Forty-eight

Ghita was making her way through Derb Omar, the cloth market, when she noticed a television shop opening its shutters after lunch. The only shop on the street that didn’t sell textiles, it seemed rather out of place. But it wasn’t the televisions that caught her eye.

It was what was on them.

Each one was tuned to the same channel – 2M. And, to Ghita’s horror, each one was screening the same picture, of her father being led to a prison van in chains.

She rushed into the shop.

‘Put up the volume at once!’

A salesman stepped from the shadows.

‘Which unit would you like to be demonstrated, Miss?’

‘Any one... just turn up the volume!’

Frowning, the sales assistant shook his head.

‘Excuse me, Miss, this isn’t a café, but a television shop.’

‘Alright, alright...’ Ghita stammered, pointing to a large flat-screen model. ‘That one. I’d like to hear the sound.’

The salesman pressed a button on the remote control.

‘Omary is expected to be incarcerated without bail,’ said the news anchor, ‘due to the seriousness of his crime.’

‘Crime? What crime?’ Ghita exclaimed.

‘As you can hear, Miss, the sound on this model is particularly good.’

‘What?’

‘And the picture is exceptional.’

Regarding the salesman with a look of utter contempt, Ghita darted from the door, and hailed a cab.

‘Take me to Anfa, as quickly as you can!’