Strangers
Page 33
There was a beat of silence, then Nazarian stood up. ‘In that case I’ll show myself out,’ he said abruptly.
Damien remained seated and waited as the footsteps went down the stairs. He listened for the sound of the door opening, then swinging shut. He heard someone whistling from the kitchen. Rai. Nazarian had left. He let out the breath he hadn’t been aware that he was holding, and took his hand off the gun that was hidden under his book.
There was still an account outstanding for Amy, but neither of them was due to pay it today.
He waited a fortnight before he packed his car for a night’s camping in the desert. He drove west out of the city towards the Tuwayq escarpment, past the place where Joe Massey had been left to bleed to death beside the road. He pitched his tent close to the rocks that were etched darkly against the night sky, and sat in the entrance to his tent, watching the stars that blazed above him in indifferent glory.
It made me think about that night in the desert. Do you remember?
Amy, why would I forget?
After all of this, do you still…?
Love you? Of course.
Always.
The next morning, he packed his things away before the sun rose. No one had passed him in the night, no one had come near him. He drove along the unmade track, and took the main road through Duruma. Then he turned south towards the small town of al-Bakri.
If it seems the right thing to do, Amy had said. She had worked with the women of these villages, run the clinics, helped them with their health problems and their children’s health problems, and possibly given them more discreet help when she could, as it was needed, as it was asked for. Maybe the women would help him.
The clinic was housed in a small concrete building on the edge of the town. It was staffed by a heavily veiled woman. ‘I came to tell you about Amy Seymour,’ he said.
‘We have been informed,’ the woman replied with the brusqueness that was often mistaken for impoliteness by Westerners.
‘May I ask who…?’
‘By the English teacher,’ the woman said.
The conversation was over. Damien left the building and went back to his car. The English teacher. There was a small school attached to the clinic where women could gain skills in basic literacy and numeracy, and for some, there were lessons in other languages as well. The English teacher…she could be anyone. An ex-pat. A local. A trainee from the university. Once or twice a week, the drivers brought women from the city to teach the women of the villages.
The English teacher.
Yasmin? Now she was with Nazarian, she would be able to work again.
He sat behind the wheel of his car, wondering if there was anything else he needed to do. Amy’s request had been cryptic, and may have meant no more than she said.
As he sat there, watching the sharp-edged shadows move with the sun’s progress, he saw the woman he had spoken to come to the door of the clinic. She stood, half in the entrance, her veiled figure merging with the blackness. In her arms, she held a baby. As Damien watched, she lifted the baby, holding him up as if she was showing him the silent square.
Damien saw the mop of chestnut hair and the dark eyes.
I looked at him and I saw Haroun looking back at me.
One day soon, Yasmin would be able to reclaim her son and take him out of the country. There was no future for them together here. He wondered how she would do it–across the causeway into Bahrain? Across the vast and barely patrolled borders where the traffickers operate? Risk the hazards of false papers and fly out? He had offered her his help, if she needed it. But she was Amy’s sister. She was more resourceful than she knew.
He nodded his thanks to the woman, and put the car in gear.
54
Manly, Sydney, Australia, February 2006
The Australian summer was warm, but caused no difficulty to someone used to the extremes of Riyadh. Damien strolled along the Corso that linked the cove with the beach. The street was wide and bright, with vivid colours and signs advertising juice bars and ice cream. The people strolling past were lithe, tanned and lightly dressed.
He could see the café ahead of him. White tables filled the centre of the street, the sea with its breaking surf forming a backdrop. He could see the bright colours of the surfers as they broke through the waves.
And she was there. They’d met in one kingdom, come together briefly in another, and now they were meeting again in the far south. It was just for a few days, the fulfilment of an old promise. Their lives had gone in different directions since the last time he’d seen her in the grey of a London morning. She was sitting at a table, turned away from him. One hand was stretched out towards…His feet slowed as realization grew. She was rocking a pram gently, looking out to sea, her chin resting on one hand.
Roisin.
He could see the child as he came closer. A baby with fair hair was staring at her with an unswerving gaze. As he watched, Roisin’s head turned and she smiled down at the child who waved its hands and laughed in response.
To his inexpert eye, the baby looked about four or five months old. He began to do the sums, then stopped himself. If Roisin had anything to tell him, then she would. He came up behind her, interrupting her reverie. ‘Roisin,’ he said, leaning over to kiss her.
For a moment, the blue sea was the sea off the coast of Jeddah, and the sand was the endless desert where he and Amy had been together. It was as if he could see her, waving to him from a distant shore, as if she was telling him that somewhere in the world, there was a future.
And still the desert kingdom called him.
Acknowledgements
With many thanks to the people who helped me when I was researching this book, particularly the Saudis who offered me advice about and insight into a culture that is very different from my own. Riyadh is a complex and continually changing city. I hope the inhabitants will forgive me for the changes I have made to its geography. I’d also like to thank Teresa Chris for her support and encouragement, Eileen Fauset for reading the manuscript and my editors Julia Wisdom and Anne O’Brien.
And of course, as always, Ken.
By the Same Author
Forest of Souls
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper
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Published by HarperCollins 2007
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Copyright © Carla Banks 2007
Carla Banks asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN-10: 0-00-719213-4
ISBN-13: 978-0-00-719213-7
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