Strangers (7 page)

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:

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.

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…’ she said, then as he touched her, her breath caught and she stopped speaking as the shadows of the evening gathered around them.

By the time Joe got back, Roisin had finished unpacking the last case and had taken another shower to get rid of the sticky dust that seemed to settle over everything.

There was a bottle of wine in the fridge, some homebrew that a neighbour had given her. It was to have accompanied the chicken that was now cold and congealing in the pan. As the hands on the clock dragged from nine to ten, she got the bottle out and poured herself a glass.

She was lying on the settee, trying to concentrate on her book, when she heard his key in the door. It was almost twenty past ten, the latest he’d
ever been. She sat up wearily and put her glass on the table.

He looked tired. He’d loosened his tie and his shirt collar was open. His face was pale under his tan and he had shadows of fatigue under his eyes. ‘Roisin.’

‘You look exhausted.’ She kept her voice neutral. ‘Have you eaten?’

‘What? No. No, I didn’t have time. I’m not hungry anyway.’

‘You’ve got to have something.’ She stood up. ‘Joe, where have you been?’

He frowned slightly, studying her face. ‘I’ve been working.’

‘Mike phoned. He wanted you to call back.’

‘When? I haven’t seen him. I’ve been in the library.’

‘The library?’

He shook his head. ‘I know. I’m sorry. I should have come home like I said, but I’m getting behind with my own work. If I don’t keep up with that, I’m not going to get a decent job when we leave.’

And he hadn’t felt able to tell her.
You hardly know him, Rosie
. And he hardly knew her. ‘You should have said.’

He was looking at her with half-amused doubt. ‘What did you think? That I was out hitting the fleshpots of Riyadh? Because there aren’t any.’

‘Of course not. I just thought we’d agreed to spend this evening together.’ She saw his face start
to set in the cold, distant look. ‘Mike said you’d left, and I was worried.’

He seemed to pull himself back from somewhere. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You’ve been on your own. I should have thought.’ He put his arms round her. ‘We could start the evening now. I didn’t mean to make you worry. You look beautiful.’ His smile was deliberately hangdog.

She knew what he was doing, but she couldn’t resist smiling back. ‘And you look shattered. Go and have a shower, and I’ll get us something to eat. Here—’ She gave him the glass of wine she’d barely touched.

He leaned forward and kissed her lightly.

He came downstairs in jeans and a T-shirt, looking more relaxed. She made a quick salad using some of the cold chicken. She poured them each a large glass of the homebrew and they sat on the settee and ate with fingers rather than forks.

When they’d finished, he lay down with his head in her lap. ‘I thought today would never end. But it kept the best bit to the end.’

She played with his hair. ‘Listen, next weekend it will be the end of my first week at work. Let’s go into the desert again.’

‘If I can.’ He looked at her. ‘I don’t want to promise something and let you down again.’

She nodded, not completely happy. ‘I unpacked that last case of stuff that was in the study.’

‘You shouldn’t have done that. I would have…’

‘When? I nearly broke my leg on it twice today.’

‘Right. Sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to leave it for you. It’s just been…’

‘It’s OK. It didn’t take long.’ She trailed her fingers across his face. He hadn’t shaved and she could feel the roughness of stubble. ‘I found an article. About this place.’

She felt him stiffen. ‘What article?’

‘The one about the guy who was executed. I put it with your papers. Is it important?’

‘No. I don’t know why I kept it.’

‘Was it someone you knew?’

‘I said…’ His voice was sharp, then he stopped himself. ‘Sorry. I told you, I don’t know why I kept it.’ He pushed himself upright. ‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘I didn’t sleep well last night. I’m still on UK time.’

Later, lying in bed, she was the one who couldn’t sleep. She told herself it was because she was starting her classes soon, stepping out of the security of the compound and into the strangeness of the Saudi world.

As she floated somewhere between an uneasy sleep and wakefulness, words on a screen scrolled down in front of her eyes:…
died of thirst in the desert…executed…never to come back
…and she was in the square where they had stood the day they first arrived. It was empty and silent. Her feet were on the patterned stones that vanished into the distance. She was moving forward, reluctant step by reluctant step, to the ornate centre of the
mosaic. The shadow from the minaret lay across it like a warning finger.
It’s time
.

And under the pillars, in the shadows, someone was watching.

Damien watched the shadows playing through the closed shutters as he lay on the bed. Beside him, Amy was lying with her eyes closed, asleep, or lost in her own thoughts. The heat in the city this summer was extreme–he’d recorded forty-four degrees at noon. Even the Saudis were slowed down by it; the old men were absent from the street cafés and the souk had been somnolent in the blaze of the sun.

The temperature was dropping now and against the dampness of his skin the air felt cool. He pulled the sheet up to cover them, and Amy stirred. ‘Damien,’ she said.

He leaned over and kissed her lightly. ‘Who else would it be? No, don’t answer that.’ Her body was outlined against the sheets, long slim arms and legs, a smooth, flat stomach. Her skin was a pale glimmer in the half-light and her mouth was the delicate pink of rosebuds. He could picture her face half an hour before, flushed and warm, her
lips the colour of crushed raspberries, and he could still hear her gasps of pleasure as she’d dug her nails into his skin.

She laughed softly and rolled over towards him. ‘Nobody else but you.’ She reached across him to where a bottle of wine was cooling in a terracotta jar, and poured them each a glass.

‘So tell me,’ he said. ‘Why are you here?’ It was rare for them to meet spontaneously like this. The Saudi system made meetings between unmarried couples difficult. Damien preferred it that way. He had his own issues with commitment–his marriage had been enough to warn him away from those deep waters and Amy seemed happy enough with the status quo.

She ran her fingers lightly over him. He could feel himself responding to her and took hold of her wrist. ‘Do you need to ask?’ she said.

‘Amy, I
know
I need to ask. What’s wrong?’ Amy always kept her own counsel, revealing only as much as she had to about herself. He had said to her once, ‘Has it ever occurred to you that I might do what you want if you just told me what was going on?’ She had given him a veiled look but hadn’t answered.

She hesitated, then sighed. ‘I don’t know. That’s the thing. I was talking to one of the new guys today–only he’s not so new. He’s on his second tour. He must be crazy.’

He knew at once who she was talking about. ‘Joe Massey.’

‘Yes.’ She sounded surprised. ‘You know him?’

‘Not really. And…?’

‘He was here when that man got caught taking the drugs. Remember?’

Haroun Patel.

That was the connection that had been nagging at him. Joe Massey must have been in Riyadh at the time Haroun Patel had died. Majid had mentioned the drug theft the other night.

Damien had known and liked Haroun. He had been intelligent and energetic, a young man determined to do well in life, and not afraid to cut corners on the way. Only he’d chosen the wrong corner to cut and he was gone. The local police had landed every outstanding case of drug pilfering on his head, and then they had cut it off. His trial had been quick and secret, the evidence laid before the judges with no chance for Haroun to plead his case. By that time, anyway, he had confessed his guilt. As far as Damien knew, there had been no diplomatic fuss, no pressure to gain him a fair trial or a more proportionate sentence, just a small and quickly forgotten protest from people who had known him during his time in the UK. Haroun had been one more third-worlder, another immigrant worker trying his luck.

‘I remember,’ he said. ‘Why are you asking?’

Amy sat up, and the sheet slipped away to lie in a pool round her hips. ‘It was just…this Massey guy said something that got me thinking.
The case against Haroun never really made a lot of sense…’

‘They caught him with the stuff. That’s all the sense a case needs, here.’

‘I know. But it wasn’t the first theft, and I don’t see how Haroun could have done the others…’

‘You’re right. He probably didn’t. Amy, they caught him with enough stuff to land a trafficking charge on him. That was the crime that got him. The rest was just convenience. They needed a drugs trafficker, they got a drugs trafficker. They just cleared up anything outstanding. He was going anyway, he might as well take some extra baggage with him.’ He was deliberately brutal. He didn’t want her getting involved any further with this.

Amy ran her fingers through her hair. ‘It’s a lousy system. You know that?’

He shrugged. ‘Have you only just found that out?’

‘You seem happy enough with it.’

It was happening already. If they weren’t having sex, it wasn’t long before they were sniping at each other, looking for the weak points in each other’s armour. He knew about the iniquities of the system–he didn’t need Amy to point them out. This was one of the reasons he’d left the diplomatic service. ‘You take their money, Amy. You know the score. It’s just the way it is.’

‘So no one’s going to do anything about it?’

He pushed the sheet off in exasperation and got out of bed. ‘Do what? What would be the point?’

She was silent, chewing her lip as she thought about it. ‘He had a family. I thought it might be better for them if they knew he’d only stolen drugs once.’

‘He got caught once. He might have done it loads of times–and then he got careless. Leave it.’

She stood up. Draped in the thin cotton sheet, she looked as though she had stepped out of an engraving for one of the stories of the thousand and one nights. ‘Maybe.’ Her tone didn’t denote agreement, just that she wanted to close the subject.

She wouldn’t leave it. He knew Amy.