Dark Enemy

by Anne Mather

  Nicola digested this. ‘All right. Give me five minutes.’

  Graham nodded, and in a little more than that time Nicola emerged looking smart and businesslike in the levis and a clean blouse, her hair caught up in a knot on top of her head.

  ‘Hm!’ murmured Graham appreciatively. ‘That’s what’s been missing around here. I’d never have guessed!’

  Nicola accepted his comments with a friendly smile. She liked Graham Wilson. There was something innately nice and honest about him. He wasn’t much taller than she was, and had a broad stocky frame, his hair curly and gingery. He certainly presented no problems, and that was what she liked most.

  In the brilliance of morning the small camp was dwarfed by the immense expanse of open country beyond the bungalows. Yesterday, driving in the car with Paul, Nicola had been too tense to take a great deal of pleasure in her surroundings, but now she felt a sense of humility as she gazed upon the vast stretches of sand-dunes rising to curiously stark rock formations, and the pale lilac line of the mountains beyond. The sky was incredible, the bluest blue she had ever seen, and the sand was a wonderful rich colour with a texture she had not felt before. It was not like any sand she had ever seen, but of course this was no shoreline, this was desert, raw and savage and untamed, dangerous to anyone without knowledge of its ever-changing personality.

  Then she gave her attention to her immediate surroundings, the regimented lines of bungalows, the clubhouse, the general stores, the electricity generator; common everyday things that she was used to living beside. It was strange that there was no vegetation. Some scrub managed to survive in the shade of the buildings, but there were no trees, no flowering shrubs such as adorned gardens back home. There seemed to be no natural supply of water here and she wondered where the supply came from.

  There were several groups of men making their way to the canteen this morning, and they stared without compunction at Nicola, obviously amazed that she should have suddenly appeared. Some of the men spoke to Graham, and he explained vaguely that she had been sent out by the oil company to expedite the delivery of Jason’s paper work. There were some derisive stares at this piece of information, but most of the men seemed friendly enough, and after the initial sensation of being a peculiarity Nicola got used to their curiosity.

  The canteen was a huge building, one end given over to a kind of bar, while the other served food of every variety. Nicola was amazed at the choice offered to her, but when Graham Wilson would have provided her with cereal, bacon, eggs, toast and coffee, she hastily demurred. She could only manage toast and coffee at this hour of the morning.

  They found a table and sat down, and Graham said: ‘You’ll notice not all the men are English here. There are Italians, and French, as well as one or two other nationalities. When the papers are delivered it’s like an international convention.’

  Nicola’s eyes widened. ‘You get papers?’ she exclaimed.

  Graham grinned wryly. ‘They’re several days old by the time we get our hands on them. Still, it’s nice to keep up to date with the gossip.’

  ‘And where is your home?’ asked Nicola, buttering a slice of toast as she spoke.

  ‘In Birmingham. Didn’t you guess? Jason says the accent is inches thick!’

  Nicola smiled. ‘No, I didn’t guess, although now you mention it…’ They both laughed, and immediately attracted the attention of the whole room. Nicola was surprised to find herself flushing. She had thought she was past such things.

  As the meal progressed, Graham told her quite a lot about the organization at Castanya. Apparently Jason Wilde was the senior engineer on the site, and well versed in the troubles such enterprises could come up against.

  ‘Ian Mackenzie is in charge of the actual field,’ Graham continued, ‘and Jason’s out in the desert, supervising the pipeline, keeping it moving towards the sea.’

  ‘How much further does it have to go?’ Nicola asked. ‘Will it take much longer to complete it?’

  ‘About nine or ten months,’ answered Graham. ‘There are two hundred and sixty miles between Castanya and the seaport of Gitana. We’ve covered about sixty miles so far.’

  ‘And it will take so long to complete it?’

  ‘Sure. The pipes are in lengths of between twenty and forty feet and need to be welded together on the spot. That, combined with sand-storms, precarious working conditions and the rest, can make for pretty slow development.’

  ‘Do you have to bury the pipes?’

  ‘Well, it hardly seems sensible. Sand is a great mover, and a sand-storm can shift tons of sand from one area to another. A pipeline buried today could be exposed tomorrow. Consequently they have to be properly protected against corrosion. Then there are the pumping stations to be built. Obviously oil needs constant propulsion to keep it moving, and the pumping station here at Castanya wouldn’t have the power to push the oil over sand-dunes and across such a tremendous distance.’

  ‘I see.’ Nicola was impressed. ‘So that is what Mr. Wilde is accomplishing.’

  ‘Among other things, yes. He’s also having problems with the Sheikh. He doesn’t think the men we’re using—his men, that is—are getting paid enough. So Jason’s increased their percentage.’

  ‘It’s quite a complex affair, isn’t it? I never realized.’ Nicola finished her coffee and accepted a cigarette from Graham. ‘Is the field producing oil at the moment?’

  ‘Oh, yes. But it’s being stored in the main. Some has been sent down the pipeline already completed to the next station at Isthali. They have a storage tank there, bigger than the one here.’

  ‘And don’t you get bored? I mean—what do you do during your leisure hours?’

  ‘Well, various things. We play cards, read, write letters home, that sort of thing. And there’s the pool, and the tennis court if you feel really energetic. There’s even a cinema of a kind. It’s run by two of the men, and from time to time they give a show.’

  Nicola nodded. ‘I suppose it’s like an army camp, really.’

  ‘I suppose it is. We’re more or less self-sufficient here. Sometimes one or two of the men drive into Gitana, but mostly we mess about here. Swimming is the most enjoyable pastime.’

  ‘Yes, but where does the water come from?’ exclaimed Nicola interestedly.

  ‘Oh, there’s an oasis, not too far from here. We’ve run a pipeline from there. Naturally, the water needs purifying, but there’s plenty of it.’

  ‘I see.’ Nicola bent her head. ‘What am I to do today? Do you know? Have you seen Mr. Wilde?’

  Graham shrugged. ‘Not this morning. I’d hazard a guess that he’s a good many miles out along the pipeline already.’

  ‘Oh! You mean he’s gone?’

  ‘Yes. You’re left in my charge,’ grinned Graham. ‘I’m to show you around, introduce you to the men, supply you with information, and eventually set you to work.’ He looked apologetic.

  ‘But what about Paul?’ asked Nicola. ‘Where’s he?’

  ‘With Jason,’ replied Graham, pushing back his chair. ‘Don’t worry about your friend Mannering. He’ll survive!’

  ‘I’m not worried,’ protested Nicola, but she did feel a slight sense of pique that Jason Wilde should abandon her so carelessly to the care of his second-in-command. He was obviously showing her in the most blatant way possible that she need expect no assistance from him.

  * * *

  During the next few days Nicola caught only glimpses of Jason Wilde moving about the camp. During the day he was out supervising the men and in the evenings, when dinner was over, Nicola was so exhausted she just felt like tumbling into bed. The days were long for her, and the unaccustomed heat of the climate was enervating.

  In addition to this she had found that there was indeed plenty of work for her in the office building. Two or three men worked there from time to time, but mostly she had the place to herself, and it was she who answered the telephone calls from the out-stations and from Gitana itself. She became quite conver
sant with the way they worked and was soon capable of deciding for herself what needed attending to. If Jason Wilde found her ministrations helpful he certainly never said anything, and as he shunned the offices when she was there she never knew whether he appreciated her efforts on his behalf.

  After work was over, she usually finished about two when the heat was unbearably oppressive, she had her personal washing to attend to and as she needed to change her clothes sometimes twice or three times every day, she was kept busily employed.

  Paul came to see her one evening when she was in her bungalow, stretched out in a chair, reading one of the thrillers she had found on the shelves in the living room. He looked tireder than she remembered, and possibly even a bit thinner, his eyes strained with fatigue.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, dropping into a chair opposite her, and offering her a cigarette.

  Nicola accepted the cigarette, and then after it was lit, she said: ‘You look worn out. Is Jason Wilde working you hard?’

  Paul gave an expressive grimace. ‘Is he not!’ he exsclaimed. ‘Of course, he says it’s just an ordinary day’s work and I’m so out of condition living the kind of life I lived in London that I can’t take it. Maybe he’s right. I just know I’m beat!’

  ‘Me, too,’ said Nicola sympathetically. ‘It’s the heat, you know. Have you been okay? I mean—no stomach upsets, or anything.’

  ‘Well, I felt a bit sick yesterday, but I’m better today.’

  Nicola got up and lifted her handbag. ‘Here,’ she said, handing him two pills, ‘take these when you go to bed. They’re jolly good. I’ve not felt a twinge of discomfort, and I must admit the food is different from what I’m used to.’

  Paul nodded. ‘That’s for sure,’ he said gloomily. ‘How about you? Are you working hard?’

  Nicola shrugged and smiled. ‘I guess so. But like you I’m tired all the time. Still, that will go in time. It’s only a matter of getting acclimatized.’

  ‘How long do you think Dad intends to keep me out here?’ asked Paul, frowning.

  Nicola’s eyes widened. ‘You didn’t have to come,’ she reminded him dryly.

  ‘What was the alternative?’ asked Paul. ‘Being cut off without a penny and having to get a job in England. No, thanks! If I have to get a job I’d rather it was out of England, away from all the people I know.’

  ‘I see. Still, you could have got a job independently of your father.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t.’ Paul shook his head. ‘Don’t you know, I’m the world’s weakest character!’ His tone was sardonic. ‘If I know it, I guess everyone else knows it too!’

  ‘Don’t be such a defeatist!’ she exclaimed. ‘Your father’s not so frightening.’

  ‘Not to you, maybe. No, I just go with the tide.’

  Nicola walked to the kitchen door. ‘Want some coffee? I’ve mastered the art of making that at least,’ she laughed.

  ‘Couldn’t you? Before?’ Paul looked astonished.

  ‘Oh, of course! That was a joke!’ she said exasperatedly. ‘Honestly, Paul, I think you’re losing your sense of humour as well as everything else.’

  Paul hunched his shoulders. ‘Well, I would like some coffee. Thanks!’

  ‘So would I!’ remarked a lazy voice, and Nicola swung round to find Jason Wilde there, leaning against the door post. How long had he been there? Listening to their conversation!

  Nicola stifled her annoyance. This was the first she had seen of him for days, and she couldn’t afford to waste her opportunities.

  ‘All right,’ she said, brushing past him, on her way to the kitchen. She was supremely conscious of him, and she half-felt that he knew it. That would never do. No matter how eager she might be, he must make all the running. But would he?

  She heard their voices in the lounge as she made the coffee in the tiny kitchen at the back of the bungalow. She wondered what they were saying to one another, and her fingers fumbled with her impatience to get back.

  However, when she did return, the tray laden with three cups and the coffee jug, Paul was gone. She looked round in surprise, and Jason Wilde turned from his contemplation of a print Caxton had hung on the stark wall of the living room.

  ‘Paul decided he needed his sleep more than coffee,’ he said lazily. ‘Put that tray down. Before you drop it!’

  Nicola compressed her lips and stood down the tray on the low table in the centre of the floor. She didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry that Paul had gone. True she was glad Jason Wilde had stayed, but somehow she didn’t think the reason he had stayed was a complimentary one.

  ‘Cream and sugar?’ she asked, in a taut little voice, seating herself beside the tray, and wishing he would sit down. He was too overpowering standing there before her like some restless animal.

  ‘Thank you, no.’ Jason shook his head. ‘I’d prefer something a little more stimulating than coffee. Do you mind if I help myself?’

  Nicola felt furious; she might as well have saved her energies if she was going to have to drink a whole jug of coffee herself.

  ‘Go ahead!’ she said now, disguising her annoyance, and poured herself some coffee and began to sip it jerkily.

  Jason poured himself a stiff measure of whisky, and then seated himself opposite her. His eyes surveyed her appraisingly, making her self-consciously aware that she had not washed since dinner, and her face felt greasy and unattractive. She was still wearing levis, as she had found the men took less notice of her if she dressed in casual clothes, and her hair, once immaculately combed into a topknot, straggled a little about the nape of her neck. Brushing back some wisps of hair, she said:

  ‘To what do I owe the honour of this visit?’

  Jason studied the drink in his hand, giving her a chance to look at him without his being aware of it. In dark brown slacks and a cream knitted cotton shirt, open almost to his waist, he looked disturbingly male, and Nicola looked away from him, annoyed with herself for dwelling on him.

  Finally, he said: ‘I don’t want Paul Mannering visiting you here, alone.’

  Nicola’s head jerked up. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Exactly what it says—I don’t want him coming here.’

  Nicola’s temper got out of control. ‘Just who the hell do you think you are?’ she exclaimed angrily. ‘Dictating who or who may not come here!’ She took a gulp of air. ‘While I live in this bungalow it’s my property, and I say who does or does not come in!’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ he replied quietly, dangerously quietly had she been calm enough to become aware of it. ‘I am the boss around here, and I say what goes. This bungalow belongs to the oil company, and is always their property. Besides which, so long as I am in charge here, you will not go around acting like some amateur femme fatale!’

  ‘How—how dare you!’ Nicola almost choked on the words.

  ‘I dare because there are a group of men here, under my control, who have the idea that what goes for one, goes for all! What do you imagine would happen if it became generally known that Paul Mannering was a regular visitor here? What do you suppose would be the reactions of the men? Do you think perhaps they might conceivably get the wrong idea about you? Or that they’d resent the fact of Paul getting such favourable treatment? Do you think they’ll demand the right to bring out their own wives, or girl-friends?’

  Nicola was silent, hating him for his cold logical brain. ‘Paul is a friend,’ she ventured at last.

  ‘And what is Graham Wilson?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Only that Wilson is neglecting his own work to keep around you. He’s already rousing comment by the way he continually sits with you at meals.’

  ‘I can’t help that,’ she flared.

  ‘Yes, you can. You could eat alone. Or bring your food back here.’

  ‘What! Carry it across that dusty track to the bungalow!’ Nicola was horrified. ‘It would be cold, and dusty as anything!’

  ‘Then try and behave more circumspectly!’ said J
ason flatly. ‘I know that’s asking a lot of a woman like you, but at least try.’

  Nicola’s colour deepened and she got to her feet abruptly. ‘I think you’re despicable!’ she exclaimed, all ideas of remaining calm flying out of the window in that moment. ‘You can’t come here and tell me how to act! You’re not God, you know! You’re just a man, like other men! And I’m not your slave, and nor is Paul!’

  Jason Wilde got to his feet. ‘Did Paul say I was treating him like a slave?’ he asked ominously.

  ‘Yes! No! That is—oh, I don’t know! You’re getting me so confused I don’t know what I’m saying!’ Nicola turned away.

  ‘And do you think I treat you like a slave?’ he asked quietly.

  Nicola shrugged, bending her head. ‘No, I suppose not,’ she said grudgingly.

  ‘You certainly don’t seem to have taken any harm from your first week here anyway,’ he remarked dryly. Then he walked to the door. ‘Thanks for the company while I drank. I can hardly thank you for the drink, can I?’

  Nicola did not reply, and he halted in the doorway.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I’m driving to Umbyra tomorrow. Want to come?’

  ‘Umbyra?’ Nicola swung round. ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Inland. Some fifty odd miles. It’s a courtesy visit to one of the Bedouin chiefs. I thought you might like to come along.’

  Nicola stared at him. It hardly seemed possible that only five minutes before he had been berating her for entertaining Paul in the bungalow, so relaxed did he now seem. She couldn’t resist the dig that rose to her lips.

  ‘Are you not afraid the men will imagine I’m favouring you with my attentions?’ she asked mockingly.

  Jason Wilde gave her a derisive smile. ‘They know me better than that,’ he remarked wryly. ‘Besides, I want to take some readings on the way. You can make yourself useful.’

  Nicola shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘I thought there would be a catch,’ she remarked coldly.

  ‘No catch,’ he answered. ‘Well?’