The Djinn Falls in Love and Other Stories Page 14

What the fuck? said Ernesto.

  She’s a little girl, Grant said, how did she – ?

  Zoom there, Anna the Analyst said, leaning over Sian and tapping a corner of the screen. Sian twisted the control knob and the camera zoomed down, stopping on a window in Tommy the Talib’s house. There, faintly visible behind a curtain, was the glow of a human being.

  Whoever that is, they saw it all happen, Anna the Analyst said.

  Sian swapped out with Grant, refusing to go home, napping on one of the seats behind them. In Pakistan, night brightened into day, their view switching from green thermals to ash grey. Grandpa Joe was the first to discover the body. He trudged to the mosque for Fajr prayers before anyone else, the journey prolonged by stiffened joints. They watched him exit his house and set off down the pathway that led directly past the corpse-laden tree. Watched as he stopped abruptly, noticing first the dangling innards, then looked up. He staggered backwards, his mouth widened in a scream. A few seconds later, Miriam’s father, David, came rushing out of his house. More men from other houses followed; they got Jeffrey’s body down, untangling intestines from the twisting branches. Some of them went into his house, but were soon back out, retching as they stumbled out the door. The body was carried to the local mosque, and once there, the crowd dissipated. Younger boys stayed a while longer, showing each other where and how the body had hung and daring one another to enter the house.

  At one point Tommy the Talib was visited by some local tribal leaders. They drove up in a Hilux, guns slung over their shoulders. He escorted them to the tree and they had an animated discussion around it. Then Tommy the Talib pointed at Miriam’s house.

  It was him watching last night, said Grant. The rest remained quiet.

  Four Taliban leaders walked up to the house and banged on the door. David attended it, flanked by his eldest three boys.

  What’ll they do? Sian said from over Grant’s shoulder.

  The discussion lasted several minutes. It seemed to remain civil. David stood with his arms firmly crossed in the doorway, his sons peering out from behind him. Tommy the Talib was taking the lead, pointing past David into the house repeatedly. Whatever point he was making seemed to be breaking against David, who said almost nothing in reply. Once Tommy the Talib was done talking, David turned his back and went back inside the house, the door shutting behind him. The Taliban men walked away, climbing back onto their Hilux and leaving, Tommy the Talib with them. For the rest of the shift nothing happened.

  KARRY WASN’T HOME when he got there. Grant took a shower, then padded into the kitchen, hopping into fresh clothes as he did. There was a container of Chinese leftovers in the fridge, and he popped it into the microwave and watched it rotate. It beeped completion and he pulled out the steaming food, turning towards the cutlery drawer. Framed in the entrance to the kitchen, on the other side of the kitchen counter, was Miriam.

  Grant stood stock-still, staring at the little girl. She was squatting, back towards him. Under the bright kitchen light her white clothes looked blue, tangles of dirty black hair looping almost to the ground. Grant couldn’t see her face, just the back of her head, bowed low.

  She’s holding something, he thought. She was too plainly visible and physically present to be an aberration. He tried saying her name. Wanted to say, Miriam, what’ve you got in your hands. Except, another part of his brain said, her name isn’t Miriam, not really. You don’t know her real name. Besides, nothing came out of his mouth. He spoke wordlessly, silently. And then she shifted, just a little, moving her shoulders as though struggling with whatever she held. And Grant heard a child’s pained cry, from her arms. His voice came out then, a moan, choked and barely audible. And then she wasn’t there, just him alone in the kitchen.

  Grant ran, food spilling as the container tumbled off the edge of the counter.

  SHE WAS IN my fucking house, he screamed at Chuck and Anna the Analyst.

  You’re fucking hallucinating, now lower your goddam voice, Chuck growled back. The three of them were standing outside the container. Sian was still on shift for a few more hours, inside with her co-pilot. A haloed moon leered from above.

  You dreamed it, Anna said, touching Chuck lightly on the wrist.

  Look, I know a dream – or a hallucination – when I have one, okay. I’m telling you, she was there. And she had a fucking baby with her. Where is she now?

  They went into the container, the blast of air-conditioning almost unbearable without his flight suit.

  What’s going on, Sian asked, craning her neck to look at him.

  Sian, what’s Miriam’s last location? Chuck asked.

  She’s been inside her house since the thing with Jeffrey. Hasn’t come out.

  Go. Home. Chuck said.

  Wait, Sian said. Something’s happening.

  It was Tommy the Talib’s wife. She was outside, without her shawl. She pulled at her hair with one hand, grabbing fistfuls and yanking. In the other, she carried her child. The head rolled from side to side, disjointed from the neck. Miriam’s parents had come running outside, then retreated back under the force of whatever accusations she was hurling. Soon more villagers began gathering, surrounding them. The wife’s accusations seemed to be gathering support: some of the others were gesticulating towards the house. Daisy spun and fled towards home, so suddenly it took everyone around her a moment to react. Then they grabbed her, men from neighboring houses holding on to her, others forcing David to the ground. Half a dozen men charged inside.

  Chuck was saying something, Grant realized. He forced himself to look at his command officer standing next to him. Chuck was staring unblinkingly at the screen, just saying Fuck, again and again, over and over. Anna the Analyst had a hand over her mouth. Sian and Ernesto were quiet, focused on keeping the drone steady and its cameras aimed.

  We have to do something, Grant said. Except he knew already there was no way to do anything at all, except watch.

  The men re-emerged, with Miriam held between three of them. The others were fending off her siblings, who were throwing themselves at the attackers. Miriam was carried outside, a man on each arm, one on each leg, her small body facing down. As they brought her to the tree where she had left a disemboweled man just a day before, the Hilux carrying Tommy the Talib pulled up, a rooster tail of dust in its wake. He leapt out the back, surrounded by a few more armed men, and pushed through to the center of the crowd.

  There, from high above, Grant and the others watched him snatch the dead child from his wife’s hands, then start to beat her with his fists. She fell to the ground under his punches, and he dragged her by the hair back to his house, throwing her inside the door and pulling it shut after her. The other men, meanwhile, established a perimeter around Miriam, centering her alone in a crater of space, walled by the angry mob. Tommy the Talib walked back into the space, his gun raised and aimed at Miriam.

  He’s going to kill her, Sian said.

  It’s not her, Grant heard himself say. It’s something else.

  Miriam raised her head. Sitting on the ground, with a gun aimed at her temple, she looked straight up at the drone, at them. They saw her face framed in the camera’s eye and Grant was right; it wasn’t the face of a child at all, but the face of something old. There were no eyes, just those burning holes, glowing like flames inside caverns. It grinned up at them, lips pulling back to show long teeth.

  Oh, fuck, Ernesto said.

  What just happened? Sian screamed.

  In the container, a familiar siren began to sound, one that Grant hadn’t heard since the Iraq surveillance. From a base, miles away on the Afghanistan side of the border, a missile had launched, aimed at whatever their drone was watching.

  Who launched it? Chuck bellowed. There was no command. Who fucking launched it?

  It just went live by itself, Ernesto yelled back. The lights in the container had turned red, klaxons going off from every computer system. A missile was soaring through the skies.

  ETA thirty-four second
s, Sian announced.

  Who launched it? Chuck was still demanding.

  Anna the Analyst was clutching a cross that she wore around her neck, praying softly.

  Look, Grant said.

  They watched as Tommy the Talib executed Miriam. His gun jerked, then her body did, and she fell over. The black heat that had pulsed from her all this time began to dissipate.

  ETA twelve seconds, Sian announced.

  Chuck opened his mouth, then closed it, then Grant saw him close his eyes.

  Contact, Sian announced.

  A black rose blossomed on the screen, petals growing outwards to smother everyone huddled around the dead girl. Black debris flew in every direction, dead pixels representing chunks of rock and parts of bodies. Then it dissipated, and all that was left was unrecognizable splatter on the desert floor. Grant turned and walked out. No one said anything as he did.

  He stopped outside the container. On the concrete ahead lay a dead bird; a raven, its wings ragged and torn. It was only when he got closer that he saw it was a girl’s dress, charred black. Grant picked it up. It was still hot. Without even realizing he was doing so, Grant pressed it to his damp cheeks. Then he looked up.

  Queen of Sheba

  Catherina Faris King

  IT WAS CHRISTMAS Eve, 1953, and the radio was singing about snow, snow, snow.

  Outside the window, Los Angeles remained cold but dry. Wishing for snow in Los Angeles was like wishing for wings and a crown – the province of kiddies too young to know better. Juanita, as she plugged in the iron and unfolded the tablecloth, did not wish. She remembered.

  In her very first Christmas memory, there had been snow in the Esparza backyard... and Auntie Opal had been there, too.

  She could remember the flakes falling, just as they did in the movies. And she could remember hugging Auntie Opal tight, the smell of Turkish cigarettes that always clung to her, the vertigo as Auntie picked her up and swung her round. It felt like a dream, but Juanita knew it had been real.

  Auntie Opal was not really a relative, just an old friend of the family’s. She was always smiling at odd things, always knowing things she had no reason to. But then again, she did work with Daddy as a detective. Border work, whatever that was.

  Auntie Opal often passed hours with Abuelita, talking in Spanish, and as far as Juanita could tell, their every other sentence started with “¿Te acuerdas?” Do you remember?Which was strange, because Abuelita had to be at least ten years older than Auntie. At least.

  But then again, how old was Auntie Opal?

  Juanita was not going to waste time wondering. She had a job to do. The iron was finally hot enough, and she smoothed down the tablecloth on the ironing board.

  The tablecloth gleamed white. It was only used at the holiest times of year – baptisms, weddings, and Christmas. Tomorrow it would support Christmas dinner, but today it wore the wrinkles of a year in storage. And Juanita, for the first time, was going to iron it to perfection while the little children slept. And when it was time to go to Midnight Mass, Juanita would drink coffee with her parents so she would be awake to greet the baby Jesus. She was a young lady, now. She was twelve. And her parents trusted her.

  She could barely wait for that coffee. She hoped she would be tough enough to take it black and unsweetened, just like Papa.

  As Juanita hefted the iron and bent over the board, she remembered – with a stab of guilt – the battered paperback of The Queen of Sheba hiding behind her bed. Juanita had borrowed the book from a girlfriend at school, and she fell deeper in love with every page. Mama would have called it ‘trashy’, but Juanita thought it was wonderful. She opened the book and dove into a world of heat and perfume, intrigue and thieves, riddles and beauty. The book was a ticket to the world of adulthood.

  She just didn’t want anyone else finding it.

  She pressed the iron to the tablecloth. She pressed, and smoothed it out, and moved the iron inch by inch. Just enough heat to smooth, not enough to scorch... Careful judgment, minute by minute.

  There was the sound of someone coming up to the front door. Juanita, listening, heard Mama open it, and her welcome. Juanita heard Auntie Opal’s serene alto voice saying hello.

  Juanita would have liked to run in and hug her, but she was going to finish work on this tablecloth. She could picture them in the living room, anyway – Auntie would leave her Christmas presents for the children under the tree. Juanita’s present would probably be a nice blouse. Auntie always bought Juanita nice blouses. Not that Juanita complained. It was nice to have some things to rely on.

  After a few minutes, Opal entered the kitchen, led by Abuelita. Opal made to taste one of the sauces cooking on the stove, and from what Juanita could make out of their Spanish, Abuelita was scolding her, saying the sauces were perfect, and get your spoon out of there!

  Opal laughed and said something about having been a cook in a palace kitchen, so she knew what she was talking about. And then Abuelita was laughing, too, and told Mama to pour them some coffee.

  Juanita was still intent on the tablecloth. She passed the iron over a stretch of it, and –

  She saw something on the weave, as clear as a film. She glimpsed a large kitchen, a fireplace big enough to hold a car; a chef chatting with a laughing spirit that sat in the fireplace, cradling a massive cauldron, in the heart of the flames. The spirit didn’t seem bothered in the least.

  Juanita stopped in her motion, and the glimpse disappeared. She jumped, pulling up the iron before it scorched the fabric. She looked at the tablecloth again.

  What had she seen?

  “Feliz Navidad, Juanita. What are you looking at?”

  Juanita looked up. Auntie Opal was smiling down at her, from her looming six-foot height.

  “Nothing, Auntie,” Juanita said. “¡Feliz Navidad! It’s good to see you.”

  “Just dropping in between calls. It’s a very busy time of year for your father and me.”

  Juanita frowned, and bent to press the iron against the tablecloth. Enough heat to smooth... She said, “Auntie, what exactly is border work? The border with Mexico is hours and hours away.”

  “You’re thinking of the wrong sort of border. Your Papa and I go after the ones that mess around at the border between humans... and fairies.” She grinned.

  Juanita scowled. “Be serious, Auntie. I know fairies aren’t real.”

  Auntie shrugged. “You always seemed to like that Arabian Nights book I gave you.”

  “That’s not fairies, that’s genies and efreets. And they aren’t real either.”

  “As you say. Are you enjoying your winter break?”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s fun.”

  “Plenty of time for reading.”

  Juanita nearly jumped. Auntie couldn’t know about The Queen of Sheba... she couldn’t possibly know...

  She glanced up again. Auntie’s grin had a trace of mischief to it. “You always love to read.”

  Juanita grumbled a ‘yes.’ Auntie changed the subject, saying, “You’re old enough to stay up ’til midnight.”

  “Yes! Twelve, the oldest, and mature for my age, Mama says.” Juanita smiled over the ironing board.

  “And yesterday you were a baby...” Auntie’s voice was sad, but Juanita lost patience with it.

  “Why do adults always have to say that? Last year I was eleven. I wasn’t a baby. I don’t understand it!” She quieted; now Auntie would upbraid her for talking back. But after a pause, all Auntie said was, “The cookies smell good.”

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you, Auntie.”

  Juanita pressed the iron over another expanse – and she saw, again, an image that should not have been there. It was an old Spanish town – though how she was sure, Juanita could not say – and now she could hear something: church bells ringing. As the bells rang, tolling Vespers, a figure fled the city. She was made of dimming fire, losing her human shape in her flight. Juanita, confused and compassionate for the creature, wanted to watch further, to see her fi
nd safe haven. But the image faded. And the iron –

  The iron had rested too long on its patch of tablecloth. With a little shriek, Juanita lifted it up, and saw a hideous scorch mark steaming away on the tablecloth.

  Her hand shook as she set the iron back. Her eyes filled with tears. She pressed her mouth shut and realized that a responsible daughter should tell her mother what had happened, but she was too afraid to...

  “Hey, what’s that?” Auntie Opal asked. She looked at the spot, and then at Juanita. “Don’t cry,” she said, and then she pressed her hand to the scorch mark. Juanita was about to protest, but steam rose up around Auntie’s fingers. With two brief sweeps, she wiped the mark away. The fabric gleamed like new fallen snow.

  Juanita looked up at her Auntie. Auntie just met her eye, and smiled. Behind her, Abuelita called that the coffee was ready. Opal turned around to talk to Abuelita. Juanita didn’t relax. She kept looking after Auntie Opal, until Mama caught her eye, and Juanita set herself with taking up the iron again – now with more care and attention than ever. She wanted to go into the living room and listen to the adults talk, but no. She would not be sloppy again. And she would not think too hard about... whatever it was that Auntie Opal had done.

  It took a long time, but the tablecloth was finally finished, every inch pressed and warm. Juanita set the iron back and permitted herself a break. She still had piles of napkins to do, but first she took the tablecloth up and carried it into the dining room with all due pride. That done, she grabbed a cookie from the rack and sat on the edge of the living room couch. The radio was playing and Papa and Abuelita were telling stories – or, they were interrupting one another in the attempt to tell the same story, according to their very different viewpoints.

  Juanita smiled as she nibbled at the cookie. Mama had heard this story before, and got up for the kitchen. As she just passed the threshold, the phone rang.

  Papa dropped his hands and said, “That’ll be us.” Sure enough, Mama called for him, and he hurried into the kitchen. Auntie nonchalantly got to her feet. Now Abuelita was talking in Spanish again. While Opal bent to talk to her, Papa re-entered. “It was the Chief,” he said. “Border work.”