by Carla Banks
She walks down a path towards a flower bed, where a creeper, heavy with flowers, grows up the wall.
The light flickers as the flames climb up, a sickly orange against the shadows. There is no sound. She can see the girl’s face, a pale glimmer in the darkness of the foliage. The face is serene, the eyes closed, the mouth curved in a faint smile.
Only her face is visible. The jumping shadows must conceal her body completely. The orange light reflects off the leaves, and now she can hear the sound of the flames, muffled and far away. She reaches out to touch the face…
…and it falls forward as her touch frees it from the vines, then the girl’s head drops, disembodied, into her hands.
Roisin jerked upright, wiping her hands frantically against the sheets. Her heart was hammering and she was breathing fast. Gradually the sound of the flames became the noise of rain beating against her window, the light became the glow of the floor lamp she had left burning all night. The relief of being out of the nightmare was replaced by the leaden awareness of the day.
She lay back down, her hand reaching out to the empty space on the other side of the bed. Her dreams were always about the dead girl, the girl she had last seen in the doorway with Nazarian, the girl whose body had been ripped apart by the explosion.
She had been back in the UK for a week, a week of sleepless nights interrupted by vivid, violent dreams and long, grey days when she lay on the settee, too weary to get up, just watching the time drag past.
She had been in hospital for a week after the bomb, shocked and concussed, aware that she had lived and Joe was dead. She could remember police officers by her bed, asking her about Joe, about the time he’d left her, the time he’d phoned, about what he had been doing, what they had both been doing in the day leading up to the party. Where had they been? What time? How well did she know Yasmin? When had she last seen her? Her confused mind had struggled to understand. ‘Yasmin wasn’t there,’ she said, watching as their faces remained impassive.
The Embassy had arranged for her to be flown out of the Kingdom as soon as the doctors said she was well enough to travel. A representative had turned up by her bedside one confusing morning and rushed her to the airport with an urgency she had been too dazed to understand. He’d answered the few questions she had been able to formulate: Joe hadn’t died in the explosion, he’d been the victim of a random attack, possibly a robbery; Damien O’Neill was in hospital, where surgeons were fighting to save his hand. She’d scrabbled in her bag and found a photograph she’d taken in Riyadh weeks ago. She scribbled on the back: Thank you. Roisin. He promised he would deliver it.
And then she was being rushed through passport control, the man from the Embassy still by her side, still there as her flight was called. Then she was stepping on to the plane, a BA flight direct to London. He didn’t leave her until the last minute, until the plane was about to leave the stand. And then they were in the air and she could see the lights of Riyadh below her.
Somewhere down there, Joe was lying dead and alone in a foreign morgue.
The flight was a blank, and then she could remember walking through the cold air of the winter night at Heathrow, could remember seeing her mother’s face in the arrivals hall with the relief that she wasn’t to endure this homecoming alone.
‘We’ll go back to your flat tonight, pet.’ Her mother’s hand touched hers, fluttered away, touched her again. ‘Then we can go home tomorrow. I’ve got your room ready. In the new house. I said, remember, that that was your room, yours and…’ She fell silent.
‘Joe. Joe’s dead.’
‘I know, pet. I know.’
The taxi driver had dumped them with her cases at the block of flats behind King’s Cross, and driven off. The street lights wavered yellow through a wintry mist. The concrete stairwell was dank and uninviting. ‘Such a place…’ her mother muttered as Roisin fumbled for her keys. But Roisin hadn’t heard her. She was watching the door of the flat swing open, and she waited for the sudden flood of light, for the waft of coffee and for music drifting from the box room where Joe was working at the desk.
‘I’m back!’ she whispered into the dusty silence.
‘Hey, babes,’ and the sound of his chair being pushed back echoed in her memory.
But memories were all she had.
Joe was dead.
She climbed wearily out of bed and released the blind to look out at the London day. The sky was heavy with clouds that the pale winter light had barely penetrated. At this time of year, the daylight arrived late and began to fade by four. She stood for a moment watching the rooftops and the pavements shining with the wet.
Her mother was moving around in the small kitchen. When Roisin had refused to go back to Newcastle, she had stayed, cleaning, tidying, doing the shopping, cooking meals that Roisin could barely eat.
She pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater and went through to the living room. It was impeccable, unrecognizable from the casual disorder that she and Joe had maintained. The bed-settee where her mother had been sleeping was put away, the bedding neatly folded. The bookshelves had been tidied so that the books stood in disciplined rows instead of leaning against each other in untidy piles. The furniture was carefully placed, the settee was lined up with the wall, and the chair positioned at a suitable angle, the plumped cushions neatly aligned. A vase that Roisin didn’t recognize–her mother must have gone out and bought it–was dead-centre on the coffee table. Early daffodils stood to attention.
Her mother, building her familiar ramparts to keep her daughter safe. Roisin’s throat ached.
‘Rosie? Is that you? I was going to bring you tea in bed. You should be resting.’ Her mother came bustling through.
‘I’m fine. I’m rested.’ Roisin kissed the soft cheek and took the proffered cup of tea. In the short time she’d been away, her mother had aged. When she was younger, Maggie Gardner’s eyes had been the same clear green as Roisin’s, and her hair had been a rich gold. Sometimes, to her secret delight, people had commented on the resemblance between mother and daughter. Now, the gold hair had faded to white and the creamy skin was dull and shadowed. ‘Are you keeping an eye on the time? You mustn’t miss your train.’
Her mother was going back to Newcastle where she had a long-awaited hospital appointment and Roisin wasn’t going to let her miss it.
‘I don’t like leaving you, pet.’ Her mother frowned with worry. ‘I really don’t need to…’
‘Yes, you do. It’s important. I’ll be all right. I’m not far away. Not any more.’
‘I wish you’d come home with me.’
Why wouldn’t she? It would make her mother happy. What was there for her in London? She just knew she couldn’t leave, not yet. ‘I can’t. I was going to bring Joe to Newcastle in February. We were planning to come home…’ She couldn’t talk about it.
‘That place. Animals. They’re animals.’ Her mother’s grief for her expressed itself in a virulent hatred of the Saudis.
‘They aren’t,’ Roisin said wearily. Najia, Fozia, Haifa–even Souad–they were people she thought of with warmth, some with affection. And Yasmin. She wondered what the news was about Yasmin’s baby.
‘But still…’
‘Still, nothing. I will come home for a visit. Soon. I promise.’ Focusing on her mother kept her mind away from the things she didn’t want to think about. She finished her tea. ‘Have you packed?’
‘I’ve got everything. I didn’t bring much. I could come back…’
‘Have a break. Come back in a couple of weeks.’ She was physically better now, and she needed to be alone for a while. A wave of tiredness washed over her, and for a moment, all she wanted to do was lie down and sleep. She turned away so her mother wouldn’t see her face. ‘I’ll get myself some breakfast,’ she said.
‘Sit down. I’ll get it.’ Her mother was delighted at the sudden evidence of appetite.
An hour later, Roisin walked with her mother to King’s Cross. She made sure she had m
agazines for the journey, and saw her on to the train. Just before she climbed into the carriage, Maggie Gardner hugged her hard. ‘Rosie, pet, if you need anything, anything at all, call me.’
‘I will. I promise.’
She walked slowly back. Even though it wasn’t noon yet, the day had a heavy dreariness to it as though the sun had barely risen and would shortly sink defeated into the long evening and night. She let herself back into her flat, and stood for a while with her back to the door. Then she pushed open the door to the small bedroom, the one Joe had used as a study, where she had dumped the remaining cases that had come back from Riyadh. The table light came on when she pressed the switch, casting a warm glow over the desk. The chair was pushed slightly away, as though the person sitting there had just that moment left the room.
Joe?
Hey, babes.
She knelt down by the cases that had been dumped against the far wall. She opened the first one and pulled the clothes out–skirts, trousers, scarves, all in light colours. Something jangled among the fabric, and a cluster of silver bangles fell to the floor. She picked them up and held them.
Something for you…
They’re beautiful. Thank you.
One of Joe’s shirts was tangled up among the clothes. It was crumpled and slightly stained. Slowly, she unfolded it.
And she was breathing in his smell, and he was there, all around her. She knew he was just in the next room, he was going to come through the door. Hey, sweetheart, where did you put…
Joe.
She’d made them tell her what had happened to him. ‘He’s dead,’ the consul had said. ‘They killed him.’
‘How?’ she’d insisted. ‘How did they kill him? Tell me what they did.’
He hadn’t wanted to, but in the end, he told her. They’d cut Joe’s throat and left him to bleed to death by the side of the road. Alone. Afraid and alone. He’d died afraid and alone.
She crouched by the case with Joe’s shirt crushed against her face. The pain was so intense she could hardly breathe. She had no idea how she was going to survive.
29
It was a fortnight before Damien was discharged from the hospital. For the first few days, he drifted in and out of consciousness, surfacing to headaches so intense he was glad when the feeble grasp he had on reality loosened and spiralled him away to a world of nightmares and more pain.
The room was banked with flowers. He was at a funeral. In his dream-state, he saw his ex-wife by his bed, looking down at him. ‘Yes, that’s my husband,’ she said. ‘That’s Damien. Bury him.’ Her face was cold.
‘Catherine, please…’ Then he was standing by a crib, looking down. The bedding was rumpled, a soft toy was discarded on the floor. The crib was empty, and somewhere, he could hear a woman crying. ‘Catherine?’ he said. But he and Catherine had never had children.
A face, beautiful, and shockingly unveiled, watched him from an upstairs window. As he stared back at her, he saw a tear trickle down her cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t help you. I can’t do anything.’ He woke up with a start and the nurse who was adjusting his drip looked at him in surprise.
‘We thought we were going to lose you,’ one of the doctors told him cheerfully as he began to come round, as the world solidified into the reality of the hospital room, the routine of doctors’ visits, therapists’ visits, boredom and mundanity.
‘You’re a hero,’ a nurse explained later, when he asked about the flowers.
They had come from all over the city, sent by ex-pats, by people he barely knew and didn’t much want to know. As soon as he could take control, he asked for them to be taken away. ‘Give them to someone who hasn’t got any,’ he said. There was only one card he kept. It was from Roisin Massey and said simply, Thank you.
He was a hero because he had saved Roisin Massey’s life. He couldn’t remember the moment when his brain had put the images it had seen together–the open gate, the car that had stopped in the middle of the drive, the girl standing behind Nazarian, her phone in her hand–but he could remember the moment when he knew that the low wall by the door where they were standing was the only protection within reach, and he could remember the crack as his head had hit the ground. After that, there was nothing.
Murder had walked the streets of Riyadh that night. In a separate incident, Joe Massey had been dumped by the side of the road in the desert, his throat cut. The aftermath of the two attacks was still causing waves in the ex-pat community, sending the security services on high-profile exercises as they worked to reassure people that all was safe, all was well.
And that same evening, or sometime during that same day, Majid and Yasmin’s baby had been stolen from the hospital ITU, and had vanished, so far without trace. Given the child’s precarious health, it was probably dead by now. If the kidnapper–whoever he was–had made it out of Riyadh, then the child’s body could be anywhere in the vast desert that was the Kingdom. It might never be found.
As soon as he could, he asked for a phone and called Majid. There was no reply. He left a message–it was hard to find the words: I’m sorry…anything, anything at all, that I can do…But he was helpless, isolated in his hospital bed. All he could do was think.
And his brain felt slow and sluggish. He knew there had to be a connection, but he couldn’t find it. The bomb, the murder and the kidnapping–they had to be linked. A sign kept flashing in his head, a big neon sign with candy colours and exploding fireworks: Night life in Riyadh!
But why use a bomb when Joe Massey was already bleeding to death in the desert sand? Why kidnap Majid’s child? His mind turned the images over and over, but nothing would come into focus. He knew there was more, but he couldn’t see it. And for now, there was nothing he could do. He just had to wait as his shattered system recovered, and hope that, gradually, he would be able to work out the whole story.
He picked up Roisin Massey’s card again. Thank you. Roisin. He’d tried to call her as soon as he was alert enough to understand what had happened, but by that time she had gone. She’d come to Riyadh with a new marriage, a new job and a new future stretching out in front of her. She’d left with her life in pieces.
And he was in for months of hard work before his recovery was complete, if it ever was. His doctor, an English consultant, had been blandly evasive in response to Damien’s questions. Damien got one of the Saudi consultants to come and talk to him. This man was honest. The Saudi rules of courtesy might make social interaction a minefield, but they saw no necessity in wrapping up the truths of life and death for their patients. The news was better than he expected. ‘You are making a full recovery from the head injury. You are lucky. It could have been more serious. Your hand and arm are less certain. We think we have saved the hand, but the injury was very severe.’
‘Will I get anything back?’ Damien was more and more aware of the numbness, the immobility of his fingers, the feeling of something dead at the end of his arm.
The doctor assessed him with a speculative eye. ‘It’ll never be what it was,’ he said. ‘Do you want my prognosis?’
Damien was glad the man was prepared to be honest.
‘If you don’t give yourself a chance to heal, you’ll lose the hand. We’ve done what we can, but the nerves were damaged. The best outcome you can expect is that you’ll get some limited use back.’ He inspected the room. ‘Your flowers have gone.’
‘I didn’t want them,’ Damien said. ‘They were sent–on a misunderstanding.’
‘You saved your friend’s life. People admire that bravery.’
But Roisin Massey wasn’t a friend. He barely knew her. Damien had no illusions about his courage. He’d pulled Roisin behind the wall because she was the only person he could reach in time. Sauve qui peut.
The tributes he didn’t want kept pouring in from the ex-pats, but there was no word from Amy. Maybe it was stupid, maybe it was a mark of weakness, but he’d expected her to contact him when she heard that he’d been hurt. But ther
e was nothing.
And there was no news of his Saudi friends. He thought about Majid, wondered how he was, how he was coping with the loss of his child, with the nightmare of uncertainty and the cruelty of hope. If the child wasn’t found, Majid and Yasmin would live all their lives in the unreasonable, impossible expectation that one day their child might be restored to them.
He didn’t tell anyone when the day came for him to leave the hospital. He didn’t want other people to see his weakness until he’d tested his limits out himself. His taxi left him at the entrance to the narrow lane where his house opened on to the street. As he pushed open the door, he expected the musty smell of abandonment to meet him.
Instead, the air felt cool and carried the fragrance of spices. The shadows of the ground floor were welcome after the recycled air and relentless brightness of the hospital. The house was silent. He went through to the kitchen where everything was in order, everything clean and put away. There was a net on the table, and under it, bread and fresh dates. There was coffee in the cupboard, milk in the fridge. Somehow, Rai had found out the day of his release and had worked to ensure his return would be welcoming and comfortable.
Slowly, he climbed the stairs and saw that the cushions had been placed where they would have been sheltered from the day’s sun, and his chair was by the window, the shutters closed so that the light dappled the stone floor. The book he’d been reading lay on the table. He picked it up. One Thousand and One Nights, open at ‘The Sleeper and the Waker’, the man who thought that his reality was a dream.
He sat down in the chair and tried to read, but the print blurred as his eyes filled with tears. He didn’t do anything to stop them from falling.
Roisin told herself every day that she’d go down the stairs and knock on the door of old George’s flat. She dreaded having to tell him what had happened–each telling was a reliving of the moment she realized that Joe was dead–but she couldn’t put it off any longer.
When she had told George back in October that she was leaving, he had grunted an acknowledgement. All he had said was, ‘What you want to go out there for?’ Then he’d turned away so that she wouldn’t see his face, and shuffled back into his flat, Shadow looking back at her as the front door closed. She’d written to the old man twice from Riyadh, but he hadn’t replied. She hadn’t expected him to.
