‘Peace be upon you and the mercy of God.’
‘And upon you be peace.’
Fahd’s hand was pointing at a cookie decorated with pieces of chocolate but the moment he turned it began to tremble. He saw a face staring at him, a cream mashlah, delicate and striped, and a carefully groomed beard. The man said only, ‘Peace be upon you and the mercy of God,’ and left the rest to Fahd’s terror and his fear, which were more than enough to expose him. The sheikh was like a wily fox, startling his prey with his flashing eyes.
Fahd’s shaking hand betrayed him as the man waited for him to fold without need for further questioning: That’s right, she’s not my wife, nor my sister, my mother, or one of my close female relatives: she’s my friend. In fact, I’ll be completely honest and up front with you: she’s my girlfriend, my lover. We came here to drink cappuccino and hot chocolate together while she consoled me over the death of my mother, whose passing has left me utterly alone. I can’t be sure, sheikh, if I would have kissed her today, or rather waited until the sadness had lifted from my wounded heart. But she may well have comforted me by hugging me and stroking my hair, might even have granted me light kisses.
The mellifluous voice broke in on Fahd’s thoughts. ‘How are you, brother?’
‘Praise be to God.’
‘Your good name?’
‘Fahd.’
‘Are you here with anyone, Fahd?’
‘Yes,’ Fahd said, and, flustered, pointed to the last booth at the back.
‘Who is she?’
Here he was, aiming his lance at Fahd’s eyes and pricking them out, as Fahd thought of all the stories he had read in the papers of people trying to make a run for it. A man in his forties tried to sneak out of a fourth floor window and was smashed to pieces when he fell … A young man fled with his girl and driving wildly they collided with a reinforced concrete barrier and died … Two men and their female companions drove the wrong way down the road in a bid to escape, hit an oncoming vehicle and all four died … A story from Tabuk, another from Sharqiya, a third from Ha’il, and now … This time the papers would write of a young woman from Starbucks who committed suicide by throwing herself into the roaring torrent of King Abdullah Road, the car wheels grinding her to paste in her black abaya, her beautiful shoes sent flying.
‘Who is that with you?’
‘My wife.’
He could only lie and Fahd was certain the sheikh had seen the lie for what it was. There was even a small smile forming around his eyes as he said, ‘She’s not your wife, young Fahd. Tell me, and don’t be frightened. All we do is look after people and correct their behaviour.’
Fahd recalled an interview in the newspaper Ukaz, in which the head of the Committee for the Promotion of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice had said they covered up over ninety percent of cases of illegal association between the sexes. Would Fahd and Tarfah be part of the ninety percent? The man’s face overflowed with sympathy and compassion, comfort and certitude. With his tall and slender body he was like a man standing by his son at the edge of a swimming pool, persuading him to take the plunge: right there beside him, ready to rescue him if it comes to it.
‘She’s not my wife. She’s my girlfriend.’
Just like that he took the decision not merely to dive in but to strip off his swimming trunks and hurl himself at the water’s surface.
‘Don’t be worried. Come along with me. Just a few simple procedures and you can go on your way with the protection of God.’
‘But what about her? How can I leave her on her own?’
He had scarcely finished the sentence before the man set off, saying, ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry: this is our job.’
They were joined by a short, plump man with the eyes of a hawk and no mashlah.
‘Go with him, my son,’ the sheikh said.
The man encircled Fahd’s wrist with an iron grip and tugged and it was at that precise moment that he realised today, Wednesday, 13 July, was to be his Day of Reckoning. There was a Day of Reckoning for everyone in this city: you died instantly, or passed safely across its threshold and were saved, or you carried it with you wherever you went, never to be forgotten, like a thief’s brand on your face.
The sheikh left them, heading over to where Tarfah was sitting unaware, removing the red rose from the carrier bag where she had put it. She was sniffing it and waiting for her cappuccino, waiting to talk about the terrible week Fahd had spent following his mother’s death and his attempts to move her from the emergency ward of King Khaled Hospital to the department of forensic pathology at Riyadh Central Hospital. Now Tarfah would never get to wash away his sadness with her laughter and chatter. Instead, loathsome black ants would scale her ripe body and enter the chambers of her living heart. Her heart, her love and her life would die, the music and the gentle Gulf dances would die and the sash about her hips would become a hangman’s rope.
As Fahd left the coffee shop the yellow sun was beginning to grow harsher and a thin policeman in baggy trousers, belt sagging beneath the weight of his holster, stood waiting by the door of a GMC SUV. He opened the two rear doors and indicated to Fahd that he should climb into the third row of seats. The policeman got in and was followed by the short, plump man who inclined his bulk towards Fahd and opened a bag under his nose: ‘Put your things in here. Everything in your pockets.’
‘Why?’ asked Fahd stupidly, then, seeing the man’s irritation, added, ‘The sheikh told me it was just a few basic procedures out by the car, and now you’re putting me in the car. Where are we going?’
He spoke like a child refusing to go in on his first day at primary school. He put the bag down in front of him as the soldier looked over with evident distaste and shouted in a reedy voice: ‘Do what you’re told, boy.’
Fahd took out his wallet and keys and placed them in the bag.
‘Your mobile,’ the plump man said coldly, without looking at him.
Shit, he thought to himself. What would he do if they opened the phone and searched through the names, the messages, the swapped pictures, the Bluetooth records, the …? Why hadn’t he asked to go to the bathroom in the coffee shop and chucked it down the lavatory?
Taking the phone from his pocket he made an attempt to at least remove the SIM card. His hands were concealed behind the armrest but the man caught him at it and with unexpected strength plucked the phone from his grasp and put it in the bag. The man opened the ID and read out the name: ‘Fahd Suleiman al-Safeelawi …’
‘Nice to meet you,’ he added, with mocking relish.
He opened the wallet and found a photograph of Fahd’s father in his forties, just before his death. That’s my father, may God have mercy on his soul. He switched on the mobile phone and paused at the password. He handed Fahd a pen from his pocket and the folder he was carrying.
‘Write down the password.’
‘No.’
Surprisingly, the man didn’t become angry; he didn’t slap Fahd or set the skinny cop on him. Instead, he said quite simply, ‘No problem: it’s up to you.’
Tarfah emerged following the sheikh, stumbling in her abaya as she wept and pleaded. From the other side of the window Fahd saw the hands he had kissed so often lifted to the sheikh’s face as though she were begging.
She would be kept waiting outside the Starbucks for half an hour, even after the Committee’s vehicle carrying Fahd had left. Every luxury vehicle that passed by would slow down, the young drivers peering curiously out, while some of the café’s customers turned to the window to enjoy the show as though they were watching some drama from the natural world on the Discovery Channel. The lioness stalks her unsuspecting prey through the bush, moving her paws very slowly so as not to make the grass rustle, and thus did the sheikh move his paws, quiet and assured, as he guided his quarry to the ambush.