by Merle Nygate
‘I certainly did,’ the doctor said. ‘In fact, I didn’t have to ask because the GP asked the same question for the same reasons and according to him – there was no note.’
Together Rafi and Eli also met up with the retired cop. He was delighted to feel the sparkle of espionage fairy dust brighten up a dull day of retirement. Thrilled to swap the weekly shopping list and chores about the house for the shadowed doorways of the past. Even happier to have a proper reason to hang around at the pub with some cash in his pocket so he could play the big man with his old workmates and be generous with the drinks.
The end result was the same information: no suicide note. Just a text message with a single word: Sorry.
Eli thought it was a particularly bleak way to end a marriage and a life but knew better than to dwell on it.
With the spectre of the suicide note expunged, they could now focus on Sweetbait. Eli and Rafi set off in a hire car to drive to Oxford. Although it would have been inaccurate to say that Eli liked his colleague, or would, whatever the circumstances, he recognised in himself a nominal shift in his attitude to Rafi: a resentful respect for his abilities. The asshole had some operational talent.
‘Are we clear about this afternoon?’ Eli said. ‘I need a full hour with Sweetbait and I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder for Trainer.’
‘Couldn’t be easier.’ Rafi swerved the hire car into the middle lane of the motorway forcing a driver in a blue BMW to brake.
During the next forty-five minutes they arranged the various rendezvous and with the operational logistics in place, Eli prepared for his meeting with Sahar. At the Beaconsfield service station on the M40, Rafi waited in the car park while Eli carried a plastic bag into the toilet where he changed into his gardener’s outfit. The green shorts, tee shirt and blouson jacket with the name of the contract gardeners embroidered in yellow made him feel like a peasant. Outside he found Rafi leaning against the side of the car eating an apple.
‘Nice legs,’ Rafi successfully tossed the core into a nearby bin. ‘You know, you should wear shorts more often.’
‘Fuck off,’ Eli said. He spent the rest of the journey with his earbuds in listening to texts from the Quran.
40
Watlingford Public School, Oxfordshire – Three Hours Later
The walled kitchen garden at the school was bathed in early evening light. As Eli knelt by his wheelbarrow making a show of weeding a patch of the chocolate-coloured loam he watched a worm undulate around a clod of earth. It was unfortunate. The worm made him think of decomposing bodies and Red Cap’s wife.
These dark thoughts were disturbed by footsteps on the path and Eli was wrenched back to the present and the job in hand. Turning he glanced up to confirm that it was Sahar, and no one else. Eli composed his expression as he stood up.
‘Marhaba, shaheed al hay,’ he bowed and gestured with his arm towards the seat. The girl glided towards the wooden bench with careful dignity.
‘Marhaba, Abu Marwan,’ Sahar said.
‘We have little time together,’ Eli said. ‘And I have much to tell you. I am sorry that we will not have the opportunity to pray this time, but I have much good news. Are you well?’
‘Yes, I am well and full of resolve to carry out the will of Allah and the instructions of you, Abu.’ She smiled at him.
‘It’s my honour to tell you that the day of your shaheed is approaching.’
She nodded, only the tightness around her eyes showed her fear that the time had come. Eli went on, ‘But, before this great day you will have both a trial and a reward.’
‘I do not need a reward in this realm, Abu.’
‘Then it may be just a trial,’ Eli smiled giving her the reassurance she needed. It had been agreed that if Sweetbait was distressed at the notion of seeing her brother then he would be crated, shipped out and they would deal with inquiry later. Everything hung on her response.
‘If it could be arranged, would you like to see your brother?’
Her eyes filled with tears and she reached out to Eli, just stopping herself from touching his arm.
‘Truly, is that possible?’ she said.
‘If that is what you wish. It is only because you are so admired that we would even consider this. But you would have to be strong, and prepared. If he loves you – and he is young – he might entreat you to change your mind. That is why I said that it would be a trial.’
‘I am strong, Abu. Have no fear. It would give me great joy to say my farewell to my brother, if that is possible.’
‘Very well,’ Eli said. ‘It will be done; soon. Tomorrow morning you will tell your teacher that you have a toothache and must see a dentist. Everything else will be arranged for you.’
‘I understand.’
‘There is something more. I need to talk to you about your day of martyrdom. As usual, the school will take you in a bus to a cultural location, but when you are there you will have the opportunity to meet me and I will give you the belt.’
How quickly her mood changed from joy to consternation. Now her brow creased between her eyebrows, ‘What happens if it is difficult for me to leave the group? What do I do? Would it not be better if you gave me the belt before?’ she said. ‘I could hide it in my room at the school, or find somewhere in the grounds. There are many places.’
‘The school is not secure. Your room might be searched when you’re not there. And more importantly, the belt is delicate,’ Eli said.
But the girl still looked worried. Her underlying concern was revealed in the shy way that she asked, ‘Is it easy to use?’
‘Yes,’ Eli smiled. ‘Very easy. Do not worry. That is the simple part. What might be difficult is for you to be in the right place.’
Eli took out of his pocket the map of the location. ‘You need to memorise it so that you do not waste time when you are there. Understood?’
She nodded and moved closer to him on the bench. Eli pointed to the map. ‘I will meet you here, The Vintage Village. You will follow me to a place where you will be prepared.’
Eli glanced over at her. She was silently repeating what he’d just said. He tapped another quadrant on the map. ‘This is where you’re going: the Techno Zone. Are you with me? Once inside, you will find the central point.’
‘I know this; I understand where I must be.’
A suicide bomb that explodes at the central point of any space inflicts the most damage; it was another cruel fact in the lexicon of murder but it chilled Eli that Sahar was already aware of the requirement.
‘Yes, Abu. I will count the steps across the diameter to be as precise as possible.’
‘Very good.’
Judging by her expression the girl was mentally preparing for the operation. Another time and place this mindset would have been developed even further; if fate had made her Israeli and she’d been called up for military service. He glanced over at her thin hands and narrow shoulders. Who knows – if she’d worked out and built up some muscle she might even have got herself into one of the combat units that took women. She certainly had both the brains and the courage for it.
41
Watlingford Public School, Oxfordshire – The Same Evening
After Abu Marwan leaves, I’ve only got twenty minutes to get back to the dormitory to prepare for the evening. I’m so excited that I’ll soon be seeing you, dear brother. I didn’t ask where or how. I trust Abu Marwan; he has great wisdom.
The night’s warm so I know that we’ll be sitting outside the cricket pavilion, drinking lemonade, eating cookies and Petra will read to us. Sometimes she reads a short story, other times an article from a magazine. Afterwards she asks questions to see how much we understand.
I wish you could be here now, Wasim. Listening to Petra read reminds me of when Mawmia told me the stories from her childhood; the stories that she was told by her mother. And the stories I told you when you were a little boy. About the desert and the nomads and the hills and fountains; stories about the
time before The Catastrophe.
Before I join the group at the pavilion I have to write down what Abu Marwan said; I’m going to draw the map he’d showed me, so that I can memorise it. You may think I’m fussing, brother, but I don’t want to hesitate about where I should be when the time comes; I want to do it completely right and make Abu Marwan proud.
The dormitory block is empty; quiet because everybody has already gone to the cricket pavilion. As soon as I’m in my room, I pull the folder from my workbag and draw the map. Blue to turn left, red to turn right; I draw the lines that I remembered and then surveyed my work. There was something missing; a building on the left.
‘Sahar? Are you still working?’
I turn around and there’s Petra standing in the open doorway. I close the folder and my neck feels hot. She’s leaning against the frame with her head to one side, did she see anything?
‘Everyone’s waiting at the cricket pavilion; we wondered where you were.’
‘I... I was studying,’ I say. ‘Yes, and I also want to change my dress, I am sorry.’
Uninvited, Petra steps into the room. ‘You’re fine as you are,’ she says.
‘I want to wear a warm dress,’ I say. ‘The night is cold for me.’
I’m careful. I don’t look at the folder with the drawing. I know better than that. I go to the wardrobe and pull out a blue wool dress. It’s new, I haven’t even worn it. I take it to the bed.
Petra glances at the dress and my other clothes hanging in the cupboard.
‘Of course, Sahar, if you want to change, that’s fine. I’ll meet you down there, or I can wait outside for you.’
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘Sahar, forgive me for asking...’
Let her not ask to see what I’m studying. Dear God, please. She won’t know what it is but I’ll have to lie to her. I really don’t want to do that, I like her.
Petra frowns, ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, yes, a little tired, and cold.’
‘I forget our warm nights are not quite as warm as yours. Why don’t I wait outside for you while you put on that nice warm dress?’
She goes out and closes the door behind her. Without wasting a second I tear the piece of paper with the drawing from the folder and tuck it into the ripped lining at the bottom of my workbag. It will be safe there. Then I undress and pull the wool dress over my head. My hands are shaking, I clench my fists and relax them concentrating on the soft wool. It’s gentle on my skin and I smooth it over my hips but I feel cold all the way down to my soul.
The clothes I’ve just taken off are lying on the chair next to my workbag. Do I leave my bag behind? It might seem odd to take it with me; maybe I will tell Petra I have a headache and that I can’t go. Yet, I really want to go. I want to sit by the pavilion with Aneeta and Li and Sergei and even Mfoniso and listen to Petra read a story. I want to hear Aneeta joke and make everyone laugh with her.
Whatever’s going to happen next week is inevitable but tonight and the days ahead are mine. Is that selfish? Is that so wrong? Won’t Allah forgive me as he forgives everything?
I pick up the workbag, put it over my shoulder and open the door. Petra is outside; she looks up from her phone and then tucks it into her jeans pocket.
‘That is a lovely dress,’ she says, ‘such a pretty colour. Come on, let’s join the others.’
Side by side we walk down the wide passage that leads to the main door. Petra is wearing black jeans and Converse trainers. She walks as if there are tiny springs on the balls of her feet, as if at any moment she might run, run for the joy of running. I feel small beside her, yet also, for the moment, somehow safe.
Petra opens the door to the quad and holds it for me. ‘You know, Sahar, if there ever is something worrying you, something you don’t want to talk to anybody about, you can always talk to me. That’s why I’m here, it’s not just to teach you English.’
‘You are very kind,’ I say. ‘I am very well. Sometimes I am homesick but I think that is the same for everyone.’
By now we’re outside the dormitory block and walking down the path beside the quad. The green lawns spread out on either side of us and I hear the shoo-shoo sound of the sprinklers.
‘Some people are more homesick than others,’ Petra says. ‘It’s not easy being away from the people you love; your family. Do you have brothers and sisters? I forget.’
‘A sister at home and a brother in America,’ I say.
‘Of course, I remember, America.’
‘Yes, I am very proud. He is student. Engineer, very clever,’ I say.
We turn past the quad down the path towards the cricket pavilion. On one side flowers grow up the side of the wall and as we pass the scent is sweet.
‘What is that?’ I say.
‘Honeysuckle. Have you seen it before?’
I shake my head. Petra walks on the hallowed grass – we’ve been told this is forbidden – and tugs at two of the flowers. She hands me one and I hold it in my hand.
‘Like this,’ Petra tugs the green end at the base of the flower, ‘Easy, gently,’ she says and a silken thread comes out. Still attached there is a drop of moisture like a teardrop. ‘Taste it. It’s sweet; it’s the nectar of the flower.’
I copy what she does; tug the thread and put the end of the flower into my mouth. The scent and flavour are amazing, it reminds me of the rosewater drink our mother made.
‘That is delicious,’ I say. ‘I never see such a flower. It is called...’ I struggle to remember the word. Petra helps me.
‘Honeysuckle. The humming birds and the butterflies love it.’
‘So do I.’
‘I’m pleased,’ Petra says.
In silence we continue our walk in the gathering night towards the pavilion. I really wish I might see Abu Marwan. I want to ask him if I can add Petra’s name to the seventy who I can choose to join me in heaven when they die, even if she is a non-believer.
‘Are you married?’ I say. ‘Do you have husband?’ I wave over my shoulder to indicate the past.
‘No, no.’
‘I was with husband,’ I struggle with the past tense. Petra doesn’t correct me. It must be correct. ‘He made a divorce. His mother does not like me. No babies.’
Petra looks down at me. ‘And he agreed? Said yes to his mother and divorced you? Nice guy.’ We walk for a few steps longer in silence. Petra goes on, ‘I hope your mother and the women in your family were able to support you.’
‘My mother is sick. My sister has babies and husband. They are busy. There’s just my brother.’
‘Well, I’m here. I mean it, Sahar, you can talk to me about anything and I will always try to help. I am difficult to shock, and I am on your side.’
By now the pavilion is in view and I can see the group sitting outside on the veranda. There are tiny lights strung above them, like stars and even from fifty metres away I can hear the laughter. I can just about make out Aneeta’s silhouette; she seems to be dancing; Petra begins to walk faster. I struggle to keep up.
‘Settle down everybody,’ I hear Petra call out to the group. ‘And make sure you’ve hidden anything you don’t want me to see.’
When I reach the veranda, everyone is sitting in a circle. Petra is between the two Russian boys and Aneeta and Li, the Chinese girl are handing out the lemonade and cookies. Mfoniso has saved me a seat next to him; I love his sleepy smile.
Petra now speaks with her teacher voice. It is different to the warm voice she used when we walked here.
‘Li, I’d like you to swap seats with Sergei who will attempt not to look like Romeo for the duration of this session. Alexei will put his phone away and stop checking his portfolio – or is it porn? And Mfoniso will stay awake. Just for tonight. Because this evening we’re going to do something different. Instead of another Sherlock Holmes story, I’m going to read you the lyrics of a song. And then each of you is going to either give us a poem or tell us about a song from your culture. Or even, if
you feel like it, sing.’
It’s a happy evening. In my whole life I don’t remember feeling so... I don’t know what the right word is. Connected? I try to stay apart and be detached, but as I listen to Li sing a song about high mountains and flowing water I feel my eyes are wet. She says high mountains and flowing water mean cherished friendship.
When it comes to my turn everyone is silent, the air is still. I struggle to think of something and then remember a poem by Suad al-Sabah: Be My Friend. Afterwards, Petra looks it up on the internet and translates some of the words:
‘How beautiful it would be if we remained friends
Every woman needs the hand of a friend
Be my friend.’
Aneeta stands up, crosses the veranda and hugs me. When she lets me go I see new respect in the eyes of Sergei and Alex. And Mfoniso winks at me and smiles even wider.
Afterwards we all walk back to the dormitory block together. I like these people. They are non-believers; they don’t know the way, yet we have shared something. Maybe I feel like this because my time is coming.
‘You’re quiet,’ Petra says as we climb the stairs to our rooms. ‘Are you tired?’
‘A little.’
‘I liked your poem,’ she says. ‘It was beautiful.’
‘There are many other poets,’ I say.
‘Really,’ Petra says.
‘Yes, I will write some names down for you.’
We’re outside my room and she follows me inside.
‘I’d like that,’ she says. ‘Do you have a pen in your bag?’
She reaches for my workbag and I step back, away from her hands, ‘No... no, the pen is on the desk. Not in the bag.’
This isn’t true but I’m terrified that she’ll find the map. I feel her eyes on me. Desperate,
I find the pen and scrawl down some names on a scrap of paper and give it to her.
‘Thanks.’
Petra tucks the piece of paper into the pocket of her jeans. She’s standing in the doorway so I start to tidy, putting my clothes away.