Authors: Parker Bilal
Dogstar Rising (24 page)
‘Can’t you go and solve the world’s problems somewhere else?’ the man grumbled.
‘There is some connection here that I can’t really see,’ said Makana, leaning his elbows on the table. He pushed the photograph across. Sami looked at it.
‘Three soldiers. Who are they?’
‘This is Ramy, Faragalla’s nephew, and the one with the eye is Ahmed Rakuba, Rocky. The third one I don’t know.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘Meera’s study.’
‘And you think this means . . . what?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Makana looked vague.
‘You seem distracted. Has something happened?’
Makana looked at him and decided he wasn’t ready yet to start talking about Nasra.
‘Perhaps I should go to Luxor and have a talk with Ramy.’
Sami watched him as he took a long swallow of beer, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a man trying to drown himself. He finally came up for air and began to top up the glass.
‘Have you had any more thoughts on what Father Macarius might be hiding?’
‘Only the obvious.’ Makana recalled the wooden angels floating over the boxing ring and the strange mute who had carved them.
‘Which is?’
‘That the killer might actually turn out to be connected to the church or the gym. They would shut him down if that was the case.’
‘They would burn him to the ground, more like.’
‘
Yallah ya shabab
,’ muttered the man dozing at the next table. In the middle of the floor, a cat arched its back, stretching itself along a pillar of sunlight that fell across the broken black-and-white tiles. The sandwiches arrived and the cat stepped up, twirling its tail in the air. Makana dropped a slice of chicken on the floor and instantly five other cats darted out of the shadows.
Sami poured the last dregs into his glass and raised the bottle of Stella to call for another one. Makana knew his friend would go back to the paper and put his head down on his desk and sleep for an hour or so until the day cooled off and night fell. Then he would order coffee and start his rounds of the city’s receptions and parties. He did most of his work at home and only showed up at the paper every day, he said, because otherwise someone else would steal his desk.
‘How did you get on with the Eastern Star bank?’
‘I read Ridwan Hilal’s book on the subject. He talks about some of the crooked schemes the banks get up to. One of them involves siphoning funds through small companies with a lot of turnover, particularly of foreign currency.’
‘You mean, like travel agents?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Sami. ‘It seems the government set up their own committee of investigation. They published a report.’
‘Clearing the bank of all charges.’
‘You should be reading fortunes. You’d make a good living. I had an aunt who read coffee grounds. She never made a milliem, always giving it away. Generosity is a flaw in my family.’
‘So that’s it, the bank was cleared?’
‘It gets worse. Remember I told you I had a friend who was working on the story?’ Sami slid a folded newspaper across the table and tapped his finger on a small item that appeared at the bottom of an inside page and Makana read: Journalist Nasser Hikmet falls from hotel room window in Ismailia. ‘They’re calling it suicide.’
‘Falling out of windows is an occupational hazard for journalists.’
‘Nasser was a good man. He deserved better.’ Sami gave a long sigh. ‘You know what our problem is? We can’t decide what we want. Do we want West or East, Islam or the joys of secularism? We think we can have it all.’
It struck Makana that he was surrounded by people who had made great sacrifice, who had laid down their lives on a battlefield in a war that was undeclared. Meera, Nasser Hikmet, the tortured boy lying in the ruins of a house in Imbaba. Further back, there were people like Talal’s father, and of course Muna and Nasra. What was it all for? What cause did their deaths serve? His thoughts seemed to follow an eccentric orbit that kept leading him round, circling what he had managed to keep at bay all these years. What would he do if she was alive?
‘Rania is the best thing that ever happened to me.’ The beer had made Sami sentimental. ‘Was it like that with you and Muna? I never met her, but I feel I have been around her for a few years now. Not that you ever talk about her all that much.’
‘We should get moving,’ said Makana, glancing at his watch.
‘Sure, sure.’ Sami got to his feet and grabbed for his jacket which caught, tipping over the chair. It hit the floor with a loud crash, waking everyone from their quiet slumber.
‘Okay,
khalas
, it’s all right. You can go back to writing your reports now. I’m leaving,’ Sami called out as he backed out of the door. He glanced about the room, lowering his voice. ‘You ever wonder how many people in here are in the pay of the government?’
‘Married life is making you paranoid,’ said Makana as he led the way out into the street. He hailed a taxi and pushed Sami inside. He saw the driver flinch and mutter ‘
Astaghfirullah’
under his breath,
his face screwing up in disapproval as he caught the smell of booze.
Oblivious, Sami hung his head out of the window, curly hair blowing in the slipstream, and waved back at Makana like a wild child, delighted with his own bad behaviour.
The punchbags hung limply on chains, as if exhausted and waiting for the next beating. In one corner two men were working out earnestly with home-made weights resourcefully devised from iron cogs salvaged or stolen from some kind of large machinery. Elsewhere, one boy sheltered behind a pad held to his side while a young man threw a barrage of kicks at it, emitting a piercing cry with each blow. So not just boxing then. An odour of rotting drains came accompanied by the steady trill of running water from an open doorway at the far end, indicating changing rooms and a leaky toilet. Makana was almost touching the ropes of the ring at the centre of the room before he realised the man bouncing about inside it was none other than Father Macarius. He wore blue shorts and a white singlet and was trading blows with a hard little brown button of a man who appeared to be made of rock. He attacked with a relentless flurry of punches, arms like stout branches blowing in a hurricane. The priest put up a good show, ducking and weaving and generally tiring out his opponent who must have been at least twenty years younger than him. Makana joined the crowd of young men skirting the ring and watched as Father Macarius jabbed a blow home between the other man’s defences. There was something old-fashioned about his style, but he moved with natural fluidity, hips low, the weight in his shoulders. His legs were sinewy pale springs that sent him bouncing out of harm’s way. The little slugger advanced steadily, but Father Macarius stayed on his toes, circling just out of reach. The boys around the side were clad in a variety of ill-fitting, worn-out clothes. Trousers and singlets whose colours were faded to a uniform grey. They ranged in age from their mid-twenties to as young as seven or eight. With each flurry of leather against skin, a cheer went up. A bell rang and the two fighters slapped gloves and stepped away from each other. Grimy furrows of silvery sweat divided Father Macarius’ lined face as he sagged on the ropes. Makana recognised Antun as the boy who began to unlace his gloves. He noticed the affectionate way Macarius ruffled the boy’s shaved head. Raising a weary hand in greeting, he said:
‘Feel like going a few rounds?’
‘With you? I’m not sure how wise that would be, Father.’
Macarius laughed as he ducked out of the ring and dropped to the floor. The boots he wore had been scuffed so raw the worn leather appeared to be sprouting hairs. ‘You look as though you might benefit from a few lessons.’ He indicated the bruise on Makana’s cheek.
Father Macarius wrapped a towel around his neck and wiped his face. Over by the wall was a plastic water barrel whose blue colour had been softened by years in the sunlight. Lifting an aluminium mug he dipped it inside and drained it in one go, his Adam’s apple straining like a bird trying to get out of a sack. Makana recognised the fighter throwing the kicks on the far side of the room as Ishaq, the sharp-faced young man who had been outside Meera’s house. He looked quite good. Makana made a mental note to remember this.
‘I saw a couple of your boys guarding Ridwan Hilal’s home the other day,’ he said.
‘They aren’t my boys, as you put it,’ said Father Macarius, his annoyance evident. ‘They make their own decisions. They have taken it upon themselves to form a cadre to protect us. I cannot fault them for that, although I do not encourage violence outside the ring.’ He brought down a black cassock hanging on the wall and pulled it over his head. A long string of wooden beads swung on a nail. Kissing the wooden crucifix, he hung it over his head.
Outside, the walls of the white church reflected the light so much it was hard to look at. A couple of young palm trees had been planted in circular plots. A younger man in a cassock was watering these with a hosepipe. Makana recognised him as the sturdy fighter who had just been in the ring with Father Macarius.
‘You told me Meera used to help out here, teaching the boys to read.’
‘She was a charitable woman and will be sorely missed.’ Father Macarius pulled up suddenly and turned to Makana. ‘I don’t want the church drawn into this.’
‘The church is not only drawn into this, Father, it’s right at the centre of it. The murder of these boys is directly linked to your church and to Meera’s death.’
‘We can’t allow this. They will close us down.’
‘They are already closing you down.’ Makana paused. ‘Father, the other day you wanted to tell me something. What was that?’
‘Oh, I’m such a fool,’ the priest chastised himself.
‘I’m not the police, Father. It doesn’t have to go any further than me.’
‘I wish I could believe that.’ Father Macarius took a step away and then he turned back to face Makana. ‘It all happened a long time ago.’
‘Is it connected to the murders?’
‘I’m not sure, but I think it might be. I can’t tell you any more. Not yet. I need time.’
Makana watched him walk away, disappearing into the church with his athletic walk, the swaying black robes melting into the shadows. Back inside the gym, Makana found Antun mopping the floor by the entrance to the toilets. He looked up, his eyes wide. There was a strange, other-worldly quality to Antun.
‘Do you know this man they call Rocky?’
‘Rocky?’ Antun echoed.
‘Yes, Rocky. He used to box here.’ Across the room Makana caught sight of Ishaq scowling at him from behind a punchbag as one of the others hit it over and over. As he watched him, Ishaq let go of the bag and came towards him.
‘What do you want from Antun?’
‘This doesn’t concern you.’
‘Antun concerns us.’ Ishaq smiled. ‘What happened to your face? Did someone take offence to your sticking your nose in everywhere?’
There was a snigger of laughter and Makana realised that four of Ishaq’s friends had also moved to form a loose ring around him.
‘I go for
Abouna
,’ Antun muttered.
‘Leave Macarius alone,’ Ishaq ordered. ‘We can deal with this.’ Stepping closer, he said, ‘Why do you keep coming round here?’
‘I’m looking for Rocky.’
‘Oh yeah, a friend of yours, is he?’
‘I just want to talk to him.’
‘You’re wasting your time.’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
Ishaq shrugged. ‘He used to turn up here to box, about five years ago. He was in the army. He likes young boys. Now he runs a group of beggar kids. I swear some of them are not more than ten years old. He picks them up off the street and uses them like dogs. I wouldn’t stand for it. I swear, any man who tried to do that to me, I’d take a knife and cut his throat.’
‘Why do you say I’m wasting my time?’
‘He has protection.’
‘What kind of protection?’
‘The kind that makes you immune to stupid questions,’ said Ishaq as he brushed by, making sure his shoulder knocked into Makana’s. The others followed behind him.
There didn’t seem to be much more to be gained here. As he left he heard someone calling him and turned to see the shopkeeper from the other night hurrying after him.
‘Is there any news, I mean about that poor boy we found?’
‘No, no news,’ said Makana. ‘Have you spoken to the police?’
‘The police took the body away and left.’ The man glanced over his shoulder. ‘After that we haven’t seen them. Everybody is scared. I am afraid. For my family, for my business. One of these days . . .’ He shook his head in anticipation of the worst.
‘There is somebody I am trying to find. Maybe you can help me?’
‘Who is it? Just tell me. I know everyone in this neighbourhood.’
‘He used to box. People call him Rocky.’
The man drew back. ‘What do you want with him?’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘Nothing,’ said the man, his eyes cold. ‘I can tell you nothing. I have a family. You understand? I have children. Little boys.’