Furnace (5 page)

Both the boy and girl had long, matted blond hair and they were dressed almost identically in loose cotton trousers and linen blouses. They held hands even in the worst of the heat, kissing and
touching without embarrassment whenever they rested in the shade. When they were not whispering or caressing one another they were happy to share Ibrahim’s
kif,
though the boy had a
sebsi of his own which he passed sometimes to the girl. They could be twins, Ibrahim thought, watching them sidelong, amused and a little uncomfortable.

They found the body just beyond the tiny spring where they had stopped to rest and drink. For a moment Ibrahim was simply startled and angry at the thought of some other guide bringing tourists
to his spring; then he saw the boy’s spoiled face and understood. He heard a loud, wordless shout, and realised it had come from his own mouth. Behind him, the girl too seemed to recognise
suddenly what she was looking at and shrieked once, sharply. The English boy had come looking for the water and missed it, Ibrahim guessed at once, perhaps passing it again and again, not realizing
that it was nothing more than a palm-sized, shallow pool hidden in the shadow of a flat rock. There was no running stream to give it away.

The boy’s scorched forehead was open where he had collapsed onto a sharp stone and the blood had encouraged mountain dogs to take the eyes, ears and lips. A dark line of large, glossy ants
was streaming in and out over the exposed white teeth. The ants were quick and purposeful, but here and there they reared up and wrestled where they collided, their long black forelegs rising and
waving. They seemed like moving symbols when they stopped and jostled, as if a line of script had come evilly to life. Ibrahim suddenly recalled listening as a child to his grandfather’s
stories of the ruthless jinns of the mountains and a swelling panic began to knock his heart against his ribs. The ants could be the language of the jinn, he thought, and had to look away for a
long moment before he could reassure himself that it was only the
kif
in his head making a child of him. The girl was at his side now, stooping and shaking one of the boy’s stiff bare
legs as if to try and wake him, moaning and babbling something – the same few words in her own unpleasant language – repeated over and over. Finally, the boyfriend took her free arm and
pulled her roughly away.

Ibrahim was careful not to show any sign that he recognised the body, and he made sure that the Dutch couple, when they were calm enough to walk again, stayed with him to confirm his story when
he reported to the authorities in the new quarter.

The police captain interviewed all three of them together, took written statements from the boy and girl and then interrogated Ibrahim alone. When they finally released him after the body had
been examined on the mountain and a report radioed in, it was dark. The Dutch couple were gone and when he asked the guards on duty at the station door they laughed out loud and denied that either
of the young foreigners had left the money they had agreed to pay him. What about the girl? Ibrahim insisted. Are you certain she left nothing? Not even an address? A message? They laughed again,
insulted him, and pushed him out into the night.

He felt nothing more than annoyance at being cheated of his fee by the empty-headed Dutch boy, but walking towards his cousin’s house at the foot of the medina where he planned to smoke
and tell his story and sleep off the disastrous day, he felt strangely bitter towards the girl who had seemed friendly and had known a little Arabic and had asked him questions all the way up the
mountain. It was foolish; an over-reaction, he knew. Allah provides. But still, he felt bitter. He would tell his cousin about the girl and about the ants, too. It had been like a dream, their
streaming in and out of that ruined mouth. Why were they still in his mind, troubling him? He had the feeling that if he could speak about them it would be like brushing them away.

He’d had to park in Union Crescent, two long streets away, and now as he hurried towards home on foot, soaked and cursing, carrying the bodies of the two heavy pike in a
straining plastic bag, the police loomed like sudden monuments out of the dark and swathes of rain. There were three of them at the street-level entrance to his tenement building, muttering and
laughing, blocking the steps to his basement door. As he drew close he noticed that the ground floor flat above his own was cordoned off with yellow and black police tape. He stopped and waited for
the figures in front of him to move. The three men were tall and motionless under the downpour. The water spattered heavy on their flat hats and streamed in rivulets down their bulky black nylon
coats. Finally one took notice of him and shifted towards the road, letting him by. He felt their sudden silence at his back as he made his way down to the basement yard. Under the bridge of stone
steps that connected the ground floor entrance to the street he paused, out of sight of the police and shielded from the rain. He shook himself and loosened his clothes where the wet had plastered
them to his skin. The yard smelled like old bread under the span of the arch and the damp, sheltered air was filled with tiny grey gnats. He waved a hand in front of his face where they had already
begun to congregate. For a short time then he stood still and strained to hear what the police above him were talking about, but the spit and hiss of the rain drowned out everything other than one
more low purl of laughter.

Inside, the kitchen strip light was already on. He kicked off his wet shoes and crossed the tiles to the cooker. A small covered pan sat cold on the hob and when he lifted the lid he saw it was
half full of congealed baked beans. A strong, caramel-like sweetness bloomed up from them. He put the lid back on and hefted the bag of pike up onto the steel draining board next to the hob. The
two fish, stiff and curved, slid with a rush under their own dead weight through the plastic neck of the bag onto the metal. A gout of clear, stringy fluid spilled after them. They were each
between four and five pounds – good solid pike though their colour was already spoiled. He considered cleaning them there and then but decided it could wait until he’d dried and
changed. Leaving the water and slime to drain, he opened the door to the living room and looked in.

Karen was slumped on the sofa, asleep in front of the TV. A thin downie covered her up to the chin. Her head was fallen to one side and her mouth hung open. The downie cover was patterned with
big prints of washed-out blue roses. A hungry weariness washed over him. He peeled off his sodden jumper and draped it over a kitchen chair, then went back to the living room. The TV was still on,
the volume turned low. He crossed the room and turned it off. The sound of the rain washed in, whispering and spluttering. Karen closed and opened her mouth, making a tacky chewing noise, then
opened her eyes.

Malcolm, she said thickly, what time is it?

Not late, he said.

She yawned and thought for a moment. I left some food for you.

I know, he said. He scratched the back of his neck, staring at a point somewhere to the side of her. Thanks.

Did you catch anything? You didn’t bring anything back, did you?

Only two.

She groaned. Why do you have to bring them back? They taste terrible. No one else I know ever had to eat a pike.

They taste fine. It’s just the bones you don’t like.

Oh Christ. Don’t even talk about the bones.

He shrugged. I’ll eat them myself. You don’t have to eat them.

She grimaced. Why don’t you just put them back, Mal, like everyone else? Just because you catch something doesn’t mean you have to kill it. She sighed and lolled her head. What kind
of fun is it anyway, fishing that horrible little loch in the dead of winter? More wakeful now, she looked him up and down. You’re soaking, she said. It was so sunny this morning.

Aye. It came on with the dark. He tilted his head from side to side, stretching the tight muscles. What’s the polis doing out there?

God yes, she said, sleeping made me forget! God Mal, you won’t believe it – the old wifie above us got killed. They questioned me and everything.

Killed?

Murdered. I couldn’t believe it. Right over this room. She stared wide-eyed at him. It really spooked me, Mal. What if –

Christ, they don’t want you for a witness, do they?

No, no. I heard some banging and thumping but I didn’t tell them. They’d already caught who did it – two kids broke in and they were still there when the police came. Someone
in the block opposite saw them getting in and phoned.

Malcolm shook his head, looking at the blank screen on the TV. He could feel Karen staring at him and remembered the police muttering and laughing in the street outside. He started cracking his
fingers. So they beat her up? he said abruptly.

With bits of furniture, I think. It was horrible. Mal, don’t crack your fingers, she said.

I doubt if they meant to kill her. Probably she started shouting.

Well they killed her alright. Anyway Mal, don’t be like that.

Like what?

She didn’t answer.

I’ll get changed and have something to eat, he said at last.

Without looking at the two cold, glazed pike at his elbow he heated the beans quickly, the sauce breaking into rapid, dull bubbles. He stirred them up and left them on a low
heat while he grilled and buttered some toast. The beans, softened by standing and reheating, poured like slurry over the bread. He filled the pan with cold water and let it soak while he ate.

Once he’d finished eating he looked in the fridge and found a can of Guinness. Back in the living room the TV was on again. Montel was reasoning with somebody.

Karen looked up at him furtively and he knew what was coming. Can you see if I’ve got any ciggies left – I’m hiding them in the cupboard so I don’t get tempted too
much.

He checked the sideboard cupboard and took out a half full pack of Silk Cut. You shouldn’t smoke at all, the way you are.

I
know
, she said, mock-wounded. I’ve only had two all day though.

He tossed them to her.

She smiled at him and held a hand out towards his drink. He passed the can over, closed the door behind him and sat on the sofa next to her. She took a few long, thirsty swallows. He took the
can back.

She’s been moving a lot today, she said, and smiled again at him.

He nodded. Good, he said.

Feel, she said.

No, no. I believe you. It’s moving.

Feel
, she insisted.

He slipped a hand between the buttons on her dress and laid the palm flat on her taut stomach. It felt hot. He waited.

Wait for it, she said.

He left his hand there, glancing over at the TV. The news was running – more war somewhere; old women crying in some cold Balkan town. They looked like gypsies, he thought.

There! she said.

Something pressed, then seemed to writhe across the flat of his hand. He jerked his arm back.

Did you feel it?

A kick, he said.

She pulled the downie back up.

He took a long drink. He held the black, sour liquid in his mouth until it warmed into froth, then swallowed.

Give me your hand back, she said.

No. Leave it now.

Go on. Please, she murmured. Put the can down, Mal.

He placed the can on the floor and let her take his hand. She warmed it between her palms then guided it under the downie to rest on her thighs. He felt her hitch her dress shorter, inch by
inch, then felt her hand on his again, urging his fingers onto the heat between her open legs. She was damp through the cotton of her pants and for a while he pressed and circled gently there
without slipping inside them. Then finally he eased his way under the gusset and brought her quickly to a sharp, juddering orgasm, stopping only when she snatched his hand away, half giggling, half
shrieking when he pretended to resist her.

Oh Christ! she gasped, and went on laughing almost soundlessly. It’s so easy to come when I’m this big. She took a deep breath. It must all be the pressure down there or something. I
get so horny some days, too.

He smiled and drew his hand back.

God, she whispered, and rolled her head, eyes shut.

He reached for his drink again and watched the rest of the news. By now the local reports were on and he realised the pictures were of the street outside and the dead woman’s flat. The
sound was too low to hear the commentary, but they were interviewing someone half familiar, maybe a neighbour. The day had still been dry then, Malcolm noted. In the background the sun was flashing
on the tenement windows.

Why does everyone love murders? Karen mumbled.

I thought you were sleeping.

She shook her head. Every afternoon they put on Columbo and Quincey, and on the news it’s always this kind of thing. And now it’s our street. Why does everyone want to see it? Then
she smirked at him. I’m still tingling though, she said drowsily. But I shouldn’t have had that Guinness – it’s repeating now. I feel like that fairy-tale wolf sewn up full
of stones.

Guinness is good for you.

Uh huh. She belched loudly and they both laughed. Then she closed her eyes again.

Malcolm looked down at the can clasped on his lap. Karen’s scent was strong on his fingers; a heavy, bacterial perfume, much more pungent, he thought, than it had been before she fell
pregnant. He closed his eyes, fighting back a familiar rolling black wave of unhappiness, and found himself thinking about the generations that must have lived out their time and died in the
building around him, in the dark stone layers of tenement flats above, through centuries, layer on layer of births and lives and deaths. The stone steps to the murdered woman’s flat and to
their own were worn smooth and cupped. How many lives to do that? How many dead feet? Brooding, he remembered the two pike, cold and smooth as enamel, and then his mind went back to the small,
deep, peat-blackened loch he’d fished through the day. As the dusk and first drops of rain had come on a third fish had run with his bait; two heavy, jarring knocks and then clean away. A big
fish, he instinctively knew; as big or bigger maybe than anything he’d caught before. He knew the loch hid monsters. One autumn evening, fishing it from his brother’s small, fibreglass
dinghy, he’d hooked something on a deadbait that for five minutes or more towed the boat in a slow, deliberate circle round its anchor. He remembered the feeling in his arms and shoulders as
he’d tried to wear out its terrible, lazy strength. He’d been almost glad when the trace snapped.