Free Casablanca Blues (2013) by Tahir Shah Page A

wronged you...’
    ‘Yes... yes he has...’
    ‘Sit down on the floor.’
    Ghita sat. The sorceress took her hand, and felt the knuckles one by one.
    ‘I want revenge,’ Ghita said, her voice charged with emotion.
    The old woman’s expression soured.
    ‘The flames of revenge burn as a wild fire,’ she said. ‘Once alight they cannot be tamed.’
    ‘But I’ve already been burned.’
    ‘Are you prepared to face the consequences?’
    ‘Yes. I am more than prepared.’
    The witch opened her eyes. She rooted about in a small wooden box, and took out some scarlet thread. Winding a piece of the thread around Ghita’s thumb, she tied a second strand around a lump of coal. Then she threw the coal onto the brazier, and spat out a spell.
    After that, she melted a strip of lead foil in a little porcelain crucible, and poured the silvery liquid into a cup of cool seawater. Fizzing, it sunk to the bottom. The sorceress fished it out and inspected its contorted form.
    ‘Your father will taste the pain he has brought to you,’ she said. ‘But for this to take place, there must be blood.’
    Ghita put a hand over her mouth.
    ‘
Blood
?’
    ‘You must make a sacrifice.’
    Outside in the lane the
sehura
presented to Ghita a live chicken by the feet. It was flustered and fretting.
    ‘Kill it,’ she said.
    ‘But I don’t know how.’
    ‘You must break its neck. Only then can you hope for true revenge.’
    Grimacing and gasping, Ghita fumbled for the bird’s neck. Holding it between her hands, she snapped. A great deal of flapping followed.
    Hunched there in sodden clothes, her back to the city, her face to the Atlantic horizon, and with death on her hands, Ghita felt powerful in a way she had not experienced before.
    ‘When will I have my revenge?’ she asked, the words blown out to sea.
    The sorceress closed her eyes, and touched a hand to her brow.
    ‘Immediately,’ she said.

Thirty-eight
    After much agitation and the purring of cats, Blaine managed to get through to the international operator from the lobby of Hotel Marrakech.
    Having smoked himself into a delirium with a fresh supply of
kif
, the clerk was lying outstretched on the floor, his head nudged up against the bowl of milk.
    ‘Hello, operator, I’ll repeat the number, a little slower this time...’ said Blaine, enunciating.
    There was a click, then a shrill whistling sound.
    ‘Hello? Charlie? That you?’
    ‘Blaine? Where the hell are you, man?’
    ‘I’ve had a change of scene. Got thrown out of my apartment...
and
I lost my job. No, no... I don’t need a bed... Why not?’ Blaine paused, relishing the moment, his grin sliding into rapturous laughter. ‘Because I’m in Casablanca, that’s why!’

Thirty-nine
    The news controller was up in the news gallery feeding instructions to the cameraman, when Hicham Omary entered. It was unknown for senior managers, let alone the owner of Globalcom, to ever bother with the gallery. The editors jerked to attention in their seats.
    ‘How long before we go on air?’ Omary asked.
    ‘Three minutes, sir.’
    ‘OK. Then I have just enough time to brief you,’ he said, sitting on the edge of the desk. ‘I want as many reporters as we can spare on this story, day and night. They’re to get footage of bribes being dealt – covert stuff if needed. Within a week I want this city shaking. You take care of the small fish, and I’ll go after the big ones...’
    Omary’s mobile rang. He glanced at the display.
    ‘Hello, Governor,’ he said coolly. ‘I’m so glad you caught our bulletins. Now, now, that’s not entirely fair. I did call you to warn you of our little crusade.’
    On the other end, the Governor of Casablanca was fuming, his voice trembling with rage:
    ‘Listen to me, Omary, I don’t know if you want a firestorm, but you’re about to unleash one. And you and your organization are going to be the only casualties, do you understand?’
    Omary moved the phone away from his ear and