Robert Wilson: The Ignoranceof Blood

'Think about what you're going to say to her.'

'I'm not going to take any nonsense,' said Abdullah, determined. 'She'll know I mean business just by the fact I'm in her quarters without her invitation.'

'You mustn't give her the slightest chance.'

'There's nothing she can do, Javier.'

'Are you sure?' said Falcon. 'After all this, I don't want anything to happen to the boy.'

'She'll be on her own up here. The boy will be kept elsewhere. I'll ask her where she's keeping him and, if she doesn't tell me, I'll beat her until she does.'

Abdullah took off his shoes. They crawled up two floors in the narrow staircase. At one point the women's voices in the patio were as clear as if they were next door. Abdullah reached the door at the top. It did not appear to have a handle or a lock but he felt up and down the stone wall near the door jamb and pressed. The door sprung open silently. The room had a floor of heavy wooden planking covered with carpets. The windows had broken latticework over them and the smell of jasmine from the garden below had come in with the warm night air. A floorboard creaked as Abdullah went in. A woman's voice in Arabic asked:

'Who's there?'

'It is me, Abdullah, my great aunt,' he said, approaching her. 'I'm sorry to come here without your invitation, but I wanted to talk to you about my father's death.'

'I have already spoken to your mother,' she said.

'I was sure that you had been told, but I would like to talk to you about it as well,' said Abdullah. 'You know that your son, my uncle, and my father were very close.'

'My son?' she said.

'Mustafa and my father, they were like brothers.'

'Come here,' she said. 'Step into the light where I can see you. Why are you wearing these clothes? These are not mourning clothes. And what is that mark -?'

There was a sharp intake of breath. The silence of shock before the comprehension of pain. Falcon opened the door. The woman was dressed completely in black, which made the curved blade of the knife stand out in the oily yellow light. The sight of Falcon distracted her from Abdullah, who was holding his right arm, with blood oozing through his fingers. He grunted with pain. The woman tipped a lamp on to the wooden floor. The oil spilled, caught fire immediately and flames spread across the carpets and floorboards. The hem of Abdullah's jellabah was alight as he staggered backwards. The woman opened the door and disappeared into the darkness.

Falcon used a small rug from the floor to slap out the flames climbing up Abdullah's legs. He used one of the other larger carpets to smother the fire creeping across the floor. He ran to the door. She'd locked it. He kicked at it, once, twice, on the third savage blow it came open. No light. His sight still a wavering green from the flames. His hands found a door across the landing, a top stair to his right. The rest of the stairs could have been a lift shaft for all he could see. He went down the stairs, right hand on the wall. A landing. No door. More stairs. Another landing. Two doors. A window. Faint light coming from outside. He listened at one door. Then the other. Went back to the other door, tried it. It opened on to an empty room. He turned, ran at the other door, and shouldered through it into the room, crashing into some furniture and landing on his front. The door kicked back against the wall and slammed shut again behind him. Still no light. Movement in the darkness. A faint whimpering sound of a small animal, cowering in a dark corner. He got up on to his knees, no higher than that, he was aware of the window behind him. Didn't want to stand out. Something flew over his head with a swish, like a low flying bird. He rolled to one side. Feet in light slippers padded across the floor. Falcon crawled deeper into the room, turned, lay on his back. He could just make out some of the broken latticework across the window. His eyes searched for a silhouette. Somebody was coming down the stairs. Abdullah recovered, or the woman getting away. His eyes improving all the time. He lay still. By the door he was aware of a denser mass. There was a twitch of silver. He felt around him. A small table came to hand. He sat up, brought his knees to his chin, rocked forward and in one movement came to his feet and ran full tilt, table out in front of him, at the black mass. There was a collision. The woman cannoned backwards and hit the window frame. The rotten latticework did not hold, the window frame cut her mid-thigh, her centre of gravity toppled and she was out and into the night before Falcon could grab at anything. A shout, more of surprise, followed by a compact thud and a crack. Then silence. A long silence, which was broken by that whimpering in the room.

'Abdullah?' said Falcon.

'I'm here,' he said. 'On the landing. She cut me with a knife. I can't let go of it, I'm bleeding too much.'

'Where's the light?'

'You'll have to find a candle or a lamp.'

Women's voices raised down below. They'd found the body. Abdullah yelled some Arabic out of the window. Uncertain light and footsteps came up the stairs. A lamp came into the room. Falcon turned to look at the corner where the whimpering was coming from. There was a child's cot with bars around it. Behind the bars he could see a child's back completely still. Falcon stumbled through the furniture in the room. At the foot of the cot, curled in a tight ball was a small, black, trembling dog. Next to it was Dario, inanimate. There was a strong smell of faeces and urine. The boy was naked. In the hopeless light he could not tell whether the mad crone had killed the boy out of spite, as Yacoub said she might. After that night with the Russians outside Seville, he could barely bring himself to do it, but he reached out a hand, touched the small naked shoulder, let his hand slip into the crook of the neck and felt the pulse ticking under the warm skin.

There was no lingering on that hot night in Fes.

The women in the Diouri household did not seem unduly troubled by the death of Barakat's mother, they were far more concerned about the injury to Abdullah and confounded by the presence of a child and a small dog in the house. When Abdullah told them he'd been knifed by the mad woman, and they found the bloody blade still in the woman's hand, they were appalled. Falcon looked at the wound. It was a deep cut in the shoulder muscle and, although bloody, the blade had not severed anything serious. The women brought alcohol and bandages. He dressed the wound, but said it would need stitches. Given the circumstances, he told Abdullah, this would best be done in Ceuta. Yousra and Leila would stay in Fes.

They were led to the car through the back streets of the medina. Consuelo would not let Falcon carry the boy. She was frightened by Dario's total lack of animation, but encouraged by the steadiness of his pulse. They left for Ceuta at 9.30 p.m. On the way Falcon called Alfonso, the concierge, at the Hotel Puerta de Africa and told him they would be arriving at about 1 a.m. Moroccan time at the border and would need help to get through. Abdullah had changed out of his bloody clothes and back into mourning. He had his ID card, but had left his passport in Rabat. Consuelo had had the foresight to bring Dario's documents. Falcon also told Alfonso they'd need a doctor on arrival at the hotel and a couple of rooms for what was left of the night.

At the border they were walked through to the Spanish side, with no official inspection. A taxi was waiting. Dario had still not stirred. He had the distressing feel of a large ragdoll. The doctor was waiting at the hotel and they went straight up to the room. Abdullah insisted that Dario was seen to first. The doctor lifted Dario's eyelids, shone his torch into the pupils. He listened to the heart and lungs. He minutely inspected the boy's body and found needle punctures in the crooks of his elbows. He declared there was nothing wrong with him apart from having been heavily sedated.