by Hayley Doyle
A short, dead silence falls across the vast exterior of the mall. The Burj Khalifa is flashing like a giant Christmas tree, indicating that it’s time. Gasps and sighs break the silence across the ever-so-still manmade waterway. Then Andrea Bocelli’s ‘Time to Say Goodbye’ blasts out through speakers as hundreds of powerful water chutes catapult into the air, choreographed perfectly to dance in time to the music.
I smile, tickled. I like to imagine that each shoot of water is real, like a person, a dancer. Before the music begins, as the crowd waits in anticipation of the fountains starting, I have this image of the ‘dancers’ being in grand dressing rooms below the waterway, sitting there and having a cigarette, taking five before their performance. Silly, I know. But what the hell.
Now, the water is dancing in all directions with emotional, graceful movements. Some spectators have even started to cry. It truly is spectacular. It’s water. And it’s dancing. Reaching its finale, water shoots upwards to an almighty crescendo, followed by raucous applause.
And as quickly as they gathered, the crowd disperses.
I catch my breath, remain still. I have no desire to follow anybody in and get caught in the stampede. At least there’s some space at the edge of the waterway now. I had to stand up on my tiptoes to see the effects of the ‘Time to Say Goodbye’ routine, and now I can bag myself a good ‘seat’ for the next song. The ‘dancers’ are on their break again, but they’ll be back soon.
Leaning against the rail, I get my phone out and scroll. Still no word from Katie. I click on the email from Liverpool University, wondering what enlightening information it’s offering. Maybe a discount from a clothing store I’ll never visit, or five shots for the price of one in some bar I’ll never drink at.
Only it’s not from the student union, or the marketing department. It’s from admissions. I skim-read. Oh, for God’s sake. Seriously. The irony of the timing. Just as I arrive back in Dubai, the possibility of a life in England behind me, the damn university wants to confirm that I’ve been offered a place to finish my degree, starting in the new year. For some reason, this news makes me think about one of my suitcases, still unopened in my papa’s villa, full of warmer clothes for winter. I haven’t bothered to unpack it yet, although the task will undoubtedly kill some of the oodles of time on my hands. Tucked into one of the pockets is some stationery: a new pencil case with a unicorn plastered across the centre. How embarrassing. How old do I think I am? All in anticipation of having a first day back at school, my new boyfriend waving me off from behind the wheel of his car?
The image of that new boyfriend isn’t Nick anymore. It’s Jim.
My thoughts are becoming jumbled. Everything and nothing makes a whole lot of nonsense. I’ve been hanging onto the Jim part, perhaps as a tool to help me get over Nick. Perhaps not. But, you know, it’s easy. Hanging onto Jim, I mean. How he might watch me enter the main doors of the department as I look over my shoulder, hoping for a nod of encouragement, a wink to reassure me that I’m doing the right thing. And he’s looking at me in the same way he did that night, in the hotel, just before that almost-kiss. I’d been safe, exactly where I was supposed to be.
Before the moment passed.
The crowds are gathering close to the waterway again, the surge of selfies going crazy. Being alone amongst thousands of other people is so much lonelier than simply being alone. My imagination is exhausting me with fake scenarios of somebody being here beside me, of Jim Glover looking up at the Burj Khalifa, his hands gently on my waist. Still, a warm smile spreads through me like a much-needed hug, until I’m thrown out of my daydream by a push from the family standing beside me. I brush off their series of apologies politely. It happens. Everybody wants to get a decent view. Kids get excited.
Oh my God.
I can’t believe who I spot. The reason the family had pushed into me. He’s at the front now, having barged his way to the railing, and he’s stretching his arm around the woman he’s with. I’m all flushed, and then ever so suddenly feel my blood run cold, almost as if a sharp blast of the mall’s air conditioning has hit me, thrown over me like a bucket of water.
George.
The guy responsible for the fucking hole in my face.
‘Hey,’ I find myself saying. And again, louder. ‘Hey! George.’
He turns around, looking rather pleased that somebody has noticed him. I’ve got no intention of actually talking to him, hearing his pompous voice, so I honestly can’t fathom why on earth I want to grab his attention, but somehow, I do.
I just want him to look at me.
At. Me.
And he does. His eyes fall upon mine, and all too soon, they fall upon my cheek. The only thing left to fall is George’s face. Which does. To the floor.
I wave, a spontaneous reaction at seeing someone familiar and yet without an ounce of friendly intention. The woman beside him smiles, unknowing, and waves back to me.
The heat returns to my body and just seeing George falter, so incredibly unsure of himself in that simple, small moment, brings me huge comfort. Perhaps the thought of Jim behind me is helping, although I’m not going to rely on that or give a figment of my imagination the credit for the strength I’m now feeling. A funny term pops into my head, one that sums up George to perfection. I can’t work out where I heard it. George is a total bellend.
Oh how I’m trying not to laugh.
Where did that expression come from? It’s not something I’d ever say.
George moves from the railing. He ushers the unknowing woman away, leaving space for the children in the family to spread out and get a much better view of the impending fountain display. I glance down at my phone again, the email from Liverpool University still hanging there.
Jim!
It was Jim who had called Nick Gregory a total bellend, during our journey to Heathrow.
‘… just ’cause he’s a total bellend doesn’t mean you can’t go back to uni.’
Yes, that was it.
I read the email again, this time with full concentration.
I have been accepted into the school of Art and Design to complete the second and final year of an Illustration degree. Not Nick, not George, and not even Jim. Just me, Zara Khoury. It’s here in black and white. This news, coming through to my private email address, has nothing to do with any guy, or anybody other than me.
Why can’t I go back to university? Does a man define my right to complete my studies? No, of course not. Never.
A wave of disgust hits me, ashamed at how thoughtless I’ve been towards my own true self. All those sketches, all those comic strips – hilarious according to the few people I’ve dared to show – have come from my mind, my hands. Nobody else’s. Even my papa, who disapproves of the arts unless it suits his mood, found the meerkat in the jacuzzi sketch amusing and had been the one to suggest I ‘put it on a t-shirt or something’, planting the idea of getting it printed onto a canvas tote bag.
But I’ve lost my inspiration so many times. I’m so easily led by others. What if I fail again?
Silence strikes, broken by the twinkle of lights and awe of the spectators. A tremendous chute of water powers into the sky accompanied by traditional Arabic music, bold and dramatic, its energy blasting across the heart of the Middle East’s modern metropolis. It’s the perfect soundtrack for this dance as I watch the water swirl and swoosh, around and around, with as much attention as I’d given the second reading of my email. Because this will be the final time I watch the dancing fountains. I’m going to leave Dubai for good.
And go back to Liverpool. Definitely.
32
Jim
Haddon Park Way is where my car sits stationary in the pound.
Griffo’s used his dad’s contacts to find out this information behind his dad’s back, so no matter what the outcome might be from the task ahead, I’ll be forever grateful – and owing – to my old pal.
‘This is so fucking exciting,’ Snowy says, like a balloon on the verge of
popping.
He pulls a balaclava over his face and does a series of punches that can only be compared to a Power Ranger. Griffo’s dressed for the part, minus the balaclava, and his height and width make him look like a doorman for a dodgy club. Mikey, in general dark stuff, just looks pleased with himself.
‘I knew you’d think of something,’ he tells me.
‘Even though I’m an ungrateful bastard, a massive twat and a piece of shit?’ I ask, just to be sure.
‘Keep your voices down,’ Griffo says.
‘POW!’ Snowy says, bending his knees and elbows like a ninja. ‘Soz. Couldn’t help meself.’
It’s impressive how Griffo’s learnt to speak clearly, yet with minimal volume and no movement of either his upper or lower lip. He gathers all of the Dentists in.
‘Now, has anyone done this before?’
I break away from the huddle with a highly offended ‘NO’. Mikey and Snowy also step back and scoff, Snowy protesting, asking Griffo what the hell he takes us all for.
‘Fucking stereotypes!’ Snowy cries over being hushed. ‘Just ’cause we’re Scouse lads you reckon we’ve done this before? We’re not all dodgy like …’
Griffo raises his eyebrow.
‘Like me?’ he asks.
‘No, no,’ Snowy stammers. ‘I mean, yeah. No offence.’
‘None taken,’ Griffo says.
Mikey’s fuming. Pure FUMING.
‘But we’re playing up to the stereotype, aren’t we?’ he remarks, breathing heavily. ‘All that shit that’s said about Scousers, and yet here we are about to … We can’t. We can’t do this—’
‘Look. Stop it,’ I whisper as loud as possible. ‘For starters, you can all do one. I’m here now, after you planted the seed in me head, Michael – thanks very much, mate – and I can do this alone. You all think I’m so full of excuses, well, I’m about to show you I’m not. This is my solution, not yours. If you don’t wanna help, leave now. I won’t blame you.’
They seem to have listened, and they nod. We were united once as a band, and now we’re what? A band of criminals?
‘And this is not a crime we’re committing here,’ I say, convincing myself, too. ‘Technically.’
‘He’s right,’ Griffo chips in.
‘All I’m doing is taking what’s rightfully mine. That’s what you said, Griffo, isn’t it? In the pub. The car’s still rightfully mine. And those tyres, those beautiful nineteen-inch diamond-cut alloys, are mine. Won fairly and squarely. And that is what we’re taking, and that is what I’m selling.’
Snowy raises his hand for permission to speak, then speaks anyway.
‘Can’t you just get the car fixed? Pay the fine? I’ll lend you the dosh.’
‘I already suggested that,’ Griffo says.
‘Alright, big fella,’ Snowy snaps. ‘No one likes a showoff.’
‘Lads,’ I go on. ‘If I paid the fine, paid for insurance, then on top of all that, paid for the repair, it’d cost more than it’s worth for me to keep the bloody thing. What if it’s written off? I don’t know the extent of the damage; I’m no expert. It’d probably cost less to buy meself a second-hand car. And it’s not about driving around Liverpool or having me own wheels, is it? I don’t need a nice car. Or a shit car. I need money to get out of here. And if I don’t do it now … Look, I understand if you don’t wanna help me. But, lads, I could really do with the help.’
Mikey pats me on the back. Snowy follows, patting into a drum roll that develops into a quick hug. Griffo delegates.
‘Snowy, you’re on watch.’
‘Why him?’ Mikey scowls. ‘He’ll blow our cover.’
Griffo sighs. ‘He’s loud and he’s fast. He can shout if someone’s coming and run away to hide quicker than you, you slow-arsed little turd. Now, shut up and listen.’
Mikey’s the one to climb the chain link fence first, boosted by me and Griffo. This way, I’ll have a mate on both sides when I climb the fence, for physical support. You see, if I fall and break my leg, the whole Dubai trip is fucked. But, if Mikey falls and breaks his leg, he’ll get sick pay from the school and a few weeks off. No contest. Griffo’s confident enough to climb it without a boost. His dad’s taught him well.
Thankfully, we all get to the other side without breaking any bones and go in search of the BMW M3. Griffo’s got the registration number and the tipoff as to where it should be. It’s not difficult to spot. The boot is a massive giveaway.
‘Fuck me,’ Mikey says.
‘Ouch,’ Griffo says.
‘Tell me about it,’ I say.
As far as crimes go, according to Griffo, removing a tyre is speedy. This isn’t a crime, I tell myself over and over. I’m taking what’s rightfully mine. Griffo reckons he can get a grand in cash for all four tyres plus alloys on the black market, which is enough money to book a flight and spend a week in Leon Taylor’s place.
Griffo shines his phone’s torch over mine and Mikey’s heads as we remove each tyre using the tools Griffo brought along. Due to the sensible fact that we’re wearing gloves, it isn’t as easy as we expect. Still, we manage it, and each of us carries one tyre back through the pound, back to the fence where Snowy’s waiting for us. Griffo directs me to boost Mikey up onto his shoulders, then I use all of my strength to hand each tyre to Mikey, who throws the first one over the fence and almost knocks Snowy out.
‘Watch it!’ Snowy yelps.
‘Watch the tyre!’ I shriek. ‘Sorry, mate.’
The next two tyres are thrown over in the exact same manner, Mikey clearly seeing this as a bit of a joke. Nobody else finds it funny.
‘Now, Jimbo, go back for the last tyre,’ Griffo tells me.
So, back I go through the pound, tracing our steps back to my car. The quiet surrounding me is eerie, a slight squeal of wind blowing amidst the stillness of the vehicles. I’m all alone with my prize, for the first time since moments before the crash, when Elbow had been singing ‘One Day Like This’ on the radio.
‘Hey,’ I say, feeling like a dick for talking to a car.
I circle it, gloved hands stuffed into my fleece, taking it all in whilst ignoring the boot. The sides, the bonnet are still perfect. A bit of dried mud splattered from the rain gives the white finish some freckles. My ma was disgusted by it, wasn’t she? Her first thought was what the neighbours’d think. How she disappeared into its leather racing seats! The sound system’s top class; music never sounded so good. So fucking good. Saying goodbye is harder than I imagined. On the passenger side, I peer in through the window. A bow tie lies on the floor, fallen off that bloody mop. A part of Zara’s past.
I remember her bravery. Her absolute will to try and make her life better.
For all her faults and failures, I admire her. A chill runs down my spine at the prospect of how Zara’s likely to react to my own faults and failures, the ones I never admitted to. Her innocence handed me a fake identity on a plate and I made no effort to correct her. How can I be sure I’m doing the right thing?
Well, I can’t, can I?
I rest my gloved hand on the roof, give it a gentle pat.
‘Ta-ra,’ I say.
Getting over the first half of the fence is tricky on my own. Mikey and Griffo have already clambered over, awaiting my return with the final tyre which I have to throw over with a fuck load of strength. The second side is easier, my best mates all there to catch me. We pile the tyres into a van belonging to Griffo’s dad, one we’ve never actually seen before. The ‘crime’ is completed with a distinct lack of drama.
‘He’s going to Dubai!’ Griffo shouts, speeding out of Haddon Park Way. ‘Woo hoo!’
‘Thanks to Mikey,’ I say.
‘Why Mikey?’ Griffo asks.
‘Well, thanks to you, too, Griff. For sorting tonight out, like. But it was Mikey who got in touch with that Leon fella, had the idea that planted the seed—’
‘Nah,’ Mikey says. ‘Wasn’t me. I was roped in.’
‘Oh?’
&n
bsp; I turn to my favourite, my very best mate, sitting squashed up beside me.
‘You?’ I ask Snowy.
Snowy grins, raises his eyebrows, although he’s missing his usual spark.
‘It was your idea for me to go and find Zara?’
‘It was indeed,’ he confirms. ‘I mean, how else was I ever gonna keep you away from Helen?’
God. I feel my heart collapse inside my chest, a million apologies etching into my face. Snowy smiles at me, perhaps acknowledging my guilt, or perhaps because he’s finally getting the girl he wants all to himself.
‘Mate …’ I try.
‘Nah,’ Snowy says, dismissively.
Everything’s out in the open now and there’s no going back.
33
Zara
I’m all checked in at Dubai International Airport. Again.
I’m travelling light this time. My spirit, too. I’m practically floating through passport control. I’m going back to England, sticking to my original plan. Yes, sure, there’s another man in the picture, but he’s not my sole reason.
I don’t think, anyway.
I’ve gone over this with myself a million times, questioning my actions. Is the man the main deal here? It’s possible. But it’s not the only deal.
I am sure of one thing, though. Jim Glover couldn’t have been just a chance meeting. His voice, his face, his attitude is imprinted within me, spurring me on to do this. I know where he lives; I’ve been there. That will be my first point of call. I’ve got nothing to lose, and everything to gain.
Oh, that night in the hotel! The almost.
There’s no way I’m going to let that pass. No way. And I’m also not going to pass on this opportunity, shining like a laser in my face, to go back to university. The stars are finally, finally, finally aligning and the universe is totally giving me the signs to go for it.
