INCARNATION (38 page)
‘You poor man.’ She reached out and gave his knee a reassuring stroke.
‘There wis … loonies on the road oot of China.’
‘Good heavens. Well, would five pounds help?’ He shook his head. Now he’d started, he was getting into his stride.
‘He wis talkin’ more than five pound. More like …’ He took a deep breath and smiled. ‘Two hundred. Or so.’
She looked hard at him for about a minute, sizing up one reward against another. Inside her brain, a little screen read ‘What the hell?’
‘Calum, sweetheart,’ she began. ‘Two hundred is a lot of money, even for me. Postmen don’t often get to see sums like that, much less scruffy Scots hot off the hippie trail. My feeling is that I’m entitled to a few more services than that. Don’t you agree?’
She fell silent, but her fingers played with the buttons of her shirt, opening two more than was really modest. She looked at Calum. He was looking her up and down, uncertain where to go from here. She opened another button.
‘Ah think Ah’d better have that wee shower,’ he said in an awkward voice.
‘Damn right. And brush your teeth.’
‘An’ after that, Ah have tae deliver the letter.’
‘Not right after, dearie. You have a pressing appointment just then.’
‘The trip wis gruellin’, y’unnerstan’? Ah’m near wore oot. Ah may no’ be up tae much.’
‘My dear man, getting your Celtic backside from the western frontiers of China to Cadogan Place won’t have been half as gruelling as the next three hours are going to be. And God help you if you don’t perform, Hamish. This is not a clinic for sexual inadequates.’
‘Ah dinnae ken about you, missus, but Ah could do wi’ another wee bracer.’
She smiled and poured two long ones.
T
he first thought that struck him was that there’d been a mistake. The kid in the photograph downstairs had only been thirteen or fourteen. The dame on the bed had to be twenty-something. The door had been locked. He didn’t like that, couldn’t see the need for it. It had started to occur to him that this was a family to be avoided at all costs.
Maddie watched him from the bed, on which she’d been lying in an attempt to doze off. She opened her eyes warily and took note of the stranger standing in the doorway. The door closed behind him of its own accord, and there was the sound of a key turning in it.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ she asked.
‘You askin’ me, doll? Ah’m Calum, an’ Ah’m completely spent. Would ye mind if Ah sat doon on that chair?’
‘What are you doing here? Who sent you?’
‘Your daddy. Can Ah sit doon? Ma back’s killin’ me somethin’ terrible.’
‘My father? Did you say my father sent you?’
He ignored her and sat down on the armchair.
‘Nice chair,’ he grunted. ‘Good springs. Ye’d never believe the half-sprung monsters Ah’ve sat on in ma time.’
‘You said my father sent you.’ She felt herself growing angry again. The anger could get unbearable, could drive her into hysteria or plummeting despair.
‘He did.’
‘Rubbish. My father’s out of the country. A long way out. I don’t know what you told my mother, but it won’t wash with me.’
‘Look, doll, Ah didnae come here tae be insulted.’ He had, in fact, had exactly what he came for, two hundred smackeroos for bugger all. Well, on reflection, the money had been for sexual services. He’d made her come four and a half times. That was worth a bob or two.
She rolled to the side of the bed and swung her legs over.
‘Just get the fuck out,’ she screamed. It was hurting her. Something was coming up inside her, something from depths Rose didn’t know about, from the dark hours between coming awake at dawn and final consciousness around noon. Final waking was knowledge, final waking was the bitterness of reality. ‘My father’s dead,’ she said. ‘They killed my brother, and then they killed him. Now they want to kill me too. Is that what you’re here for? Is that what you’ve come to do? Who sent you? Six?’
‘Aaah, fuck this, Jimmy.’ He drew the bent and travel-stained letter from his pocket. He’d insisted that it remain unopened until it was in her hands. There’d been a long argument with the missus about that. But he hadn’t budged. ‘Yer father’s no’ dead. At least, he didnae look dead when Ah saw him. Ah wis in Kashgar. Have ye heard of it?’
She took the letter with shaking fingers. Kashgar? Maybe it wasn’t a trick. She tore open the envelope and pulled out the thin sheet of paper inside.
‘Take yir time, dinnae mind us.’
She began to read. For a while, the words and sentences fell apart in a desperate vortex of deconstruction that left nothing to make sense. Then everything steadied, and she felt herself become calm. The words snapped into place, and it was almost as though she could hear her father’s voice.
Maddie,
Darling, your mother and I are still good friends in spite of anything you may think at the moment. She has her own problems, some of which you know about. Try not to mind Anthony too much. I don’t like him, but he’s not a bad man, so why not give him the benefit of the doubt?
So you don’t think I’m holding out on the gossip, I’m … Oh damn, I don’t know how to say this, but I can’t write nothing now, can I, or you’d smell a rat. As you always do. Maddie, I’ve fallen in love. I was going to write ‘I think…’ there, but that would have been a lie, and I never want to lie to you. Her name is Nabila, she’s a doctor of Uighur medicine, and she’s much more glamorous than I am. You needn’t worry, it won’t go anywhere. She’s a Muslim, I’m not, and there’s an end to it. Mind you, it’s nice to dream sometimes.
Maddie set down the letter, leaving unread the hastily scribbled notes at the end. Two tears formed in her eyes and found their way slowly down her cheeks. She wiped them away clumsily with the back of her hand, but more came to take their place. ‘He shouldn’t have lied about Sam. He knew about it all the time, knew he was dead. Why did he have to lie about it?’
‘Look, doll, Ah’m a bit oot of ma depth here, know what Ah mean?’
She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.
‘How’d you get this letter?’ she asked.
‘Your auld man gave it tae me.’
‘Then he’s in Scotland after all? That’s what Rose said. But he told me he was going to China.’
‘It’s all the same fuckin’ thing, believe me.’
Somebody banged on the door. He groaned. Surely he’d scratched her itch enough for one day. He stood, casting another glance at the girl on the bed.
‘You goin’ cold turkey, hen, is that it?’
‘Not what you think.’
‘No, but - what are ye on? Crack? The Big C?’
She shook her head.
‘Just prescription drugs,’ she said. ‘My mother’s trying to wean me off them.’
‘Fuck that. Ye look like shite, beggin’ your pardon. Ye need help, doll.’
More banging.
‘All right,’ he shouted. ‘Ah’m no’ raping the bastard.’
He got to his feet and went to the door.
‘Ah’ll be back,’ he said. ‘Dinnae fall asleep on us.’
L
izzie stretched out naked on the bed, and yawned deeply. It had been a satisfying afternoon, in ways she wouldn’t have thought possible. If only life could be that fulfilling in general. She yawned again and hugged herself, and felt the inevitable onset of depression.
She wondered why she did it. Years ago, she’d made excuses - David went off for long periods on his own, Anthony had his own flings - but none of them really matched the sordid reality. She’d discovered by the time she was in her mid-twenties that it was possible to obtain sexual satisfaction while remaining empty inside. But with the passing of time the emptiness had grown while the satisfaction was increasingly hard to find. She might as well have said she wanted love and been done with it. Lots of people confused sex with love, she wasn’t alone, she comforted herself in the sense of belonging it gave her. One thing she was sure of. If she had her way, her precious Maddie would never be a prey for gigolos like Calum Kilbride. She’d see to that, she promised herself.
S
and came from nowhere and went back to nowhere. A small breeze moved with it among the dunes, picking it up, casting it down again, as if in slavish performance of some ritual so ancient it had no name and no purpose. However often the sand moved, nothing changed. The dunes were undiminished. They rose up and sank down, driven by their own secret tides. It was like an electric power in them, an energy older than anything else, older than stone, older than the caverns in stone.
David wiped a film of sand and sweat from his forehead. Moments later, it had started to form again, slick and repellent against his skin. He could make out the top of the dune, then another, higher still, beyond it. These were low dunes, three or four hundred feet at most. Before long they would reach the mountains of sand, dune piled on dune for a thousand feet and more.
He glanced behind him. Their train of camels was still fractious, and from time to time an animal would stop dead, or throw its load, braying loudly as it shook it off, or another would try to break from the caravan. Sometimes one would try to do all three in quick succession.
‘They’ll settle down in time,’ Mehmet, their guide, had said. ‘It’s always like this at first. Give them three or four days.’
‘What’s the longest journey you’ve done in the desert?’
‘Two days.’
There were nine camels in all, seven males and two females, each one joined to the other by a short length of rope that stretched from one beast’s tail to the next one’s nose. They were fat Bactrians with long manes and thickly padded humps, well-preserved against the hardships of the coming journey, but edgy beasts all the same, inclined to snarl at unlikely moments, or bite, or kick out.
‘Just how used to desert work are they, anyhow?’ David had asked Mehmet on the second day.
The guide had shrugged. He was a man in his early thirties, with a large moustache and a disconcerting tendency to scratch himself anywhere and everywhere, for hours at a time.
‘Not a lot,’ he said. ‘Nobody goes into the desert much. What’s the point? There’s nothing to buy or sell.’
‘So these camels have never actually made a desert crossing of any kind before this?’
‘I imagine not.’
‘But you have at least worked with them round the fringes?’
Mehmet scratched his belly and shrugged eloquently.
‘Not these camels, no. I’d never set eyes on them before yesterday. My brother bought them from friends in the next village.’
He gave them names, Uighur and Arabic names like Khoja, Latif, Aziz, and Abdu’l-Kerim. David couldn’t get on with the names, at least he couldn’t match them to individual camels very well; so he did a naming of his own on the second day, just before they pitched camp for the night. He gave them solid English names, as if to tie the poor beasts to a different reality than the one they walked through: Bill and Ben, Woolly, Elvis, Rag, Tag, and Bobtail, Doris and Mabel. It amused him at first, until they snapped at him or refused to budge at a critical moment. Doris and Mabel were particularly nasty.
Nabila gave them names of her own, names she admitted to but refused to divulge. They were most at their ease with her, and as the days passed David and Mehmet both called her to the front when a camel needed talking round. When she spoke to them, it was not in Uighur or Chinese or English, but in a language of her own devising. She’d found herbs and other medicines in Tazgun, the village where they’d bought the camels, and every night after they’d been unloaded, she tended to their saddle sores and infestations.
They had so many names in the end, it scarcely seemed to matter what you called them. Except that they responded to Nabila’s names and ignored the rest.
‘You mustn’t call them silly names,’ she said to David one day when they’d stopped at the bottom of a high dune to recuperate a little. ‘Or childish names.’ She gestured to Mehmet. ‘He gives them Muslim names, but they aren’t Muslims, they wouldn’t recognize the Prophet if he walked right past. And you give them names from old television characters.’
‘I wish I hadn’t told you that.’
‘They have their own names. In a little while, you’ll see.’
He looked round again. Woolly was in the lead as usual, a huge brown animal with a long matted coat and a crew-cut head.
‘Come on, Woolly,’ he urged, ‘get a move on.’ But Woolly just plodded on as before, miserable as sin beneath a sun that had lifted the temperature to over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. His friends plodded after him, equally miserable. So far none of them had come up with a way out of the mess they were in.
By the time the journey finished, David reflected, they would be skin and bone - if they made it that far. They stretched behind him, their heat-soaked bodies dotted like frail dinghies along the steep leeward flank of the dune. Far at the rear, he could make out Nabila’s diminutive figure as she moved in and out among them. He looked up to see Mehmet cheerily waving from the top of the dune. Another one down, only another ten thousand nine hundred and forty-one to go. Roughly.
David wondered if they had not made a mistake in coming into the desert this early. It had been a hard decision, the only really difficult decision he’d been forced to take during this entire mission. The Taklamakan is an oval of sand squashed between the Tien Shan and the Kun’Lun. It is an almost uniform mass of ochre sand that runs for eight hundred miles west to east and three hundred and fifty north to south. The bare figures conceal a nightmare. There is no life in it. To move across it in any direction takes superhuman will and effort. The desert prohibits life, smothers it, wrecks it, blocks it at every turn. To enter the Taklamakan is to die, quickly or slowly, it makes no difference to the sand or the stone a thousand feet beneath.
