They must know by now. Word will be out. Even if no one’s realized these are the same people who killed Borz, they’ll be after the ambulance. As clearly as the broken roads in his headlights, Abraham can see the driver phoning a commander, and the commander phoning the checkpoint commander, and the checkpoint commander narrowing his eyes against the dark, tightening his hold on his gun. A stolen ambulance. Was he stupid, to have taken that opportunity? Should he have found a way of sneaking out?
Have faith in yourself, and in fate. What will be will be.
Left here, onto a wide and empty street. Two cars ahead of them, a handful passing the other way. Abraham pushes on, waiting every moment to pick out the cars angled across the road and the barbed wire and the fighters doing that slow strut they loved so much. Every time he checks his mirror he expects to see headlights and sirens, and imagines bursting through the checkpoint pursued by the full might of an angry ISIS. Better to die like this tonight than tomorrow on his knees.
But there are no sirens, and when the checkpoint comes the fighter who waves them down shows no signs of urgency or tension, just sets his feet squarely on the road and calmly raises a hand, squinting at the headlights. By the arc lamp shining down from a post Abraham can see two more men in fatigues leaning back against a 4x4 parked by the side of the road. All are hugging guns to their chests. The city has almost run out here; there seems to be nothing but wasteland on each side, and concrete blocks have been lined up along the verge to stop anyone pulling round in a wide arc. Abraham slows as evenly as he can, everything nice and smooth, his heart going like bells.
‘Evening, brother,’ he says as he winds down his window and puts his arm with the black band on it on the sill. The sentry looks tired; a round man for a fighter, fleshy, his cheeks droop and the lids sit heavily on his eyes. Ten o’clock now, probably a new shift at midnight.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Al Tabqah.’
‘Road’s closed this time of night, brother.’
‘No one called you?’
‘No one called me.’
Abraham tsks, shakes his head.
‘I knew they wouldn’t. Idiots.’
‘What’s going on, brother?’
‘I have a patient in the back. An important patient. And she’s losing blood.’
‘So take her to the hospital.’
Abraham shakes his head again, a different emphasis this time: I would like nothing more than to be doing that, my friend.
‘They don’t have the blood. A rare type. They have it in Al Tabqah.’
‘You serious, brother?’
‘She’ll die in two hours if she doesn’t get it.’
‘Who is she?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘You can’t say?’
‘Really, brother. It’s worth both our lives.’
He didn’t like that. Don’t tell me what my life is worth.
‘Open the back.’
‘She shouldn’t be disturbed.’
‘Open the back.’
Abraham shrugs, steps down from the cab, and the brother follows him round to the back of the ambulance.
The bastard knows, of course he does. He can see the blood pulsing in my throat, the exhaustion in my eyes, the pupils dilating from the fear.
‘When I say.’
The fighter sets himself, gun ready and trained on the doors, and now he nods at Abraham to open them. Inside in the blue light cast by an electric lamp are two black forms, one lying down, the other kneeling by the first.
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘Wounds to the abdomen.’
‘Fuck does that mean?’
‘She’s been assaulted.’
‘What’s all the blood?’
Abraham keeps his eyes wide and on the fighter’s: you don’t want to ask any more questions, believe me.
‘Who’s that?’ The fighter gestures with the gun.
‘A nurse.’
‘Why d’you need a nurse?’
Hand cupped to his mouth confidentially, Abraham steps towards the fighter.
‘The girl’s dying. And she’s important.’
‘This is bullshit.’
Just their luck, to get a thinker. Abraham feels panic leap in him as he sees the first leg of their flimsy story begin to buckle.
‘Brother. If I don’t get her to Al Tabqah in the hour she’ll be dead. And I don’t want that on my head. Or yours.’
‘Get her out.’
‘I can’t move her, brother.’
‘Get her the fuck out. You. Down here.’
Sofia is frozen, but almost to his surprise Abraham is still trying.
‘Brother, do you know Abu Selim?’
That checks him. Just a little, but a distinct pause in his reply.
‘You think I’m an idiot?’
Abraham leans in again, almost whispering.
‘This is his daughter.’
He pulls back to watch the reaction. Now the sentry is thinking.
‘Serious?’
‘Fatima. She’s twelve years old. She dies, it’s bad for everyone.’
A conundrum. A thinker he may be, but the fighter doesn’t seem equal to figuring it out.
‘I need to call it in.’
Oh Jesus.
‘To who, brother?’
‘This is Abu Selim’s daughter, I’m going to call it in.’
‘I wouldn’t do that, brother. This isn’t a normal situation. He won’t thank you for it.’
‘Fuck does that mean?’
Abraham stands back, hands on his hips, and shakes his head.
‘Don’t make me spell it out.’
‘Spell it the fuck out.’
The fighter turns to Abraham and now the gun is up and on him. Abraham pauses, partly to collect himself, partly for effect.
‘Who do you think assaulted her?’
‘How do I know who assaulted her? The fuck do I care?’
Abraham just keeps his eyes on the fighter’s, lets him work it out for himself.
‘This is not a public situation, brother.’
The man’s thoughts turn slowly. Abraham can almost see them, caught in a simple calculation; will it be worse for me if I let them through or if I don’t? The look he finally gives Abraham may even have some sympathy in it. Rather you than me, brother.
‘Fucking go. And watch the road around Madan. There were Kurds down there two days ago.’
Abraham nods – doesn’t thank him, because why should he be grateful? – and under the incurious gaze of the other two sentries gets back into the cab and drives away.