Michael Pearce - The Mamur Zapt and the Spoils of Egypt

‘Thank you. That is very precise. You had turned away, then—?’

‘—and was about to move on to the next one when it happened.’

‘That, again, is very precise, Miss Skinner. “About to move on.” You had not, then, moved?’

‘A step, perhaps.’

‘Or two. But still very close to the Citadel board. And in the middle of the street.’

‘Along with everybody else,’ said Miss Skinner defensively.

‘Of course. No criticism implied. But you were in the middle of the street and could very easily have been bumped into.’

‘I think I would have noticed if an arabeah had hit me,’ said Miss Skinner tartly. ‘That is, of course, before I was hit by the tram.’

‘I was thinking of a person, Miss Skinner. Perhaps running for a tram.’

Miss Skinner sighed.

‘A collision is not like a push. This was a push. A definite push.’

‘Perhaps as they collided with you they put out a hand—’

‘No one,’ said Miss Skinner, her voice beginning to rise, ‘collided with me or bumped into me. What happened was that someone put a hand out and gave me a deliberate push just as the tram was approaching.’

‘But, Miss Skinner, why would anyone want to do that?’

‘You tell me. You’re the policeman. If, indeed,’ said Miss Skinner, ‘you are a policeman!’

Owen could not see it. An accidental collision, a stumble, a trip, yes. But not a push. Not a deliberate push.

‘A sheep, perhaps?’ he ventured.

‘A sheep ?’ said Miss Skinner incredulously.

‘They nudge you,’ Owen explained.

‘Look, Captain Owen,’ said Miss Skinner in rising fury, ‘this was not a nudge, nor a bump, nor a jostle. This was a push. A hand. In the small of my back. Just when a tram was coming. I have been assaulted—criminally assaulted—and I demand that you take action to find out who my assailant was and to see that he is punished. At once!’

The arabeah-drivers, while waiting for custom, liked to gather round a pavement restaurant near where they parked their cabs; round, because what the restaurants consisted of was a large circular tray with little pegs round the edge on which the customers stuck their bread. In the middle were lots of little blue-and-white china bowls filled with various kinds of sauces and pickles and a few large platters on which lay unpromising pieces of meat.

The customers squatted round in the dust. They did not consist entirely of arabeah-drivers. The restaurant served as a social centre for that part of the Ataba and people dropped in and out all day, drawn by the smell of fried onions and the constant Arab need for sociability.

It was natural for Owen, beginning his inquiries with the arabeah-drivers, to migrate in that direction and soon he was part of the squatting circle dipping his bread with the rest of them, his inquiries now part of the general conversation.

‘Why was she catching a tram anyway?’ asked one of the arabeah-drivers. ‘She ought to have been using an arabeah.’

‘That’s right. She wouldn’t have had to have wandered round, then. She could have just signalled to us and we’d have looked after her.’

‘Particularly if she was carrying things. Much more sense to take an arabeah.’

‘ Was she carrying things?’ asked Owen.

‘I don’t know. It’s just that if she was—’

‘I thought she was carrying something,’ said one of the other drivers. ‘One or two small things. Perhaps she had been shopping.’

‘You saw her, then?’

‘I saw her go down. She certainly seemed to be carrying something.’

‘How did she come to go down?’ asked Owen. ‘Was she wandering about in front of the tram or something?’

‘No, no, she was round the side.’

‘What did she do, then? Walk into it?’ asked one of the drivers.

‘Must have.’

‘She ought to look where she’s going, then.’

There was a general laugh.

‘Maybe it came up behind her,’ suggested Owen. ‘You know, alongside her. She was standing a bit too close and it just caught her.’

‘It’s easily done, I suppose.’

Owen turned to the driver who had thought he’d seen her carrying something.

‘Didn’t you say you’d seen what happened? Was that how it was?’

‘No, no, I didn’t really see it happen. I just saw her go down. I had just cut across in front of the tram—plenty of room, a couple of metres at least—and of course I was looking out to my left and I glanced along the side of the tram and she was already falling. It must have happened just at that instant.’

‘Was she falling into the tram or away from it?’

‘I don’t know, it was all over in a flash. But I saw she’d gone down as I stopped and ran over to her.’

‘Was she all covered with blood?’ asked someone with relish.

‘No, she—’

The driver launched into his tale, which he told with gusto but without the kind of detail that interested Owen. After a while he stood up and slipped away. He would come back to the restaurant the next day and the days after. If anything new emerged it would certainly be retailed to him.

He went next to see the tram-driver, whom he found drinking tea with his fellows.

‘It wasn’t his fault!’ they chorused. ‘He couldn’t have done anything about it. She just stepped straight into him.’

‘You didn’t see her coming?’

‘How could I? She was down at the side.’

‘You were moving, though. She must have been ahead of you.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘There were lots of people ahead of him! You can’t see them all!’

‘ Were there lots of people? Was there a crowd?’

‘There’s always a crowd in the Ataba.’

‘Yes, but was this woman part of a crowd or was she standing on her own?’

‘I didn’t see. I didn’t see her at all until there was this bump. You know at once. I jammed on my brakes and looked down and there she was!’

‘It was the first time you’d seen her?’

‘Of course! I swear on the Book—’

But then he would.

The conductor was strong in support.

‘There were a lot of people milling about. There always are. And those stupid arabeah-drivers!’

‘Yes, those stupid arabeah-drivers!’

‘It’s a wonder it doesn’t happen more often.’

So not much joy there. Owen did a round of the stalls nearby, the tea stall, the sweet stall, the Arab sugar and Arab cucumber stalls, but although they all remembered the incident well—it had clearly made their day—and although all claimed to have been intimately involved, none of the owners, it transpired after some time, had actually seen anything.

Next he tried the street-sellers, many of whom had regular pitches and who, being more mobile than the stallholders, had secured places near the front of the crowd. All of them, however, were observers after the event; somewhat to their regret.

They had at least seen something, though, and he tried to turn it to advantage. Could they describe the bystanders who had been at the front of the crowd, the ones who, presumably, had been nearest when the accident, or whatever it was, had happened?

Yes, they could: unfortunately, in implausible detail.

But did they recognize anybody?

‘Don’t I remember seeing Hamidullah?’ the lemonade-seller asked himself.

‘Hamidullah?’

‘The carrier of water.’

‘I remember a water-carrier,’ said Owen.

‘It would be him.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Oh …’

The water-carrier, apparently, made long patrols of the town, passing through the Ataba three times a day, in the morning, afternoon and evening. Owen tried to establish the times more precisely.