Maloney's Law by Anne Brooke Read Free Book Online Page A

Bread!’
    He looks at me, one small eyebrow raised, but I wave him away and he moves on. As he does so, one of the rolls falls to the ground. He picks it up, spits on it, wipes it on the dust of his robe and replaces it above him. He then makes his way to a group of what look to be Americans on the other side of the square. My skin is prickling with the sensation of being watched, but nothing around me seems at all out-of-place. One of the men in a nearby café makes me look again, even as I’ve almost discounted him and moved on. The man is in his thirties, dressed in long off-white Arabic robes, dark-haired, clean-shaven, nondescript, but something about him draws my eye back. He’s not sitting at the same table as the others but seems to be echoing their conversation in his gestures. They however take no notice of him. Have I seen him somewhere before? Today? It eludes me, and as I continue to puzzle over it, the man raises his eyes from the papers in front of him, sees me looking, and at once glances away.
    I begin to approach him, striding forward with a confidence I don’t feel. He gathers his papers and makes a move to leave, but by now I’m too close. I notice a twisted scar on his left cheek and realise he’s one of the people from the Delta Egypt lounge. As I brush against his table, his right hand flickers near a slit in his robes at chest level, but I keep on walking.
    I smile brightly, ‘Aasef, sorry.’
    And then I’m gone, weaving my way between the tables and towards the bustle and noise of the Khan Al-Khalili. The streets are narrow and lined on either side by stalls. I push my way through the throng of tourists and traders, donkeys and dealers. When I glance behind me, I don’t see the man with the scar, but it’s hard to be sure. The air is laced with pungent spices. With every step, someone smiles, grabs me, tries to sell me waterpipes, carved camels, fridge magnets shaped like pyramids, saffron, or silk. I don’t even mind; it’s harder for anyone to get as close to me as they might want to if someone else is trying to claim a piece of me first. On the other hand, it’s also hard for me to see the enemy, if I’m being pursued at all. Around me, gold, silver, brass, and copper ornaments hang glittering inside the shops like magic curtains concealing a secret cave. Young boys and occasionally women are dyeing cloth, sewing shirts, and carving elephants from stone. Once again, only a few paces from the café have taken me back a thousand years.
    After five minutes, I’ve seen nothing that might worry me, and nobody has jostled me with anything more dangerous than a robe called a “galabiya” or a pair of hand-crafted sandals. Maybe I overreacted. Perhaps the innocent man at the café was reaching for a wallet or handkerchief. I turn a corner and see a large sand-coloured stone gate covered with intricate carvings. Next to it, a shop selling postcards and a window-full of blue Muski glass catches my eye. The danger, if there was any, is past, and I may as well make the most of my time here. As I reach for my cash, there’s a sudden flicker of movement on my left, the impression of tanned flesh and a scarred cheek.
    At waist level, the steel of the knife flashes in the morning sun, and there’s no time to cry out.

Chapter Four
    With a speed that comes from instinct rather than thought, I twist my body away from my attacker and grab his knife-arm. I slam it back against the stone arch of the gateway.
    Scar-cheek lets loose a stream of high-pitched Arabic, and the knife falls to the ground. I punch him in the stomach and yell, ‘Help! Help me!’
    At the same time, both of us leap for the knife, but I get there first. The next second he kicks me on the side of the head, and I sprawl on my back in the dust, the knife skittering away from my reach. His dark eyes are fixed on mine, and I know if he has the chance he’ll kill me now. But there’s shouting, a sense of other people closing in,