Where Pigeons Don't Fly Read Online Free PDF Page B

around ten or eleven Fahd would be thirsty and get out of bed muddle-headed, keeping his eyes barely open, not enough to banish sleep but just sufficient to see his way through the living room to the small fridge in the kitchen. On his return, his anxiety would take him to the door of his parents’ bedroom, which he would open without knocking to find them gone. Was it then that his instincts told him that he would, in fact, lose them at an early age and at more or less the same time?
    When Fahd was fifteen, his father had been obliged to travel to Qaseem, a matter of signing court papers to do with Ali’s will. Fahd had woken early, before Suleiman, hoping for a final chance for his father to change his mind and take him along, even though the night before he had stressed to Fahd that it was more important that he remain at home with his mother and sister, tucking a fifty riyal note into Fahd’s top pocket as he smiled: ‘When I get back we’ll go to Thamama so you can learn to drive!’
    Suleiman drank two cups of coffee standing up, refusing Soha’s invitation to eat the breakfast she had prepared and telling her he had to make the second court session in Buraidabefore noon. She handed him a cloth bag with a zipper, containing two thermoses of coffee and tea and a cheese and jam sandwich wrapped in cling film, which he placed in the footwell of the seat next to him before his wine-red Caprice moved out into Zuhair Rustom Alley. Fahd stood there waving goodbye, gazing at the red glow of rear lights as his father tapped the brakes just before Sayyidat al-Ru’osa Street.
    Fahd shut the door and returned to the living room and, as he busied himself searching for something entertaining on television, his mother groaned, ‘Your father’s forgotten his bag!’
    She phoned him and he came back, turning around on Quwa al-Amn Bridge. Fahd waited for him on the doorstep, the Samsonite suitcase beside him, and when the car pulled up, he opened the rear door, put in the case and jokingly said to his father, ‘Welcome home, Dad.’
    Suleiman chuckled and asked for some water. His mother gave him a new bottle of mineral water and as he rushed back down the steps she shouted for Fahd and handed him a glass of water from the fridge in the kitchen. Suleiman drank, his eyes stern.
    â€˜Look after yourself, my man,’ he said. ‘And your mother and sister, too.’
    Then he moved off.
    These were his last words. Off he went, rushing to make the second court session, but he never arrived. Soha called him half an hour later on his mobile phone as she usually did.
    â€˜The number you have dialled is currently unavailable, please try again later.’
    The recorded message was slurred, heavy and menacing. Ten minutes later she tried again and she kept trying until just before noon.
    Panicked, Fahd phoned his friend Saeed and asked him to come over right away. Disoriented and anxious he climbed in next to him.
    â€˜Where to?’
    â€˜The highway to look for my father!’ Fahd snapped.
    Saeed hesitated and then made a call that lasted for a few minutes. He suggested they ask at the accident and emergency departments of the major hospitals to find out if anything had happened—God forbid.
    Saeed’s Honda Civic gradually descended to King Fahd Road and from there to Khazan Street, taking a left on to Assarat Street and passing through the lights outside the gate to the Central Hospital, before they came to a stop beneath the bridge that led to Aseer Street, where the trees slept still as stones. Trembling, Fahd got out and followed Saeed to the entrance of the emergency ward. They questioned a young man at the reception desk and he directed them to another building that dealt with traffic accidents.
    The Sudanese receptionist had a paper cup of tea in front of him, a Lipton label spilling from its edge. He was sprawled out, yawning violently in the summer’s noonday