Exit wound

‘Ali, any chance of me staying the night? It’s a waste of time going back to the hotel now. And if you want a job in that taxi of yours, you could take me to IranEx in the morning and work with me for the next couple of days. I’ll pay you another five hundred.’

His eyes lit up. ‘It would be a pleasure. What time do you need to be there?’

‘Soon as it opens.’

73

We ate dinner cross-legged on the carpet – a meal that Aisha had prepared that was a cross between soup, and potato, tomato, chickpea and mutton stew. She was a busy girl. As well as looking after these two she was a medical student at the university, and had joined Mousavi’s green movement for reform. She had the wristband to prove it.

Ali was munching away like a good ’un, his pockets stuffed with the wad of oners I’d just given him.

Aisha, however, didn’t seem too pleased to have the extra income in the house. She was almost ignoring me. Ali was either too blind to see it or chose not to notice.

Every so often one of them would get up to check on their dad, but the Naloxone had worked its magic and he was no longer in any danger. It wasn’t the first time he’d overdosed, Ali said. He’d done it so many times, in fact, that when their mother left and they were just kids, they had become experts on what to do. Some days, the two of them would come home to their dad crying in a corner of the bathroom, clutching his knees, shaking with fear – or just throwing a wobbler and smashing the place up.

‘Have you two heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?’

They looked at each other for any recognition.

‘It’s an illness that some people can develop after having experienced one or more traumatic events – like fighting a war, like getting blown up, like seeing fourteen-year-old boys being blown to bits beside you. It affects some people hard. There’s no telling who. Maybe your dad…’

Aisha acknowledged me at last. Well, sort of. At least she was listening.

‘Guys with PTSD can have problems with alcohol and drugs. Sometimes they can’t communicate with family and can get violent against them.’

They both stopped eating and listened. ‘Does he have nightmares – you know, shout out in his sleep?’

Aisha stifled a sob, which I took as a yes. ‘It’s OK, he can be helped. Your dad needs treatment.’

Ali comforted her as she cried into his shoulder. I tried to lighten it up a bit. ‘Even the great Satan has a general who suffers from it because of his time in Iraq. Can you imagine that?’

Aisha pulled herself off Ali, her hair now pasted to her face. ‘How do we help him? What does the American general’s family do?’

It was a tough one. I wasn’t sure Iran was known for its mental-health record. ‘He needs to see someone who can treat psychiatric conditions, someone who understands what he’s going through and knows how to help. Tell them you think he may have PTSD – look it up online. He doesn’t have to be like this.’

74

Wednesday, 6 May

0555 hrs

The muezzin had sounded like he was right outside my window when he started calling the faithful to prayer half an hour ago. I’d spent the night on the floor in Ali’s room. I didn’t get much sleep. His dad woke me several times as he cried into his sheets. Aisha had plodded past our door to tend him.

Ali was in the kitchen. Incredibly, he looked as bright as a button. Maybe it was the thought of going to Air Geek City. ‘Would you like something to eat, Jim?’ He was tucking into a pitta-bread sandwich that had bits of salad hanging out of it.

I nodded away and looked for a kettle or teapot. Ali got the idea. ‘Chay? Or ghahve?’

‘Ghahve would be great.’

Ali poured some into a cup while I threw some goat’s cheese and lettuce into some bread.

Aisha walked in. She had never got out of her jeans and Bono T-shirt, and her hair didn’t look so perfect after her intensive-care night-shift. She acknowledged me with a nod, then spoke to Ali in Farsi as she poured herself a coffee as well.

Ali picked up another cup and followed suit. ‘I will go and check on Father.’

When he’d left the room, she placed the fifteen hundred dollars on the table in front of me. I gave my full attention to the remains of my sandwich. ‘Mr Manley – thank you, but we do not need charity.’

‘It’s payment for your brother’s pictures and the time I’ve spent with him. He drove me from the airport and he’s driving me for the next two days. Thinking about it, maybe it isn’t enough.’

She cupped her mug with both hands and brought it up to hide her smile. She slowly shook her head. ‘You know it is a small fortune. And now I am embarrassed.’ She took a sip then pulled a pack of Camel from her pocket. She offered me one.

My turn to shake my head. ‘The money is yours. He’s earned it.’

I pushed the notes back at her but she focused on lighting her cigarette. She took the smoke down deep. ‘Thank you for explaining about my father. I have been online most of the night. I think I have found someone who understands these things, a doctor at the university.’