Authors: Parker Bilal
‘So why would a religious zealot choose this reference?’
‘Most of them are barely literate. They pick what is close to hand.’
The old man winced with pain as he stretched his stiffened legs and got to his feet. Age had begun to tighten its grip on his body like an invisible spider’s web.
‘You don’t need an excuse, you know. To visit, I mean.’ With that, Yunis gave a little bow and turned away. Makana watched the figure disappear between the dangling cages. He looked out of the window. Down below, the boy was spraying the plants along the wall with a hosepipe, the water a silvery peacock fan.
When he closed his eyes he felt his body jerk in response to the snap of automatic rounds. He heard glass shattering around him and Meera’s body falling, falling. Over and over again. A bell was ringing. He was trying to reach her, and knew he would never get there in time. When he opened his eyes in the dark he realised the phone was ringing.
‘Hello?’
He was about to put the receiver down, thinking there was nobody there, when he heard breathing. The long silence ended when a voice said, ‘Is this Mr Makana?’
‘Who is this?’
‘I . . . I’m sorry,’ said the caller abruptly. ‘This is a mistake.’ The line went dead. Makana stared at the receiver. A man. Not young. In his sixties perhaps. Educated. He replaced the receiver and sat there staring at it for a time, willing it to ring again. To his surprise it did. He let it ring a couple of times before lifting it.
‘Look, this would be a lot easier if you tell me what it’s about.’
‘All I am asking for is a chance to do just that,’ chuckled Mohammed Damazeen, as if summoned from the dark recesses of his mind. ‘Do you always answer your telephone in such a strange manner?’
‘How did you get this number?’
‘Talal wants us to be friends and I am willing to forgive your behaviour the other night.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I said I could help you and I meant it.’
Makana laughed. ‘What on earth could you offer me that I would be interested in?’
‘Something that is more valuable to you than life itself. Think about it.’
There was a click, and Makana was left holding the receiver. Music played a hysterical electro-beat off in the distance where the coloured lights on the little pleasure boats flew back and forth across the river like exotic fireflies. He rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch. Leaning down he undid the catch on the locker that was hidden under the big desk. Reaching in he removed the Beretta and weighed it in his hand, trying to decide whether to take it with him. In the end he put it back and closed the locker. Carrying a gun around was usually more trouble than it was worth.
The Seraph Sporting Club was crowded that evening. Light spilled out through the open doors into the poorly lit street. Youngsters pooled around the opening. Inside the big hall the air was damp with perspiration and excitement. The walls might once have been a pistachio-green colour. In time they had faded to a grubby ochre, speckled with crushed flies and smeared mosquito blood, along with all manner of encrusted bodily fluids deposited over the course of the years. The floor was littered with trampled paper flyers and roasted melon seeds glistening with spit. Boys and men, no women in sight. The noisy chatter of teenagers working one another up into a frenzy. The sound of a bell ringing brought attention back to the ring in the centre. Makana recognised the skinny, odd boy called Antun. The heavy brass bell looked big enough to rip his frail arm off as he walked the ring swinging it. The crowd moved closer as the fighters and their respective trainers climbed under the ropes.
‘Please give a warm welcome to our next contestants!’ Father Macarius bellowed with no need of a megaphone as he stood in the middle of the ring. The contestants were two boys, as dark and lean as racing dogs, their singlets hanging loosely from bony shoulders. They touched gloves and backed away. The crowd began cheering them on.
‘So now you’re interested in boxing, I see.’
Makana turned to see Ishaq, the young man who had tried to prevent him seeing Ridwan Hilal. He wasn’t alone. Behind him stood three of his friends, and further back he spotted a couple more of the same type, all wearing the club T-shirt.
‘Actually, I was looking for you.’
‘For me?’ Ishaq sounded surprised, but not displeased.
‘I have been asked to look into the circumstances of Meera’s death.’
A cheer went up as the two fighters in the ring started circling one another. The dull thud of them trading blows punctuated the roars of the boys and men around them. Ishaq spoke without taking his eyes off the match.
‘What has that got to do with me?’
‘I understand you were her student.’
‘So what?’ snapped Ishaq. ‘Are you police?’
‘No, this is a private matter.’
‘Hilal asked you?’ Ishaq spared Makana a fleeting glance. ‘Why do you come to me?’
‘Maybe it would help if you answered my questions first.’
‘I studied literature at the university. She taught some of the classes.’
‘Was she a good teacher?’
The question seemed to catch Ishaq off balance. ‘Good? Yes, of course . . . she was the best.’
Ishaq’s eyes were fixed on the ring. It was hard to make out the fighters in the weak light. The long hall floated in a submarine glow seeping from neon strips that appeared to be fixed to the roofing girders by a network of cobwebs and dust. Half of them were out. One blinked as if it couldn’t make up its mind.
‘Why do you ask about that?’
‘Because I’m looking for people who might have had a motive to kill her,’ said Makana.
‘What has that got to do with being her student?’
‘It could have a lot to do with it.’
‘How?’ Ishaq had given up pretending to be interested in the boxing.
‘Well, say a student falls in love with his teacher. And say he asked her to leave her husband for him, and she refused. Don’t you think that might make someone kill?’
Ishaq laughed. ‘Are you serious?’
‘You were a little bit in love with her, though, weren’t you?’
Ishaq laughed mirthlessly again, then prodded Makana hard in the chest. ‘You should watch out who you are accusing,’ he snarled as he pushed by.
Mentally, Makana crossed the idea off as a dead end. You can’t be right about everything, he told himself as he watched the boy walk away. The match was turning out to be somewhat one-sided. The larger of the two boys was pummelling the smaller, who could do nothing but hold his gloves up in front of his face in defence as he was pressed back against the ropes. Father Macarius stroked his beard as though considering how long to wait before intervening. Makana made his way through the crowd. Ishaq had disappeared but some of the others were standing together over on the far side by the wall of photographs. Hanging lopsided in a flimsy wooden frame, a clipping from a newspaper showed a row of coffins embedded in a crowd of onlookers. Makana felt the unhurried breathing on his neck.
‘Those are the Kosheh Martyrs. Murdered just over a year ago.’
Makana turned to see the bullish boy with a stout neck who had blocked his way outside Ridwan Hilal’s home the other day. He did vaguely recall the case. A dispute between a shopowner who happened to be Coptic and a customer who happened to be Muslim sparked off a riot in which hundreds of shops and houses in a town in Upper Egypt were burned to the ground. Twenty-one people were killed.
‘They never caught the culprits, did they?’
‘Who can expect justice when the police themselves took part?’
The bell was ringing to announce the end of the round. Not just the round, but the whole bout. Blood was pouring from the loser’s nose and mouth. Father Macarius held up the hand of the victor, who looked hungry enough to take on another six opponents before calling it a day.
‘You shouldn’t come round here with all your snooping about.’
‘That’s exactly the kind of thing a guilty man might say.’
‘Guilty, me?’ he reared back.
‘What’s your name?’ Makana moved along studying the pictures pasted to the wall.
‘Me? I’m Botrous.’
Makana paused, his eye drawn to a particular face. It was the face of a younger man. The lopsided eye was less pronounced, but there was something nasty about that face which was unmistakable. He tapped the picture.
‘So, Botrous. This man here. What can you tell me about him?’
‘That’s Rocky. Everybody knows Rocky,’ he grunted. ‘Ahmed Rakuba. You don’t want to have anything to do with him. Believe me.’
‘Is he from round here?’
Botrous thought about this for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He used to help out. I remember him from when I was a boy. He used to work with Father Macarius. Then he disappeared.’
‘How do I find him?’
Botrous laughed. ‘You don’t look for someone like Rocky. If he wants you, he’ll find you, but you’d better pray that he doesn’t.’
Makana watched the heavyset young man as he moved away to join the rest of the gang. They looked as if they had their work cut out making the world a better place. Others fell aside to give them a wide berth. Ishaq had vanished.
Coming towards him, weighed down under a sheet of folded canvas, was the nervous boy Makana had seen with Father Macarius on his previous visit. His eyes widened when he stepped into his path, despite the smile Makana had hoped would put him at ease.
‘Antun, maybe you can help me,’ Makana said.
The boy’s eyes roved about the room as if he had just fallen out of an alien spacecraft and had no idea where he was. He tried to speak, failed, and then backed away, still stuttering, until the canvas fell from his arms and he turned and darted off. As Makana watched him go a voice behind him spoke.
‘Ah, there you are. I was hoping you might show up.’ Father Macarius, still buzzing from the excitement around him. ‘We need all the support we can get. It’s hard to drum up interest in something so crude as boxing, yet what else could be more suitable?’
The evening’s bouts were over and the audience was slowly making its way out into the street. As they shook hands, Makana nodded at the departing figure.
‘He seems to help out a lot.’
‘Antun is very special. He was left in our charge as a baby. The church is all he knows.’ Macarius gestured at the walls around them. ‘He is a very talented artist. He paints and does wood carvings. The angels up there.’
‘They are very good.’
Macarius took hold of Makana’s arm and led him outside through the open doorway into the yard where the air was cooler. ‘Where is your reporter friend? I was hoping he would write a story about our situation.’
‘I came alone. Father, I understand Meera used to help out here.’
‘That’s right. After she lost her job at the university she would come here to give the children classes in English and Mathematics. Basic skills. The boys were very fond of her.’ Father Macarius shook his head. ‘Such a good woman. It’s a tragedy for all of us.’
‘I didn’t know she was a religious woman.’
‘The truth is she wasn’t, not really.’ Father Macarius smiled. ‘You don’t have to be religious to want to help disadvantaged children. She came here because she believed we do good work.’
Makana nodded. ‘I understand you basically built this church up from ruins.’
‘Well, not quite ruins. But it’s true, when I came here the church was in a very bad state. We had no funds of course and no materials, but we managed. That was twelve long years ago.’
‘That must take a lot of courage, taking on a task like that.’
‘Well,’ Father Macarius stared down at the floor. ‘I made a mistake. I was given a second chance and I wanted to do my best.’ He looked up at the church that gleamed before them in the moonlight. ‘It has not been easy, but I think we have achieved something.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘It is a tragedy about Meera. I cannot tell you how sad we all are.’
‘Did she ever talk to you about threats she had received? Some letters?’
‘Meera knew about threats.’ Father Macarius fixed Makana with a stony gaze. ‘We all do.’
‘You mean, because of her husband?’
‘I mean, because of her faith, which I believe prepared her for the difficulties she was to encounter with her husband.’
‘How do you feel about the fact that she married outside her faith?’
‘If a person decides to marry outside their faith it is no business of mine.’ Father Macarius had the even smile of a man to whom such questions were not new. ‘She was a Copt, first and foremost. The rest is’ – a philosophical shrug – ‘formalities.’
There was a commotion by the door behind them and a group of boys burst into sight with Antun at their head.
‘
Abouna, Abouna
!
’
‘What is it Antun?’
The frail boy’s face was flushed. ‘They’ve found another one.’
By the time they arrived, the alleyway was already choked with people. Makana stuck close to Father Macarius who cut straight through the crowd. But even his authority wasn’t enough in the end. Macarius had to physically throw himself into the fray until people grudgingly stepped aside.