No Way Home

by M S James

  ‘Why?!’ He started shaking and crying again.

  ‘Anna is out there somewhere and we must stay here until we find her.’

  The poor child was now in a terrible state but we had to get him over to the other car as soon as possible. Jenny climbed over her seat into the back of the car so that she could hold Jake and comfort him. Their car was the last to leave and we watched their headlights bouncing up and down as they took the track back to the main road.

  In the back of our car we shook and cried and clung to each other in mutual misery. The car was constantly being hit. At every blow we cowered and ducked expecting a window to be blown in. There was an almighty crash at one point when I think we must have been hit by an oil drum. We could see a sizeable dint in the car when we were finally able to get out without being blown away. Neither of us slept, being too distraught from wild thoughts and the maelstrom that assaulted us. My mind constantly pictured my sweet pretty girl cowering from all that assailed her. Sometimes I cried from thinking and sometimes I just howled from impotent grief. Philip let out a stream of expletives which expressed his rage at not being able to search for her.

  Eventually, we could feel that the storm was abating; the car shook less and the noise lessened so that we could talk to each other. The sky lightened to a murky brown although visibility was still limited. I had a decorative neckscarf which I was able to tie over my nose and mouth but Philip had to manage with a large handkerchief. We stepped out into the waning sandstorm and began to search. He went in one direction and I in the other, though neither of us went out of sight of the car.

  I looked around the area where the picnic had been in progress. The ground was blackened by the fire but the wood had been sent to kingdom come. Up in the acacia trees plastic bags and other flotsam and jetsam flapped in the wind but there was no sign of life anywhere. If she had been hit by debris or stung by a scorpion she would be lying somewhere. Not unless she had been swept up into the sky and deposited miles away. If the wind could fling an oil drum around, little Anna could easily have been deposited far from where she was lifted. I sank to my knees and howled again.

  I heard a horn beeping in the distance and saw headlights coming along the track. I headed back to our car as did Philip from his search area. As we approached each other we exchanged looks of anguish.

  Archie led a police car towards us and got out. ‘No luck?’

  We shook our heads. Two rotund, khaki-uniformed police officers got out of their car, as did Hani from Archie’s car. Between us we explained to the police what had happened.

  Their attitude was stunningly hostile. ‘This party. You were drinking alcohol?’

  ‘No!’ three of us chorused. Archie did his best to describe the event as Hani translated. The police listened intently but with scepticism. They obviously spoke English but we didn’t want them to get an erroneous picture of what had happened. ‘You were dancing, mens and womens? Together?’

  ‘Yes, but it is quite normal in… England,’ Archie insisted. He wasn’t going to confuse the issue by quibbling about the different parts of the UK.

  ‘Our Queen enjoys country dancing!’ I added somewhat superfluously.

  Philip interjected, ‘It was an innocent family gathering. Some of us played golf, some of us did country dancing and some of us built a fire. We all ate our picnics and we sang a few songs. That’s all.’

  ‘How you play golf?’ The concept of playing golf in the desert had obviously never occurred to them.

  We were losing precious time. ‘Oh, bugger the golf!’ I cried, pointing towards the swirling brown fog. ‘My daughter is out there. We must find her!’ I rushed to the car, found my handbag and pulled out a copy of her passport photograph. She looked utterly adorable and I shoved it under the officer’s nose. Philip put a calming hand on my arm whilst Hani must have said I was under a great strain. Whatever Hani said, or perhaps it was after seeing the photograph, the officers softened their attitude. ‘We will look,’ they said. One of them tucked the photo into his wallet.

  I suddenly noticed they were looking at my legs. I was still wearing shorts and a T-shirt and must have appeared almost naked to them. I raised my hands in irritation, shot back to the car and pulled out my long wraparound skirt. Once I was covered the men looked less affronted.

  ‘I think the best direction to search,’ said Philip, ‘is over there,’ pointing to an area of desert the other side of the track. ‘The storm came from that direction,’ we all swivelled round to face the other way, ‘so she would have been blown in the direction the storm was travelling.’ This made sense. Philip and I took the nearest sector whilst Hani and Archie drove off towards the centre-right and the police officers to the centre-left. After a further hour of scouring the landscape none of us had found anything. I then remembered the shepherd who had appeared whilst people were dancing. He and his flock must have been out in the storm. Perhaps if we could locate him, he might have some information. We all gave a description of the shepherd to the officers although the desert wasn’t exactly thronging with life of any sort. He should be easy to spot if he was still in the vicinity.

  ‘You two look knackered,’ observed Archie. Without sleep or food and fast running out of water, we had to make a decision: to carry on looking or go back to Riyadh to take in fuel and get more help for the search. We also had Jake to comfort and make arrangements for. And then there was the Madrassa to deal with. Oh God, it was all too much.

  Hani was talking to the police. I interrupted. ‘Can you ask them what they will do about tracking down the shepherd and can they organise a helicopter search?’ Hani translated my request and was told that they would look for the shepherd but a helicopter search would need to be authorised by someone higher in the police department.

  ‘Perhaps we could call in there later?’ I asked Philip.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, turning to the police, ‘where will we find Police Headquarters?’ They looked surprised that we were taking matters into our own hands and not too pleased. But the situation was too dire to stand back and politely let events progress at whatever speed they deemed appropriate. Being in a high state of anxiety, I wanted fast action and Anna to be found as soon as possible. Treading on a few corns was inevitable.

  ‘Come on,’ said Philip, ‘we’ll go back to Riyadh and come back here later.’

  In the next few frantic hours, Archie contacted people from the previous night’s party and members of the Hash to ask for help in the search. He took a copy of Anna’s photo to be printed as a flier which we could put up on shop noticeboards and in windows. The more people who were looking for her, the better. I rang Sarah to ask her to find the mistress-in-charge at the Madrassa on the Saturday morning to tell her what had happened and to warn her that I wouldn’t be coming in to school until we had found Anna. Jake was in an anxious state, wanting to be with us, but since Jenny was willing to take over his care, it was decided that he would go to school as normal, being taken by Archie in the mornings and collected by Angelo later. Archie would take a sheaf of fliers with him to the SAIS for distribution amongst staff, parents and drivers.

  Philip and I drove down to Police Headquarters which wasn’t far from the Madrassa, but because it was Friday, we weren’t sure whether they would be open. However, they were, and we made ourselves known to the duty officer and explained why we were there. I was gratified to see an enlarged copy of Anna’s photo pinned to a noticeboard. His English was difficult to understand but when I pointed to the photo and said, ‘Binti mafquda (My girl, lost),’ he looked more sympathetic. He went off to inform his superior and we were ushered into his office.

  The inspector was not particularly sympathetic and started the conversation with a grilling as to what we were all doing out in the desert. The alcohol, mixed-sex dancing, the skimpy clothing – the police officers had obviously mentioned my uncovered legs. It all sounded like an orgy. We strenuously d
enied having alcohol and tried to convey the innocence of Scottish country dancing. I said that if he could track down the shepherd who had appeared during the event he would corroborate our story.

  ‘My wife is very sorry about wearing shorts and meant no offence to the police officers,’ Philip explained. ‘We were too distressed about our daughter.’ The inspector nodded, somewhat mollified.

  ‘Please, please,’ I interrupted. That’s as far as I got before I started sobbing again. Philip put his arm around me and continued, ‘We are really anxious that the police should search the whole area as soon as possible. We don’t know how long our daughter can last out there. Can you make a helicopter search? Perhaps the sandstorm lifted her and took her some distance from where the storm hit us.’

  The inspector tapped his teeth with a pencil and considered our request. ‘I will make enquiries,’ he replied. We shook hands and left.

  We left Riyadh with a good supply of food from the fridge and bottles of Nissah water. At the site of the party there were already several parked cars with people in the distance searching. Jenny was near her car with Jake who ran to us as we arrived. ‘Archie has gone with others towards the south and other cars have headed east and west. I don’t think anyone has tried the north since that is where the storm came from, but you never know.’

  ‘OK,’ Philip replied, ‘we’ll go north. Coming, Jake?’ Not having a compass with us we took our bearings from the murky sun and slowly headed in the, thus far, unsearched area. Every hundred yards or so we stopped and looked around, Jake sometimes coming with me and sometimes with his father. There was plenty of stuff deposited here and there – old tyres, bits of truck, the odd oil barrel. My heart stopped when I saw a figure some distance off and ran towards it. But it was only a small dead sheep that had been detached from its flock. Already the flies were humming around it. I indicated to Philip that it was nothing to come over for. We travelled on some distance and I was beginning to worry that we might, ourselves, get lost.

  ‘Bedouin tents!’ cried Jake. We looked where he was pointing and, sure enough, there was a smudge of black in the distance, visible through the haze. We slowly drove over rocks and gullies until we reached the encampment. The residents stood and watched with interest as we approached. ‘They won’t like me being near the women,’ said Philip. ‘On the other hand, they won’t like you pushing yourself forward. You walk in front with Jake and I’ll be a few paces behind.’

  I smiled at the men by the tent entrance, while the women had vanished inside. ‘Salaam aleykum,’ we called.

  ‘Wa ’alleykum, as’salaam,’ they replied. ‘Hinna, hinna,’ an elderly man said, pointing to a mat on the ground. They were inviting us to sit with them. This was a positive start.

  I pulled out my photograph of Anna and said, ‘Binti mafquda.’

  He repeated what I had said and looked aghast. ‘Hinna? (Here?)’

  ‘Aiwa, fi’l haboob lailat ams. (Yes, in the sandstorm last night.)’ We were rapidly running out of useful Arabic.

  ‘Binti hinna?’ I asked.

  ‘La!’ they all said, clicking their tongues and flicking their heads back, the Arab version of shaking the head.

  I was staring hard at the enclosed part of the tent, trying to hear the women’s voices. Trying to hear if Anna was calling. I wanted to go in to look but didn’t dare offend them by asking. Was I going to lose Anna through misplaced politeness? The old man pointed to the tent flap. ‘Shoof? (Look?)’ I leapt to my feet and entered the darkened inner tent where three women and a clutch of small children were sitting. We greeted each other and they indicated that I should sit. Once more I proffered Anna’s photo saying, ‘Binti mafquda, fi’l haboob lailat ams.’ They passed the photo to each other saying, ‘Mumtaz, bint kwaisa. (Beautiful, fine girl.)’ One of the younger women said, ‘We not see her.’ I was surprised and relieved I could communicate with her.

  ‘The sandstorm hit us last night and she disappeared. We can’t find her.’ As we spoke one of the little girls shyly came to take a closer look at me. In her hand was a Hello Kitty purse. My brain seemed to freeze. I gently took it from her and opened it. There, at the bottom of the purse, were two of Anna’s hair slides. Each of the slides had been plaited with ribbon by the mother of Anna’s friend at kindergarten.

  ‘Where did you get this purse?!’ I cried. ‘This is my daughter’s purse!’ They all understood what I meant and looked alarmed. The younger woman said, ‘My husband bring it to our daughter this morning. He find it in desert.’

  ‘Where?!’

  She veiled her face and stepped outside to where the men were sitting. I showed Philip the purse and she explained to the others. One of the younger men, whom I took to be her husband, told her he had found it whilst out searching for their missing goats.

  ‘Can he take us there?’ The three men climbed into the front of their Datsun pickup whilst we followed in our car. There was still enough daylight to see, but sunset wouldn’t be far off. Archie and Jenny must have been wondering what had happened to us.

  We bumped along in their wake heading west. Every so often we stopped to search the area but the desert remained void of life. Eventually we reached an escarpment with a few acacia trees and scrub bushes at its base.

  ‘Hinna,’ said the young man. ‘Ma’fi bint. (There is no girl.)’ We all made another search but it seemed futile. As far as we could see she had vanished. With heavy hearts we shook hands with the Bedouin and said, ‘Shukran,’ many times.

  ‘Wayn Riyadh? (Where is Riyadh?)’ Philip asked.

  ‘Come,’ we were told, so we followed them towards the setting sun until we reached a made-up road. They pointed in the direction that we should follow and waved us off.

  ‘Ana ashoof ya bint! (I look for your girl!)’ one cried, and they disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  Hitting the buffers

  About half a mile along the road there was a hamlet of half a dozen or so adobe houses festooned in electricity cables and television aerials. A few boys in grubby thobes skidded in the dust on their bicycles or kicked a ball. By the side of the road was a woebegone filling station with only one pump illuminated by a neon sign advertising Coke.

  ‘We had better stop here to find out what is the name of this place. We shall need to tell the police that Anna has been nearby.’

  We drew into the filling station watched by a tall, thin Saudi attendant seated on a plastic chair, legs crossed, arms folded. A cigarette dangled from his lips. Allah had obviously not yet willed that he should die in a petrol conflagration. He made no effort to get up to serve us so we got out of the car and walked over to him.

  We made the usual greeting and I proffered my photo of Anna.

  ‘Binti mafquda, fi’l haboob lailat ams.’ He gave the photo a cursory glance and shook his head. ‘Binti mafi hinna?’ I asked. He indicated that she wasn’t or quite possibly, he couldn’t care less. ‘Hinna – shoo ism hathihi balada? (What is the name of this place?)’ Philip pressed.

  ‘Al Rumaniya,’ he replied.

  ‘Probably translates as, “What the hell do you care?”,’ remarked Philip. ‘Let’s go over to those lads and see if they are any more helpful.’

  The boys looked at the photo and all agreed that they hadn’t seen her.

  ‘Shoo ism hathihi balada?’ Philip asked.

  ‘Al Murabah,’ they chorused. Well, that was interesting. Why had he given us the wrong name of the village? The attendant was closely watching our conversation with the boys. I hoped that the police would get more information from him than we had done. Either he knew something or had a strong dislike of infidels.

  Jake was fast asleep on the back seat of the car so we drove back to Riyadh, once more leaving our other child somewhere out in the blackness.

  The following morning, the first day of the working week, Philip took Jake to school and explained to the head wh
at had happened. She readily agreed to distribute fliers of Anna’s photo around staff, parents and the expat community. Meanwhile, Angelo took me to the police station where I passed on the information that we had gleaned from our search on the previous day. The inspector looked interested in what we had found and examined a large wall-mounted map of Riyadh and the surrounding desert. I retraced our journey home along the Dammam Road back to the turning which led to the village of Al Murabah. I estimated where we had joined the road and took a line east from it to the escarpment where Anna’s purse had been found. I couldn’t pinpoint where the Bedouin encampment was, but, being nomads, they were likely to move on to another location within a short period.

  ‘The attendant at the filling station was very unhelpful,’ I told the inspector. He shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Some people are.’

  ‘He gave us the wrong name of the village. We got the right name from some boys playing with their bicycles. He said he hadn’t seen Anna but…’ I didn’t finish my sentence, suddenly realising I was perilously close to making an anti-Saudi accusation. It was so frustrating that I couldn’t tell him that I believed the petrol station attendant was keeping information from us. I wanted to bang my fists with pent-up fury but fear of ending up in a police cell stifled my dangerous thoughts.

  ‘We shall speak to him,’ he said calmly, aware that I was seriously overwrought.

  ‘Thank you. Have you been able to organise a helicopter search?’

  ‘It is in hand,’ he replied. That could mean anything but he hadn’t said no. I wanted to impress on him the urgency of the situation but felt haranguing him wouldn’t help.

  ‘Please telephone us if you have any news. You can also ring my husband’s office if we are out.’

  He nodded, stood and walked towards the office door indicating that I should leave.