One Dirty Scot

by Donna Alam

  ‘Why can’t I just go home?’ I ask in a whisper. I wrap arms around myself, feeling as though I’m unravelling, shaking, excess adrenaline flooding my veins.

  ‘Come,’ she repeats softly. ‘We will arrange transport very soon.’ The cadence of her voice is soft and calming and I know I can’t stay in the chair. In order to go home, I have to leave this room.

  ‘No police, okay?’

  ‘Let me first say how dreadfully sorry I am.’

  The manager’s voice and face are sincere as I sit with an un-tasted cup of something hot in my hands. Niamh sits beside me, her arm against mine in support, almost touching.

  ‘But I think you’re quite correct in not involving the police at this stage.’

  ‘No feckin’ way!’ Niamh exclaims. ‘She was assaulted on your premises! How is not reporting this a good thing for her?’

  ‘Of course, in an ideal world, the police would be called and this man would be arrested and charged. But this isn’t an ideal world, this is Dubai. I’ve lived here for over 20 years and I know involving the police might very well add to your friend’s ordeal.’

  ‘You just want to let him go, don’t want the bad publicity!’

  ‘With your friend’s permission.’ He doesn’t look at Niamh, instead pulling a chair in front of the sofa, his eyes level with mine. ‘I’m afraid involving the police could mean meeting your attacker, in the police station, face to face. You’d be made to recount your ordeal in front of him while he, I expect, refutes your claim. Do either of you speak Arabic?’ He glances between us as we both shake our heads. ‘Let’s just say it would be, at best, an unpleasantly futile evening. At worst, you yourself could end up being arrested.’

  ‘What!’ Niamh exclaims.

  ‘It’s true, I’m afraid. If your attacker turns to accuser, who knows what could transpire. An arrest for immoral behaviour? Charges, jail, eventual deportation? Dubai’s gilt can wear thin in these circumstances. Very fast.’

  ‘He’s rich,’ I say. My voice rasps like I haven’t used it in a while. ‘From an influential family. Leave it, Niamh, please. I just want to go leave.’

  ‘Given the circumstances, a judicious decision, I feel. Again, I’m sorry our staff were unable to intervene earlier.’ His face is earnest and his voice low as he takes my smaller hands in his. ‘Allow me to arrange your transport. If there is anything we can do beyond—’

  ‘Where is he?’ The thought of seeing him, even inadvertently, fills me with dread.

  ‘We’ll be sure to keep him here until you have left.’

  Retrieving my hand, I pull it across my face to contain a sob.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I call in sick the next day. I speak to Huda and tell her I have food poisoning. My throat is harsh from crying and I pretty much feel like shit. At least I don’t have to try to sound convincing. Niamh stayed with me during the night, slept in my bed, her presence a reassurance I can’t put into words.

  ‘I’ll call in sick,’ she’d said.

  ‘I’m fine, really. Just go to work. I have to go in this afternoon, anyway. It’s the parents’ evening tonight. I have to be there.’

  ‘No fucking way! The night will go by fine without you. Stay at home, take it easy. You’re traumatized. Have you called Kai?’

  ‘I know they can cope without me. That isn’t the point. If parents make the time to meet me, the least I can do is turn up.’

  I don’t have the energy for arguing. I don’t tell her that Arwa has already sent out a memo of a slightly scary nature cautioning staff against non-attendance. Then there was last night’s not so thinly veiled threats; losing my job, sullying my name. A best defence is an offence, so the sports metaphor goes. I’m not going to give the bastard the satisfaction. I’ll meet the parents and show them just who I am. I don’t want to talk to her about Kai.

  ‘You’ve had a fright.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve had a fright but I’m not ill, and I’m not an invalid. Just go to work, I’ll sleep in the meantime.’

  She goes, but not quietly and not on time. She calls into her school, informing them she’ll be in by mid-morning.

  And once she’s gone, I sleep. It’s what I do best in times of stress, my superpower defence mechanism. I sleep, blotting out the thoughts of last night. The thoughts of calling Kai. I’ve no idea what to say.

  Hey Kai, I went out with that guy, you know, Matt? The one you don’t trust. Oh, and your cousin mauled me. Made me feel like a total slut.

  I need to see him, feel his reassurance, feel his arms around me. This isn’t something I can discuss over the phone.

  The school is lit like a beacon as I park. Despite this, my stomach turns uncomfortably. I know I need to move beyond this and I think, once I get inside, I’ll be fine, because a school is a place of warmth, of innocence. I hope I’ll be extended its kindness to me tonight.

  But how am I going to explain all this to Kai? My fingers trace the bite at my neck, which I’ve covered in make-up. It could’ve been worse, I suppose. He might’ve broken the skin. Who knows what I could’ve caught.

  Pulling my shirt collar higher up my neck, I begin to think I should’ve stayed home.

  The classroom is prepared, each tiny desk displaying a selection of the children’s books, every nook and cranny is decorated with their recent work. One wall is taken up with a themed display of memories. Each girl has written a couple of sentences about their very best memory and drawn an illustration to match. Cut into hexagonal sections, Sadia has glued these together to make the visual entitled, Our Memory Quilt. We’ve been reading a book in class about such a quilt, which the girls have enjoyed. I’m beyond proud of their efforts, glassy tears building in my eyes. I wonder which of my recent memories would fit.

  ‘Miss Saunders.’ Wiping a finger under my eyes in a furtive attempt to hide the tears, my stomach plummets instantly south. ‘What a delightful piece. You must be commended.’ Kai’s father is in my classroom. My stomach somersaulting now in concern. I’d hoped—prayed that I’d see him only from the stage, or at least only have to speak with him in a crowd. ‘I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,’ he adds smoothly, holding out his hand.

  ‘No, I know you,’ I answer, adding quickly, ‘we have met,’ to lessen the sting in my words. Linking my hands at my back, I rub them together as though to erase the memory touch.

  Without an air of slight, he seamlessly folds the hand to the pocket of his pants. ‘I believe you’ve seen quite a lot of Kais recently.’ It’s not a question, but he pauses for a response. I offer him none. I’ve played this game often enough with my mum. ‘But I’m afraid it can’t go on. He’s not the man for you, my dear.’

  ‘I think you mean that the other way around.’

  He smiles, all teeth, like a shark as his eyes flick over me. ‘Astute. And lovely but, alas, not suitable.’

  ‘Astute,’ I repeat, eyeing the door. ‘I’ve been called worse.’ He can’t mean to hurt me, not physically, at least, but the memory of last night is still raw. I’m nervous, tense, hummingbird wings flapping at my ribs.

  He laughs loudly, startling me. ‘I can see the appeal.’ He shakes his head, expression firming as he adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves. ‘I came here to tell you this will not work. It hasn’t worked for Essam. I’m told you know a little of that. A marriage and a mistress. This cannot be. For Kais.’

  ‘But he has neither, I’m—’

  ‘A distraction. That is all. That he’s looking for an apartment for you while negotiating a marriage is a sign of that.’

  Pain, swift and treacherous, cuts under my solar plexus. I walk to my desk, affecting the straightening of papers and books.

  ‘As I thought, he hasn’t told you. I’d asked Essam to apprise you of the situation, given that my son probably would not. You see, Kais has obligations toward a marriage to a member of Saudi Arabia’s ruling class. A Royal Princess, to be more precise. I’m sure you will appreciate a marriage needs time and co
nsideration in order to work. I would like to offer you an incentive to enable that. What is between my son and yourself is, at best, embryonic. I’m offering you a substantial sum to terminate.’ His cold gaze rises, a flash of something unpleasant in the depths. ‘You can return to Australia in some style, and with a good employment reference. It will be entirely in your favour. You’ll be relatively well off.’

  ‘Married.’ The word is just a puff of air as I lean against the desk.

  ‘In due course.’

  Essam’s hints of some kind of merger, small things beginning to make sickening sense. His frequency of travelling; visiting his soon-to-be bride? One hand grasps my desk as the other balls at by my side.

  ‘I need to hear this from Kai.’ My wavering voice betrays the riot of emotion, the dislike I have for this man a tangible thing. Married. It can’t be. I lower my head feeling winded, wrapping an arm around my side.

  ‘Of course, his flight lands quite soon. I believe Rashid has instructions to take you to the hotel later. Perhaps you can save him the journey, meet him there? He has, after all, supplied you with a car.’ His words are bland, as though the topic is of no consequence, though his well-aimed barb hits home. My face heats and I look away, knowing full well what his assumptions of me are.

  ‘You haven’t known him long enough to really know Kais. There’s much to be said for the phrase blood will out.’ I raise my head. ‘Determined by condition of birth, his character would have eventually, inevitably, been revealed. Men aren’t conditioned to be faithful, my dear, and I’ll be damned if his first wife doesn’t give him some standing. Whilst utterly charming, the stepdaughter of a white collar Australian won’t do.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ I move towards the door, to an escape. I don’t want to listen anymore.

  He steps in front of me almost leaning his taller frame into mine. Without touching, menace is still very much implied. ‘I always get my way, Miss Saunders. We shall talk again. Soon.’

  As he steps back, I yank open the door and almost fall out, moving away as fast as my shaking legs allow. Bile washes through my stomach, the wings pounding at my ribs reaching fever pitch. I head to the hall, the initial meeting point for the evening. At best, there’s protection in numbers. Distraction and other things to focus on.

  ‘There you are, Kate!’ Hala links her arm through mine as I enter the main hall. ‘You okay?’ Pulling on my elbow, she forces me to stop.

  ‘Yeah,’ I answer, startled by the niqab she’s wearing. This evening is a mixed event and Hala wears a niqab in public—I knew that. I just forgot. One thing I will say is, the dark surround makes the colour of her eyes pop. ‘I’m fine. You?’

  ‘Yeah, better.’ She adjusts her veil, settling it against her nose. ‘We talked, the hubby and I. Sorted it. I’m so pleased you found me, rather than one of the other nosey cows.’

  ‘No worries.’ My answer is rote.

  She stoops a little, peering into my eyes. ‘You sure you’re okay? You look a bit peaky.’

  ‘I’m not feeling well, but I’ll survive.’ At least I will once I see Kai. Hear his reassurances, listen to him say his father is wrong. Even while thinking this, a fist balls under my ribs telling me that I’m a fool, after all.

  ‘Teacher!’ A small, affectionate pair of arms wrap around my waist, knocking me onto my heels. ‘Please you come, meet my mommy!’ Dalia, a small but tenacious member of my class, insists.

  ‘Dalia,’ Hala says in a warning tone. ‘No running in the hall and Miss Katherine has a queue waiting for her already.’

  I raise my gaze from the dark head at my waist, and sure enough, at my designated area, there are a number of parents waiting to speak to me. Sadia chats animatedly to one mother swathed in black whilst absentmindedly running her hands across Ameera’s long, black hair.

  ‘Ain’t no rest for the wicked,’ Hala whispers, extracting her arm from mine. Her eyes twinkle with humour as she wiggles her fingers goodbye.

  With a deep breath, I head towards my table.

  Eight sets of parents and three lone mothers later, my head is beginning to hurt. The noise is distracting enough, the acoustics in the hall harsh, but fending off questions while trying to hold it together, takes all of my will. And of Kai there’s no sign, which isn’t a surprise, just wishful thinking, I suppose. None of his father, either, thankfully, though he’s sure to surface soon as the parents are about to be seated for his address.

  ‘Kate, you look dreadful. You really shouldn’t have come.’ Arwa steers me by the arm to the end of the table, looking concerned.

  ‘It’s nothing, just a bug. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘While I appreciate your dedication, I think you should go home. You look terrible,’ she says interrupting my protesting and halting my words with a raised hand. ‘The speeches are next and Sadia can show the parents around the classroom afterwards. Beautiful work, by the way. I love the quilt.’

  It’s such a change in position from her, considering she hasn’t spoken to me in days. I want to cry, throw my arms around her and tell her she was right all along. Instead, I nod, adding my weak thanks, and with a quick word to Sadia, leave the hall.

  Kai’s massive SUV is parked inside the school gates. My heart lifts with hope, plummeting as Rashid steps from the driver’s side, opening a rear door. I shake my head, gesturing to my own car.

  Hurrying towards it, I keep my eyes on the ground and, once inside, I allow the threatening tears to fall.

  Thoughts wrap around my head like an invasion of vines, clutching at my mind. I need to see Kai, feel his reassurance. Have him tell me this is a falsehood. A mistake. He said he loved me, and love doesn’t dim at the flick of a switch. Love isn’t that fickle. Love isn’t a mouthful of lies. I need to speak with him, have him explain. Tell him he was right about his dad. Maybe this marriage is a misunderstanding. Subterfuge set by him. Something I don’t understand?

  My teary reflection flickers in the darkened window. This is a little death of another kind, because I feel like I’m dying inside.

  I don’t wait for the parking slip from the valet, leaving my car still running at the vast entrance doors. I cross the foyer fast, and at the elevators, take the key-card from my purse before deciding I’ll knock. As I reach the door, my stomach and heart shrink and contract with fear.

  I knock.

  No answer.

  I knock again and wait.

  My knees begin to shake, joining the tremor in my hands.

  I take out the key and swipe, opening the door.

  The light is subdued, the door to the terrace open. I place my purse on the table in the hall and walk cautiously further into the room. Someone is home, the smell of tobacco drifting in from the terrace. A cigar, maybe? An open bottle of wine lies on its side on the sofa, tiny red stains soaking into the pale upholstery.

  ‘Kai?’ I call softly, feeling very ill at ease.

  The air crackles ominously, voices drifting from the bedroom door, a shiny black dress dripping like oil over the back of a chair. Synapses spark rapidly, my mind predicting the scene. Vacillating for a brief moment, my legs move uncertainly to the door.

  I am numb. An intruder. I aim for stealth but not silence, certain my heartbeat can be heard for miles.

  A woman’s voice trills, a low voice murmurs a response. Guttural, base grunting hums as I wrap my fingers around the door handle.

  ‘N’arrete pas!’ pants a breathless voice. ‘Je viens!’

  I don’t need to be fluent in French to know what this means; its tenor is universal. My hand trembles, my knees feel like they’ll hold me no longer as I push the door ajar.

  Candlelight illuminating the chair’s back.

  A small smile of triumph as she, Sofia, silently acknowledges me.

  A blur of her naked body and a cloud of dark hair as she drops to her knees, bowing her head to his lap.

  Finally, a flash of white cuff, a hand falling open over the arm of the chair, wrist adorned by his Breitling.<
br />
  ‘Suce-le,’ he groans. ‘Suck me. Hard.’

  Treachery swiftly gouges my insides. I stumble away from the door, bile rising as my knees refuse to hold. The wool rug scrapes as I scramble to get up, to leave. Make flight. I grab my bag from the table, swallowing huge, gulping sobs and banging the door from the suite open as I stagger, wounded from the room.

  After everything. After all I’ve given. After all he has taken. This.

  The last vestiges of my self-respect dissolve with the salt of my tears.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  My apartment isn’t welcoming. It doesn’t feel like home. All I can see is him—standing in the kitchen, lying on the sofa, draped across the bed. Despair seeps into my bones and I wear a hole in the carpet, pacing the bedroom floor.

  The sun eventually rises—the traitor—the skies clear and lapis blue. It makes me think of home. Leaves me wondering what’s happening on my side of the world. As light spans the whole of my room, I wonder how many women will be kept from their sleep by heartbreak tonight. Do they pace the floor asking the same?

  Suddenly, inexplicably, I long to be in my mother’s arms, long for her to coat me in the reassurance of home. I want her to protect and cosset me, like she did when I was small, while I tell her in great, gulping sobs how much I hurt. How I’ve been wronged.

  I could go home, I have time. Not that I’m foolish enough to think I can be honest there. I can’t ignore that she sent Shane to Dubai, but I can cope with it. I can even survive seeing him, because he means nothing to me.

  What I can’t handle is being here. Seeing Kai. Seeing his faithless face, listening to him lie. Panic flares inside, halting me in my steps.

  I’ll die if I have to see him. Die . . . or throw myself at his feet.

  I pick up the phone.

  ‘Welcome to Emirates Airline,’ the automated message greets. I use my credit card and buy a seat for tonight. I’m going home.

  I arrive at the airport in my car—the gift from Kai—glad for the first time since last night that I’d driven it home. Not that I had a choice. I didn’t have any cash for a cab. I abandon it in the wrong car park, confident, unhappily, in his ability to pay the fine.