One Single Thing

by Tina Clough

  THE LITTLE BOY ON THE ROAD

  I was in a taxi on my way to the hotel in Parachinar when I glimpsed a tiny boy standing in the middle of the road with cars and trucks roaring past in both directions and my heart literally skipped a beat. The taxi passed within inches of him. He was so short that the top of his head did not even come up to the taxi window.

  ‘Roko, roko! Stop!’ I screamed at the driver.

  I was out of the car before he came to a complete stop on the dirt verge, frantic to reach the child. With one arm held up as a signal I stepped into the traffic, terrified that I would be run over. Horns blared; cars and trucks braked and swerved. I darted between a car and a bus and ran back along the road between the lanes of traffic. The little boy was still there, just about to make a move, leaning slightly forward, poised to run. I ran towards him with vehicles nearly touching me on both sides.

  ‘Roko! Intezar karns! Stop, wait!’

  He turned his head towards me; a bus passed so close to him he was nearly swept off his feet. I was only an arm’s length away when he lifted one foot off the ground. I launched myself forward and grabbed him, throwing us both to the ground.

  Frantic thought fly through my mind; we’re going to die, we are between the lanes, they can’t see us on the ground – we will be run over.

  I curled up with the little body clamped to my chest and tried to make myself as small as possible. Wheels were moving past my head, just a hand’s breadth away; shouts penetrated the noise from engines and blaring horns. Hot dusty air and exhaust fumes swirled my dupatta around our bodies.

  The traffic slowed and stopped and excited voices surrounded us. I got up on my knees, still clutching the little boy. His eyes were closed, and he was limp in my arms. A man appeared beside me and said urgently, ‘Give him to me!’

  I handed him the boy and got up. The traffic was at a standstill, idling engines spewing out fumes, everyone gesticulating and shouting. My hand was covered in blood.

  I hope he’s not dead – please let him live! He’s so little, he weighs nothing.

  The man stood as if frozen, staring down at the boy in his arms. The child’s face was pale and still and his eyes were shut. We threaded our way through the crowd to the side of the road. I pointed, ‘Come, we must take him to hospital,’ I said in Urdu. ‘That’s my taxi just along there.’

  The man did not move – I put my hand on his arm and gave him a little push. ‘Come on, let’s go, we need to get help for him.’

  ‘He ran away. It’s my fault,’ said the man. His voice was shaking. ‘He is my only son. I was talking to a friend and he ran out on the road.’

  The taxi driver was coming towards us, followed by a small crowd. The traffic was moving again, and a small bunch of men crowded around us, commiserating and gesticulating. The boy’s father said nothing, just stood there looking down at the boy’s face.

  ‘Please, let’s go now,’ I said. ‘To hospital.’

  The crowd escorted us to the taxi, talking and exclaiming and moving the boy’s father along with them. I did not understand what they were saying, they were all talking at the same time and my Urdu was not good enough. The boy’s father did not respond to the barrage of comments and questions, but he let himself be moved along by the crowd.

  We got into the back seat. I was relieved to see my little backpack still on the floor and fished out a packet of tissues.

  ‘Let me help you.’

  I wadded up a handful of tissues and pressed them against the wound on the side of the boy’s head. Without taking his eyes off his son’s face the man said, ‘Thank you, thank you. I didn’t even know he was on the road. One moment he was beside me and a second later he was gone. It was my fault.’

  The hospital was only minutes away on the long arterial street leading into town. I jumped out and walked around the car to help them out. The boy was still unconscious, but his eyelids were fluttering. The man moved towards the entrance and I followed him.

  ‘I hope he’s all right,’ I said. ‘If I give you my phone number will you let me know?’

  ‘I will.’

  I fished in the pocket of my baggy trousers, found a pen but nothing to write on.

  ‘Write on my arm,’ said the man and stopped just beside the door. I quickly wrote my number on his arm and stepped aside for him to carry the boy inside. I saw him approach somebody and be led to one side.

  I went back to the taxi and twenty minutes later I was in my room at the Shan Palace Hotel. I sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly feeling tired and listless. I unwound the dusty dupatta from my head and shoulders and pulled the tie off my ponytail. I sat there for several minutes, absently staring at my dusty feet and the rips in my trousers before I went to have a shower and to scrub the dirt from my grazed knees.

  Later I ordered a room service meal to make up for the lunch I had missed. My tunic and trousers were in the rubbish bin in the bathroom, both torn and stained with blood. I had offered no explanation of my appearance when I booked in – staff stared, but they asked no questions. I rinsed the dust out of the dupatta and hung it to dry so I could use it the next day.

  That evening the boy’s father sent a brief message: ‘My son is concussed, four stitches in his head. They say he will be OK. I am in your debt.’

  ‘Wow, what a fantastic story! She’s very brave,’ says Dao. ‘Most people wouldn’t have done that, would they? I like her.’

  PARACHINAR-PESHAWAR

  I spent that last evening in Parachinar making sure I would be safe the next day at the airport. I moved everything sensitive to a USB stick and deleted the files from my laptop. I put an innocent SD card in the camera and took out the one I used for the interviews. If I got searched and they checked the camera they would only find the sort of photos a travel writer would take – and I had plenty of those, proper sightseeing photos. It says in my passport that I am a journalist and I had composed a long document about things I had seen and done but leaving out anything to do with the safe houses. Just descriptions and observations of a non-critical kind: stories about market places and children playing football on a dusty road, descriptions of towns and villages, bus rides and so on. Nothing that could be construed as being critical of their culture or religion.

  Since I first went there several years ago the security measures have either been beefed up and or become more visible. There is a constant undercurrent of apprehension at the airports – or that’s what I feel. There are more armed guards and soldiers and they add a sense of threat, even if they are only there to prevent terrorist attacks. Things are always dangerous in those north-west provinces next to the Afghan border; that amazing place where the Khyber Pass is only a stone’s throw away. The populations on both sides of the border are predominantly Pashtu so the Taliban has connections everywhere.

  I had thought it through in advance. I would have the USB stick in my pocket, so it did not look as if I was trying to hide it. If they asked me to empty my pockets I planned to drop it on the floor and accidentally stand on it and crush it – if I could. I got on the bus to Peshawar early the next morning. The air con was out of order and I was on the sunny side; the trip was a nightmare. I wound the dupatta loosely around my head and pulled it forward, so I got some shade, but it became an endurance test. I had found some handwritten sheets of notes about one of the refuge houses in my laptop cover. I ripped them into tiny pieces and wrapped them in a tissue, so I could dump them somewhere. Even ripped up I didn’t want to leave them in my hotel room.

  I got off the bus at the Peshawar airport, which is a long, modern concrete building. I had my tickets and passport in my trouser pocket; I was still wearing local dress for comfort, so I had lovely deep trouser pockets. I had my little backpack on my back and a small wheeled suitcase. Inside the terminal it was cool and shady. I dropped my bundle of torn-up paper in a rubbish bin and felt I had cleared the first hurdle. The line at the check-in desk was long, fifteen or twenty people in
front of me. A group of children ran around, chasing each other and hiding behind the big square pillars that support the roof. Every few minutes the line moved a bit closer to the desk. I had just pushed my bag a couple of steps forward, when the face of one of the little girls caught my attention. She was staring at something and she looked frightened.

  I turned my head and saw four men approaching from our end of the terminal; dressed in black, with guns held across their bodies and balaclavas covering their faces. I had never seen soldiers or police look quite like that at an airport before. They stopped about ten metres away and stood side by side looking down the length of the terminal. I should probably walk away quietly from the line and go outside. I was thinking it was good that I was dressed in shalwar kameez again; at least I looked like a local. I felt sure something was about to happen.

  Just as I reached for my bag an explosion rocked the far end of the building. Something large slammed into my back and threw me face down to the floor. Clouds of dust everywhere; I was coughing and trying to get up, but I was pinned down. I lifted my head and a pair of black boots appeared in front of my face; the weight across my back was pushed to one side. Before I knew what was going on, the man grabbed my upper arms and dragged me along the floor very fast. My face was inches above lumps of concrete and debris, my legs bumped over obstacles. He pulled me around one of those square pillars and dropped me behind it. He said, ‘Stay here, don’t move!’ He was panting, his voice urgent, nearly angry.

  I was lying on my side, winded and confused. I raised myself on one elbow to look at him, but he was leaving, running and lifting the automatic weapon that he had slung across his back. He was one of the men I had noticed just before the explosion. Suddenly I became aware of the pain in my arm and shoulder. I lay back and tried to hold my arm in a position that did not hurt.

  Then another explosion, closer this time and much bigger. The entire building shook. Things hurtled through the air like missiles and crashed to the floor. I huddled into a ball with my good arm over my head, terrified. When I looked around the men were gone, the floor was strewn with debris – lumps of concrete as big as suitcases, body parts and fragments of luggage. Just beside my pillar lay a pair of sunglasses, folded and undamaged. It was surreal. There was dust everywhere, I was choking and coughing.

  I thought, ‘Where is my backpack?’ My ears were ringing and hurting; everything sounded muted. I got up and my balance was way off; I was swaying and disorientated. The backpack was still on my back. I patted my trouser pockets and the passport and tickets were still there. I got out from behind the pillar and looked back to where I had been before the man dragged me away and there was nobody there – nothing at all. Just a deep crater surrounded by blown-apart bodies and rubble.

  It was a scene from hell. The blast of the explosion had felt like a physical assault and it was hard to think straight. When you know you have missed certain death by seconds it affects everything. It was hard to know what to do, where to go. Gradually the far reaches of the terminal became visible as the dust began settling. There were bodies everywhere and injured people struggling to their feet, things dangling from the ceiling. Voices crying out, some were screaming – and everything muted by the ringing in my ears.

  To my left lay the body of a little girl, like a disjointed doll. She had been tossed by the blast and she was undamaged apart from a missing leg. I felt I should do something – but I couldn’t think what. She was clearly dead: her eyes were wide open, her face covered in dust.

  I started making my way towards the main doors, sort of meandered through the chaos, negotiating obstacles – bodies or body parts, broken concrete and smashed luggage. I was beginning to feel nauseous and a cold sweat broke out on my face. I stood still and waited for a moment until I could move again. By the time I got to the doors, police and people in uniforms were coming in from all directions and I heard sirens. It was like a strange slow-motion dream, frightening and unreal at the same time. I made it outside, crossed the forecourt and sat down on the ground in the shade of a tree.

  I put the pages down and we stare at each other. Sitting here in the quiet luxury of our house and reading about what happened to Hope is disorienting. Like entering a world of fear and threat, feeling the terror and then being suddenly snapped back.

  THE CALL FROM WILLARD

  This morning was full of frustrations. After knocking my hand and sending shock waves of pain up my sore wrist, I discovered there was hardly any coffee left. I mentally said goodbye to the one day this week with no reason to go out. I was still quietly fuming when the phone went. I tried to grab it fast and dropped it. The back cover popped off and the caller hung up before I had picked the pieces up.

  ‘Shit!’ I said aloud to the empty room. ‘If it doesn’t get better from now on, I’ll go back to bed.’

  The caller’s number was not one I recognised, but as I stood there trying to get the cover back on it rang again.

  ‘Hi, this is Willard,’ said a deep voice I would have recognised anywhere. ‘I don’t know if you remember me.’

  ‘Of course, I remember you. And you were right about the battle at Badajoz – I checked it when I got home.’

  He laughed. ‘That might be so, but I think we can divide the honours evenly. First time ever I’ve had a chance to spend hours talking about the Peninsular Wars with someone who knows the topic.’

  A couple of weeks ago we sat beside each other on a flight from Dubai to Auckland. I had not been in a mood to start a conversation; I was tired and on edge, my injured arm was painful and generally frustrating. He had picked up on my lack of response and let me read in peace, but when a meal was put in front of us, he said, ‘Let me help you with that. You won’t be able to handle all those wrapped and sealed things.’

  He checked that I was not going to protest, lifted my tray with one hand and swapped if for his own. He unwrapped and uncovered my food, buttered the bread roll and cut up the chicken.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said when he swapped the trays back again. ‘What a useful neighbor you are.’

  ‘A good engineer is always useful,’ he said and tucked his book more securely between his leg and the armrest.

  I glanced at the title and smiled. ‘Snap!’ I showed him the cover image of the book I was reading on my Kindle and he grinned. ‘I wasn’t expecting that!’

  I was reading Wellington at Waterloo and he was reading Wellington and Napoleon: A clash of arms. We had a long and enjoyable discussion about the Peninsular Wars and a debate about the siege at Badajoz – both delighted to have found someone who shared our interest. I gave him my card when he asked for it and had not heard from him since.

  ‘Would you like to go for a walk somewhere tomorrow? The forecast is good and I haven’t been out of the plant in daylight since I got back. I need some fresh air.’

  ‘It’s very interesting,’ says Dao. ‘Are they all connected, these things and people? Or does she write a story whenever something affects her, something scary or just interesting or emotional?’

  ‘I’m sure the incident in Pakistan and what’s happened since are linked. It just can’t be coincidence. The guy who rescued her at the airport is a terrorist and perhaps he’s also the father of that little boy on the road. And suddenly Hope’s flat is under surveillance and someone’s following her around. God knows what else is going on – emails and text messages monitored? Her friends? And this Willard guy – is he really just a random new acquaintance?’

  ‘Imagine that terrorist standing there,’ says Dao. ‘And then he spots her looking straight at him and he recognises her, so he drags her to safety before the next bomb goes off just where she was standing.’ She wriggles her foot. ‘Please don’t stop.’

  ‘Enough.’ I lift her feet off my legs. ‘I’m going to get Scruff in from the courtyard. I think it’s going to rain again.’

  ‘But listen,’ says Dao, when I get back upstairs. ‘There’s something I don’t understa
nd. Those guys were there – at the airport, I mean – because they knew two bombs would go off, OK? They stand at the end furthest away from the first bomb and look down the length of the building. They can see bomber number one at the far end and he blows up. Then our guy spots Hope, and he knows she’s very close to the second bomber, so he saves her – to kind of pay back that debt of honour. But why were they there at all? I just don’t get it. Aren’t those bombers willing to sacrifice themselves? Do they need someone standing around with a weapon to see they really do it?’

  ‘I don’t know, Dao. I have no idea how they think. But from a tactical point of view I understand it. If you let off a bomb at the end of a very long indoor space, survivors will run away from the blast. They’ll head for the other end – unless they can get outside right where they are, which in this case they could not. Maybe those guys were there to shoot into the crowd and stop them escaping out of the building – trap them in place until the second bomb went off. Like that time in Paris when they bombed a café and then, when people rushed up to help the injured, another bomb went off among them. They are maximising the impact.’

  ‘Those people are really horrible! And now Hope is missing – which is really weird. That can’t be the security people. They don’t kidnap people, do they?’

  Chapter nine

  We sit in the car just down the street from Willard’s house in Freeman’s Bay and wait for Noah. Today Scruff is in the back of the station wagon on his rug and Dao is talking to him to make him stay there; the latest instalment of her training programme. He already knows a dozen commands.

  ‘By the time he’s five he’ll be a fully trained wonder dog,’ I say. ‘I never taught him anything apart from walking to heel.’

  ‘He likes learning,’ says Dao. ‘He is a natural student. I think I’ll teach him to count.’

  I lean back against the headrest and make a mental note to check the CCTV recording to see if that guy, who was on the far side of the street when Noah came the first time, has been back. Was it just chance that he was there when Noah came, or had he followed him?