The Hidden (29 page)

I am not allowed to join in the celebrations. I have not been dressed in my new robes tonight but instead wear a simple gown of red silk gathered at the breasts over my usual bodice and harem trousers. A little pouch is strapped to my waist on the inside of my robes. After al-Shezira’s servants dressed me, I feigned forgetfulness and returned to my room to pick up the revolver Alexandre sent to me, loaded with six bullets.

After collecting some potions and oils—gifts intended to try to pacify my husband—I enter his rooms. Al-Shezira dismisses his servants, and we are left alone. I know then that he has something awful planned for me and wants no witnesses. He smiles at me. I wonder for a moment
whether I am mistaken. He walks towards me. As he strokes my cheek, I suck in shallow little breaths and watch him carefully, like a petrified little girl. He slips his hands inside my robes under my bodice and caresses my breasts slowly. I secretly recoil, but I keep my face from showing my repulsion.

“Do you repent, Wife?” he says. “Have you learned your lesson once and for all?”

I say nothing. I simply watch him, trying to anticipate what he has planned for me.

“You tortured my servant,” I say coldly. “For that I hate you more than ever.”

“So you are in love with a stupid servant too? Is there no end to your deception?”

He laughs and throws back his head, his eyes streaming, his hands thumping his thick thighs. I watch him splutter and quiver.

I feel as though I am being strangled by this anticipation. I cannot take my eyes off him. I watch the saliva in the corner of his mouth, his eyes bursting with scarlet veins. All I can think of is how much I hate this man. I can’t stop the nausea from ripping me apart. Suddenly, he lifts his arm and strikes me with his fist. I reel backwards. My hand flies to my mouth.

Then he grabs me by the neck and shakes me so hard, I feel as though my eyes are going to burst out of their sockets.

“Stop, stop!” I scream.

“I’m going to kill you,” he says. “Then I’ll be free of this marriage, the weight of you around my neck. You’re not alone. I’ve ordered your lover killed too.”

Then he pushes me back. I lose my balance and he lunges at me again. He grabs me by the shoulders and throws me on the floor. My head cracks against the stone, and for a moment I think he has killed
me. The pain spirals through my body. He is at my throat again, on top of me.

“I’ll kill you,” I splutter, but he rips my dress down the middle and then exposes himself, all hard and ugly. As he forces himself on top of me, I scream out through the fat fingers that cover my mouth.

I try to bite his hand, but he is stronger than me. I try to kick him in the groin, but he has positioned himself so that I can’t reach him. He is forcing himself inside me, harder and harder each time, driving into me with a searing heat. I close my eyes. I cannot look at his face. All I can think is that I must get my revolver. But it is impossible while I am being crushed by this monster. Holding one fat hand fast over my mouth, he drives his other balled fist into my cheekbone until I can smell blood.

“You harlot,” he screams. “You belong on the streets, not in my palace, and that is where you will end up, dead and forgotten and out of my way forever.”

Then his disgusting load builds up to a violent crescendo and is released. When he pulls away, I curl over in a tiny ball, sobbing and clutching my face, hardly able to open my eyes because of the pain.

Panting and puffing, al-Shezira stands up and steps away from me, wiping his mouth and the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand. Then he adjusts the swathe of his trousers and pulls his tunic back over his enormous belly.

With all my strength, I too stagger to my feet. I withdraw the revolver from my hidden pouch and point it at his face.

‘This is for Rachid,” I say, “and Alexandre and my sisters.” I am straining against the grip of the revolver.

He looks startled for a moment. There is no time to lose, but suddenly I panic. What if I miss? What if my shaking hand is not able to pull the trigger? My body stiffens and my heart bangs wildly in my chest. I cannot believe I am doing this. The music in the palace has gotten
louder and more frantic. I can hear a scuffle in the corridor outside, the sounds of moaning. I turn my head to look at the door. I know I must do this before it is too late. Whatever happens to me afterwards is of no importance. I must avenge my poor Rachid. I stiffen against the revolver and close my eyes. The door to his quarters opens, and I hear boots in the corridor. I hear a tat-tat-tat-tat-tat of bullets firing downstairs and more screaming. I hear French being spoken. I hear Alexandre’s voice, deep and loud.

I take one last look at al-Shezira’s face, the evil mass of flesh in front of me, and I suddenly feel strong, empowered.

“You won’t win,” he shouts. “You are a whore.”

I am not Hezba anymore. Hezba has died. I close my eyes and shoot. Then I shoot again and once more and watch his body fall to the ground in front of me.

I pump his body with more bullets, anxious to finish the job properly. Then I fall on my knees beside him and reach out to touch one of the gaping wounds. The warm blood on my fingers reassures me that this is real and not some dream.

I feel as though the bullets have been pumped into my own flesh. I cannot believe what I have done. I shiver uncontrollably. Then I hear a loud noise and feel strong arms clamp down on me. I see the flash of a lantern, hear a voice, urgent and pleading, feel the heat of someone’s breath against my ear. I notice for the first time that I am covered in blood.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Aimee felt a sharp object being rammed hard into her hip. Mahmoud put his arm forcibly around her shoulders and whispered hotly in her ear.

“A piece of me and you’d soon shut up.”

She flinched and closed her eyes in horror.

“How would you like that, little Madame? Fancy some of my rough-and-ready?”

He laughed and spat on the ground. Nauseated with fear and disgust, Aimee quivered miserably. What a revolting man. If she’d been a man herself, she would have fought him off, but her fear had immobilised her. If she screamed out, he would use the gun poked violently in her side.

He continued. “When I’ve finished with you, after I’ve taken you to meet my friend, I might kill you, just for the fun of it, but not before we’ve taken a little ride together, out to the desert. It gets very lonely out there at night and very, very cold.”

He walked her outside with his arm around her and thrust her in the front seat of his car. “Remember,” Mahmoud said, “not a word. I don’t want to hear a single sound come out of that pretty mouth of yours.”

They drove through dirty streets, on their way, Aimee realised, to Gezira. Mahmoud kept looking over at her. She could feel the
hard edge of his gun next to her on the leather seat. Her hands were tied in front of her and a blanket was draped over her, so no one could see. She could feel his watery eyes running over her breasts and her legs. Every time he looked at her, her stomach sank and she could not breathe.

At last the glittering expanse of the Nile appeared, and they crossed the bridge onto the island. They drove towards a magnificent-looking building up ahead, a sandy-coloured mansion surrounded by beautiful gardens. A wrought-iron gate separated a gravel forecourt from the street.

“Remember, not a word or you know what happens,” Mahmoud warned her. “You’ll be given the order to speak when the time comes.”

To her amazement, the sentinel at the gate nodded at Mahmoud, opened the gates, and let them through. He drove around to the back of the mansion, turned off the engine, picked up the gun, and prodded her in the side, laughing.

“You’re coming with me,” he said, “this way.”

He pulled off the blanket and reached over to open the door. Aimee sidled out of her seat. Her mind seemed to have shut down. She tried to think of who she was and why she was where she was, but everything was a blank. All she could comprehend was that the filthy Mahmoud was beside her, walking her inside, up some marble stairs with thick oak banisters, onto a carpeted landing. All she could feel was the prodding of the gun against her hip. Mahmoud’s foul breath wafted over her.

“In here,” he ordered.

She was pushed into a large and beautiful room furnished with a huge oak dining table and three dining chairs at one end. Mahmoud forced her into one of them. Then he produced a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and cuffed Aimee to the chair. She did
not understand. She stared at the handcuffs, stared at Mahmoud. He stood back and studied her with an evil glint in his eyes.

“I still have the gun, Madame. Any funny business—?”

“What is going on? Who are you?” she gasped breathlessly.

Mahmoud perched himself on the oak table, crossed his arms across his chest, and smiled.

“You really want to play the fool with me, Madame? Who I am is not important. It’s who you are that matters.”

He broke off. Another door opened and two men dressed in smart administrative uniforms entered. They nodded at Mahmoud, and he left the room. As the two men approached Aimee, she realised that she recognised their hateful faces. Fear shot through her again, stabbing at every nerve in her body. She held her breath. The room seemed to go fuzzy, the light suddenly appearing dull and splintered. For a moment, she thought she had passed out, but she knew she was awake. She was, after all, aware of what was going on. She could see the blurred shapes moving about her and discern muffled sounds. She tried to wriggle her toes and her fingers. “We meet again, Madame, and so soon,” the fatter one said.

“Let me go. You’ve got the wrong person,” she cried out heatedly. “I have no idea who you want, but I’m not involved in any of this.”

Blue-grey shadows slid over the walls. She rammed her ankles against the hard wood of the chair legs, panic-stricken. She knew they would kill her. Aimee yanked hard against her handcuffed fists, to no avail. Defeated, she threw her body back against her chair.

Her mouth trembled, faces appeared before her, first in microscopic detail, then blurring like a brushstroke. Rachid, Maman, Saiza, Rose the housekeeper, Amina, Farouk, Sophie, all of their faces merging and becoming one.

“We want to question you. This time you will not get away,” the other said. Aimee tried to focus her gaze. The man’s face was expressionless, his lips the colour of pewter, his eyes tight and lifeless, his voice cruel.

“And this time, you’ll answer every question put to you on your involvement with the terrorist group, the X.”

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Minya, September 15, 1919

I try to speak, but I am trembling violently. Alexandre gently puts his hand over my mouth and shakes his head. He has an inky-blue turban wound around his head, blue robes, and sandals—desert garb. He looks thin and ill. He is holding a bundle from which he pulls a chador. He wraps me in it, covering my head and my face. My hands are still wet with blood. My head hurts and my face feels bruised and tight. I stare at my hands numbly and cover them with my chador.

I look up and see with him four men whom I don’t recognise, dressed in a similar style. They look like Tuareg tribesmen. Alexandre lifts me up and pushes me through the door of al-Shezira’s apartment. He shouts to his men, “Stand guard against those double doors, then follow us.”

The music has stopped, and all I hear is screaming and whimpering. The slumped bodies of some of the palace’s eunuchs are lying on the marble floor.

“The palace—?” I start to ask him.

Alexandre flashes me a look. “Freedom is coming for all,” he says, and scoops me up in his arms. He runs with me along the vast network of palace corridors to the back entrance, which leads to the stables.

The night eunuchs aren’t where they should be, and I understand what has happened. The price of freedom is the life of others. I have proved that tonight. May my God forgive me.

Alexandre is breathing hard as he marches forward with me in his arms. My face is so close to his that I can see the perspiration on his forehead, the deep frown etched between his eyebrows. I am heavy, but he is strong. When we reach the stables at the back of the palace, he helps me onto a horse and swings himself on. I cling to him and rest my head against his back. He turns to shout to his men. All around me I hear horses pulling against their reins, their hooves thumping on the earth. I hear Arabic and French being spoken. I close my eyes to block everything out. My body pulses with a strange sensation—relief, fear, I am not sure. I wonder what the future holds for me. But for the moment the future does not matter. I am simply calmed by the movement of the horse as we ride. Alexandre looks back at me every now and again and presses his hand against mine. I see in my mind’s eye the red of al-Shezira’s blood, hear the sound of the revolver exploding against his flesh, watch as his face relaxes in death. Nausea rises from my stomach to my throat.

I squeeze Alexandre tighter. I want to ask him where we are going, but I cannot speak. We seem to have been travelling for a long time. I wish it were all over. I long to be somewhere, anywhere, not riding on this horse. Eventually we stop. We have been following the Nile, which twinkles in the moonlight. I see a village up ahead.

When we reach it, Alexandre sets me down, adjusts my chador, and leads me to a small house. His men follow. Inside, a group of people is sitting on the floor. A man is playing an oud softly. A woman is singing one of the ancient songs of the desert. I recognise it. It was sung to me as a child. I listen to it in a trance. I try to picture my family, but their faces are fading away. It is a terrifying feeling. Alexandre nods at the man with the oud but says nothing as he escorts me to a room away from the group. He pushes the door open, sits me down on a low bed, unveils me, and looks into my face.