The crowd went crazy, as if that one word was the final proof they were all waiting for. A shoe came flying and landed beside him. He looked at it, looked at the crowd and cried, repeating something inaudible now. Maybe he was saying, 'Mercy/ or 'I confess,' or 'Innocent,' or maybe he too had seen someone he recognized, a friendly face.

Two men came from behind him and pulled him up from under his arms. He was still wearing the same white shirt that was too big for him, the one he had been wearing in the televised interrogation. He seemed to be begging the men dragging him towards the hanging rope. He reminded me of the way a shy woman would resist her friends' invitation to dance, pulling her shoulders up to her ears and waving her index finger nervously in front of her mouth. The crowd was jumping now, jumping and howling, Hang the traitor! Hang the traitor! When the men stood him below the rope he tried to kiss one of their hands again. His lips were now as thin as liquorice sticks when pulled at either end. Someone behind him was motioning eagerly for assistance, then a ladder appeared. It was a wide, sturdy-looking aliminium ladder. It shone under the bright lights. It looked brand-new, feathers of ripped plastic stuck out round its feet. Ustath Rashid was made to climb it. At every rung he stopped and begged for mercy. He was pushed along with a strange tenderness, with a mere nudge to his elbow. But after a couple of times the man nudging him seemed to reach the end of his patience. He climbed up beside him and pulled him up by the arm. Ustath Rashid was now halfway up. The rope brushed against his face, making him blink. The man placed the rope round Ustath Rashid's neck and tightened it. Then he slapped the air beside his ear as if to say, 'There, done,' or, 'See how easy?' and climbed down. Ustath Rashid's body sagged a little.

'He's fainting,' Moosa said, in the same slow, elongated way in which he had been offering his commentary throughout.

Mama said nothing.

Moosa was right. Ustath Rashid slipped off the ladder and was snatched by the rope. This caused an uproar; the crowd was ready. He was propped up, slapped a couple of times across the face, then turned towards the camera. We could see now that his trousers were wet. Something yellow appeared from his mouth and seemed to grow. No one wiped it off, no one brought him a glass of water, a toothbrush and toothpaste to wash away the burning and greedy acid. His head didn't shake in disgust, he seemed to be oddly comfortable with his vomit.

The camera turned to the spectators. They were punching the air and cheering. Several women ululated. And suddenly, like a wave rising, the cheering became louder and more furious. The camera swung quickly, and we saw Ustath Rashid swinging from the rope, the shiny aluminium ladder a metre or two to one side, too far for his swimming legs. The crowd spilled down on to the court now. Some of the spectators threw their shoes at Ustath Rashid, a couple of men hugged and dangled from his ankles, then waved to others to come and do the same. They looked like children satisfied with a swing they had just made. Everybody seemed happy. I looked back. Moosa's cheeks were silver. I had never seen him cry before. Mama stared blankly at the television. I turned and continued watching. After a few more seconds of chaos the flowers returned, still and pink, with the national anthem playing confidently in the background. When I looked back again Mama and Moosa were gone.

I found her sitting at the breakfast table smoking one of Moosa's cigarettes. He was filling a teapot with water. I sat down beside Mama.

'Madness,' she said, the cigarette trembling in her hand. The silence that followed seemed to agree with her. 'Instead of begging, he should've said something,' she added.

Moosa placed the tea on the table.

'Did you see how the crowd reacted?' Mama said.

'Madness,' Moosa confirmed.

And in this way they both went over the details of what we had just seen and in their recalling there was comfort in it. I mentioned his trousers darkening with urine. Mama hadn't noticed this detail, but Moosa had. I was glad when he backed me up on it. She had seen the vomit. That seemed to convince her that we were right about the urine.

'Poor Salma,' she said.

'May God compensate her and grant her patience,' Moosa said.

'Amen,' Mama added.

I thought of saying, 'Poor Kareem,' but I didn't.

That night the rain fell for hours. Swamps covered our street and reflected the house lights. Our roof was a shallow pool of rainwater. I walked in it, relishing the resistance of the water against my bare feet. I lay in bed going over the dark episode, looking for how it could have been different, but I couldn't imagine a happy ending. Shut or open, my eyes continued to see the slim figure of Ustath Rashid swinging in mid-air, the dark stain of urine expanding around his groin, his ankles shuddering one last time the way sheep kick after slaughter, men hugging his legs, women ululating into the night air.

Mama, too, was unsettled. When at some point in the night I woke up frightened and went to lie beside her, she jolted. 'No,' she said, her hand against my chest, her voice murky but urgent in the dark. 'Go. Sleep in your bed,' then, as if checking herself, she added, 'habibi.'

The following morning Mama was gone. A bottomless fear propelled me from room to room searching for her. Then I heard her keys in the front door. She walked in, calling my name.

'You're not dressed yet?' She was all in black, her face bare of make-up, her hair tied in a ball. 'Quick. You must come to say goodbye.' She was collecting empty plastic bags. 'Salma and Kareem are going to Benghazi. She has a brother there, he has come to fetch them, drove all night. Remember to say your commiseration.' Then she pointed her index finger and said, 'Say: "May God compensate you and have mercy on Ustath Rashid."

I got the same hollow feeling in my belly as on the mornings when we had to take the anti-flu shot at school, when we all had to stand in line with one sleeve rolled up to the shoulder, watching those at the front cry with pain. Once I ran away and was chased by two teachers who dragged me to the head of the line: 'Do him now so we won't have to chase him again,' they said to the nurse. Somehow the prospect of seeing Kareem after what had just happened to his father frightened me just as much. 'Grief loves the hollow; all it wants is to hear its own echo,' Mama had said.

I followed her in my pyjamas and when I had gathered enough courage I said, 'I want to stay here.'

'Don't you want to say goodbye to Kareem? Poor boy, he looks like he's had a terrible night. His eyes are swollen like two tomatoes.'

I didn't know what to say. I imagined his face and imagining it made me want to run to him.

'It's up to you,' she finally said. 'After all, he's your friend.' She was busy collecting other things now: napkins, a bottle of water. 'But if you want to see him you must hurry, they are loading the car.' When I didn't reply she said, 'Shall I tell them you are still asleep?' I nodded.

She left and I walked slowly, aimlessly, around our house. I went out to the garden. It was morning, but the sun was as strong as it would be at noon, bleaching everything. I remembered Salah Abd al-Sabur's words:

Noon, you fill my heart with fear and dread, showing me more than I want to see. The rain puddles had vanished, in their place the earth was a shade darker. I climbed up to the roof to spy on them. Kareem's garden was empty. All the windows were closed and sealed with curtains. A car stood in front of the house, its sides brushed with sprays of caked dirt. It's a twelve-hour drive to Benghazi. I could see a pair of knees beneath the steering wheel, a man's knees. Then I heard him yell, 'Come on!' Mama appeared out of their house, walking hurriedly, carrying the plastic bags she had collected, bulging full now. The man got out of the car, slamming the door hard behind him. 'It's unbelievable how long they are taking!' he said, irritably. He opened the boot for her. 'They'll be out soon,' Mama said, carefully placing the plastic bags in the car. He must be the uncle Mama mentioned. Mama stood beside him, rubbing her hands together. His fists were visible in his pockets. I wondered how Kareem will get on with him. Then Auntie Salma appeared. She too was in black. She hugged Mama and sobbed. Mama patted her back and said, 'Patience, dear, patience.' The man yelled again. 'Kareem, what are you doing in there?' I imagined Kareem walking through his house, maybe smelling his father's pillow one last time. Then he appeared, walking slowly and not paying any attention to his uncle. He opened the car door and sat in the front, in the seat beside the driver. He looked ahead, I could see the side of his face. I felt that at any moment he was going to turn and face me, then they drove away. I watched the dust gather behind them.