Sometime long after dinner on the second day, when Abraham had given up hope of seeing him or anyone else ever again, Vural appeared.
‘Abraham,’ he said, silhouetted against the light in the corridor. ‘I hope you have rest. Come.’ And he simply walked away, leaving the door to the cell open and the policeman who had unlocked it waiting with crossed arms for Abraham to leave.
‘Where are we going?’
Abraham had to trot to keep up with him.
‘You will decide.’
They left the building, past sleeping prisoners, past the few policemen on duty, Vural going with such confidence that no one seemed to think to challenge them, and out into the car park, where he unlocked an old Toyota and ushered Abraham inside.
‘Quick. Before policeman changes mind.’
Vural drove just as he walked – quickly and surely, darting from one empty street to the next – and the abrupt motion after two days in one place made Abraham so disorientated he could hardly watch the streets as they slipped by. Gaziantep slept; dawn was just beginning to show, and they saw barely a soul. He felt it like limbo: he was here, and he wasn’t here. Just him and this unknowable man who might be his enemy and might be his friend.
Neither said anything. After five minutes, Vural pulled over swiftly to the kerb, braking with a jerk. They had arrived at the bus station. Eight white buses neatly lined up and the first passengers setting down their bags on the kerb.
‘You look very bad, Abraham.’
Vural frowned, as if somehow this was unexpected, and in response Abraham nodded.
‘Very bad. Here.’
From a baggy jacket pocket Vural pulled Abraham’s phone, and his wallet. From another he produced his passport.
‘What about the rest?’
‘What I could get.’
‘I need my things.’
‘You have papers? You have money?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have everything. Come.’
‘I have medication.’
‘Abraham. You are not sick. Are you sick?’
Vural raised his eyebrows and looked hard at Abraham, who dropped his head in response.
‘You are man, not patient. Okay. Now you have choice to make.’
‘Okay.’
‘One. You go home. London, Cairo, what you like.’
‘I don’t want to go home.’
Impatiently, Vural held up a hand.
‘Please. Hear. Two. You cross border and you work for me.’
Abraham frowned his question back.
‘Inside Daesh.’
The sky was light in the east now, and a breeze was blowing through the open window of the car. On Abraham’s skin it felt like balm. Another clear blue day, beautiful, free, full of promise: somewhere, for someone, life was good.
‘You mean it?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m a Christian. They’ll kill me.’
‘You look like Muslim.’
‘It’s a crazy idea. I never heard a crazier idea.’
Vural rubbed his chin, apparently unconcerned, as if the choice was simple and balanced. An apple, or an orange. You pick.
‘This way, you can find your daughter from inside. How you will do this if not? Raqqa is big. And they, they are like fortress.’
‘I have some ideas.’
‘So you will go there? This is your plan?’
‘Until half an hour ago I didn’t need a plan.’
Vural shifted in his seat and waited for Abraham to look at him.
‘You killed a Free Syrian. A kafir. You are already Daesh.’
‘My God. You mean it.’
‘Of course. Is easy. Fits like this.’ He laced his fingers together. ‘You go now, we report you escape, you go to Akçakale, cross border. Someone there take you, easy. I give you phone, we talk. Safe, no problem. Then maybe I help you back to Turkey when you or your daughter you have enough.’
God, it made sense. Did it make sense? How was someone like him meant to judge something like this?
‘Give me a day. It’s too much.’
Vural reached across and put his hand on Abraham’s shoulder.
‘Abraham. You go on bus this way or this way. You are problem or asset. Or, you want, I give you to polis. I do not mind.’
‘Till this evening.’
Vural chose not to reply.
Raqqa he had imagined. Getting there somehow, finding a room somehow, sneaking around, talking to Sofia through Irene, ready for the moment when it came. But not this. Not becoming one of them.
Vural gripped his shoulder.
‘Is okay, Abraham. Now you know what you will do. Time for home.’