As Murat drove away, Abraham dropped his eyes to the floor and set off across the square, quickly but not so quickly that he might become more interesting than he already was, the only moving thing in the last of the dusk. Somewhere towards the border, a little way off, came four flat cracks that were almost certainly shots being fired. Christ, what a place this was.
The street he turned into was empty. All the worshippers had vanished into the low houses either side, every window dark. It was as if some silent siren had sounded and shut down the town.
Abraham kept his head down and walked faster. A left here would bring him up past the mosque to the street Murat had pointed out. Then right and second left. Easy. Just keep your wits about you and go as quickly as you can.
He broke into a jog, almost unconsciously, feeling a prickle of fear start across his back and up the nape of his neck.
As he approached the crossroads he slowed and pulled in to the wall of a building so he could peer round the corner back towards the square. If it came to a chase, he was done for. His lungs were burning and he could feel sweat damp on his chest.
Fifty yards away, ten men were walking towards him. Ten, a dozen. The loping, casual walk told him they were the same men from the square, not locals, not the good Muslims who had come out in the dark in this hellhole to pray to their God, but the fighters, as they called themselves, full of that aimless purpose, as if they needed something to do and the first person they met would be the best prospect they had. In their hands, silhouetted against the light from the square, he was sure he saw guns.
He pulled back against the wall. If he was quick and fast he could go back the way he had come and make a loop around them, maybe. But the street he was on was too long – he’d never clear the bottom before they appeared at the top.
As quietly as he could, he retraced his steps, staying close to the wall, until he felt it give way behind him. Set back from the street was a chain-link gate about three feet high and beyond that what looked like a patch of garden, thick with plants; he fumbled for the catch, cursing it as it clinked in the silence, and when it wouldn’t open he straddled the gate awkwardly, dropped his shopping bags on the other side, and half fell onto the dry ground, shrinking into the darkness.
The breeze and his breath, that was all there was. He kept his eyes shut because he thought that would be better, but it wasn’t; the fear built inside him until it was only with great effort that he managed to stop himself bolting over the gate and running, feet slipping on the loose surface, running across town and out onto those endless dark fields to some place where he might forever lose these bastards and himself. He opened his eyes. Nothing. No one there, no sound. They had kept straight on. They weren’t coming this way.
In his corner, Abraham crouched right down. Now he could hear the individual crunch of boot on dirt. Keep still, barely breathe. They don’t know you’re here.
Through the leaves he saw feet, three pairs. His breathing stopped. The men were quiet, too, walking slowly and not talking now, until they were a few yards past him and someone hissed something in Arabic that Abraham didn’t catch. Two men stopped, the rest kept walking. Abraham looked up and saw a figure coming back towards him, taking its time, scanning the ground. It came to the fence, perhaps twelve feet away, looked over it, left and right, saw enough and turned to join the group; thought better of it, and turned again to make sure. Abraham squeezed himself still closer to the wall.
‘Here!’ the figure shouted. ‘Fucker’s doing some gardening. You. Up.’
Abraham pulled himself awkwardly up by the fence and unconsciously raised his hands in the air. The man in front of him had a machine gun that he held down low, pointing at Abraham’s belly.
‘What the fuck are you doing? You a fucking spy?’
‘No. No. I’m not a spy.’
‘Well who the fuck are you, brother?’
The others were grouping round now, some laughing, some shouting, all enjoying themselves, all terrifying. Maybe ten of them, younger than him, stronger. Four had guns. By the light coming from the house Abraham thought he recognized two of them from outside the hotel earlier, and coming up behind them the Englishman from the lobby.
‘Get the fuck out of there, Daesh cunt.’
The one who had found him grabbed hold of his shirt at the shoulder and hauled him hard over the fence. Abraham landed awkwardly on an outstretched hand before feeling himself pulled up again.
‘Get the fuck up. What you doing in there, motherfucker? Weeding?’
Money. Could he offer them money, or would it make things worse? How could they be any worse?
Abraham raised his hands in a futile conciliatory gesture.
‘I . . .’
‘Hey, it’s the lanky fuck. Why you hiding, motherfucker?’
The Englishman came forward and stood all of a foot away from Abraham, tobacco and beer on his breath and in his right hand a pistol, which he brought calmly up to Abraham’s face, touching the barrel to his cheek. So young he looked grotesque. He was no man. He was a boy with a gun, twenty at most. Even his voice was trying hard to be older than it was.
He waited for Abraham to answer the question.
‘I . . . I thought you might be Daesh.’
The gun drove harder in, pushing the flesh towards his eye.
‘Fuck does that mean? I look like fucking Daesh?’
‘It’s dark, I couldn’t see.’
Now the man twisted the gun’s barrel hard into the skin, into the upper jawbone. Abraham felt the cold of the metal through his beard and found himself praying, please God, not here, I’m not finished yet.
‘What sort of Arabic is that, cunt?’
‘Egyptian. Cairo.’
Still pressing the gun into Abraham’s face, he turned, grinning.
‘Fucking Egyptian.’
Some laughter, not from everyone. He turned back to Abraham.
‘Why you here?’
Probably there was no correct answer. The truth would get you killed. A lie would get you killed.
‘I’ve come to deliver a letter.’
‘The fuck are you talking about?’
‘My wife died. She was from Raqqa. I have a letter for her family.’
‘A letter. Really? Important letter, for you to come here.’
‘It is important.’
‘There money in it?’
‘No money.’
‘Where is this letter?’
‘I don’t have it.’
‘What do you have, brother? Apart from this lovely beard.’
He laughed, others laughed. Abraham felt them pressing closer, impatient now for this to move on, for the fun to start.
‘You going to Raqqa with the letter, is that it? You planning on putting down roots?’
‘Please. I’m not part of any of this.’
‘Any of what? What are you part of?’
‘Nothing. I’m on my own.’
‘You want to tell me why I should believe you? Empty your pockets. Empty your fucking pockets.’
Before Abraham could do anything, another man stepped forward from the pack and pulled the Englishman out of the way. He was older, squat, with a thick neck and the blackest eyes, and now he shoved Abraham hard in the shoulder with the heel of his hand, so hard that the bone seemed to crack.
‘Get on your knees.’
‘I . . .’
‘Get on your fucking knees.’
With his foot he buckled Abraham’s legs and drove him down towards the ground.
‘I don’t give a fuck if you’re Daesh or not. If you are, they’re one down. If you’re not, so the fuck what. But first I’m going to shave off this fucking beard and then who fucking knows.’
From his belt he drew a hunting knife and with his free hand pulled taut the skin on Abraham’s cheek. The others crowded in, shouting and laughing with release.
Then Abraham heard a single shout above the rest, and the grip on his face relaxed. Space opened around him, and through the men’s legs he saw the headlights of a car and black against them a figure walking towards him.
‘What is this?’
The voice was like iron.
‘You. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’
The man with the knife let go and stood. No one was interested in Abraham any more; he might have not been there. Kneeling on the ground, he felt his shoulder.
All he could see was this new man’s outline against the light: huge, stocky, thick arms, thighs so big his legs splayed out. He walked up to one of the fighters and with the flat of his hand pushed him hard in the chest like a punch, sent him staggering back.
‘Didn’t you hear me?’
He pushed him again. Everything else was quiet now; it was impossible to imagine anything outside this tiny circle of light.
‘I’m guessing you didn’t hear me earlier, either. Huh? Were any of you cunts listening?’
Pulling the fighter out of his way he moved closer in. No one was about to answer, let alone challenge him. In his right hand by his side hung a pistol.
‘Who the fuck is this?’
Silence.
‘One of you cunts is going to answer me. You.’
He pointed at the Englishman, who looked down at the ground and started muttering a reply.
‘Daesh maybe. We were finding out.’
‘This guy?’
The Englishman kept his head down.
‘This sack of shit? I should shoot the fucking lot of you. This is how you win a war? This is the respect you show your commanders?’
No one so much as looked up at him. He took a step towards the Englishman. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘No sir,’ he said, shaking his head violently. Abraham could feel the fear in him now.
‘Any one of you cunts has been drinking I will shoot them here and now.’
He looked around at them, taking his time, staring hard at each face.
‘Babies. You call yourselves soldiers but you need to play like fucking babies. Now fuck off to bed. Tomorrow we have more than one cunt to send to hell. Fail and I will come for your heads. Better you die in battle. Understand? Go. Go!’
As one the men scattered, ran together up the street the way they had come. Abraham watched them go but without relief. It wasn’t over.
‘Get up.’
The voice was still hard. Abraham didn’t so much hear it as feel it in his chest. Pushing himself up he stood, and against the pain and the natural recoiling of his body did his best to face the man.
‘Who are you?’
Abraham brought his hand up to shield his eyes from the light.
‘An Egyptian. A good Muslim, trying to get a message to family in Raqqa.’
For a good ten seconds the man stared at him. His face was like his body, round and blockish.
‘Lucky for you you’re not important today. Now fuck off.’