Give us a hand, for Christs sake!
They eventually succeeded in bundling Roper into the arabeah. Owen took the money out of Ropers pocket, paid the waiters and gave some to the girls. They would probably have picked Ropers pockets anyway.
He was about to get into the arabeah himself when he suddenly had a strong sense that somebody was behind him. He looked up quickly. There was no one there. For a moment, though, he had the impression that somebody was standing in the shadow. But then in Cairo there was always somebody standing in the shadow, waiting.
CHAPTER 4
Owen was sitting at his desk in the Bab el Khalk when he heard a cru-ump. He knew at once what it was.
He stayed sitting. Within minutes bare feet came scurrying along the corridor. A man burst into the room.
Effendi! Oh, effendi! he gasped. Come quick! It is terrible.
Take me, said Owen.
They hurried along the Sharia Mohammed Ali and then branched off left into a maze of small streets, heading in the direction of the Ecole Khediviale de Droit, the Law School. There was confused shouting and a whistle blowing perpetually. There was a great cloud of dust which made Owen gasp and choke, and men running about in the cloud.
The explosion had demolished the entire corner of a building. A wall swayed drunkenly. Even as Owen watched, it crumbled down to join the pile of rubble which lay in a slanting heap against what was left of the building.
A fresh cloud of dust rose up. When it cleared, Owen saw that men were already picking at the rubble. A sharp-eyed, intelligent workman was directing operations, getting the men to pile the rubble to one side.
Is anyone under there? asked Owen.
God knows, said the man. But it was a café.
A woman started ululating. Through the ululation and the shouting and the screaming the whistle was still blowing. Owen looked up. A police constable was standing in a corner of the square, his eyes bulging with shock. He had a whistle in his mouth which he kept blowing and blowing.
Enough of that! said Owen. Go to the Bab el Khalk and see the Bimbashi and tell him to bring some men.
The constable stayed where he was. Owen gave him a push. The man collected himself and ran off.
There were more galabeahed figures pulling at the rubble now. The subsidiary pile of debris was growing. A few broken parts of furniture had joined the stones.
Owen suddenly became aware that there were other people in the square besides the workers. A peanut-seller lay on his back in the dust with a little crowd around him. He was moaning slightly.
Not far from him an injured water-carrier had been dragged into the shade. His bags of water had left watery trails behind them as they had been dragged with him. Presumably the sellers had been passing when the explosion had occurred.
There were youngsters in European-style clothes, students from the Law School probably. Some were supporting fellow students, others pulling at the rubble.
A large man in a blue galabeah, his face white with dust, went past holding his head in his hands. Two men went up to him but he shook them off and continued wandering round the square in a daze.
A young man in a suit knelt beside a man bleeding from the leg. He was tearing strips from the mans undershirt and binding them round the wound: fairly expertly.
Are you a doctor? Owen asked.
Student, the man said briefly over his shoulder.
What happened?
An explosion. There, in the café.
Did you see it?
Heard it. We were on our way there.
Its a student café, is it?
Yes.
Christ! Owen had a sudden vision of a crowded café and bodies buried under the rubble.
It shouldnt have been too bad. The cafés empty at this time of day. A lecture was just finishing.
Whats your name? asked Owen.
Deesa.
Owen took note of the name and then went over to help the rubble-workers. They were pulling at a huge beam. He got men to hold the beam while he organized others to pull away the stones which were trapping it. It came clear and they lifted it away.
A large fair-haired man came into the square with a small troop of constables.
Good heavens! the man said.
Hello, said Owen. It was a café with students. There may be some under here.
Right, said the man, and began organizing his constables. They formed a chain and began passing debris along it. The constables were simple peasants from the villages and used to this sort of work. One of them, incongruously, began to sing.
After a while Owen left the rubble work. McPhee, a Boy-Scoutish sort of man, was better at this kind of thing than he was. The work of clearing the debris was now proceeding systematically. The sharp-faced, intelligent workman who had got started in the first place was now burrowing deep into the rubble.
The square was filling up with people, eager to help but getting in the way. Owen pulled a constable out and sent him for more help. He tried to get the crowd to keep back. Then, seeing that was useless, he borrowed McPhees idea and formed them into chains, getting them to clear away the subsidiary pile, which was threatening to topple back on to the rubble.
So far he had seen very few injured people.
The student he had been talking to had finished his bandaging and came over to stand beside Owen.
Are you sure it was empty? Owen asked.
Not empty, said the student. Emptyish.
He interrupted the large man with the white, dusty face as he went past for the umpteenth time.
Ali, he said. Come here.
Ali stopped obediently. The student took hold of his head and stared into his eyes. Then he released him.
Concussed, he said.
Youre not a law student, said Owen.
No, medical. I was visiting friends.
Why, said Ali, in a tone of surprise, its Deesa.
Yes, said the student, its Deesa. What happened, Ali?
I dont know, said the man. I came to the door to take some air and then suddenly it was as if a giant put his hand to my back and pushed me. I fell into the street and lay there and when I looked up the building had gone. Where did it go to, Deesa?
It fell down, Ali, said Deesa. That is all that is left. He pointed to the rubble.
The big man shook his head disbelievingly.
When I looked up, it had gone, he repeated. Where did it go to, Deesa?
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
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First published 1991
Copyright © Michael Pearce 1991
Michael Pearce asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008259440
Ebook Edition © JULY 2017 ISBN: 9780007483037
Version: 2017-09-12
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Footnote
Keep Reading
About the Author
Also by Michael Pearce
About the Publisher
CHAPTER 1
Riding home from work on the back of his donkey one lunch-time, Fairclough of the Customs Department was shot at by two men. The shots were fired from a distance and missed, and the only damage from the incident resulted when the frightened donkey careered into a fruit-stall nearby and deposited both fruit and Fairclough on top of the stall-holder, who, since it was lunch-time, was sleeping peacefully under the stall.
Fairclough held court afterwards in the bar of the Sporting Club, which was where Owen caught up with him.
It was ghastly, he declared, drinking deeply from his tumbler. There were squashed tomatoes everywhere. Mind you, they saved my life. It looked like blood, you see. All over him, all over me. They must have thought theyd got me.
What I cant understand, said someone else at the bar, is why anyone would want to get you anyway. I mean, lets face it, Fairclough, youre not exactly important, and although everyone else in the Department regards you as a bit of a pig, I wouldnt have said that feeling ran high enough for them to want to kill you.
Perhaps theres a woman in the case, suggested someone.
Fairclough, who was a lifelong bachelor, snorted and peered into his tumbler.
Unlikely, said someone else. The only female he lets get anywhere near him is that damned donkey of his.
Perhaps its an animal lover. After all, it is a very small donkey and a very large Fairclough. Perhaps after years of witnessing this unequal combat somebody has decided to take sides.
Miss Crispley, perhaps? suggested someone.
There was a general laugh. Then someone noticed Owen.
Hello, he said. On the job already? I see youre starting in a sensible place. The bar. Weve got a suspect for you. Miss Crispley, of the Mission.
Thank you, said Owen. Or shall I begin with the donkey?
Beyond what he had told everyone in the bar, Fairclough had little information to give. He always rode home for lunch on his little donkey and he always went that way. Both he and his donkey were creatures of habit. Yes, that would have made it easy for anyone who wanted to attack him.
Though why in the hell anyone should want to do that, he said, aggrieved, I havent the faintest idea.
Youre Customs, arent you?
Whats that got to do with it? said Fairclough touchily.
Customs was one of the lowest ranking of the Departments and its members were sensitive on the issue.
I wondered if it could be a question of wanting to settle old scores?
Look, said Fairclough, rosy with heat and indignation and, no doubt, drink, all I am is a book-keeper. A high-level one perhaps, but basically thats all I am. The returns come in from the ports and I put them together in a way that makes sense to Finance. Its more complicated than it sounds but when you get down to it, thats all it is. I have nothing, said Fairclough with emphasis, absolutely nothing to do with the front end of the business. Smugglers are just a row of figures to me. And that, said Fairclough, is the way Id like them to stay.
Theres been no recent row of figures of any particular significance?
Not to do with smuggling, no. From the point of view of Finance, yes. There always is. But even those bastards havent got round to sending out shooting parties. Yet.
If its not work it could be personal.