68

I followed Ali through the room and out onto a balcony. The sun had just slipped below the horizon. Night was falling fast and with it came the chorus of wailing. We seemed to be hemmed in on all sides by minarets.

Ali leant on the balustrade and stared at the street below. ‘I’m sorry you had to see my father like this. He is a good man, but he suffers.’

‘What happened to him – the scars? The war?’ That type of shrapnel injury does things to a man. I’d seen it.

‘Would you like a drink? I don’t drink myself, but my father always has whisky – black market.’

‘No, mate, I’m all right.’

‘Aisha will bring us something. Some chay, perhaps – tea.’

I asked him again.

He shrugged. ‘When Aisha and I were little, we used to ask him about the scars. He always used to tell us that he’d fought off a fire-breathing dragon.’ He gave a bad dragon roar and then a smile. ‘He used to breathe on us just like that, holding his hands up like claws, and making this noise – the noise that the dragon made when it breathed fire at him. We used to run away, squealing and laughing . . .’ His voice tailed away.

‘What happened to him, Ali? In the war?’

Ali beckoned me to a carved table in the corner of the balcony and invited me to sit down. He pulled up a chair next to me. For a moment, he stared out over the rooftops, a faraway look in his eyes. Then he reached into his pocket. He produced an object wrapped in an ornate, gold-embroidered cloth, the kind of thing I’d been dodging during my walk through the market. He started to unwrap it, but was disturbed by a noise inside the apartment – the sound of a door closing. He rewrapped it quickly and placed it back in his pocket just as Aisha walked in. He smiled at her. ‘How is Father?’

Out of some kind of respect thing for me, perhaps, he spoke in English.

‘Resting.’

While there was something childlike and innocent about Ali, Aisha was every inch the big sister. She still wasn’t impressed with me.

I held her gaze. ‘How often does this happen, Aisha?’

‘Often enough, Mr Manley. But we will cope, we need no help.’

Fair one, keep my nose out. It was clear she didn’t want me here. Except that I’d been dragged headlong into the apartment of an overdosing heroin addict, it was none of my business.

‘Would you like some tea, Mr Manley?’

‘Tea would be good.’

As soon as she had left the room, Ali retrieved the object from his pocket. He set it on the table and unwrapped it again. ‘I am sorry, Jim, but my sister doesn’t like me talking about certain things, things that interest me, but are of no interest to her – and especially in front of strangers. But, if you will allow me to say so, you do not feel like a stranger to me. I have always wanted to do what you are doing – writing about military technology, aircraft . . . hardware, I think you call it. And that you were looking for me is such a compliment. I feel very privileged.’

With a final flourish, he unfolded the cloth and produced a military medal inscribed in Farsi.