floated like a pale moon over a speckled desert landscape, which also contained a building tucked into a rocky hillside. Palm trees peeped over the white walls. It looked like a monastery. Perhaps the one Macarius had mentioned. Wadi Nikeiba. Underneath were letters from an alphabet Makana could not read.
‘We are at war, Mr Makana. It is as simple as that. A minority act, but it is the silence of the majority which is the real crime.’
‘Is that what this is about,’ Makana asked, ‘preparing people for war?’
‘I tell young people to be careful when they go outside. Our women have to put up with insults when they walk in the streets. They have their hair pulled, the crosses torn from their necks. Such barbarism. Where is the merciful and compassionate Islam that history has taught us?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not the right person to answer that question, Father.’
‘This is my proudest achievement, a gym for boys of all ages. We do not discriminate. People can train no matter if they are Muslims or Christians, or anything else for that matter.’
Makana recalled Eissa, the boy from the café under the Blue Ibis offices. A group of young men were sparring, shadow-boxing, moving back and forth, throwing punches, ducking and weaving. Father Macarius was speaking again.
‘Children run away because they have no choice. The home becomes a prison in which all kinds of abuse takes place. No one can protect you from your family. They spend their days wandering the streets, and sleeping rough at night. We give them a place to stay, and food to eat.’
Makana’s attention was drawn to the wall where a row of photographs hung. The older ones were in cheap frames. Others were simply pasted to the grubby plaster. Some were clippings from newspapers, frayed and yellowed with age. One of these showed a young Father Macarius, barely recognisable in singlet and shorts, gloved fists raised in front of him as if taking aim at the photographer. There were pictures of boys young and old. Championships. Pictures of the church in better days, gleaming white with old horse-drawn carriages, a policeman in a tarboosh. There were other pictures, of picnics and riverboat outings. A catalogue of young men who had passed through this shed on their way to adulthood.
‘Ah, Antun,’ Father Macarius said. ‘Are those for tomorrow’s fight?’
‘Yes, uh . . . Father.’ A diminutive young man of about nineteen with haunted eyes. He seemed to have some difficulty speaking. He paused to set down a plastic basket filled with laundry. On the top lay a stack of flyers. Macarius held one out to Makana. It was simply done. The logo of the club ran along the top and underneath it read: Under 16s Championship.
‘We hold these from time to time. It gives the kids something to look forward to.’
Antun picked up his basket and moved off, glancing over his shoulder as he went.
‘You didn’t finish telling me about the Seraph.’ Makana tapped the logo on the flyer which was a reproduction of the angel mural on the wall.
‘The Seraph?’ The big priest frowned, unclasped his hands behind his back and folded his arms over his broad chest. Makana wondered if priests were allowed to play sports. There didn’t seem to be any real reason why not.
‘The word means, Those Who Burn. The seraph is a creature that lives in heaven, close to God. They have eyes all over their bodies and are said to be like dragons, or snakes, with six wings. Amongst the angels they rank most highly.’
‘What are those?’ Sami pointed at the wooden figures suspended from the girders supporting the roof.
‘Oh, yes, they are quite unique,’ said Macarius. ‘You can read their names: Hassan, Safwat, Ali and Kamal. I am afraid that Antun has not finished carving the latest victim, Amir.’
Following his gaze, Makana spotted the boy who had been carrying the laundry. He was now seated in the far corner, whittling away at a lump of wood.
‘You mean, these figures are angels representing the boys who were murdered?’
‘You may have heard that there has been something of a miracle here recently. The sighting of an angel?’
‘It was in the papers,’ said Sami.
‘You mean, people really believe there is an angel floating around up there?’ Makana asked.
‘It brings comfort to a lot of people,’ said Father Macarius.
It made as much sense as anything, thought Makana, as he reached for his cigarettes. He wondered what the implications were of murdered Muslim children being turned