someone running beside him.
‘Nearly there, Effendi!’ said the messenger indomitably.
One last street, a crowd outside, well, you’d expect that. He jumped off the bicycle.
‘Out of the way! Out of the way!’ he shouted.
‘Make way! Make way for the Mamur Zapt!’ shouted the storyteller.
He pushed his way through. Hands helped as well as hindered.
Suddenly he was through, popped out the front, like a cork out of a bottle.
The café was a scene of destruction. Chairs, tables, hookahs lay all over the floor. In the middle of the room, prone on his face, lay Selim.
Mustapha’s wife was on her knees beside him. There was blood all over her
burka
.
‘A lion!’ she kept saying tearfully. ‘A lion!’
Owen bent down. There was a huge gash on the back of Selim’s head. Owen bent closer.
‘He breathes,’ he said.
‘A lion!’ said the woman, in tears. ‘A wounded lion!’
The wounded lion groaned.
‘Water!’ said the woman. ‘Bring water!’
Mekhmet, terrified, plucked at her sleeve.
‘Lady,’ he said. ‘Lady!’
‘Fetch water.’
‘But, Lady—’
‘Go on, you stupid bastard!’ said a voice from across the room. It was the owner of the café, Mustapha, pale and limp, sitting exhaustedly on the bottom of the stairs. ‘Fetch water, can’t you?’
Mekhmet looked around in despair, saw Owen and clutched his arm.
‘Effendi! Oh, Effendi!’
‘It’s all right,’ said Owen. ‘It’s over now.’
‘But, Effendi—’
‘Get some water, can’t you? And after that, some coffee. For me and the Effendi. I bloody need it!’
‘Effendi!’ pleaded Mekhmet.
‘Move your ass!’
Mekhmet fled into the kitchen. Mustapha prised himself up and limped across to Owen.
‘A fine bloody job he’s done!’ he said bitterly, looking down at Selim. ‘My café’s wrecked! And what did he do about it?’
‘He fought like a lion!’ said the woman indignantly.
‘Maybe, but he fell down like a sheep when they knocked him on the head.’
‘And where were you? Under the bed!’
‘I’ve got a broken leg, haven’t I? Isn’t that enough for you? Or do you want me to get a broken skull as well?’
‘It is not for you to chide the one who fought!’ said the woman angrily.
‘Well, that’s his job, isn’t it? Fighting? I just wish he’d made a better job of it, that’s all.’
‘Shame on you!’ said the woman. ‘While he lies there bleeding!’
‘Well, it didn’t work, did it? He was supposed to stop this from happening. That was the idea of it, wasn’t it? Well, look around you,’ he said to Owen. ‘A fat lot of use he’s been! Protection? Protection, my ass! The only thing he’s good for is drinking coffee. You know what? She was more use than he was. Threw boiling water over them!’
‘God forgive me!’ said the woman.
‘God is all-merciful,’ replied Mustapha automatically, and then started. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘I hope He doesn’t carry it to extremes. We don’t want Him forgiving the bastards who wrecked my café!’
Mekhmet appeared from the kitchen with a bowl of water. He put it down and then plucked Owen by the sleeve.
‘Effendi,’ he said anxiously.
‘What about that coffee?’ said Mustapha. He picked up a chair and sat down on it heavily. ‘There’s another for you!’ he said to Owen. ‘That Mekhmet! Idle as the other one and even more useless! Go and get some coffee, can’t you?’
‘But, Effendi—’ said Mekhmet desperately.
‘Coffee!’ said Mustapha peremptorily.
Mekhmet looked this way and that and then fled to the kitchen.
Owen turned Selim on to his back. The woman took his head gently on to her knees and began sponging it.
‘That’s more like it!’ murmured Selim.
Suddenly his eyes opened.
‘Those bastards!’ he said, trying to get up.
The woman pulled him back.
‘Well—’ said Selim, yielding.
His eyes opened again.
‘At least I got one of them!’ he said.
Owen glanced around.
‘He’s not here. They must
‘Nearly there, Effendi!’ said the messenger indomitably.
One last street, a crowd outside, well, you’d expect that. He jumped off the bicycle.
‘Out of the way! Out of the way!’ he shouted.
‘Make way! Make way for the Mamur Zapt!’ shouted the storyteller.
He pushed his way through. Hands helped as well as hindered.
Suddenly he was through, popped out the front, like a cork out of a bottle.
The café was a scene of destruction. Chairs, tables, hookahs lay all over the floor. In the middle of the room, prone on his face, lay Selim.
Mustapha’s wife was on her knees beside him. There was blood all over her
burka
.
‘A lion!’ she kept saying tearfully. ‘A lion!’
Owen bent down. There was a huge gash on the back of Selim’s head. Owen bent closer.
‘He breathes,’ he said.
‘A lion!’ said the woman, in tears. ‘A wounded lion!’
The wounded lion groaned.
‘Water!’ said the woman. ‘Bring water!’
Mekhmet, terrified, plucked at her sleeve.
‘Lady,’ he said. ‘Lady!’
‘Fetch water.’
‘But, Lady—’
‘Go on, you stupid bastard!’ said a voice from across the room. It was the owner of the café, Mustapha, pale and limp, sitting exhaustedly on the bottom of the stairs. ‘Fetch water, can’t you?’
Mekhmet looked around in despair, saw Owen and clutched his arm.
‘Effendi! Oh, Effendi!’
‘It’s all right,’ said Owen. ‘It’s over now.’
‘But, Effendi—’
‘Get some water, can’t you? And after that, some coffee. For me and the Effendi. I bloody need it!’
‘Effendi!’ pleaded Mekhmet.
‘Move your ass!’
Mekhmet fled into the kitchen. Mustapha prised himself up and limped across to Owen.
‘A fine bloody job he’s done!’ he said bitterly, looking down at Selim. ‘My café’s wrecked! And what did he do about it?’
‘He fought like a lion!’ said the woman indignantly.
‘Maybe, but he fell down like a sheep when they knocked him on the head.’
‘And where were you? Under the bed!’
‘I’ve got a broken leg, haven’t I? Isn’t that enough for you? Or do you want me to get a broken skull as well?’
‘It is not for you to chide the one who fought!’ said the woman angrily.
‘Well, that’s his job, isn’t it? Fighting? I just wish he’d made a better job of it, that’s all.’
‘Shame on you!’ said the woman. ‘While he lies there bleeding!’
‘Well, it didn’t work, did it? He was supposed to stop this from happening. That was the idea of it, wasn’t it? Well, look around you,’ he said to Owen. ‘A fat lot of use he’s been! Protection? Protection, my ass! The only thing he’s good for is drinking coffee. You know what? She was more use than he was. Threw boiling water over them!’
‘God forgive me!’ said the woman.
‘God is all-merciful,’ replied Mustapha automatically, and then started. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘I hope He doesn’t carry it to extremes. We don’t want Him forgiving the bastards who wrecked my café!’
Mekhmet appeared from the kitchen with a bowl of water. He put it down and then plucked Owen by the sleeve.
‘Effendi,’ he said anxiously.
‘What about that coffee?’ said Mustapha. He picked up a chair and sat down on it heavily. ‘There’s another for you!’ he said to Owen. ‘That Mekhmet! Idle as the other one and even more useless! Go and get some coffee, can’t you?’
‘But, Effendi—’ said Mekhmet desperately.
‘Coffee!’ said Mustapha peremptorily.
Mekhmet looked this way and that and then fled to the kitchen.
Owen turned Selim on to his back. The woman took his head gently on to her knees and began sponging it.
‘That’s more like it!’ murmured Selim.
Suddenly his eyes opened.
‘Those bastards!’ he said, trying to get up.
The woman pulled him back.
‘Well—’ said Selim, yielding.
His eyes opened again.
‘At least I got one of them!’ he said.
Owen glanced around.
‘He’s not here. They must
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