“He’s right here,” said the Major. “With your aunt Noreen and Jasmina.”
“Please find Abdul Wahid,” whispered Amina. “He thinks it’s his fault.”
“They gotta get her to the hospital now, sir.” The sergeant’s eyebrows were drawn together in sympathy.
“I’ll go with you,” said Jasmina. “He’s my great-nephew.”
“You will not,” said Noreen. “You will stay away from us and you will suffer for your crimes.”
“I’m not to blame and neither is Abdul Wahid. You cannot think it, Noreen.”
“Do you know where your nephew might go, ma’am?” the sergeant asked, writing on a notepad. “Seems he took off with the old lady.”
“I have no idea,” said Jasmina. She smoothed George’s tear-stained face with her hand as the men loaded the stretcher into the ambulance and asked, “George, where did your daddy go?”
“He said to Mecca,” said George. “I want my mummy.”
“Mecca—is that a restaurant or a store or something?” said the young policeman.
“No, he means the city I think,” said Jasmina. The Major felt her look at him.
“He said walking to Mecca,” repeated George, hiccupping through his tears.
“Well, if he’s walking they won’t get far,” sneered the policeman.
“Is Daddy with old auntie?” asked Jasmina. George broke into fresh wails.
“She hurt my mummy with her knitting and she scratched my arm.” He showed the bandage and his body trembled.
“He might be protecting his daddy. Kids’ll say anything when they’re scared.” The younger policeman was beginning to grate on the Major.
“My nephew was not involved with this,” said Jasmina.
“Put her and her family in jail,” said Noreen as the sergeant handed George up to her in the ambulance. “They are criminals.”
“We can’t rule anything out right now.” The sergeant shut the doors of the ambulance, and the siren began to wail. “I need to find your nephew.”
“I have no idea where he is,” said Jasmina and the Major marveled at her blank face and her clear gaze. “Obviously he’s not heading to Mecca.”
“You never know, he might slip the country.” He turned to his companion. “Better warn the airports and get out a description. Does he own a car, ma’am?”
“No, he does not own a car.” The Major noticed that Jasmina did not mention her own blue Honda, which was not parked in its usual spot. He saw her sway as if she might faint and grabbed her around the waist.
“This has been a big shock, officers,” he said in his most authoritative tone. “I think I need to take her home to sit down.”
“Are you in the village, sir?” asked the sergeant and the Major gave them his address and helped Jasmina back to the car. “Stay indoors once you get there,” added the younger policeman. “We may need to talk to you again.”
Outside Rose Lodge, the Major left the car running while he hurried inside to the scullery. He retrieved his gun box and slipped one of the guns into a canvas carrying slip. Taking a box of shells from the locked cabinet, he shook out a few and stuffed them in his trouser pocket. Then, for good measure, he unhooked a pair of binoculars and a water flask too. He put them in his leather game bag and added a small first aid kit in a tin and an unopened bar of mint cake to complete his preparations. Patting the bag, he hoped he was adequately armed and provisioned to face an insane woman. As he left, he met Roger in the passageway.
“Where are you going? I thought you were dancing it up at a wedding.”
“Got to try and find the groom first,” said the Major. “Abdul Wahid may be trying to walk off a cliff.” As he hurried down the path, Roger’s voice came faintly behind him.
“Pretty extreme way to call things off. Why doesn’t he just send her a text message?”
Chapter 24
The Major knew he was driving faster than was safe in the growing darkness of the lanes, but he felt no fear. There was only concentration and the trees, hedges, and walls tumbling by. The engine’s roar was fury enough. No need for either of them to speak. He could sense Jasmina shivering beside him but did not take his eyes from the road. He kept his mind only on the task at hand and as they surged from the carelessly flung outskirts of the town onto the bare grass road to the cliffs, he felt a soldier’s pride at an assignment well executed.
“What if we’re too late?” whispered Jasmina. The anguish in her voice threatened to tear his composure to shreds.
“We must refuse to imagine it and concentrate only on the next step and then the next,” he said, swinging the car into the empty car park. “We do what we can do, and the rest is God’s problem.”
The cliff on which they had strolled so happily with little George lay in gloom under gray clouds that streamed and feathered at the edges in the growing wind and hung down swollen underbellies black with rain. Out in the channel, curtains of rain already brushed the choppy sea. It was neither dark enough for the lighthouse lamp to make any impression nor still light enough to inspire hope. A gust splattered cold rain on the windshield as they got out.
“We need coats,” the Major said, and hurried to the back of the car.
“Ernest, there’s no time,” she said, but she hovered at the edge of the road waiting for him. He strapped his game bag across his chest, slung his gun slip over one shoulder, and picked up his shooting coat and hat. When he handed Jasmina the coat, he hoped the gun was unobtrusive over his shoulder. She seemed not to notice as she put the coat on. “It’s so empty now.” She scanned the endless grass for signs of Abdul Wahid. “How will we find them?”
“We’ll head up to that vantage point,” he said, putting on his hat and looking at the small knoll with its low stone wall and pay telescope. “Always see more from high ground.”
“Oi! Where d’you think you’re going?” A short man emerged from one of the small buildings adjacent to the darkened public house. “Too windy to be safe out there tonight.” He wore stout boots and jeans with a short work coat and a large reflective vest that made his ample torso resemble a pumpkin. Some sort of harness jingled its loosened buckles around the folds of his waist and he carried a clipboard and wore a two-way radio on a lanyard.
“I’m sure you’re right,” said the Major, “but we’re searching for a young man who may be despondent.”
“There’s no time.” Jasmina was pulling on his arm. “We have to go.”
“Jumper, is he?” said the man, consulting his clipboard. Jasmina moaned slightly at the word. “I’m with the Volunteer Suicide Emergency Corps so you come to the right place.” He made a note on the clipboard with his pen. “What’s his name?”
“His name’s Abdul Wahid. He’s twenty-three and we think his elderly great-aunt is with him.”
“Not many people jump with their auntie,” said the man. “How d’you spell Abdool?”
“Oh, for pity’s sake just help us look for him,” said Jasmina.
“We’ll start searching,” said the Major. “Can you round up some more volunteers?”
“I’ll put out the call,” said the man. “But you can’t go out there. It’s not safe for the general public.” He stepped in front of them and made a sort of herding motion with his arms as if they were sheep to be corralled.
“I’m not the general public, I’m British army, rank of major,” said the Major. “Retired, of course, but in the absence of any proof of your authority, I’ll have to demand you step aside.”
“I see someone down there, Ernest.” Jasmina dodged sideways and began to cross the road. The Major created a diversion by saluting the clipboard man and receiving an uncertain hand waggle in response, then followed her.
A man became visible, running toward them up the incline from an area of thick scrub. It was not Abdul Wahid. This man also wore a reflective vest and the Major prepared to avoid him but he was waving his cell phone in a way the Major understood as an urgent signal for help.
/> “Oh, no, not him again,” said the clipboard man, who was puffing along behind them. “You know you’re not allowed up here, Brian.”
“No bloody phone reception again,” said Brian. Although he was a compact, fit-looking man, he put both hands on his knees and bent over to catch his breath after the uphill climb. “Got a jumper south of Big Scrubber,” he went on, pointing with a thumb back over his shoulder. “Can’t get near to talk him in. Some old lady with a weapon and a foul mouth threatened to stick me in the gonads.”
“It’s Abdul Wahid,” said Jasmina. “He’s here.”
“You’re under caution not to do any more rescues, Brian,” said the clipboard man.
“So you’re not going to come and help me grab her?” asked Brian.
“We’re not to approach people with visible weapons or obvious psychiatric disorders,” said the man, with the pride of someone who has memorized a handbook. “We have to call for police backup.”
“It’s not like they send a bloody SWAT team, Jim,” said Brian. “You could save ten people in the time it takes you to call two constables in a Mini Cooper.”
“Is it a knitting needle?” asked the Major.
“Is it that clump of trees?” asked Jasmina simultaneously.
“Yeah, Big Scrubber—or maybe it’s an ice pick,” said Brian.
“Don’t tell them,” fumed Jim. “They’re the general public.”
“Are you going to radio for help or do I have to go to the phone booth and ask the Samaritans to relay the message?” asked Brian.
“Reception’s better at HQ,” said Jim. “But I can’t go unless you all come with me. No civilians allowed.” He sidled over and stood downhill of Jasmina as if preparing to grab her. “The days of vigilantes like Brian are over.”
“Please, I have to go to my nephew,” cried Jasmina.
“Brian, you seem to me to be a man of action,” said the Major, unsleeving his gun as casually as possible and breaking it gently over the crook of his elbow. “Why don’t you take Jim to get reinforcements and the lady and I will go down and quietly persuade the elder lady to behave.”
“Shit,” said Jim, staring mesmerized at the shotgun. Jasmina gasped and then used the opportunity to turn and run down the slope.
“Shit,” said the Major. “I have to go after her.”
“So go,” said Brian. “I’ll make sure clipboard Jim makes the right calls.”
“It’s not loaded, by the way,” called the Major as he began to hurry after Jasmina. He omitted to mention the cartridges in his pocket. “Only, the old lady already stabbed one person with that needle.”
“I didn’t see any shotgun,” said Brian, waving him away.
As the Major broke into a run, ignoring the danger of turning an ankle on the many rabbit holes, he heard Brian say, “And Jim’ll back me up, because otherwise I’ll tell them how he lets me rescue people on his shifts and takes all the credit.”
“That was one time,” said Jim. “The girl was so out of it I didn’t even know she’d already been rescued. I spent two hours talking to her.”
“Yeah, I heard she almost decided to kill herself all over again,” came the faint reply, and then the Major reached the outer rim of the bank of gorse and scrub trees and their voices disappeared.
Behind the scrub, he saw Jasmina’s small Honda half buried in gorse; a great furrow of mud behind it indicated that it had slid and swerved before coming to a stop. Perhaps Abdul Wahid had planned to simply drive to Mecca.
Abdul Wahid was kneeling close, but not dangerously close, to the edge of the cliff some two hundred feet away. He seemed to be praying, bending his head to the ground as if unaware of any drama in his surroundings. Closer to the Major, two islands of gorse created a narrowing of the grass and here the old lady stood guard, her face as hard as ever but now animated by the sharp in and out of her breath as she pointed her knitting needle toward Jasmina. She held it professionally—pointing down from her fist and ready to thrust like a dagger—and the Major felt sure she was very capable at using it.
“Auntie, what are you doing?” called Jasmina, speaking into the wind and spreading her hands in a gesture of placation. “Why must we be out here in the rain?”
“I’m doing what none of you knows how to do,” said the old lady. “No one remembers what it is to have honor anymore.”
“But Abdul Wahid?” she said. Then she raised her voice and called out to him, “Abdul Wahid, please!”
“Don’t you know better than to disturb a man at prayer?” asked the old woman. “He prays to take the burden on himself and restore the family honor.”
“This is insane. This is not how things are resolved, Auntie.”
“This is how it has always been done, child,” said the old woman in a dreamy voice. “My mother was drowned in a cistern by my father when I was six years old.” She crouched on her heels and traced a circle in the grass with the tip of her needle. “I saw. I saw him push her down with one hand and with the other he stroked her hair because he loved her very much. She had laughed with the man who came selling carpets and copper pots and handed him tea from her own hands in her mother-in-law’s best cups.” She stood up again. “I was always proud of my father and his sacrifice,” she said.
“We are civilized people, not some rural peasant family stuck in the past,” said Jasmina, her voice choked with horror.
“Civilized?” hissed the old woman. “You are soft. Soft and corrupted. My niece and her husband are weakened by decadence. They complain, they make their little schemes, but they offer only indulgence for their son. And I, who should be eating figs in a garden of my own, must come and set things right.”
“Did they know you would do this?” asked Jasmina. The old lady laughed, an animal cackle.
“No one wants to know, but then I come—when there are too many puppies in the litter, when a daughter has something growing in the belly. And after I visit they never speak, but they send me a small goat or a piece of carpet.” She ran her fingers slowly up the shaft of the needle and began to creep forward across the grass, waving the tip of the needle as if to hypnotize. “They will cry and rant and pretend to be ashamed but you will see, they will give me my own small house now in the hills and I will grow figs and sit all day in the sun.”
The Major stepped from behind the bushes and planted his feet firmly apart, resting his right hand on the stock of the shotgun still broken across his arm. “This has gone quite far enough, madam,” he said. “I’ll ask you to throw down your needle and wait quietly with us for the police.” She fell back a few steps but regained her composure and a leer crept slowly up the left side of her face.
“Ah, the English Major,” she said. She waved her needle like an admonishing finger. “So it is true, Jasmina, that you ran away from your family in order to fornicate and debauch yourself.”
“How dare you,” said the Major, stepping forward and snapping the shotgun together.
“Actually, you’re quite right, Auntie.” Jasmina’s eyes flashed with anger. She stepped forward and held her chin high, her hair whipping about her face in the wind. “And shall I tell you how delicious it was, you with your shriveled body and your dried-up heart, who have never known happiness? Would you like to hear how it is to be naked with a man you love and really live and breathe the sensuality of life itself? Should I tell you this story, Auntie?”
The old woman howled as if racked with pain and leaped toward Jasmina, who planted her feet and held out her arms and showed no intention of dodging. Quick with fear, the Major swung up his gun with a shout and, running forward, butted the edge of the stock against the old woman’s head. It was only a glancing blow, but her own momentum made it enough. She dropped the needle and crumpled to the ground. Jasmina sat down abruptly in the grass and began to laugh, an ugly robotic laugh that suggested shock. The Major bent down to pick up the fallen knitting needle and slid it into his game bag.
“What were you thinking?” he said. “Yo
u could have been killed.”
“Is she dead?” asked Jasmina.
“Of course not,” said the Major, but he was anxious as he felt the old lady’s leathery neck until he found a pulse. “I do try to avoid killing ladies, no matter how psychotic they may be.”
“You’re a useful sort in a fight,” said the now familiar voice of Brian. He advanced from behind a bush and bent down to peer at the old woman. “Good work.”
“Where’s the other chap?” asked the Major.
“He’s radioed the other volunteers but he’s still waiting for backup,” said Brian. “Shall we go and have a bit of a chat with your nephew and see what he wants?”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” asked the Major.
“No, can’t say I do,” said Brian cheerfully. “I must’ve talked about fifty people down off this bloody cliff in the last ten years, and for the life of me I couldn’t tell you how. Bit of a gift, I suppose. Main thing is to act casual and not make any sudden moves.”
Together they walked cautiously down the slope toward Abdul Wahid. He had finished his prayers and was standing with unnatural stillness, gazing out to sea. He did not hunch his shoulders or fold his arms against the cold, although he wore no coat. Only the embroidered hem of his long heavy tunic snapped in the wind.
“He put on his wedding clothes,” said Mrs. Ali. “Oh, my poor, poor boy.” She stretched out her hand and the Major reached to catch her arm, fearing she might run the last hundred yards or so.
“Easy, now,” said Brian. “Let me get his attention.” He stepped forward and gave a low whistling sound as if, thought the Major, he was calling a gundog to heel. Abdul Wahid turned slightly and saw them.
“Hullo there,” said Brian. He held a hand up in a slow wave. “I was just wondering if I could talk to you a minute.”
“I suppose you want to help me?” asked Abdul Wahid.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” said Brian. “What do you need?”
“I need you to get my aunt away from here,” said Abdul Wahid. “I don’t want her to see.”