Present day in Radewah, suburb of Abqaturah.
- The past week had given Azzaam a new appreciation for goalless draws. Never had he thought he’d greet the most boring possible result in football with rapturous laughter. He’d been standing on the crowded sofa, jumping with his uncles as the seconds wound down and another Qasden ended in yet more frustration, yet another save from el-Abdul. He was laughing so hard that when he toppled off the couch and over the back, he just bounced up from the floor, ignoring the bruise on his elbow, and rejoined the cheering.
The Green Falcons hadn’t come particularly close to scoring against Qasden, but after losing not one but both el-Moghaddam brothers, watching the 9 brave players hang on through a final five minutes of all-out attack was worth a win. Afterwards came the customary celebrations, tea, soda. As soon as he’d finished his chores, Azzaam was shooting out to join his friends down in the lot. Abdul Baasid was in a sulky mood because the other Abdul Baasid (the real Abdul Baasid) had been sent off during the game. Raihan was, of course, already setting up the goal and announcing what was to be his magnum opus, the recreation of el-Abdul’s double save from Sexton and De La Fontaine; once the tracksuit tops had been laid out, he began arranging Haider and Muammar like pinball bumpers.
The sky was much darker tonight. Grey shrouds clung to the moon. Some shadowy figures were approaching from the horizon, though, lit by the flashes of headlights from the motorway, which continued to churn heavy with traffic whatever the strange snatches of radio news said. Marjaana had told Azzaam there was a “no fly zone in effect”, and because Marjaana was very clever, Azzaam believed her, but secretly he wondered why the government cared about birds being allowed to fly. The pigeons that old Hamza kept up on the roof of the apartment block were murmuring nervously when Azzaam went to see them. He whispered to them that he was sure they’d be able to fly again soon.
Azzaam squinted through the dark. He hoped it wasn’t the older boys come to mess up their game. But, no, they were too tall. Men, carrying sticks. One of the men was on a horse. Azzaam didn’t often get to see horses: camels and donkeys, sometimes a mangy old farm beast, but this was a powerful creature, a proper knight’s horse. And the loping limp of one of the men, holding one of the longest sticks – except no, they weren’t sticks, either, but Azzaam didn’t care. He burst past a confused Ibrahim, who was trying to repeat that ball-flick that Kassis had done against Qasden but always seemed to end up on his ass with the ball rolling away.
“Father!”
Azzaam buried himself in the midriff of the tall man, who just about shifted the rifle butt away in time so his son didn’t crash into it. He bent down a touch awkwardly and patted his head. Azzaam sniffled back tears of happiness and wiped them on the grey-green fatigues his father was wearing, before standing back and inspecting the horse that was clopping up to them. His eyes grew wide. A slender man sat on the horse, but slumped, not sitting proud like a knight. He was injured, Azzaam could tell, and trying to seem like he wasn’t, which made it hurt all the more.
“Azzaam, go and tell mother to put on water and fresh towels.” His father spoke to him like he was giving him a simple chore, but Azzaam felt urgency in the words, a tightly plucked tension in the still night.
“We were going to play football,” he protested.
There came a chuckle, so barely human it took Azzaam a moment to realize it wasn’t the horse laughing. He looked up again. The man on the horse – who was younger than Azzaam had first thought; his face was lined, but with worry and pain, not age – peered down at him with astonishingly bright blue eyes. He spoke in a very strange, deep voice, guttural sounds Azzaam didn’t understand. They frightened him a little, and he took a step back.
“He says, you can play football,” translated his father. “He is tired from travelling and watching you boys play will restore his spirits more than a hot towel.”
Azzaam cocked his head at his father. The wording was strange. May? Who was this man to be giving Azzaam permission to play football with his friends? He shrugged, squeezed another hug out of his father, and then turned and raced back towards where Raihan, who’d somehow actually managed to save a shot for once, but had used his face to do so, was trying to choose between bursting into tears and running around in celebration. The horse whickered softly as its rider stretched out his back. He gasped in pain and felt the dried blood on his bandaged flank crackle with fresh heat. But he sat watching all the same, smiling at the sight of the boys playing. It was good to see. Play, children, while you still can.
He spoke in Akhdari, this time. “My thanks for your hospitality. We’ll rest here tonight. But in the morning, we must be gone. We have work to do.”
Azzaam’s father nodded, slowly. He watched, smiling, as Azzaam lined up a long run for a penalty. Little feet pounding as he ran up, leg flailing, aiming a powerful kick, and swung his leg, and sent the ball flying towards the goal…
- …it bounced off the wall and away down the stairs, leaving a streak of gore behind it. The body took surprisingly long to drop, emitting one solid fountain of red before toppling over. Something in its delayed timing amused Siddeeqi Ghaazi, and he burst out laughing. Everyone else laughed, too. After all, he was (a) completely bonkers and (b) in command of the immense man-mountain who was currently wiping down a razor-sharp sword on a foul cloth. Such factors were a strong motivator. You did not want to be the one left not laughing.
Nor the one telling said maniac that it turned out his half-brother had not been on the plane at all. Certainly not within earshot of that fellow with the big sword. No, Colonel Jawaad el-Mitri decided, he was going to choose to be selective about passing on that particular piece of intelligence. It probably wouldn’t matter. The only people who supported Bassaad were the Græntfjallers, and there weren’t any of those crazy fuckers around, melting in the heat and digging under sand-dunes for traces of krakens. Bassaad was harmless.
Another member of Abdul Jabbaar’s entourage had been found. Hauled out screaming from underneath the beds. Dragged down, pissing himself as he saw what was going to happen. Hilarious stuff. Siddeeqi Ghaazi was laughing so hard snot was bubbling from his nose. Jawaad clapped his hands and joined in the laughter once more.