Jacky Trevane - Fatwa: Living with a Death Threat

Fatwa

Living with a Death Threat

Jacky Trevane

www.hodder.co.uk

While this book relates a true story, the names of individuals including the author herself have been changed to protect those involved and to respect their privacy.

First published in Great Britain in 2004 by

Hodder & Stoughton

An Hachette UK company

Copyright Jacky Trevane 2004

The right of Jacky Trevane to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

eBook ISBN 978 1 444 75315 8

Paperback ISBN 978 0 340 86242 1

Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

338 Euston Road

London NW1 3BH

www.hodder.co.uk

For Chloe

It is time.

I have been waiting a long time for the right moment, the right way, the right reason. I am sitting at home, watching the sunlight stream through the open window, swamping and surrounding my beautiful, tiny granddaughter, until she dislodges her sunhat and scrunches up her baby eyes against its glare. I rescue her, of course, and snuggle her closely. I bury my head into her crinkly neck and cover her with kisses until she collapses into giggles. That wonderful, seductive baby smell. The smell my own babies had, talcum powdery, fresh, new, somehow innocent, unscathed...

Read my story, darling Chloe. When you are older, read my story and know that there is nothing as strong as a mothers love for her children, even though sometimes, no matter how hard you try, it just doesnt seem to be enough.

Your mother, my first daughter, is now in charge of her own destiny. Your aunt, my second daughter, has just turned eighteen years of age and can finally claim an identity and tell the world that she exists officially.

I have waited fifteen long years and now I know.

Yes, it is time.

I t is time. In the shadowy light of dawn, I watch the hour hand reach five, and slip quietly out of bed. Bending down, so close that I can feel his breath on my cheek, I watch my husbands face as he sleeps. Curled up in slumber with one arm slung out over the end of the bed, his face is gentle, relaxed, innocent.

I tiptoe out of the bedroom to wake the girls. Everything is ready; Leilas school uniform on the back of the chair, Amiras clean clothes and a doll to play with. As they clamber out of bed to start the day, I put my finger to my lips and they are both instantly alert and conscious of the noise they are making. They too tiptoe around, preparing for school.

We must not wake Papa. If Papa wakes up he will be angry with us. My heart is beating fast and loud. I pray silently that he will sleep through the morning. Already the sounds of a new day begin to drift through the shutters: the grating and creaking of wooden wheels as donkeys drag carts along the dusty street, people on bicycles ringing their bells, the women at the local tap gossiping.

Within ten minutes we are ready to leave. I gather Amira up into my arms, put my school bag over my shoulder, and turn to look for the final time, at the life we are leaving behind.

The whole of our lives had been contained in that flat: two carpets, a filthy, flea-ridden three-piece suite, a cooker, water in the taps most days, a water heater and a black-and-white TV. It had taken such an enormous amount of effort to accumulate and it would all have been worth it, but for the brute on the bed.

I was wasting valuable time I realised, as I stole another minute to examine my husbands features. This man, once the best husband a girl could wish for, was now a stranger. He awoke every morning, confident that he could treat us exactly how he liked when he liked, and knowing that there was nothing we could do about it. Well, there was something we could do, and now I was going to try to do it. Yet if he woke up too soon, if he realised we were gone, he would go mad. He would track us down and kill us. I had no doubt of that.

In the heat of the early morning, I shuddered, kissed Amira and, with a last brief glance at his face, closed the door as we made our way noiselessly down the four flights of shadowy stairs and out into the blinding sunlight that was the street.

Look down, act normally. Like a Moslem wife should, I reminded myself.

Though still early morning, the heat of the sun slammed into us. As we passed a woman sitting in the dust outside her doorway, I panicked, convinced she must be able to hear my heart beating. I muttered a greeting in Arabic, feeling the sweat begin to run down my cheeks. Come on, come on, hold it together, girl. Youve only just left the flat. Theres an awfully long way to go yet. Get a grip.

We passed the communal water tap and Leila ran up to chat to one of the girls clinging to her mothers black robe as she filled a bucket. Amira and I continued on to the top of the street and round the corner, walking slowly to disguise the sense of urgency rippling through every bone in my body.

With a wave to the girls, Leila ran to catch us up. She was looking this way and that for the school bus, which usually waited at the top of the street, signalling us with three loud blasts of the horn.

But today, the school bus was not waiting. Where the bus normally stood was a little grey car. I could do nothing to prevent a smile escaping, for a moment breaking my mask of indifference. But I was immediately back in control as I casually approached the car and motioned for the girls to get in.

Everything okay?

So far, so good.

The relief began to flood through me as Jill threw me a reassuring smile from the drivers seat and we zoomed off to the bus station.

Wheres the bus? Has it broken down? Are you taking us to school, Jill? Where are Jack and Sheila?

Theyre still at home, Leila, getting ready for school. Im taking you to the station. She looked meaningfully at me. The bag is down there.

She indicated under the passenger seat. I pulled the bag out and set it upon my knee. Such an unobtrusive, ordinary, black barrel bag with the rest of our lives tucked inside it.

Its happening, its actually happening. The thought raced through my mind over and over again, as I unzipped the top and took out a skirt and T-shirt.

Come on darling, slip these on. How would you like to go on holiday and give school a miss?

Where to, Mama?

I realised that Leila had discarded her uniform and was already pulling the T-shirt over her head. She was six now and ready for adventure.

Well, Nanna and Grandad are taking a short holiday in Israel, and thats right next door to us here in Egypt. So I thought wed bunk off school, not tell Papa and go to see them. What do you think?

The car rounded a corner and the bus station came into view. My heart began to pound once more, as Leila asked, Mama, do we have to come back?

Jill leaned over and whispered in my ear, The return bus tickets are in the side pocket, with your passport and $60 as agreed. Good luck, Jacky. You can do this.

We hugged and kissed briefly, Jill wiping away a tear, me reluctant to leave the security and peace inside of the car. A minute later we were waving her off, three solitary figures on the dusty roadside with a doll and a small black holdall. It was still only six oclock. The bus out of Cairo left at half past. It was a five-hour journey across the desert to the Israeli border, so before approaching the bus station, I stopped at a barrow on the side of the street and bought a kilo of tangerines. From a kiosk I bought two bottles of water and some processed cheese triangles that Amira loved. From the black bag I pulled a headscarf and quickly covered my long blonde hair which I had swept up into a tight bun that morning to avoid attracting undue attention. It was important to look as much like a dutiful Moslem wife and mother as possible for the plan to succeed. Taking Leilas hand, I crossed the road to the bus station.