by Graham Hamer
“It looks as though they're going through the motions of checking all the passports,” Van Pelt said over his shoulder, as the steward in front of him tapped his fingers on the tiny counter of the sentry booth. “They're letting the women through but checking all the men.”
Ian looked at the head of the file to his right. Two stewardesses passed by the customs officer with little more than a nod, but the passport of the steward who followed was scrutinized and double-checked before he was permitted to pass. Fear sunk into his bones like a sullen fever. “Oh shit.” The words emerged in a husky whisper that he hardly recognized.
“Stay calm,” van Pelt said from the corner of his mouth, as the queue moved forwards another place. “Remember to act normally. I'll be close at hand if anything goes wrong.”
As the uniformed customs officer handed Captain Van Pelt's papers back to him, Ian clenched his hand into a fist to control the shaking. He silently cursed Tweedle as he gave his passport to the waiting soldier. He wondered whether to tap his fingers as he'd seen the steward doing a few moments earlier, but his fist was rigid and he lacked the nerve.
The customs officer looked at him and spoke sharply.
Ian's tongue felt too swollen and unyielding for a mouth grown taut and dry. The words came but the sounds were alien. “I'm sorry,” he said, in a shaky, almost squeaky, voice, “but I don't speak Arabic.” He tried to swallow back the bitter taste of bile in his throat.
“Wait!” barked the soldier. He beckoned to another uniformed man a few yards away.
Ian gripped the tiny curved counter that protruded from the glazed booth. He felt cold and his legs didn't want to support him any more; they wanted him to sit down and shake in fear and disappointment. The fluorescent lights seemed to be getting dimmer as he stood rooted to the spot.
Joos Van Pelt's reassuring voice came from somewhere out of the darkness. “Stay calm, Jan. We can get this sorted out.”
A sergeant crossed the shiny marble floor towards him. “You're British.” It was a statement, not a question.
Ian blinked. The bright lights had returned but a clammy sweat trickled down his spine into the crease of his buttocks. He blenched. “Yes.”
“You're Ian Gidman?” The voice held a triumphant snarl.
He didn't answer.
“Come with me.” A hand placed around his upper arm led him past the gaudy-bright windows of the shops.
So it was all over. Whatever happened now, was going to happen - as inevitable as the tide ebbing and flowing. And, though the suspense of capture was at an end, the image of a dismal prison cell immediately took its place. The fear that now gripped Ian was the fear of years, or even decades, crumbling into old age under a barbaric prison regime. He didn't know if he'd be strong enough to take it, and he didn't want to find out. And all thanks to Richard Tweedle.
Joos Van Pelt, bulky briefcase in hand, caught up with him as they approached a door, signed 'Captain Ahmad Al-Kirimi - Customs'. “Say nothing,” he said, his voice barely audible above the chatter of passengers, who were making their way to the assembly hall. “Leave me to do the talking.”
Ian had nothing to say. It was the sort of situation he'd read about in the papers. Briton sentenced in Kuwaiti court. A deep, uncontrollable shudder rattled through him, like someone twisting hot wire in his gut.
Captain Al-Kirimi's voice roared through the air like a broken exhaust pipe. “So, you're Gidman are you?” he barked, eyeing Ian up and down.
“He's Jan Gidman, a member of my crew,” Joos said, his voice even. “I don't know what this is all about, Captain, but I'm sure we can settle things quickly and amicably so that we can prepare our plane for take-off.”
“We're looking for an Englishman by the name of Ian Gidman,” Al-Kirimi said. “Your steward seems to fit the description and appears to hold the Englishman's passport. That's a little strange wouldn't you say?”
“What did this Englishman do?”
“Assaulted two Kuwaitis, stole a car, damaged property.”
“Nothing serious then? I mean, he didn't kill anyone or anything like that?”
“No he didn't kill anybody.”
“Then if he were leave the country, the matter would die down and be forgotten?”
“What are you saying?” asked Captain Al-Kirimi, the heels of his boots snapping to attention as he stood up.
“I'm saying, Ahmad, that a minor infringement of this country's laws does not seem to warrant such a rigorous search for the culprit. Can I take it that the Kuwaitis who were assaulted carry a certain amount of influence and that, if this Mr Gidman was caught, he could expect harsh punishment?”
Ian shuddered. The spiders were growing again and he needed to use the toilet.
“That would be a fair assessment,” Al-Kirimi said.
“Then clearly,” van Pelt said, “it's your duty to continue you vigilant search, apprehend this person and satisfy the men of influence. Meanwhile, perhaps we can clear up this little misunderstanding about my steward, here, in the time honoured fashion?”
The Egyptian customs controller resumed his seat and smiled at Joos “How do you suggest we resolve matters? There's my cousin, Captain Faisel, the Chief of Police, to consider as well, you know.”
“I only have two bottles with me at the moment, Ahmad. Perhaps we can settle on two now and another two when I return next Wednesday.”
“That sounds alright by me if you will also add a couple of DVDs,” Al-Kirimi said, opening his desk drawer. “I'm sure my cousin will be pleased to let the matter die down.”
Captain Van Pelt opened his wide, black leather flight case and took out two bottles of Scotland's finest malt, which he passed to the Captain of Customs.
The Egyptian turned to Ian, a sardonic smile beneath his military moustache. “I'm sorry to have delayed you. One can't be too careful with dangerous criminals on the loose though, can one?”
“Good,” Van Pelt said. “Then we'll be getting along. I'll call by and see you next Wednesday. Thanks for your help, Ahmad.”
“It's been a pleasure,” Al-Kirimi said, swinging his shining boots onto the leather-topped desk. “It's always nice to do business with an ally. Have a pleasant flight Mister Jan.”
Van Pelt grabbed Ian's arm and ushered him to the door. “Come on,” he said as they stepped back onto the mezzanine floor, “let's get out of here.”
“How the hell did you manage that?” asked Ian, breathlessly, as they scampered into a darkened departure lounge.
Van Pelt slowed to a walk. “Ahmad and I have known each other a long time. We know how things work over here. It would have been no good me offering him a bribe before he'd caught you: that would have offended his pride. But once he'd proved how efficient his men were, a pay-off was expected.”
“So you knew all along I'd be stopped
“I was fairly certain - yes.”
“And how did you know that this Captain — er —”
“Al-Kirimi.”
“That this Captain Al-Kirimi would be on duty tonight?”
“I checked it out earlier. Not that it would have mattered anyway, his brother takes the daytime roster.”
And what were the two DVDs he mentioned?”
Joos laughed. “Porn, Jan. Pornography also has a high value over here.”
Ian swallowed hard. It felt as though he'd spent a lifetime holding his breath. “So I owe you my freedom, an airline ticket, four bottles of Scotch and a couple of mucky movies?”
“You owe me nothing, Jan. My grandmother's life was saved by an English soldier during the war. If it wasn't for the English, I wouldn't even have been born.”
It didn't seem like the right time for Ian to point out his Manx parentage to Joos Van Pelt.
Seven hours later, Ian gave Marijke a kiss on the cheek and shook Joos Van Pelt's hand profusely, before watching them disappear, still in diamond formation, into the crowd at Schiphol Airport. It had been the most pleasant flight he'd ever experienced, t
hough he'd slept through much of it in his reclining First Class seat. His only moment of embarrassment had come when, a quarter of an hour before landing, Marijke had reminded him that he had to change back into his own grubby and creased clothes. “Don't worry what the other passengers think,” she'd said. “We'll tell them you're an eccentric millionaire.”
When he had returned to the exclusive upper lounge, smelling of unflushed toilets and with his dusty shirt sticking to his back, a few heads had turned and an old Kuwaiti man, dressed in a pristine white dishdasha, had tutted loudly.
Now Ian stood alone again, his heart full of thanks for his Dutch rescuers, and wondering whether Ibrahim's calls to the airport had gone undetected. He owed them so much, but could give them so little.
What Kuwaiti Dinar he had in cash he changed at the ABN-AMRO desk then tucked the few euros that remained after buying a telephone card into his pocket. Spotting the green and white illuminated signs, he pushed through the early morning crowd towards the telephones.
He'd changed his watch to Central European time as soon as the 747 had taken off. It was a symbolic gesture but one that gave him as much satisfaction as the pointed announcement that van Pelt had made over the 'plane's intercom, advising passengers when they had left Kuwaiti airspace. His black and silver Pulsar told him that it was nine thirty a.m. on Friday fourth of July. He picked up the handset and dialled Claire's number —
“Claire Le Petit,” came the sobbing reply.
“Claire, it's Ian, what's the matter?”
“Ian. Where are you? What's happening? Have you been arrested? Are you safe?”
“Whoa, slow down, lady. I'm at Schiphol Airport and I'm fine - a bit dirty, but fine.”
“Oh thank God. Pete and I have been ringing Kuwait for the past three days and they kept saying you weren't available. I just tried again a few minutes ago, and that awful Tweedle man answered. He said you'd assaulted them and stolen a car— he said you were on the run— he said you were going to be caught and put in prison— he said—”
“Claire, it's okay, really. I promise you I'm safe. I just landed in Amsterdam. The only problem I have is that if you keep talking, this telephone card's going to run out.”
“Okay, Ian. Stay there, don't go away.”
“Claire, my love, I have no plans to stay here” he said, laughing. “I'm just about to arrange a ticket on the next Regal Dutch flight to Paris. Can you meet me at Charles de Gaulle?”
“Of course! I love you Ian Gidman. Now get your delectable body back here straight away. I'll meet you at the air —”
The phone went dead as the card ran out.
SATURDAY 12 JULY
Sandy couldn't sleep. Nothing unusual about that – she'd not had a good night's sleep for as long as she could remember. It had been years since she had felt safe or comfortable in bed. She stared hard at the face of the little girl. A fresh innocence radiated from the photograph; a nine-year-old holding hands with her father, whose shoelace was undone. She closed her eyes. Just herself and her father. What could any decent person see in such a scene other than a defenceless little girl on a family holiday? Couldn't they see the vulnerability of her smile? Could anybody be so devoid of feeling that they could destroy the purity of a child for their own dark satisfaction? Hands promiscuously applied. Round the slight waist, and down the glowing side. How could she ever describe the indescribable?
She opened her eyes again. In the little girl's other hand was a large ice cream, its filling dripping onto her hand. She could still taste it. Fresh in her mouth. Vanilla and cold.
The little girl was older now, and wiser, and less naïve – and bitter. Very, very bitter. There could only be one ending. After that she could perhaps smile again and regain her lost innocence.
Sandy wasn't the crying sort, but she wiped away a tear and slid the photograph under her pillow. It would always be there when she needed it. The time would soon come when she could look at it and smile at her father's shoelace without thinking of the vile hands that had so cruelly destroyed her childhood.
First there were business matters to attend to.
* * *
The argument hadn't been serious; more a sharp exchange of opinion than a full-scale row. And it had all been over something absurd. Sure they'd patched things up before going to bed - she'd insisted on that - but now, instead of lying awake puzzling out how to get his own back on Tweedle, Ian was lying awake mourning the loss of his perfect, untainted image of Claire.
On top of that, it didn't seem fair that she should be able to sleep while he kicked at the covers and sighed. Each time she breathed out, a whisper of air tickled his shoulders, making him hotter and more annoyed. He glanced again at the glowing, green digital display on the bedside clock, which advised him that it was still four minutes past two, despite the fact that hours seemed to have passed since he'd last looked at it. He kicked off the sheet and climbed out of bed.
It looked like being another Dormiran night.
The sleeping pills that Claire had prescribed following the first few restless nights after the Kuwait episode had worked well but, earlier this evening, he'd told her that he wasn't going to use them any more because they were becoming his 'mother's little helper' - his night-time crutch. It was bad enough being jobless without growing an addiction to sleeping pills.
But that was before the argument.
He slid into a bathrobe that Claire had given him and padded barefoot to the lounge door. She slept on, oblivious to his mood. He closed the door, not too quietly, secretly hoping that it might disturb her so that he could share his irritation but, from the other side of the moulded wooden panels, he could hear her regular breathing, undisturbed by the resonant click of the catch.
With a mug of tea in one hand and the box of Dormiran in the other, he slumped onto the couch. The pills would have to wait for the tea to cool and then he'd have to wait half an hour for the pill to take effect. He sighed, placed the mug and the box on the glass tabletop and took stock of his options.
It wasn't just the Kuwait episode, though that was plenty bad enough. It wasn't just the argument with Claire either, since that could soon be resolved. It was the whole sorry scenario. He was a man without a mission - a drifter with no future.
There seemed little point returning to the Isle of Man with no job to go to. The downfall of Snaefell Homes had left Nancy and him with a few tens of thousands after the sale of their home and Ian had given nearly all of this to Nancy since the problems had been of his making. The rent for the flat that he'd called home on the Isle of Man was prepaid for a few more months but the only things to which he had any attachment over there now, other than his car and his few personal possessions, were Pete and Denise. The island's individuality had been raped - Tweedlised, as he'd called it when Claire had asked. It was time for a complete strategy rethink.
Claire wanted him to stay in France, to learn the language and to find work. And she was a very determined lady. And that's what had caused the row. If only Claire would lay off pushing him so hard. First of all it was pressure to go and take French lessons, then it was pressure to start applying for jobs already. She hadn't listened when he'd pointed out his lack of paper qualifications and inability to speak the language to the required level. Then there was that silly business tonight because he'd drunk a whole bottle of wine. Well at least they had the weekend together to patch things up. He was on edge, but couldn't lay the blame squarely on any one thing - except that bastard Tweedle.
He picked up his mug and sipped the tea. It was cool enough to take a large swallow and help the Dormiran pill on its way. He flicked on the television and muted the sound so as not to disturb Claire - though it seemed that it took more than just a bit of subdued noise to wake her once she'd gone to sleep. He moved on to the cable channels, flicking from one station to the next as they flashed through old dubbed movies, pop music and hairless professors pointing to coloured charts with nicotine-stained fingers.
H
e switched off the TV and reached for the remote console that controlled the stereo. The harpist, Marielle Nordmann, began to play a tune that he'd heard earlier in the evening, before the argument. It needed a little more volume to be able to hear the harp above the orchestra, so he moved to the chair next to the stereo system and plugged in the headphones. The music was gentle and deep, the mellow tones of the harp blending with the vibrant wind instruments and higher pitched violins. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the harpist's fingers as they stroked and touched the strings —
—”Ian, whatever are you doing sitting here?” Claire asked, shaking his shoulder gently.
“Uh? I er — what?”
“What are you doing sitting in the chair with the headphones on?”
“Jesus H. Christ. What time is it?” he said, rubbing his eyes and getting his hands tangled in the cord of the headphones.
“Half past nine. Have you been here all night, Cheri?”
“Er — I guess so.” He sat up and took the headphones off - his ears glowing like hot muffins. “Well, since about two o'clock anyway.”
“Oh dear,” she said as she sat on his knee and gave him a naked hug. “Another bad night?”
“'Fraid so. I guess I must have dozed off in the chair after I took the Dormiran.” He buried his head between the firm, brown nipples that swayed close to his face then breathed deeply, loitering in the heady scent of sleep that lingered on her body.
“Poor thing,” she said, jumping from his lap. “I'll make you a coffee.”
“Thanks.” He stifled a yawn and stretched his legs. The world always looked better in daylight, and the sun was shining now through the windows. God, but he'd been in a lousy mood last night. What the hell was that all about? Oh yes, too much drinking. Something and nothing really. “Sorry Claire,” he said, as he followed her into the kitchen.