The Walking Dead

The man had no name that Ibrahim knew. He was the heavily built man, the sole member of the group to whom the Leader paid attention. Ibrahim understood what the man did, and the proof of it was in the hours the man spent shut away in his room. There had been the smell from under that door, and then under Ibrahim's, of the heated soldering iron. The man had not spoken to him, not a word, but when they were in the main room together the man seemed to watch him…and Ibrahim thought it was with the care that a customer in his father's shop behind the Corniche gave when he evaluated the most expensive, most prized wide-screen television.

The man crossed the grass and went to the gap in the hedge that divided the garden from the field. In his hand he carried a plastic bag and a short-handled spade. There were no beasts in the field, but the man lifted his leg over the barbed wire and went into it, then started a slow, methodical search of the ground. Every few yards he stopped and set down the plastic bag, then used his spade to scrape up old cattle dung from the grass, which he tipped into the bag. When the bag was more than half filled he returned the way he had come. Ibrahim understood why the man who made the bomb went into the field and collected the waste of the beasts. It had been on the television and radio at home, on the Al Jazeera satellite channel, that the shit from animals was mixed with screws, nails or ball-bearings, and the shit would be against his washed body when he walked.

He had begun to dress when he heard the light rap at the door. He wore his trousers and socks, but had not yet pulled on his undervest and T-shirt and the cold shimmered on his chest. He called out.

She filled the doorway and he flinched back towards the window. His sisters would never have come into his room at home, before he was dressed, and the maidservant would not have entered while he was there. He saw the scar on her face and its anger, as if the sides of the wound would never knit sufficiently close for it to be anything but obvious. If he had gone on with his training as a medical student at the university, if he had graduated, qualified, it would have been his responsibility to suture such an injury, but that was behind him and gone. He stared at it, the livid line, and her hand went up to it — he had seen the day before how frequently she touched it — and he thought that running a finger down the indentation was like a tic in her, as if she could not leave it alone. Because he stared, ice covered her eyes.

'I should have asked you earlier. Have you any washing?'

He had not thought whether he would put on the T-shirt with the swan printed on it again, but it was grimy with perspiration. There were three pairs of underpants in the bottom of his bag — he had put on the last clean pair he had brought — and four pairs of socks.

'Don't know. I'm sorry.'

'It's not anything to apologize for. If you have clothing that needs washing, I'll run it through the machine,' she said brusquely.

'Well, I do…'

'OK, so give it to me.'

He would wear laundered clothing when he went on the walk. He must be clean in his soul, his mind, his body and his clothing when he made the journey to God's table…but he did not know, because he had not been told, when that day would be. So, Ibrahim did not know how many washed T-shirts, pairs of underpants or socks he must wear before his walk. The clothing in his bag, on the carpet of the room had been against his skin, his private places. In his presence, should she handle them? He felt the same breathlessness as he had when he had watched her through the window.

He hesitated. 'I think I have some things.'

'Of course you do. Just give them to me,' she said curtly. 'But I don't know what I will need.'

She was remote from him, as if nothing should bond them. 'You'll be told. I don't know. I'll take everything that needs washing.'

'I am not told anything,' Ibrahim blurted.

'Nor me, nor any of us. Please, your washing.' She shrugged, dismissive.

'But I have faith that will sustain me, and I know I am going to God. I am dedicated to what I shall do. 'He lifted the underpants and socks from his bag, the T-shirt off the floor, and gave them to her. 'I hope to be worthy of the trust placed in me. Yes, I think I am dedicated enough to carry out my duty…Will you be close to me when I walk?'

'I don't know.'

'I think I have been chosen because I am dedicated.'

She said quickly, seemed to spit it, 'We are all dedicated, not only you.'

The door closed on her. Ibrahim sat on his unmade bed and held his head in his hands. He would have liked to know that she would be close to him, to feel the comfort not of a brother but of a sister.

* * *

That Sunday morning, at the bottom of the steps to the town's Arndale Shopping Centre, the posters were stuck up in the windows of the closed Burger King restaurant. More were fastened in the doorway at the top of the steps. Workmen with paste and brushes plastered them on to the glass.