But it was the gentler one, Abu Raja, who handled the gun with confidence, peering down the barrel and checking the sight line. He shared a look with his companion, opaque to the rest of them.
The long-awaited inspection of the house was cursory. The snack and the gun seemed to have softened the rebels’ manners, and they spoke with a hint of regret of the other houses they still had left to search, and said of course they wished to leave the ladies in peace. Aref’s cousin stepped out first through the front door, and Abu Raja addressed Sahar as an afterthought.
“Where is your husband?”
“Sarafand,” said Sahar.
He cocked his head. “Name?”
“Hani Murad.”
“Bismillah,” said Abu Raja, and his companion gasped and stepped back inside. “Why didn’t you say so! Hani Murad. Ya Allah, your husband is a great man, a great man.”
Fatima clenched her fingers around the door handle.
“Thank you,” said Sahar.
“She is pregnant,” said Fatima.
“Mashallah,” said the cousin of Aref, now pole-upright and bowing with a hand on his chest. “Allah yikhaleeki, ya Sitti. Allah yikhaleeki.”
Fatima watched the rebels creep away under the darkness. On feet silent as paws they scudded over the terrace and down the steps to the road.
The women took off their veils without speaking. Widad led Um Taher upstairs to the spare bedroom, and Fatima stared after them, her thirst for comfort dashed against Um Taher’s receding back.
“How are you feeling?” she said to Sahar. “Do you want anything? You must stay here, you’ll sleep in my bed.”
Sahar frowned. She said: “Thank you. I’d like a glass of water, if I may. I’ll come with you.”
“No no no, you stay. Have you eaten enough?”
“Plenty.”
Fatima ran the faucet in the kitchen far longer than necessary. She gripped the cold edge of the sink, and the touch sent a chill down her body. The porcelain around the drain was covered in long scratches and a string of something green draped over one of the bars between the holes. At the sound of steps behind her, she roused herself and quickly filled the glass.
“You should be resting,” she said, and then with surprise: “Oh, Teta.”
“Habibti.” Um Taher limped into the glow from the window. The tautness of her face upstairs was gone; her cheeks were slack and her eyes shining. “I have to tell you.” She was out of breath. “We need to bring him back to Nablus. We need to bring him back …”
“Sit, sit, take a seat.”
Teta’s hands were shaking. “He said he killed someone.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry.” She managed a condescending smile. “He didn’t actually kill anyone.” The muscles in her face twanged flaccid and the smile dropped off. “He is just mad.”
“How do you know?”
“Trust me. I know.”
“Who did he kill—or say he killed?”
“He is not a murderer,” she said again with that same smile, as though Fatima had brought up this idea. “An idiot, maybe, not a murderer. Anyway, we need to get him out.”
Fatima’s eyes fell from Um Taher’s face to her fingers resting on the table, firm and capable, as if the wrinkled layer were only a glove she had put on. She whispered: “How will we get him out?” and glanced up to check her expression.
Um Taher’s voice rose, edged with a whine. “Why do I always have to do these things alone?” She opened her hands. “Why weren’t you with me, mama?”
“I’m sorry,” said Fatima. “The children—”
“You can leave the children with your mother! I hate that place, I hate … why Hani thought it was a good idea, why! We know whatever the ingliz make is not good, nothing is good that they make. Stupid.” She continued murmuring, until her eyes met Fatima’s and her screwed-up face relaxed. “Don’t cry,” she snapped. “If I thought you’d cry I wouldn’t have told you.”
Fatima lurched. In a tone of glacial anger, she replied: “Um Taher, I said I’m sorry. I will come next time if that’s what you want. But Sahar is waiting for me upstairs, and she needs water. So, if you will excuse me.”
“Oh, go,” said Um Taher, with a flap of her hand.
Upstairs, Sahar was asleep. The weave of her fingers beneath her belly had collapsed open, and her unravelled hair lay down the chair back. Before Fatima could fetch a blanket, she pulled herself upright. “Ah. Thank you.”
“It’s nothing.” Fatima set down the glass. She hovered as Sahar reached for it. “Has your husband said anything to you?”