Olives (19 page)

We stood as
the judges filed in, the last of the three men and by far the most
commanding. I noticed Ibrahim whispering furiously to Al Bashir. He
was pale and looked shocked, stroking his grey moustache
distractedly.

‘
What is
it?’

Al Bashir
leaned across, whispering, ‘It is the wrong presiding judge. We
understood another man would hear this case. I am very sorry. This
is not what we had expected.’

‘
Who’s
this?’

‘
This is
Ayman Khasawneh.’

I felt as if
someone were looking at me and turned to catch Khasawneh’s glare.
He barked something in Arabic and everyone sat. My trial had
started and I couldn’t understand a word. I looked around the stark
room as a court official got up to speak, presumably reading out
the charge. I caught sight of a familiar figure sitting in the
public seats, his eyes on the judge. Gerald Lynch didn’t even spare
me a glance.

I had never
in my life felt so impotent as I did sitting in that courthouse as
these men debated my future around me, their guttural Arabic
echoing in the bare room. A fat, fussy little man in a beige jacket
took to his feet and started reading from a sheaf of papers in
Arabic as Al Bashir leaned across to me and whispered, ‘This has
all just been procedural. The prosecution will read the charges
now.’

The
prosecutor’s voice droned on in Arabic for a little before Al
Bashir sprung to his feat, making me jump as he slammed his hand
down on the table and cried out in rage. Khasawneh shouted back at
him, his hand in the air as Ibrahim also took to his feet. The
prosecutor was shouting now and the judges were all standing.
Khasawneh smashed his gavel into the desktop in front of him. It
was instant pandemonium and I sat, bewildered and uncomprehending
as the red-faced men shook fists at each other, Khasawneh shouting
above everyone else before wheeling around and leaving the room
followed by the other judges. Al Bashir and Ibrahim were bent
towards each other, talking urgently. Al Bashir pointed across at
the prosecutor, who was making a great show of playing with his
papers. I spoke, my voice sounding oddly small and thin after the
outbursts of furious shouting I had just witnessed.

‘
Would anyone
mind telling me what’s going on here?’

Al Bashir
sat, turning to face me.

‘
Yes, Paul,
I’m sorry. The prosecutor has laid two charges against you. One of
assaulting a police officer and one of possessing a small amount of
cannabis. They are claiming the reason the officer stopped you was
to search you for the drugs and you resisted arrest. They are
asking for the maximum penalty. It is a substantial prison
term.’

I looked at
him in astonishment, my mind racing to try and find some possible
explanation for the charge, every muscle in my body taut and my
hands clasped between my legs. My voice was reduced to a hoarse
whisper.

‘
It’s a total
lie. It’s not true.’ I struggled for words. ‘It’s a fabrication.
How can they do this? Ibrahim knows, he saw the original charge
sheet, saw me sign it.’

‘
I appreciate
this. The prosecutor has broken all procedure in bringing a charge
they haven’t notified us of and I don’t think they’ll be able to
make the drugs charge stand in law whatever happens, but it is a
very unfortunate escalation of the case. Khasawneh has adjourned
the court until tomorrow. Ibrahim will make a written statement now
and we will submit this to the judge this evening.’

Something
snapped inside me. I sprang to my feet, my arm outstretched in
accusation and shouted ‘Liar’ across at the prosecution lawyer.
Ibrahim restrained me, his heavy arm around my shoulder and I
breathed in his musky aftershave as I leaned on the table, gasping
for air. The prosecution lawyer busied himself in his papers before
he glanced furtively around him and left the room.

I looked over
to the public gallery. Lynch had gone.

The tension
left me and I collapsed against Ibrahim’s shoulder, hot tears of
rage and frustration shaming me as he patted my back.

I didn’t go
back to work, but drove up onto the Citadel, sitting on a fallen
column, looking out over the bustling city below me, smoking and
reliving the courtroom, reprising my memories of arriving in Jordan
and being arrested, replaying the scenes again and again until I
had finished the packet, leaving a scattering of white butts around
me. I got up and headed for home.

I was fishing
in my pocket for my key when I noticed Lars’ front door open at the
top of the flight of iron stairs up the side of the house. Finding
my key, I was in two minds whether to mind my own business or just
nip and check things out. I started up the steps, but stopped
halfway and called out to him. His reply was a cracked moan of pain
that had me leaping up the remaining steps and standing breathless
at his door as the sound died on his lips.

His room was
a mess, computer equipment and toppled racks of electronics strewn
everywhere. What had been neat minimalism looked like a junkyard.
In the middle of it all lay Lars. There was a lot of
blood.

I ran over to
him and put my hand on his arm, not quite knowing what to do. I
waited as his eyes opened painfully and focused on me, helping him
to struggle to a seated position. I went to the bathroom and wet a
towel and tried to clean up his face as best I could.

‘
What the
hell happened?’

‘
There were
two guys here when I got home. I took some time off this afternoon,
got here early. They were messing with my gear.’

Lars gulped
twice, then turned away and threw up. I got him another towel and a
bottle of water from the kitchen.

‘
Will I call
the ambulance?’

He shook his
head, painfully. ‘No, don’t think so.’

‘
So you had a
go, then?’

‘
I shouted at
them. I think they will stop or panic or something. I’m not sure
what. I never been burgled before. And in daylight. There was a fat
guy and a thin guy, like Laurel and Hardy. The thin guy just stayed
messing with my gear, the fat guy came over to me. They were
wearing face-hats. He came over to me and just beat the shit out of
me, deliberate, not angry. The last thing I remember is them
trashing the place and kicking me on the way out.’

‘
Who were
they?’

His face
darkened. ‘How the fuck can I know, Paul? They didn’t leave
business cards, did they?’

‘
Sorry,
sorry. Stupid question. But they must have had a reason, must have
been after something?’

Lars gestured
to the wreckage around him. ‘Whatever it was, they weren’t here to
steal stuff. Look, you wanna fix me a whisky?’

When I got
back from the kitchen holding two tumblers he’d propped himself up
against the wall with his hands on his legs to support him. I
righted one of his black and chrome chairs and he eased himself
into it before taking the tumbler.

‘
Thanks. Glad
you came by.’

His face
glowed red on one side, his lip split and a livid bruise forming
around his eye and temple. He had a gash on the back of his head
and his hands were cut. The state of his knuckles told me it hadn’t
been an entirely one way conversation.

‘
You look
awful. Will I take you down to A and E?’

‘
No, I’m
okay.

I looked
around. ‘Why on earth would they want to do this?’

‘
I don’t
know, but like I say, they weren’t thieves. This stuff is worth
thousands. A thief runs, he doesn’t step up to you and start
punching.’ Lars grimaced. ‘And the guy doing the punching was good
at it. Real good.’

‘
Were they
trying to get at your computer?’

‘
Must have
been. But why? There’s nothing special about it, but the encryption
software I use and the line down to your place.’

Lars had set
up a flylead and a wireless link to my place downstairs – being a
telecoms freak, he had a hyper-fast, multi-megabit Internet line
and hadn’t paid a bill for it since he had moved to Amman. He’d
been kind enough to extend that privilege to me soon after I moved
in.

I kept quiet,
but his words hit home. There was nothing special about Lars except
his connection to me. And it had got him beaten up.

I caught his
look. Lars had made the connection at the same time I had. I
dropped my eyes.

‘
Right,’ he
said softly. I heard him drink from the glass I could hear his hand
shaking in the clink of the ice.

‘
Lars...’

‘
Paul, drop
it. It doesn’t matter. Whatever you’re up to with your Mr Lynch of
the British Embassy, just leave me out of it. You hear? It’s not my
problem. The less I know the better off I will be, I think,
no?’

My mouth was
dry, the drink untouched in my hand. I looked up at his battered
face. Lars smiled, a tight, bitter smile.

‘
You’re a
good man. Just watch your back well, you hear? These people are
crazy. Hell, fuck, I’m crazy.’ He grinned angrily. ‘We all crazy,
right?’

He drained
his glass and got shakily to his feet. To my surprise, he held out
his hand. I took it and we shook. He turned and slowly, painfully
started to clear up. I left him without a word.

I walked down
the iron stairs, the handrail cold in the evening air, but didn’t
go into my own house. I sat at the garden table, lit up a cigarette
and called Lynch.

‘
Paul.’

‘
I’ve had
enough. I want to meet.’

‘
Sure, Paul.
You just at a loose end or have you got something in
mind?’

‘
You saw what
happened today. You were behind it.’

‘
Okay, Paul.
Let’s meet at TGI’s, the Marriott. At eight.’

I finished my
cigarette, luxuriating in the last rays of the setting sun and
listening to the rustling of the vine leaves as the cool breeze
caught them. I went indoors to catch the news and freshen
up.

The bar was
noisy and beery, a warm contrast to the cool evening outside.
People chattered over a background of daft pop music and chose from
unfeasibly large plastic-laminated menus. I sat in the corner with
Lynch.

‘
I’ll try to
get the Jerusalem Consortium bid documents for you. But only if you
have this case dropped.’

‘
I don’t
think you’re in any position to be making demands here, Paul.’
Lynch looked around the bar with a look of mild puzzlement, as if
he had just realised where he was. I waited for him to come back
but he looked down at his glass for a long time, gently tapping his
signet ring against it to the rhythm of the music.

I had been
rehearsing this for hours in my mind. The last thing the bastard
would expect was I’d push back. And so that’s precisely what I did,
although the little Brit in my mind screamed at me to give in,
capitulate, throw in the towel. I drew a breath.

‘
Well, you’d
be wrong, Gerald. You see, I think you’ve pushed it too far. As far
as I can make out, I’m in trouble whatever I do. If I tell you to
fuck off, I’ll go down for assault. They won’t make the drugs
charge stick. If I play along with you, you’ll have me by the short
and curlies for all time. And I really don’t want that. So this is
how it’s going to be. You want the Jerusalem document, the case
goes away. And so do you.’

I wondered if
I’d overplayed it. I looked at Lynch to gauge his reaction but he
wasn’t looking at me. He was signalling a waitress for a refill.
She smiled at him and he winked lewdly.

‘
What if you
can’t deliver, Paul?’

‘
I can
deliver. I know where it is and how it’s secured,’ I lied with a
facility that surprised me.

He turned to
face me, still leering. ‘And what if I can’t change the way your
case is going? Had you perhaps thought of that? What if I’m not
able to wander around telling Jordanian judges what to
do?’

‘
You said it
yourself, that Khasawneh was your man. You can fix it. Because you
bloody broke it in the first place.’

His drink
arrived and he lifted the glass, looking at me over the foamy head
of the lager for a second before drinking.

‘
Okay, Paul.
I’ll have a word. But you deliver on the Jerusalem document in full
or I’ll hang you out to dry. In a friendly way, you
understand.’

‘
And call off
your thugs. No more break-ins.’

He was
stilled in an instant, watching, wary. ‘What thugs?’

‘
The two
bully boys in balaclavas who broke in upstairs and beat the living
shit out of my neighbour.’

He shook his
head. ‘Sorry, son, not mine. Not house style. We don’t do
heavy-handed stuff like that unless we’re occupying military. I
can’t help you there. Sounds like local talent.’

I stood,
tossing a note on the table to cover the beers, and left, my hands
damp with sweat and my heart pumping in my chest so loudly the
whole world could surely hear it.