Peter McFeely

A mob of people, screaming and pushing one another in the cramped space. Flashing lights illuminated the darkness and highlighted the occasional face, lips distorted and eyes closed, water pouring down their cheeks. The sound of crunching glass underfoot. Splashes of poorly mopped-up blood on the floor. The shouts, swears and high-pitched yells echoing in her ears. Terri felt her chest tighten, her breaths shorten. Somebody barged into her. She could feel her knees weaken and a rushing feeling building in her stomach. Thoughts of being sick were overridden by her inability to breathe. She tried to focus on the band on stage but she was shaking uncontrollably. A light flashed. Punches being thrown. A man on the ground covered in blood. A woman screaming for help. Another flash. The twisted steel. Bricks strewn across the floor. People running. Terri began to choke and slipped to her knees, eyes wide in terror.

–

Terri stepped down from the jeep, into the cloud of dust it had kicked up from the sandy road. Slowly they began to make their way into the market. She had walked along the path many times since she had arrived in the city.

On the path leading into the market stalls were piled atop each other. Coloured sheets hung loosely over crates and fragile tables. Terri’s nose was filled with an assault of scents, some she recognised distantly from food she had once tasted. Canvas bags overflowing with vibrant reds, yellows and greens were balanced precariously against each other. Seeds and leaves she had never seen before were littered throughout the bright powders. A few tables down, wooden ornaments and carvings were neatly arranged. The man who sat behind them, with an overgrown but patchy beard and long flowing tunic, always tried to convince her to buy something. Once she relented to his salesmanship and obtained a smoothly polished cedar bowl, which sat by her bedside. In it she kept a dog-eared photo of her squad at base, chewing gum, a necklace given to her by her great aunt from which a small brass crucifix hung, a button which had fallen from one of her shirts and various other items of miscellany. The couple who sold coarse leather sandals had not been as successful in exchanging their goods for just a few of the notes she carried. Nor their neighbours who painstakingly assembled jewelry from coloured beads and twine. Deeper into the market, old met new in the abrupt manner of a a paradoxical city in which residents aspired to modernity but clung to traditional values. Linen robes and round woven caps sat alongside shiny pleather jackets and replica football jerseys, the crests of Barcelona and Manchester screen printed directly into the nylon. The players’ names which adorned the backs were often misspelt. Some merchants hawked phone covers and selfie sticks. Electric fans and kettles. A man on the corner of a side street sold delectable falafel wraps. When Terri first arrived in the city, a local man appointed himself as her guide when she paused too long outside one the largest mosques, marvelling at the construction of the minarets which soared skywards and glistened in the sun. The man, whose name Terri never knew, had weaved his way from stall to stall introducing her to sellers and striking up conversation. She tried to explain that she did not need a guide, no less a personal shopping assistant, that she was simply exploring and did not have plans to make any purchases. He waved away her protests and assured her he had no agenda, he simply wished to show a foreigner his city. There was no obligation to buy anything, though these were indeed the finest products in the city, no country, and he would be able to negotiate her a special price. The stall owners beamed smiles which, seemingly dependant on their wares, held a varying number of teeth: spice sellers had a full complement, the sales people of more modern accessories had lost a tooth or two here or there, while traditional purveyors of ornaments and jewellery had smiles so cavernous that the occasional tooth appeared as an isolated star in a dark night sky. Eventually, she had succumbed to her ‘guide’ and allowed him to lead her around the market in a bizarre manner by which he followed behind her yet without giving any direction seemed to control her twists and turns through the narrow streets. He sang the praises of the falafel seller, assuring her, if it were not too blasphemous a thing to say, that the prophet himself would feast upon the wraps as they were no doubt part of the staple diet in paradise. Before Terri even had time to explain she was not hungry, having only just eaten lunch and still suffering from the stomach upset which inevitably accompanied her arrival in a new city and exposure to a new cuisine, a falafel wrap was thrust in her hands and she was hurried deeper into the market. She had not paid the falafel-man, nor her guide but, once more, he waved away her attempts to reason. It was his duty as a loyal host, expert market-goer and the city’s best guide for foreigners who wished to explore, that he see to her being amply fed and he insisted she taste the wrap. Should she not like it, he would question her understanding of falafels but would continue to act as her guide nonetheless. If for no other reason than to silence the man, short in stature and thinner still, she took a bite. It was delicious. The falafel was moist yet crumbly, packed full of many of the coloured spices she could not identify and coated in a heavenly sauce. Her guide’s face washed with pride brighter than the reflection of the midday sun on the white sand deep in the desert. He pumped two scrawny thumbs-up and – you do this in your country, no? – initiated a high five. He steered her down the side street and into a brick and mortar shop which was nestled between the stalls. In a flash, while still marvelling over the falafel wrap, Terri was seated and a cup of tea graciously placed in her hand. She watched dumbfounded as her guide wheeled a ridiculously large tube TV, with a screen no bigger than her field laptop, from a backroom on a rickety trolley. The trolley, TV and guide were followed by two young boys, bedecked in tatty shorts and counterfeit football shirts. As his guest, she would have the honour of watching his TV, though he hoped she didn’t mind it being football, as his two sons were already watching the match. The blurred outlines of sportsmen filled the screen though it was difficult to tell where they were running as the picture alternated from scrolling vertically to jumping back and forth across the screen. Even more difficult to tell was to which team any of the blurred outlines belonged given the picture was delivered in a black and white consisting of approximately four tones. This, Terri’s guide proudly informed her, was his shop. But she did not need to buy anything, he was simply acting as a host, guide and now friend to this new foreigner in his city. Though he did possess some of the finest saffron in the country, no continent. Should she wish to smell some, he would leave a bag here for her and she only had to let him know if his sons were in the way and she wished to watch the football in peace. Hours later, after cupfuls of tea and with no idea who had won the football, Terri left the shop as night fell, her bag containing one small plastic pouch of the continent, no, world’s greatest saffron which had cost half the price of one of the worst cups of coffee she could obtain in her hometown and her heart filled with love for the people of her new city.

Now, as she picked her way through the street and moved farther and farther from the safety of her jeep, she could see that the warren of activity through which she and her guide had once traversed was actually just one long thin road with two perpendicular arteries. She identified the corner whereupon she tasted the most delectable falafel wrap by the tangled steel which had once been a stove. She saw fragments of charred tunics, woodwork and jewellery. Molten phone cases had congealed in a toxic lump of coloured plastic. She saw the rubble of a brick and mortar tea shop and amongst it the skeleton of an ancient TV. The market glowed orange and yellow, flames licking the wreckage. Canvas bags flickered as their contents flared skywards, the sweet aromatics of spices mixing hideously with the smell of burning flesh. Terri removed her helmet and leant on her rifle as she threw up in a spot where a toothless man had once sold hand carved miniature statues. As she rose and wiped the tears from her eyes, she saw people rushing towards her, pushing past each other as they tripped over rubble and, perhaps, body parts. The flashing lights from her jeep cast eerie shadows across their dirty, tear-stained faces. Glass crunched and she heard the distorted music skipping on a CD somehow still playing from one of the exploded stalls.

–

Terri felt a hand on her shoulder, then two under her armpits, gently raising her. The lights flashed and the music rang in her ears. She flinched when the faces came into focus. Instinctively she raised her arm to shield her face, before hearing the voices.
“Miss, miss… are you ok?”
“You fell over… or something?”
“Do you feel ok, has someone spiked your drink?”
“Oh my god – do you think someone here is spiking drinks? I’m going to have to go home… my mum would kill me if anything happened to me.”
“Don’t be fucking stupid.”
“It’s stupid to be worried about getting your drink spiked…?”
“Here, have some water.”
Terri turned, her head stunned by the deeper voice. She discovered it belonged to the pillar against which she had been leaning. A short man stood beside her, one of his arms ran through the crook of hers, his hand on her back, gently supporting her, while his other reached for a large cup of water on a nearby table.
“I saw you fall. I think you fainted.”
Terri sipped the water and the gaggle of young girls melted into the background.
“Are you alright? I don’t know if this has happened to you before… is there anything I can do? Are you diabetic? Epileptic? Do you need something to eat…? Are you here with friends – is there someone I should call?”
He spoke softly, with a concern that didn’t overwhelm her even though he asked so many questions. None of which, incidentally, she was sure how to answer. Terri looked beyond him. She saw one of her friends waving at her, beckoning her over to dance amongst the mob, before cocking her head, blowing a kiss and turning away with a laugh. She thought of all the times they had come drinking and dancing here, the innocence of her youth. She hadn’t told any of her friends about the panic attacks and decided that the first person to know wouldn’t be this stranger.
“No… I’m ok… I just… I think… It’s just that I lost something.”
The man held her eye before giving her a short prescient nod. Did he somehow know what she meant?
“I should get back to my friends.”
“Ok.”
“But thank you…” it was Terri’s turn to hold his eye.
“Martin.”
“Thank you Martin. Thank you for helping me.”
“I genuinely mean it when I say I am happy that I could be of help.”
With that Martin, made his way back towards the bar though Terri was certain he looked a little taller as he shuffled away. She closed her eyes. Counted to five and took a long deep breath. She repeated to herself They are just lights, It is just music, They are just lights, It is just music, and tentatively started making her way through the crowd towards her friends.