you scared?’
‘Oh, I’m scared all right. I’m shaking so badly I can hardly stand up.’
One of the others giggled and the stout man glared at him.
‘I’m not here to cause trouble. I was a friend of Meera’s. I was with her when she died.’
‘That was you?’ The one named Ishaq pushed forward again. Makana noticed that a couple of the young men were wearing T-shirts printed with the logo of the Seraph Sporting Club.
‘Does Father Macarius know you are here?’
‘You know Father Macarius?’ In the right light he might have been considered handsome. He clearly thought he would have made a fine film star on any day of the week. His hair was long, oiled and combed back like a dog’s pelt after a heavy rain. He jerked his head indicating Makana could pass.
‘Just watch your step.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Makana, winking at the bullish one who was breathing hard enough to burst a blood vessel.
The apartment building had a high surrounding wall painted a sandy-brown colour and a metal gate that stood open. It had about it a gentle air of dereliction and more than a hint of long-gone glory. Beyond this was a garden of sorts. A row of heavy plant pots on the steps leading to the entrance contained huge cacti whose leaves flopped around like the flailing hands of mad clocks. In the front hall more men wearing shirts with the eight-winged seraph motif waved him up to the first floor. Around the doorway to the flat, other men stood together speaking in low voices. They stepped aside for him to enter.
The flat was dark and gloomy with death. The narrow hallway was further constricted by the books that covered every available surface: fitted bookcases, hastily put up shelves, crooked tables, all to stem the flood which eventually spilled into heaps on the floor. Directly opposite the front door was a living room where a number of women sat in reverent silence. Others came and went through a side door carrying trays laden with biscuits and cups of tea. Close friends and family, Makana guessed, from young nieces to wizened aunts. Some in headscarves, others wearing crosses, they appeared to hail from both sides of the family.
‘Can I help you?’
On turning, Makana found himself facing Meera. A larger, cruder version of the original. Shorter and bulkier, padded in hips and face where the original had been lean and economical. The effect was unsettling.
‘I’m here to see Doctor Hilal.’
‘We are only welcoming family members at this time.’ She wrung her hands together as if squeezing a cake of soap. Her hair was dark like Meera’s but combed back in a fierce bun that pulled her eyebrows apart horizontally, like the splayed wings of a dragonfly.
‘It is urgent that I speak with him. My name is Makana.’
By now the conversation around them had come to a halt. The assortment of widows, spinsters and aunts had fallen silent. Tea went undrunk, biscuits remained unswallowed. A certain tension had entered the room. All eyes were now on him.
‘Can you at least tell me what this concerns?’
‘No, I’m afraid I can’t.’
The woman’s face grew livid. Her cheeks flushed. Behind her, he could hear the women whispering. He knew what they were saying and she said it for them.
‘You are not welcome here at this time.’
‘Maysoun, please.’
With a heavy sigh, a large figure shuffled forwards in the gloom. Ridwan Hilal was an untidy, overweight man, with a voice like a baritone. The walls rumbled as he approached. Another deeper silence fell over the women in the room. Hilal had thick, fleshy lips and thinning hair that looked as if it might have contained a recently abandoned bird’s nest. He was wearing black trousers and a white shirt that was buttoned up to the neck and whose tails had come loose. His face was slick with the sheen of a man who has just awoken from a nightmare to discover it was all true. Breathing hard from his exertions, he stared at Makana.
‘Do I know you?’
‘My name is Makana. I knew your wife.’
The keen eyes fixed on him as sharp as any bird of prey and there was a brief nod in response.
‘Yes, of course.’ Hilal pursed his lips. ‘You were with her when she died.’
A rustle went through the room. It seemed to shake Ridwan Hilal out of his stupor. He lifted a large paw like a soft lump of dough and gestured.
‘Come with me. We cannot talk here.’
Like buzzing insects,