The Abrupt Physics of Dying (21 page)

‘There is real potential liability here for Petro-Tex,’ said Clay, trying to calm the hurricane swirling in his chest. ‘If for no other reason, we need to figure out what the hell is going on.’ Something inside him, he could feel it there, still clung to the hope that he could reason with these men, that somehow he could emerge from this unscathed, get the money he needed, save his friend. But it was fading like an equatorial sunset – fast.

‘Did you submit your report to the regulators?’ Karila asked. Clay nodded. ‘Approval?’

‘Within the week.’

‘Well then, let’s move on,’ said Karila. ‘Please wrap up your work as planned.’ Karila slid the keyboard back into position. ‘Thank you, Mister Straker. I am afraid we have another meeting now. You may go. And no more unauthorised trips to the field.’

Parnell slumped back into his chair and wrapped his mouth around the inhaler’s orifice, breathed in the atomised steroid. Karila blinked at him through the haze of cigarette smoke, his expression fixed, vacant.

Clay’s head pounded out the final agonies of an amphetamine and vodka hangover. He needed a drink desperately. An image of Mohamed’s face, skin like photo-degraded plastic, grey and losing cohesion, pushed into his head and would not be denied. ‘Listen,’ he said, unable to control the emotion in his voice. ‘People are dying, because of us. They barely survive on what they grow. If we foul their water, we destroy everything they have, don’t you understand? Do either of you actually have any idea of what is going on out there?’

Parnell stared at him wide-eyed, as if he were some kind of religious zealot come to proselytise. ‘We is in the oil business, boy,’ he said, breathless, clutching his inhaler. ‘Ya’ll is in the wrong place if you want to be a do-gooder. Fucking liberal shit,’ he coughed. ‘Go an’ join those cunts at the Nations Un-united.’

Clay paused, reset. He ignored the American and addressed Karila directly, balancing on tottering stones of patience. ‘Let me go out there and take some samples, Nils, do some proper analysis. Then we can know for sure what’s going on. If you’re right and it’s not us, then we’re in the clear and we don’t need to worry. If not, we can protect these people, and ourselves.’

‘Mister Straker, I am not going to repeat myself. Our position on this is clear and consistent. What you speak of has nothing to do with our operations. We are not going to do anything, do you understand? We are not spending any more money. This discussion is terminated.’

‘At least get those kids to a hospital and have them diagnosed.’

Parnell looked as if he was going to have a seizure. ‘As if you give a shit, asshole. We know how ya’ll treat the niggers in South Africa.’

Clay wheeled on Parnell, set up for a straight right, stopped himself, stood quivering, frustration burning inside like a virous ulcer.

Karila looked back down at his computer screen. ‘That will be all, Straker.’

Every other time he had backed down, played by the rules, collected his money and gone home, never around to see the effect. It had always been so easy to do. He had discharged his professional duty and alerted the higher-ups of the risks and possible consequences, performed a ritual of absolution so mechanical and commonplace that each time he felt cleansed and almost purified as he walked away. Everyone was satisfied, the truth concealed conveniently behind graphs and tables and statistics compiled in lengthy impressive reports, technical jargon camouflaging the reality of destroyed villages and murdered children. But each time he left something behind, and in this creeping hysteresis what could not be retrieved grew and grew.

And then he realised what had changed, and why. The framed picture of Karila with his fair-haired family huddled in the snow was gone from the desk. Clay scanned the shelves and the walls but could see it nowhere, and he imagined it locked away in one of Karila’s desk drawers, face-down, covered over with a protective blanket of production forecasts and revenue reports. The coward didn’t even have the guts to face his own kids.

He planted his fists on the desk and leaned over towards Karila. His arms trembled as he glared at the man. ‘You callous bastard. You know exactly what’s going on. Otherwise why would you have intercepted that sample I took? You know what it shows. You just don’t give a damn, do you?’ The words emerged from his throat as a groan. He imagined his fist shattering the man’s jaw with a satisfying crunch, the bone flexing slightly before giving way under the force of the blow. ‘If you don’t do something about this, I’ll take it to the authorities.’

Karila shifted in his seat. ‘Mister Straker, I think you will find that the authorities have quite the same opinion we do.’ Karila lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply, cool as ever. ‘We have no further need for your services. Be on the first flight out of Yemen this afternoon.’

Clay looked down at the two men. Karila picked up the phone and pressed a button.

‘Todorov, yes. This is Mister Karila. Report to my office immediately.’

Parnell heaved his bulk around to face Clay. ‘Fuck you, Straker,’ he growled. ‘I’ll make damn sure you
never
work in the oil patch again.’ He pronounced it
ahl
.

Zdravko appeared at the door, pumped, holstered.

Karila jabbed his cigarette in the air. ‘Make sure that Mister Straker is on the KLM flight to Amsterdam this afternoon. Attend to it personally, Todorov.’ Then he turned back to his computer screen, his face bathed once more in Microsoft blue as he tapped a message into the keyboard.

Zdravko smiled, wedged his hand onto the butt of his sheathed pistol. ‘My great pleasure,’ he said.

Clay glared wildly at Parnell then spun around and marched towards the door. Zdravko moved to block his way. Clay took a shuffle step to compensate and shot out a straight right. His fist slammed into the Bulgarian’s solar plexus. It wasn’t planned. He didn’t visualise it or think it through. The dam of his frustration simply burst and the Bulgarian had put himself in the way.

Zdravko doubled over, slumped gasping to the floor. Clay strode past him and out across the marble foyer.

‘Stop,’ came a voice from behind.

Clay spun around. Zdravko was crouching with his back against the doorframe, a Makarov drawn and aimed at Clay’s guts.

Parnell appeared at the door, slapped down Zdravko’s arm. ‘Put that away, you fucking idiot,’ he snapped. ‘This has gone far enough. Make sure you’re on that plane, Straker, or this will get a lot worse real fast.’

Clay turned and took the wide staircase three steps at a time down to the main floor, ran to the parking area. He drove to the guesthouse in silence, parked, and climbed the stairs to his room. Clay was pretty sure that Zdravko had no intention whatsoever of
seeing him safely on a flight out of Yemen. He had to get out and away, and he had to do it fast. Within a few minutes he had packed his instruments, the last bottle of vodka and his camera in his duffel bag. He ran down the stairs, found Atef in the kitchen. The big Egyptian turned as Clay came in, stood in front of his chopping block, cleaver in hand, white apron smeared in blood.

Clay put an envelope on the counter, placed a fifty-dollar bill on top. ‘Courier this for me, would you Atef? Go into town to do it. Don’t tell anyone. The address is on the front.’

Atef nodded, slid the envelope under his apron. ‘We are sorry you are leaving, Mister Clay.’ News travelled fast.

‘Maybe I’ll see you one day at a Zamalek game.’

Atef smiled, took his hand. ‘Perhaps we shall win.’

Clay shouldered his bag. ‘Maybe we will.’

Atef touched Clay’s forearm, smeared blood there. ‘One more thing, Mister Clay. I found Mansour. I went to their office.’ Atef wiped his hands across his apron.

Outside, the noise of a vehicle approaching at high speed, slowing.

‘And?’

‘They are doing import-export. Oil equipment.’

‘Legitimate, then.’

Atef nodded. ‘I saw Mister Todorov there, speaking to one of the owners.’

Clay’s heart lurched. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, Mister Clay.’

‘Did he see you?’

‘I think no. I was across the street, having tea.’

Clay shook the Egyptian’s hand. ‘Stay out of his way. And look after yourself, my
broer
.’ And then he was gone, out the back fire door, across the compound, through the back gate and into the backstreet Aden noon.

Swimming in the Disorder

Clay made his way through the maze of alleyways to the Tihama Road, where he hailed a taxi. He arrived at the Ministry building just after noon, made his way to Ali’s office, and was told to wait. He sat in the Environmental Directorate waiting room, the pain behind his eyes barely dulled by six extra-strength ibuprofen, his mouth dry as a summer wadi.

Over the next hour he worked steadily, mostly from memory, compiling all of the data he’d acquired, copying it carefully in duplicate onto four notebook pages, then prepared two signed statements describing what he’d seen at Bawazir, what he’d photographed. He tore the pages from the notebook, folded each set in half, addressed one to Ali, the other to Rania. He looked at his watch. It was already two. No one had come in or out of the office. Zdravko would be going apeshit by now, screaming around town in that new black Land Rover of his. The Amsterdam flight had gone half an hour ago, him not on it.

Clay stood and walked to the secretary’s desk. A bone-thin man with a black moustache hunched over a yellowing 1980s keyboard.

‘Please tell Ali that it’s urgent.’

‘Mister Jabr not to disturb,’ said the man.

‘Please. Very important.’

The man picked up the phone, turned a single number on the rotary dial, spoke into the receiver, paused to listen, and replaced the handset in the cradle.

‘Wait,’ he said.

Zdravko could show up at any time. Perhaps he was already here, climbing the stairs, walking down the yellowing corridor. He was surprised Zdravko hadn’t figured it out already. Not too bright.

Clay turned and walked across the waiting room and opened the office door. Three men in business suits sat examining a chart spread across Ali’s desk. They spun around in their chairs to face him.

Ali stood and stared, eyes red and bulging. The secretary yelled something in Arabic. Clay kicked the door closed behind him and marched to the desk. ‘I need to speak with you, Ali. Now.’

‘Excuse, gentlemen.’ Ali walked over and took him by the arm, guiding him out of the office. ‘Doctor, please,’ he whispered. ‘I have good business here.’

‘I don’t have much time.’

Ali closed the office door and waved the secretary from the waiting room. They were alone.

‘The water at Al Urush is being poisoned Ali. It’s ugly – dead and dying children, miscarriages.’

‘What is the cause?’

‘Produced water discharge at the CPF.’

‘Salt does not make people ill.’

‘What is causing the illness is coming with the salt.’

‘Oil?’

‘Look, I’m not sure. Could be heavy metals, carcinogenic organics like benzene, I’m not sure yet.’

Ali coughed and looked up at Clay. ‘How can this be?’

‘A whole range of compounds can exist naturally within oil reservoirs, deep in the ground. They come out with the oil and the produced water, concentrate by evaporation and other processes. You can see it in the data I’ve collected. I don’t have time to go into the technical details.’ Clay reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, pulled out the addressed sheaf of notebook pages. ‘It’s all in here, Ali. Read the report I gave you too, read it carefully.’

Ali pressed his palms together and raised his hands to his mouth. He looked like a Christian child saying his prayers. Ali glanced back
at the office door. Sweat beaded on his forehead. A drop ran along one of the deep fissures that framed his mouth and fell to the floor.

‘Please, Doctor. You must leave now.’

‘Do you understand what I’m saying, Ali? People are dying.’

‘Please Doctor, this is for the Health Department. There is a disease, a fever.’

Clay grabbed Ali by the shoulders. ‘No, Ali. Not disease. Not fever.’

Ali shook his head. ‘No. No. Please go. Do not come back. This is closed, finished.’ Ali reached for the phone.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m sorry. I must.’ Ali started dialling.

Clay put his hand over the phone, killed the line. ‘Please, Ali.’

Ali stood with the receiver to his ear. A river of fear ran in his eyes, thick and deep. ‘I must.’

‘Give me five minutes at least.’

Ali nodded.

Clay shouldered his bag and walked to the door. ‘These are your people, Ali. Don’t forget that. They need your help.’ And then he turned away and double paced down the corridor to the far wing of the building and down the back fire escape into the alleyway.

The back streets of Aden steamed under a tropic sun. He threaded his way through the turbulence of the
suq
, spices swirling in the thickened atmosphere, children’s clothes flapping on hangers from overhead cables, a river of people, him separate, foreign, just one more particle swimming in the disorder.

The Air Egypt office was just off Nasser Avenue, not far from the 25th October roundabout. AC units hummed like dripping hives studded across the back of the building. The rear service door was ajar. Inside, it was dark and cold. He made his way through the back offices and emerged into the marble foyer. A uniformed agent sat behind the counter working at a computer terminal. The agent looked up and rocked back in his chair. Clay could feel the man’s gaze tracing over the cuts on his face.

‘We …’ the agent began, and fell silent. ‘We are closed.’

Clay looked at his watch and then walked to the front door, pulled it open, glanced deliberately at the opening hours sign on the front window, closed the door again and walked back to the counter. ‘I fell, that’s all.’ Clay ran his hands across his face. Plasma smeared his fingertips, the colour and viscosity of mineral oil. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the last of his cash. ‘I need a ticket to Cairo.’

The agent tapped on the keyboard. ‘Next flight in six hours.’

‘Fine.’ Clay sat in one of the chairs provided for customers and watched the man flick the keys, scan the monitor. He hunched down, back to the windows, feeling the traffic flow past, the eyes looking in. He still couldn’t quite believe that Ali had picked up the phone, dialled the number. Right until that moment he had been sure that Ali, in the end, would come through. He was naïve. What a joke, after all this time. And now they were out there, and they were looking for him – Zdravko, the Ministry of Oil, the PSO, any of them,
all
of them for Christ’s sake.

He watched the agent type his name into the keyboard. In a few hours he could be out – he was pretty sure that Zdravko would be watching the airport, but the PSO would be glad to see him go. Even Zdravko wasn’t stupid enough to try to take him out in the airport itself, with so many soldiers and security people around. All he had to do was get there. He had done what Al Shams had asked. He’d determined the source of the illness, if not the precise nature of the cause. All the data he’d managed to collect was included in the report he’d submitted to the authorities. It was their responsibility, not his. He’d call Rania from the airport, dictate the information to her. She’d get the piece published tomorrow, the day of the new moon. Al Shams would hear of it, he was sure of it, and Abdulkader would be released. There was nothing more he could do. He was done fighting.

The agent pulled a docket from a drawer and started to write out a ticket by hand. ‘That will be 850 US dollars.’

Clay started to peel off the bills, lay them on the counter, so normal now, a hundred, automatic almost, two hundred, buy your way out, three, buy their acquiescence, four, their cooperation, four-fifty, their silence. He stopped, his fist tightening around the wad of cash. Their end. He stood. His whole body was shaking, from the
qat
, the booze, the fear, the recognition of what he was doing, what he had become. He looked down at the agent, at the ticket now complete and sitting on the counter next to the bills. Then he grabbed the cash, crumpled it in his hand, drove it down into his pocket, and walked through to the back of the office and out the way he had come.

Clay jumped in a taxi and sank down low in the seat, his
keffiyeh
wrapped around his face. He asked the driver to take him to an old corner of the city on the other side of the crater, where the buildings hung onto the side of the volcano with fingernail foundations, a slum of steaming alleyways and sagging cables. Within the warren of narrow streets he found one of the cheap local hotels, booked in, paid cash, gave a false name. He bolted and chained the door, flicked on the ceiling fan, threw his pack on the bed and pulled the last bottle of vodka from his duffel bag. He threw open the wood-frame window and stood looking out over the harbour.

Ali was a good man, but Clay had pushed him past his limit. People were creatures of physics, nothing more. Each man had his threshold, each woman her breaking point. The fundamental laws of cause and effect were absolute. Action and reaction. Pull the trigger, fire the gun. The SWAPO bullet that had torn through Eben’s head had taken away part of his brain. ‘
Vrek
, broer.
Leave him be,’ the old parabats had said, the ones who had seen it before. ‘He’d thank you.’ But Eben had lived because Clay had helped stretcher him back to the
chana
, put him on the Puma. And now for Abdulkader to live, Clay had to act. It wouldn’t help Mohamed, but perhaps if he could find the cause of this, Al Urush could recover to mourn its dead, and one day he might be welcomed back in Yemen to do good and real work like he had wanted to do before he had been swallowed up by the irreversibility that makes people what they are.

He picked up the phone and spoke with the operator. Were the lines to the North still open? He recited the number slowly in Arabic. The ancient Yemeni telephone line hissed and cracked.

‘
Allo
,’ she answered in the French way, as a question.

‘Rania, it’s me.’

‘I told you, Claymore. Do not. Please. ‘

‘Look Rania, I don’t have much time. Mohamed, that little boy I told you about, he’s …’ Clay steadied himself. ‘He’s dead. Others besides. I’ve gone to the regulators, but they don’t want to know. I’ve been sacked. I need your help, Rania. Please.’

The line went quiet. After a while she said: ‘I am so sorry, Claymore, about the boy.’

He didn’t answer.

‘The situation is very bad here,’ she said. ‘The government speaks of nothing but war. The whole country is about to explode.’

‘My time’s up, Rania. I need you to write that story. Tonight. If you don’t, Abdulkader dies.’

Silence on the end of the line.

‘I have all the data with me. It’s the water, Rania, like I thought. It’s being poisoned somehow. I’m not sure how, exactly, or by what, but the people need to know. All you have to do is write it. Say “investigations are ongoing” or something like that, so Al Shams knows I’m still working on it. He’ll understand.’

‘No, Clay. Even if there was time to get something out in tomorrow’s run, which there is not, my editor in Paris would never accept the story. There is not enough in it.’

‘Include the massacre, then.’

‘We already discussed that, Clay. I cannot.’

Clay tried to breathe, concentrated hard. The old line hissed empty between them.

‘There is one way,’ she said finally.

Clay waited for her to continue, swallowed hard.

‘I know the editor of the
Yemen Times
, here in Sana’a. He is a good friend. I might be able to get something in with him.’

‘That would do it, Rania.’

‘I will do my best, Clay. But I cannot promise. You understand?’

‘I do.’

‘Our best chance would be if you could meet him – the editor, I mean. You could explain the situation, tell him what you have seen.’ Another pause. She was thinking it through. ‘The border could close at any time.’

He didn’t have a vehicle. Taxi would be his only option. He looked at his watch. Curfew was already down. ‘Meet me at Dhamar, halfway. I’ll be in the lobby of the al-Dhubay Hotel tomorrow morning. I should be there by ten.’

‘Dhamar,’ she said. ‘
Oui
.’

‘I like it when you say that.’

Could he hear her smile, just for an instant?

‘Oh and Clay,’ she breathed down the line. ‘Bring the photos.’

He put down the phone and stood by the window for a long time, looking out across the bay, watching the ships swing at anchor, their lights coming on one by one as night fell. A pair of jet fighters streaked low across the bay, east to west, navigation lights blinking. Clay watched as they climbed away into the distance, the moon almost gone now, the unlit side grey and cold, the faintest rim of light kissing its edge like the hope of day. He drank, thought about Rania, about Eben, about little Mohamed, about what a mess he’d made of his life. After a while he lay on his back on the single bed, fully dressed, and folded his hands across his chest and closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the city.

She was running along the beach in that bikini he had first seen her in, breasts rising and falling like the waves. Someone was chasing her. He called out but she could not hear him. A small boat, wood, mast split and hanging in the water, sail canvas flying in strips, drifted close to the shore. Someone, an old man, crouched inside the hull. He raised a hammer, a blunt thing, iron, and brought it down. A sharp crack echoed across the water. Splinters flew. Planking split. Shouting. Crashing.