Chapter 21

‘Eh . . . sorry, what was that?’ Fareeha refocused her eyes and gave her attention back to her neighbour. Her hands pulled at the knot in her headscarf.

Mrs Sharwalla whooped. ‘I said, that stinking mule train made a lot of noise this morning.’ Then in a softer voice she added, ‘My girl, are you sure you’re all right?’

‘Yes, it’s nothing really. A lot of things on my mind, that’s all.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Mrs. Sharwalla began, ‘I can hardly make ends meet myself.’ The forefinger of her right hand went directly to a hole in the side of her long, colourless dress, as if to prove a point.

‘No I didn’t mean . . .’ Fareeha dropped her shoulders and changed her tone. ‘Yes, it’s getting worse every day, isn’t it?’

‘Did you get that letter of yours into the paws of that ugly Armenian?’

‘I did, yes.’ Fareeha dropped her eyes. ‘I . . . I found an extra coin in the bedroom, quite by chance, and I stopped Nisham as he rode by earlier. Last minute is better than nothing, I suppose.’ She raised her eyes. ‘He doesn’t seem to like women talking to him in public; I thought he was going to strike me with his whip.’

‘That foul-mouthed pig doesn’t like anyone; I just hope he delivers the letter for you.’

‘Oh I’m sure he will; he even said he’d bring a reply if there is one.’

‘For another two dirhams—you can count on it.’ Mrs. Sharwalla then nodded towards the end of the garden. ‘Had one of Mahmoud’s goats back in there this morning,’ she said. ‘We’ll starve to death if they eat any more. I told Farooq to fix the fence, but he just . . .’

Mrs. Sharwalla raised her right hand to her left shoulder and squeezed. Her pained expression left Fareeha wondering what kind of new wound Farooq might have inflicted on her in the night. ‘I thought Mahmoud was going away, to look for Mansoor?’ she said.

‘Wish he would,’ Mrs. Sharwalla whooped. ‘Leave me with a few tomatoes.’ She dropped her hand but her lopsided face held the torment of her life for a moment longer. She didn’t speak for a few seconds and then said, ‘Have you seen that nasty man again—Khan?’

‘No, of course not.’ Fareeha said quickly, surprised that her neighbour had already put a name to her nocturnal visitor.

‘Well lucky for you, my dear. You know, people say he’s the one responsible for all those headless corpses they find up in the citadel.’ She sent her one eye off in the general direction of the headland and its imposing fortification and raised her right hand to her neck. ‘Decapitation,’ she said with a shudder.

A roar from the front street caught the two women’s attention at exactly the same time. They looked at each other and then stepped away from the fence. Mrs. Sharwalla was the first to speak. ‘What in heaven’s name is that?’

Fareeha had begun to peer in through her back door, as if she expected to see right through the house and out the front one. Her legs were already softening at the joints. ‘It’s alright,’ she said in a soft voice. ‘I can deal with it.’

*

Fareeha edged herself through the flapping sheet of linoleum with delicate steps. Her clammy fingers pulled the headscarf around her face, leaving a small gap for her eyes, which she used, furtively, to scour the foreground.

Bashar Khan stepped out of the dust cloud like a genie.

Fareeha stopped moving, and dropped her eyes into the bomb crater that separated them by several yards. She forced out a greeting but received no civilised response:

‘Closer,’ Bashar growled. He then turned his neckless head and shouted something behind him, at which an unseen hand silenced the noisy engine.

It was late and what little daylight that remained was rapidly draining west, swirling behind the orange rocks of the citadel. Fareeha stepped carefully around the hole.

‘Tell me what’s going on,’ Bashar said.

Fareeha looked into his grim face; his overhung brow dropped a heavy shadow upon his eyes and even his squat, gristly nose cast darkness below it. She then looked up at the headland and saw that the battlements of the citadel in the same way throwing their dying shadows down the vast stone walls. She pictured decapitated bodies strewn along the ramparts and for a morbid second she wondered what happened to all the heads. From somewhere behind, a call for prayer brought her back to the crater. ‘I am arranging to go away,’ she mumbled.

Bashar adjusted his stance; his head wobbled and more darkness fell onto his face. ‘Eh?’ he grunted.

‘I have to meet people,’ she said, ‘the people who are going to help us.’

‘Where?’

‘I’m not sure yet.’

‘How you going?’

‘A friend is helping me.’

Bashar moved again. ‘When?’ The heavy word dropped from his darkened mouth.

‘I’m not sure; but when I do go, it’ll be for a week or more.’ Fareeha felt the pulse in the backs of her dangling hands quicken. That whole sentence, spoken in a clear and even voice, seemed to have raised her heartbeat. She looked up again, but the citadel had disappeared into the night.

‘I’ll find you when you get back,’ Bashar barked, before turning his back on her.