The Ghost Runner (34 page)

‘Fetch his things.’

‘Key.’ Sadig snapped his fingers in front of Makana’s face. He was having a hard time hiding his amusement. Makana ignored him and instead addressed Sergeant Hamama.

‘Luqman is innocent. He can’t have killed them.’

‘And what makes you so sure of that, eh? You see, that’s the problem with you, Makana. You build all these little theories up, but you can’t accept the truth when the facts refuse to line up.’ The sergeant put his hands on his hips and ejected a long stream of tobacco into the dirt at his feet. ‘Luqman has made a full confession.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Believe it.’ Hamama’s face was bloated and crumpled at the same time. As tough and weary as an old waterbag. He nodded over Makana’s shoulder. ‘See that fancy old house on the corner. Everyone thinks it’s haunted, and in a way it is. Haunted by the old ghosts who used to rule this country like it was their own. Well, Gamal Abdel Nasser put an end to that and confiscated most of it. Since then they have been trying to get it back. Luqman is no different from the rest of them. If poverty is all you know you can manage, but if you are used to finery, why that’s a different proposition.’ The sergeant’s mouth twisted. ‘And there he is serving beer to tourists when he should be the lord of everything he surveys. A glorified waiter. That must be humiliation enough to kill a man, don’t you think? The Qadi turned down his claim for a plot of land and that must have been the last straw.’ Hamama took off his hat, examined the inside and then set it back in place, cocked at a jaunty angle on his head. ‘Case solved. You can go home now with your conscience clear.’

‘It still doesn’t explain why he killed Ayman.’

‘Once a man has turned that corner and killed, you can’t reason why. You ought to know that.’ Sergeant Hamama spat again. ‘Ayman might have said something, or seen something. We’ll never know. Frankly, it doesn’t matter. Now, either you can hand your key over to Sadig here or you can leave without your belongings. It’s your choice.’

Makana handed his room key to Sadig and tried to recall if he had left anything of value among his meagre belongings.

‘What happened to your hand?’

‘I had an accident.’

‘Lucky you weren’t killed. That’s the problem with riding around on a dangerous machine like that.’ Sergeant Hamama grunted. ‘You might have had a nasty accident.’

‘What if I’m not finished here?’

‘Take my word for it,’ Sergeant Hamama opened the car door, ‘you’re finished. Sadig will put you on the bus. I have settled your bill. Consider it payment for your efforts in assisting us in our investigation. Have a pleasant journey.’ A cloud of dust rose up around him as he sank into the driver’s seat, the Chevrolet groaning in protest.

Makana looked back and saw Nagy standing by the window in the hotel lobby, careful to remain just out of sight. Sadig appeared carrying Makana’s holdall, which he tossed into the back of his own pickup, parked behind the sergeant’s.

‘Get in the car, Makana. I’m not going to tell you again. That bus leaves in five minutes and you’re going to be on it.’

Makana didn’t see that he had much choice at this point. Sadig went round and started the engine. The pickup began moving almost before he had time to close the door. Without exchanging a word they rattled around the square and sped through town to reach the bus station where the driver greeted Sadig warily as he pulled up beside him.

‘This is a special case,’ Sadig said. ‘Orders from the sergeant. You’re to get moving right away.’

‘But we still have ten minutes to go.’ The driver tapped his wristwatch.

‘I don’t care. I want this man out of town as soon as possible. So unless you want to start causing trouble for yourself you’d better get a move on.’

The driver looked unconvinced. Leaving early would mean losing passengers. Nevertheless, he could see he had no choice. Dawdling as long as he could, he climbed aboard and sounded three long bursts on the horn to hurry people up. Along with his assistant they managed to bundle the last bits of luggage into the bay underneath the bus. Last-minute passengers appeared out of nowhere, hurrying along, weighed down with bags, or trundling up in taxis loaded up with astonishing numbers of suitcases and mountains of sacks trussed and bound to the roof. Makana stood aside to allow them to fuss over their things and get aboard, then he climbed up and sat just behind the driver with his holdall on the seat next to him. Through the front windscreen he saw Sadig leaning against the side of his pickup grinning to himself as the big engine growled and they swept away from the square.

As the old bus groaned and wheezed its way up the incline, Makana wondered just how deeply Sergeant Hamama was involved in everything. With a full confession Luqman would be sentenced to death in no time and the real killer would get away. Hamama would get his promotion and everything would carry on as before.

‘Stop the bus.’

The driver, who was busy struggling to coax the old machine to the top of the escarpment, threw a worried glance over his shoulder.

‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘You must stop. I have to get out.’

The driver waved him off. ‘Forget it. Orders are orders. They could take my licence away, then where would I be?’

‘Sadig told you to drive me out of town, which you have done. He didn’t say anything about how far you were to take me.’

‘No, no. He was pretty clear about it.’

‘If he wants to get off the bus, then let him off,’ an elderly couple sitting to Makana’s right decided to get involved. The woman more vehement than her husband, who adopted a more statesmanlike demeanour, thumping the floor with the tip of his stick.

‘I’ve never heard anything like it,’ added the man for good measure.

‘He’s a customer like anyone else. He has a right to get on or off where he likes,’ went on the woman.

‘I don’t know,’ said the driver hesitantly.

‘It’s like the government. You put people in office to do a job and they end up thinking they can do what they like.’ The husband was getting into his stride now.

‘I am paid to drive the bus, nothing more.’

There were murmurs of dissent from further back. The driver studied his passengers in the big mirror over his head and decided he had a mutiny on his hands.

‘All right, all right. Look, I’m stopping,
khalas
!’

The bus was already slowing down as the road levelled out. There was no other traffic in sight. The driver shifted down through the gears and hauled on the handbrake.

‘Go on then, if that’s what you want,’ he said, pushing the button to open the door, letting in a gust of warm, dusty air. ‘Only get on with it. I can’t stay here all day.’

Makana caught a glimpse of curious faces. A row of passengers looking down at him in wonder as the bus started up again, growling away, grating its gears in haste. Then Makana was left alone with the wind and the sand. He breathed in deeply and once again felt that familiar tugging at his insides. Then he gazed down the long incline that led back towards the town and the canopy of palm trees through which a breeze passed like a wave, the fronds bobbed in the dusty air like a soft green ocean. It couldn’t be more idyllic, he thought, as he picked up his bag and started walking.

Chapter Twenty-six

 

Madame Fawzia was not surprised to see him. News of his expulsion could not have reached her yet. She turned around to find him standing there on the school veranda.

‘I thought you might be back,' she said, fiddling with her hijab. She cast a nervous glance at his holdall, wondering perhaps if he had come to stay.

‘I needed to ask you about a couple of things.'

‘Well, you'll have to be quick,' she said, unlocking the door she had just shut and ushering him into her office before closing the door behind him. ‘I have a meeting in ten minutes.'

‘It won't take long.'

‘Very well.' Glancing at her wristwatch to remind him that she was taking note of the time, Madame Fawzia settled herself behind her desk in the same stiff upright position as on their first encounter, hands raised in front of her, fingers interlocked.

Makana produced the folded photograph from his jacket. Madame Fawzia looked dismayed at the tattered state of an object that had once been school property.

‘Last time I was here you very kindly provided me with this picture.'

‘Yes, I did,' she said, not without some regret. ‘I was trying to be helpful.'

‘And you were, indeed, most helpful. You remember the girl I was looking for, Nagat?'

‘What about her?' Madame Fawzia's eyes darted left and right.

‘You said there were three sisters. The eldest Butheyna went abroad early on. The second, Nagat, moved away around the time the third sister, Safira, disappeared.'

‘It's all ancient history.'

‘That's the problem with history, sometimes it just refuses to go away.'

Madame Fawzia inclined her head. ‘So, what do you want from me?'

‘Tell me about Safira.' Makana remained standing, close to the wall where the pictures of the schoolchildren were arranged in neat rows.

‘What can this possibly achieve?'

‘Three people have died so far and I believe their deaths are connected to what happened back then.'

‘Three people?' Madame Fawzia looked mystified.

‘Nagy's daughter, Rashida.'

‘May Allah have mercy on her. Such an unlucky man. His wife left him, you know. He says she died, but I think that was just to hide his shame. I don't think he ever recovered from that.'

Underneath her generally rather taciturn appearance Madame Fawzia hid the avid dedication of an enthusiastic gossip.

‘Tell me about Safira.'

‘Safira was different. Everybody liked her. She was very pretty, more so than Nagat, and very popular. We were all devastated when she disappeared like that, with no explanation. It left a hole in the world.'

There was a knock at the door and Madame Fawzia jerked as if stung.

‘Go away!' she shouted. ‘I'm busy.'

There was a pause as the person outside the door considered how to respond to this, then a moment later there was another knock at the door, this time more insistent, and accompanied by a voice enquiring after the headmistress.

‘Go away, I said! Leave me alone!' Another pause, then finally there came the sound of footsteps retreating as whoever was outside took themselves away. When Makana looked again, Madame Fawzia had tears streaming down her face.

‘Why have you come here? All of this pain and suffering, what good can it bring?'

‘It won't end by itself. You have to help. You have to tell me what you know.'

Madame Fawzia pressed her fists to her eyes and spoke between low sobs.

‘The girls lived alone with their father. Their mother died while trying to give birth to a fourth child. The rumour was that it was a boy and the father never recovered from the shock. Three daughters, and just when she was about to bear him a son she died along with the baby.' Her voice settled into a low, monotone rhythm. ‘He was a horrible man. Everyone was scared of him. Butheyna, the eldest daughter, left when her mother died. She married a man who took her abroad, to the Gulf. She never came back, not even when her father died. Some said . . .' Madame Fawzia broke off, her eyes fixed on her hands.

‘What did they say?' Makana pressed gently.

‘It was a rumour. Vicious tongues said that Abubakr would not be needing another wife because he already had two of them living under his roof.'

‘Meaning what? His daughters, Nagat and Safira?'

Madame Fawzia cleared her throat and carried on. ‘Nagat was a couple of years older. She was already friendly with Musab, who made himself out to be a big noise. Nagat told everyone he was going to marry her and take her away. I think she was jealous. Safira was always the pretty one. Nagat began spreading rumours about her.' She gave a loud sniff and blew her nose. ‘We had a big argument around this time. I told her that she shouldn't treat her that way, that Safira was her sister. She called her a whore, said that she slept with her father.'

‘Do you think it was true?'

‘I don't know. Like I said, Safira was very pretty, much more so than Nagat, who was quite plain. And she was popular too. As I said, I think Nagat was jealous. But looking back, I suppose it was also to protect herself. By saying those things about her sister she cleansed her own name of the rumours that were circulating.'

‘By sacrificing her sister?'

‘Yes, exactly,' nodded Madame Fawzia, ‘by sacrificing Safira.'

‘What do you think happened to her?' Makana asked softly.

‘What do I think?' Madame Fawzia raised her eyes to meet his. ‘I think they left her in the desert for the jackals and the vultures. After they had used her.'

‘Who had used her?'

‘Men. Animals. A group of them. I don't know.' Her voice cracked. ‘She was only fifteen.'