I heard the explosion, followed by the screams of men and boys. Irani had torn through the area backstage and I’d given chase, through an archway which led into the grounds of the mosque. He too turned at the sound of the explosion, and on seeing me, flashed a smile.
‘Give up, Atchabahian!’ I shouted. ‘You’re under arrest!’ Empty words, of course. The man had a head start and a gun. If I were him, I’d have taken those odds. As if on cue, he raised his revolver and fired, the bullet exploding in the wall behind me in a shower of brick dust. I dived for cover, lifting my head in time to see him disappear round a corner.
Picking myself up I sprinted after him, out into the blistering sunshine of the same courtyard that Suren and I had run through after jumping from the tugboat. Irani, though, wasn’t making for the sea. Instead he turned and made for the path to the archway at the front of the mosque, the one that had brought us out close to the rear of the crowd. By now, the area beyond the archway was a maelstrom of bodies, crushed together at the mouth of the causeway leading back to the mainland. Men were stampeding towards us. I stopped, horrified by the sight. The tide was rising, and with nowhere else to go, people trampled others in a fight to escape. Some jumped straight into the water. Irani disappeared into the torrent of bodies. I considered going after him but helping the wounded took priority.
I turned and fought my way back towards the stage and the stench of smoke and charnel. The scene was one of hellish devastation. The stage had collapsed into a pyre, its green coverings burning amid a skeleton of bamboo pillars.
In front lay bodies, prone and dust-smeared. A few souls began to move among the wreckage, shambling about in shock. I scanned the carnage for any sign of Suren, uttering a prayer to a god I didn’t believe in that he’d been outside of the blast radius when the thing had gone off; that even now he was somewhere backstage, making sure Gulmohamed was safe.
Frantically I checked the faces of those who were left, hoping I wouldn’t find the sergeant among them. There, closest to the stage, lay a body, face down in the dust. As I drew closer, my fears multiplied. The figure was Suren’s height and build. Reaching him, I fell to my knees. The shirt matched his. Delicately I turned him over. His face and chest were bloody, but it was impossible to tell how badly he’d been hurt. A wave of guilt crashed over me. This was my fault. I should never have agreed to his plan. It should have been me lying there, not him. I reached for his wrist and, with a shaking hand, fumbled for a pulse. I closed my eyes. It was there.
Suren looked up. He took a few moments to focus, then seemed surprised to find me with his wrist in my hand.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked, placing his arm back on his chest.
‘I think so.’ He looked around. ‘Gulmohamed?’
I hadn’t given that much thought. I glanced over to the remains of the stage. There didn’t seem to be bodies among the burning wreckage.
‘I think he’s OK.’
Suren wiped blood and dust from his face. I reached out a hand. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Or do you plan on just lying there all day?’
He took it and I helped him to his feet.
‘What of Irani?’ he asked hopefully.
‘He got away.’
‘Then it’s over,’ said Suren. ‘Without him, I can’t prove my innocence.’
‘That’s not true,’ I said. ‘Taggart’s still alive. Once he pulls through, he’ll corroborate your story.’ The words rang hollow, even to me.
From the mainland, the sound of wailing sirens grew louder.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We should get out of here before the police arrive.’