Michael Pearce - The Last Cut

‘Effendi!’ said Selim, overjoyed. ‘I will kick that Lizard Man in the balls!’

‘That may not be necessary. You see, I think that if there is any problem, it will come from Muslim gravediggers-’

‘Effendi, which shall I break: their backs or their necks?’

‘-or the Jews.’

‘Or both?’

‘Just see they don’t damage anything to do with the Cut, that’s all.’

Selim saluted and returned, buoyant, to the line.

‘Selim, you’ve never agreed!’ Owen heard the men beside him whisper.

‘What is a Lizard Man to me?’ said Selim.

‘But, Selim, he’ll bite your ass off!’

‘I’d like to see him try. Although-’ he inspected his neighbour critically, ‘he may bite yours off.’

‘Why mine, Selim?’

‘Because you’re going to be with me, Abdul.’

As Owen was walking along the street a small stone landed almost at his feet. Surprised, he looked up but could see no one. He wondered for a moment if a hawk had dropped it. But it was hardly shiny enough to attract a hawk’s attention. A moment later another stone skittered past him, so close that it almost hit him. He spun round but again could see no one. Children, no doubt, but all the same it was surprising.

He walked on, turned a corner and then stepped quickly back into a doorway. After a little while he heard the cautious pad of bare feet.

When the boy came round the corner he grabbed him. ‘Why did you do that?’

‘Ow, Effendi! Why you do this to me? I have done nothing!’ Owen held him firmly by the arm. Not by the galabeeyah- cloth could tear.

‘What is your name?’

Ali, Effendi,’ the boy said sulkily.

He was about twelve years old.

‘Where do you live?’

The boy made a gesture.

‘There, Effendi.’

At the end of the street the broken-down houses seemed suddenly to open up. He realized that he was near the Canal. ‘Which one?’ ‘Efjj

He marched the boy down the street.

‘On the other side, Effendi.’

The boy pointed across the dry bed to where a derelict warehouse backed on to the Canal in a fall of rubble.

‘That is not a house.’

‘I don’t have a house,’ said the boy.

‘Do you have a father or mother?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘So who gives you food?’

‘The men do. Sometimes.’

‘Did the men tell you to throw a stone at me?’

The boy was silent.

‘Why do it, then?’

‘You’re not wanted,’ said the boy. ‘Here in the Gamaliya.’

On an impulse, and in some fury, Owen plunged down into the bed, dragging the boy after him. He walked across and climbed up the rubble to the warehouse. There was a cart inside and men were busy around it. They looked at him in consternation.

‘If you want to throw stones at me,’ raged Owen, ‘don’t get a boy to do it!’

‘He’s nothing to do with us,’ one of them said after a moment.

‘He’d better not be!’ said Owen.

He saw now that the cart was a water-cart and recognized the driver. It was the one he’d encountered previously.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

‘I keep my cart here,’ the man said. ‘Anything wrong with that?’

A man moved out of the shadow.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘anything wrong with that?’

Owen recognized him, too. It was Ahmed Uthman, Fatima’s husband.

He went up to the two men.

‘Twice,’ he said, ‘I have met you recently. If I have any more trouble from you, it will not be me who is not seen on the streets of the Gamaliya!’

He stood there until they yielded.

‘Come on, Farag,’ called one of the other men. Are you never going to get that horse ready?’

The driver shrugged and returned to his harnessing. After a moment, Ahmed Uthman turned, too, and walked away. As he went, he spat deliberately into the straw.

Owen knew he had to do something. His blood boiled. He went after the man and swung him round.

They stood looking at each other.

‘Well?’ said the water-carrier.

‘I am just marking your face,’ said Owen.

He let the man go, gave the other men a look, and then walked away.

He heard feet scampering behind him, stepped aside and caught the boy again.

‘I was just following,’ the boy protested. ‘I wasn’t going to throw any more stones!’

Owen released him.

‘These are bad men,’ he said, ‘and bound for the caracol. Take care that you do not join them!’

The boy nodded.

Owen turned away. The boy fell into step behind him. Owen put his hand in his pocket and gave him a piastre. The boy saluted his thanks and dropped back.

‘Tell me,’ said Owen, over his shoulder; ‘whose house is that?’

‘Omar Fayoum’s,’ said the boy.

As he turned into a street he saw ahead of him the two water-carriers who had been part of the altercation with the cart driver and Ahmed Uthman the previous day.

‘Hello,’ he said, catching up with them. ‘You, too, still walk the streets of the Gamaliya, then?’

‘Yes,’ said one of the men. ‘But we pick our streets.’

‘And we walk together,’ said the other one.

Owen nodded.

‘It is bad when a man has to do that,’ he said. ‘How long has it been like this in the Gamaliya?’

‘It has been getting worse,’ said one of the men, ‘but it is only lately that it has got like this.’

‘Why is it?’ asked Owen.

The man shrugged.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Perhaps Omar Fayoum wants to fill his bag before the pipes get here.’

Further on, he met Suleiman, just coming out of a public bathhouse. The boy saw him, crossed the street hurriedly, and tried to walk past.

Owen stopped him.

‘Is this wise, Suleiman, to come where you have enemies?’

‘I am not afraid of Ali Khedri!’ said the boy fiercely. ‘Perhaps not. But here in the Gamaliya Ali Khedri has friends.’

‘I am not afraid of his friends, either!’

‘I have met some of his friends. I think it might be wisest not to come to the Gamaliya for the next month or so.’

‘I have my work to do.’

‘Would you like me to speak to the Water Board? I am sure they would be willing to move you to another district.’

To his surprise, the boy shot him an angry look.

‘No,’ he said.

‘I am concerned only for your well-being.’

The boy muttered something and tried to break away.

‘Why do you not wish to be moved? It would be best, you know. Not just because of Ali Khedri’s foolishness but in order to put the past behind you.’

‘Everyone says, put the past behind you!’ said Suleiman bitterly. ‘But what if you do not want to put the past behind you?’

‘She will not come back, Suleiman. Would that she could!’ The boy fidgeted and stared at the ground.

‘It’s not that,’ he was unwillingly. ‘Not just that. I know she will not come back, I do want to put the past behind me. But not-not just in your way. The past is what killed Leila and I want to kill it. I want to kill it here in the Gamaliya. I want to kill the ignorance and stupidity that killed Leila. And,’ said Suleiman, ‘I shall; by bringing my pipes.’

‘It will happen. But let others do the killing.’

‘No!’ said Suleiman fiercely. ‘I want to do it. And I want to do it not just because I want to end it-that is what Labiba says, that I must work to end the squalor and the ignorance so that there will be no more Leilas. Well, that is good, that is right. I want to do that. But I want to do more.’

‘Is not that enough?’

‘No. Because, you see, I know a thing that Labiba does not know. She knows that when you do something like this you make the world a better place. But I know that when you do it, you also hurt people. Well, I know who bringing the pipes will hurt. And,’ said Suleiman, ‘I want to hurt them.’