Serendipity Foundation_292

by The Serendipity Foundation (retail) (epub)

  ‘Development practitioner,’ said Miller. ‘I think I was doing the right thing in the wrong way. But before I forget, can you do me a favour?’

  ‘Potentially.’

  ‘I was hoping you might offer a large amount of money to my organisation to convince them never to send me back to an Indian village.’

  Richard shrugged. ‘Sure. Not the first time I’ve had to pay to secure your future.’

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘You know what?’ said Jordie. ‘After a few months of debauchery, I was thinking about heading out to a poor neighbourhood in a poor city, and using renewable energy to transform the lives of people who live without cheap, reliable energy sources.’

  The other three smiled.

  ‘To do this,’ he continued, ‘I’ll need an experienced development practitioner, a donor with a large pool of resources, some international coverage to help boost the visibility of the programme, and some local partners.’

  They looked at each other as the improbable band of brothers they had become.

  ‘I know a foundation in Cairo that may be interested in working with us,’ said Miller.

  At 2.30pm the next day, two men dressed in beige galabeyas entered the British Embassy in Cairo. They were dropped off by a taxi driver who had picked them up near a service station an hour south of Cairo. The two men would tell embassy employees how they had been blindfolded and driven around for two hours, before being thrown out of the back of the vehicle. Their two fellow hostages (including one whose execution had in fact been faked) had been released the day before, but had spoken of a desire to ‘reflect on their experiences’ before returning home. Their captors had treated them well.

  The news that all the hostages had been released alive, and that two were arriving imminently on British soil, received a mixed reception. No one outwardly expressed their disappointment at the end of the hostage crisis, yet there was sadness that the journey had come to an end. People were nervous how these characters giving interviews would influence their own memories of what they had experienced.

  Michael heard the news through Charlie, who stormed into his office.

  ‘The press are going to want a statement.’

  Michael flicked a pen around his thumb with a newfound casualness. ‘I don’t think it’s for me to say anything about it now.’

  ‘Whether you like it or not, you’re a major protagonist in this story. You have a responsibility not to let its ending slide.’

  Michael smiled. ‘Getting back to our narrative roots, I see.’

  He went down on to the steps of Number 10 and gave a brief statement on his relief at the hostages’ release.

  ‘Prime Minister,’ came a voice from the press. ‘Do you feel sad that the ransoms are over? With an approval rating of over 70 per cent, you must be nervous how you’ll fare without the kidnappers’ support.’

  The press laughed, and for the first time in office, Michael laughed along with them. ‘I guess there comes a time,’ said Michael, ‘when you’ve got to stop relying on others demanding the best from you, and start demanding it from yourself.’

  Two members of the Foreign Office escorted Miller and Jordie off the plane. Before going home, they would have a debrief with figures from the Foreign Office, MI6 and the police, followed by a visit to Downing Street to meet the Prime Minister.

  A room had been arranged at the airport where friends and family gathered to welcome them. Miller’s parents ran towards him, and suffocated him with hugs and tears. Jordie’s two sisters, whom he had not spoken to in years, approached him more calmly, but with an expression suggesting they would not allow such a hiatus to arise again.

  As the initial excitement calmed, Miller saw Lucy hovering at the back of the room. He walked towards her, big grins fixed upon both their faces. ‘Thank you,’ said Miller, before holding Lucy in his arms. They rested their foreheads against each other.

  ‘I suppose we’re going to have to break the news,’ said Lucy. ‘You know . . . that we’ve decided to spend some time apart to see where our relationship stands.’

  Miller smiled. ‘I was thinking you could be the Hermione to my Ron.’

  Lucy’s smile spread, like a woman whose lover had returned from danger. Tears joined her laughter. ‘You’ve finally nailed one.’

  From across the room, Rawlins stared at Miller and Lucy’s embrace. He was no expert in intimacy, but he struggled to convince himself such emotion could be faked. He felt guilty at doubting the motives of individuals who must have suffered greatly, but reasoned there was a fine line between a conspiracy and a coincidence.

  The car entered Downing Street. A sea of flashes went off as Miller and Jordie made their way into Number 10. The Prime Minister’s press secretary greeted them.

  ‘We’re scheduled to have a ten-minute meet and greet with various government figures in the Cabinet Office followed by a quick photo session. However, the Prime Minister has requested a quick private chat before then. If you’d follow me.’ Charlie led them down the corridor to Michael’s office and closed the door on his way out.

  Michael stood up and walked towards them, hugging them both before he took a step back, smiling and nodding in silence.

  ‘So . . .’ Michael said. ‘Your girlfriend seemed lovely.’

  Miller smiled.

  ‘I’m hoping I’ll have less need to send her late night texts now you’re back.’

  Miller nodded, before fixing eye contact with Michael. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What can I say? I’m a sucker for a request. Out of interest, where are the other two?’

  ‘They’ve taken a little R and R,’ said Jordie. ‘We’ve endured a terrifying experience, don’t you know?’

  There was a knock at the door. ‘One minute,’ Charlie shouted through the door.

  ‘Ah, before I forget,’ said Michael, ‘as requests between the three of us go, this seems quite reasonable.’ He went to his desk, where he picked up an A4 picture of Miller with his shirt off on holiday: it looked as if it had been torn out of a magazine.

  ‘You see, my daughter is fifteen, and has become slightly besotted with you. When she found out I was meeting you she begged me for your signature.’ Michael’s embarrassment was heightened by Jordie’s fits of laughter.

  Miller wore an awkward smile. ‘I . . . er . . . can’t see why not.’ He followed Michael over to the desk.

  ‘Do you have a pen?’ said Miller.

  ‘Oh . . . yes, of course,’ said Michael as he reached into his shirt pocket and handed it to Miller.

  Miller turned the pen around between his fingers, and as he did so, noticed a marking that twisted around its base. His expression gave away his mental calculations.

  ‘What is it?’ said Jordie, as Miller brought the pen closer to his eyes and turned it once more between his fingers.

  Miller looked up at Jordie, before looking at Michael.

  ‘It looks to me as if,’ Miller said slowly, smiling at Michael, ‘it’s the insignia of a rababah.’

  A Street Performance

  It is ten in the morning on a street in Old Cairo. The sound of car horns fills the air. Traffic works have appeared without warning, and the workmen are struggling to provide a reasonable explanation.

  A small crowd witnesses the spectacle at the blocked intersection, but they soon drift away. They remember the last time the street closed down, and decide instead to contact their friends and tell them the news.

  A football match takes over the street, and cafés bring their tables outside for spectators. Toys magically appear and the screams of excited children fill the air.

  At around two, a truck appears by the barrier and delivers a load of giant umbrellas, tables and chairs, which are set up on the street without any idea who ordered them. Food vendors appear with their grills and pans at four. At five, a band of musicians arrive and set up their instruments; an anonym-ous client has paid them in advance. By six, the sun is setting and there is elect
ricity in the air.

  By the time the musicians have stopped, the street is filled with hundreds of residents. Whole families are sitting enjoying refreshment; home-cooked delicacies are shared among strangers; groups of men have brought their board games on to the street. At seven, attention is drawn to a small platform, where a black screen stands four feet high. Two makeshift spotlights turn towards the stage.

  An old man, a woman and a girl get up on stage. The females position themselves behind the black screen, and spend a moment organising some hidden objects. When they are ready, they nod at the elderly man, who is standing to the side. The smile he directs at them stretches from his forehead to his collarbone, and it is impossible to ignore the love etched into their faces as they smile back at him.

  The man turns to face the audience.

  ‘I have a story to tell that is and is not so.’

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