The Weeping Desert (17 page)

With a groan, John turned and left the room. He flung open the front door and hurried out into the night. It was cold and he shivered. Wrap the blanket round you closely, my dear one, he said silently to the dark sky.

He strode down Market Hill to the empty beach. The sea was black and friendless. The sky was leaden, and not rich with stars and velvet as in Arabia. But it was the same sky, and somewhere was Khadija, frightened and alone.

Khadija, Khadija: she had tricked him, and he loved her. She had bound him to her, and he wanted his freedom. She had lied, and he still loved her.

He sat on a cold rock and buried his head in his arms. He longed for Khadija with an aching savagery. He wanted to hold her slim rounded body in his arms. For weeks he had been keeping her at a distance, and now what he needed more than anything was to lose himself in the softness of her breasts. The wind was cold fingers in his hair. The rock edges were as sharp as knives. The waves splashed dismally on the deserted sand. He felt an agony of loneliness.

The gloom persisted in Glen Craven House for many days after the last party glass had been washed up and the furniture put back into place.

Dr. Cameron missed Khadija. He had not realised how fond he had grown of the girl. She had so naturally become the daughter he had always wanted. A virus swept round Pinethorpe and he was kept too busy to take any positive action. Suddenly, he felt very old and weary.

Edith was relieved. John was free of the girl. But her conscience would not be still. She phoned George again and said she still wanted his legal advice and guidance.

“You’re blind,” said Carol bluntly as she and John walked together along the cliff top. “Khadija only went so that you would be safe. She sacrificed herself to you.”

“I don’t know,” said John. “I don’t know anything any more. I’m totally confused.”

“She knew that if she agreed with whatever Ahmed Karim said you would not come to any harm. I think she’s the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

“I thought you would have been glad to see her go,” said John bitterly. “Mother always had plans for you and me.”

“Oh, heavens,” Carol laughed. “Your mother’s plans! You are even more blind than she. Haven’t you noticed? Why do you think I’m working for your father?”

John stopped and looked at her blankly. She was smiling and her cheeks were flushed from their brisk walking pace.

“James, your idiot brother,” she said, happily. “One day he’ll want to settle down, and I aim to be around.”

“You and James?” John stared at the horizon as if he could see across three thousand miles. “He doesn’t deserve such a wonderful girl.”

“And I love him,” said Carol, more to herself.

“James is a lucky guy.”

They walked back to Glen Craven House in silence, deep in their own thoughts.

John thought of Khadija. He had thought of little else these past days. He went over their moments together reliving them vividly. Her sweetness, her gaiety, her solemnity, her tranquillity; everything about her was precious and a delight. Then he would remember that she was now with Ahmed Karim in far off Shuqrat, and the thought was torture.

Suddenly he could bear it no longer. He must find Khadija. His conscience tormented him that he had let her go to disappear into the desert. He was free, but somehow that freedom had gone sour. It was not too late; surely it was not too late?

His pace quickened down the cliff path. He forgot Carol. It would only take a few minutes to pack. There were several airlines flying daily to Kuwait. He could pick up some sort of small aircraft to fly him down to Shuqrat. He must hurry.

“Wait for me,” called Carol. “I can’t walk that fast!”

“You’re going back then?” said his mother, as he strode into the house. She could read the decision on her son’s face.

“Yes. I’m sorry. I know you had been looking forward to having me home for longer. But I must go and find Khadija.”

“I think it’s right that you should go,” said Mrs. Cameron, a weight lifting from her mind. “I can’t sleep for wondering what has happened to that poor girl. I’ll pack some clean shirts for you.”

He hugged her, relieved that there was not going to be a scene. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll phone for a reservation.”

Before he left, John’s mother gave him a cardboard file tied with pink tape. It was full of bulky documents. The label was printed
George Fotheringay, Solicitor
.

John said his good-byes quickly. There was no point in prolonging his departure and he was impatient to be back in Shuqrat.

On the long flight, he realised he had no definite plans. Get out in his jeep and search the place mile by mile? There might be rumours going around; he would send his houseboy down into the
souk
to report back on the local gossip. Perhaps Brett could help. He had many contacts with government officials. Could the political agent pull some strings?

He climbed stiffly out of the plane at Kuwait, and the heat hit him like a blast from a furnace. The humidity of the summer temperatures had dropped but the warmth and glare from the desert airfield was a pleasant change after the chilly autumn he had left behind at Pinethorpe.

He managed to get a lift down to Shuqrat in a small Dove aircraft that was carrying mail and spares down to the oilmen working at several places along the coast. The small plane felt like a toy after the huge jet. It did not seem at all safe as it was buffeted by the wind and dropped sickeningly in air pockets. The noise of the twin engines was deafening. From his seat John could watch the pilot sitting ahead at the controls. He was calmly eating sandwiches from a bag and drinking coffee from a thermos.

“Have some coffee,” he offered, grinning. “It’s the air hostess’s day off.”

Shuqrat from the air looked like a long, bleached sandy waste of pale grey powder. From their height of two thousand feet, John could pick out the parallel ribbons of the oil pipes running alongside the two main roads which cut across Shuqrat’s empty deserts. He could see the gas flares like match-heads burning down below. There were small villages and oases scattered about, and a vague patch of green meant water. Occasionally he spotted a ruined brown fortress or an old hunting lodge built in the middle of nowhere, now abandoned and forgotten.

The rest was emptiness, except for a tiny black shape moving fast along the sand. It was some moments before John realised it was the shadow of their plane.

They rapidly approached Oman Said—a spread of white, grey and brown buildings with flat roofs—the sheikh’s new white and turquoise wedding cake palace looking incongruous among all the bleached drabness. The pilot began talking to air control.

“I wish you’d let me pay you,” said John, shaking hands with the pilot after they had landed. The hot wind flapped at his trouser legs. He slung his jacket across his arm and picked up his bag.

“No way. I was glad of the company. But I’ll drop in for a beer the next time I’m overnight in Oman Said.”

“Do that. Thanks again.”

John got into a taxi. The driver’s gold teeth grinned expectantly.

“The mess at Walhid el Said,” said John. “And I’ll pay you ten ruppees, and no more. I’m not a tourist. I work here.”

The driver’s face dropped, but then he shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly, flung the big Buick into gear and screeched down the airport track on the wrong side of the road. John sat carefully on the hot leather seat. He was back in Shuqrat, there was no doubt about that. It was going to take a little while to get used to Arab drivers again.

The driver drove on his horn, scattering the wandering camels, pedestrians, goats and cyclists thronging the centre of the town. It did not make any difference to their slow progress but added another note to the general noise. He leaned on the open window of the Buick, casually exchanging greetings with his friends, still playing a staccato tune on his horn, his eyes sweeping boldly over the few European women in their summer dresses.

A small black-gowned figure darted across in front of the taxi, and the driver slammed on his brakes with all the showmanship of an American gangster film. John was flung off balance. The tasselled fringe round the back window swung frantically. The driver spat into the road and swore heartily in Arabic.

“Ah, it is no good,” he said disgustedly. “That one hears nothing!” He tapped his ears meaningly and shook his head.

John stared hard after the small shrunken figure. The women looked so alike in their black gowns and leather masks. She was threading her way determinedly through the crowd, her head bent. Soon she would be swallowed up and lost. But there was something familiar about her.

“I’ve changed my mind,” said John, thrusting a ten ruppee note at the delighted driver. Ten ruppees for less than a mile was more than profiteering: it was ridiculous.

John got out and slammed the door behind him. The sun dazzled his eyes, and he hurriedly searched through his bag for a pair of glasses.

“I wait for you. I wait all day,” offered the driver enthusiastically. He obviously thought he’d found an eccentric millionaire. He lit a small cigar and blew out the smoke leisurely.

John followed the small black figure, dodging the mass of oncoming pedestrians. He stepped into the road, narrowly missing a muffled cyclist, only to find his way blocked by a herd of skinny bullocks. They stared at him apathetically, flies buzzing round their wet nostrils. He raced after the fast disappearing woman. If she turned off into one of the many entrances into the
souk
,
he would lose her forever. His eyes hurt with concentrating.

A gap appeared and, putting on a spurt, John reached the woman. He caught her arm and swung her round to face him.

“Is-if,” he said. “Is-if?”

The small black eyes looked at him in terror and alarm. She struggled like a little animal. John searched her eyes for any sign of recognition on her part. Had he got the right female? How could he communicate with her?

“Do not be afraid,” he said slowly and clearly in Arabic so she would understand. For a second her eyes dropped to his lips, and that one movement gave her away. She could lip-read.

“Is-if, please,” he said, more urgently, but trying to keep his voice calm and kind. “Take me to Khadija. Take me to Khadija.”

The little woman’s eyes filled with tears and she began to make small unintelligible noises in her throat.

“You must take me to Khadija,” John insisted. “I will help her. Believe me, I am here to help Khadija.”

With a sudden jerk, Is-if slithered out of his grasp and scurried away. At a narrow gap between shop fronts, she stopped and looked back, like a dog who wants to be followed. John hurried after her, breathlessly, for the little woman could move. At the end of the lane, she stopped again and looked back. She definitely wanted John to follow her. His hopes soared. Perhaps she had understood and was taking him to Khadija. He would have to take a chance on it not being a trap.

They had reached the fringe of the old town. Is-if stopped at a pair of towering old gates, the solid wood pitted and scored with age. John recognised where he was: the Gate of the Dead. He was going in the way that he had come out.

Is-if fumbled with the heavy keys but John did not attempt to help her. He wisely kept well away from her, as his presence seemed to upset her so much. He backed against the high stone wall, keeping in the shade, out of the scorching sun. She left the gate ajar and John darted inside. She was already disappearing through another courtyard, and John sprinted after her, hoping there were no guards around.

Somewhere he could hear fountains playing and the gentle splashing of water. There were birds singing in cages, tiny colourful prisoners showing a brave heart.

John found himself following Is-if inside the royal harem. The chilliness of the stone corridor struck him forcibly. A huge air-conditioner was pounding away in a wall recess, impotent against all the wide cracks surrounding its installation.

Is-if was struggling now with a heavy, stiff padlock. John realised by its metallic newness that he was at the end of his journey. Khadija was indeed a prisoner, locked into her own summer kiosk. Is-if opened the door, and before John could speak, she had darted away, head down, the key hidden among the folds of her gown.

John climbed up the rickety stairs, his heartbeat racing in his chest, into the cool, hexagonal room.

Khadija stood at one of the open alcoves, her head against the cold stone, staring out at the sparkling blue seas of the Arabian Gulf. She turned, startled, and when she saw John her eyes widened.

“John!”

“Khadija, my love.”

Then she was in his arms and he held her closely, too full of emotion to speak. They clung to each other, shutting out the world and its dangers and difficulties, aware only that at last they had found each other.

Their lips met in a kiss. John tasted the sweetness and softness of her mouth for the first time, and he knew that he loved her. He cupped her lovely face in his hands and looked deeply into her dark eyes.

“I love you, Khadija,” he said.

Her face shone with happiness and her mouth curved into a wide smile. She could hardly believe that John had spoken those precious words at last.