Blood Wedding (26 page)

Omar scowled. In a few minutes he returned with the first aid box. Javeed took out some iodine.

‘This should be sufficient for now, but you need to get it checked out.’

Max grimaced as Javeed applied the iodine. Javeed laughed. ‘You wouldn’t make much of a soldier.’

‘Some people say I don’t make much of a cop.’

‘Here, turn round and let me look at your head.’

Max winced again as Javeed dabbed on some drops of iodine.

‘Get them both looked at as soon as you can. Okay. You want to apologize . . . ease your good liberal conscience . . . but you’re also checking up on us? Right?’

Max blinked. ‘I am personally sorry for what happened, particularly to Hassan. Believe me, I had nothing to do with that.’

‘I believe you. You are too subtle for such crudities.’

‘Thanks. How is Hassan?’

‘What do you expect? He’s been tortured. I want an inquiry into police use of torture and compensation for Hassan, of course, but your friends threatened to push the pornography charge if we didn’t agree to leave the country.’

‘I can’t believe they tried that old trick,’ said Max.

‘They did, and it worked. We have no comeback, except to deny it. They have our hard disk with the incriminating evidence, don’t they? So we’re the bad guys now.’

Max knew he was right.

‘So we don’t have much choice, except to leave to avoid charges. I’ve asked my lawyer to push for compensation. But I don’t hold out much hope. What do you think?’

‘There will be an honest and thorough investigation,’ Max replied.

Javeed glanced at Max. ‘You hope so.’

‘No. This time I can guarantee it.’

‘Maybe,’ said Javeed.

‘But forget any hopes for compensation. I don’t see that being likely,’ said Max.

‘I don’t think it’s likely either.’ Javeed turned to Omar. ‘Don’t just stand there. Go and get our guest some tea. You are lucky the Sub-Inspector won’t press charges for assault. You won’t, will you?’ Javeed added, looking hard at Max.

‘No, I won’t.’

Javeed smiled. ‘Then perhaps we can continue our previous conversation in more propitious circumstances. This time it can be you on the defensive. For indeed what is truth?’

Omar returned with two mint teas.

‘Truth?’ said Max. ‘I believe you can approximate to it or else I wouldn’t be a cop. You look at the evidence, weigh it up, and then decide if it more or less fits the facts. But motives . . . intentions . . . you can never be certain.’

‘Ah. The human heart. Only Allah, peace be upon him, knows that. You could say that we Muslims are a very fatalistic people.’

‘Why?’

‘On one level, we don’t really believe in cause and effect.
You
are brought up looking for explanations, a ‘because’ for everything.
We
see the world as a series of events, like a story, ‘and then this happened, and then that.’ It all being Allah’s will. You see, we don’t believe it is Allah’s will that the Jews should dominate Palestine for ever. So it is Allah’s will that we should fight, and in that fight many will die. Allah leaves it up to us how we fight, but fight we must. Bin Laden understands that well . . . which is why he is so popular in the Arab world.’

‘But what if the means he uses are counter-productive?’

‘Maybe he’s part of the problem too. But do you think if we pleaded with the American President to put right all the injustices he has supported, it would have any impact? I may disagree with Bin Laden’s tactics, but his essential message that we will achieve nothing without fighting is true. I regret the deaths, but Allah’s will is for an Islamic Palestine, and an independent Middle East. For that we have to fight. But our fight has to be like a chess game, sometimes you have to sacrifice a piece to achieve the final checkmate. We are at the sacrifice stage.’

‘So you don’t support the present peace offer?’

‘Peace offer? That’s not peace. It’s not even peace without honour. That’s giving us a piece of dirt in return for giving up everything we have fought for. And Al Fatah have become so corrupt . . . well, they might sign. I’m told the Americans have offered them large sums of money.’

‘I thought you’d been an Al Fatah organizer in . . .?’

‘Years ago. But now they are corrupt, and may sign. So these present negotiations are very dangerous. We may gain a pawn or two, but in doing so, sacrifice our queen, and without her we cannot win. Our queen . . . is our belief that one day we will reoccupy enough of our lands to have a viable state. So a bad peace in which we lose that hope is worse than no peace at all. Without that belief, we will start killing each other. And then we will have lost everything.’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘No. I’m not surprised. You haven’t lived our lives.’

‘No.’

‘One learns through sacrifice. The Zionists understand that – which is why they are so ruthless. The Americans are ruthless as long as it causes them no pain. But cause them pain and they look eventually for compromises. Pawns, you know, are there to be sacrificed. But yes, I love chess.’

‘I noticed that the winning move was similar to the one in
The Flanders Panel.’

‘Back to that again. Yes. I had to manoeuvre Hassan into a position through sacrificing pieces where I could take his white knight to eventually win the game. In chess, as in war, sacrifices are necessary to win in the long run.’

Max grimaced, his ribs and head aching. ‘I’m not one for sacrifices. My ribs are really beginning to hurt. I’d better go now.’

‘Can you drive down the mountain okay?’

‘Sure. No problem.’

‘We leave at the end of the week. So you and I probably won’t meet again. Or maybe we will,
inshallah.’

‘Maybe we will, Allah willing,’ Max replied.

‘I hope so. You are the only one of them who tries to understand.’

Max and Javeed shook hands. Javeed walked with Max to his car.

‘Remember, what is truth?’

Max laughed. ‘Only Allah knows that.’

He drove down the mountain, his ribs throbbing, his head aching. I must check up on the police notes on that chess game, he thought.

When he reached the turn-off to Diva he decided to take it, and spend the night at Paula’s. She would fuss over him, but then he felt in need of a bit of fussing.

As he turned on to the Jola road, the pain in his ribs and head got worse. He began to feel faint. Best stop the car. Max pulled up near the bridge where Leila’s body had been found. He got out of the car, and breathed in deeply. It was not far to go. He had better warn Paula he was coming, and that he was not feeling too well. He fished in his jacket for his mobile, and phoned Paula.

‘Abuela. Hola
. I’ll be arriving in ten minutes or so. I’m not feeling too well. No, I’ll be okay. Yes. I can make it on my own.’

The pain in his ribs was becoming unbearable. He felt nauseous. Best get there quick. Max looked around him. It was here that Leila had died. And he was still no further as to the reason for her death or the identity of her killer. There must be something out there that could give him a clue or maybe he already had a clue but had just failed to notice it.

Max got back into the car. His head was throbbing with pain. He reached to start the car, and gritted his teeth so as not to scream from the sharp pain in his ribs. The engine finally kicked in, and he eased the car forward. The pain made driving hazardous. He slowed down to a crawl, unsure that he could make it to Paula’s. After what seemed like an eternity, he glimpsed lights in the distance, welcoming, beckoning lights. He could just make out Juan, waiting at the beginning of the driveway. Max felt sick, then suddenly he vomited over the steering wheel. He managed to stop the car before he passed out.

He awoke to the pleasant smell of fresh lavender. He opened his eyes to see two worried faces staring down at him.

‘Santo cielo,’
said Paula. ‘Are you all right? Juan had to carry you in from your car. Mother of God, you could have killed yourself.’

‘No. I’m okay. Just fell and hurt my ribs and head, that’s all.’

‘We’ve called the doctor. You could have broken ribs, and that head wound could be serious,’ said Juan. ‘What happened?’

‘Slipped and fell, that’s all. I’ll be all right.’ Max grimaced as he tried to move.

‘Here. Let me help you,’ said Juan. He put his hand on Max’s back as he struggled to sit up. ‘We’ve wiped the sick off you. You vomited all over the steering wheel, you know.’

‘Thanks,’ said Max as Juan straightened his pillows. Max smiled faintly. ‘I’d love a strong cup of English tea, plenty of sugar.’

‘I’m not sure we’ve got any,’ said Juan.

‘Yes, we do,’ said Paula. ‘The box Max brought back from his last trip to Scotland. You’ll have a drop of brandy too?’

‘Okay. What really happened?’ said Juan, once Paula had left the room.

‘Somebody threw a rock at me, a big one. Got knocked over, and hit my head on a boulder. I can’t really blame the guy – he’s got enough reasons to hate the police.’

‘Anything to do with Leila’s death?’

‘No. It’s these Muslims we arrested.’

‘Nothing to do with Leila.’ Juan licked his lips. ‘Max . . .’ he began. Then Paula returned, and he stopped.

‘Here you are,
cariño
. A nice cup of tea just like your mother showed me how to make it. But first have this drop of brandy. Juan, help me get him out of these bloodstained clothes before the doctor comes. We can’t have him looking such a mess,’ and she started undoing Max’s trousers.

‘Abuela
, for heaven’s sake! Let me do that.’

‘Don’t be silly. It’s not that long ago I wiped your bottom.’

‘But I’m grown up now.’

‘That’s what you think. And there isn’t anything I haven’t seen before.’

‘Juan . . . ask her to leave, and give me a hand getting out of these,’ pleaded Max.

‘Juan, get Max a pair of your clean pyjamas.’

For the next half-hour until the doctor came Paula fussed over him. Paula was good at fussing, better than mother. Max leaned back into the pillow, and started to relax.

The doctor confirmed it was quite serious: probably two broken ribs and a minor concussion. He patched Max up as best he could, and put a small bottle of painkillers on the bedside table.

‘Take two of these every two to four hours. They will help you sleep. If we were closer to the city, I’d send you I for an X-ray now, but I think it can wait till tomorrow. I’ll make an appointment for you.’

‘I’ll drive you over,’ offered Juan.

‘Thanks. Juan . . . Could you get my uniform jacket – I left it on the back seat, and it’s got my mobile in it.’

‘Max, call me if you get any new symptoms.’

‘Okay, Dr Muro. My
abuela
’s a good nurse.’

Paula came in. ‘Max, how about some nice chicken broth with a raw egg in it?’

‘Thanks,
abuela
. But all I want to do now is sleep.’

Juan returned with Max’s jacket.

‘Thanks,’ said Max. ‘Hell. I should have asked you to get the charger. It’s in the front compartment of the car.’

‘Okay, okay. But remember I’m not your nursemaid.’

‘I know. Remember the time I fell out of that tree, and all you could do was laugh.’

Juan laughed, and left. Max reached into his jacket pocket to take out the mobile. With the mobile came a mint, and the plastic evidence bag with the scrap of sweet wrapper. He placed them in the drawer of the bedside table. Juan returned with the charger.

‘Shall I plug it in for you?’ he asked.

‘Please.’

‘Anything else, sir?’ joked Juan. ‘Tuck you in? Wipe your brow? Hold your hand?’

‘Oh, fuck off, and let me sleep.’

‘I don’t know how the police let in such a softie,’ laughed Juan as he left.

Max took the painkillers, and was settling down when Paula entered.

‘Max, would you like me to stay and make sure you’re all right?’

‘No, I’ll be okay now,
abuela.’

‘Here, let me tuck you in nice and comfy. And I’ll just wipe some of that perspiration away.’

She took Max’s hand. ‘You had us really worried, you know. I don’t like all this dangerous work you’ve got yourself into. Something really nasty could happen to you.’

‘I know,
abuela
, but it has to be done.’

‘Sleep tight,
mi amor,’
said Paula, bending over to give Max a kiss on his cheek. ‘I’ll pop in later to see how you are.’

Better get the mobile out . . . you never know, Max thought. He gazed at the scrap of paper in the evidence bag, and the mint sweet. He began to drift in and out of sleep. There was something odd. Something odd. The mint . . . was that one Juan had given him when he was last at Paula’s? Juan? Juan? He could hardly keep awake now. Why did that matter? And he then fell into a deep sleep.

Max awoke in the middle of the night, his throat dry. Paula had been in, and had left a glass of fresh water on his bedside table. She had left the night light on. His ribs were really sore. Max painfully sat up, and reached for the water. He took another two painkillers. As he did so, he looked at the mint and the torn sweet wrapper in the evidence bag. He felt sick again.

No quise.
No quise decirte nada
.

I was not willing.
Not willing to tell you a thing.

Frederico García Lorca,
Al oído de una muchacha

(
Whispered to a Girl
)

The journey to the hospital was painful. Max wanted to talk to Juan, but not now. They arrived at the hospital, having spoken scarcely one word. Juan gently helped Max into Casualty. The Casualty doctor examined him thoroughly, ordered X-rays, and returned in half an hour.

‘As I thought,’ he said, ‘two broken ribs and concussion. You’ve been lucky . . . could have been a lot worse. Not much we can do except give you painkillers. All you can do is go home, rest, and just take it easy. Assume you’ll be off work for at least a week.’

Juan helped him back into the car.

‘Max, come back with me to Paula’s,’ he said. ‘At least you know you’ll be well looked after.’

‘No, I’d be so fussed over, I’d get no rest,’ insisted Max. ‘I’ve got my air conditioning fixed, so I’ll be fine in Granada. If you could do a bit of shopping for me, I’ll manage. If I need anything more, my neighbours won’t let me starve.’