Free Blood Rules by John Trenhaile Page A

not teased her…. She’d half-realized he was joking; then, as he carried the jest too far her confidence had slipped; she turned first indignant, then sulky, then cheeky by turns, until at last she had floated indoors aboard a fit of the giggles, intending to collect her workbook from her bedroom. Her proof.
    But she’d gone no farther than the hall when the doorbell sounded once, twice. Not aggressively, not suggestive of tragedy, no; two rings, merely. Visitors! “I’ll answer it,” she had cried, happy that there were visitors, happy to be of service, of use. She forgot the rule of the household: Only Azizza may answer the door. Looking back, she could remember voices raised in protest, and here came the first of the mysterious blanks: in her brain, she
knew
that the voices were warning her not to answer the door, it was only the words that escaped her memory, she had never been able to recapture the words.
    She flung open the door to see him there, her lover, her need. He was wearing a cream shirt open at the neck, and the triangle of visible chest was fiery red with sunburn; he wore cheap blue serge trousers and black lace-up shoes. Yes. Did you ever forget your first time? Any detail?
    He wore a jacket. Strange, for such a hot day. A dark blue jacket that did not match the trousers underneath, and in one of the pockets something heavy made a bulge. Ah, no: be precise. The right-hand jacket pocket was the one dragged out of shape.
    Only the face was another blank: void, a black oval.
    He knelt down and said, “Hello, little girl.” He spoke in French, a language she adored, though his accent sounded rough. A workman. “Is your grandfather around?” he said.
    “Oh, yes. Go through.” She pointed. “Down there, in the garden.”
    And having dispatched him on his way, Leila was wafted by a magic carpet woven from pride and laughter and a self-important conceit up the stairs to her bedroom, where she would find the red exercise book with a panel picked out in black on the front cover, space for her name, school, and form. She was pulling it out of her satchel when she heard two bangs, very close together. She felt nothing. Well, surprise, maybe. Because her room was at the back of the house, three steps took her to a window giving onto the garden. Grandpa’s head had fallen into the berries, that was her first thought: all red, covered in scarlet berry juice, how funny! And she had laughed. She remembered that well, because she had not laughed again for over a year.
    The screaming began. Azizza, hands held to her face. Halib, racing from nowhere, skidding to a halt, making of himself a statue in stone. No sign of her beloved, the one she needed, craved above all others—the man in blue with the bulging pocket; fickle, cruel, he had abandoned her.
    Her heart thumped. Something was wrong. She knew exactly what was wrong.
    She crept down. Her father, Feisal, had appeared. He was bending over Grandpa, who still lay half in and half out of his chair. Leila could see the bowl of berries on the table by his side. Untouched. By now her heart was racing like a little motor. Her head felt full, as though it would burst with the density of knowledge lurking there.
    Feisal looked up, looked across Grandpa at Halib. He said, “Who let him in?” His voice was as she had never heard it before: appalled as if by some blasphemy that could not be forgiven.
    Halib said nothing. He put an arm around Leila’s
    shoulders. She was trembling. He pulled her close, letting her feel his solidarity, one and indivisible; just for a
    second, but a lifetime of solidarity he promised her. Then
    he was leading her inside, up to her bedroom. They sat
    down together on the bed, holding hands, and he continued
    to hug her to him. After a bit he began to rock her to and
    fro, silently, gently, while she quivered like a child in the
    last reaches of a mortal fever, and slowly, slowly, the light
    of Lebanon went out
    The light was changing