Although he and Thomas had studied Arabic together at university, they were never tempted to be more than casual acquaintances and he had never expected that they would, years later, find themselves posted to the same country. Jackson couldn’t help jealously wondering if the inventive sexual activities he and Felicity enjoyed are matched in any way when she is intimate with Thomas.
Jackson reaches the second floor and quickly finds the Fulham’s flat. He rings the door bell and stands with the flowers held behind his back. The door is opened by Felicity. She is wearing a very elegant knee-length dress that Jackson guesses came from a fashionable designer shop in London or Paris. He notes that she has made a special effort with her make-up and swept-up hair style. She looks magnificent -- even better than he remembers her from their university days.
“Ah, so you were able to make it okay,” she says with a warm smile.
“Yes. Mack’s on call tonight, so it’s an evening off for me.”
“Thomas is running a little late but should be here any minute.”
Felicity ushers Jackson into the dining room with the table already set for a meal. He produces his flowers with a flourish and she responds with delight. “Thank you! They’re lovely.” She holds them up to smell the perfume, then breaks into laughter. “Oh, they’re imitation!”
“Of course,” he confirms, “where the hell would I get real ones in this God-forsaken city!”
“Too true. Anyway, they’re very nice. I’ve got just the place for them.”
Felicity goes to a sideboard and skilfully arranges them in the vase she showed him the other day. “There you are! Perfect! And I won’t ever have to water them.”
They both laugh. There follows an awkward pause, broken by Jackson. “Well then, don’t I get a welcome kiss?”
“Oh yes,” she replies with a tinge of embarrassment. She lightly embraces him. Jackson goes to kiss her on the lips, but she neatly offers him one cheek, then the other. He pulls her close to him and kisses her on the neck. Again he recognises the perfume. He prolongs the embrace, enjoying the warmth of a body that he remembers so vividly.
Felicity gently pushes him away and raises an affectionate eyebrow that signals that he has overstepped the boundary that must now exist between them. “Erm, make yourself at home while I check that the children are out of the bath and dressed for bed,” she tells him, slightly flustered by their physical encounter.
She leaves the room and Jackson sees an upright piano in the corner of the tastefully furnished room. He goes to it, lifts the keyboard lid and plays some trills and random chords to check the tuning.
Felicity returns to the room and says the children will join them shortly. “Do you still play the piano?” she asks.
“Sometimes, when I’m in the mood,” he replies.
“Good. I’d like the kids to learn to play.”
Felicity’s two children burst noisily into the room. They are wearing Disney pyjamas. They shyly run to their mother who gives them a hug and does the introductions. “Children, this is Uncle Jackson. You know, the man you sometimes see on the television news.” They give him a smile of recognition. “And Jackson, this is Sam, who is seven and Sophie, who is five.”
“Hello,” says Jackson, offering his hand which is timidly shaken by each child, “it’s very nice to meet you.”
Jackson is instantly at ease with the children and points to the cartoon characters on their pyjamas. “And who are those?” he asks, affecting not to know.
“Donald and Minnie,” replies Sophie.
“Ah, yes. Mr Donald Duck and Miss Minnie Mouse. I remember now.”
“Can you read us a story, Uncle Jackson?” asks Sam.
“Oh I think I can,” agrees Jackson, “what would you like?”
Sam goes to a pile of books on a coffee table beside a sofa and selects one. “This is our favourite.” He holds up Hairy Maclary from Donaldson’s Dairy.
“Oh yes,” exclaims Jackson, “I just love Hairy Maclary. I used to read it when I was a little boy… Yes, let’s read that.”
He sits on the sofa and the two children squat on the floor in front of him, watched with interest and affection by Felicity. The children are delighted when Jackson recites some lines without even opening the book. “Bottomley Potts covered in spots, Hercules Morse as big as a horse.”
The front door opens and Thomas comes in. He sees Jackson with the children. “Ah, I see Jacko has already made himself part of the family!” he says with just a hint of envy in his voice.
Sam and Sophie run to him and he gives them a hug. Felicity goes over to Thomas and they exchange a cursory kiss on the lips. Jackson gets up from the sofa and shakes hands with Thomas.
“Sorry I’m a bit late,” says Thomas, “but it’s been another busy day in the embassy’s Commerce Division.” He gives Jackson a discreet hint of a wink at this lie.
The children tug at Jackson’s clothes. “Can we read now, please, Uncle Jackson?”
“Oh yes,” replies Jackson, but Thomas interrupts and tells the children that it is their bed time. “Uncle Jackson will read to you some other time. We don’t want Mummy’s dinner for our guest going cold.”
“Oh please Daddy. Just a few pages,” they implore. Thomas is firm and insists that they must go to bed. “C’mon kids, let’s not have a fuss. Daddy will tuck you in and you can read to yourselves in bed for 10 minutes.”
Thomas takes the protesting children to their bedrooms. Felicity goes to the kitchen and returns seconds later with a tray of starters. “Seafood still okay for you?” she enquires. Jackson smiles his agreement. Felicity lowers her voice. “And for the main course, I have your favourite dish, Welsh leg of lamb, flown in fresh by the embassy caterers.” Jackson smiles broadly. “You remembered. Wonderful!”
Felicity makes final adjustments to the table setting, lights a couple of candles, distributes the starters and dims the room lights.
Jackson’s attention is captured by a selection of family photographs on a framed wall display. One is of Felicity in her wedding dress, standing arm-in-arm with Thomas looking very smart and proud in a British Army officer’s dress uniform. Another shows Thomas in battle fatigues and armed with an automatic rifle. “Where’s this?” he asks pointing to the second photograph. “Afghanistan,” she replies. “Mmm,” says Jackson with a sly smile, “so you’ve married a trained killer.” Felicity is offended. “Hey! That’s not funny!” Jackson realises he has over-stepped the mark. “Sorry, sorry. Poor joke in very bad taste.” She accepts his apology with a resigned shrug and points to a chair at one end of the dining table. “You can sit there, if you would.”
Jackson goes to the seat as Thomas returns carrying two bottles of wine. “Are you drinking tonight, Jacko?”
“Oh, I think I can risk a small red, seeing I’m not on duty.”
“Good, good,” says Thomas, pouring a red for Jackson and himself and a white for Felicity.
Thomas and Felicity take their seats and raise their glasses to Jackson. “Greetings and welcome, Jacko,” says Thomas. “Yes,” agrees Felicity, “nice to have you here.” They clink their glasses and prepare to eat, but are startled by a brilliant flash of light that illuminates the room in much the same way as a bolt of lightning.
“Shit! What was that?” exclaims Thomas, spilling his drink. Further words are drowned out by the roar of an explosion followed by the air concussion that blows back the curtains on the open window and causes the candles on the table to flicker.
Both Jackson and Thomas leap up from the table and run to the window. They get there in time to see a huge ball of fire rising into the sky a kilometre or so away.
Sam and Sophie come running into the room, frightened by the noise. Felicity puts comforting arms around them. “Don’t worry, children, it’s just an accident. Nothing for you to worry about.” They are not convinced and burst into tears.
Jackson grabs his new mobile phone and dials Pete Fox. The call is instantly answered. “Did yo
u hear that, Pete?” He listens. “Christ! You mean that big mosque we drove past the other day?” He listens again. “Right. I’m not far away so I’ll meet you there.”
Jackson turns to Felicity and Thomas. “Really sorry about this; I’ve got to go.”
“I’ll come with you,” announces Thomas as they both head for the door.
As they emerge into the street, crowds have turned out to see what is going on. Jackson waves down a passing taxi and he and Thomas leap into it. “Take us as close as you can to the explosion,” Jackson tells the driver in Arabic. The driver shakes his head furiously. “No, no, too dangerous!”
Jackson turns to Thomas. “Got any American dollars?”
Thomas gets his wallet out. Jackson grabs it and removes two $25 notes. He waves the money at the driver and shouts: “$25 now and $25 when you get us to the mosque!” The taxi driver takes the first $25 and accelerates towards the explosion, flashing his lights and furiously tooting his horn as they weave through the traffic, most of which seems to be fleeing the explosion.
Thomas returns the wallet to his pocket and frowns at Jackson. “You’re a bit fast and loose with other people’s money, aren’t you!” Jackson grins. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll be able to put it on your most generous expenses. Something like ‘fee to informant’ probably.” Thomas does not demur.
The taxi turns a corner and a wall of flames can be seen a block or two ahead. The driver pulls up, anxious not to go any further. “Closer, closer!” shouts Jackson in Arabic. The taxi travels 200 metres further along the street and pulls up again. The driver is too frightened to go further. Jackson accepts this and hands over the second $25. He and Thomas run towards the blaze.
CHAPTER 7
Mack snoozes in his comfy chair in his apartment. The television is on with the sound down. Joan comes in and stirs him. “Did you hear that?”
“No,” he mutters, “what was it?”
“A boom. You know, like a bomb going off.”
“Mmm. It can’t be anything much if it didn’t wake me.” He closes his eyes and resumes his snooze.
Back at the scene of the explosion, Jackson realises that he is witnessing a major incident, even bigger than he had first expected. The front of the mosque has been blown in and the dome has collapsed. The mosque and neighbouring buildings are ablaze. There are many dead or injured. Screams come from the wounded and from those who are discovering family and friends among the casualties.
Jackson spots Pete Fox busily filming in the swirling smoke. He is wearing his flak jacket with the word “Press” in English and Arabic. Jackson runs to him. “Boy, this is a big ‘un. Can we get Yassin to bring the satellite link down here?” Pete shakes his head. I phoned him on my way here before I knew how big this was. He’s just arrived, but without the satellite gear.” Pete points to the Range Rover parked about 50 metres away in the semi-darkness.
“What about Mack?” asks Jackson, “does he know?”
“The mobile phone tower beside the mosque has been wrecked and I can’t get a signal. But he must have heard the bomb go off.”
Jackson looks at his mobile phone screen and he, too, can’t find a signal.
The CNN and Al-Jazeera crews have turned up and Jackson is anxious to avoid being scooped. “Quick. Let’s do a piece-to-camera. Yassin can run it back to the bureau for transmission from there.”
Pete points to a spot among the debris. “Just stand over there so that I can shoot you with the flames and ambulances in the background.”
Pete hands the microphone to Jackson who hastily gets himself into position. He begins his report:
“After several days of relative peace in Armibar, this has happened. Behind me is the city’s largest mosque now lying in ruins. There are many dead and wounded and…”
Jackson’s report is interrupted by a burst of automatic gunfire and he and Pete dive to the ground. Jackson does his best to keep talking to the camera:
“As you will have heard, there’s shooting and I think it’s best we move to a safer spot.”
They run crouching towards the BBC car, but as they do, a young bearded man in traditional Arab clothes and with a rucksack on his back appears from the darkness shouting “Allahu Akbah! Allahu Akbar!”
Pete sees him and dives to the ground, instinctively holding his camera aloft to avoid it being damaged and allowing his body to take the blow. His experience as a rugby player in Sydney has come in useful.
Pete shouts a warning to Jackson, but it is drowned out by the chattering of automatic gunfire directed from the darkness at the young man. He is hit several times, but he is able to trigger an explosive device in his rucksack as he falls backwards to the ground. Jackson is about five metres away and is sent crashing to the ground, splattered with blood and body parts.
Pete sits up in shock and surveys the scene. All that remains of the bomber are his leg stumps and head scattered on the ground a few metres away. He vomits.
Jackson’s mind is in turmoil as he slowly sits up and tries to comprehend what has just happened. His ears are ringing from the blast. There is pandemonium. He looks around and sees the face of the suicide bomber blankly staring at him with what he wildly imagines is hatred. His vision becomes blurred and when he wipes his eyes, he realises that his face is covered in blood and other unknown matter.
Pete gets up and runs to him. “Jeez, mate! Are you hurt?”
“I don’t think so,” he mumbles, “nothing serious anyway.”
Pete flinches. “Oh God, mate. You’re covered in his blood and guts.” Jackson is nauseated but somehow manages to stop himself throwing up.
Yassin and the CNN and Al-Jazeera crews come over to see what’s going on. “Oh my God, Jacko,” exclaims Jane Kubinski, “are you okay?”
“Well, it depends what you mean by okay, Jane,” looking at his blood-covered slimy hands in disgust.
“Yassin should get you and Pete back to the bureau as quickly as possible. The three of us can pool our stuff so that we’re all on an equal footing with the bulletins.”
“Agreed,” confirms Omar Abbas, “let’s work on this together.”
“Thanks guys,” mutters Jackson before turning away and vomiting.
Pete takes the memory card from his camera and hands it to Omar. “Here’s what I shot. You can use the piece-to-camera if you think it won’t cause viewers to chuck up on their lounge room carpets.”
Yassin goes back to his car and gets a plastic sheet from the boot and lays it over the back seat. Jackson eases himself onto the seat, trying not to touch anything as he does so.
Pete returns and gets in the front seat with Yassin. “Let’s go, mate. And keep the windows open. Jacko is seriously on the nose.”
As Yassin accelerates away, Pete tries to phone Mack, but he still can’t find a signal. He turns to Jackson, sitting stunned in the back. “Christ only knows what the suicide guy had for his last meal, but it smells like a seriously dodgy curry!” Pete, never one to miss cracking a joke whatever the circumstances, adds: “Look on the bright side, Jacko. At least you didn’t have to fake this piece-to-camera!” Yassin laughs, but Jackson is in no mood for humour.
Back at the Galbraith’s apartment, Mack is urgently shaken awake by Joan. “Mack, Mack! Wake up. Quick. Something big has happened.” He sits up with a start as she turns up the volume on the TV to hear the BBC presenter reading from notes that have just been placed in front of him:
“…it isn’t yet clear just how serious the explosion at the mosque was, but initial reports and some early social media film posted on Twitter suggest that it is a major incident. We have a team on the scene and are expecting to get a report from Armibar any moment now. Meanwhile, we have unconfirmed reports that the number of dead and injured is…”
Mack is incredulous. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! How come I wasn’t called about this!?”
“I did tell you earlier that I’d heard what could have been an explosion,” responds Joan. “You should have made a check to s
ee if there was anything in it.”
Mack, now wide awake, runs from the room and heads downstairs to the bureau. He finds it empty and in darkness. He turns on the television sets and sees all three of them are showing scrappy reports about the explosion. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he keeps muttering to himself. He picks up the phone and dials Jackson, but can’t get a response.
Outside in the street, the BBC car arrives back from the scene of the explosion. Pete orders Jackson to remain in the back seat while he runs upstairs to alert Mack. He bursts into the bureau and is met by a volley of abuse. “What the fuck’s going on?!” Mack demands. “Why didn’t someone phone me?”
“Shut up, will you!” shouts Pete, who runs to the broom cupboard and takes from it two large buckets. “Help me fill these!” Mack can’t understand why. “Just do it, mate,” shouts Pete, “then come with me.”
A couple of minutes later Mack and Pete emerge into the street with the buckets of water. Jackson now stands shaking uncontrollably alongside the BBC car. Pete orders him to remove his shirt, trousers, shoes and socks and to move onto the roadway, away from the vehicle. Jackson meekly does as instructed, despite this leaving him exposed in a public street in his underpants. A small crowd of curious Arab men gather in the darkness, watching this extraordinary behaviour with a mixture of astonishment and amusement.
“Brace yourself, mate,” warns Pete, who then hurls his bucket of water over his colleague. As Jackson stands spluttering and protesting at the indignity, Pete brusquely orders him to turn around, then does the same with the second bucket of water. “Right,” Peter informs Jackson, “now you smell a bit better. Shake yourself off a bit and we’ll go inside.” For once, Mack is speechless at what he has just witnessed.
Yassin, his face contorted with revulsion, takes the plastic sheet from the back of the 4x4 and uses it to wrap Jackson’s soiled clothes. He places the lot in one of the few street bins in the area.
Back inside the bureau, Pete grabs a couple of tea towels from the kitchen. He hands them to Jackson who dries himself off and gets a spare set of clothes from his wardrobe. He begins shaking again as he gets dressed, then flops down at his desk, unable to discipline the swirling images of what has taken place.
The Mortal Maze Page 7
