Night Hush by Leslie Jones

Karim household. This was not good.
    Christina picked up a brass water jug and appeared to admire the wide bottom, tapered top, and swirled handle. Her fingers traced the intricate design and rubbed across its scratchy surface, but the glances she darted toward Shukri and Salman Ibrahim spoke a different story. She knew who they were, and their approach made her nervous. Which meant the timing of her visit to Aa’idah had been no coincidence, as she had suspected.
    The vendor approached eagerly, speaking in halting, broken English. “You like? Very beautiful. For flow the water, yes?” Aa’idah knew the merchant. His English, like her own, was nearly flawless. For some reason, he believed Westerners bought more expensive pieces from him because they saw him as poor and needy.
    â€œI give special to American. Good price.” He named a price that probably represented a hundred percent profit for the man, but would seem low enough to Christina.
    â€œI’m with the British Education Foundation,” Christina said, her London accent firmly in place. “We’re here rebuilding bombed-­out schools. Great Britain. Not American. English.” Aa’idah’s brother and Salman Ibrahim drifted closer. Aa’idah hoped they could hear Christina. She hoped they believed her.
    â€œGood price. American,” the merchant said stubbornly.
    Sighing, Christina pulled a few crumpled bills from her pocket and offered the money to him, spreading it out to show the amount, clutching it with both hands. The merchant hesitated a moment, then reluctantly nodded and took the bills. He wrapped the jug in paper and handed it to her, face still registering disappointment. Christina nodded her thanks, trying and failing—­to Aa’idah’s eyes, anyway—­to appear contrite and grateful. The deal had been a good one for both parties. Aa’idah knew the moment Christina turned, a smug look would appear on the merchant’s face.
    But Christina did not have the chance to turn, and the merchant did not have the chance to gloat. Shukri reached her, roughly grabbing her arm and yanking her around to face him. The self-­proclaimed English relief worker tensed. Aa’idah thought she might fight, but instead she shrank away and clutched the paper-­wrapped jug as though she thought she was being robbed.
    Shukri, wearing the dark pants and tunic hanging past his knees he always wore to Friday prayers, muscled Christina out of the street and into the space between the brass seller and the carts piled high with soccer balls. She eased back, anxious that neither her brother nor the imam catch her eavesdropping. Christina pulled and twisted, uttering cries of distress. Aa’idah’s heart fell. The action would not garner her sympathy. Shukri pounced on weakness like a cat after a dormouse. True to form, he shoved her against the stucco wall. The light material of Christina’s blouse caught on the rough surface. Both Shukri and the imam faced her now, twin lasers of hostility and anger in their gazes.
    Christina shrank back, one hand flat on the wall behind her, the other clutching the jug to her breast like a shield. “Who are you? What do you want?” she rasped.
    Salman Ibrahim jabbed a finger at her, voice venomous as he upbraided her for strutting in the marketplace as though she were an empress, then in the next breath accused her of being a shameless whore. Aa’idah’s cheeks heated with embarrassment for the other woman, even though the stream of angry words issuing from the imam’s mouth was clearly too fast for the Englishwoman to follow. Christina shook her head, a bewildered look on her face; but Aa’idah knew she got the gist of it loud and clear.
    â€œWhat do you want? Who are you?” Christina asked again. Shukri put up a hand, and Salman Ibrahim subsided.
    â€œWhy did you speak to my sister?” he asked, in clear,