The Salt Road (44 page)

‘No matter. The British government will pay for you, I am sure.’

‘My mother was French. I hold dual nationality, so both countries will probably wash their hands of me. Besides, the European governments tend to maintain a very strong stance when it comes to kidnappers and criminals. They can’t be seen to give way to blackmail, can they?’

I saw a muscle twitch in his cheek, but whether the reflex was caused by a scowl or a smile I could not tell.

‘Miss Fawcett, I think you will find there can be a considerable gap between what the officials of any government profess to the public and what they do in secret.’ He sounded amused. ‘Though I must admit that the British are a harder nut to crack than, say, the French. Publically they will declare they will never treat with terrorists, as they like to call us; but there is usually a deal to be done, as we say, under the sleeve. A little
baksheesh
passing hands.’

Terrorists? The very word chilled me. These men did not strike me as religious fundamentalists, but I realized my understanding of the term was no doubt fatally coloured by my culture’s view of events since 9/11, by bearded, AK47-toting Taliban militants and young British Pakistanis brainwashed by renegade imams preaching very unIslamic lessons. Or were they political terrorists like the FARC in Colombia, who had kept Ingrid Betancourt a prisoner for six long years and subjected her and her fellow hostages to terrible cruelties? My heart began to beat fast. ‘And if there is no deal to be done?’ I said lightly, but the tremor in my voice gave me away.

He shot me a look. ‘That would be … most unfortunate for you.’

So if no one paid up they would kill me, I thought, quite matter-of-factly. It seemed so surreal I almost laughed aloud. ‘You sound as if you make quite a habit of abducting people.’

‘Money is very important to our cause.’

‘Your cause?’ The laugh escaped me. ‘You make it seem like a charity rather than a crime.’

‘You may use whatever words you like to describe what we do, what we are: it is of no matter to me. My people have often been referred to as pirates of the desert. Separating the rich from their undeserved wealth has long been a favourite occupation of ours.’

I was about to respond to this curious pronouncement when one of the men behind me said something and the driver snapped back a reply, going in a moment from urbane and relaxed to tense and aggressive. I heard a phone call being made and then no one said anything for a long time and the silence in the car felt as spiky as barbed wire. A long time later the headlamps showed the indistinct shapes of a number of low-slung tents gathered in a hollow amongst the dunes and the car slewed to a halt.

As soon as we arrived dark-clad figures swarmed out of the camp. The trabandiste issued a series of sharp orders, and two of them took me away to one of the tents. I had to duck almost double in order to enter; once inside there was nothing for it but to sit on the reed matting and stare out at my captors.

‘Could you at least bring me my bag, and some water?’ I asked, but they just stared uncomprehendingly back at me. I was ashamed of the tremor in my voice, ashamed of the terror I felt creeping over me as the reality of the situation impressed itself upon me.

For the next hour I tried hard to keep that terror at bay. I occupied myself in the realms of my small prison, gathering the rugs and blankets I found piled at one end and fashioning a nest of a bed to keep out the chill of the desert night. I stared at the innumerable stars shining white and cold in the slice of velvet sky framed by the tent’s opening and tried to make out the constellations from amidst their unfamiliar abundance, but to no avail. In my life I had only ever been able to recognize Orion’s distinctive three-starred belt, the wavy line of the Plough and the winking Pleiades; but outside were thousands, maybe millions, of pinprick lights, more than I was used to seeing; and this merely served to make me feel more alienated and lost to the world. Beyond, all was hugeness, and I a tiny insignificant thing, a minute and pointless speck of life in a vast universe that would go on for ever, uncaring around me. There was nothing to identify me as me any more: I was adrift in the dark continent, light years away from everything that had defined me as Isabelle Treslove-Fawcett: my lovely tranquil house filled with its tasteful expensive furniture and carefully chosen paintings, my smart suits and high heels, my job inside the financial fortress, the money and respect that it won me. Now I had nothing but the clothes on my back, and they stank of sweat.

I tried to sleep, but the blankets smelt of goats and were scratchy against my skin, and the ground was hard under my hip. Thoughts tumbled through my head, a jumble of images from the past few days: the main street running through Tafraout filled with wandering robed men walking hand in hand; the women carrying their great loads of animal fodder; Lallawa lying slowly dying on the floor of the house in Tiouada, watched over by the dark eyes of the crow-women; the dancing children at the party; the way Taïb had held me, the sensation of the muscles of his arms tightening beneath my fingers … I was just drifting into a light doze when I recalled the fall from the Lion’s Face and saw the red ground rushing up to meet me, and then I was wide awake, my heart thudding in my chest like a rubber ball bouncing down concrete steps.

It was then that the real fear set in, hijacking me before I had time to shield myself from the truth. I was utterly alone in some nameless part of the world’s greatest wilderness, taken prisoner by men who spoke the most foreign language I had ever heard, who hid their identities behind swathes of cloth, who carried semi-automatic weapons as casually as sticks and termed themselves pirates and did not cavil at the name of terrorist. No one knew where I was, and in truth no one cared, with the possible exception of Taïb, and he was a captive too. They would demand money for my release from the British government, which would refuse to pay, and some weeks or months hence after all diplomatic efforts had failed (if they ever even started) I would most likely be raped and then killed and no one would give me even the basic burial we had given to Lallawa. How had such a thing happened to me? I had always lived my life within well-defined boundaries, seeking the safest and most conservative path, taking only those risks most approved of in my own society, or those bound by well-established rules and codes of conduct. If only I had not taken my father’s bait, I thought bitterly. If I had not opened that wretched Pandora’s box in the attic, none of this would have happened. I would be the Isabelle I had been for the past twenty years: self-sufficient, successful and assured, relying on no one else in order to avoid being disappointed in others.

Except, a small voice reminded me, all you have been doing all this time is running from your memories, burying everything that ever made you Izzy. You turned yourself into a corporate automaton: you buried your individuality, your spark and your conscience. You lost your wildness, lost the person you should have been. And now, just as you have found a man who might help you to become Izzy again, you are going to be snuffed out of existence altogether and probably so is he.

Tears began to leak down my cheeks: tears of self-pity and fear, for myself and for Taïb; tears of regret for all that might have been. I was surprised to find I did not want to die, that I should suddenly care so much about staying alive, and for some reason that made me cry all the more. I took the amulet out from under my shirt and pressed it to my cheek and wailed like a lost child. I was still snuffling noisily and pathetically into the smelly blanket when someone put their hand on my shoulder and almost made me leap out of my skin.

‘Izzy.’

I looked up. It was Taïb, his face indistinct in the shadow of the tent. Relief flooded through me. ‘You’re alive!’ I blurted out.

His teeth gleamed in the darkness. ‘Did you think I was dead?’

I wiped my nose on my hand and it came away slick with snot. I had never felt so comprehensively lost in all my life. Where was stiff-upper-lipped Isabelle Treslove-Fawcett when I needed her most? ‘Yes … no. I … I don’t know what I thought.’ I pushed myself upright, ran a hand through the haystack of my hair. ‘Are you all right? Have they hurt you?’

‘They roughed me up a bit; nothing terrible. I think they accept we are who we say we are. I’m sorry, Isabelle: this is my fault. I should never have brought you with me: it was stupid; naive.’

‘I wanted to come,’ I said quietly. ‘I took the risk.’

‘Without knowing the odds. I should have warned you, instead of showing off.’

‘Showing off?’

‘The petrol at the oasis. It was a bit showy: making you think we were heading into the wilderness with no fuel, then producing the smugglers like a magician conjuring genies. You forget when you deal with contrabandiers that their network is so wide-reaching.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

He sighed. ‘Despite the appearance of ease, stolen oil doesn’t just appear out of thin air. It requires a highly organized and committed operation to extract it, smuggle and sell it. I vaguely knew the guys at the oasis: I’ve dealt with them before. They obviously have some connection with the group who’ve taken us captive and must have reported in our details and where we were heading. If you hadn’t been with us, this wouldn’t have happened. You’re a prize, Izzy: a rich European woman, represented by a rich European government. You’re a useful pawn in the game.’

How ironic, I thought. I had never felt less useful, or less European.

A match flared in the gloom. I turned away to compose myself, but he caught hold of my chin and turned my face back towards him. In the light of the small candle-lantern he placed on the matting between us, Taïb leant forward and wordlessly rubbed away the traces of my tears. Then he ran a finger across my forehead. ‘What gave you this line, Izzy?’ he asked gently. The finger moved horizontally again, its touch like sudden fire on my skin. ‘And what about this one? It is as deep as the furrow of a plough.’ Soft as a feather, he traced the deep incision that ran from my nose to the corner of my mouth. ‘Or this? Now, this one is a very sad line. Let me see if I can make it go away.’ And he moved in to kiss me.

I could not help myself: I flinched. Taïb sat back on his heels, looking affronted. ‘I am sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I forgot myself. I shouldn’t have done that. You hardly know me, and here we are in this bad situation, and I am thoughtless, stupid …’

‘No, it’s me who should be sorry. It’s just …’ I shook my head. ‘I can’t forget myself. That’s the problem. I wish I could. But I can’t. I can’t …’

The absurd tears started again, hot and insistent. I rubbed savagely at my eyes as if I could somehow bully them back in again.

As if to stop this self-violence, Taïb imprisoned my hand in his. ‘It will be OK, Izzy. It will. They are not bad men, however they may seem. They are rough and harsh and driven by their beliefs, but they will not hurt you, I am sure of it. Don’t cry: please don’t cry. I cannot bear to see you like this. You are a lioness: you are strong. I saw you climb a mountain; I saw you fall and almost die and you never once cried. You buried an old woman and you did not flinch from it. You are strong, and you do not know it.’ He turned my hand palm-up and brushed it with his lips.

At another time in my life – at every other time in my life – I would have snatched it away as if he had tried to burn me, but perhaps because I felt guilty at my previous flinch I let him do it. I could not think of anyone who had ever kissed the palm of my hand, or anyone who had ever touched me so tenderly. I had spent my entire adult life avoiding intimacy with men: if I were honest with myself, they frightened me. I looked down now at Taïb’s close-cropped head, the cap of hair so black against his coffee skin, and felt … what? It was not fear, exactly, but it was not a comfortable sensation. I started to pull my hand away.

‘No,’ he said, holding on to it. ‘Look: you have a water-diviner’s hand.’

I stared at him as if he was mad. ‘What?’

‘You see this line here?’ He traced the line that ran horizontally across my palm, bisecting it neatly.

‘Yes?’ I frowned.

‘Have you ever seen a line like that on anyone else’s hand?’

‘I don’t make a habit of grabbing people’s hands and examining their palms,’ I said. The conversation was becoming surreal.

‘The water-diviner’s line is almost always inherited. In our culture it is highly prized, thought of as tremendously lucky.’

‘Lucky?’ I laughed bitterly. I thought of my mother’s hands, so small and neat. Mine, darker and broad as a spade, looked nothing like hers. My father’s … An image, unbidden, of his hand pale against my stomach, reaching down. I almost gagged, the memory was so strong. I pushed it away, as I always did when such recollections surfaced, but this one was stronger than most; or perhaps I was weak. I closed my eyes and was fourteen again. I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt I had rolled up and tied under my breasts like a pop star I had seen in
Jackie
magazine. I had been outside sunbathing and had come in, hot and damp with sweat and sticky with Ambre Solaire, to get some orange squash and a little shade. There, in the kitchen, my father had pressed himself against my back, imprisoning me against the sink as the tap poured out an unending stream of water diluting the brightly coloured soda till the glass overflowed and ran clear. Some part of him as hard as rock pushed itself insistently against my buttocks as he pressed his hand against my stomach and down into my shorts. ‘Oh, Izzy,’ he breathed into my ear. ‘You are so beautiful.’ And then he had led me up to the attic …

Fighting to stop myself retching, I pulled away from Taïb. But he would not let me go. ‘What is it?’ he said. ‘You look as if you are terrified of me.’

I shook my head, inarticulate with remembered horror. ‘Not you,’ I forced out at last. ‘Not you, never you.’

‘Then what?’

‘I can’t tell you.’ I pulled away again. ‘Don’t. Don’t look at me, please.’

‘I love to look at you, Isabelle. You are so beautiful.’

The howl that broke from me was that of an injured animal. And, like an injured animal, I wanted to run out into the desert with my wounds wide open and lie down and let my lifeblood seep into the sand and just … stop … existing. But Taïb wouldn’t let me.