Sign of the Cross by Thomas Mogford Read Free Book Online Page B

hand; Spike and Zahra walked past him to a side door.
    There was little to betoken a classroom: loose chairs rather than desks, a table at the front with a tired pile of children’s books. On the wall, a poster designated each letter of the alphabet with an animal: Alligator for A, Butterfly for B. Spike checked automatically for X and saw the inevitable fudge: eX-tinct, with a sad-eyed image of a dinosaur.
    Zahra straightened a few chairs, then pressed in the bar of a security door. They stepped out into a large fenced-off area. In front spread two tents; ranged to the side was a series of rusty corrugated shipping containers. Two women were exiting a doorway which had been soldered into the nearest. ‘Did they run out of tents?’ Spike asked.
    ‘Three years ago.’
    A circle of women sat on upturned paint pots heating a vat of water over an open fire. Spike caught a whiff of something caramelising in the embers: sweet potato, perhaps, or carrots. An older woman was pegging washing on a line, while two more stood by the chicken-wire fence, chatting to some men on the other side. Spike heard a distant cheer: a goal, at last, for the footballers.
    ‘Seen enough?’
    ‘Did Teresa teach any of these women?’
    ‘I don’t know. This isn’t my camp.’
    One of the younger girls rose to her feet and shouted into the container. Another woman emerged. A moment later, six of them were gathered round Zahra. ‘Dinah?’ one of them said.
    Zahra replied in Arabic, and the eldest woman raised a hand to her face. Zahra stepped back, undoing her headscarf, shaking free her inky-black bob. The women spoke to one another urgently.
    ‘What’s going on?’ Spike said.
    ‘I don’t know,’ Zahra replied, edging away and directing a question at the younger girls. ‘They thought I was someone else,’ she said to Spike once she’d heard the answer.
    ‘Who?’
    ‘A friend.’
    ‘Dinah?’ Spike said.
    ‘Dinah,’ one of the girls repeated. ‘She tall girl. Pretty like she.’
    ‘You speak good English,’ Spike said. ‘Did Teresa teach you?’
    ‘Teresa. Nice lady.’
    ‘They don’t know she’s dead,’ Zahra said quickly as she refastened her headscarf.
    ‘Can you ask them if they ever met Teresa’s husband?’
    Zahra spoke again in Arabic. ‘No,’ she translated back.
    ‘Did they see her with another man?’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Just ask.’
    She spoke again. ‘They’re saying the handsome American. That’s –’
    ‘John,’ Spike interrupted. ‘Can you ask them if –’
    ‘You can ask me ,’ Zahra said. ‘John used to drive me and Teresa home after work. Any further questions?’ She turned abruptly and continued talking to the girls in Arabic.
    Spike walked away to one of the tents. The nearest end was open, lines of rags stretching over the lumpy ground, covering the indeterminate shapes of what looked like corpses. A reek of old urine sharpened the air; in one corner lay a picture book with a yellow duck on the front. As Spike peered in further, he saw one of the corpse figures rise up, a haggard leathery face staring from beneath a shroud. He raised a hand in greeting, but the figure slumped back down.
    Shaking his head, Spike walked back to Zahra, who was standing alone, jotting something in a notebook. ‘Do the press know about this place?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘It’s outrageous.’
    ‘Spoken like a true tourist.’ She put the notebook back in her bag.
    ‘What were you writing down?’
    ‘Their friend’s gone missing.’
    ‘Is that unusual?’
    ‘Not really; people skip across to Sicily the whole time.’
    ‘So why the sudden interest?’
    ‘Apparently she’s just had a baby. No one’s heard from her since last week.’
    ‘Wouldn’t she have moved to the family camp?’
    Zahra gave a weary sigh. ‘That’s what I’m going to find out.’
    They exited via a smaller gateway to the forecourt. ‘Why were you asking all those questions, anyway?’ Zahra said.
    ‘Just a concerned