The Weeping Desert Page 13

  “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 colou
rful 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.

  He kissed her again, this time with a racing passion that almost swept her senses away. She clung to him, not caring if his arms were crushing her slender body and his mouth bruising her lips. This was what she was made for. He loved her. He needed her. It was all she wanted to know.

  “I love you, too, John,” she whispered. “My tall Englishman who has the sun caught forever in his hair.”

  “I’m taking you away with me,” he said, his voice low. “Is-if has left the door open and the Gate of the Dead. We must go quickly.”

  “It is not that easy,” Khadija faltered, the happiness fading from her eyes. “Much has happened. Ahmed Karim has arranged for our marriage to be—how you say?—annulled. He is planning a marriage ceremony to join me in wedlock to him next week.” In her distress, her English became more incoherent. “I am being kept a prisoner, that’s why, until then.”

  “All the more reason to get you out of here now,” said John.

  “That is not all,” said Khadija. “In order that I obey Ahmed Karim has taken a hostage.”

  “A hostage?”

  She nodded faintly, her lips barely moving.

  “My father,” she said. “My beloved and respected father. He is also a prisoner. He is their hostage against my default.”

  Chapter Nine

  John tried to calm Khadija’s distress with hope that he did not really feel. The old sheikh a hostage; that was a dangerous situation. He touched her hair thoughtfully.

  “First I’m going to get you away, to a friend who is a nurse and absolutely reliable. You will be safe with her. There can’t be any marriage to Ahmed if you are not here, that’s obvious.”

  “But my father…?”

  “We’ll find him. Don’t worry. Shuqrat is not such a big place and someone is sure to talk for money. Ahmed Karim would not dare to harm your father if he really wants to marry you. If you are free, then we will be in a much stronger position to bargain.”

  Khadija shuddered. “Let us go quickly,” she said.

  “You won’t get far dressed like that,” said John. “You must have some sort of disguise.”

  Khadija brightened. “Bless your friend Carol for my case of English clothes! They will be a perfect disguise. No one would expect to see an Arab princess in a Western trouser suit!”

  John turned away. He looked out of the stone alcove to the vivid blue water where the dhows sailed like brown moths on a clear mirrored sea. A tanker, grey and blurred in the dazzling sunlight, edged across the horizon. He tried to relax the tenseness out of his neck muscles. This was no time to have a headache.

  He could hear movements behind him as Khadija undressed. There was no outraged feminine modesty because he stayed in the room. Khadija had certainly altered.

  “I am ready,” said Khadija breathlessly.

  She had put on her favourite flared black crepe trousers and silk pink and gold tunic. Her hair hung long and loose and her face was bare.

  “Only my women have ever seen my face, so no one will recognise me,” said Khadija. “It could not be more simple.”

  John took her hand. “Come on then. Let’s hurry.”

  By now he knew his way out of the summer kiosk and through the courtyards to the Gate of the Dead. The tiny caged birds sang sweetly as they hurried past, and the fountains splashed into the cool marble basins. All was quiet and peaceful.

  John felt the moisture break out on his forehead as the sun beat down on them. They moved quickly from patches of shade to the next, following the walls of buildings.

  “Stop! Who are you?” A guard had spotted them and came running across the courtyard, his gun swinging clumsily.

  “Hello, there,” said Khadija, casually putting on her big sunglasses. “What a cute place you’ve got here,” she went on in a terrible American accent picked up from the old television movies she had seen. “Is it all right if we have a look round?”

  “You are not allowed here,” the guard rapped out. “How did you get in?”

  “Well, we saw this little gate open and—”

  “You must leave immediately. Come this way. This is a royal palace. You are not allowed.”

  “Say! A royal palace?” Khadija pretended to dawdle as the guard hurried them towards the royal mosque. He unlocked a small door in the wall and pushed it open a little way.

  Khadija flashed him a big smile. “Can I come back and take some photographs?” she asked brightly.

  “No!”

  The guard could not get rid of them quickly enough. John kept quiet. Khadija was doing very well on her own.

  “How about tomorrow?” Khadija insisted. But the door slammed shut and they were outside the wall, somewhere in the souk.

  John took Khadija’s arm. “You were marvellous,” he whispered.

  “I was terrified. I think I am not such a good actress.” She led John rapidly through the gloom of the narrow lanes of the souk, ignoring the calls of the merchants to stop and look at their wares as they sat cross-legged in the doorways of their shops, smoking hookah pipes or European cigars. Urchin boys giggled at Khadija’s trousers and held out their grubby palms.

  “Baksheesh, baksheesh,” they whined impudently. They came out into the main street, into blazing sunlight. John stopped a cruising taxi and helped Khadija into the back.

  “Walhid el Said,” he said to the driver. “We can pick up my jeep there,” he added to Khadija in a low voice. “Then I’ll take you somewhere safe before looking for your father.”

  “I know where my father is,” said Khadija calmly.

  “Good heavens, Khadija! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You did not ask me.”

  John looked out of the taxi window for a few moments to cool his temper. “All right, where is he?”

  “He is at Wadi Amd. There is a cave with a hole that leads to the stomach of the world. It is a terrible dark hole with no bottom. A stone that falls, falls for ever. My father is captive there. Is-if learned this from Ahmed Karim’s men, who did not know that she can read their lips.”

  John had heard of these holes, clefts in the desert caused by shifting rock formations millions of years ago.

  “I will show you the way,” said Khadija.

  “You’re going to stay with a friend of mine at the hospital,” John said firmly. “Her name is Sheila and she’ll look after you. I’ll find this place, Wadi Amd, on my own.”

  “That is impossible. How will you find a came
l thorn bush shaped like a fat old Sultan at sunset prayer? Or three boulders with smooth faces to the East?” Khadija flashed her dark eyes scornfully.

  “If those are the map directions, then you can come with me,” John frowned. “Let’s hope you can map-read better than most women.”

  John paid off the driver, and they hurried into the shade of the verandah. The mess was deserted. The men were all at work, and the houseboy had probably gone shopping. He collected some lengths of nylon rope, a flashlight, tools—anything he thought might be useful. Khadija went into the kitchen and fixed two cold drinks. She felt a small sense of achievement that she could now do some things for herself.

  John wandered round the rooms searching for something he could take as a weapon. They did not possess firearms, and he did not fancy a piece of lead piping in case it was used on himself. Finally he picked up a can of pressurised deodorant and decided it would be as effective as anything in a surprise attack.

  Khadija, too, was wandering through the rooms, curious to see how John lived in her country. The place was cluttered with men’s belongings. She did not think the houseboy did his work very well. She wrote John’s name in the dust which had already re-settled on the table and smiled to herself. If she was looking after John his home would be very different.

  She stopped at a photograph in a carved frame. It was not the photograph which held her attention, but a small snapshot stuck corner-wise into the edge of the frame. It was of a group of men on the beach, leaning against a sailing dinghy which had been pulled up on the shore. It was easy to pick out John—he was so much taller. He was grinning at the camera and his arm was lightly round the shoulders of a small, slight girl with long fair hair.

  Khadija felt her heart contract. Was this his “good friend”, the one at the hospital, this woman called Sheila? She put down the photograph and turned away hurriedly. She did not want to look at him with another woman.