The Abrupt Physics of Dying by Paul E. Hardisty Read Free Book Online

resonant.
    ‘The poison that afflicts our children comes from the facility. It comes in the air, down the wadi, when the cool winds blow from the plateau. We can smell it, foul like the vapours of hell. This is done by the government and the company to push us from our land. It is intentional.’
    When the young man had finished speaking, the
mashayikh
inclined his head and turned towards Clay. ‘This is my son, the chief of Al-Bawazir. Are his words true, Mister Straker?’
    Clay shifted his weight on the handmade wood and woven reed stool. The thing was unsteady, too close to the ground, and he had to rest one knee on the packed earth floor just to stay upright. He wanted to stand. He wanted to straighten his aching legs and walk across the room to the door and out to the waiting vehicle. But here, he knew, convention must be honoured. He was expected to answer.
    He looked around the room at the tribesmen, their sun-worn faces as open and uncompromising as the rocky ground of their birth. They seemed to be studying him, his curious flaxen hair, his pale eyes. No one spoke. He looked down at the ground, at the clay and silt covering his boots. Something trickled down his back, along the gutter of his spine, sweat or blood or both. Someone coughed. He glanced at his watch. Time had a different meaning here. Not yet a commodity, it was reckoned still by the rhythm of the seasons, the comings of the winds and rains, the movement of planets and stars. In this place there was no fear of silence, no need to fill time and space with meaningless words.
    Moments passed. A minute? Maybe more.
    Finally Clay said: ‘This is a European company, operating to the best international standards.’ Again, what the script demanded.
    The
mashayikh
narrowed his eyes. ‘You insult us, Mister Straker. We know this is a lie.’ He looked down at the weapon lying across his knee, caressed the smooth walnut handguard with sinewed fingers, and then locked his gaze onto Clay’s eyes. ‘We can make things very difficult, Mister Straker, if we choose.’ Then he leaned close andwhispered in Clay’s ear. ‘Also, we can cooperate. It is your choice.’ His breath reeked of
qat
and alcohol.
    Then the
mashayikh
stood and swung the Kalashnikov over his shoulder. The audience was over. Clay got to his feet and clasped the man’s right hand in his own, making sure to keep his left hand, the unclean one, behind his back. He felt the grit in the
mashayikh
’s skin, saw the stains of years cracked and stretched over the bones, and looked into the murky tannin eyes. ‘
Shukran
, Excellency. I will take the message back to my superiors in Aden.’
    ‘I will expect you soon, then,’ said the
mashayikh
with a flourish of his hand as he turned towards the door, the room emptying around him.
    Soon Clay was alone. He slumped onto the stool and drained the last of the sweet dark tea. Was that what this was all about? Money? Al Urush was less than an hour away. He would see for himself.

A Melody of Spokes
    Fifteen minutes out on the deserted main road, Abdulkader’s Land Cruiser continued its rebellion. Clay pulled over onto the rough gravel shoulder, and for the second time in less than a day set about changing a tyre. He had just mounted the last spare and was tightening the lug nuts when a vehicle appeared in the distance. It was travelling at high speed, heading towards him, floating on the heat. A hundred metres away, the car slowed, a Land Rover, white, new. As it approached, Clay could make out a single occupant, thick black hair streaming from the driver’s side window. Clay stood, tyre iron in one hand, and was about to wave when the driver gunned the engine. As the Land Rover flashed past in a hurl of dust and flying pebbles, the driver turned for an instant and looked at Clay through a tornado of whirling hair. For a fraction of a second their eyes met. Then she was gone. Clay stood gaping as the vehicle’s wake disappeared in the shimmering heat