful one. Hands across the Sands indeed.''

  The Minister of Culture was leading the applause, standing up, appealing for quiet.

  ''Highness, ladies, gentlemen!'' His voice echoed round the arena. ''I think Doctor Al-Sekem is the greatest man alive!'' The stormy clapping sickened Ali even more. ''His generosity, his far-sightedness, his nobility should stand example to us all!'' Some people stamped their feet and whooped. If only they knew what they were whooping.

  ''Thank you, Excellency,'' said Al-Sekem, ''For your generous words. I am truly humbled that my little work can have such profound effect. I know you will not be disappointed. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you again Ali Hassan Al-Amin!'' Al-Sekem retreated into the shadows.

  Ali heard the response crashing round the ancient theatre. He didn't know what to do. He moved up to the microphone. ''Errr…'' he said, ''This is my first time on-stage.''

  There was a light ripple, a sympathetic murmuring. He was desperately searching for Hamza, for Colonel Ibrahim, for the young prince, but the light was too strong. He couldn't really see any faces. He glanced over his shoulder. Uthman's looked like a freakish clown's.

  ''Before I begin,'' he said, ''I would like to thank Doctor Al-Sekem, who I admire and respect beyond anyone in the world…'' Approving applause. ''He has treated me with such kindness, like his own son.''

  He cleared his throat uncertainly, glanced over his shoulder again. The snub nose of a silenced Sig-Sauer Mosquito burrowed bluntly through Al-Sekem's fingers.

  ''I learned this song in school,'' he said slowly, ''Before I went to the orphanage, before terrorists killed my family, in the days when I was happy.''

  Hisham's pallid face shone with a sickly glow.

  ''My parents died,'' Ali said, ''My brothers died and my sister had her leg blown off by a suicide-bomber. She is twelve years old. If Hands across the Sands means anything, it must mean an end to terrorism.''

  There was a positive torrent of applause.

  ''An end to violence and hatred.''

  It echoed round the long-standing arena.

  ''Islam is my faith,'' he declared. ''Islam is my life. Islam is life.'' Hot tears sprang into his eyes. ''The God that I love does not want to see men killing men, men killing women, men killing children in His name. The God that I love, Allah the Merciful, Allah the Beneficent, Allah the Bringer of Peace, does not want this endless cycle of death and destruction.'' He glanced backwards. Al-Sekem looked furious. The appeal was not getting through. ''Allah is the God of Peace.'' The clapping was joined by the stamping of feet. Al-Sekem raised the gun, held it at arm's length, and aimed at Ali's head. He cocked the hammer.

  Tears rolled down Ali's cheeks. It was too late.

  ''Anyway,'' he sniffed, ''This song is in English, it's by The Beatles, it's called 'Yesterday' and it seems most appropriate.''

  He took the microphone in his hand. The crowd fell silent.

  ''Yesterday,'' he quavered, ''All my troubles seemed so far away…''

  He sniffed again. Someone shouted ''Get on with it!''

  ''Now it looks as though they're here to stay…''

  The tears were salty as well as hot.

  ''He's rubbish!'' someone bellowed.

  ''Get him off!'' yelled another.

  A tomato splattered on his knee.

  Ali wiped his tears with the back of his hand. At last he had a plan, a desperately risky plan, but a plan nonetheless.

  He would die. He would never know if it worked. But he had to try. There was no choice.

  Allah be with me, he prayed mentally, Allah save me. Allahu Akhbar! God is Great.

  The Sig-Sauer's staring eye, like its master's, never blinked.

  ''Oh I believe in yesterday…''

  Ali's voice trembled at the end of the line. The dabke troupe watched him curiously.

  ''Suddenly,'' Ali sang, sniffing, ''I'm not half the man I used to be…''

  Al-Sekem grinned and waved goodbye.

  ''There's sarin in the speakers next to me…'' Ali sang, his voice strengthening. ''He's gonna kill both you and me…'' He practically yelled the last line into the microphone - ''HE'S GONNA KILL BOTH YOU AND ME – ALLAHU AKHBAR!'' - and hit the floor as Al-Sekem pulled the trigger and a bullet smashed into the stone.

  Half a dozen security men exploded from their seats.

  ''Everybody out!'' bawled Hamza Madani, firing a gunshot into the air.

  Colonel Ibrahim bundled the Minister and the Crown Prince towards the exit.

  Katya Kinkhladze screamed.

  People milled around in confusion, yelling and falling over each other in a desperate scramble for the door.

  Hamza sprang onto the stage.

  ''There's sarin in the speakers!'' Ali said urgently.

  ''Fuck!'' Hamza stood up. ''Clear the site! Rashid! Down here! Sarin in the speakers!''

  Dr Rashid, dressed in shorts and a flowery shirt, scampered across the auditorium.

  Ali surged to his feet shouting ''Get Al-Sekem! He can still set off the bomb!''

  But Al-Sekem was gone. Instead it was Uthman holding the Dictaphone aloft like an Olympic torch.

  ''Uthman!'' cried Ali. ''Don't do it! You don't have to do it!''

  Uthman's lipless, lopsided mouth stretched into a hideously malicious grin.

  ''Uthman!'' cried Ali again. ''Don't do it!''

  The nightmare face, with its scorched, bleached, plastic patches, the lumpen nose, the straggly strands of ginger hair, shone with pleasure. He gurgled something and pressed 'Play'.

  ''Yesterday…'' Ali's voice, magnified a hundred times, boomed round the now-empty theatre. ''All my troubles seemed so far away…''

  The world stood still.

  Suddenly, from the darkness of nowhere, erupted Hisham. He crashed into Uthman and knocked the Dictaphone from his hand. It skittered away across the stones.

  ''You bastard!'' Hisham screamed shrilly. ''You bastard!''

  Stamping violently on the Dictaphone, Ali stamped out his voice, stamped out the possibility of detonation, stamped until the machine shattered into pieces, kicked those pieces into the night.

  Hisham, wrestling with Uthman, was clawing frantically at the piebald face until Uthman, roaring like a furious bull, seized the boy and hurled him across the stage into the steps of the auditorium. Hisham bounced off, his head striking stone with a sickening crunch.

  Uthman roared again and brought the Mosquito to bear on Ali's heart.

  Ali stared into the black eye of the muzzle. Grunting with joy, Uthman grinned a final hideous lipless grin and straightened his arm.

  A small hole appeared in the centre of the piebald bleached-bone forehead. A thin thread of bright red blood spilled down the plasticine nose. The eyes widened in surprise. The cold black mouth of the gun muzzle drifted sideways.

  The second bullet, bursting through his chest, sent a blood-spray over Ali's face. A huge
blood-patch blossomed on his breast. Uthman clawed at the cloth as a third bullet tore through his throat. This time the blood fountained like someone had severed a high-pressure hose. Uthman dropped to his knees, glared angrily at the sky then fell face-forward onto the stage. Hamza Madani, crouching behind Ali's shoulder, was holding a smoking gun in both hands.

  Ali scrambled up the first three rows to where Kinky was cradling Hisham in her arms. She raised her eyes and gave a slight shake of her head. Ali, grimacing, took the boy's hand.

  ''I'm sorry,'' he whispered, ''So sorry.''

  Hisham tried to smile. ''It's all right. Everything hurts.'' He shifted. ''Why is it so dark?''

  ''You're a hero,'' said Ali, ''You saved us all. You saved thousands of lives. You saved the country.'' He squeezed the ice-cold hand. ''I'm proud of you, Hisham. You are truly my friend.''

  ''Will I be in Heaven?'' Hisham sounded like a little boy afraid of the night. ''I'll say... hello…to your…parents. Oh!'' A wave of pain rolled through him. ''Ali,'' he gasped, ''I'm cold.''

  Mutely, bleakly, Ali and Katya's eyes locked across the battered, broken body.

  ''La illaha ill-Lallah, Muhammad-ur-Rassul, AllahLa illaha ill-Lallah, Muhammad-ur-Rassul Allah,'' chanted Ali, ''There is no God except Allah and Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah...'' The Prayer for the Dying, the last words a Muslim should hear.

  Gasping again, Hisham stiffened, then the light in his eyes began to fade as his breathing slowed. His head fell sideways. With a last great heave and a single soft sigh, he was gone.