Strangers. Danuta Reah

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      She sat looking at the phone after Mike had rung off. Joe must have…He was probably still in his office, dealing with a backlog of admin. He wouldn’t necessarily have told Mike that. He’d want to be left alone to get on with it.

      Her fingers reached for the phone, pulled back, then reached again. She dialled Joe’s direct line, the one that went straight to his office, or to his pager if he was on duty and away from his desk. She listened to the phone ringing, then to the automated answering service that told her he wasn’t available and invited her to leave a message.

      He wasn’t there.

      She stacked his books carelessly on the shelves. One of them toppled off and fell open on to the floor with a heavy thud that resonated through the silent house. A dog barked in the distance. She picked up the book, trying to avert her eyes from the pictures, afraid she would see photographs of dead babies, babies with terrible diseases, but instead the infants looked normal: tiny, wrinkled, newborn, their minuscule fingers clenched, their eyes dark and curious.

      One day…She and Joe had married in a hurry, but one thing they both knew was that they wanted children. Roisin, at thirty-two, didn’t want to wait much longer and they had a tentative plan to try for a family after his contract in Riyadh ended. But, in the back of her mind, she could see his face, suddenly cold, turned away from her, and she could hear her mother’s voice: Rosie, you hardly know him!

      She made herself focus on the task in hand. The packing case was just about empty. She dug down to the bottom and found a page from a newspaper. It was tucked into a plastic pocket to preserve it, and it had been folded, leaving a photograph on display. It was a picture of a young man with a carefree smile. She unfolded the paper carefully, looking at the date. It was from April that year, and she wondered why Joe had kept it. Underneath the photograph, there was an article:

      BRITISH STUDENT ‘ABANDONED’ IN SAUDI JUSTICE

      Supporters of a man who was executed in Saudi Arabia last week, today accused the government of failing to intervene. Haroun Patel, a Pakistani national who was a student in the UK in 2003, was convicted of smuggling heroin in Riyadh. A spokesperson said, ‘Her Majesty’s government is unable to intervene in cases involving nationals from other countries.’

      An execution. She remembered that first morning with Damien O’Neill, when she’d found her way to as-Sa’ah Square. It’s known colloquially as Chop-Chop Square…

      Early April. In early April, she and Joe hadn’t even met. When that article was written, when people were reading it, she was running along the tow path with Shadow dancing ahead of her, and just a week or two later, Joe would be running along that path towards her, the course of their lives about to change for ever.

      As she read on, the images of the Kingdom that she was starting to form in her mind melted and changed. They were confused and disparate images: the houses in the old city, tall with small, shuttered windows, houses built close together creating narrow, shadowed alleyways that protected the inhabitants from the relentless sun; the compound with its sharp-edged shadows cast by the buildings, the blinding reflections that enclosed the watcher in brightness, the dryness, like ashes, that the light left behind.

      And she didn’t know any more what she was seeing.

8

      DESERT DEATHS

      Riyadh: Thirteen workers–mostly Africans–lost their way in the desert and died of thirst in the Taef region of Saudi Arabia. They are thought to have gone looking for work when their residency permits ran out. (Reuters)

      Damien O’Neill leaned back in his chair. It tilted, and he stared at the ceiling, watching a lizard making its way across the cracked plaster. He was beginning to think that he might have a problem, a problem that centred on Joe Massey. He’d been concerned about Majid’s rather dismissive hostility when Massey’s name had been mentioned. Somehow, during his previous contract, Massey had managed to bring himself to the attention of the police.

      And now there was something else. As he walked home from work that evening, Damien had passed one of the thriving internet cafés that had sprung up all over the city. And there, all his concentration focused on the screen in front of him, was Joe Massey. Damien had been sufficiently intrigued to stop and watch for a while, but Massey’s intent gaze hadn’t wavered as he keyed instructions into the machine, stared at whatever had appeared on the screen in response, scribbled down notes and keyed in more instructions.

      All the ex-pat houses were set up for internet access, and Massey would also have had a computer in his office at the hospital. But internet traffic was closely monitored in the Kingdom. Though ostensibly for people without their own internet connection, in practice the cafés were often used by those who had particular reasons for keeping their activities anonymous.

      These were troubled times. Westerners had been killed on the streets of the Kingdom, and Damien had an ex-pat community whose safety was his responsibility, as was their impact on the society they so imperfectly understood. If Massey was here with an agenda, then Damien wanted to know what it was. There was nothing he could do now though. He filed the problem for future consideration.

      The call for Maghrib, sunset prayer, brought him back to the present. He scribbled down some notes for the report he intended writing next day, then went downstairs to see what Rai had left in the way of food. As he walked through the shadowed spaces, the doorbell jangled, an intrusion from another place and another time. He heard the sound of a car pulling away.

      Damien paused. He didn’t live behind the layers of security that protected most Westerners. He knew he was taking some risks, but he also knew that, if he hid behind those kinds of shields, he would effectively exclude himself from Saudi society, declare himself to be irretrievably other. Whoever was calling had chosen a time when Rai wasn’t here, and when the streets outside were quiet. Risk? He spun the wheel in his head, then opened the door.

      There, in the long shadows cast by the high walls and the walkways that linked the buildings, was a slender, black-swathed figure. Her eyes, behind the concealing niqaab veil, were luminous as she slipped through the half-open door into the twilight of the hallway.

      ‘Amy!’ He didn’t know whether he was shocked or angry. Or just pleased. She shouldn’t have come here alone.

      ‘I wanted to see you,’ she said simply.

      ‘For Christ’s…’ His exasperation faded as she slipped off her abaya. She was wearing a simple blue dress. Her skin glowed in the shadows, and the brightness of her hair made the colours around her fade to monochrome. ‘Do you know what could happen if anyone saw you coming here?’

      ‘Of course I do. So I was careful. Please, Damien. Don’t let’s get angry with each other, not now. It’s been too long since I saw you.’ She rested her hands lightly on his shoulders. Her eyes were almost level with his. He could smell her perfume, and see the way the delicate flush on her face was deepening as they looked at each other.

      As he kissed her, he could feel the anger flowing through him and knew she could feel it as well. Suddenly, she was urgent, her nails digging into him as she pulled his shirt free. He could feel her fingers unbuckling his belt. He lifted her up and sat her on the edge of the table that stood by the wall, pushing up her skirt and impatiently pulling her clothes aside.

      ‘Damien…’ СКАЧАТЬ