Free The Protector by Duncan Falconer

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    Abdul turned away and almost bumped into Hassan who looked down at the cash, took it from Abdul’s hand and inspected the amount, maintaining his snarl as he pocketed it. ‘Just four thousand? You don’t try very hard,’ he said.
    ‘I’m not very good at it,’ Abdul replied.
    ‘Bullshit,’ Hassan said. ‘You’re weak.’
    Hassan walked away, leaving Abdul with the usual bad taste in his mouth. Much as he hated Hassan and the job that he was trapped in, gainful employment was hard to find in Iraq and since Abdul was not the entrepreneurial type it was either the police, the army or the private security sector. The army had been a non-starter since what little experience he’d had of it still haunted him. He did not have the patience and confidence nor the right contacts for a security-guard position, even though a job like that meant better pay if the right employer could be found. Joining the police force was the easiest and most convenient option because it was a simple case of filling in an application form, waiting a few weeks to be vetted cursorily and then completing the brief training course.
    At the end of that day’s shift, before the team dispersed to their homes or wherever, Hassan divided up the day’s takings among the squad. As usual, Abdul received less than the others because, as Hassan put it, he had showed zero initiative and done the least work. But that day’s collection meant fifteen dollars to him and, considering his monthly wage was a hundred and fifty dollars, he could get over twice as much in ill-gotten gains for the same period if he maintained that level of take.
    Abdul arrived in Al Jeria Street in the Al Kindi block in the southern part of Al Mansour, not far from the old zoo in the centre of Baghdad. He parked his four-year-old Opal in a spot outside the apartment block where he lived and sat for a moment listening to a cassette tape of an Egyptian band, his current favourite. It was a quiet street with little traffic since it was used only by those who lived in the immediate area, although there were more cars than usual this month. They were owned by the men constructing a new house on the corner.
    Abdul pulled up the collar of his leather jacket and held the lapels together to ensure that his police uniform was hidden from the gaze of any passer-by. When the track came to an end he ejected the tape and placed it in a plastic bag among a dozen or so others lying in the footwell of the back seat, climbed out of the car, lifted out a couple of shopping bags, checked there was nothing of any value visible inside the car, shut the vehicle’s doors and locked them. After making the usual surreptitious glance around for strangers, he crossed the untidily finished concrete sidewalk, walked in through the apartment-building entrance and up the stairs that were clean though poorly appointed. He arrived at the third floor, one from the top, a small landing shared by one other apartment, placed his key in the lock and opened the door.
    ‘Tasneen,’ he called out as he entered the apartment and closed the door behind him, making sure it was bolted at the top and bottom.
    ‘I’m in my bedroom,’ she replied, her voice young and sweet-sounding.
    The clean and tidy apartment was simple and inexpensively furnished.There were signs everywhere that the occupants were young and caring: family photographs in ornate frames, a collection of dolls from Tasneen’s childhood, a violin that Abdul’s father had bought for him when he was a little boy in the vain hope he would one day learn it, a small hi-fi system and a television on a stand in a corner. The couch and matching side chair were made of high-gloss varnished wood with colourful flower-patterned upholstery. Against a window was a polished dark-wood dining table with an empty vase in the centre of a delicate white cotton doily. A long varnished wooden shelf fixed high on a wall bore several local ornaments and an ornately