The Good Sister by Chris Morgan Jones

Author:Chris Morgan Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan UK

26

Two hours was all it took. The sand turned to dry fields where nothing seemed to be growing and in the haze of the horizon Abraham could begin to see minarets and a pinkish line of buildings.

‘Raqqa,’ said Murat, and grinned again. ‘City of the Damned.’

Two hundred yards short of the city walls was another checkpoint, more permanent: a concrete shelter on one side, draped in black flags, and on the other an armoured jeep, its mounted gun trained on the road. A fighter in a khaki flak jacket with a chain of bullets across his chest and carrying a machine gun leaned against it. Two fighters stood by the shelter, and a fourth was checking the papers of the car in front. With a nod he signalled to the others to check its boot.

Abraham stiffened, wiped his sweating palms on his trousers. None of these men were wearing sunglasses. He wasn’t sure about the sunglasses – he should get rid of them.

‘It’s okay, my friend,’ said Murat, quietly and calmly. ‘This is all normal.’

He took off his own and Abraham did the same, hoping that his eyes wouldn’t betray the fear in them. Wasn’t that what these people looked for? Couldn’t they smell it, like dogs?

‘New guys,’ said Murat.

Ahead of them the fighters had put a suitcase on the floor and were roughly going through it; Abraham could see shirts, pants, T-shirts. One of the fighters lifted up a can of something, showed it to the other, then took off its cap and sprayed it in the air.

‘Perfume,’ said Murat. ‘Stupid.’

Abraham kept watching, though part of him felt he should look away. Don’t catch anyone’s eye. The man checking the papers took the can from his colleague, held it up to the driver’s face and asked him something. Abraham saw the driver shrug; in response the fighter half turned, threw the can hard off into the wasteland by the side of the road, and stood for a moment with one hand on his hip, one hand on his gun, staring at the driver in the car. Abraham didn’t breathe, and even Murat stiffened a little. But all the fighter did was shout at the man, loud enough for Abraham to hear some words – banned, unIslamic, an insult to Allah, the most high, the most glorified – and then with a parting command not to be caught with rubbish like that again he waved the car through.

‘You see? Not so bad.’

Murat eased the car forward and wound his window right down. Abraham kept his eyes straight ahead but sensed the man well enough, the usual: black beard, the top lip shaved, the air of violence imminent.

‘As-salamu alaykum,’ said Murat, relaxed but respectful.

The fighter said nothing. Abraham could feel him looking at him.

‘Here,’ said Murat, and handed him his papers and Abraham’s new passport.

The fighter took his time leafing through them.

‘You live Raqqa?’

‘Sometimes,’ said Murat. ‘I do business. Trade. Food, clothing. I’m known here.’

‘Who is this?’

‘My partner. He has a clothing mill in Egypt.

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