Depth Charge by Jason Heaton (best way to read ebooks TXT) 📕

a stall with a sign above it in Arabic and English. “Majeed Motor Repairs Pvt.,” it read. A faded Union Jack was painted next to the name. An articulated metal overhead door was partially open and inside was another Land Rover, its wheels removed, perched atop jack stands. Stacks of tires lined the inside, along with various vehicle parts, including an intact engine on a wooden pallet. The bright flash of a welding torch emanated from the darkness at the back of the shop. “Another week and we’d be out of luck. Ramadan.”

Sam parked in front of the garage, honked the horn and shut off the engine. A man emerged from within, squinting in the bright daylight. He was a slight man with a wiry grey beard. He wore the white skull cap of practicing Muslims, but instead of a traditional long tunic, he had on a mechanic’s jumpsuit. It was filthy. When he caught sight of Sam, he broke into a smile.

“Ahmed!” Sam called out as she climbed from behind the wheel. Tusker got out and stretched. The man Tusker assumed was Ahmed Majeed approached Sam with his arms wide, then stopped short.

“I’m dirty,” he said, “I don’t want to get you covered in grease.”

“Ah, come on, so am I,” Sam said, and embraced him. The two of them chatted excitedly while Tusker stood awkwardly by. “Oh, sorry, this is Tusk, or, Julian Tusk, a friend who’s staying with us at the Deep Blue for a while.” Sam stepped back and Tusker extended his hand. Majeed grasped it with both of his and shook warmly.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Majeed,” Tusker said. “Everyone calls me Tusker.”

“How do you do, Tusker? But I’m not Majeed.” he replied. “My name is Ahmed Raheem.”

“Ah, I just assumed from the sign,” Tusker gestured up. Ahmed nodded.

“I sort of inherited the shop from Majeed.” He hesitated. “The family moved to Dubai after Mrs. Majeed died during the troubles.”

Tusker looked from Ahmed to Sam and back. There was an extended silence. Just before he could say anything, Ahmed gestured.

“I was about to put the kettle on,” he said, “Let’s have some tea and you can tell me what brought you.” The broad smile was back.

An hour later, after a cup of tea and some sweet biscuits that Ahmed’s wife had produced, they walked back out to the shop. It was approaching midday. Despite the heat, the street was packed with people going about their business.

“It should take me about two hours to swap the differential,” Ahmed said. “And when was the last time you changed the fluids in this old thing?” he looked at Sam. She sheepishly looked down. “I’ll throw that in too. Make it three hours. Meanwhile, take Mr. Tusker up the road to get some crab curry. You know that shop at the top of the road does a good one.”

Sam and Tusker set off on foot, leaving Ahmed to fix the Land Rover. The two of them were quite the curious pair in this largely Muslim town and they drew stares as they walked.

“I didn’t want to ask Ahmed, but what happened to the previous owners of his shop?” Tusker finally asked.

Sam stopped walking and looked at him. “After the Easter bombings a couple years ago, there was a backlash of violence against Muslims, especially here in the east. Shops torched, people beaten, mosques vandalized… the government did little to help.”

She glanced back and then continued, “The Majeeds had been here for decades. My father used to take this same Land Rover to him for repairs back in the ‘90s. Then during the violence here, someone threw a petrol bomb into the shop and with all the flammable fluids stored in there, it burned pretty quickly. Majeed tried to get his wife out but…” Her voice trailed off. “Anyway, after that, he moved to Dubai to live with his daughter and her family. Ahmed worked for Majeed for years and took over the shop.”

They continued on up the street to where it intersected with the main road. Pasikudah is an old town and shows battle scars from many years of strife. It was a stronghold of the Tamil Tigers during the civil war and was pounded by the country’s military before peace finally arrived in 2009. By then, decades of neglect had left its infrastructure in tatters. The country’s Muslim population found some solace here, far from the populous west coast, Colombo and the Buddhist Hill Country around Kandy. But then came the more recent violence. Some storefronts were blackened from fire or simply abandoned or boarded up. Still, the streets were lively, with men in long tunics and caps and women, most in hijab but some in full burqa.

Over steaming bowls of crab curry, Sam filled Tusker in on the complicated background of the Buddhist-Muslim tensions in Sri Lanka.

“So the government tolerates this militant Buddhist group?” Tusker asked, his lips on fire from the curry.

“Some say the government is even behind them, covertly, of course.” Sam said, deftly cracking a claw open. She sucked the meat out and discarded the shell on a side plate.

“People wanted blood revenge against the Muslims after the Easter bombings, and the new government was elected on that veiled promise. The Buddhist Power Army has been terrorizing Muslims here for years on a small scale, but lately have gotten emboldened. The government is happy to look the other way. The Muslims here live in fear.”

Tusker looked around. Pasikudah seemed like a peaceful enough town and he still had a hard time imagining Buddhist monks throwing Molotov cocktails. The curry was delicious but hard work. His fingers burned from cracking the chillie-infused shells and he was sweating profusely. Sam paid no notice. Other customers stared at Tusker though. When he made eye contact, they would smile and nod.

They exited the cafe and started back towards Ahmed’s shop. Tusker paused to peer into shops at the odds and ends for sale: a plastic jar full of broken