Authors: Parker Bilal
The Burning Gates (27 page)
‘I don’t work for people like you.’
‘You already are working for me, in a manner of speaking. Why don’t you listen to what I have to say?’ Samari rested one ringed hand on the window frame. ‘I will pay you ten times what Kasabian paid you.’
‘That’s a lot of money. What do I have to do?’
‘Lead me to Kane. That’s all. I will take care of the rest.’
‘I don’t see why you need me. You have contacts here, in the government, in the army. They can get State Security involved.’
‘You forget who you are talking to,’ Samari said softly. There was no trace of the smile this time. ‘Not many people turn me down. Will you do it?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘A wise decision.’ The smoked glass slid smoothly back into place. The goon holding the gun pushed him aside and jumped into the front seat. Both SUVs sped off.
Back in the Thunderbird Makana sat and smoked, considering his situation. He appeared to be caught between two very dangerous men. Kane and Samari had already killed and would no doubt kill again. He was wondering how he was going to extricate himself from this mess when the front gate of the house across the street opened and a slight figure appeared. He recognised her at once. Bilquis was dressed in such a casual fashion that he might have mistaken her for one of the domestic staff, but somehow he knew it was her. Her head was covered and she wore a long skirt and coat. The clock on the dashboard said it was almost midnight. Maybe it was the end of her work shift. It was a weekday night and maybe things were a bit slow. Or perhaps she had been waiting for someone; a certain special customer who had just called to cancel.
Makana stayed low in his seat. He didn’t start the engine until she had turned the corner, then he pulled out. The Thunderbird rumbled slowly along the street. He reached the corner in time to see her climbing into a taxi cab. Swinging the wheel, he followed at a distance. The traffic grew heavier as they approached the centre of town. Despite the hour, people were busy, going from one social engagement to another, or in most cases, just cruising around looking for something interesting.
They swept by the bronze lions that stood guard over the Qasr al-Nil Bridge and crossed to Dokki. The taxi driver seemed to prefer the backstreets and he cut left and right until they came out on Sharia Sudan, almost by the railway station, where Bilquis got out and crossed the street. Makana parked the car a little way off and hoped it would be still be there when he got back. He continued on foot. Oil lamps hissed around stalls where
taamiya
was frying in thick brown oil, the bean rissoles floating in a furious golden froth. She walked fast, with her head down, ignoring the hawkers and the all-night purveyors of snacks, boys selling boxes of perfumed tissues, plastic roses, flashlights, lanterns that played the national anthem, alarm clocks shaped like mosques that woke you with the sound of the azan. She climbed the stairs to the footbridge. The moan of a horn announcing a passing train afforded Makana a brief flash of the side of her face caught in the headlight beam from below her, and then she was down the other side and slipping through the crowd.
Considering the time of night it was remarkably lively in al-Dakrur. Crowds milled around as if the concept of sleep was unknown to them. Three-wheeled rickshaws churned up the dust. Minibuses sounded carnival tattoos, festive lights spinning. Where they were all going was a mystery, as were the reasons for their haste. Following Bilquis was now simply a question of keeping her in sight. There was so much distraction it would be almost impossible for her to see he was behind her.
She cut down a side street, less an alley than a gully slashed through the rough brickwork. The light from the main road dwindled with each passing step. Makana felt the uneven ground beneath him rather than saw it. He stumbled along through a flurry of smells – rotting vegetables, coal smouldering in a brazier, stagnant water. Then, unexpectedly, the inviting warmth of a bakery. A group of men gathered in the shadows around the orange hemisphere of the oven where a sinewy man toiled, sweat glistening on his neck as he shuffled blackened trays containing rows of soft domes of pliant dough, and pulled out golden loaves.
Makana hurried on. At the next corner he almost lost her, catching just a glimpse of her coat as she disappeared through a doorway. The night was cool and still. He stepped back to watch the windows, waiting for a light to come on. He was leaning back, looking upwards, when somebody shoved him in the back. Hard. He stumbled forward to recover his balance before turning.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
The young men from the bakery. Apparently, watching dough rise wasn’t enough excitement for them tonight. They moved around him to form a loose circle.
‘We don’t take kindly to people who spy on our womenfolk.’
‘I wasn’t spying.’ It wasn’t much of an argument. ‘I’m a friend. I just wanted to make sure she got home all right.’ As he spoke a light came on above them. The third floor. A rickety window. The glow illuminated his face. Makana beamed. The picture of innocence. ‘Looks like that’s my work done.’ He turned to walk away but they blocked his path. One of them leaned in.
‘We look after our own around here. You should remember that.’
Makana studied the little group, trying to pick out the leader. In this case a plump, bow-legged man whose trousers were falling down. Challenge the leader. If he backs down the others will follow suit. If he was going to have to fight his way out then this was the one he would have to hit first. He stepped towards him.
‘You should be proud of yourself, taking care of women like that. I feel safer just knowing you’re around.’
Makana pulled out his cigarettes and placed one in his mouth. At the same time the leader flashed a smile. There was a look of delight on the flabby face, as though anticipating the fun he was going to have. Makana moved to step past but one of the others blocked his path. Behind him he heard the snick of a switchblade opening.
‘You seem to be in a hurry to leave.’
Makana turned back to the leader. Now that he looked more closely he realised that they were all a lot younger than he had at first thought. Still in their teens. Where were the men, the fathers, older brothers? In prison, gone abroad or to the other end of the country in search of work? Leaving these youngsters to roam the neighbourhood, to run it as they saw fit, their own little kingdom.
‘You have a better idea?’
‘Yes, we’re going to check your story.’ The big one lumbered forward. ‘And if you’re lying . . .’
Despite the dull eyes and clumsy gait there was something commanding about his presence. It was clear that he did this all the time. His reputation was founded on swaggering about these streets dealing with troublemakers. For the moment it seemed to make sense to go along with them. Makana followed him with the two others bringing up the rear. They entered the building and climbed a dusty, uneven staircase. Something brushed against Makana’s leg. A cat, he told himself, but then again maybe not. On the third floor the big one knocked. After a time footsteps could be heard approaching.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Adly from downstairs. I have to ask you to open the door if you don’t mind.’
There was a long process of bolts being pulled and locks being turned before the door finally swung to. Bilquis stood there, her head covered by a loose shawl. Underneath it Makana could see that she had let her hair down. Adly signalled for Makana to come forward.
‘This man was following you. He claims he is a friend.’
For a long moment, she stared at Makana, before finally nodding her assent. The boys muttered their apologies and disappeared back down to the street to look for more suspects. As their footsteps clattered away, Bilquis looked at him in silence. Then she stood to one side.
‘You’d better come in.’
The flat was small. A couple of steps in from the front door brought you to the middle of the living area. A threadbare sofa and a low table stood on a cracked linoleum floor. Against the wall at the back was another table. This one was covered with newspaper on which a pale green plastic bowl was surrounded by potato peelings and a knife. To the left a curtain of coloured beads led into what looked like a kitchen. Another door to the right looked like a bedroom and a dripping sound from a third door promised a bathroom. The paint on the walls was stained in places where a leaky pipe had left its trace. Makana saw cracks in everything. A broken windowpane patched up with tape so old it looked petrified.
Strangely enough, now that they were alone there seemed to be nothing to say. They circled around one another awkwardly. Bilquis retreated to her heap of potato skins and began wrapping them in newspaper as if they were precious relics. It wasn’t clear what she was going to do with them once she had finished, and at some point the absurdity of the task seemed to overwhelm her, so that she sank down into a chair and covered her eyes with a hand.
‘You have no right to follow me.’
‘It’s what I do,’ he said. ‘I follow people.’
‘That’s not a particularly honourable way of making a living.’
‘No, I suppose it isn’t.’
She made no attempt to reply. Her surroundings said more clearly than words ever could that everyone did what they had to do to get by. She fished around on the table and came up with a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. Lighting one, she inhaled deeply. No sign of the ebony holder she had used in the club. The scarf slipped off her head and fell around her shoulders.
‘I lived in a place much like this, years ago. When I first arrived in this city.’
‘You’re welcome to have it back.’ She blew smoke into the air.
‘It belonged to a friend of a friend.’ Makana hadn’t thought about that time in years. ‘There was a cat that used to climb through the window into the kitchen and help itself to anything it could find.’ He peered through the doorway into the kitchen, which smelt faintly of gas and burnt oil, as if perhaps he might find the same cat staring back at him. ‘She was smart enough to open cupboards, even the high up ones. I always wondered how she did that.’
‘Why did you come here?’
It was a reasonable question, and one to which Makana had no answer, reasonable or otherwise. His silent admission seemed to satisfy her.
‘I was curious.’
‘To see how I lived?’ She passed a hand around the room. ‘Now you’ve seen it.’
‘Yes, now I’ve seen it.’ He examined the picture of the Kaaba on one wall and tried to straighten it. As soon as he took his hand away it slipped down again on one side.
‘They let you leave early tonight.’
‘I was expecting a client who didn’t show.’
‘Your special visitor? The one from the other day?’
‘It often happens. People make appointments, other things come up.’
‘Of course.’
She inhaled again. ‘Why did you really come here?’ She got to her feet as Makana reached the bedroom and peered inside. A small boy was sleeping in the middle of the narrow bed. Reaching past him she drew the door gently closed. This was what she’d meant that night in the club when she said she was no longer alone.
‘My son is sleeping,’ she said.
‘How old is he?’
‘Hadi is five.’ She nodded to herself. ‘He’s all I have.’
‘His father?’
She stepped away and turned. She was standing under the light in the middle of the room. She looked him firmly in the eyes.
‘I don’t know which one of them he was.’ She held his gaze.
‘A security officer.’
‘There were five that I can recall. After that I passed out.’
‘You were active politically?’
‘Not at first.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘I knew nothing about politics. My father was a small-time merchant in the Souk al-Araby. He sold sesame seeds and oil. I was the first person in the family to get into university. I was going to be a doctor. I think I would have made a good doctor.’
She sat down again, stubbing out her cigarette, grinding it into the heap of skins. An acrid smell filled the room. In the watery light her face seemed to age, as if the telling of her story reminded her of what she carried within her.
‘I went on a demonstration. That was all. It was supposed to be fun. Everyone was excited. We thought we could change the world. It wasn’t politics, it was . . . a belief in ourselves, in the future of our country. Our future. Then the police came for us. They beat us, boys and girls, it didn’t matter. They treated us worse than you would treat an animal.’ Her eyes lifted to meet his. ‘I was so badly bruised I couldn’t stand up for three days. I started to get involved, organising meetings. Setting up more demonstrations, distributing leaflets, painting banners. I suppose you would call that politics. To me it was common sense. We had to stop these people. Someone inside the group must have betrayed us. They picked us up one night in a faculty building.’ She reached for another cigarette. Over the flame from the lighter she shot him a cold look. ‘The first time I set eyes on you, that’s what you reminded me of, one of those bastards.’
‘I was one of them, once. A police officer, I mean.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’
‘Things were different back then.’