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  Carver nodded. ‘That’s quite a collection.’ Laid out in front of him were half a dozen tear gas canisters, a handful of rubber-coated bullets, some live ammunition and a police baton strikingly similar to one he’d seen before. ‘I saw a boy killed with a baton like that – just the other day.’ Carver racked his brain for the boy’s name … Adjo, that was it.

  He picked up the truncheon and studied it but there were no markings or serial numbers to be seen. Nawal watched him and when he put it back down alongside the rest of her collection she spoke in broken English.

  ‘It is a new type. Other things here are new also.’

  ‘Where’d you get all this stuff?’

  The question was directed at Nawal but it was Zahra who answered.

  ‘She collects some herself and other people bring it to her too. It is evidence.’

  Carver nodded. ‘Evidence of what?’

  Zahra was about to speak when Nawal butted in with an indignant-sounding burst of Arabic. Zahra let her finish then translated.

  ‘Human rights abuse, the breaking of international law. Nawal has researched this. She says it is against the law for British-made tear gas to be used here.’

  Carver shook his head. ‘No, it isn’t. It’s only against the law for a British company to sell the gas if they knew what it was being used for – internal repression they call it. Depends when they sold it too …’ He picked up one of the canisters. ‘If it was back when your President was our best mate then it’s all completely kosher.’ The metal canister was about ten centimetres long and coloured with red and white stripes. There was a serial number stamped in a typewriter face across the white part of the canister. It looked pretty much like every other CS gas canister Carver had ever seen. ‘This looks like old stock to me.’

  Zahra nodded. ‘Yes, but a few days ago Nawal picked up some different canisters, a new type, bigger. They were so hot they burned through leather gloves.’

  Nawal was nodding. ‘Say about the police …’

  Zahra held up a hand to silence her friend. ‘The police were different at that demonstration too.’

  ‘Different how?’

  ‘Every time they fired the gas and people ran, police in gas masks came and swept the containers up, took them away.’

  Carver felt his stomach shift. A familiar feeling, but not one he’d felt for a while. ‘The cops went out into the crowd to collect the used canisters?’

  Zahra nodded.

  ‘That’s a lot of work right in the middle of a riot. I wonder why they did that?’

  Zahra did not give Carver much time to wonder. ‘The old canisters were all made by a British company; this new type look the same. So we think maybe this is British too.’

  ‘Has she got one here? One of this new type?’

  ‘She only collected two but she has said you can have one.’

  Nawal unzipped her jacket, revealing the silvery tops of two tear gas canisters poking from an inside pocket. She handed one to Carver, who examined it. It was almost identical to the others, with the same stripes of red and white paint but when you placed the two side by side you could see that the new canister was maybe two centimetres longer.

  ‘I can keep this?’

  Nawal nodded.

  ‘What about the truncheon?’ He pointed at the police baton and Zahra and Nawal consulted.

  ‘No, she says she only has one of these. If someone brings her another then you can have it.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Carver pointed at the row of shorter CS gas canisters. ‘What makes her think those are Brit-made?’

  ‘She doesn’t think this, she knows it. She searched these numbers on the internet.’

  Carver glanced at the scrawny-looking girl. She had initiative, he had to give her that. Zahra explained that every serial number on the old canisters had led Nawal to the same website.

  ‘She could not understand very much that she read but she wrote down the details and the name of the company.’ Zahra gestured at her friend who handed Carver a piece of paper, torn from a school exercise book. On it was a list of serial numbers and a name – written carefully once in upper and again in lower case: Quadrel Engineering and Defence. Zahra pointed at the canister in Carver’s hand. ‘There is no number on the new gas but maybe you can show it to someone who knows more about these, discover if it is the same company?’

  ‘I’ll check it out.’

  Nawal spoke again, at length, and Carver waited somewhat impatiently for Zahra’s summary.

  ‘She says they were firing the gas into the people that day, not up in the air. There were children and women there. She says you can interview her now if you like and she will tell the story?’

  Carver shook his head. The storeroom was baking; he could feel rivulets of sweat flowing from both armpits. ‘No need to do that right now, I’ll do my own checks first. Are we done?’

  Zahra shook her head. ‘I want your advice. I have told Nawal not to write too much about this on her Twitter or Facebook. You agree, don’t you?’

  Carver shrugged. It seemed he was being asked to adjudicate in some dispute between the two women and he didn’t want to. ‘I suppose there’s a chance the police are reading that, although you’d have thought they had better things to do.’

  ‘Certainly they read it, Nawal’s work is important. Her Facebook page and Twitter tell people what is going on – where the next protest will be and what the police are doing. She is becoming famous.’

  ‘Ha, of course.’

  Patrick slapped his hand on his knee and made a sort of snorting sound. The penny had dropped. ‘What’s her Twitter handle, Zahra? Just between us.’

  ‘Lawan. Tsquare Lawan.’

  Patrick laughed. ‘I knew it.’

  The four exited the storeroom together. As Patrick watched the two young women say their goodbyes he wondered how Zahra planned to get Nawal back through the hotel unseen. The answer came soon enough. After giving his and Carver’s hands another enthusiastic pump, Nawal took off, running full speed in the direction of the high garden wall. For a moment Patrick thought her self-belief was such that she planned to run straight through the bricks. Instead her right foot landed on one of the large terracotta pots and she launched herself into the air, landing cat-like on the thin wooden trellis before scampering up. She stood on top of the wall staring down, a broad smile on her face. She was staring at Zahra – this show was for her and no one else. Zahra sucked at her teeth in mock annoyance and waved her friend away. Nawal smiled, pulled her hoodie up, turned and jumped.

  Walking back across the gardens, Carver took the gas canister from his pocket and studied it again. He lifted his glasses and took a closer look. Nawal was a smart kid, brave too. But she’d missed something.

  The Way of Sorrows (i)

  Asmara, Eritrea

  The meeting that Gabriel organised for his grandsons had left them more confused than reassured. As far as Gebre could work out, all Mr Adam had given them was a piece of paper with their names on – spelled incorrectly – and a vague promise that they’d be picked up in a taxi two days from now. The big man had stood, straightened his red leather tie and ushered them from the room with a wave of his hand and a gaseous burp. ‘Good luck little brothers. Not that you will need luck, you are in the hands of Mr Adam.’

  Outside the breezeblock house, Solomon took the letter from its plastic envelope and studied it again. Each line contained the same message: once in Arabic, once in Tigrinya and once in English.

  Mr Adam does guarantee good character and cost of transport for the two boys holding this paper: Gebra and Soloman Hassan.

  Solomon sucked at his teeth.

  ‘For this, grandfather pays two years’ wages? I don’t know who is the bigger fool. Him, Adam or you and me.’

  The brothers had only walked a little way down the street when they heard their names being shouted: they turned to see Mr Adam standing in the doorway of the borrowed house, waving them back.

  ‘I
almost forgot, these are also yours – more VIP service.’ He gave them a crooked grin and handed each brother a black plastic sack.

  Solomon looked inside and saw a bright orange lifejacket. ‘We have to carry this all the way across the desert?’

  Mr Adam nodded. ‘This is the genuine item, do not lose it or let anyone swap it for another; others are not good.’

  14 The Fear

  DATELINE: The Seti Hotel, Cairo, Egypt, January 28 2011

  Carver ate alone at a table just outside the hotel dining room. The meal was something that Zahra had managed to organise that looked and tasted vaguely like an omelette. He was unsure what part of a cow the meat inside the omelette had come from and he tried not to ponder it too hard. Zahra had also found him the nail file he’d asked for and as soon as he’d taken the edge off his appetite, he set to work on the tear gas canister. The thing that Carver had noticed, the detail that Nawal had missed, was that the stripe of white paint on the new canister was thicker than the red – thicker for a reason, he thought, or hoped. He unfolded a napkin and laid it out on the table, put the canister on top and started filing away at the strip of white paint.

  His hunch was correct, although finding the paint-covered serial number and reading it were two different things. The paint had dried hard inside the indented stamp and as he filed the thing down Carver began to realise that he was erasing the number at the same time as filing away the paint.

  He considered first white spirit, then a candle flame before a more sensible solution occurred to him, courtesy of his dead mother. Carver’s mum had been an incorrigible hobbyist and brass rubbing was one of the many mind-numbing pursuits that a pint-sized William Carver had put up with. After a little confusion he managed to borrow a blunt pencil and some greaseproof paper from the kitchen. Rubbing the pencil sideways across the paper-covered canister brought back memories of cold churches and sore knees but after several attempts and some more work with the nail file, he had a nine-figure serial number. He scribbled it down on the same piece of paper where Nawal had written the details of the old, allegedly UK-made, tear gas and finished his food, washing the omelette down with regular swallows of coffee.

  As he cleaned his plate, Carver weighed his options. Patrick had agreed to cover for him for a couple of hours so he could check out Nawal’s story. It was supposed to be another big day in Tahrir Square with busloads of pro-democracy protesters arriving from all over Egypt. The calls for the President to step aside were getting louder. Carver checked his watch; he had an hour of his two free hours left, time enough to find an internet café and see if Nawal was on to something. He tucked the gas canister down into the bottom of his plastic bag, belched into his hand and stood.

  Nawal had the feeling she was being followed from the moment she stepped off Seti Hotel property and was back on the street. The guy must have seen her scale the wall that separated the hotel car park from the gardens and waited there, assuming she’d leave by the same route. A lucky guess.

  She wasn’t worried, she’d been tailed before – by plain-clothed police and their goons – and she never had much trouble losing them. She let the guy follow her as far as Café Riche, then shifted her rucksack from her back to the front, quickened her pace and lost him with a couple of quick turns. Once she was sure she’d lost her tail, Nawal walked halfway down the residential street where she’d ended up before stopping and getting out her phone. Up ahead, in a narrow doorway, she saw an old woman using a broom to brush the dust from her dog. Seeing her, the woman hooked a finger through the dog’s red collar and dragged it back inside, closing the heavy door firmly behind her; Nawal heard a key turn in the lock. If the revolution failed, it would be because of people like this, people scared of the young, scared of change. But the revolution would not fail. Nawal sat down on the pavement, her back against the warm brick wall and rucksack by her side. She hacked into some nearby Wi-Fi and set to work.

  @tsquarelawan

  Friday, January 28th will be the biggest day yet. A day that will live in history.

  @tsquarelawan

  Come! If the amazing scenes and emotion do not make you cry then the tear gas will!

  @tsquarelawan

  And speaking of tear gas. Journalists are asking who is selling the President the CS gas he fires at children?

  @tsquarelawan

  Before long the people will be in the palace and the President and his friends will be in prison!

  She posted these then sent a direct message to Zahra asking her to check them for her and correct any mis-translations. She ended this message with a string of ‘x’s. Then deleted them. She tried a mix of ‘x’s and ‘o’s before deciding this looked childish and settling on a simple Nx as a sign-off. The sun was high and Nawal was typing away, concentrating. When a shadow suddenly fell across her, she jumped and almost dropped her phone. The stranger standing above her shaped his face into a smile.

  ‘You are all right?’

  It was the same man who had been following her, the tail she thought she’d lost.

  ‘I am fine.’

  ‘Good. I saw that you were on the floor. I feared for you.’

  ‘No need.’

  He spoke slowly and with a thick Cairo accent, similar to hers; he was local. He had a long face and close-cropped dark hair and Nawal guessed that they were of similar age although wear and tear and poverty had left this guy looking considerably older. He wore a purple shirt that was a size too small and needed washing, his jeans were loose fitting and worn low enough that she could see an inch or so of labelled underwear between belt and shirt.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Sitting, working; minding my own business.’ She picked up her rucksack and stood, hoping that this might help even things up but the guy was tall, six foot two or bigger.

  He eyed Nawal up and down then stepped closer. She tightened her grip on the rucksack – her unwanted observer noticed this and smiled. It was the rucksack and its contents that he had come for; anything else he could get was a bonus. Nawal found herself staring at the thick scar that ran down the left side of the man’s face, from ear to jaw. Sensing her stare, the stranger raised his hand and cradled that side of his face in a considered manner.

  ‘I almost lost you, little sister. You know the city well. Nearly as well as I know it.’

  ‘I’m not your sister.’

  Nawal tried to move away from the man, edging sideways down the street but the purple shirt moved with her, keeping her pinned close to the wall. His hand moved towards his belt buckle and Nawal had her mouth half open to scream when his filthy, knuckle-scabbed hand shot out and muffled her mouth, gagging her. He grinned again.

  ‘Shh, don’t fear. That’s not what I want. You are not my type anyway. Too ugly. Just empty your pockets, hand me your bag and we will be done.’

  She shook her head. At her back she could hear the old lady’s dog, sniffing inquisitively at the foot of the door. Nawal spoke, spitting the words through his scabby hand. ‘Fuck you.’

  The man shrugged, a look of resignation on his long face; he glanced left and right – there was no one else on the street. He took his hand from her mouth and reached again for the front of his jeans. She felt her stomach tighten. Nawal glanced up at the balcony opposite in time to see a pair of curtains being pulled shut and when she looked back, purple shirt was holding a knife. He jabbed it sharply in the direction of her face. Nawal jerked her head backwards, bashing it on the wooden door behind her.

  ‘Bag and money, bitch.’

  She glanced at the weapon. Not a knife but a scalpel, its handle reinforced with dirty brown gaffer tape but its blade silvery sharp. He reached again for the rucksack. Nawal’s reaction was unplanned, instinctive: she raised her hands and shoved the man with all her strength. He staggered backwards, tripping on a broken kerbstone and ending up on his backside in the gutter. He’d dropped the blade and Nawal watched as he scrambled around on the ground looking for it. She knew that now was th
e time to run; she tried to lift a foot, willing her legs to move but they would not. Within seconds her attacker was back on his feet, scalpel in hand. He stared at the skinny girl, waiting for her next move. But Nawal didn’t have one. For the first time in a long time – she was scared.

  Jean ran into Carver as he was walking out of the dining room.

  ‘Hey there, Billy.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘You’re still walking a little stiff there, aren’t you? Good thing I brought my medicine cabinet with me.’ She had a large make-up bag in one hand and a laptop case in the other.

  Carver shrugged. ‘I thought we were supposed to do this yesterday?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I got a little caught up with something.’

  William wanted to ask for further details but he was aware how that might sound. ‘It’s not a problem, I was busy anyway.’

  ‘Really? Some people said you were wandering around in your budgie smugglers looking for me.’

  Carver felt his face redden. ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘If I’d known, then I certainly would have been here. Anyway, I’m sorry for blowing you out. You got a few minutes now?’

  They found a quiet corner of the main hotel bar and Jean dug through her make-up bag until she found a strip of bright pink pills. ‘Two with food or just after. You eaten?’

  ‘An omelette.’

  ‘Lucky you. What does that horse meat taste like?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Rumour is that’s what we’re eating now. They’ve run out of cows. What’s that you’ve got there?’

  Jean was pointing at the canister, poking from Carver’s jacket pocket.

  ‘A story, possibly.’