Dogstar Rising

Chapter Thirty-One




It was dawn by the time Adam delivered him back to the Nile Star. Dena had stayed behind to deal with the police, but they had agreed that Makana would not be included in the story. The gun was not registered to anyone, so where it had come from would remain a mystery. Too exhausted to sleep, Makana went up on deck to watch the town come to life. He leaned on the railings and smoked a cigarette while taking in the view.

The Aswan skyline was once dominated by King Farouk’s old palace, jutting out over the water, which had been transformed into the luxurious Cataract Hotel and frequented by all manner of royalty and celebrity. Nowadays it was superseded by the grim tower of the Oberoi on Elephantine Island. Twelve concrete pylons rising 30 metres into the air to support a restaurant suspended in mid-air. From a distance it resembled an industrial complex in the shape of a cobra, the ancient royal symbol of Upper Egypt. But it lacked any trace of charm and elegance. The artists of old must have been rolling about in their caskets in indignation. A white rag floated gracefully down overhead and became a heron.

‘A sad business.’

Makana looked round to see Adam, his overalls covered in an unusual amount of oil. He had just come from the engine room and carried a monkey wrench and an oily rag. Without a word Makana offered him a cigarette. He tucked the wrench into a pocket and wiped his brow with his greasy forearm.

‘He wasn’t a bad kid. He worked hard and everyone liked him.’ Adam sniffed and rolled the cigarette between his fingers leaving black fingerprints on the white paper. ‘It’s a shame for the girl, though. She was in love with that boy, would have done anything for him.’ He took the cigarette out of his mouth and blew on the tip until it glowed. ‘Things have been bad here for a long time. People are worried this is going to finish off the company.’

‘You remember I asked you about Wadi Nikeiba?’

‘The monastery?’ Adam frowned. ‘Sure.’

‘You said they were running a brothel out there.’

Adam gave a dismissive shrug. ‘You know how people are. One story leads into another.’

‘Do you think you could find your way out there?’

‘I suppose so. I’d need to get hold of a car first.’

‘But you can do that, right?’

‘I suppose so.’ Adam puffed on his cigarette and studied the rivets on the deck. ‘Of course, a car is not an easy thing to lay your hands on.’

Makana reached into his pocket for some of Faragalla’s money and counted out some notes into the grubby hand. ‘I’m sure an old sailor like yourself can get hold of just about anything he sets his mind on.’

‘You might just be right about that,’ Adam grinned toothlessly.

By noon they had a car. An old Peugeot 504 estate. Five doors and enough room in it to comfortably seat a football team. It might once have been blue but was now a rainbow-coloured history of replacement parts. One door was ruby, the other was ochre, the front wing a battered white. The bulk of it was a faded sky-blue, rubbed clear through to shining steel here and there. The bonnet was military green. Just by looking at it you might be forgiven for wondering if it was capable of moving one more metre, but mechanically it seemed sound. Adam sat grinning behind the wheel. The car belonged to a brother-in-law, he said, who used to drive it as a taxi until his leg was amputated last winter. Smoking. Diabetes. A litany of complaints that kept Adam muttering and rolling his head at the foolishness of man and the cruelty of fate. Such cars were worth their weight in gold according to him and were exchanged for astronomical sums. They were just waiting for the right time to sell. Better not wait too long, thought Makana to himself as he climbed in. The passenger-seat door was held closed with a loop of frayed nylon cord. The rear end seemed to be jacked unnaturally high up in the air and the tyres were smooth enough to write on. To Makana, it resembled a coffin on wheels. The air was warm and once they had managed to negotiate their way through the town’s traffic they hit the open road. The green strip of irrigated fields and trees running along opposite banks of the river gave way to dusty emptiness. The open windows blew gusts of hot dry air into Makana’s face as he rested his arm on the juddering door, careful not to lean too much of his weight on it.

According to the map in the front of the book, Wadi Nibeika was approximately 20 kilometres away from Aswan to the south-east. They followed a grey ridge that swerved into the distance like the tail fin of an enormous fish whipping through the brown desert. They turned off the narrow strip of road, stones rattling against the underside of the car like a riotous gang of mad drummers. Through a rusty hole between his feet Makana watched the track rolling by beneath him. What did he expect to find? He couldn’t say, though he had the feeling that he needed to know this monastery. The big car rocked about on the uneven road as if it was skating on marbles. The dust rolled in through the open windows in waves, so that soon the interior was choking in the stuff and the car and the two occupants looked as though they might have been carved out of the same grey stone of the hills.

The track wound its way slowly up a short ridge, at the top of which the Peugeot stalled and for a few harrowing moments they skittered backwards on bald tyres while Adam struggled to restart the engine. The car coughed respectably and then burst into life. The gearstick was ground into place and they finally crawled over the top to begin the long slide downwards. Here the road was long and straight, broken only by a few gentle curves. It wound its way along the flat bottom of the valley. Tucked into a far corner, shaped like the cupped palm of a hand, lay the whitewashed rectangular walls of the monastery. It swam towards them like something from another age as the car gained speed and tore up a flailing sheet of dust in their wake.

Long before they arrived it became clear that the monastery had been abandoned years ago. There were no vehicles, no people, no signs of life. The walls, on closer inspection, were neglected and cracked. Pigeons flew in and out of a window with a lone wooden shutter that flapped back and forth on its hinges. The big car juddered to a halt just outside the high front gates which stood open, giving way to complete silence that was disturbed only by the hum of the wind and the scratch of sand grains against the metal. A part of the wall had collapsed into a heap of bricks and plaster. The main front gate was closed but a smaller door set into it stood open.

The two men got out of the car and walked through the entrance to find a set of low-roofed, white buildings, now in a state of some disrepair. A path wound its way up towards the hill behind the monastery. As they walked up the shallow slope Makana paused here and there to peer into a building alongside. In places the doors had been locked. The ground was littered with debris, dead branches and leaves from the palm trees, wooden slats from the window shutters, doors, broken bricks, timber, and all of it peppered with a liberal scattering of goat droppings. There was an empty shell of a church with a cracked and blackened dome. Further up the incline were workshops and storage rooms, rough constructions made of adobe bricks and crooked timbers. Makana’s eye followed the line of the hill as it rose up to end in the dark mouth of a large cave. He thought he could make out a figure standing in the entrance.

‘Can you see someone up there?’ he asked, shading his eyes with one hand.

Adam squinted. ‘Got to be a crazy man if he’s living out here alone.’

Who else would live in a cave in the desert but a madman? Makana wasn’t sure his eyes were not deceiving him until the wavering figure began to descend. A prophet, perhaps, out here to commune with the Almighty, or a lunatic? Makana lit a cigarette and waited. A couple of minutes later the small, compact figure was striding towards him. Tufts of white hair stuck out from behind his ears, his beard sweeping down from his chin to his chest. The top of his head was bald and mottled. Thick leather sandals and a grubby cassock completed the outfit.

‘You cannot stay here. We do not allow it.’

‘We’re not planning to stay,’ Makana said, wondering who ‘we’ was. Were there others up there in the cave? A tribe of madmen?

‘Then what is your business?’

He was so short his head only came up to Makana’s chest but he still cut a ferocious figure. Makana noticed that Adam had taken a couple of steps backwards just in case. He held up the book from the cabin.

‘Father Macarius suggested I come by to take a look.’

‘Macarius?’ The little man stared at the book, his lips moving silently. His chin lifted and dipped. ‘The monastery is closed to visitors.’

‘I understand there used to be an orphanage here, Father . . . ?’

‘Girgis. Yes, but that closed years ago.’ The white beard whipped up into his face as the wind changed direction. ‘That was the end of it.’

‘The orphanage?’

‘Yes. What did you think I was talking about?’ He frowned. ‘Why have you come here?’

It was a question to which Makana could not readily answer.

‘I’m curious to know why the monastery was closed.’

‘What possible interest could you have in that?’ The face cracked like dry pergament.

‘One of the boys who was here. I’m interested in one of the boys.’

‘A journalist, are you? Here to spin your web of deceit.’

‘I’m not a journalist. Father, someone died last night. Do you remember a boy named Ramy who was here at the orphanage?’

His jaw worked silently for a moment. ‘I remember a lot of people. I forget their names. We had about thirty-seven boys at one time. How did you say he died?’

‘He took his own life.’

The priest winced as though someone had stepped on his toe. ‘Maybe I remember him. He was never a particularly happy child.’

‘From what he told me that was hardly surprising.’

The white beard twitched as Father Girgis lifted his chin. ‘That’s all ancient history. Why should you be interested in that now?’

‘I thought all human life was sacred.’

A long silence followed disturbed only by Adam clearing his throat, worried perhaps about getting the car back to his legless brother-in-law.

‘When we first came here there was nothing much more than that cave up there,’ Father Girgis pointed. ‘Legend had it that a prophet, Saint Nikeiba, once lived in that cave. He had visions of an angel bearing six wings.’

‘The Seraph.’

‘Yes, the Seraph.’ The pale eyes rolled up towards Makana. ‘Macarius told you?’

‘He told me that this was a very special place.’

‘It was,’ sighed Father Girgis. ‘We built it together. We worked side by side. After the scandal it fell into disrepair. The government took the children away.’

‘What exactly happened?’

Father Girgis gestured for them to walk. ‘Let me give you a tour. You know that we are restoring the place finally.’

Again, Makana wondered about this use of the plural. He looked over the little man’s head in case a small army of helpers appeared from the cave.

‘You had both Christian and Muslim boys here?’

‘It’s not up to us to distinguish between God’s children.’ Father Girgis paused to point out the kiln, the mill where they ground the flour they grew. ‘It was a terrible time.’ Father Girgis lowered his face and stroked his beard. ‘We put our faith in the young, for what else is there? We have to believe that they will carry on after us.’ Father Girgis stroked his beard as if he thought it might fly away. ‘It’s a terrible world we live in.’ As Makana reached for a cigarette, the priest stuck out a hand. Makana shook one out for him and produced his lighter. The priest closed his eyes as he sucked the smoke into his lungs. ‘Ah,’ he sighed, opening his eyes. ‘People say memories are only in the head, but some are awakening at this very moment in my body.’

They stood and gazed down over the valley below. The heat was diminishing and colour was gradually returning to the grey landscape. As the sun began to drop, the hills seemed to expand as the shadows deepened, becoming blue tinged with purple.

‘Why did they close you down?’

‘They said there was a monster in our midst.’

‘A monster?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Father Girgis savoured his cigarette, which had already been smoked down to the butt. The priest’s eyes flickered towards Makana. ‘Has he killed again?’

‘I think so, Father.’

High above in the warm air over the Wadi a buzzard circled in slow, lazy turns. It might have been the wavering light, or a trick of his imagination, but Makana thought he saw a flicker of bitterness in the other man’s eyes.

‘He ruined us. He turned our dreams to dust.’ Father Girgis abruptly began walking down the path, his hands clasped behind his back. Makana had no choice but to follow along. ‘It seemed like nothing at first. An unfortunate incident. A lamb went missing and was found torn to pieces in the desert.’ Father Girgis spoke in the animated fashion of one who after years of sleeping in a cave had finally awoken. ‘We wondered what kind of animal could have done something like that. Jackals? Packs of wild dogs, perhaps? It was dismissed. We forgot about it for a time, but then other things happened.’

‘What other things?’

‘A cat was nailed to a door, badly mutilated and barely alive. It was horrible. There was a sense that something like pure evil had taken root among us. We were afraid for the boys. Then our worst nightmare was realised. One of the boys went missing.’ Father Girgis paused, his eyes focussed on the distant landscape. ‘We searched everywhere for him. All day, all night, search parties combed the hills around here, convinced he had had an accident. When we found him it was clear that he had been tortured. Beaten viciously and . . . abused.’

‘You went to the police, of course.’

‘No,’ Father Girgis turned to Makana, his voice grave. ‘We discussed it amongst ourselves and took a vote. We knew that the scandal would destroy us.’

Silently, Makana held out the pack of cigarettes and Father Girgis took another.

‘None of us was thinking clearly. We were in a state of shock. We thought it would simply go away.’

‘But it didn’t?’

‘No, it did not.’ The light was fading fast. Shadows spread like dark wings over the valley. ‘When the second victim was found we realised that we had a maniac in our midst.’

‘What made you so certain?’

‘He was crucified, nailed to a rough cross and left out there in the desert to die. He burned up in the sun before he bled to death. He too had been . . . tortured in the most obscene way.’

They had come to a fork in the path. To the left was a small vegetable patch containing rows of neatly tilled soil divided by rich leafy plants of all kinds. To the right an opening in a low wall marked the entrance to a small cemetery. Here, instead of vegetables, were rows of headstones. These were all fairly simple. With basic inscriptions, some dating back a couple of centuries while others were more regular, clean and bright, the gilt paint on the inscriptions faded. The breeze trickled through the silvery leaves of the olive trees that grew in the cemetery. Sand grains blown on a dry desert wind sounded like a gigantic insect grinding its mandibles. Father Girgis came to a halt at a shady spot where a small stone was set into the earth.

‘We buried them here. Macarius and I thought we should try to solve the matter without involving the authorities. We thought we could contain it.’

‘You never found the killer?’

‘We had thirty-seven boys. Two victims and that left us with thirty-five suspects. Along with the staff of course. There were five priests: Father Macarius and myself, along with Father Basil and Father Elias and three helpers, all of whom we eliminated from our list of suspects.’

‘You said there were five monks altogether.’

Father Girgis nodded gravely. ‘Father Barsoom was the third victim. He too was crucified. We were sure the murderer had to be an adult. Our suspicions fell on one of the kitchen helpers, a young and violent man. When we confronted him he grew very angry and left. It turned out that he had an alibi that he was keeping to himself. He was stealing our dates to take to a little distillery he had in the mountains. One of his best clients was a local chief of police. So this was how the news leaked to the outside world. There was an outcry. We had tried so hard to keep it secret and now all manner of rumours circulated. It wasn’t long before the place was closed down. I stayed, but I could not maintain the place on my own.’

The sky was the colour of a tangerine dipped in ink. Adam was restless when they reached him, clearly eager not to spend more time than necessary in this accursed place.

‘None of the boys was suspected?’

‘Only one,’ Father Girgis said gently. ‘But that split us even more. There was one boy who had always been strange. He was disturbed and as a result he was not particularly well liked.’

‘Who was that?’

‘His name was Antun. He was small and weak but he was seized at times by terrible fits of fury when he could exert great force.’

‘Antun is the one you suspected?’

‘Yes . . .’ Father Girgis gave a deep sigh before going on. ‘We were all agreed that we should confront him, all except one, who defended him to the death.’

‘Father Macarius?’

Father Girgis nodded. ‘It tore us apart. The rest of us were sure Antun was responsible but Macarius refused to see reason. We had to do something, yet we were paralysed by this internal conflict.’

‘Father, I take it you haven’t heard about the murders in Cairo?’

‘Is that why you are here? You think it’s the same person?’

‘It seems possible.’

‘That saddens me,’ Father Girgis fretted. ‘It means that our failure all those years ago has caused even more suffering.’

‘Is it possible that Father Macarius was correct, that maybe one of the other boys was responsible?’

‘Which boy?’

‘Do you remember Ahmed Rakuba? They used to call him Rocky.’

Father Girgis was studying the cigarettes in Makana’s shirt pocket. Makana took them out and offered one, then handed the packet over. Girgis licked his lips, tucking them away in his cassock as if they were made of gold.

‘Rocky, you say?’

‘Could he have been the killer?’

‘I really can’t say. There were many boys and my memory is not what it was. I just remember the horror and the sadness. I pray every day for forgiveness, but we cannot bring back the dead. We cannot undo what has happened.’

As he walked away down the hill into the deepening dusk, Makana paused to look back at the spindly figure climbing the hill to his lonely vigil in the cave. The priest’s last words echoed in his ears on the long drive home: ‘God forgive us.’