Jill McGivering - The Last Kestrel

‘My Aref?’

He collapsed half at her feet, half across her knee. She buried her face in his neck, inhaling him. She patted him with fluttering hands, her fingers working him as if they were kneading bread. She took possession again of each hollow, each joint, each rib, each knob of spine, relearning his body for herself, the way she’d first learned it when he was put into her arms as a new baby, all those years before. He was moaning quietly. When her hands reached his face, her fingers were black and wet with blood. In stroking him, she smeared his cheeks, his chin.

She rocked him hard, encircling him with her arms to keep him safe. He lay, limp, and surrendered to her.

She expected the dream to end. When her arms began to ache, she pulled back her face to look. His forehead and cheeks were moist with sweat, his skin chilled. She lifted her fists and pummelled him in the chest.

‘How could you?’ she heard herself saying. His body was jumping, jolted by her hammering fists. ‘How could you leave me?’

He raised his arms and groped for her wrists. His grasp was weak. Her anger dissolved into weeping.

‘Aref,’ she moaned. ‘You precious fool.’

‘I need to hide,’ he whispered. ‘Just until I’m strong again.’

Hasina half dragged, half walked him along the ridge at the top of the fields, away from the village. Along the outer edge of their land, Abdul had dug an irrigation channel for flash floods. Now it was dry. She searched for the most hidden stretch and cleared away the stones there. Aref lay on his back in the channel, his eyes glazed. The earth sides were smooth and steep, as if he lay already in his grave.

Hasina cradled his head in her lap. She was afraid to look at his wound. The rags were matted together in clumps, fused with dried blood. When she tried to touch them, he pushed her hand away.

‘I could clean it,’ she said.

He shook his head.

‘What happened?’ she said. ‘Those boys. I know what they did. But you…?’

He looked embarrassed. ‘It didn’t work,’ he said. He gestured to his stomach. ‘The belt. It didn’t go off.’ He raised his head to look at her. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he said. His tone was defensive. ‘I did it just the way they taught me.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Of course you did.’

He let his head fall back. She tried to imagine him with explosives strapped round his body, ready to blow himself into pieces. What he must have felt and what madness made him want to say ‘Yes’ to those crazy boys.

‘There was a flash,’ he said. ‘White light. Then burning round my stomach. I realized I was still alive, on my back in the dirt.’

His voice was trembling. Hasina took his hand and squeezed it.

‘How did you get away?’

‘I ran. I waved my arms and shouted. There was so much smoke, so much shouting, one more person didn’t seem to matter.’

‘And you hid?’

‘In the fields.’ He gestured to a cotton pouch at his side, bulging above the contour of his hip. ‘I have a weapon,’ he said. ‘A bomb.’

‘Let me take it,’ she said. She held out her hand. ‘I could bury it.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s not for a woman.’

She looked again at the pouch. ‘Bury it yourself then,’ she said. ‘You’re safe now.’

He fell silent. ‘If they find out,’ he said at last, ‘they’ll call me a coward.’

‘No.’ Hasina stroked the hair from his forehead. ‘They will not find out. God has sent you back to me. He will protect us.’

His eyes had closed. She wrapped her shawl tightly round him.

‘You must stay hidden,’ she said. ‘Your father thinks you’re in Kandahar.’

‘Kandahar?’ He opened his eyes.

‘That was what Karam Uncle told him.’

He smiled to himself. ‘That would be good,’ he said.

‘Foolish boy.’ She kissed the tip of his nose. ‘Get well. Then we’ll talk of Kandahar.’

For the next week, Hasina nursed Aref every moment she could. When Abdul went to the neighbour’s fields to work, she scraped together leftover food and ran to find her son. She sat close to him while he ate. ‘You must get strong,’ she said. He pulled a sour face at the sight of food. ‘You must get well.’

He could only manage to stand bent double, his arm across his stomach. His wound ached, he said. Hasina saw the colours on the rags round his stomach shift as it bled. She saw the elderly man in him, pushing out through the young skin, and was afraid.

Hasina and Abdul were woken early by a strange sound. At first she thought it was Karam’s radio set. They went together into the yard. The noise grew, bouncing along the hillside. It was coming from beyond the valley, from the desert.

‘Some announcement,’ Abdul said. ‘Listen.’

An Afghan voice. A warning. Foreign soldiers were coming, it said. They must all leave. No one need be hurt. She groped for Abdul’s hand, limp at his side.

They found Karam’s compound in disarray. Men were rushing, stacking pots at the entrance. Palwasha was standing at the window, her hands on her hips, her face clouded.

‘Don’t just stand there,’ she called when she saw Hasina.

Hasina looked round at the carpets and cushions scattered across the floor. ‘You’re leaving?’

‘What does it look like?’ Palwasha’s eyes were blazing.

Hasina swallowed. ‘But where?’ she said. ‘Where will you go?’

‘Help me, won’t you.’ She didn’t look up. Hasina knelt beside her, rolling the carpets and stacking them by the door. Abdul must go too, she thought. She must make him.

As soon as they returned home, she packed a bundle for Abdul. Tin plates and cups and bread to eat on the road. From the threshold, she stood and looked back into the gloom. This was the house where she’d first come as a bride so many years ago. A good house. Not rich but honest. She looked round at the empty cots, the blankets, the wooden stools, the battered trunk.

‘You must go. Quickly.’ She pressed the bundle into his hand, propelled him towards the road. ‘Go now, with Karam and Palwasha. It’s better for us.’

She was urging him on, her hand on his broad arm. He stared down at her, his eyes bewildered. ‘But you,’ he said, blinking, ‘what about you?’

‘I’ll be right there, coming after you, won’t I?’ She tutted. ‘Hurry. I’ve got knives to gather and a pot and blankets and clothes. I need some time. But you must go ahead.’

His feet dragged as she walked with him to the main track. The road was already thick with travelling families, a swarm of villagers pulling carts, carrying infants, pots on their heads and bundles on their backs. Some led a donkey or goat.

‘See what they have?’ She gestured at the flow. ‘I need to prepare more things. Go with Karam. I’ll soon catch you up.’ Her whisper was urgent. ‘Husband, please don’t hesitate. Go.’

Abdul looked as lost as a small boy. ‘How will I find you?’ he said.

‘You’ll find me.’ She brushed her hand against his to say goodbye. ‘How could you not find me? I won’t be far behind.’

She stood to the side as he turned, reluctant and dazed, and was taken by the crowd.

She had to carry Aref to the house. His eyes rolled sightlessly in his head as she laid him out on the cot and stripped him. His body was hot, his limbs shaking. She took her cooking knife and hacked at the rags. Close to the wound, the cloth had fused with the flesh. She couldn’t cut it away. It stank. She washed down his skin with block soap and water and patted him dry with her shawl. She slid a blanket under him and wrapped it round, until he was cocooned. She boiled up sugary tea and lifted his head while she forced it, trickle by trickle, between his lips.