The Sand Men

by Christopher Fowler

  Roy suddenly rounded on her. ‘You know why I don’t tell you where I go? Because the bars are pretty seedy. We know what goes on here, a blind man could see they’re hookers, we look and the conversation gets rough but that’s all, nothing else. We’re not stupid. We know what’s important. Our wives. Our homes. Our families. Okay? Is that good enough for you?’

  He popped a beer and headed out of the kitchen, into the pale moonlit garden. He was still standing there, looking up into the inky star-filled sky, when she went to bed.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Stories

  LEA AWOKE IN a sweat and looked at the bedside clock. 1:45am. She shook her head and tried to banish a tangle of dream-images: sunset neon, thin-armed girls in cheap satin gowns, Rachel wandering lost in the unforgiving glare of the desert. The blackened shell of the smouldering Busabi house. Somebody smiling in the dark. Somebody lying.

  Roy was buried in pillows, snoring lightly, one brown arm trailing on the floor. There was no point in trying to get back to sleep. She got up and went to her desk to think. Andre Pignot had posted her new article on the Gulf Coast website, softening her prose. She logged onto Skype, just to see if anyone else was awake.

  To her surprise, Betty Graham was online. She suddenly appeared in a ridiculously English pink quilted dressing gown, looking confused, as if she had only just discovered how to operate the application. There was an empty wine bottle and glass next to her.

  ‘You’re up late,’ said Lea.

  ‘I think the clock in the lounge is wrong,’ said Betty. ‘I’m always forgetting to wind it. I should get an electric one. What are you doing up? Hang on, you’re upside down. Don’t worry if I lose you, it just means I’ve pressed something.’

  ‘I’m having trouble sleeping,’ Lea admitted.

  ‘I called you this afternoon but you were out. Did you hear, they sentenced Elena and Ramiro?’

  ‘Your Ramiro?’

  ‘Oh, please, don’t call him that.’ Betty shook the idea from her fingertips, anxious to forget the flirtation. ‘A 2,000 dirham fine and one month in jail. But the worst part is, they’re going to be deported upon release.’

  ‘Sounds like they’re sending us a message.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, the police—about infidelity.’

  ‘Oh. Gosh. I hadn’t thought of that. Quite a few of the other women around here would miss Ramiro, I can tell you. I wasn’t the only one who fell for his line. Are you okay? You don’t look too good. Or perhaps it’s my screen. I really need to clean it.’

  ‘No, you’re right, I feel unsettled.’

  ‘I know that feeling, like a cat when it knows something bad is about to happen. I can’t make sense of anything right now.’

  ‘What’s all that?’ Lea pointed to the brightly coloured translucent objects lined along the table at the base of the screen.

  ‘Oh—I’m making fruit jellies. I’m not a great cook but even I can make a jelly. These ones on the right have got gin in. I needed something to do while I was waiting for Dean. He still hasn’t come home yet. He’s meant to call me but he’s not answering his mobile.’

  ‘Have you two had another fight?’

  ‘We don’t fight exactly, we just sort of—disagree on everything. He’s missing his father. He stays out late on school nights and never thinks to call. Harry knew how to control him.’

  ‘Sounds like he’s testing the boundaries, pushing back a bit. When’s your husband due home?’

  ‘In just under three months. Harry’s allowed to take a weekend off once a month to come back and visit, but he’s not using the time. He knows that when he returns we’ll have to have a proper talk, and I honestly don’t know what the outcome will be, whether we’ll give it another go for Dean’s sake or if we’ll actually separate.’

  ‘God, do you really think you might break up?’

  ‘To be honest, it feels like we already have. I hardly ever see him. Dean knows what’s going on. Kids always do. But I can’t sort anything out until he gets here. I just feel as if I’m in limbo.’ Betty looked around the room. ‘Don’t you hate this time of night? It’s even quieter out there than usual. It sounds silly but I miss hearing sirens.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. I’m keeping a diary, so sometimes when I wake up in the night I make a couple of entries, just until I’m tired. There’s something here I didn’t note down and was meaning to ask you. You said there was a Muslim family living on one side of you.’

  ‘That’s right, and Tom Chalmers and his poor wife were on the other.’ Betty thought for a moment. ‘It couldn’t have been long before you arrived that Tom had his accident. He took his daughter’s disappearance very badly—well, who wouldn’t?’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Oh, a pretty little thing. Very mature for her age, and far too smart.’

  ‘Did the police ever say what they thought happened to her?’

  ‘Well of course there were theories. There was talk of a sex attacker. They deported several construction workers. It was Milo who found Tom.’

  ‘So I heard.’

  ‘He was convinced Tom had been murdered. At least, that’s what he used to say when he was drunk. Something about a voltage limiter. He said Tom couldn’t have electrocuted himself, and there was blood on the pavement. He said he saw someone running off, but of course nobody believed him.’

  ‘Why would he have been murdered?’

  ‘Because he knew what really happened to his daughter. But you know what?’ Betty leaned forward, sharing a confidence. ‘There are always stories in places like this. They count for nothing.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘Because nobody ever gets to know the truth, not the real truth. We sit around and speculate but we’re on the outside. We’re not important enough to be given answers. You just have to accept what happens and move on. Milo and Tom were both deeply unhappy men. Harry’s the opposite, he thrives on the life out here. He never liked London, commuting by tube, the dirt, the noise, the overcrowding.’

  Lea wondered if Betty’s husband was one of the men who visited the brothels when his wife was not around.

  ‘Lea, do you think everything’s all right?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s just—everyone’s so jumpy. Poor Rachel. And the Busabis’ house. You look out in that street and it seems like everything is just the same as it always was. No matter how many bad things happen, none of them show. I try not to worry, but you can’t help wondering—’ She saw Betty look up, hearing something offscreen. ‘Listen, Lea, I think Dean just came in. I have to go and read him the riot act. You’d better try and get some sleep.’

  ‘Okay. Goodnight.’

  Lea logged out and went to make herself a fruit smoothie. She stood before the picture window in the lounge, looking out into the dark, dead street. The men love it and the women hate it, she thought. Of course we hate it. The men prosper and we vanish.

  All she could see was a reflection of herself in the window, framed in the bright empty square of the room behind. Her shadow stretched across the street, a negative space where a woman had once been.

  THE WIVES’ ACTION committee had finally decided on a name: the Dream World Grand Opening Gala Weekend Dinner. A meeting was hosted, somewhat reluctantly, by Betty Graham, whose maid provided the Patisserie Valerie cupcakes and a selection of fancy teas. Lea sat listening to the various arguments for and against a marquee, balloon and banners, an English menu versus an American menu, and found it hard to concentrate. Certain members were noticeable by their absence; no Mrs Busabi, no Colette, a couple of other women had dropped out and several fresh faces had taken their place, interchangeable wives in pastel tops, one of whom seemed to have inherited Mrs Busabi’s fixation on improperly rinsed salads.

  Looking at the assembly, Lea knew that Rachel wouldn’t have been caught dead here. The irony of meeting to discuss fancy dress outfits and table decorations after y
ears spent fighting for women’s rights and equal pay would not have been wasted on her.

  ‘—don’t you think, Mrs Brook?’ said the lady opposite, and suddenly Lea realised that everyone was looking at her, waiting for an answer.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Lea, ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘Mrs Garfield just suggested we could hold the dinner in the nursery hall, as it is air-conditioned and would save the cost of a marquee.’

  ‘Wouldn’t we have to clear it with someone?’ asked Lea, trying to show an interest.

  ‘Mrs Busabi handed over the responsibility for the hall’s bookings to Mrs Garfield before she left, so I don’t foresee any problems. Plus it has a kitchen, so the catering can be handled on-site.’

  ‘And it’s preferable to provide a hot food menu,’ said the salad-rinse lady. ‘We wouldn’t want to find ourselves in a Spanish cucumber situation.’

  Minutes were taken. Tea was drunk, cakes daintily devoured. The meeting broke into looser groups so that the wives could discuss other topics of the day; gardeners, book clubs, a swimming group, the creation of a weekly newsletter outlining progress.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to write that, Mrs Brook? You used to be some sort of writer, didn’t you?’ The woman asking the question was one of the new ones. Dressed by Jaeger, preserved by surgeons and pickled in a kind of venom peculiar to the English Home Counties, she leaned forward with a mean smile on her thin lips, waiting for an answer. This was Mrs Garfield, a career colonial married to a flight lieutenant whose exploits were followed by a ground-crew of reverential military housewives from the other side of the compound.

  ‘I’ll be happy to help out,’ she heard herself saying.

  ‘We’d do it ourselves, of course, only we’ll be too busy with the physical arrangements.’

  ‘Surprisingly, writing is a physical process too,’ Lea said.

  ‘I’m sure Mrs Garfield didn’t mean to denigrate your abilities,’ said the lady opposite, ‘it’s just that we’re running short of time.’

  ‘All you have to do is write down who’s doing what in simple, clear terms,’ said Mrs Garfield, as if talking to a particularly dense child. ‘Do you think you could manage that for us?’

  ‘I’ve done research on your husband’s civilian bombing raids in Afghanistan,’ said Lea, ‘I think I could manage to remind you who’s in charge of cupcakes.’

  Savouring the massed floral recoil in the room, she rose and left.

  GULF COAST’s WEBSITE had increased its visitor figures. A glance at the homepage revealed dozens of positive comments posted after the appearance of Lea’s online article. When she rang Andre Pignot, he cautiously committed himself to a new piece. She had already thought of a subject: The Human Cost Of Building Dream Worlds.

  ‘I think we’d need to talk about that title,’ said Andre uncertainly.

  ‘I can be there in half an hour,’ Lea replied.

  Visiting Andre in the Al Qusais area, she headed for the pungent, shabby café below his office on Creek Road. Most of the coffee houses were shut for the duration of Ramadan.

  They seated themselves among the crisp linen thobes and sparkling abayas of the few non-observing Arabs who visited the blue-collar zone. After the bland European cakes and teas at Betty’s house, the pungent aroma of Arabic coffee and honey-coated pastries was intoxicating. Lea ordered basbousa with almonds, and another with pistachios.

  ‘I like your work,’ said Andre, seating himself beside her. ‘I didn’t expect such a good response.’

  ‘There aren’t many forums where these kinds of discussions can take place,’ she reminded him. ‘There are various ways we can build reader loyalty.’

  ‘That’s what you want to do? Even though I can’t pay you?’

  ‘If I stop writing, I’m scared I might go rusty and forget how. You’ll be doing me a favour. It would be interesting to know what people think about the psychology of living here. Nobody mentions that. It’s fine for the locals—whenever someone drives off the road due to lack of sleep it’s Inshallah, but nobody talks about how non-Muslims cope.’

  ‘The will of God governs the land,’ said Andre. ‘We are merely guests here.’

  ‘Then that’s my angle. Stress is a subject everyone’s interested in.’

  ‘Fine, so long as we agree not to say that this is simply the fault of DWG. That would be misleading. There are international companies all along the Gulf coastline. A lot of people made their fortunes in the good times, then the ex-pats got trapped in negative equity. They started leaving their houses behind and abandoning their brand-new BMWs at the airport. I don’t want you trying to point the finger of blame at anyone. We could get into serious trouble.’

  ‘It’s not about apportioning blame. We might be able to do some good.’

  Andre thoughtfully sipped his coffee. ‘All right,’ he said finally, ‘but remember, I’m running a lifestyle magazine, not the Washington Post.’

  ‘I’ll find a positive spin, I promise. Maybe list some meditation centres, spas, desert resorts, places where you can go to chill out.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. I heard you went to interview Leo Hardy.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘He called me and suggested that I should reconsider my decision to employ you. He thinks you’re some kind of Bolshevik troublemaker.’

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Hardy and I got off to a bad start.’

  ‘You might want to remember that Leo Hardy has the power to end your husband’s contract,’ said Andre. ‘He was Alexei Petrovich’s EPS for ten years.’

  ‘EPS? What’s that?’

  ‘Executive Protection Specialist. It’s a fancy title for a bodyguard. He’s a former head of the South African Police. He’s also the godfather of Petrovich’s son.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘So he’s upset that he was never made a director.’ Pignot drew a line on a napkin with his finger. ‘It’s because of the scandal.’

  ‘What scandal?’

  ‘The girl they found in the creek,’ said Pignot, not looking up. ‘She was unloaded from his jeep.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘It’s what people said.’

  Lea was appalled. ‘But wasn’t anything done?’

  ‘Hardy said the jeep had been taken the night before. The police met with the directors and after that nothing more was heard.’

  ‘My husband was just made a director.’

  ‘Don’t think it entitles him to discuss anything with you. He’ll report only to his fellow directors on the board. It’s dangerous to speak out about such things. And you’re a woman.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘That your opinion is invalid.’

  She sat back. ‘So everyone turned a blind eye.’

  ‘You just arrived here and suddenly you want justice? Such things have gone on for hundreds of years. Go on and write your piece—just remember who we answer to.’

  Lea took her leave. Cara was out with Norah and Lauren, and Roy called to warn her he would be working late. Relieved at not having to prepare an evening meal, she stood at the window and studied the lonely rectangle of light cast across the tarmac. Hardly any of the other houses were lit after 11:00pm.

  I was never going to be a crusading journalist, she thought. Are there even such people anymore? I met Milo and Rachel a handful of times. Really, what did they mean to me? We’re all visitors here. Soon the resort will be open and we’ll be back at home.

  She opened another bottle of Vivanco and drank it, the better to be angry with herself.

  Distant lights striated the sky. The coastal development was busiest after dark. Trucks rolled back and forth along the promenade in relay, pouring gravel and rock into the giant jack-shaped seabreaks. The stars were obscured by the immense spotlights of the resort, just as the old gods were obliterated by the desires of their earthbound counterparts.

  Lea wavered at the window, empty bottle in hand, breath condensin
g on the glass. You’ve failed, she told herself. Failed as a mother. Failed as a wife. Failed yourself.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The Dedication

  FOR THE DWG employees, time sped up until it was a blur of heated meetings and deadlines, snatched meals, naps, rising before dawn and returning long after midnight. Roy hardly ever spoke to his wife anymore. His eyes were focussed elsewhere, his mind far away. He heard parts of her sentences and tried to guess conversations, but Lea saw that it was a waste of time and resolved to stay out of his way until the resort was open.

  The last of the building rubble was cleared from the site. The remaining planters were filled. The fountains were switched on. The plastic sheets came off the marble flooring. An army of cleaners moved in to dust and polish every brass rail, every gold-plated tap. One million bright blue LEDs were stretched in a plastic trellis over the atrium of the Persiana.

  The guest list was confirmed. There were pop singers and football heroes, film stars and politicians, entourages and press agents. Flowers were flown in from Amsterdam, caviar from Russian, fireworks from China. Security reached a new level around the resort, with colour-coded passes and computer-readable ID badges. There were flaws in the system. The barcode readers that were meant to be installed at the gates of Dream Ranches failed to materialise, and extra security guards had to be hired to patrol the resort.

  The Dream Ranches Opening Gala Weekend Dinner menu was planned without Lea’s involvement. The compound’s impenetrable pristine houses and immaculate lawns defeated her. The event would take place in the nursery under the guidance of the fearsome Mrs Garfield, who took pleasure in ordering the other wives around like field-troops.

  Lea hunted for things to do. A small mountain of boxes and books had accumulated in the spare room since they had arrived, so she enlisted Lastri’s help and together they bundled everything for the trash. As she sorted paperbacks into stacks, planning to take them to the children’s centre, she came across the tattered volume Colette had given her.