The screaming had cracked the neighborhood doors open, one by one. Scandal was an irresistible temptress. It was unclear who had been shrieking, and now neither Basir nor Zeba was sharing any information. Basir stood in the front courtyard biting his cheek. He fought back tears and kept his gaze to the ground. The men and women had gathered, word spreading through the mud-walled neighborhood like a drop of ink in water. Basir stole glances at the faces he’d known all his life. Women pinched their head scarves primly under their chins and clucked their tongues softly. The men shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders.
“Someone should call the mullah.”
“Yes, call the mullah!”
“And for God’s sake, someone needs to send word to his family! Rafiqi-sahib, send your son.”
Basir’s eyes darted to his mother.
“But why isn’t she talking? What happened here, Khanum? Did you kill your husband?”
“Of course she did! There’s a hatchet in the back of his neck! Do you think he killed himself?”
Zeba and Basir both winced at the mention of the hatchet. Basir crouched down next to his mother who sat with her side against the clay wall of their home.
His voice cracked in a nervous whisper.
“Madar, I don’t know what to. . can you tell them what happened? Did someone come in here?”
Zeba’s eyes pleaded with her son. She said nothing.
Basir pressed his palms against his closed eyes, the pressure making the world go black for only a split second. He still saw blood.
“What are we to do now?”
Basir cried silently. Zeba pulled her head scarf across her face. Eyes were watching her, sentencing her. Her three daughters cowered in the room behind this wall. Zeba inhaled sharply and forced a deep breath.
“Basir, bachem, please go inside and look after your sisters. They must be so frightened.”
Eyes narrowed. Ears cocked to the side — the grieving widow was speaking. They waited for a confession. Basir didn’t move. He stayed at his mother’s side, angrily wiping tears away with the back of his hand.
What else will she say? he wondered.
“Dear God, what have you brought upon us? What did we do to deserve such a fate? What are we to do?” Zeba moaned, loud enough to elicit sympathetic head shaking. “How could this have happened here. . in our own home?”
The women looked at the men around them. They looked at one another. Zeba was as close to death as any woman could be. And then they began to echo her laments.
“This poor woman — without a husband — may Allah protect her and her dear children!”
THE CHIEF OF POLICE, AGHA HAKIMI, WAS IN HIS EARLY FORTIES. He was the grandson of a warlord who’d been conquered by another warlord with more men, more guns, and more money. Hakimi was the living legacy of impotence and failure. The village treated him as such.
When Hakimi entered the courtyard, he was immediately led to the back of the house. At the sight of Kamal’s body, he shook his head and narrowed his eyes, hoping to look more pensive than disgusted. The flesh of Kamal’s neck had been torn apart. Chunks of bone, puddles of blood, and bits of brain — a spray of pink, red, and white scattered just behind the dead man.
The police chief was updated in a series of interrupted accounts, his eyes darting from the morbid debris to the widow slumped against the wall and then to the many faces staring at him expectantly.
Zeba was moaning softly, mournfully.
Hakimi stared hard at the woman before him. Her eyes were glazed, her hands still trembled. When he spoke to her, she looked at him blankly, as if he spoke a foreign tongue. Exasperated, Hakimi turned to the crowd.
“No one knows what happened back there? God have mercy. What happened to Kamal? You were his neighbors? Did no one hear anything?”
Then Hakimi raised a hand for silence. He turned to Rafiqi. Agha Rafiqi had the grayest beard present, and his home abutted Zeba’s on one side.
“Agha Rafiqi, you share a wall with this family. You have known them for years. What did you hear?”
Over the years, Agha Rafiqi had heard plenty — not the same sound that had drawn Zeba into the yard, but other sounds that were easier to name. He looked at the woman slumped on the ground, trembling like a bird caught in a net.
“I. . I have known them for years, indeed. Kamal-jan, may Allah forgive his sins, gave me no trouble. He looked after his family, he was. . oh, what can I say? His widow now sits here. She has four children to look after. My wife knows her well. I cannot believe she would commit such a heinous crime.”
There were groans and shouts and fists pumping in the air.
“Enough!” Hakimi cried, feeling a trickle of sweat trace his spine. He felt his breath catch to think how the gathering mob would react to any plan he might propose. They hated him, he knew. Why oh why had he agreed to take on this job?
“I want to hear what Agha Rafiqi has to say.” He turned again to Agha Rafiqi, who looked more than a little uncomfortable with the power vested in him.
Agha Rafiqi cleared his throat and started cautiously.
“I am no judge but. . I. . I would say, as a matter of decency, that she should be allowed to stay here and tend to her children until these matters can be sorted out.”
The women buzzed in agreement.
Hakimi nodded authoritatively. People respected Rafiqi and wouldn’t question their neighborhood elder. The accusing shouts fell to a grumble. Hakimi cleared his throat, fidgeted with his police belt, and took a step away from Zeba.
“Very well, then I suppose there’s the issue of the body. .”
“We will wrap his body and move it closer to the back door of the house. His family can tend to his washing there,” one of the men called out.
Basir felt his stomach settle a bit. Hakimi looked all around, peered into every corner of their home, and examined their courtyard one square foot at a time. He had two officers with him, young boys barely older than Basir, bushy haired and smooth faced.
Someone pulled a bedsheet off the clothesline. Hakimi, hands on his hips, thanked them for helping with a nod. He avoided Zeba’s eyes.
Basir could see the neighbors were more than a little interested in the gory scene. The women filed out in respect but found reason to linger in the street, necks craning as they hoped for a glimpse. Was it really as bad as people had said?
It all might have ended there had Fareed not stormed in, breathless and enraged. Fareed, Kamal’s young cousin. A man who could curse and exchange pleasantries in the same breath. Fareed’s tunic hung from his body, and his face was flushed. Agha Hakimi was startled and nearly dropped his pocket pad.
“What happened here? Where’s my cousin?”
Fareed’s eyes fell upon the four men carrying the rolled bedsheet. The pale floral pattern was darkened with splotchy red stains.
“So it’s true? Is that him? Let me see my cousin! What happened to him?”
He pushed his way closer, but three men held him back, muttering words of condolence.
“Somebody tell me what happened here!” Fareed roared.
All faces turned to Hakimi. The police chief straightened his shoulders and summarized what he’d learned thus far.
“Your cousin was found in the courtyard. We are not sure who killed him at this moment. No one heard anything until Khanum Zeba came out screaming. We believe she’d found her husband’s body. So while we investigate this further, we’ll leave Zeba to look after the children for tonight.”
Fareed looked at his cousin’s wife, whose shaking had worsened since he entered the gate. She was rocking with eyes half closed. Fareed turned to stare at the circle of onlookers, some shifting under his grief with a guilt they could not explain. His nostrils flared and his brow knotted with fury.