Sam Bourne - The Last Testament

She was now perched at the end of a couch, while her rescuer fired up a small gas-ring stove to make mint tea, when all Maggie yearned for was a cup of her mother’s old Typhoo, the way her dad used to have it, with three sugars. She looked at her hands, which were shaking, and realized how far from home she had come. It had been nearly twenty years, and still here she was, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by men who were ready to commit horrible violence.

‘You are welcome in my house.’ It was a male voice and it made her jump. She looked up to see a man in a faded blue suit, with a long thin face and a head of closely cropped hair, black turning to silver.

The woman turned around and they began speaking in Arabic. She was explaining what had happened, gesturing towards Maggie at intervals.

‘Now you are safe,’ he said, flashing a smile that unsettled her. He turned his back and Maggie exhaled; she didn’t want him here. But he wasn’t leaving: he had simply gone to collect an ashtray.

‘So you are American?’

‘I’m Irish,’ Maggie said, her voice quiet and distant.

‘Yes? We like the Irish very much. But you work for the Americans, am I right?’ He was smiling throughout, a forced smile that made Maggie want to look away. When the woman brought tea, Maggie was glad of the distraction, glad of the business with the cup and spoon that would keep her from talking to this man.

‘And why were you here?’

‘Nabil!’ In Arabic, Maggie guessed, the wife was telling her husband to leave the girl alone. While they spoke, she dug into her pocket to pull out her phone. There was a text message, from Uri: Where are you?

She was beginning a reply, when her host leaned across to her, all but reaching to take the phone.

‘You don’t need to call anyone. We’ll take care of you. What is it you need? Anything you need, please, just to ask.’

Maggie suddenly had the strong urge to get away, to be out of this rabbit warren of streets and into the daylight. She wanted to remove and destroy these clothes and stand under a shower for as long as it would take to wash away the-

‘Please. Tell me. If you work for the American government, why are you here on your own? Where is your protection?’ The smile was as wide as before, the teeth bared. ‘Is there really no one here to protect you?’

Maggie felt her hands, which until then had been as cold and inert as the rest of her, turn clammy. Instinctively, she looked for the doorway where she had come in. It was closed.

The woman brought over more tea, then headed into the next room, shouting the names of her children. Maggie was now alone with this man. She wanted to call Davis at the consulate, or Uri, or Liz in London, anyone, but she feared this man’s reaction. Would he snatch the phone off her? Would he grab at her? Who was he?

As casually as she could, Maggie stood up, stretched and, as if she were trying politely to extricate herself from tea with a wearisome great aunt, announced that she really had to be going.

‘But where are you going to?’

Maggie was stumped. She didn’t know where she was nor how she would get out. ‘My hotel is in West Jerusalem.’

‘Why you not stay in East Jerusalem? It is beautiful here. You have the American Colony Hotel. All the Europeans stay there. Why never the Americans? You want only to see the Israelis.’

Maggie was too tired for this, a conflict so bitter even your choice of hotel could touch off a diplomatic incident. ‘No, no,’ she began. ‘It’s not that at all.’ She was heading for the door back out into the alleyway as she spoke. She touched the handle. It turned, but didn’t open. Locked.

Now she could feel the man at her shoulder, leaning over her to reach the door handle. His closeness made her shudder, reminding her of the alley and the hot breath. She wanted to shove him away.

Before she had a chance, he had opened the door onto the tiny, square yard. She stepped out, the man right behind her.

‘Please I ask again. Why were you here?’

‘I was at the house for Afif Aweida.’

‘Yes. And where were you going?’

‘I wanted to see his cousin. The other Afif Aweida.’

‘Please. I take you.’

‘No, no. There’s no need. I just want to get back to my hotel.’

But he wasn’t listening. He took her by the elbow and began marching her back into the maze of streets and alleys of Jerusalem’s Old City. Am I deranged , Maggie wondered as, for the second time in-what was it, an hour? two?-she followed a stranger through a strange city. This time, though, she had none of the distracted carelessness of before. Her heart was racing; she glanced down each alleyway, checked over her shoulder and, above all, eyed the man leading her. Was this some kind of trap? Had Sari Aweida led her to her assailants? Was this man about to do the same?

She thought about making a run for it. But where? She would instantly be lost in these streets. They were getting fuller now, as they approached the souk , the market. She saw a couple of women, perhaps a few years younger than her, who looked like tourists. She could run up to them. But then what?

Now Nabil was guiding her through paths that twisted and turned, passing stalls teeming with goat-skin bongo drums, thick, woven carpets and tacky, wood-carved souvenirs. There were silver-haired couples shuffling along; even a full Japanese tour party. Apparently the briefing material Maggie had read on the plane was right: trade in this market, which had dried up in the intifada years, had lifted as tourists slowly came back to the Old City. Credit for that went to the talks in Government House: even the mere prospect of peace was enough to bring visitors back, whether Christians eager to walk the Via Dolorosa, Muslims keen to pray at the Dome of the Rock or Jews yearning to push a note written to God into the crevices of the Western Wall.

They swerved left into a meat market. Maggie wanted to retch at the sight of rack after rack of carcasses, their ribs exposed, the flesh scarlet and bloody. She saw a line of sheep’s heads on a butcher’s block, averting her eyes only to find puddles of animal blood on the ground.

‘Ah, we are here soon. Just one more minute.’

Suddenly, they were back in the realm of bags and purses and kitsch souvenirs. Maggie felt relieved, that the meat was behind her and that people were still around. They had stopped at a jeweller’s.

‘Here. Please. This is Afif Aweida shop.’

Gingerly, she stepped inside, followed by Nabil who high-fived a young man sitting behind the counter. In Arabic she heard Nabil utter the word ‘American’ and gesture in her direction.

A moment later, from a back room, a middle-aged man in a V-neck sweater and dark-rimmed spectacles appeared behind a glass counter packed with silver and gold jewellery. Maggie felt she recognized him. She had seen so many men like him in Africa, well-dressed, middle-aged, trying to maintain, or affect, Western standards as if in defiance of the poverty and chaos all around them.

‘A pleasure to welcome you here. Thank you, Nabil.’

Maggie turned around to see Nabil heading out, a sheepish wave over his shoulder. She called out her thanks, but half-heartedly. A few seconds ago she had been suspicious of him, even feared him as a possible attacker. After what had happened to her, it was only natural. And yet he had turned out to be no different from his wife, a stranger who simply wanted to help. She felt confused, and suddenly aware all over again of where she had been touched. With that came the memory of the second man’s voice, still hot and breathy: Otherwise we’ll be back for more . Who was he? She pushed the question below the surface and extended her hand with a smile.