The Best Horror of the Year. Volume 6

THE DOG’S PAW Derek Künsken

Francis Perry shifted in the chair in front of Mr. Lewis’s antique desk. Lewis scanned the proposal, motionless pen poised between tan fingers. Lewis’s office was almost as big as the ambassador’s. The equatorial sun burned slanting lines through the curtains, bleaching the hardwood floor. Rows of diplomatic commissions from Lewis’s postings hung on one wall: Harare, Sanaa, Dongola, Lagos, Dhaka, Freetown, Kinshasa, and now Sayhad. The Democratic Republic of Hadhramaut was Perry’s first posting.

Another wall displayed framed magazine articles about development projects Lewis had led. It didn’t include articles about Lewis himself. The absent six-page National Geographic feature on Lewis’s career had inspired Perry to join the Development Service and to seek out the most difficult posting on the planet to learn directly from him.

On the last wall was a black-and-white photograph of a Bedouin man sitting in the gravel beside a road, looking up at the camera in surprise. One foot emerging from his robes wore a black dress shoe. The other leg ended in a goat’s foot. His expression was haunted. In the background, farther down the road, a woman in a niqab looked back.

Lewis grimaced. Perry shifted.

“Perry, honour killings are down 7 percent and prosecutions are up 4. We’ve got to think bigger. I would have expected a young development officer to be ready to handle this.” Lewis set down his pen. “This afternoon, I’ll bring you along again to show you what a strategic intervention looks like.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lewis.”

“Not everyone can handle the suffering we see in the Service, Perry. In the beginning, I didn’t know if I could. You have a lot of potential, Perry.”

Lewis handed him the stillborn proposal.

An armoured Bronco four-by-four took Lewis and Perry from the capital at Sayhad to Parim, a farming town. The driver rattled them over corrugated roads. Lewis reviewed the newspaper like he was still in his office waiting for tea. Perry gripped the worn door handle, scanning the cracked countryside through the fishbowl of the bulletproof glass. Hard yellow grass defied the sun. Low cinderblock houses punctuated the road. Everything was so exotic. It was exciting to be in the middle of nowhere, riding to the rescue like knights. Perry had a digital camera in his pocket, but didn’t want Lewis or the driver to see him taking pictures.

Lewis laid the newspaper between them. Perry wondered what might go through the mind of a genius like Lewis. Perry had read the newspaper three times. Had he seen what Lewis had seen?

The front page of the Hadhramaut People’s Voice chronicled Akram Abdullah, a farmer and father to fifteen-year-old Amirra. About a month ago, Abdullah had woken to find his right arm, from the elbow down, turned into a dog’s paw. He’d hidden the paw. Weeks later, he’d gotten his son to chop it off, so that he could claim he’d lost it in an accident. He’d barely survived the amateur amputation. The next day, he’d woken in the hospital. His left arm, from the elbow down, had become a dog’s paw.

They slowed. Rude houses of cement and dirty stucco squatted over broken pavement, wind-scoured cars and quick, flinching dogs with dangling teats. Perry affected Lewis’ calm. At the end of a dirt laneway, they settled in front of a one-storey cinderblock house with a cement roof. Perry sprung into the hot air. The driver hopped out to open the door for Lewis. He smoothed his shirt, walked to the door, and rapped sharply on the metal. It cracked open, revealing a sad, middle-aged face nestled in a slate-grey hijab. Lewis held up his embassy identification. It dangled between them, rotating. Lewis spoke in Arabic.

“I’ve come from the embassy in Sayhad to speak with your husband, ma’am. May we come in?”

A stricken look darkened her expression. She’d likely spent the last days turning away journalists and had probably never expected her husband’s shame to attract diplomats. Lewis’ stance and expression softened. His posture curved, descending from authority and status to empathy. Brilliant.

“I’m here to help, ma’am,” Lewis said. “This has been a hard time for you. I’m a friend.”

Tears ran suddenly down her rough, rounded cheeks. She wiped them in embarrassment. Her retreat left the doorway free. Lewis stepped in gently. Perry followed. The darkened home smelled of cumin. The door creaked shut, sealing out the day.

Ochre cushions were set on the floor. An unvarnished table bent under a black television. A newscaster spoke silently while Arabic script ran across a bright red line at the bottom of the screen. Closed red curtains soaked the sunlight with a bloody tinge. Mr. Abdullah sat on one of the cushions, staring at the television. His bandaged stump rested on a blanket that covered his knees. His other arm hid beneath the cover. A brass ashtray sat beside him.

Lewis sat on the cushion beside Mr. Abdullah. Mr. Adbullah turned away. His lips trembled. His shoulders shook. Lewis pulled a metal cigarette case from his pocket and lit an unfiltered Brazilian cigarette before holding it out to Mr. Abdullah. After long seconds, Mr. Abdullah took it in his lips. Lewis lit one for himself. Perry stood beside Mr.Abdullah’s wife. She made nervous little fists with her hands. Perry held his breath, learning.

A cloud of grey smoke grew around them. Tears leaked from Mr. Abdullah’s eyes. Lewis put his arm around him and took his cigarette to dash off the ash. He left the cigarettes in the ashtray.

“You are a great man,” Lewis said in Arabic.

Abdullah shook his head.

“You have a big heart,” Lewis insisted, “and I’ve come to help you.” Choking sobs burst from Mr. Abdullah. His shoulders trembled.

“Tell me why you cut off your arm,” Lewis whispered.

Abdullah’s browned lips pressed into a damp line.

Lewis sighed. “Show me your arm.”

Abdullah turned his head sharply away.

“These marks are a sign,” Lewis said, “nothing more. Show me.”

Abdullah shook his head, but Lewis held him and lowered the blanket slowly. Mr. Abdullah’s wife squeaked and turned away. The edge of the blanket revealed a dog’s paw, furred in brown, with black pads under the foot, hugged close to Mr. Abdullah’s chest. Lewis gently pulled at the paw. He stroked the fur.

“We can fix all this,” Lewis said.

Abdullah’s plump lip trembled.

“I love her,” he finally said. His voice cracked.

“This isn’t your fault,” Lewis said, “but it’s your responsibility to fix this.” Abdullah sobbed. “She’s my little girl.”

Lewis shook his head. “She’s a woman now. No father should pay for the sins of his child. Any more than a child should pay for yours.”

Lewis held the paw higher, between them. “This is not a price you can pay like a dowry,” Lewis said gently. “This is a reminder of what has to be done.”

Abdullah wiped at his tears with the bandaged stump of his right arm. “I can’t do it,” Abdullah said. “Not my little Amirra.”

“Look here,” Lewis whispered, stroking the fur of the paw again, in front of Abdullah’s eyes. “This shame is not just yours. It is not just your daughter, your son, and your wife who have to bear this with you.” Lewis swung his arm expansively. “All of Parim bears this shame with you. All your neighbours feel this shame. Each one of them waits for you to make this right. You do not have to face this alone.”

“Amirra is my little girl,” Abdullah moaned.

Lewis pulled the paw in front on Abdullah’s face. Adbullah turned away.

“What shame will your daughter bring on Parim next? Will your wife wake up with a goat’s hoof for a foot? What will you say to your neighbour when his son has a sheep’s head? What restitution could you possibly offer to make that better? Would you offer to shake his hand with this?” Lewis shook the paw.

“Once the stain spreads, it is harder to clean. It has stricken you twice. The behaviour of your daughter has brought you to hiding in your house, unable to light your own cigarettes.”

Abdullah cried. His shoulders hunched.

Lewis released the offending paw, but Abdullah would not bring it close, even to hide it. It trembled before him. Lewis put his arm over the man’s shoulders and pulled the blanket back up over the paw.

“Let us work with your neighbours to fix this. No man should have to bear this alone.”

They breathed together. Perry held his breath. Abdullah’s wife sobbed beside him.

Mr. Abdullah’s tears dripped onto the blanket in fat drops. Finally, he nodded.

Perry’s heart thumped. A bitter happiness rose in him. He despaired of ever being able to manage people the way Lewis could.

Lewis held the man until he stopped crying and the cigarettes burned themselves out in the ashtray. Then, he rose, said a quiet word to Abdullah’s wife and opened the door. The stark, baking sunlight fell at his feet. Perry followed him out.

The driver opened the door for Lewis. Perry went to the other side and opened the door.

Lewis turned his blue eyes on Perry. “Organize a rectification ceremony for a week from today,” Lewis said. “Make sure the press is here. Talk with the town elders in case Abdullah changes his mind. We’ll come back next week. Write me speaking notes and sound bites.”

“Yes, Mr. Lewis,” Perry said. Lewis turned back to the scenery. Perry pulled out a small notepad and jotted all he’d need to do. He’d never written any speaking notes.

The laws, judges, and police were usually a thicket of obstacles to progress in any country. The Democratic Republic of Hadhramaut was fourth from the bottom of the United Nation’s Corruption Index and the fifth poorest country in the world. Neither ranking made work easier. As part of Perry’s training as a development officer, Lewis had sent him to intervene with the authorities on a case.

The Hadhramaut Public Security Forces, Capital District, Barracks Four, squatted between a Western Union office and a station that received a weekly train from Yemen. Steel bars over the windows bulged like insect eyes.

Perry’s diplomatic ID got him through the reception and into the detention office. Major Ibn Ghassan, the Barracks Commander, met him there. Ibn Ghassan had caramel skin, sleek black hair, and a grey camouflage uniform. He shook Perry’s hand assertively.

“I thought you or your Lewis might come,” Ibn Ghassan said in Arabic.

Perry opened his hands disingenuously.

“Well, I don’t think either of you are going to work your magic on this one,” Ibn Ghassan said. “This is murder pure and simple. I’m going to give it to the public prosecutor this week.”

“Major, let’s not be hasty about anything,” Perry said.

“Don’t be hasty?” Ibn Ghassan said. “Come see the evidence.”

He pivoted in his polished boots and Perry had to stretch his steps to keep up with him. The Major unlocked a door and stepped through. The sweet, greying smell of death hit Perry. His eyes watered and he gagged.

The corpse of a teenage girl curled on a blocky wooden table. Dirt crusted her cheeks. She’d lost her hijab and a sandal. Her long abaya bunched at her waist, showing dirt-dusted pants. Conical piles of dirt rested on the table under the corner of her mouth and under her nose. Her ears were packed into shapelessness with dirt.

Ibn Ghassan regarded him from the other side of the table. Fighting not to retch, Perry stepped forward. He breathed through his mouth to avoid the smell. It soaked in through his pores.

“This is sixteen-year-old Jasmine Malik,” Ibn Ghassan said. “She disappeared nine days ago. Her teachers reported it. We found the body under a new cement deck in front of her house.” He crisply pulled a pen from his chest pocket, pointing first at the girl’s hands, which were behind her back, and then her feet. “She’d been bound and buried alive. Her stomach and lungs are filled with dirt.”

“I heard that you aren’t even considering bail for her family,” Perry said.

“Murder is murder,” Ibn Ghassan said.

“Major,” Perry said, “I think we can agree that extenuating circumstances are at play here.”

“I have no evidence of that.”

“Fourteen witnesses from three families saw Ms. Malik talking with boys on a number of occasions.” Perry didn’t feel diplomatic. Lewis would have known how hard to push.

“Are you saying that this was an honour crime?” Ibn Ghassan asked innocently.

“I’m saying that there is more evidence than just a body.”

Ibn Ghassan shook his head. “What you have here is a family that decided to murder a girl. I don’t know what things are like in your country, but justice in Hadhramaut works.”

“Hadhramaut signed the UN Convention on Family Honour,” Perry said.

“The UN can fuck itself,” Ibn Ghassan said. “Who the hell are they to come into our country and tell us what to do? I know the law. Until the legislature of Hadhramaut passes a new one, murder is murder.”

Ibn Ghassan’s vehemence disconcerted him. He imagined the ambassador being chastised in the Foreign Ministry because Perry had pissed off a well-connected police commander.

“Your laws may not have changed yet, Major, but they’re drafting the legislation. I’m one of the technical advisors. Until the bill passes, the Convention obliges officers of the state to take issues of family honour into account when considering prosecution. Your president signed the Convention.”

“Do you want me to show you what the law says right now?” Ibn Ghassan asked.

“Among other things,” Perry said evenly, “we monitor compliance with the Convention. Our observations feed into decisions about bilateral aid funding.”

Ibn Ghassan’s face reddened. A quarter of Hadhramaut’s budget came from foreign aid. Perry stood his ground and breathed deeply, unintentionally filling his nose with the stink of decay.

“Wait here,” the Major said.

He stormed out and slammed the door behind him, leaving Perry with the corpse of the Malik girl. His stomach clenched. A yellow light bulb hung from the ceiling. He took a cell phone picture of her for his report and then looked away, breathing through his mouth. He examined the mortar between the bricks and ran his finger along the dusty roughness to grind the image of Jasmine Malik out of his mind.

Ten minutes later, Ibn Ghassan opened the door. “Get out of my barracks,” he said.

Perry followed him slowly out of the room.

“Send me the witness statements if you want,” Ibn Ghassan said. “I’m not wasting my men’s time to get them.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem at all.” Perry walked to the door. “I appreciate your help, Major, and we’ll make a note of it when we speak with the Prime Minister.”

“Just get out,” Ibn Ghassan said.

Perry stepped outside. The white embassy jeep was parked in front of the barracks. Two security police with automatic rifles stood to either side of it while two others, stripped to their t-shirts, kicked the driver on the pavement. Ibn Ghassan held out a paper. Perry took it as the security police backed away. The driver moaned, bleeding.

“Your employee had an overdue traffic infraction,” the Major said. “The embassy should take more care in its background checks on its employees. If you ever need help in checking your staff, please let me know.”

The door to the barracks slammed at Perry’s back. The security police lounged on the steps and snickered at him.

Perry printed Lewis’s speaking notes for the rectification ceremony. His office was much smaller than Lewis’s, with a view of the embassy carpool and a clutch of palm trees through two spotless windows. Other than a picture of his mother, the art on the walls was watery and pale. Lewis appeared at the door.

“I’ve been summoned to meet the Minister of the Interior right now with the ambassador,” Lewis said.

“Will you be back for the Parim event?” Perry asked.

“You go. Make sure everything goes off perfectly.” Lewis smiled. “You’re ready for this. Use the speech you prepared.” Then Lewis was gone.

Perry flustered with papers and then hurried to the carpool. The driver stood by the Bronco. The flesh around one eye was swollen. Dried blood crusted the neat stitches on his jaw. The driver opened the door. Perry sat in the air-conditioned shade. The driver closed the door.

He didn’t deserve to be treated like Lewis. Or maybe he did. A diplomat needed to focus to represent his country. There would be a speech. Local and national press. Photos.

The driver pulled out of the parking lot. Perry practiced Lewis’s speech, but anticipation kept the words on the paper. He glanced at the driver and then pulled out his camera to freeze the moving scenery distorted through the fish bowl window.

After two hours, they turned into the driveway of Mr. Abdullah’s house. Wind-scoured Ladas and a few shiny Toyota trucks clogged the way and filled the holes. The driver veered off the lane and bounced over the field, stopping in front of a crowd. The Bronco rocked as the driver closed his heavy door, leaving Perry in his cool shell. Then, his door opened, pulling in hot air.

Perry squinted. Fifty or sixty faces watched him. Some serious and wrinkled. Others smooth and festive. A camera with a telephoto lens clicked. Many hands clutched stones.

He watched them. They watched him. The noise died. He didn’t see Mr. Abdullah. The silence dragged and the speaking notes he’d written seemed suddenly trite. Brown, self-sufficient faces waited to measure the words of a white man barely out of university, here to change their country. A shrivelled man in a traditional keffyeh emerged from the crowd and smiled. He shook Perry’s hand and faced the crowd.

“Mr. John Lewis wishes to say a few words,” the old man said in Arabic.

Perry’s stomach dropped. He hesitated.

“Mr. Lewis wanted to be here. He asked me to say a few words. I am Francis Perry.” The faces were stony. The cameras lowered. Perry swallowed around a dry mouth and delivered his speech without using his notes. He stumbled over his vision of a world without shame. People looked away and started kicking at the dust when he spoke about his commitment to helping the world. One man lit a cigarette and talked with his neighbour while Perry faltered over responsibility. More conversation sprang up in the middle of the crowd. Perry ended with a call to action and a thank-you. No one clapped.

The old man nodded. “Very nice,” he said. He cupped Perry’s elbow and steered him through the crowd. They had formed a circle about twenty feet wide, centered in front of Mr. Abdullah’s house. They turned to Perry. An oppressive silence bloomed.

A surprised shriek broke it. The door opened. A man in his twenties, wearing a yellow button-down dress shirt, dragged a struggling girl out by her wrist. Amirra tugged with her whole body and clutched the doorframe with her other hand. Mr. Abdullah’s wife hesitated behind them before clawing Amirra’s hand free. Amirra fell onto the dirt. The hem of her abaya rose, showing white socks, running shoes and jeans. Her mother slammed the door. Amirra turned towards her house, but the man in the yellow shirt was there. She retreated to the middle of the circle. Her hijab was askew, showing fine black hair.

The crowd looked at her. The old man held something out to Perry. He focused on it with difficulty. The picture of the girl in the middle of the circle disturbed him. She was pretty. The old man held a stone in his palm, the size of a fist. Perry accepted it. Heavy.

Perry looked up, to see what would happen next. Everyone had a stone hefted. They watched him. The old man leaned in, close enough to smell of cigarettes. He extended his hand towards Amirra. “We would be honoured, Mr. Perry,” he said.

Perry’s stomach lurched. Amirra’s sobs warbled into low moans. “I’m sorry,” she said over and over. Perry looked away. Faces looked back, losing their patience. Perry’s hand shook. He lifted the stone.

Amirra stared back, pleading. Fear eroded her words. Amirra flinched as Perry threw.

The stone bounced off the ground, spinning into someone’s shin on the other side of the circle.

Laughter burst out. Deep, howling laughter. Men, women, and children.

Amirra trembled, stony-faced, tears running down her cheeks.

The old man held Perry’s arm, laughing and patting him on the back. Perry felt his face warm. Extended hands offered other stones. Perry took one. The crowd leaned to watch him like he was about to burst a piñata. He aimed carefully.

Amirra moaned. The sound touched the bottom of his stomach. The sight of white running shoes and jeans emerging from her long black dress unsettled him.

The stone made a sharp thud against her forehead. The sound throbbed in his hand, as if he still held the stone. A wet, surprised sob burst from Amirra’s lips. She fell onto one elbow. Gulped for air.

The air filled with stones. The pitch of Amirra’s cries changed sharply as stones thumped her head, her arms, her ribs. Perry’s stomach turned. He’d never seen a stoning before.

Amirra shrieked, shielding her head. Her lips and nose shone slick with blood. Stones snapped and thudded until blood sucked her abaya to her body. Her face became unrecognizable.

Perry looked away. He swallowed viscous saliva. He couldn’t throw up. The old man looked at him strangely. Perry breathed deeply.

“Mr. Abdullah,” Perry said.

The old man shepherded Perry through the crowd. He banged on Mr. Abdullah’s door, and yelled an order in thick Arabic. Mr. Abdullah’s wife opened the door. Perry stepped into the gloom. Marched to Mr. Abdullah. He knelt gracelessly and yanked away the blanket.

The bandaged stump of Abdullah’s left arm was still there, but the right arm was hairy and muscled, ending in five short, stubby fingers. Perry clutched the hot hand. Abdullah would not look at him. His tears dripped on his lap, mixing with Perry’s.

The room darkened. The crowd pressed at the doorway, peering in. Perry put his arm around Abdullah as he’d seen Lewis do and wiped his cheeks in embarrassment.

The next morning, Perry took down the picture of his mother. In the parking lot, the driver scrubbed the tires of the Bronco with a soapy brush. Lewis appeared at the door. His shoes glowed.

“So how did it go?” Lewis asked.

“We got some good press,” Perry said, holding up a newspaper clipping. “I bought you a copy.”

“I’ve already got a copy,” Lewis smiled.

Perry nodded, unsure of what to say.

“Would you like to sit down, Mr. Lewis?” Perry asked into the silence.

Lewis shook his head. “I just came to say good job.” He smiled. “How do you feel?”

Coiling feelings bit at one another in his stomach. He hadn’t been able to eat that morning. “Fine, Mr. Lewis.”

“Missing the first throw was genius,” Lewis said. “Was it on purpose?”

Perry’s cheeks warmed. He winced. “Nerves,” he said.

“It’s hard to fake that kind of honesty until later in your career. Your instincts were dead on with Mr. Abdullah. Bringing up tears at just the right time makes you look warm and sympathetic.”

“Thank you.”

Lewis vanished.

Perry put the newspaper clipping under glass and hung it on the wall where the picture of his mother had been.