The Good Son

“At some level they must be deeply conflicted, because they are making war and murdering i

“Then for God’s sake why don’t you stop it!” Ashton snaps.

“I told you already. It’s what I do. If these days are the final ones of my life, what else should I be doing? I’ve always tried to live my life so that if death arrived on a particular day it would find me doing nothing but what God had made me for. I sincerely hope all of you feel the same way.”

There is an embarrassed silence. Amin breaks it. “You are right, of course. As the head of a charitable trust I hereby pledge one of my chapatis to be distributed to the poor. A

The Indian laughs. “If only I could! Although I would be happy to instruct you in yoga. A few exercises and I assure you that you will despise Haldol.”

“Excellent! Well, now we must return to the business of the day, which I have already outlined. How shall we proceed in the matter of the cards?”

After a short discussion they decide to draw immediately, the loser to be the next victim when and if one is needed, that person to have the next presentation. As before, they each cut the deck and Sonia deals one card to each. As before, Ashton turns his over first. It is the deuce of clubs.

He says, “Well, fuck!”

Amin breaks the somber silence. “I am sorry, Harold. Truly sorry. You will give your presentation, I trust?”

“Oh, I’ll give it. I’ll give them an earful. You’ll forgive me if I wait for the fatal day itself.” With that he walks off.

All the others have middling cards, except A

Amin gathers the cards from where they lie scattered, shuffles them idly, and then says, “Well, we must pass the time. Would anyone like to play bridge?”

It turns out that Shea, Nara, and Schildkraut are all bridge players. They push charpoys together, designate one as the table, and begin playing. Sonia walks to where Ashton is lying and stands over him.

“What in hell do you want?” he says.

“To talk to you.”

“Oh, fuck off!”

She sits on the edge of his charpoy. “No. One of the disadvantages of prison is you can no longer select your visitors. I want to ask whether you intend to come apart like Cosgrove.”

“You mean will I cry and wet myself? What business is it of yours?”

“Because how you die is important. It’s important to this group, with respect to maintaining our spirits and our sanity and even more so with respect to how it’s regarded by the Pashtuns.”

“Oh, really? Is this a case for showing the flag in my last moments? The stiff upper lip? Bugger all that!”

“Yes, you’re in the period of self-pity. Oh, why me? It’s not attractive, Ashton, and unworthy of you. I’m prepared to wait until it dissipates.”

Ashton’s face reddens and he sits up and puts it close to hers. “You know what my chief regret is? Well, my two chief regrets. One is I’ve never had a fuck in an airliner toilet, and the other is that I’m not going to see you hacked into pieces. Isn’t that what they do to blasphemers? A leg from one side and an arm from the other?”

“According to some interpretations of sharia. Other variants require crucifixion or stoning. And it’s good that you’re angry. Angry and brave is a good combination. I think you’re a brave man, Ashton. It was brave to try to escape, stupid but brave, as you must have known. You’re not a fool. You’ve been traveling in this area for years. Manjit thinks you’re a spook, in fact. Are you?”

“If I were, you would be absolutely the last one I’d tell.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. So, since you’re brave, I’m imagining that you’re not afraid of dying per se, but object to the ma

Ashton stares at her. She meets his gaze. The staring goes on for what feels like a long time, after which she sees something change in his eyes, not resignation but a different form of anger, no longer directed at her but focused properly, on the guilty.

“Since you ask,” he says, in an artificially perky tone, “I do object. I never thought I’d make old bones, and I have to say the thought of snuffing out now is preferable to the way my parents died, with the tubes and the stinks, but what I can’t bear is being slaughtered like a sheep while those fuckers cheer. Isn’t that odd? I mean, why should one care? But I do. It gripes me.”

“I thought as much. It would gripe me too. Tell me, can you handle a Kalashnikov?”

For the first time in many days, she saw a smile flicker onto his face. “If I were a spy, I could, couldn’t I? Do you have one tucked away?”

“No. But neither do you have to die like a sheep. Listen!”

They talk for some minutes and then Sonia goes back to the bridge players. The day wears on, but no one comes to the door to demand the next victim. Dhuhr and Ashr prayers are called, and the game pauses while Amin and Sonia pray. Schildkraut has a coughing fit that does not stop, and they make him lie down. A

Some of them even sleep. Sonia, lying awake, continues to be surprised at the resilience of her fellow humans. In the house of death there is eating, sleeping, joking, and the playing of cards-with the same deck, as it happens, that condemns them one by one to death. She can identify the different sleep noises of her fellows by now. Amin, Manjit, and Shea are asleep, A

Schildkraut has a spasm of coughing. It ends and she hears him sigh and say something in German but she does not catch the meaning; her German is not as good as it was. She goes to his bed and kneels down.

“How are you, Karl-Heinz?”

“I have been better, thank you for asking. To be perfectly frank, I am dying. I ca

“Is your inhaler completely gone?”

“No, there remains another dose or two, but I am saving it for my presentation. I may be able to hang on until then.”