by Alam, Donna
‘I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the one with the serious case of dick envy.’
Point to me and my runaway gob? Probably not as his thumb and forefinger tighten and Batool releases a pitifully strangled mewl.
‘Such a clever mouth,’ he sneers. ‘It will get you into trouble someday.’
‘Stop it. Please.’ Her little pink paws levitate higher, tiny sharp claws beginning to cut through the air. ‘You’re hurting her!’
‘I have imagined it often, that mouth, wrapped around my cock, choking back your clever words.’
Batool squeals and the tiny but frantic sound steals my breath.
‘Come, habibti, take. It isn’t nice when someone takes away your playthings.’
‘That had nothing to do with me—’ My throat constricts, and I swallow hard ‘—take it up with Kai.’
‘I’m over this. I have moved onto other things.’
‘Kate?’
‘My parents,’ I say, glancing quickly over my shoulder to my mum’s call. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ I turn my head and call back. ‘I’ll just be a minute.’
‘I know what he is,’ Essam adds unaffected, his gaze following the path of my own. ‘I’ve watched him over the years. Watched his, shall we say, his tastes refine? For myself, I am not one for strange practises, but now I find myself with more time, I am curious.’ He crushes Batool to his chest once more, the poor thing too distressed to put up a fight. ‘And if I know what he is, then by default, I know what you are.’
‘Give her back to me.’ My heart hammers against my chest like the hooves of a runaway horse.
‘Do you like pain, habibti?’
He stretches out the false endearment as I bite back the instinct to ask him the same thing, to tell him I’m gonna cause him a whole world of the stuff if he doesn’t give me my damn kitten back.
‘It’s unnatural. No?’
‘Essam, just give her to me. Please.’
‘I want to hurt him and it is almost karmic that you, Katherine, like to be hurt. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement.’ My brow furrows. What is he on about? ‘You see, it’s interesting what you can obtain with a little digging. Of course, both myself and Kai have long had an appreciation for . . . art. Do you like art?’
‘I—I’m not much of a follower,’ I reply, hating how I stumble over my words. My gaze flicks upwards to his, a face whose lines echo the one that I love. Even his expression has a certain resonance, like a hawk eyeing something tasty and small. I lower my attention to the cat squashed against his chest, her body rigid and frozen, like she’s anticipating more hurt.
‘Here.’ He slides his free hand into the back pocket of his pale, loose fitting jeans, pulling out something folded and a little dog-eared at the edges. He slides one finger down the crease, turning it towards me. A photograph. Of me. In all my naked eight by ten glory. A photograph Shane took that day at the beach.
My heart plummets, roiling now in stomach acid.
‘Where did you get this?’
Gripped in between his thumb and forefinger, he turns the image back to himself, studying it with dispassionate eyes. ‘Your hair was shorter then. I think I prefer it.’ His gaze rakes over me again. ‘There are more, of course. Six, I think. Very tastefully done. I commend the photographer, or was there more than one?’
Ignoring his insinuation, my mind races, trying to recall what other images he could have; their levels of lewdness. I’d been drinking—not a lot, but after a day in the sun, a couple of cruisers, a beer, and a cocktail or two, my inhibitions were swallowed along with the booze. Shane was the man I was marrying, and though he wheedled and coaxed, I saw no harm in those few shots he took with his phone. I maybe even encouraged him. Maybe I felt they were a barrier I was breaking, or maybe I was trying to be someone else. Someone more daring.
‘The question is, what shall I do with them?’
My tongue darts out nervously. ‘What have you got planned?’
‘I could keep them for myself, of course, but what good are mere images when the subject keeps me at arm’s length.’
‘No, Essam. I’m married—’
‘I do know that. It is what makes this all the more fun. I was contemplating making them an early wedding gift. But to you, or to him?’ One brow rises in malevolent enquiry. ‘You don’t like the idea of my gifting them to him?’
My breath and heart cease to exist for a beat. ‘You wouldn’t.’
‘You know me better than that, I think,’ he says, chuckling softly in the face of my horror. ‘Who shall it be—you or him?’
‘What do you want?’ My tone is flat, my head a mess. I can’t let these be seen by Kai, not after the conversation we had. We’ve had enough mistrust and hurt between us. I can’t go back on what I said—that I’d never had photos taken of me before. I wasn’t lying, not really, because with Kai, those moments—those photographs—were filled with intimacy and love. Not five minutes of cajoling and half-drunk, naked fumbling.
Come on, Katie. No one else will ever know.
With Shane, I was just trying to be someone I wasn’t.
And I could kill him right now.
Oh god. How will Kai ever trust me again? This will destroy him. Destroy us.
‘One night. A few hours. A taste of what he has.’
‘What?’
‘You and I. In exchange for the hard drive. The photographs.’
I almost burst into tears on the spot. ‘So you can tell him afterwards, tell him what we’d done?’
‘No,’ he answers so solemnly that, for a moment, I almost think he thinks he means it. He lowers his hand and the photo along with it. ‘Never. I want only something to feed the fire I have inside.’ For the first time since this conversation began, Essam’s language is fired. ‘We are the same, he and I, yet he behaves so superior. I want the knowledge, the secret admission, that he is not so superior after all.’
The same. How can he believe that? He’s nuts. I’m having a conversation with a madman. Maybe he’s high? My eyes dart to his nose, but that’s as far as I’m willing to go with this line of enquiry. I won’t draw nearer. No chance.
Cold shivers dance along the base of my skull.
‘Essam, please don’t ask me to do this to him. You don’t want me, not really.’
‘I’m not asking you to do anything, just giving you a choice. Better than sharing this on the internet.’ He shakes the picture in front of me again. Another threat. One that squeezes my heart.
‘Some fucking choice.’
‘Keep your secret, add one more. Or lose your husband’s trust and perhaps lose him as well. You know how he is, how this would make him. He’d punish you with more than words, punish beyond your body. He’d return to his whores.’
Quickly, he steps towards me, not giving me a moment to react. His hand grasps my wrist and with one pull, I’m yanked to his chest, Batool frozen, not moving and squashed between us.
‘A memento.’
He tucks the photograph into the open neck of my shirt. I shiver as his fingers graze between my breasts before he steps away just as quickly, pushing the cat against me as her tiny claws dig into my shirt.
‘Madam.’ Rashid speaks from somewhere behind me, his tone low. I almost stumble backwards to the safe side of the open gate.
One glance over my shoulder at Rashid and guilt floods my chest.
‘It’s okay. He—he just caught the cat. The door was open. She ran out.’ But as I then glance back, Essam is already walking away.
Chapter Eighty-Four
Rashid closes the heavy door behind us with an audible click.
I’m so screwed.
The photo rustles against my skin as Batool pushes it closer when she burrows into my shirt. My fingers stroke her sun-warmed fur absently, not wanting her to move, wishing that between us we could hide the image forever. Leave it where it is, never bring it out. Leave it to burn a hole in my chest and let my undeserving heart fall out.
; Why did I do it? Why did I have to lie to him? Such a small, inconsequential utterance; the words leaving my mouth without much semblance of thought. I can join the dots now, of course. I can see Kai’s face as he held Shane up against the wall back at my old flat.
I’ve seen it all before, have a few pictures of her somewhere.
Kai’s expression spreading to his fist.
And when he’d asked me . . . that night we’d taken pictures of our own. Have you done this before? The unspoken plea: please tell me what he said isn’t true.
So I did.
And now I want to leave this image hidden, never take off my shirt, or maybe stand under the shower, the image still within, and clean this malignancy, turn it to lint.
Keep your secret, add one more.
‘That man. He is no good.’
I realise Rashid is still behind me and that I haven’t moved.
‘I know.’
Batool begins to squirm. With a sigh, I avoid Rashid’s gaze as I place her on the floor and fold my arms, watching as she pads out of the room. His gaze almost nudges my back, but if I don’t speak, maybe he’ll just leave.
No such luck.
I turn to face him, but those coffee coloured eyes give nothing away. How much did he hear? What should I say?
Brows furrowed, his expression says it all. Knows it all.
‘No good.’ Then Rashid follows the cat from the room.
Keep your secret, add one more.
Screwed.
If I looked up the definition in the dictionary, I wonder if there’d be a picture of me.
Essam wants to screw Kai via me. I’m just the vassal; I’ve no illusion of that. He doesn’t want me. He just wants to hurt what Kai has.
The screwage is, well, it’s a clusterfuck.
I lied about Shane having no photos, and I either confess to Kai or I don’t. And if I don’t, I’m an adulterer. The worst kind of scum.
As well as an idiot.
But it’s more than just a lie; it’s the danger of those images being available on the internet. Yes, social media is heavily censored out here, but I’ve also been told that any fool can get around that. The chances of any marriage anywhere surviving one party participating in soft porn—however unwittingly—is slim. But here? The threat seems like a whole world of shit to the power of ten. Bad enough that I could be socially scorned—or worse—but what of Kai? How could this affect him?
And how would he ever be able to look me in the eye again?
My choices are untenable. All of them. But I can’t tell him, and those reasons are mostly purely selfish. Yes, I want to protect him; I so desperately want to keep him from being hurt. But selfish because I want to be one half of a fairy tale; our relationship one big success. I can’t bear the image of his face, the disappointment in his eyes as I tell.
Keep your secret, add one more.
How far would I be willing to go?
The day passes quietly, my parents either too tired or too much into holiday mode to be their usual interfering selves. I don’t see Rashid again, and for some reason Martha is almost pleasant as we pass throughout the day. She prepares an early dinner, which I hadn’t asked for, or expected, but it’s both welcome and a comfort. This is one evening I can’t afford to be alone.
It’s nice to see the olds letting their hair down; something I’ve not much encountered before. Must be the desert air or something. Anyway, it’s only nice until Mum drinks four glasses of cab-sav. That’d be three more than her usual.
‘Go on, darl. Help me finish the bottle.’ She lifts the red I’d chosen from the cellar, something not too ostentatious looking, and therefore not worth an arm and a leg, hopefully. Sometimes I think I could give her lollie water—or Ribena—and she’d get pissed. She’s such a lightweight and that’s saying something coming from me.
‘No, thanks,’ I tell her, covering the top of my glass. ‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ Though to be fair, this comes out more like wash-cho-gor-there? The words slurred together becoming less of a sentence and more like one long word.
‘Just water.’
‘But thissis a loverly cabinet sorvingnon! You lovadropared! Schpeshlee when you’re on holiday.’
‘Usually,’ I agree. ‘I’m just not in the mood.’ I’m in lots of moods, and all of them will be exacerbated, not alleviated, by wine. Tears. Tantrums. Despair. I’m also not on holiday, but I haven’t exactly explained that I no longer have a job from which to take vacation from.
‘Oh, I getcha,’ she says tapping her nose. ‘You gotta lecresh?’
‘I’ve got liquorice?’ I frown as she taps her nose again and then take a second guess. ‘A secret?’ Given today’s troubles, I think it’s only normal that my heart rate picks up as I ask that. I don’t recall her being that intuitive about my life before.
Glassy eyed and smiley, she looks at me. Or through me. I can’t tell.
‘Darl, a mother nooos,’ she says, propping her head on her hand. Pity her elbow then slides across the smooth wood, her body following along with it. ‘Oops!’
I love my drunken mum. She’s so undignified.
‘Here, let me fill up your glass.’
‘Steady, Katie. Don’t want her falling in the pool on the way back!’ Geoff is all jovial smiles and eau de whiskey breath. ‘When’s this man of yours back, then?’
I open my mouth to answer, but Mum beats me to it.
‘A mother nooos!’
‘A mother knows not her limits,’ I mumble under my breath. Far out, she’s like some oracle foretelling doom. ‘He’s hoping to get back this week.’ Or so his text earlier today said. I nearly burst into tears as I read his words, and it wasn’t all happiness.
‘You’ve put weight on since you got back!’ Mum shakes her finger at me, and it’s funny how that was completely coherent, not to mention loud, as Martha enters the dining room with dessert and stops dead in her tracks.
‘Gee, thanks for that.’
‘Steady on, Cynth,’ Geoff says, doing a funny sort of head wobble.
‘Wassat?’ Mum says, squinting at him. ‘S’water in your ear from the pool? Shudda nused earplugs!’
‘Not in front of, you know.’ Cue the head wobble again as Martha leaves again. ‘Not in front of the staff, love.’
Beam me up Downton Abbey! If only they knew Martha’s the boss of this house.
‘Was she got to do with it?’ Mum complains, indignant, quickly approaching drunken critical mass; we’ve all been there. One minute you’re a bit giggly and the next you’re completely shit-faced. ‘Am just saying Kathering probably can’t fit into her dress. Wines got empty calries. It’s the sugar, in it. Innit?’
Yes, the empty calories in the wine I’m not actually drinking. Thanks, Mum.
‘Absolutely, darl.’ He pats Mum’s shoulder as he stands, clearly deciding discretion the better part of valour. ‘Maybe we should get you to bed.’
‘Ooo, bed! Take me to lose or bed me forever! No, thasnot right!’
Geoff laughs uncomfortably, his gaze sliding to mine. Meanwhile, I’m in the market for some good eye bleach as she slides one arm around his neck, the other cupping one of his arse cheeks as he bends to help her up.
‘Bed-bed-bed-bed,’ Mum intones, her voice lowering with each word. ‘Take me to bed. Promaz I’ll be a good girl.’
‘Oh fuc—fudging hell!’ I get up from my seat, sweeping the door wide for an exit that can’t come quick enough.
‘She’s tired. Travelling’s taken it out of her, poor love,’ Geoff says, guiding her upright.
‘You’re a good man, Geoff. A good, good man,’ she says, patting his cheek. His arse cheek. ‘No who else iz a good man, darl?’
‘It’s either Elvis or the Pope,’ I say widening the door a bit more.
‘Him,’ Mum answers quite certainly. ‘Cowscomehome.’
‘Cows have come—Kai!’
Chapter Eighty-Five
‘Kai.’ I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. ‘I’m so pleased you’re here.’ Early. Arriving without any word. Unspeaking, sending cool glances my way. Yep, I’m as happy as a bastard on Father’s Day.
‘Kai, man! It’s good t’see ya!’
I’m thankful no one else senses the descent of a sudden and unseasonable frost. Geoff’s too busy shaking Kai’s hand and propping Mum up, and Mum’s too busy, well, being propped up. Pleasantries are exchanged, the how’s and when’s of travel, at least by the males in the room. Meanwhile, I realise I’m staring and that I have the door handle in a death grip. Uncurling my fingers, I force myself back to my seat at the head of the table, already feeling rejected. He hasn’t dragged me into his arms, unlike the whispered promises spoken over the distances, and his cool countenance prevents me from making it my move.
Though cool is an understatement. It’s like saying the Arctic is a bit chilly sometimes.
Someone’s squealed, and my money’s on Rashid.
My parents make their goodnight wishes; the door closing with an air of finality that makes me jump in my seat. I slide my gaze to him, but can’t seem to make my eyes rise to his face.
‘Mum had too much wine.’ I release a nervous laugh, almost surprised hearing the noise.
Kai doesn’t answer, doesn’t sit down, instead making his way to the table where he picks up my glass to take a sip. Placing it back, he notices the empty wine bottle that’s now somehow lying on its side. He studies the label though his eyes seem unfocussed, his whole demeanour sort of preoccupied.
‘At least it was a decent bottle,’ he murmurs, standing it on its base.
Sliding his hands into his pockets, he turns back to the door. My heart stops as I anticipate him pulling it open and striding through. Instead he turns and leans back against the wood. How can a gaze that’s so cool, suddenly burn so hot. So hot that it feels as though it sears the skin from my bones, leaving me scorched and exposed.