She did as he said, sitting down on a bench seat that ran around the caravan's main table. On it was a laptop and a spread of papers and other newspaper clippings.
“That’s my book,” Kevin said. “The one I was telling you about. How the Muslims are infiltrating society. You can have a read if you like, but it’s scary stuff.”
Feeling it was only polite to do so, Julia turned to look over the work, her eyes immediately spotting two instances where he had used ‘their’ instead of ‘they’re’ and a misplaced apostrophe.
“It certainly is,” she said. Kevin looked proud.
"Told you," he said. “Well, you keep reading, I’ll see what I’ve got.” He walked past her and into what Julia could see was the bedroom section of the caravan. She saw him kneel on the floor by the bed to pull something out from underneath. Unfortunately the act of kneeling down had opened up a gap between the top of his trousers and the bottom of his shirt, and a large slit, inviting her eyes to peer between his buttocks, opened up. Despite her hunger for the pills, Julia looked away, and tried to distract herself with the newspaper article in front of her. Its headline warned:
By 2025 four in five Britons will be MUSLIMS!
She had a glimmer of an idea. The article was illustrated with a photograph of two Islamic women in their traditional hijabs – or were they burkas? Julia was never sure of the distinction – walking down a typical British high street. Next to the newspaper was a scrapbook filled with Kevin’s spidery black handwriting. From the tight, intense shapes of the letters the work radiated paranoia. The idea – if that’s what it had been – passed before Julia could see what it was, and then Kevin came back and she could stop reading. He was carrying a large plastic box with him, and he dumped it down on top of the clippings. He carefully pulled off the lid and inside were scores of packets of medicine, some grouped together in their original boxes and tied with elastic bands, others just loose in their blister packs. To Julia it looked like a hoard of treasure.
“Where did you get all this?” Julia asked. She curled her hands against the table top to stop them diving into the box, rummaging for what she was looking for.
“Mate of mine works as a porter in the hospital. All these are supposed to be destroyed cos they’re out of date. But he rescues them and sells them on. They still all work the same!”Kevin pulled a few of the boxes out and inspected them. Most of the names and brands meant nothing to Julia, but then she saw the familiar box of Dramadol.
"Here you go," Kevin said. He held up the box. "I knew I had some somewhere."
Julia’s face lit up in delight. "How many of those do you have?" She calculated quickly. The box would last her about four days."I need ten boxes. At least."
“That’s the only one.”
The disappointment was almost too much for Julia to bear.
“Well, can you get any more?”
Kevin didn’t answer. Instead he spent some time looking through the plastic tub. He pulled out several other boxes and set them on the table, but they were clearly different to the familiar blue and red branding of Dramadol.
“Well, can you get some more?” Julia asked again. “This friend of yours, can you ask him to get more?” She reached for her bag, and pulled out the thousand pounds she had withdrawn. “Here. I’ve got the money.”
Kevin’s eyes seemed drawn to the cash.
“No need,” he said.
“What?”
“Well, you know Dramadol is just a brand name, right? Like Heinz with ketchup. That might be the one you like best, but you can still eat a bacon sandwich with a different ketchup. It’s still a bacon sandwich, isn’t it?”
Julia peered at him, confused.
“I mean you can take some of these other pills and they do the same thing. Here.”
Kevin rummaged in his magic box again, and this time he pulled out even more boxes of tablets with names that Julia didn’t recognise. Soon he had a little tower of cardboard medicine boxes on the table in front of him. She watched the tower grow with greedy delight.
“There you go. The ten you wanted and another five on top of that!”
Julia’s eyes grew wide with wonder.
When the trade was done Julia got up to leave, but Kevin stopped her.
"Say… Now that you're here Julia, I wonder if I could get you to have that look at my book?" Kevin said, as if the idea had only just occurred to him. “You know, see what you think of it?”
Julia’s first response died in her throat and she hesitated. The glimmer of her idea shone again.
“Okay,” she said, sitting back down.
Thirty-Nine
One week later, Rob and Becky felt like old hands running the Lighthouse Lodge. The charity's promises that word of mouth would help to fill the place and keep them busy was coming true, but it was also getting late in the season, and their guests continued to arrive in trickles rather than floods. For both of them this was just fine. Rob was happy wandering the island and photographing the wildlife, and when the waves came, surfing off the beach on the island's western side, or the rocky reefs that strung out between it and the mainland.
Becky was less happy, but that was only because her writing had now been stuck for long enough that it could no longer be described as a temporary blip. Every day that she could she still climbed into the lofty lantern room of the former lighthouse, but by now she barely noticed the breath-taking drop to the rocks below or the views that stretched out around her. Now she was fixated on the text on the screen in front of her. Text which no longer appeared like cut glass on her screen. Words that no longer fell from her mind as if tumbling down from a pure mountain stream. Now they seemed to arrive ready-highlighted with the red squiggles of her own editing pen. It wasn't that she couldn't write. With enough effort, she could turn out a decent word count each day, but she wasn't at all certain what she was writing was any good.
It wasn't that she had no vision for where her novel should go. In Becky’s mind her protagonist – Joanna – was on a journey, driven by the regret over the accidental killing to change who she was. In Becky's version of reality, Joanna the author was committing more and more of her time and energy into doing more and more good deeds. In the vain hope that this would somehow settle her score with the universe. As if it only took a thousand good deeds and her one very bad deed would be wiped off the slate. Becky knew where she wanted the book to go, but it was as if the story itself was refusing to go there. As if it didn’t fit.
It was Rob that highlighted that they had another, more pressing problem to address.
"Do Muslims not eat pork, or is that Hindus?" he asked. He was sitting in the reception area with the door open to the bedroom where Becky was cleaning her teeth.
"What?" she asked through the toothpaste foam. "Why?"
"That lady that arrived today. In room 3," Rob replied. "Mrs Abassi?"
Becky thought for a moment. "What about her?”
“Didn’t you see her?”
“No.”
"She's like…" Rob walked closer, as if not wanting to shout this across the room. "She's all dressed up in the Muslim outfit. You know, the full burka thing?"
"No, I didn't see.” Becky thought for a second. “Do you mean she's got a headscarf?" One of her friends from university was a practising Muslim and Becky was familiar with the silk sashes that she wore.
"No, it's not just a headscarf, it's the full body thing. You know, you can only see her eyes," Rob went on. He laughed a little. "It's quite weird actually. She was wearing sunglasses so you couldn't even see her eyes."
Becky spat out the toothpaste and swilled some water around her mouth. Something in what Rob was saying was troubling her. Or the tone of his voice while he was saying it.
"So?" she asked. "People are free to wear whatever they like."
"I know," Rob replied, defensively. "It's just we've got to offer her breakfast tomorrow, and I don't know if it's wrong to give her bacon or not."
"Rob!
" Becky said. "Don't be such a..." She didn’t know what he was being so she didn’t finish. "Course you can't give her bacon. And anyway, she'll probably just ask for a vegetarian breakfast. Like anyone else who doesn't like bacon. It’s not that hard."
Rob continued to stand in the doorway to the bathroom. He knew how hard Becky could be pushed, and decided to keep going.
"Yeah, but how will she actually eat it?"
"What?"
"I mean, do they have a slit somewhere that they feed the food into? Like a mouth hole?" He grinned at her. "It was hard enough to hear what she said when I gave her the keys."
"Rob!"
"It was! It was all muffled. And she kept tripping up on her outfit. Honestly, Becks, it was pretty funny."
"Well, it shouldn’t be. It’s wrong to laugh at other people just because of what they believe in." Becky pulled back the cover and climbed into her side of the bed. She picked up the paperback novel she was reading, determined to send Rob a message that she was properly annoyed. She had started a book swap in the corner of the dining room, where guests were encouraged to leave any books they had finished in exchange for taking a new one. It had given her plenty of free reading material.
"I know, I'm not laughing exactly. But it's kinda funny, don't you think? A woman like that coming here, on her own? What's she going to do?"
"What do you mean?” Becky put down the book again. “Are you saying she should have come with a man? Just because she's Muslim? She's going to go bird watching and enjoy the scenery and peace like anyone else. Don't be so sexist and racist." Becky wasn’t sure these were quite the right criticisms, but they were close enough.
Rob unzipped his trousers and pulled them off, then folded them and placed them on a chair. Then he pulled off his hoodie and t-shirt and threw them on top. He climbed into the bed beside her.
"I thought you liked it when I was sexy and racy," he said, putting his hand onto her belly.
"Not tonight I don't," Becky said, and she picked up the book again.
Rob waited a moment then groaned and rolled away from her. He picked up his phone to check for messages.
“Well, I think it’s pretty weird,” he said, but he dropped the subject after that.
They rose the next morning at six, as usual, and began preparing the breakfasts right away. The view from the kitchen window looked out over the west of the island, but from the dining room the windows were open to the east and a glorious sunrise. There was little wind, few clouds and the sea was calm. By 9.30 all the guests had ordered their food, and most were finishing or sipping coffee before heading out for the day. But still the lady from room 3 had yet to make her appearance. When she did come, moments later and tripping on her full-length dark brown burka as she stumbled to her table, Becky could see what Rob had meant the night before. Granted the room was bright, but still it seemed as though the woman was wearing sunglasses to ensure that there wasn't a single part of her body that remained uncovered, rather than to protect her eyes from the sun's rays. It was weird, Becky thought, before telling herself she mustn’t think such things – it was just a result of a different culture. Different beliefs, equally valid.
They usually took it in turns to either cook or serve the breakfasts. It was Becky's turn that day to collect the orders.
"Hello," Becky said, taking care to approach the lady's table from the front, so that she would hopefully see her coming and not be startled (the woman somehow managed to look nervous enough already, though how Becky could tell that she wasn’t sure).
"Have you decided what you want?" They had a very small menu that stood encased in plastic on every table. The woman was studying it now.
"We do have vegetarian sausages," Becky went on, but she wasn't sure whether this would be enough so she added, "and toast."
"Coffee," the woman said, in a strange robotic voice. Then she pointed at the top item on the menu. The full English option. Becky frowned.
"So, is that with or without the real bacon?" she queried.
The woman pulled the menu back in front of her. She was wearing gloves so that even her hands were hidden and Becky noticed they were shaking. The sides of her face covering were damp and stained with sweat. There was a smell too, although Becky told herself not to notice it, that she was being culturally insensitive.
The woman half-grunted and half-shrugged.
"Whatever," it sounded like.
Back in the kitchen Becky conferred with Rob. He seemed to feel that if she wasn't bothered they should just give her normal bacon, and she could always leave it if she didn't want it. But Becky overruled him, saying that she probably simply hadn't fully understood what she was being offered, and that the woman was clearly being extremely brave just to come to a place like this where people of her faith were so atypical. She determined that she – they – would do nothing further to draw attention to the fact that the woman's presence was anything unusual.
And so, as they finished with the breakfast service and began to clean up, she began chatting casually to Rob about what he was planning to do for the rest of the day. Sometimes, she had found, this was a good way to draw guests into the conversation, but on this occasion it was only the woman from room 3 left in the dining hall.
"You know those black-backed gulls in the cliffs, down by the beach," Rob told her. “I was going to try and get some photos of them.” Rob knew what Becky was doing and what was expected of him.
"How about you? How's your writing going?" Rob asked. He spoke a little cautiously though, since he knew by now this was a sore topic.
"Uh…" Becky said. "I'll keep trying. I'm sure it'll come back to me soon." She smiled to dismiss that subject and return to the potential activities that were available to the Muslim woman.
"It's a lovely day," she said brightly, and loudly. "Really warm too for this late in the year." Becky wondered for a brief moment if it was insensitive to mention the temperature, on account of the woman not really being able to change her dress to take account of the weather. But she dismissed the idea. Didn't they mostly come from really hot countries anyway?
By now, though, it seemed clear the woman wasn’t going to join in. Not only had she not spoken up, she had dropped her head and was clearly not looking to be approached. Becky sighed and flicked her eyebrows at Rob, signalling defeat.
"Why don't you come with me?" Rob said, a little more quietly now. "If the writing's going badly I mean? Give it a bit of a break. It might help?"
Becky was surprised by Rob’s concern, and she turned her thoughts to her book. His idea was tempting. The thought of spending another whole afternoon in the lantern room failing to write wasn't that appealing, and it was a lovely day. But she felt that the only way to get through this was to keep trying.
"No. I should work."
"Okay." Rob persevered. "Well do a bit, and then come and find me? You've hardly even explored the island properly."
Becky wavered.
"Come on," Rob said. "Do an hour and then come and find me. Come on. I'll make some sandwiches now and you can get started, then when you've done some work you can bring them out. We’ll have a picnic."
Becky smiled. It was a nice idea.
"Okay," she said. And with one last glance at the Muslim woman, still trying to drink coffee through the thick material of her face covering, she went to get her laptop.
Forty
Buying a full Islamic burka in rural Dorset had proved difficult. Julia's first attempts, on the high street of the market town of Dorchester, were unsuccessful. But a search online – performed at the local library, so as not to leave any trace on her internet history – revealed a shop in Bristol that specialised in such things, as well as a handy guide as to what each of the different types of face covering and gown was actually called.
Actually purchasing the item was difficult, too. While it offered, once secured, an almost perfect disguise, she still had to enter the shop, try one on (she didn't want to get the wrong size and h
ave to come back) and buy the thing. And Julia certainly didn't want any shopkeepers remembering how a strange Western woman had recently bought a burka, just in case police later made the connection.
So before entering the shop she wrapped her hair in a headscarf and wore another around the lower part of her mouth, with some dark sunglasses between the two. The girl serving – a young Asian – had looked at her strangely, but Julia didn't think she would be able to identify her later. She paid in cash.
But it now turned out that that had been the easy part. Rob had stared at her so much when she arrived at the lodge, Julia had feared he had seen straight through her disguise. And now, as she fretted and worried in her room later that night, she realised just how hard this was going to be. The disguise would allow her to get close to Rob and Becky without them knowing, but she still had to kill them and get away without being caught. And though she thought she knew how to do it, she was reliant upon luck to give her an opportunity.
It was this that she was thinking about as she sat in the dining hall the next morning. It was almost surreal to be there, with Becky asking her what she wanted to eat, speaking slowly as if to an alien. She only wanted coffee but she pointed at the first thing on the menu, keen mostly to get Becky away from her, in case there was something recognisable of Julia that the disguise didn’t cover. But then the stupid girl had started blabbering on about vegetarianism or something, and Julia had pointed desperately at the next thing on the menu instead. Then when Becky brought out the plate of food Julia realised she now had to eat it, or risk looking strange and raising their suspicions. This was the first time she had ever tried to eat in the burka. It was almost impossible to do so; she needed at least four hands. Two to cut the food as normal, and then ideally two more to lift the flap from her veil to expose her mouth and push the food in. Twice she dropped pieces of vegetarian sausage onto the floor, and her movements were so restricted she didn't feel it was safe to pick them up.
The Glass Tower Page 21
