Dogstar Rising

Chapter Twenty-Three




The punchbags hung limply on chains, as if exhausted and waiting for the next beating. In one corner two men were working out earnestly with home-made weights resourcefully devised from iron cogs salvaged or stolen from some kind of large machinery. Elsewhere, one boy sheltered behind a pad held to his side while a young man threw a barrage of kicks at it, emitting a piercing cry with each blow. So not just boxing then. An odour of rotting drains came accompanied by the steady trill of running water from an open doorway at the far end, indicating changing rooms and a leaky toilet. Makana was almost touching the ropes of the ring at the centre of the room before he realised the man bouncing about inside it was none other than Father Macarius. He wore blue shorts and a white singlet and was trading blows with a hard little brown button of a man who appeared to be made of rock. He attacked with a relentless flurry of punches, arms like stout branches blowing in a hurricane. The priest put up a good show, ducking and weaving and generally tiring out his opponent who must have been at least twenty years younger than him. Makana joined the crowd of young men skirting the ring and watched as Father Macarius jabbed a blow home between the other man’s defences. There was something old-fashioned about his style, but he moved with natural fluidity, hips low, the weight in his shoulders. His legs were sinewy pale springs that sent him bouncing out of harm’s way. The little slugger advanced steadily, but Father Macarius stayed on his toes, circling just out of reach. The boys around the side were clad in a variety of ill-fitting, worn-out clothes. Trousers and singlets whose colours were faded to a uniform grey. They ranged in age from their mid-twenties to as young as seven or eight. With each flurry of leather against skin, a cheer went up. A bell rang and the two fighters slapped gloves and stepped away from each other. Grimy furrows of silvery sweat divided Father Macarius’ lined face as he sagged on the ropes. Makana recognised Antun as the boy who began to unlace his gloves. He noticed the affectionate way Macarius ruffled the boy’s shaved head. Raising a weary hand in greeting, he said:

‘Feel like going a few rounds?’

‘With you? I’m not sure how wise that would be, Father.’

Macarius laughed as he ducked out of the ring and dropped to the floor. The boots he wore had been scuffed so raw the worn leather appeared to be sprouting hairs. ‘You look as though you might benefit from a few lessons.’ He indicated the bruise on Makana’s cheek.

Father Macarius wrapped a towel around his neck and wiped his face. Over by the wall was a plastic water barrel whose blue colour had been softened by years in the sunlight. Lifting an aluminium mug he dipped it inside and drained it in one go, his Adam’s apple straining like a bird trying to get out of a sack. Makana recognised the fighter throwing the kicks on the far side of the room as Ishaq, the sharp-faced young man who had been outside Meera’s house. He looked quite good. Makana made a mental note to remember this.

‘I saw a couple of your boys guarding Ridwan Hilal’s home the other day,’ he said.

‘They aren’t my boys, as you put it,’ said Father Macarius, his annoyance evident. ‘They make their own decisions. They have taken it upon themselves to form a cadre to protect us. I cannot fault them for that, although I do not encourage violence outside the ring.’ He brought down a black cassock hanging on the wall and pulled it over his head. A long string of wooden beads swung on a nail. Kissing the wooden crucifix, he hung it over his head.

Outside, the walls of the white church reflected the light so much it was hard to look at. A couple of young palm trees had been planted in circular plots. A younger man in a cassock was watering these with a hosepipe. Makana recognised him as the sturdy fighter who had just been in the ring with Father Macarius.

‘You told me Meera used to help out here, teaching the boys to read.’

‘She was a charitable woman and will be sorely missed.’ Father Macarius pulled up suddenly and turned to Makana. ‘I don’t want the church drawn into this.’

‘The church is not only drawn into this, Father, it’s right at the centre of it. The murder of these boys is directly linked to your church and to Meera’s death.’

‘We can’t allow this. They will close us down.’

‘They are already closing you down.’ Makana paused. ‘Father, the other day you wanted to tell me something. What was that?’

‘Oh, I’m such a fool,’ the priest chastised himself.

‘I’m not the police, Father. It doesn’t have to go any further than me.’

‘I wish I could believe that.’ Father Macarius took a step away and then he turned back to face Makana. ‘It all happened a long time ago.’

‘Is it connected to the murders?’

‘I’m not sure, but I think it might be. I can’t tell you any more. Not yet. I need time.’

Makana watched him walk away, disappearing into the church with his athletic walk, the swaying black robes melting into the shadows. Back inside the gym, Makana found Antun mopping the floor by the entrance to the toilets. He looked up, his eyes wide. There was a strange, other-worldly quality to Antun.

‘Do you know this man they call Rocky?’

‘Rocky?’ Antun echoed.

‘Yes, Rocky. He used to box here.’ Across the room Makana caught sight of Ishaq scowling at him from behind a punchbag as one of the others hit it over and over. As he watched him, Ishaq let go of the bag and came towards him.

‘What do you want from Antun?’

‘This doesn’t concern you.’

‘Antun concerns us.’ Ishaq smiled. ‘What happened to your face? Did someone take offence to your sticking your nose in everywhere?’

There was a snigger of laughter and Makana realised that four of Ishaq’s friends had also moved to form a loose ring around him.

‘I go for Abouna,’ Antun muttered.

‘Leave Macarius alone,’ Ishaq ordered. ‘We can deal with this.’ Stepping closer, he said, ‘Why do you keep coming round here?’

‘I’m looking for Rocky.’

‘Oh yeah, a friend of yours, is he?’

‘I just want to talk to him.’

‘You’re wasting your time.’

‘What can you tell me about him?’

Ishaq shrugged. ‘He used to turn up here to box, about five years ago. He was in the army. He likes young boys. Now he runs a group of beggar kids. I swear some of them are not more than ten years old. He picks them up off the street and uses them like dogs. I wouldn’t stand for it. I swear, any man who tried to do that to me, I’d take a knife and cut his throat.’

‘Why do you say I’m wasting my time?’

‘He has protection.’

‘What kind of protection?’

‘The kind that makes you immune to stupid questions,’ said Ishaq as he brushed by, making sure his shoulder knocked into Makana’s. The others followed behind him.

There didn’t seem to be much more to be gained here. As he left he heard someone calling him and turned to see the shopkeeper from the other night hurrying after him.

‘Is there any news, I mean about that poor boy we found?’

‘No, no news,’ said Makana. ‘Have you spoken to the police?’

‘The police took the body away and left.’ The man glanced over his shoulder. ‘After that we haven’t seen them. Everybody is scared. I am afraid. For my family, for my business. One of these days . . .’ He shook his head in anticipation of the worst.

‘There is somebody I am trying to find. Maybe you can help me?’

‘Who is it? Just tell me. I know everyone in this neighbourhood.’

‘He used to box. People call him Rocky.’

The man drew back. ‘What do you want with him?’

‘What can you tell me about him?’

‘Nothing,’ said the man, his eyes cold. ‘I can tell you nothing. I have a family. You understand? I have children. Little boys.’

‘I understand.’

‘No. No, you don’t.’ The man made to move away when something made him stop. He was clearly scared, but he turned and led the way, and five minutes later they came to the corner of a narrow street. The man pointed at a building.

‘That’s where you will find him,’ he said.

When Makana looked back he was already walking away. A scattering of used coffee grounds had turned the sandy ground into a muddy tongue the colour of molasses. The café was nothing more than a doorway, an opening in the wall, metal doors flung wide in a space that might once have been a garage for a small car. Roughly hammered together wooden benches rested against either side. These were deserted except for one man who sat upright with his back against the wall. Makana sat down opposite him and called for coffee. After a time he became aware that the man, a heavy, unshaven man with a handlebar moustache that looked as though it had escaped from the tomb of some pasha of old, as if it ought to be hanging in a frame, was staring at him.

‘I look at you, and the first thing I think is police.’

‘We all make mistakes.’

He was a self-styled Omda, a neighbourhood leader who spent his life watching the street go by, making other people’s lives his business. Air bubbled through the waterpipe as he exuded a cloud of aromatic smoke.

‘Around here we take care of our things our own way. We don’t need the police.’

‘I’m not police.’

Behind the counter a young boy no more than twelve fussed with a small brass kerosene stove set on the counter. He snapped a lighter. The flickering blue flame turned the place into a little cave of wonders. ‘I don’t mean to tell you your business,’ said the man stroking the back of his hand along his moustaches as if they were a pair of plump doves, ‘but you’re wasting your time here.’

‘All I want to do is drink my coffee in peace.’

The boy kept his eyes studiously on the battered pot he was stirring with a spoon. The smell of coffee filled the confined space.

Makana took his time to study his surroundings. The walls were scarred with the usual graffiti: Down with the Americans. Down with Israel. Down with the government. Down with everything and everyone because the rest of the world was better off, and this was as far down as you wanted to go. Who was this Rocky? Why did Meera have a picture of him stuffed behind her desk? The boy avoided his gaze as he set down the coffee on the table at his knees. The man opposite stared at him as he puffed his waterpipe. Makana sipped the coffee slowly as people came and went past the entrance of the building opposite. A little girl leading a small boy by the hand went by, a green plastic bag banging against her legs, heavy with warm round loaves of bread. A tall man with a beard, wearing thick-framed spectacles and a white gelabiya put a hand to his nose and hawked up a mouthful of phlegm which he spat on the ground before stepping out and moving away along the street.

As he got to his feet Makana reached into his pocket for some money. He found a rather worn ten-pound note, with a tear in one side. Far too much for a simple coffee. He folded it carefully and tucked it under the cup out of sight. If he came back some time it might be helpful to be able to talk to the boy. He had been planning to cross the street for a closer look, but found his way barred. Three young men stood blocking the entrance.

‘You have no business here,’ said the man on the bench behind him. Makana turned to look at him. The man circled the long pipe stem in the air. ‘Go away and don’t come back.’