Read Online The Ghost Runner by Parker Bilal - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Parker Bilal
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know her?’
The woman folded her arms, determined to hold her ground.
‘Might I enquire as to the nature of your business with Doctor Ragab?’
They were beginning to draw a crowd. People were stopping to see what was going on. Two fat ladies carrying boxes of cakes tied with string were nodding in their direction.
‘You were at the clinic. You knew Karima.’
‘Why do you use the past tense?’ Her expression froze.
‘She didn’t make it.’ Makana gestured. The fat ladies had engaged the interest of a bored traffic policeman. ‘Perhaps we should walk.’
Reluctantly, she stumbled along beside him. ‘Are you a journalist?’
‘Doctor Ragab has asked me to make some enquiries.’
‘Enquiries, into the death of Karima? You mean you don’t believe it was suicide?’
‘He doesn’t. I am open-minded on the subject. Now it’s your turn. How did you know her?’
The woman produced a card from somewhere in the folds of her outfit and handed it over.
Makana examined the card. It read: The Association for the Protection of Egyptian Women’s Rights. The name printed underneath read: Zahra Sharif.
‘You were trying to protect her? From what?’
‘Nothing specific. I became involved with Karima some years ago. When her mother was still alive.’
‘And what exactly do you do for these women?’ Makana took a moment to examine her. She was slim and fairly tall. Her clothes were dark and heavy. A long coat reached down to her ankles. He recalled now that he had spotted her in the crowd, standing off to one side, when he and Okasha had emerged from the burnt-out building. Had she been following him around all day, he wondered?
‘Our concern is the condition of women in general. We offer certain services, advice, the little help we can provide. That kind of thing.’
‘And your interest in Karima? Did she give any indication of suicidal tendencies?’
‘Not at all. Suicide is usually a cry for help.’
Makana was intrigued. What exactly was her connection to Karima? She seemed to comprise a combination of unrelenting ferocity and emotional instability. Clearly she cared. A glance up the road told Makana that the traffic policeman had lost all interest in them and was now flirting with the fat ladies who were laughing so hard they had to clutch their sides.
‘Do you think she killed herself?’
‘I . . . don’t know.’ The woman’s eyes darted away, and he noticed a tremor in her lower lip. ‘Which direction are you going in?’ she asked as a taxi pulled to a halt alongside them.
‘Towards the river. Imbaba.’
‘Can I ride over with you? We can talk on the way.’
There was no reason for him to feel that he ought to trust this woman and yet Makana felt that he could. As the last rays of the sun’s light dwindled to a crimson sliver in her eye, he had the feeling that she had been crying. Her eyes were swollen and the tip of her nose was slightly red.
So he opened the car door and gestured for her to enter. Instead, she walked around to the other side and got in there. As a matter of courtesy, Makana sat in front beside the driver. The traffic through the centre of town was fast-moving most of the way. The lights were coming on, bringing with them that twilight sense of uncertainty as people emerged from the shadows of their daily routines into a new nighttime existence. The sky swirled with inky patterns as the last of the daylight was quenched by darkness. Makana recalled following the sleek Bentley through these same streets a couple of days ago. The lights flowing over the car’s smooth surface as though it were tarry oil.
‘Tell me about Karima?’ he asked, turning to look over his shoulder at the woman who sat pressed up against the opposite door.
‘I met her a few years ago. I had several cases in the area. Women who were abused, or afraid. My job basically involves counselling, talking to women, advising them of their rights, or lack of them, and offering them the resources
The woman folded her arms, determined to hold her ground.
‘Might I enquire as to the nature of your business with Doctor Ragab?’
They were beginning to draw a crowd. People were stopping to see what was going on. Two fat ladies carrying boxes of cakes tied with string were nodding in their direction.
‘You were at the clinic. You knew Karima.’
‘Why do you use the past tense?’ Her expression froze.
‘She didn’t make it.’ Makana gestured. The fat ladies had engaged the interest of a bored traffic policeman. ‘Perhaps we should walk.’
Reluctantly, she stumbled along beside him. ‘Are you a journalist?’
‘Doctor Ragab has asked me to make some enquiries.’
‘Enquiries, into the death of Karima? You mean you don’t believe it was suicide?’
‘He doesn’t. I am open-minded on the subject. Now it’s your turn. How did you know her?’
The woman produced a card from somewhere in the folds of her outfit and handed it over.
Makana examined the card. It read: The Association for the Protection of Egyptian Women’s Rights. The name printed underneath read: Zahra Sharif.
‘You were trying to protect her? From what?’
‘Nothing specific. I became involved with Karima some years ago. When her mother was still alive.’
‘And what exactly do you do for these women?’ Makana took a moment to examine her. She was slim and fairly tall. Her clothes were dark and heavy. A long coat reached down to her ankles. He recalled now that he had spotted her in the crowd, standing off to one side, when he and Okasha had emerged from the burnt-out building. Had she been following him around all day, he wondered?
‘Our concern is the condition of women in general. We offer certain services, advice, the little help we can provide. That kind of thing.’
‘And your interest in Karima? Did she give any indication of suicidal tendencies?’
‘Not at all. Suicide is usually a cry for help.’
Makana was intrigued. What exactly was her connection to Karima? She seemed to comprise a combination of unrelenting ferocity and emotional instability. Clearly she cared. A glance up the road told Makana that the traffic policeman had lost all interest in them and was now flirting with the fat ladies who were laughing so hard they had to clutch their sides.
‘Do you think she killed herself?’
‘I . . . don’t know.’ The woman’s eyes darted away, and he noticed a tremor in her lower lip. ‘Which direction are you going in?’ she asked as a taxi pulled to a halt alongside them.
‘Towards the river. Imbaba.’
‘Can I ride over with you? We can talk on the way.’
There was no reason for him to feel that he ought to trust this woman and yet Makana felt that he could. As the last rays of the sun’s light dwindled to a crimson sliver in her eye, he had the feeling that she had been crying. Her eyes were swollen and the tip of her nose was slightly red.
So he opened the car door and gestured for her to enter. Instead, she walked around to the other side and got in there. As a matter of courtesy, Makana sat in front beside the driver. The traffic through the centre of town was fast-moving most of the way. The lights were coming on, bringing with them that twilight sense of uncertainty as people emerged from the shadows of their daily routines into a new nighttime existence. The sky swirled with inky patterns as the last of the daylight was quenched by darkness. Makana recalled following the sleek Bentley through these same streets a couple of days ago. The lights flowing over the car’s smooth surface as though it were tarry oil.
‘Tell me about Karima?’ he asked, turning to look over his shoulder at the woman who sat pressed up against the opposite door.
‘I met her a few years ago. I had several cases in the area. Women who were abused, or afraid. My job basically involves counselling, talking to women, advising them of their rights, or lack of them, and offering them the resources
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