Lee closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. ‘Sure.’
A silence was allowed to breathe and grow, filling the room, and as she found a rhythm in her breath, the world began to fall away, and Lee felt herself become smaller, disappearing into the couch.
‘Then let’s go back to where we left off last week. You had arrived in the village . . .’
They walked slowly through the streets, aware of the many faces watching them from windows, doorways, around corners. Cunningham kept stopping to ask questions, his Arabic better than hers. All she could pick up was Moussef’s name, and see the direction in which the men pointed down the narrow streets. She felt their eyes upon her as they walked – westerners in a foreign land, conspicuous by their pale skin and light hair – even though she was covered up, her head and shoulders wrapped in the scarf she kept in her bag, and she was careful not to look anyone in the eye too directly.
The village was operating as usual – shops were open, market stalls set up – although some of the buildings had taken hits at some point in the past, heavy artillery shelling having blown out the middles of some of the taller dwellings, collapsing the roofs of others. But there were no burning cars – suicide bombers weren’t going to waste their martyrdom on minimal casualties here when there were headline-making numbers to be had in Kobanî. It felt almost normal here.
‘What did he say?’ Lee murmured, her fingers twitching on the camera slung about her neck, as they walked on from the latest directions.
‘Third street on the right,’ Cunningham said, staying close to her. It was clear from the looks they were attracting that there were no other reporters here yet. Cunningham was going to get his exclusive again. She could practically smell the anticipation on him. He was on the hunt.
They turned at the third corner. A heavy, acrid smell hung in the air, the dusty ground volatile and unsettled, their feet kicking up plumes as they walked.
‘There.’ He stopped walking, pointing fractionally with his finger in the direction of a building with steel rods bent and poking through blasted concrete, a pile of rubble on the ground.
She followed him over, her hands clasping the camera now, ready to shoot. They walked into the lobby of the building but there was no relief to be had, no coolness in the shade. Harry tried the door of the nearest apartment. It was unlocked, the rooms scattered with splintered furniture, dirty mattresses on the floors. Food smells seemed recent, an open bottle of arak attracting flies. She had a sense of missed activity, like walking into a room after a secret was shared.
She began to shoot, adjusting the focus, the zoom—
She heard the click behind her and fell still. Slowly she let go of the camera and raised her hands. Cunningham had heard it too.
‘Don’t shoot,’ he said in Arabic as they both turned slowly. ‘Press.’
A man was standing behind them, wearing patched trousers and pointing a rifle at them.
‘Press. American,’ Cunningham repeated. ‘Are you Moussef?’ The man said nothing but his surprise at the name indicated familiarity. Recognition. The gun was lowered, the man staring at them both with hard eyes. He looked at her, then said something to Cunningham. She didn’t understand but she heard Cunningham say Abbad’s name.
He looked at them both again, his eyes particularly hard on her. Then he jerked his head towards the door. ‘Follow me.’ It was one of the few terms she understood. That and ‘prostitute’.
They followed him through the building and out the back. A cluster of lower dwellings were built in a square, creating a courtyard, some children kicking a ball made of a bunched-up towel knotted with twine. They stopped playing as she and Harry walked through.
The man led them towards a building at the back that was low and narrow. Several women were sitting against the wall in the shade, some holding babies, one washing clothes in a bucket. She smiled at them, trying to establish a connection, but their gazes back were distant and mistrustful. Their guide stopped just inside the doorway and spoke to someone. Lee couldn’t see in but the low rumble of a male voice drifted through the open windows. She listened as Cunningham said something, Abbad’s name being mentioned several times; then he stepped back.