Ellen Datlow - The Best Horror of the Year. Volume 6

“Let us work with your neighbours to fix this. No man should have to bear this alone.”

They breathed together. Perry held his breath. Abdullah’s wife sobbed beside him.

Mr. Abdullah’s tears dripped onto the blanket in fat drops. Finally, he nodded.

Perry’s heart thumped. A bitter happiness rose in him. He despaired of ever being able to manage people the way Lewis could.

Lewis held the man until he stopped crying and the cigarettes burned themselves out in the ashtray. Then, he rose, said a quiet word to Abdullah’s wife and opened the door. The stark, baking sunlight fell at his feet. Perry followed him out.

The driver opened the door for Lewis. Perry went to the other side and opened the door.

Lewis turned his blue eyes on Perry. “Organize a rectification ceremony for a week from today,” Lewis said. “Make sure the press is here. Talk with the town elders in case Abdullah changes his mind. We’ll come back next week. Write me speaking notes and sound bites.”

“Yes, Mr. Lewis,” Perry said. Lewis turned back to the scenery. Perry pulled out a small notepad and jotted all he’d need to do. He’d never written any speaking notes.

The laws, judges, and police were usually a thicket of obstacles to progress in any country. The Democratic Republic of Hadhramaut was fourth from the bottom of the United Nation’s Corruption Index and the fifth poorest country in the world. Neither ranking made work easier. As part of Perry’s training as a development officer, Lewis had sent him to intervene with the authorities on a case.

The Hadhramaut Public Security Forces, Capital District, Barracks Four, squatted between a Western Union office and a station that received a weekly train from Yemen. Steel bars over the windows bulged like insect eyes.

Perry’s diplomatic ID got him through the reception and into the detention office. Major Ibn Ghassan, the Barracks Commander, met him there. Ibn Ghassan had caramel skin, sleek black hair, and a grey camouflage uniform. He shook Perry’s hand assertively.

“I thought you or your Lewis might come,” Ibn Ghassan said in Arabic.

Perry opened his hands disingenuously.

“Well, I don’t think either of you are going to work your magic on this one,” Ibn Ghassan said. “This is murder pure and simple. I’m going to give it to the public prosecutor this week.”

“Major, let’s not be hasty about anything,” Perry said.

“Don’t be hasty?” Ibn Ghassan said. “Come see the evidence.”

He pivoted in his polished boots and Perry had to stretch his steps to keep up with him. The Major unlocked a door and stepped through. The sweet, greying smell of death hit Perry. His eyes watered and he gagged.

The corpse of a teenage girl curled on a blocky wooden table. Dirt crusted her cheeks. She’d lost her hijab and a sandal. Her long abaya bunched at her waist, showing dirt-dusted pants. Conical piles of dirt rested on the table under the corner of her mouth and under her nose. Her ears were packed into shapelessness with dirt.

Ibn Ghassan regarded him from the other side of the table. Fighting not to retch, Perry stepped forward. He breathed through his mouth to avoid the smell. It soaked in through his pores.

“This is sixteen-year-old Jasmine Malik,” Ibn Ghassan said. “She disappeared nine days ago. Her teachers reported it. We found the body under a new cement deck in front of her house.” He crisply pulled a pen from his chest pocket, pointing first at the girl’s hands, which were behind her back, and then her feet. “She’d been bound and buried alive. Her stomach and lungs are filled with dirt.”

“I heard that you aren’t even considering bail for her family,” Perry said.

“Murder is murder,” Ibn Ghassan said.

“Major,” Perry said, “I think we can agree that extenuating circumstances are at play here.”

“I have no evidence of that.”

“Fourteen witnesses from three families saw Ms. Malik talking with boys on a number of occasions.” Perry didn’t feel diplomatic. Lewis would have known how hard to push.

“Are you saying that this was an honour crime?” Ibn Ghassan asked innocently.

“I’m saying that there is more evidence than just a body.”

Ibn Ghassan shook his head. “What you have here is a family that decided to murder a girl. I don’t know what things are like in your country, but justice in Hadhramaut works.”

“Hadhramaut signed the UN Convention on Family Honour,” Perry said.

“The UN can fuck itself,” Ibn Ghassan said. “Who the hell are they to come into our country and tell us what to do? I know the law. Until the legislature of Hadhramaut passes a new one, murder is murder.”

Ibn Ghassan’s vehemence disconcerted him. He imagined the ambassador being chastised in the Foreign Ministry because Perry had pissed off a well-connected police commander.

“Your laws may not have changed yet, Major, but they’re drafting the legislation. I’m one of the technical advisors. Until the bill passes, the Convention obliges officers of the state to take issues of family honour into account when considering prosecution. Your president signed the Convention.”

“Do you want me to show you what the law says right now?” Ibn Ghassan asked.

“Among other things,” Perry said evenly, “we monitor compliance with the Convention. Our observations feed into decisions about bilateral aid funding.”

Ibn Ghassan’s face reddened. A quarter of Hadhramaut’s budget came from foreign aid. Perry stood his ground and breathed deeply, unintentionally filling his nose with the stink of decay.

“Wait here,” the Major said.

He stormed out and slammed the door behind him, leaving Perry with the corpse of the Malik girl. His stomach clenched. A yellow light bulb hung from the ceiling. He took a cell phone picture of her for his report and then looked away, breathing through his mouth. He examined the mortar between the bricks and ran his finger along the dusty roughness to grind the image of Jasmine Malik out of his mind.

Ten minutes later, Ibn Ghassan opened the door. “Get out of my barracks,” he said.

Perry followed him slowly out of the room.

“Send me the witness statements if you want,” Ibn Ghassan said. “I’m not wasting my men’s time to get them.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem at all.” Perry walked to the door. “I appreciate your help, Major, and we’ll make a note of it when we speak with the Prime Minister.”

“Just get out,” Ibn Ghassan said.

Perry stepped outside. The white embassy jeep was parked in front of the barracks. Two security police with automatic rifles stood to either side of it while two others, stripped to their t-shirts, kicked the driver on the pavement. Ibn Ghassan held out a paper. Perry took it as the security police backed away. The driver moaned, bleeding.

“Your employee had an overdue traffic infraction,” the Major said. “The embassy should take more care in its background checks on its employees. If you ever need help in checking your staff, please let me know.”

The door to the barracks slammed at Perry’s back. The security police lounged on the steps and snickered at him.

Perry printed Lewis’s speaking notes for the rectification ceremony. His office was much smaller than Lewis’s, with a view of the embassy carpool and a clutch of palm trees through two spotless windows. Other than a picture of his mother, the art on the walls was watery and pale. Lewis appeared at the door.

“I’ve been summoned to meet the Minister of the Interior right now with the ambassador,” Lewis said.