Michael Pearce - The Last Cut

‘I am afraid that on that Mahmoud will have to speak for himself.’

‘Of course. Of course. And you yourself, Captain Owen, you are still taking an interest?’

‘In the wider sense, certainly.’

Paul had convened another meeting, this time at the Consulate. Owen had assumed it was a continuation of the one on the gravedigger dispute but when he got there he was surprised to see Macrae and Ferguson. Paul was looking grave.

‘His Excellency has asked me to convene this meeting,’ he said. ‘It concerns a major complaint from the Khedive. We are to explore the circumstances and then draft a formal reply.’ There were two Ministers present, junior but Ministers. One of them was the man from the Department of Irrigation whom Owen had already met. The other was unfamiliar to him. He appeared to have something to do with the Khedive’s Office.

‘I understand,’ said Paul, ‘that the Khedive wishes the Consul-General to raise this directly with the British Foreign Secretary?’

‘That is correct, yes,’ said the man from the Khedive’s Office.

‘I would hope it needn’t go so far. Perhaps if our meeting this morning is able to give the Khedive satisfaction-?’

‘That would be desirable,’ said the Minister, ‘but it may not be enough. In view of the international implications.’

‘International implications?’ said Paul. ‘But-?’

‘We view this as inconsistent with Treaty Obligations. Not to mention as constituting a grave insult to His Royal Highness.’

‘I cannot tell you how desolate we all are at the Consulate-General,’ said Paul. ‘Nor how shocked and saddened we feel that such an incident should have occurred.’

‘Plunder and pillage,’ said the Minister.

‘Exactly!’ said Paul.

‘Of the Khedive’s own premises!’

‘Incredible!’ said Paul, shaking his head. ‘Mamur Zapt?’ Jesus! thought Owen, frantically racking his memory.

‘I understand you were there?’

‘Well-’

‘Not exactly there,’ put in Ferguson helpfully. ‘Nearby.’

‘I was hoping you would be able to tell us what happened.’

‘Well-’

‘The regulator burst,’ said Macrae. ‘We had to take action.’

‘Well, naturally,’ said the man from the Khedive’s Office. ‘We had to fill in the breach. So I sent my men out-’ Light at last began to dawn.

‘I cannot say how much I regret-’ began Macrae.

‘But the Khedive’s own palace! The Khedive’s own furniture!’

A dreadful mistake!’ said Paul.

‘It was a wee laddie!’ pleaded Macrae.

‘New out here!’ put in Ferguson.

‘Dew still wet!’ said Macrae.

‘Have him beheaded!’ said the Minister.

‘Well-’

Paul was the first to recover.

‘Certainly!’ he snapped.

Ferguson and Macrae gaped.

‘At once!’ said the Minister.

Paul rubbed his chin.

‘It would have to go to the Foreign Secretary. British.’

‘None of your weak liberal nonsense!’ warned the Minister. ‘The last thing I had in mind,’ said Paul.

Macrae found his voice.

‘But, man, ye cannae-’

‘Perhaps beheading would be too quick,’ said the Minister thoughtfully. ‘How about garotting?’

‘The very thought that was going through my mind!’ cried Paul.

‘Jesus, man!’ began Ferguson. ‘Ye-’

‘But too easy!’ said Paul.

‘There is that,’ acknowledged the Minister.

‘It would be over too quickly.’

‘Torture?’ suggested the Minister.

‘It needs to be lingering,’ said Paul, deep in thought. Suddenly he brightened. ‘I know!’ he said. ‘The glasshouse!’

‘Glass House?’ said the Minister, interested. ‘Well, that certainly sounds promising. Fried, you mean?’

‘It’s an old military punishment.’

Ah, well, they would know. Judging from our experience of them.’

‘Experts,’ said Paul. ‘Experts. But, look, there’s a problem here. If it goes to the Foreign Secretary he may not agree.’

‘Too liberal, you mean?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Perhaps,’ said the Minister, ‘on second thoughts, it might be best if it were handled locally.’

‘Do you think that would satisfy the Khedive?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said the Minister, ‘I think he would be very satisfied indeed. Glass House? Lingering? Oh, yes. Very satisfied.’

Macrae stayed behind after the Minister had left.

‘Look, man,’ he said to Paul, ‘I know you mean well, but I don’t trust those Army bastards-’

‘Army?’ said Paul. ‘Who’s talking about the Army? I’m thinking of him assisting the Consul-General’s wife in their greenhouse.’

Owen could hear the pad-pad of bare feet coming along the corridor. A moment later the constable appeared with Babikr in tow. He pushed him into Owen’s room and then took up position outside the door.

‘I shall be standing here, little dove,’ he said to Babikr, ‘and if there’s any trouble, I’ll come in and beat the hell out of you.’

It was plain, though, that there was going to be no trouble. Babikr, lost and forlorn, stood bewildered in front of Owen.

Owen asked him how things were.

‘Pretty well, Effendi,’ he replied mechanically.

And, indeed, they were probably not all bad. You got regular meals, you were free from the usual back-breaking work of the fellah, and you could spend the day chatting to the other prisoners.

Babikr liked a good chat; but so far he had said nothing about his attempt to blow up the Manufiya Regulator. Owen knew that because he had put a spy in the cell with him.

He had decided to try a different approach.

‘Your friends at the barrage are well,’ he said. Babikr nodded acknowledgement. ‘But they do not send you greetings. They will not come and see you. Why is that, Babikr?’

In fact, the workmen would have come and seen him but Owen had prevented them.

Babikr flinched slightly.

‘I do not know,’ he said.

‘It is because they do not understand you. They do not understand how you could have done a thing like this. Were you not one of them? Did you not work together? Had you not stood side by side when the sun was hot and the work hard? They thought they could count on you, Babikr. They thought they knew you.’

He waited. Babikr shuffled his feet unhappily.

‘But they did not know you, Babikr. They could not have known you if all the time you meditated such things. Can this be the Babikr we thought we knew, they ask? And they are bewildered. They cannot understand how this could be. They say, if we only knew why he had done this thing, then, perhaps, we could understand.’

Babikr stood there miserably, head lowered.

‘Why did you do it, Babikr?’

He waited, but Babikr did not reply.

‘That you did it is a bad thing. For that you must pay. But you must have had a reason, and if your friends knew that reason, then perhaps their hearts would not be so wounded. You had friends among them, Babikr. Can you not speak to them?’

‘No, I cannot,’ said Babikr in a low voice.

‘You have shamed them. They have to live with that shame. If they knew why you had done it, perhaps that would help them. Can you not help them, Babikr?’

Owen could see that the man was feeling the words keenly; but still he would not speak.

‘They say, perhaps it was against us that he acted. Perhaps in his heart he hated us. Perhaps we have done wrong things.’

‘No, no!’ said Babikr. ‘No!’

‘Or against Macrae Effendi. Or Ferguson Effendi.’

‘No.’

‘Then why, Babikr? No one does a thing like this without reason. Could you tell them the reason? You have left a hole in their hearts, Babikr. Could you not at least make easy the wound?’