Refuge

by N G Osborne

“Swear by Allah you will release Charlie today, unharmed, if I do as you ask.”

  “I swear,” he says.

  “Say it.”

  “I swear by Allah I will release Charlie Matthews today, unharmed, if you do as I ask.”

  Noor grabs the other garment from him, a niqab, and places it over her head. Tariq takes Noor by the arm and leads her out of the room. They walk outside and down a path towards a large stone building. On either side she sees mujahideen staring at her. Once inside they go up a set of back stairs, down a corridor smelling of fresh flowers and into a large room. At the far end, two gilt-edged chairs face each other. An elderly imam stands in between them. Tariq sits Noor down in one of the chairs, and soon after a man makes himself comfortable opposite her. She recognizes him from the Range Rover.

  “Let’s go,” the Prince says.

  “Praise be to Almighty Allah, the Sustainer of the Worlds Whom we ask help and pardon,” the imam says. “We seek refuge in Allah from the evils within ourselves and from our evil actions. He whom Allah guides no one can lead astray and he who He leaves in error has no one to guide him. I testify that there is no deity but Allah and that Mohammed is His servant and His messenger.”

  The imam turns to Tariq.

  “I presume you are this woman’s wali.”

  “I am,” Tariq says.

  “Has this woman agreed to marry this man?” the imam says.

  “She has.”

  “Then go ahead.”

  Tariq turns to the Prince.

  “In the name of Allah the Merciful, the Mercy giving, Praise be to Allah, Lord of the worlds, and Prayer and Peace be upon the Prophet Mohammed, his family and the companions. I marry to you my sister, Noor Jehan Khan, whom I represent, in accordance with Islamic Law and the tradition of the Messenger of Allah, peace be upon him, and for the Sadaq agreed between us.”

  The Prince starts on his lines, and when he’s finished the imam hands Tariq the marriage contract and a pen. Tariq places it in his sister’s lap.

  “Do you accept this marriage contract?” the imam says.

  Noor tries to speak but nothing comes out. Through the slit in her niqab she sees the Prince’s eyes tighten.

  “She does,” Tariq says.

  “I must hear it from her,” the imam says. “Noor Jehan Khan, do you accept this marriage?”

  “I accept,” she says in little more than a whisper.

  Tariq forces the pen into Noor’s trembling hand. She scratches her name at the bottom. Tariq pries the pen away and presents it and the marriage contract to the Prince. The Prince signs it with a flourish.

  “May Allah make it a blessing for you and a blessing to you together with all that is good,” the imam says.

  Tariq helps Noor to her feet.

  “She’s yours, your Highness.”

  The Prince takes Noor’s hand and leads her out of the room and down the corridor. Noor sees a servant standing by an open door. She and the Prince enter a sumptuous bedroom. The Prince guides her to the center of the room. The door clicks shut, and she can’t help but gasp.

  The Prince takes off her niqab and abaya. He unzips her dress from behind, and it falls to the ground. The Prince steps back and appraises her naked body like a collector sizing up a work of art. She senses tears rising in her eyes and forces them back.

  Remember Charlie. It’s all about Charlie.

  “How did you get those scrapes?” the Prince says.

  “I fell,” she says.

  He steps forward, and crouches down as if his intent is to examine every inch of her body. She feels his warm breath on her skin and shivers.

  “You truly are perfection,” he says. “Now come, undress me.”

  Noor takes off the Prince’s ghutra and undoes the buttons of his thobe. She pulls it up and over his arms and head. She takes the two items over to a nearby chair. When she turns back she sees him standing there, his chest matted with hair, his stomach protruding outward like a cow fattened for market, his penis straining against his boxer shorts.

  “Hurry up,” he says.

  She walks back over and bends down. With her eyes closed she pulls his boxer shorts to the floor.

  “Look at me,” he says.

  She straightens. His face has reddened, his breathing is quick.

  “Do you like what you see?” he says.

  Noor’s never seen so hideous a sight. She tries to say ‘yes’ but can’t. The Prince frowns.

  “Bend over,” he says.

  She does as she’s told.

  “Our Lord!” she mumbles. “Grant us good in this world and good in the life to come and keep us safe from the torment of the Fire.”

  His hand strikes her buttocks, and she tumbles onto the floor. She lies there, her buttocks ablaze.

  “Get up,” he says.

  Noor staggers to her feet.

  “Again.”

  She bends over and once more his hand strikes her, this time with even greater ferocity. Somehow she manages to stay on her feet.

  “Our Lord! Behold we have heard a voice calling us unto faith: ‘Believe in your Lord’ and we have believed.”

  The hand strikes her again. She bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood.

  “Now stand up,” he says.

  The Prince stands before her.

  “I will ask you again,” he says, “do you like what you see?”

  She forces a smile.

  “Yes, very much.”

  The Prince takes her by the hand and leads her to his bed.

  “Now, you’ll do whatever I ask.”

  For the next hour and a half Noor complies with the Prince’s every command. Not once does she cry or scream, and whenever he looks at her she somehow manages to smile. Finally, miraculously, it is over, the Prince spent, and Noor too numb to feel any pain.

  “Draw me a bath,” the Prince says.

  She staggers into the bathroom and turns on the taps. She looks at herself in the gilded mirror; at the bite marks, the welts, the bruises. She notices a couple of bathrobes and puts one on. The Prince walks in. He steps into the bath and lies back, his eyes closed, a contented smile on his face. Noor kneels down beside him and starts washing his soft, pudgy hands. He opens his eyes and strokes her face. He has the touch of the Devil.

  “So tell me about this American?” he says.

  “Who?” she says.

  He gives her a look.

  “We lived with him for three months,” she says.

  Noor works on his legs.

  “Why?”

  “He and my father were friends.”

  “And did you like him?”

  I love him. I love him enough to endure this a million times over.

  “Well do you?”

  Noor realizes she’s stopped washing the Prince.

  “No,” she says. “He was uncouth and ignorant.”

  The Prince stands. Noor retrieves a towel, and the Prince lets her dry him.

  “You know, he came here yesterday,” he says, “declaring his love for you.”

  “My brother mentioned something along those lines.”

  “And what do you think about that?”

  Noor holds out the bathrobe so the Prince can put his arms in it.

  “It seems as if he was a little late, don’t you think?” she says.

  The Prince laughs.

  “I was worried,” he says. “I’d heard you were headstrong, but once we dealt with that early insolence, you were very giving. You’re going to be a lovely gift, Noor, when I return to Riyadh.”

  Noor smiles and this time it is genuine.

  You’re saved my love.

  The Prince heads into the bedroom.

  “This Charlie Matthews,” he says when he reaches the door. “Would you like to see him one last time?”

  Noor almost says ‘yes’. She catches herself just in time.

  “No, I couldn’t see anything useful coming from that,” she says.

  “I agree
,” the Prince says.

  He takes a step closer to the door and as if by magic the door opens.

  “Besides it’s impossible, the man’s dead already.”

  The door closes behind him. Noor crumples to the floor. She’s too devastated to even make a sound.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  “THE SLEEVE IS too short,” Tariq snaps.

  Badria, his ex-wife, trembles. Tariq straightens his arm.

  “It should come down to the top of my thumb not my wrist.”

  Badria takes his camo jacket off making sure not to aggravate his stump.

  “I will fix it immediately,” she says.

  “Well hurry, we’re leaving any moment.”

  Badria scurries off. Outside Tariq can hear the Prince giving another of his interminable speeches. The Prince had given him special dispensation not to attend. After all Tariq had had to consummate his own marriage. He stirs as he recalls the delightful afternoon he’s had. Badia was young and inexperienced, but she was eager to please and her body…

  He opens the door, and reenters his father-in-law’s bedroom. Badia lies languidly under the sheets.

  “I had to say one last goodbye,” Tariq says.

  “I hope I didn’t disappoint you,” she smiles.

  “Far from it.”

  He stands over the bed.

  “Now I’m your husband, you need not be shy.”

  She pulls the sheet away and turns her body towards him. He commits every inch of his new wife’s body to memory.

  If only I had another thirty minutes.

  He hears a bestial snort and looks in the direction of the open door. Badria is standing there with his jacket.

  Only one letter different, but they might as well be different species.

  “I fixed the cuff,” his ex-wife says.

  “Well get in here.”

  Badria edges over trying her best not to look at her younger sister. Badia makes no attempt to cover herself. Tariq holds his arm out so Badria can slip the jacket on. He returns his attention to Badia.

  “You leave for Saudi Arabia in the morning,” he says.

  “Where will we be staying?” Badia says.

  “In the Prince’s palace.”

  Badia can’t help but grin. Her older sister does up the front of his jacket and begins pinning his loose sleeve.

  “Your job is to keep an eye on Noor and report back to me.”

  “What exactly?”

  “Everything. Her diet, the books she reads, the conversations she has. Do everything to become her confidante, even if that means speaking ill of me. You understand?”

  Badria pricks him by mistake, and Tariq raises his arm..

  “Good God, now can you see why I divorced you?”

  Badria cowers.

  “Get out.”

  Badria scurries away, and Badia comes over to him.

  “Here let me finish that,” she says.

  She fixes his loose sleeve with the delicacy of a seamstress. Tariq nestles his nose in her hair and breathes in her scent. His hand wanders over her naked buttocks, and she leans up and licks his neck with her tongue. Outside a massive roar of “Allah akbar” goes up.

  Damn.

  He pulls away and extracts Noor’s diamond ring from his pocket.

  “Here. A small present to remember me by.”

  He takes Badia’s hand and slips the ring on the middle finger of her right hand. Badia’s eyes sparkle. She kisses him on the lips.

  “I love you,” she says.

  “And I you.”

  He walks out the room, affording himself one last glance before closing the door behind him. Badria sits on a nearby chair rocking back and forth. He heads through the house and out into the courtyard. There Sarosh waits for him with a couple of mujahideen.

  “I have something for you,” Sarosh says.

  He holds out a wrapped gift. Tariq tears off the paper to discover a green leather box. Inside is a gold Rolex and a simple white card.

  Congratulations.

  To a long and fruitful relationship.

  Always,

  Ivor.

  Tariq slips the watch on.

  “Who’s it from?” Sarosh says.

  “The Prince,” Tariq says. “Now let’s go.”

  At the front of the main building the vehicles wait, their engines idling. Tariq realizes they are waiting for him. Sarosh leads him to the Prince’s new Hummer, and one of the Prince’s bodyguards opens the door. Tariq looks up towards the windows of the Prince’s quarters. He wonders if Noor is watching him. He hopes she is. He climbs in next to the Prince, and the convoy starts on its way.

  FIFTY-NINE

  CHARLIE WAKES TO the beeping of a heart monitor. He finds himself in a dark room. The only light comes from the glow of a monitor. He tries pushing himself up with his right hand and discovers that it’s encased in plaster cast. He uses his left and winces. Every part of his body is in pain. He looks around. A soldier stands on the other side of a glass door.

  What the hell am I doing here?

  Memories begin to seep back; the trip to Islamabad, the meeting with his father’s contact, getting back in the Pajero.

  Was I in a car crash? Is that why I’m here?

  He remembers his room in disarray, Wali outside the hospital, the blood speckled grass, Tariq staring across the coffee table at him.

  Noor.

  He shouts for help. A male nurse runs into the room.

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” Charlie shouts.

  The monitors beep faster. The nurse grabs a syringe off a tray. Charlie thrashes his legs.

  “No,” he shouts.

  The nurse cries out to the soldier, and the soldier runs in and pushes down on Charlie’s arms. Charlie screams. The syringe jabs his arm, and soon after sleep overtakes him.

  When he awakes the lights are on, and Jurgen is sitting in the chair beside him. Jurgen puts down his book.

  “How do you feel?” Jurgen says.

  “We have to find her.”

  “It’s impossible, Charlie.”

  “No.”

  “The Pakistanis want you out of here. Actually they wanted you out of here yesterday, but I managed to get you a twenty-four reprieve.”

  Charlie tries to wrench himself up off the bed. He feels as if he’s drunk ten tequila shots and collapses back onto his pillow. When he opens his eyes, Jurgen is standing over him.

  “But what about Noor?” Charlie says. “What do I do?”

  “You do what I did. You try and forget.”

  Jurgen places Charlie’s duffel bag on the chair.

  “I packed what I could from your house.”

  “I’m going to find her, Jurgen, I’m going to find her.”

  Jurgen gives him a sympathetic smile.

  “You deserved better than this, Charlie.”

  Jurgen leaves, and two nurses come in. They dress him in a clean t-shirt and his now blood splattered jeans. Not long after three soldiers and an officer arrive. They put him in a wheelchair and take him down to a waiting ambulance. At the terminal, a burly soldier lifts Charlie into the wheelchair, and with the three other soldiers they enter the arrivals hall. The crowd falls silent, even the taxi drivers stop searching for prospective clients. They bypass immigration, pass through the departure lounge and trundle down a gangway to a waiting plane. The flight is packed. The burly soldier deposits Charlie in an empty seat in economy while another shoves his duffle bag into the overhead bin. Soon after the plane rolls away from the gate.

  Charlie feels something poking out of his right pocket, and with the tips of his left hand he extracts Noor’s passport. He turns to the back page and stares at her smiling face. The old man next to him gives him a curious look. Tears are rolling down Charlie’s cheeks.

  “I’m going to find you,” Charlie says. “I’m going to find you, I’m going to find you, I’m going to find you.”

  SIXTY

  NOOR STARES OUT the window. Through the sli
t of her niqab she sees a Pakistani International Airlines jet pulling away from its gate.

  “You know, you can take off your niqab now,” Badia says.

  Badia lounges in the leather chair across from her. She has a childish grin on her face. A Filipina flight attendant approaches carrying two crystal glasses on a gold tray.

  “Some orange juice?” the attendant says.

  “Thank you,” Badia says.

  “Your Highness?”

  Noor doesn’t respond. The attendant places Badia’s glass down on a mahogany side table and retreats to the galley.

  “It’s going to be fine, Noor,” Badia says, “I promise you.”

  The engines whine, and the plane trundles down the runway.

  Noor closes her eyes and finds herself back in the graveyard, running between the graves. A full moon shines above and perched on top of a mound is the rabbit, its glinting eyes following her as she rounds the bend. Up ahead she sees a warm orange glow. She runs faster, faster than she imagined was even possible. She realizes the glow is coming from the open door of her hut. Charlie, Baba, Mamaan, Wali and Bushra are standing there. She shouts out to them, and they smile. She runs even faster, desperate to embrace them.

  Then just before she gets to them she soars into the sky.

  No.

  She flies up over the flat, thatched roofs of the camp and looks over her shoulder. They wave at her with both hands.

  “We love you,” they shout.

  “I love you too,” she shouts back.

  The higher she gets the smaller they become until the lights of Peshawar swallow them up.

  She turns and looks towards the horizon. She braces herself for the journey ahead.

  END OF BOOK ONE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First and foremost, incalculable thanks to Clarke, Harry and Frankie for allowing me to spend so many late nights writing Refuge, and to Clarke for being my first reader and constant and earliest supporter. I love you all utterly.

  Thanks to all those who were my friends and co-workers in Pakistan twenty years ago. Dan Coulcher, my brother-in-arms, Paul Tzimas and Duncan Rourke, our fellow volunteers and intrepid explorers; all the staff and pupils at the Frontier Academy in Peshawar; Mocam, Shakoor, Wali, Syed and all the teachers and students of mine at International Rescue Committee; Pete and Jane Roffey and Annie who were such gracious hosts in Islamabad, and Nicholas Maclean-Bristol and all the staff at Project Trust, a truly wonderful organization that betters the lives of both its volunteers and the people they help.