Rough Cut: Rosie Gilmour 6 (16 page)

‘What’s the hole for? Don’t tell me they’re going to put the woman in that hole?’

‘Yes,’ Ismal sighed. ‘It’s awful. Closing your eyes is maybe the best thing, Rosie.’

‘I need to get a picture.’ Matt rummaged around in his bag. ‘I’ve got to capture this.’

Rosie shot him a dismayed glance.

‘Matt. If they see you taking pictures, we could be in all sorts of shit.’

‘They won’t see me. Don’t worry.’ He fiddled with a long lens and put it under his tunic. ‘Right, you shift over to my side, so I can get a better view.’

‘I don’t believe this,’ Rosie muttered as she slid across while he climbed over for an uninterrupted view.

‘It happens all the time,’ Omar said. ‘Honestly. These guys are fanatics, and it’s only going to get worse. They’re spreading everywhere.’

Rosie said nothing, transfixed by the people scrambling down the hill to join the mob. She could still see through the gap below Matt’s arm where his camera rested on the window. Then, suddenly, a cheer went up, as three or four men in black turbans dragged a woman out of a corrugated tin shack. She was struggling with them, but they pinned her arms and dragged her across the dirt. Rosie saw one of her shoes come off. Someone from the crowd picked it up and threw it at her, striking her. Everyone cheered. Rosie felt sick. The men roughly shoved the woman into the hole and she stumbled, trying to get to her feet. She was up to her waist. There was a low murmur of conversation among the crowd, then a heavy, dreadful silence. Rosie looked as the first stone was lifted and thrown at the woman, hitting her on the shoulder. She slumped forward. The crowd erupted, and there was a sickening screeching of burka-clad women ululating in celebration. Rosie looked away in a cold sweat. Then another man picked up a rock, and another. Suddenly rocks were raining down on the woman.

‘Fucking hell,’ Matt said, the camera whirring as he fired off several shots. ‘This is from the Dark Ages. They’re murdering that poor woman.’

‘My God!’ Rosie murmured, her hand to her mouth.

Ismal and Omar sat staring out of the windscreen, and
the guard was like a statue beside them, only his eyes moving, scanning across the horizon, watching for trouble. The clunking sound of the stones on flesh sent shivers through Rosie, and she took one last fleeting glance at the woman slumped over the top of the hole, her robes soaked in blood. Finally, the stoning stopped and the baying mob cheered. Then they filtered away.

‘I feel like throwing up.’ Rosie’s throat was choked with emotion. ‘Never in my life did I think I would witness something like that.’

‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’ Ismal switched on the engine and eased the car out of the tight area and down the hill onto the main road.

They drove the rest of the journey in silence.

The sweltering heat woke Rosie from a fitful sleep. Through the gaps in the wooden shutters she watched a tiny green lizard sneak in and race up the wall, where it lodged itself in the cornice, staring nervously down at her. Inside the mosquito net her view was fuzzy and she lay back on the bed, hypnotised by the wooden ceiling fan slowly rotating the thick humid air around the small room. She put her hand on the back of her neck and her hair was soaked with sweat. She pulled off the damp cotton vest she’d slept in and lay naked, her body clammy on the cotton sheets. She hoped she hadn’t been screaming in the night from the suffocating dream that she was being buried alive, stoned to death by men in black turbans. Christ! She blinked to erase the image of boulders striking the poor woman. She tried a deep breath, but her chest felt tight. Somewhere in the house, she could hear activity, crockery and cutlery rattling, and the aroma of Asian herbs and cooking drifted
into her room. She glanced at her watch. It was just gone seven. She pulled back the mosquito net and swung her feet onto the stone floor. As she opened the shutters, the sun streaming in brightened the room, and she was just in time to see a massive cockroach scurry to the far corner and disappear. She shuddered, wondering where it had been all night. Don’t even think about it, she told herself, as she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, watching it spurt out lukewarm water.

*

Ismal and Omar were already at the massive wooden table when Rosie came through to the kitchen. Asima stirred a frying pan full of vegetables on the cooker and looked over her shoulder, a friendly smile spreading across her face. The scene could have been a tourist bed and breakfast in any mountain resort in a far-flung land, Rosie thought. Yet outside, people lived in fear of being stoned to death if they put a foot wrong. The first lash of tension slapped across her stomach. It was going to be a tough day.

‘Morning, Rosie. You’re looking chilled.’ Omar quipped as he folded a piece of flat bread filled with vegetables.

‘Yeah, but below this steely exterior is a woman who’s basically shitting her pants about the day ahead.’ That was the truth, but it sounded better if she made light of it. It wouldn’t do to wimp out in this kind of company.

Ismal gave her a sympathetic smile.

‘Don’t worry too much. It should be fine.’ He motioned
for Rosie to sit. ‘We’re on, by the way. I’ve had a phone call this morning, so we have a definite plan. Sit and we can discuss it.’ He looked up at Asima as she put fresh flatbread on the table. ‘And you must taste my Asima’s wonderful breakfast vegetables and bread. She spoils me with her cooking.’

Matt came shuffling in, his blond hair messed up.

‘Hey, Matt. You look wrecked, man. Your hair’s like a burst couch. Did you hit the night club last night?’ Omar said.

‘Oh yeah. Just got home.’ He sniffed and plonked himself onto a chair. ‘Couldn’t sleep a wink. So bloody hot.’

‘Have some coffee and breakfast, then we’ll be on our way. It’s going to be a stormer of a day,’ Omar said.

Rosie followed Omar’s example and spooned some vegetables onto the flat bread and folded it. She bit into it.

‘This is wonderful, Asima. Thanks,’ she said, then looked at Ismal. ‘But I might need to wear a bin liner, eating this kind of stuff for breakfast. There’s not exactly a loo on every corner.’

‘There is,’ Omar grinned. ‘It’s called the side of the road.’

‘Cheers for that, Omar. I might just overdose on the Imodium before we leave.’ Rosie smiled and swallowed a mouthful of coffee. What the heck, just bung everything up with medication and worry about your guts when you get home.

*

An hour later they were packing everything into the 4x4, the guard standing by the car drinking coffee, greeting them with what passed for a nod. They piled into the vehicle. Ismal had told them the plan was to go to the market place and walk around like travellers, shopping and buying some trinkets and vegetables. He’d been told that Laila would be taken there by a relative, and they were going to try to make contact with her, to pass the information on for the escape plan later in the day. It sounded good around the table, but Rosie was jittery as the car wound its way out of the narrow track from Ismal and Asima’s cabin and on to the road towards the village. Asima was staying at home, preparing the plans for later.

Ismal pulled the car up on a layby at the side of the road, then shifted so he could see Rosie and Matt in the back seat. She looked out at the crowded market nearby.

‘Okay, guys. As you can see, the bazaar is heaving with people buying and selling all sorts of stuff. It’s always mobbed at this time of the day, which is good for us, as we’ll just be in there browsing or buying a few things, melting into the crowd. It can be quite a suffocating atmosphere in this place, so we need to stick together at all times, okay? Don’t go wandering off on your own.’

Fat chance of wandering, Rosie thought, as she and Matt exchanged glances. Her eyes scanned the bazaar, instinctively looking for an escape route. But there were only two endless rows of shacks and huts that made up the village
main street, and tiny alleys leading off them to the foothills surrounding the village.

Ismal drank from a plastic bottle of water and wiped beads of sweat from his top lip.

‘Hopefully, Laila will turn up in the market quite soon. The woman she is with knows me by sight. She’s a friend of Asima, so she knows what we’re doing, and she’s on our side. When I spot her and Laila, I’ll give you a signal.’ He turned to Rosie. ‘Rosie. Have you got a good enough relationship with her to let her know it’s you underneath all that garb?’

Rosie nodded.

‘I think so. It was Laila who was the most outspoken when I talked to her and her cousin, Sabiha. I think she’s the one who’s driving this, and it was she who urged Sabiha to talk to me. So I’m okay with approaching her. As long as she’s not too shocked or does anything that might attract attention.’

‘She won’t be. The note I will slip to her will tell her you’re here, and that she must stay calm. You alright with that?’

‘Sure,’ Rosie said. She swallowed a ball of dryness and rummaged through her rucksack for some water. Sweat trickled down the back of her legs. She pinched her lips together to stop the little tremor that would give away how terrified she was.

‘Right. Let’s do this,’ Ismal said.

Rosie pulled her headscarf tight over her mouth so that all that was showing were her dark glasses. Apparently some tourists and travellers still ventured this far into the valley, and Rosie scanned the crowd in the hope she could see any others. But there was nothing but a sea of burkas and men with pashtun caps, or the dreaded black turbans.

‘Watch out for the guys with black turbans. They’re Taliban,’ Ismal said. ‘Some of them are just parading around looking for a reason to arrest someone. They’ll all be carrying Kalashnikovs. Whatever you do, don’t make eye contact or engage them in any way.’ He turned to Matt. ‘And it goes without saying – no pictures, Matt.’

Matt slung his rucksack over his shoulder and nodded. He and Rosie had decided late last night to take a risk and rig him up with a secret video camera. Ismal had said that although tourists did come here and take the odd picture, it could complicate things. You couldn’t just take a snap of a Muslim in the street as if you were on a jaunt to the Greek islands. You had to ask permission, and in this tense climate it wasn’t a good idea to draw attention to themselves. But Matt had pleaded with Rosie that he needed a record of where they were for the full story, and she realised that as much as he did. Eventually, she agreed. Discretion, as he’d kept telling her over the years, was his middle name.

They walked together towards the bazaar, Ismal pointing things out as though they were visitors. They kept close to each other.

‘Is the camera working?’ Rosie murmured to Matt.

‘It was when I got out of the car,’ he whispered.

They strolled past stalls with garishly embroidered shawls and table covers, and others with wood carvings and hand-made jewellery. Rosie looked around the busy little streets off the market area where there were shacks and workshops, and wondered if these were also people’s homes or if they lived further out in the country.

‘I see my friend,’ Ismal said suddenly. ‘Follow me, slowly.’

Rosie peered through the crowd at the woman and girl browsing at the jewellery stall. The girl was trying on some bracelets. She was covered from head to toe, and only her eyes and nose were showing. Rosie couldn’t be sure, but once they got a little closer, the lady spotted Ismal and turned around, nodding discreetly. Ismal approached very carefully and nudged the girl, who turned, a little startled. Rosie barely saw him hand her the note and watched as she glanced at the woman, who nodded her approval. It was hard to see if she was confused. But she opened the small palm-sized piece of paper in her hand, and suddenly she stood rigid, her eyes anxiously scanning the crowd. Rosie watched her, moved a little closer, and then the girl turned and she saw a flash of recognition in her frightened eyes, the shadows even darker than now than when she’d seen her in the park. Rosie reached out a hand and squeezed her arm. She didn’t dare speak, but only nodded. Laila nodded back, her soft brown eyes full of hope and relief. Then she
turned to the woman who was with her, and went back to browsing the jewellery. A wave of sadness choked Rosie at the sight of this Glasgow kid in the midst of all this land that was alien to her, a prisoner in the bloody mountains, so far from home and all she knew.

Then, suddenly, all hell broke loose. Rapid gunfire – three or four shots – echoed around the bazaar and everyone stopped in their tracks. It was all happening in a blur. The roar of a motorbike racing down the dirt track in the middle of the bazaar sent people stumbling into stalls out of the way. It was being chased by another motorbike, with a man with a black turban on it, shooting wildly. People dived to the ground as another motorbike raced through, knocking everything flying. Some people scurried up side streets. Rosie jumped out of the way of a motorbike heading straight at her, and it clipped a stall as it passed, which collapsed on top of her. In the mayhem she tried to scramble from beneath pots and pans and bits of tin sheeting piled on top of her. When she sat up, people climbed all over her and rushed up a side street. Where was Ismal? Matt? Where the Christ were they? Her scarf had come off and she hurriedly pulled it back on, covering her face. She moved over and crouched, but spotted a man across the street looking straight at her. She pulled herself to her knees, then got to her feet. As she steadied herself, dizzy with panic, she was swept along by the wave of the crowd until she was suddenly up an alleyway,
away from the bazaar. She tried to catch her breath, pushing past people to head back to the bazaar. But they were shouting and pushing her, and still the sound of gunfire echoed in the distance. Everyone seemed to be going in the opposite direction. Then towards the middle of the alley, people dispersed into tighter dirt roads that forked off into a warren of shacks. She was in the heart of the village, and terror swept through her. She staggered around, trying to find a way out, stumbling towards what looked like the end of the road, praying it would lead her back. But when she reached the end, there was a crowd of men all frantically shouting at each other. She stumbled into a busy cafe. Suddenly, all the men turned to her and began shouting angrily. Wherever the hell she was, she was the only woman, and clearly shouldn’t be here. They surrounded her, and began pushing and shoving. She had to get out of here. She had to run. She turned to try to move, when suddenly a hand grabbed her by the hair, and an irate voice shouted in her ear. Then she was being dragged into a side alley towards a shack, a door was pushed open and she was thrown inside. She stumbled and fell onto the dirt in the darkness, tasting earth in her mouth. She was afraid to turn and look up. When she did, there was a woman standing over her and two children with dark, haunted looks on their faces. The small girl smiled, with perfect white teeth, and poked at Rosie’s bare arm, which had become uncovered in the struggle. The other
child poked and scraped at her white arms, and they both giggled. The woman shouted something at them, and they stopped. Rosie looked up at her, and the woman looked back, unblinking. Rosie swallowed and sniffed, trying to hold back the tears. Then the door burst open, and two men in black turbans came in. Her heart thumped like a drum against her ribs.