Dead Centre - Andy McNab [94]
‘The man with them is not the husband?’
‘No.’
With the sun now up I could see more clearly. Four big commercial cargo ships rode at anchor, dwarfing even the largest of the yachts beside them.
We started moving through scrub. The sand here was mixed with sticky seed pods and bits of twig and stone. As we approached the outskirts of Merca I went into a stoop, using the brush as cover. The town was waking. Cockerels went berserk. Dogs barked. Nearly all the buildings were one-storey concrete or breezeblock structures with tin or flat roofs, arranged on a grid. There was a lot of cobalt blue going on, on the roofs and walls as well as the clothes-lines.
Long shadows appeared as the sun rose from the sea. The narrow streets would keep the shade for a while longer. Nearly every dwelling had its morning fire burning. Smoke curled from stubby chimneys. High walls sheltered the compounds. Some were crumbling, but so far everything here seemed in much better nick than in Mogadishu. The sand tracks between the houses were compacted by years of foot and vehicle traffic. There wasn’t a scrap of litter in sight.
Sunrises in this part of Africa are brilliant and come on fast. The eastern sky had turned tangerine above low grey night clouds. The sun burnt the left side of my face. We walked down into an area of dead ground and up the other side. Ahead, a short, open stretch led to the edge of the town. I lay down in the cover of the last of the thorny scrub.
I kept my eyes screwed up and shaded with my left hand as Awaale collapsed beside me. ‘Over there …’ I indicated our half-right. ‘Third house down, about forty metres. See the clothes-line?’
He nodded.
‘We need the burqas. The blue ones.’
Awaale’s head jerked round. He squinted in the sun. ‘Steal them?’
‘What else? Go into town and buy a couple?’
‘It’s not that.’
‘It’s no drama, mate. Just put the fucking thing on and walk like an old woman.’
‘Do you know what happens to people who steal, under Sharia law?’
I managed not to laugh. ‘Mate, if we get caught, having your hand chopped off is the last thing you’ll need to worry about. Go and get them, there’s a good lad. We need to get ourselves to that jail.’
He didn’t budge.
‘We must pay for them.’
‘You can’t start talking to anyone. It’ll compromise us. Just go and get them.’
‘No, Mr Nick. Women who do not wear hijab in al-Shabab areas are not allowed to leave their homes. No part of their body can be seen in public. Jalaabiibs and burqas cost at least fifteen dollars. If these women don’t wear them, they’ll be punished. They stoned a thirteen-year-old girl for this, even though she was not right.’ He tapped his temple with a finger. ‘She was walking in the main square. They stoned her to death. If these women don’t cover up, they can look for their head in the sand. We cannot just steal them, Mr Nick. We have to pay for them. These people cannot afford to buy these things.’
I rolled over onto my side and dug in my American tourist pouch for the fold of goodwill cash. ‘Here’s fifty. I don’t care how you give it to them, but be quick. Shove it under the door or some shit. I don’t care. Let’s just get these fucking things on and get moving.’
In the mid-distance, heading away from us down one of the wider streets, I could see three men patrolling, with black and white shemaghs and wild beards.
I grabbed Awaale’s ankle. ‘Make sure they’re big ones.’
20
I WATCHED HIM set off across the open ground. As he approached the building, chickens bomb-burst out from behind a wall. He walked past a big cone of dried ox-dung cakes. It kept their ovens burning. I wasn’t sure what it did for the food. He knocked on the door.
For a long time nothing happened. A woman would never appear at the threshold. Maybe the men and children were out. He knocked again. An old guy in a grey dish-dash finally appeared. His grey hair was as long as his beard. Awaale gestured at the clothesline. The old man stared at him for a long time before answering. There was more chat and the old guy kept stroking his beard. Awaale