Richard House - The Kills

Unsure of the time, he rose without considering that the day belonged to him; habit made him turn out of bed and set his feet on the floor the moment he woke. During the night he’d taken the dog tags off, and kept them secure in his fist, the chain wrapped about his hand. As he looked about the room (a narrow lean-to, simple, little more than a goat pen with a flagstone floor, whitewashed walls, and two low cot-like beds pushed to opposite sides) he thanked his good luck. No coaches today. No crowds. No open roads. Without the preoccupations of travel Geezler stuck with him, a stream of thought running parallel to his own at equal volume. Geezler. Geezler. So far he had done exactly as he had been asked. Surely he could call him? How serious was he about not being contacted? Ford knew the answer even as he considered the question. He should find an internet café, transfer the money, or at least email the numbers to himself.

On the spare bed he found a well-thumbed guidebook, the pages down-turned to Narapi. It gave little information, saying that the town was nothing more than a transit town with a small hammam, two mosques — almost everything in pairs — two pensions, two large hotels with the only bars, a nightclub of sorts, and a swimming pool. An escarpment crowned by the remains of a fort rose from the centre of the town with tombs carved into its eastern side, barely worth the walk. The guidebook gave no information about this strange geology, except to describe the rock as an inland island.

Beside the door hung a framed print of the Massif du Vercors in the French Alps. Ford took the picture down to use the glass as a mirror. He wet his beard, tweezed the hair between his fingers, and decided not to shave. He washed his face then studied the water, milky with sediment. He changed the water, washed, changed it again, doused his face and neck, the water specked with matter. With a final bowl he lowered his head to take in the musty odour of moss, of rock, a suggestion of subterranean rivers and caverns, a world in opposition to the bright dry landscape and the cold scentless nights of the previous fourteen days. He drained the sink and studied the grit, and wondered if this was plasterboard, pieces of the hut from Amrah City, or shale from sleeping rough? He scratched his fingers through his beard and found small spots, whiteheads, what he’d taken to be ingrown hairs, which when crushed pushed out sharp grains, tiny pieces of dirt, flecks; some white, some black, some translucent. He’d heard about this from the men at Camp Liberty, how in cases of bombings, blasts, suicide attacks, survivors found splinters dug in their skin: pieces of bone, fragments of the weapon, flecks of what they called environment. He turned his head to inspect his cheek, now healed but still numb. In the softer skin on his neck and right shoulder he found more small lumps, sensitive peppered specks.

* * *

After dressing in clothes he’d washed the night before, the cuffs and collar still damp, Ford stepped into the courtyard to find a woman alone at a picnic table; honeysuckle decked the wall behind her, a small bag on the seat beside her spilled loose sheets of paper. The woman gathered her notes together and told him in a husky voice with a pretty French twist that he had missed breakfast.

She stacked the plates together, a little apologetic. She could ask Mehmet for coffee, but to be honest it wasn’t likely there would be any more. Breakfast was a one-shot affair. Four small plates with olive pits and orange rind, a pinch of bread, maybe some oil. Ford wondered if he had missed breakfast or if she had eaten his share. The woman introduced herself. Nathalie. She smiled as they shook hands and squinted into the sun as she looked up. He considered telling her his proper name, but shied away and introduced himself as Tom.

‘Tom,’ she repeated, elongating the name to Tome. ‘English?’

She was travelling with friends, the three of them touring for the month; except, mercifully, today she was on her own, and how nice it was to have a day to herself. They planned to stop at the Maison du Rève for a week, perhaps. She didn’t know. How long did he intend to stay?

Ford said that he hadn’t decided; he might stay a week. He couldn’t remember when he’d last spoken with a woman one-to-one, literally couldn’t remember, there being no women at Camp Liberty, and none that he could recall at Southern-CIPA.

Nathalie warned him to be prompt about meal times. Water, she said, became scarce in the late morning and was lukewarm at best. As she spoke she gathered her hair in both hands — chestnut-coloured, long and straight — and drew it back in a premeditated gesture.

There was one small problem. Nathalie cleared her voice. ‘Has Mehmet said anything, perhaps? No?’ She shook her head. ‘There’s a small mistake.’ It was her understanding that they had rented both rooms — there being three people in her party, and only two rooms in the pension at present. ‘We booked the rooms before we came. Mehmet must have thought that you were the third person in our group.’

‘I think I’ve met your friend.’

‘I don’t think so? Where did you come from?’

Ford hesitated. ‘South.’

‘You came by coach?’

Mehmet had mentioned nothing to Ford about the room and he said so.

Nathalie ran a finger through her hair, her mouth compressed to show that this was awkward. ‘It’s a room for two people.’

He finally understood what she was asking for. ‘I don’t mind sharing.’

Delighted, the woman smiled in relief. ‘Are you sure it isn’t a problem?’ This was good then, not the best arrangement, but satisfactory. The third member of her party would arrive tonight or tomorrow morning, she wouldn’t know until later. She would explain everything to Mehmet, he needn’t worry. Nathalie picked up her shoulder bag and smiled as she drew the zipper shut. ‘It’s a nice place,’ she said, ‘the town. It isn’t anything special, but it’s nice. Very quiet.’ Narapi was not without interest. He should visit the fort and the market. It would occupy the morning but not much more.

As she left she warned him not to be late for the evening meal.

* * *

Ford followed Nathalie into town, determined to find an internet café. He decided to buy new clothes.

He took the paved road from the bus depot to the mosque, and found the morning air warm but thin — the only indication of the altitude. Tom, he repeated the name, Tom, pleased with the invention. Better Tom than Michael. Too bad he’d told the boy Michael, although, why would he even remember it? If the situation proved too sticky he could move on, although the idea unsettled him. Wasn’t this a good place to wait and allow everything to settle? Five days at least, five or six days. The road forked behind the mosque, one tine leading to a small market, the other to a rough track which continued up the escarpment. The road steepened as it turned, flanked on one side by a scrappy rock face, and on the other by a scattered line of garage-like workshops. Ford walked without hurry. Four children followed behind, loosely curious. A man squatted at a doorway, shirtless, skinny, and smoking while he tapped a design into an aluminium bowl held between his feet. The hammer’s patter rang light and clear up the escarpment walls. Ford stopped to pick grit from a slit in his boot and noticed that the children also stopped in their tracks. When he turned about they also turned, and when he stared too long they headed back, breaking into a run just before they reached the corner.

At the top of the escarpment the track stopped at a chain-link fence. Ford paused and let his breath even out. A lime-green gecko skittered across the path. The fence bowed beside the road. The stone edge fell steeply away to dry grasses, a drop, a view of pale sky and rooftops. Ford looked down at the workshops as he carefully straddled the fallen fence, unnerved not by the idea that he might fall so much, but by the idea that he might deliberately let go.