Night Hush by Leslie Jones Page A

British-­accented English. The evening shoppers maneuvered around the confrontation, heads down, pretending they saw nothing. Christina straightened, looking Shukri in the face. Aa’idah’s heart hammered against her rib cage. In this ultraconservative section of Ma’ar ye zhad, the imam could beat her to death right in the street, and no one would interfere.
    â€œYour sister?” Christina asked. “I’m very sorry, but I don’t know you.”
    â€œI am Shukri Karim.” His voice swelled with arrogance. “My sister is Aa’idah Karim.”
    â€œOh, yes. I talked to her just now. She is a teacher at the Thenoon al Fattah school for girls,” Christina said, voice puzzled but respectful. “The school is nearly fully rebuilt. When it reopens, the children will need their teachers back. I asked her to return to teach. That’s all.”
    â€œYou spoke to her alone,” he said accusingly.
    In fact, Aa’idah remained convinced Christina had arranged the timing very carefully, approaching her door just after Friday prayers and on a day when her mother had gone to visit her aunt. And yes, they had spoken of the school, and the girls who urgently needed an education. But they had spoken of so much more. Things Shukri must never hear.
    Christina continued to look up at Shukri, her brows pulled together. “No one else was home.”
    â€œThis is not permitted. A male member of her family must be present.”
    The imam grabbed Christina’s arm, looming over her as he shook her. His fist clamped so tightly around her bicep that Aa’idah knew Christina would carry the bruises for a week. Shukri translated as the imam snarled. “Salman Ibrahim is a Shi’ite cleric, imam of the Samarra Mosque. He says you have behaved in a disrespectful manner, shaming the home of Mahmoud Karim. He says you are brazen and not of good character, that you walk outside with no male escort to ensure your virtue. He says you do not lower your eyes submissively, as a woman should. He’s going to beat you to teach you to behave properly.”
    Blood pounded through Aa’idah’s head. If Salman Ibrahim followed through on his threat, did she dare interfere?
    Christina pinned her gaze to the cleric’s feet and gripped the water jug tighter. Aa’idah imagined the other woman’s hands were probably shaking as badly as her own. “Please tell him no discourtesy was intended.” Christina’s voice cracked. “My group is staying at a hostel near the school. Your government places no restrictions on us. I’m a British citizen. Please call the consulate. I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding.” Her voice became pleading. “I’m a relief worker. I’m here to help you.” Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes.
    â€œWe do not wish your help,” Shukri said harshly. “Your corrupting influence has spread far enough. My sister will not be returning to teach.”
    Aa’idah’s heart sank even further. She had suspected as much. Her father seemed to be fading, allowing his eldest son to make decisions for the family. And Shukri had become angry. Bitter. And determined to force his traditionalist ideals onto his family whether they wanted it or not.
    â€œAll right. I’m sorry.” Christina tried to disengage her arm from the cleric’s grip. He growled something, his voice too low for Aa’idah to hear. When he glared into the woman’s face, yanking her closer, a cold frisson of fear slithered down Aa’idah’s spine.
    Shukri spoke, sounding neither sorry nor concerned. “Salman Ibrahim says,” he reported, “that you are under arrest.”
    This was very bad.

 
    Chapter Twelve
    August 19. 2:30 P.M.
    Base Hospital, al-­Zadr Air Force Base, Azakistan
    T HE STEADY BEEP of the heart rate monitor was driving Heather crazy. The tubes running from her arms to