The Sand Men

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘As you will one day turn into me, darling,’ countered Lea. ‘Or if you’re lucky, the me I might have been.’

  ‘Don’t start.’

  ‘We should have a cup of tea first.’ She opened each of the cupboards in turn and found them packed with groceries. She had forgotten that she’d filled out an online form requesting kitchen provisions. Most of the produce was from Waitrose.

  ‘Can I go outside?’

  ‘We’ll have to go out later and get some fridge stuff. There’s supposed to be an amazing mall nearby. We’ve got a shared swimming pool, and there’s a lake and a golf course.’

  ‘Then let’s go!’

  ‘Let’s wait for the luggage to turn up first. You’ll need to unpack today if you’re going to start school straight away.’ She had enrolled Cara in a British School run by ex-pats who had stayed on after the country had been handed back. The classes were small, and the Albion High School prospectus suggested she would get a better education than she would have done by remaining at her cash-strapped state school in Chiswick.

  Lea walked through the house, making mental notes about how the furniture would need to be rearranged. The property came with chairs, tables, beds and sofas, finished in safe tones that matched the cream and beige walls. There were three flat-screen televisions. The beds were made. There were even towels in the bathrooms. The rooms smelled of lavender air-freshener.

  Opening the French windows in the lounge, she stepped out onto the area which had been described in their orientation brochure as ‘the entertaining deck’. Tipping her face to the sun she closed her eyes, feeling the encompassing calm of light and heat. It was raining in London and 14°—she had already taken pleasure in checking the conditions on her phone.

  ‘Turn your data roaming off until you get a local provider,’ Cara called. ‘Do you want me to do it for you?’

  ‘I’m not completely useless,’ Lea called back. ‘I’ve already done it.’ She quickly checked her mobile settings and disabled the internet access.

  The deck had comfortable rattan sofas and pretty peach-shaded lamps. Beyond it was a small square garden filled with unfamiliar plants. She could smell the flowers, pungent and cloying.

  It was wonderfully quiet. No circling helicopters, no sirens, no continuous thrum of traffic. I won’t be able to get away with the odd cigarette out here, she thought, the air is too still. Roy thought she had given up, but she felt sure Cara knew. She knew too much about everything.

  ‘The luggage could be ages,’ Cara called, trying again. ‘Come on, there are cars in the garage. They’re ours, aren’t they? The keys must be around here somewhere.’

  She was going to argue, but decided Cara was right. There was no point in simply wandering around the empty house. Whoever was delivering the luggage presumably had keys. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘let’s go and see what’s out there.’

  There was, indeed, a double garage containing two cars. The little blue Renault was emphatically intended as a woman’s shopping vehicle, complete with a decent boot for grocery bags. When she turned the ignition, she found the gas tank full. Roy’s new BMW X5 had been parked in the shadows like a glistening black diamond, manly and expensive. Not that she was complaining; the company’s attention to detail was everything Roy had promised. All their immediate needs had been catered for. This, she decided, was no mere courtesy. It allowed her husband to start work immediately. Various permits and laminated ID cards had been provided in orientation packs that made her feel as if she too was now working for the company.

  She paused before getting into the car and looked across the street. A curtain shifted, and for a moment a man’s face watched her from the darkness of his living room.

  ‘Are you okay to drive?’ asked Cara.

  ‘I’ve driven in other countries. Incredible as it may sound, I did have a life before you.’

  ‘Just checking.’ Cara had confidence beyond her years. Her mousey hair was London-tough, her chin a little too pointed, eyes blue and thoughtful, with a cool indifference that hid her emotions. She had become good at hiding herself, so that when a genuine emotion surfaced it was like the sun coming out.

  The guards opened the gate and released them into the afternoon traffic. The soft-spoken female voice of the sat-nav was a nice touch. It guided them along a series of identical dual carriageways in the direction of the mall. Driving was stately and at a fixed pace, as in America. You hardly needed to be awake.

  Lea caught sight of herself in the mirror. The same high cheekbones and brown eyes, almost dark enough to be mistaken for Arabic, but she was tall and lacked the fluidity of movement she associated with Middle Eastern women. Instead she saw the restlessness of an awkward Englishwoman who was always slightly too aware of her surroundings.

  ‘You can go anywhere you like, so long as you keep your shoulders covered and don’t wear a short skirt,’ she said, looking out for the turn-off sign. ‘Maybe I should help you choose a new summer wardrobe.’

  ‘Forget it, not going to happen,’ said Cara.

  ‘We’ll figure it out when we go shopping. It’s super-safe. Apparently there are some towns where women aren’t allowed on the beach and even men can’t wear shorts. It’s more relaxed here. It only rains about three times a year. We can go to the desert. You can try dune surfing. And there’s falconry, and—’

  ‘You don’t have to sell it to me, Mum. Left here.’ Cara pressed a pale finger on the tinted windscreen.

  ‘I’m excited, aren’t you?’

  ‘Interested,’ Cara conceded.

  They parked on a virtually deserted floor, wrote down the location of their car, B769 Orange, and headed into the Arabia Mall.

  The scale of the building induced agoraphobia; five pastel floors with a vast golden glass atrium, fluted fountains and a forest of tropical plants, hundreds of stores selling high-end luxury goods, mostly aimed at women. ‘Check out the shoes and handbags,’ said Lea. ‘It’s how the local ladies show their wealth.’

  ‘No different to home, then,’ said Cara, pushing her mother towards an Apple store. ‘Can I get the iPad now?’

  Lea had promised Cara she could have one if she made the move without a fuss. She hated using bribery but had been worn down by her complaints. Only a few women were wearing abayas, the traditional black gowns used to cover day-wear. Many wore hijab head-scarves but there were very few burqas, the hoods that sometimes still came with metallic coloured face coverings. Most were dressed in the kind of designer wear you saw all over the Mediterranean.

  ‘How come the women cover up and the men don’t?’ Cara asked.

  ‘The Prophet Muhammad issued guidelines for female modesty,’ Lea explained. ‘You’re not allowed to outline or distinguish the shape of the body, so skin-tight jeans are out. He once warned that in later generations, there would be people who are dressed yet naked.’

  ‘What, he saw the future?’

  Lea looked about. ‘Seems pretty accurate to me.’

  ‘The women must get hot.’

  ‘The clothes are very light. Feel that.’ She showed Cara a gauzy, pretty hijab. ‘And it’s only for going out. At home they jazz it up for their husbands.’

  They found what appeared to be the largest supermarket on the planet, and were paralysed with indecision when faced with seventy types of breakfast cereal. Cara stood before a display featuring thirty different brands of honey. ‘Why would anyone need so much choice?’ she asked, genuinely bemused.

  ‘I guess eating is a serious family business. Not drinking alcohol probably makes you enjoy food more. Remember when the three of us used to sit down at the meal table together?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m just saying. A real dining table. Conversation. The odd night in front of the TV.’

  ‘Is that what you want?’

  ‘What, for us to be a real family? Well, yes, it would be nice.’

  The process of shopping was slow and laborious—everyone seemed to be moving at a third of
the speed she was used to. Lea pushed the giant red plastic trolley between rows of shocked fish arranged on ice like jewelled purses, past jars of exotic pickles as mysterious as foetuses in a medical museum, through a corridor of arranged meats that glowed acid pink under sterile counter lights.

  ‘Next time, we need to make a list,’ she said. She watched Cara reading the back of a can, the way her lank brown hair fell forward over her eyes, shielding the world from her thoughts. She had sprung up in the last year, but still dressed in her dark London uniform of grey hooded Adidas top and jeans. There would have to be some variation in her wardrobe now. The local girls were more traditionally feminine.

  Still unsure about the contents of the can, Cara replaced it on the shelf. She never asked for help; the age of independence was upon her. She had left behind very few friends of her own age, and needed a good peer group.

  Lea steered the trolley away, feeling a little sad. Nothing made her more aware of the passing time than looking at her child. But here it might be possible to roll time back just a short way, and recapture something lost.

  Unable to decide on foodstuffs, they bought too much. They spent ages in the computer store, and finally left the mall two and a half hours later.

  ‘We won’t do that every day,’ Lea said, searching for the turn-off to Dream Ranches. ‘I wouldn’t get anything else done.’

  There was no response. Cara was busy taking the iPad out of its box. She had a flair for technology, and was the house guru for everything electronic.

  Their luggage had arrived, along with a welcome letter from the company, details concerning the shipment of their belongings and a great bouquet of lurid flowers. Cara claimed a bedroom and set up her laptop. She located English-language TV channels.

  Lea made a salad. She tried leaving the back door open but the alternating blasts of hot and freezing air brought on a headache, so she closed it and sat in the lounge to watch the sun setting behind the silent garden.

  The sound of sprinklers starting up in unison made her jump. They sounded like the rain that had pattered onto the leaves of the plane trees as Lea waited on the front doorstep of their Chiswick home, convinced that she was leaving something valuable behind.

  Throughout that final morning she had circled the cold empty rooms, trying to pinpoint the nature of the loss. Two Bishops removal vans had splashed into Belmont Terrace and filled up, one with furniture going into storage, the other with the personal belongings they were taking with them.

  Cara had questions she couldn’t answer; would the PlayStation work? Would they need to put transformers on all the electrical items? Was there anything she wouldn’t be allowed to take into the country? Was it true the internet was censored? Would she still be able to use Facebook?

  ‘You’re a big girl now, check it out online,’ she’d said. ‘You’ll have to ask your father about the rest.’

  ‘Will we have a fast Wi-Fi connection? I don’t know which cables to take.’

  ‘Take them all, I don’t want to have to buy them again. If they get packed in the wrong van you won’t be able to get your hands on them for two years.’

  ‘Two years is a long time. We could all be fighting each other for food by then.’

  ‘Thanks for the cheerful thought.’

  ‘Not my fault. The world’s running out of water thanks to your generation.’

  ‘Yep, that’s right, blame it all on us. Why don’t you make a list of all the things we screwed up for you, I’ll try and deal with each item in turn. Meanwhile can you see if I’ve packed my ginger cat mug? And while you’re at it, write on this.’ Lea had picked up a cardboard box and handed her a marker pen. ‘Your old board games. I found them in the attic.’

  ‘What do you want me to write?’

  ‘Their destination. England or the Middle East.’

  Cara pulled a grossed-out face. ‘I don’t even want them. I’m never going to play Cluedo again.’

  ‘You may not want them, but I do.’ She pinched Cara’s cheek. ‘Somewhere inside there you’re still my baby. I’m talking my opera CDs, so make sure you’ve got everything.’

  ‘I keep telling you, you don’t have to take them. I loaded everything onto your phone.’ They moved off the stairs so that the removal men could get past.

  ‘But what if I have to update the phone or lose it?’ said Lea.

  ‘I thought we were finally getting away from all that wailing. You’ll be able to play it on a dock.’

  ‘Nice try but they’re coming with me. Mark the boxes.’ Stripped, the house was depressing. Its bare windows looked onto a corpse-grey London street where drizzle sifted from an tarnished sky. Opposite, a traffic warden slowly and patiently wiped excrement off his shoe. A fresh start, she’d thought. Say goodbye to the dim light, the endless cloudy skies, the tired faces. Cara locked in her room avoiding anything that could embarrass her. This will bring us closer together. The last couple of years haven’t exactly been…

  A crash from downstairs had made her start. The removal men had dropped something big. She ran out to the landing and looked down to find Cara standing in a nimbus of shattered glass.

  ‘Your Aunt Jen’s water pitcher. That was a wedding gift.’

  ‘I was just trying to help.’ Cara in defensive mode. ‘It slipped out of my hands.’

  ‘Leave it to the professionals, Cara. Just concentrate on your own things.’

  ‘I’m not a child. It was disgusting anyway.’ Cara had stormed off beyond her line of sight, furious at being admonished in front of the removal men.

  Now they were in a land where rainfall would become a distant memory. She wondered if her daughter had any inkling of how much she was loved. With each passing day she saw less of herself in Cara, and longed for a way to reconnect. The thought stayed with her as the sun sank below the treeline and the golden garden fell into shadow.

  Chapter Three

  The International Dream

  ROY DIDN’T GET home until 9:45pm. ‘Wait until you see the resort,’ he said excitedly, pulling off his jacket and kissing her. ‘It’s incredible. The stats are surreal. I mean, I knew the architects were going for something really futuristic but this is—you need a hand with that?’

  ‘It’s salmon salad, I can manage,’ said Lea. ‘Hang your jacket up.’

  He aimed himself at the refrigerator and found a beer. ‘I’m sorry Tahir took me off like that. I wasn’t expecting it.’

  ‘What was so urgent?’

  ‘A workman had an accident.’

  ‘Was it serious?’

  ‘The guy died. There was nothing to be done.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘They’re installing pressurised refrigeration pipes under the sand to cool the beach down for tourists, and he was sent to repair one of them, but it exploded. Talk about bad luck.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ said Lea.

  ‘The company will take care of all the bills and pay his family compensation.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘It’s a massive project, Lea, a lot of people involved, accidents happen. It’s the biggest train set I’ll ever get to play with. I never had an opportunity like this before.’

  She rested a hand on her hip, leading him to look at the rearranged lounge. ‘Do you want to check out the house first and tell me you approve?’

  ‘I already saw it last time I came out.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Sorry, I figured I could leave it to you. I’m just jazzed. The resort already generates more power than the entire country used in the seventies. The Persiana’s main atrium is so big that they’re having to install a computerised airjet program to stop it from creating its own internal weather system.’

  ‘Its own weather system? How does that work?’ She dipped slices of courgette into lemon juice.

  ‘The hot air separates out, then cools and condensation builds up. They’re constructing glass-walled executive suites with bathrooms that are bel
ow the water line so you can watch the fish while you’re taking a shower, but the glass gets heated from the freshwater side and they’re having problems with the rubber seals.’

  Whenever Roy described technical problems, he had the enthusiasm of a child. He been brought in to find solutions to architectural faults in the main hotel of Dream World, the multi-billion dirham resort nearing completion on the country’s reclaimed coastline. Experts from around the globe had been hired at great expense. There was never a question of not taking the job. By the time the offer of employment came through, Roy had been out of work for over eight months.

  ‘You think there are going to be enough rich people to fill the place?’ Lea asked.

  ‘You’re kidding, right? The board of directors don’t have much taste but they know the market.’

  ‘Aren’t they the ones you were supposed to meet at the Mandarin Oriental? The ones coming over from Guangzhou? I thought they didn’t show.’

  ‘Well, they didn’t. I met their people. All they’re concerned about is getting the place back on schedule for its revised opening date on September 9th. Where are we eating?’

  ‘The table’s laid outside. I’m not sure if there are mosquitos so I bought some citronella candles anyway.’ She shook her head. ‘Maybe you can get in with the board and persuade them to make you a director.’

  Roy followed her about, as excited as a dog. ‘Apparently they’re famous for rewarding hard workers. I’ve got to sign a shedload of non-disclosure forms. And there’s a limit on who we can discuss the project with. We’re not allowed to bring in freelance consultants whenever there’s a problem. There are a couple of guys at NASA who know about heat-resistant materials, but we can’t access the specialist advice we need because of the conflict with their own confidentiality agreements. I’ll have to work with as many lawyers as engineers, but you know I can do that.’

  ‘Tell me more over dinner,’ said Lea, taking a salad bowl to the patio. ‘Cara, come and eat.’

  ‘Is it salad?’ Cara called.

  ‘Yes, with cold salmon. The green stuff won’t kill you, it’s not kryptonite.’ In London, Cara mostly lived on tomato soup, cheese and toast.