No Way Home

by M S James

  Later, gathered around Mahmud’s desk, Philip started. ‘I think we should keep it simple. A brief outline on how Anna came to be missing and our belief that she is with someone in the Riyadh area.’

  ‘Yes, but we have to start the petition in the correct way. He is a very important man and we need to address him in the appropriate manner.’ Mahmud added, ‘Also, you must be cautious in your speculation as to the motives of whoever is “looking after” her. His Highness will understand the possibilities without you spelling them out.’

  Within half an hour we had the petition mapped out. Mahmud would translate it into Arabic and we would present the Governor with three sheets: the top one would be a photo of Anna, the second the petition in Arabic and finally the petition in English with our contact details.

  ‘When is the majlis?’ I asked.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Mahmud replied.

  I woke on Wednesday morning already feeling nervous. I dressed in a long-sleeved blouse and full-length wraparound skirt. I would take my abaya with me and a black veil-type headscarf. I had bought it when I bought my abaya but had never bothered to wear it. I practised draping it around my head so that it would show I was being deferential without it being unflattering, which many of the Arab women succeeded in doing. The days of worry and sleepless nights had had a detrimental effect on my appearance, so a modicum of make-up was required. I didn’t want to look like a wanton hussy nor did I want my face to be streaked in mascara when the inevitable tears trickled down.

  Philip came back from the school run having collected Mahmud en route. Jake would be collected by Angelo and delivered to Jenny who would take care of him until we returned. We had no idea how long the process would take. Thinking back to my first contact with the Madrassa, a good deal of waiting was likely.

  Mahmud warned me, ‘You may find that, being a woman, you are moved to the front of the queue, or made to stand to one side. Or maybe you will queue with everyone else.’

  ‘Do you think there are toilets there?’ I wondered.

  Mahmud laughed. ‘I have no idea! Better not drink too much water!’

  The majlis started after midday prayers but there was already a queue forming outside the building. I put up my umbrella and shaded myself. I was already warm in my black outfit. Why, in this country of extreme heat, did the men dress in white and the women in black? Misogyny raised its ugly head in a myriad of ways. During prayer time the Muslims knelt down where they were in the queue, some having the foresight to bring a prayer mat with them. They all seemed to have an inbuilt compass and automatically knelt facing Mecca. Philip and I stood looking like fish out of water but we had no other option.

  When salat was over, the large ornate doors of the building were thrown open and the queue shuffled forward. The petitioners were a motley bunch; I was the only woman and we were the only Europeans. Although the Saudis generally wore the same outfits, white thobes and red-and-white headdresses, there was a subtle difference between the wealthy and the less wealthy. The more affluent had whiter, better cut thobes and the headdresses were arranged more artistically, especially in the case of the young blades who arranged their headdresses in imaginative constructions. Under Islam, men are forbidden to adorn themselves with jewellery but expensive watches indicate the status of the owner. The older men often wore light brown robes which were draped over their thobes. Some in the queue were Bedouins looking wiry and wary. One man in dusty boots looked as though he had just come off a building site. Another looked like a Mutawa, a member of the religious police, with his hennaed beard and nasty whippy stick in his hand. He eyed me suspiciously but found no fault in my appearance this time.

  We were all kept in line by free-roving police guards who made sure that no one pushed into the line. Those who tried to do so were given short shrift and sent to the back of the queue. Once inside, out of the sun, the air conditioning cooled us down and we gazed around the large room where the majlis took place. The room was ornate and the colour scheme was predominantly red and gold. Around the perimeter of the room was a row of comfortable chairs on three sides, some already appropriated by elderly men. Dazzling chandeliers hung from the ceiling and yet more lamps were placed at strategic points on ornate tables between the chairs.

  The Governor strode in and stood centrally in the room. He had aides to either side of him whose role was to take the petitions from His Highness and to put them into stacks for later perusal. There was a police officer, evidently of a high rank, who watched the shuffling queue with close attention. It hadn’t been many years since King Faisal had been assassinated, albeit by a member of his family, so we were all watched carefully.

  One of the aides spotted me in the queue and mentioned my presence to the Governor. He nodded and I, with Mahmud, followed by Philip, was escorted to the front.

  I found I was trembling and gripped my hand holding the petition firmly with the other hand. The Governor looked at me steadily and then glanced down at my sheaf of papers which I passed to him. His expression softened when he saw Anna’s photograph and then quickly read the top sheet printed in Arabic. He looked at me again and then at Philip and Mahmud before passing the petition to an aide and indicating that it should be passed on to the police officer. An aide pointed to the plush chairs and waved us on. And that was it!

  ‘What do we do now?’ I asked Mahmud.

  ‘I think we wait in case someone wants to talk to us.’

  The petitioners who had already handed in their papers, were sitting on the chairs around the room so we followed suit and waited. And waited. I could have done with Jake’s Super Mario to while away the time. The high-ranking police officer studied our petition then left the majlis for a few minutes. About fifteen minutes after that our police inspector arrived and, noting our presence, consulted with his superior officer. We all waited until the last of the petitions had been presented, when the Governor sat at one of the perimeter chairs, stacked up the petitions on a side table and proceeded to work his way through them. The senior police officers who had been tasked to look at our petition took us aside and, in effect, asked why we were there.

  ‘The disappearance of your missing child is being investigated by my colleague?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  ‘Why have you brought this matter to the attention of the Governor?’

  ‘We are hoping that, with his considerable influence, more avenues can be explored than could be investigated by the police,’ explained Philip.

  This was all too obtuse for the Chief of Police who turned to Mahmud for elucidation. A lengthy and somewhat acrimonious discussion followed in which I hoped Mahmud was insisting that time was of the essence and that the search should move forward expeditiously.

  Turning to me he said, ‘We have made an aerial search of the area where your daughter was lost; we have interviewed people who saw her or might have seen her. We have been working very hard on this matter.’

  I tried to sound as conciliatory as possible. ‘We are very grateful for the search that has been made – but still, she is out there, with someone. She is very young and will be very frightened.’ The expected tears began to trickle down my face. ‘Look at her,’ I said pointing to her photograph. ‘If she was your daughter you would raise heaven and earth to find her.’

  ‘If she was my daughter, I would not have been so careless,’ he replied.

  Mahmud intervened. ‘Mr and Mrs Thomas are totally reliant on you. They are not able to speak Arabic so cannot talk to people themselves. They do not have access to the media to bring the disappearance to the public at large.’

  ‘We are desperate,’ I added pathetically.

  ‘Be assured, the police and His Highness will do everything to find your daughter.’

  We thanked him and our inspector with tepid gratitude. We were grateful but wanted that extra something that would miraculously bring her back.

&nbs
p; Walking back out into the glaring sunlight, I blinked away my tears and sighed. ‘Do you think that has helped our cause?’ I asked Mahmud.

  ‘Only Allah knows,’ he replied.

  Philip

  Anna’s disappearance hit Philip very hard. Neither of us slept much and I would often find him, throughout the night, sitting on the edge of our bed with his head in his hands. I generally coaxed him back into bed and we comforted each other until one or other of us fell into a fitful sleep. Often a piece of innocent furniture would be thumped as a result of his pent-up rage. He not only felt the loss of his adored child but deep frustration that he had not been able to prevent her loss.

  I had a tendency to lash out, loudly and virtually out of control. Philip became silent and withdrawn. Whenever I felt a wave of despair sweep over me, he would just lay a calming hand on my arm.

  ‘How can you be so unemotionally involved?’ I demanded.

  ‘One of us has to keep themselves under control,’ he replied. ‘We can’t both enjoy the luxury of ranting and hysteria.’

  I opened my mouth then snapped it shut. I was about to rebuff his harsh accusation but recognised he had a point.

  Looking grim and angry he said, ‘I am the man in this family. It is my job to protect you all and to keep you from harm. I have failed miserably to keep us safe. I feel wretched when I think of Anna out there without us and unprotected.’ He dropped his head and his shoulders shook as tears fell.

  ‘No one could blame you, Philip. I don’t blame you. We are bereft and suffering.’

  We wrapped our arms around each other until the storm blew over.

  Somehow, we had to keep the show on the road, if only for Jake’s benefit. In fact, keeping up some kind of ‘normality’ helped us through the morass of misery.

  On Thursday, only one week since Anna was savagely torn from us, we went on a family trip to the souk to buy Jake’s birthday present. We scoured the various souks looking intently at all small girls. Jake was probably too excited by the prospect of acquiring his kite to notice his unusually silent parents. The kite was splendid with multicoloured streamers attached, and we promised the birthday boy that we would head into the desert the next day to fly it.

  ‘Can we have shawarmas for tonight’s supper?’ Jake asked, spotting a shawarma shop on the way from the souk. This street food was the Arabian version of doner kebabs, which we had not encountered prior to living in the Middle East. We all found shawarmas delicious so saying ‘yes’ was no problem. In fact, we were so grateful to have him he probably could have asked for anything.

  We called in at the supermarket on Airport Street on the way home for a few essentials, bumping into a woman whom I didn’t recognise but Philip did.

  ‘Catch you up in a minute,’ he said before following the unknown woman down an aisle away from where we were heading. I was intensely curious. She looked Mediterranean, dressed conservatively but stylishly and had a preoccupied air about her. I was even more interested when I saw them both in deep conversation. I walked down a parallel aisle towards them and as I turned the corner saw Philip hand over a roll of bank notes. They quickly separated and went in different directions. Holding Jake firmly by the hand, I caught up with Philip and hissed, ‘Who is she?!’

  ‘Can’t tell you now. I’ll tell you when we get home.’

  I was agog to find out. I looked sideways at Philip as we drove home. He looked normal – not guilty or pretending to be preoccupied with something. Surely, he wasn’t involved with this woman? I felt cold and clammy and close to panic. I couldn’t face another catastrophe. As soon as Jake was absorbed in one of his videos, Philip joined me in the dining room where I sat with my arms folded and my stony expression showed that I was ready for the worst.

  Philip laid his hand on my arm and smiled with a certain amount of amusement. He knew me well enough to suspect where my imagination had led me.

  ‘She’s Livia Manchetti and is married to an Italian architect called Gian-Carlo. He used to call into the office from time to time and occasionally Livia came with him. Gian-Carlo is now under house arrest because his boss, a Palestinian, bolted from Saudi with a very large suitcase of cash – you remember I mentioned it? The police have impounded his and Livia’s passports and refuse to let them leave the Kingdom until the cash is returned!’

  ‘Even though he wasn’t responsible!’ I asked, astounded. ‘What are they living on?’

  ‘Handouts from the expat community. I gave her some money in the supermarket. She and Gian-Carlo are not doing at all well, poor things. God knows how the situation will be resolved.’ I was filled with relief and was ready to show the Italian Lovely vast amounts of sympathy. My mental image of Livia rapidly morphed from a Latin Siren into a Diva of Despair. Although her situation could not be compared to mine, it was pretty bloody awful.

  ‘This country has the capacity to wreck lives,’ I concluded.

  The birthday expedition started early with food packed into a coolbox and drinks in another. With victuals and kite safely stowed in the boot, we drove first to Ghat Ghat, the red hills of sand dunes where the children had sledged a few months before. Everywhere we revisited brought back bittersweet memories. It seemed so wrong that we should be out in the desert ostensibly ‘having fun’ whilst only a few miles away Anna was being held in God knows what circumstances. But what was the alternative? Who knew where we would stumble across her? In the souk, in the desert, in some out-of-the-way filling station? The frustration of not being able to do anything constructive was wearing us down. Fortunately, Jake was so delighted with his new toy that we shook off our despondency and enjoyed flinging the kite up in the air and seeing the warm air currents lift it with the streamers trailing behind.

  The colours of the landscape were powerfully dramatic. The sky was an intense blue competing with the vibrant hues of the red sand dunes rising in undulating peaks and waves towards the horizon. The contrast of colours between the kite and the sky lifted the spirits and gave us some respite from our normal thoughts.

  After the kite had had a good airing, we pressed on to Graffiti Rock, a few miles further down the road. The red sand dunes had given way to the normal ochred moonscape. However, a large outcrop of rock reared up out of the relatively flat desert, our next port of call. Several other cars were parked around it and the rock was being scrambled over by adventuresome children.

  Graffiti Rock was so called because large areas had been decorated with stylised drawings of animals, palm trees and humans. It was thought that some graffiti had been inscribed in Neolithic times and certainly many dated from when the geography of the area had been very different. The petroglyphs on the north face depicted hundreds of figures including camels and ostriches and even a battle scene. Those on the eastern face were much older, showing extinct aurochs suggesting that, formerly, there was sufficient vegetation to sustain a variety of animals other than camels.

  Although it was a marvellous place for the children to clamber about, you had to worry about the preservation of the site. It would be just as reprehensible to organise rock climbing on Stonehenge or cave exploration in Lascaux. Hopefully, the Saudis would take steps to protect this amazing site before present-day graffiti scrawlers added their own inscriptions.

  We met several people whom we knew from the Hash. They cautiously approached us, not wanting to intrude on our privacy but needing to assure us of their heartfelt good wishes. We briefly explained the current situation and handed out yet more fliers for them to distribute.

  ‘Mrs Kate! Mrs Kate!’ called a child’s voice. It was Amal, one of my pupils from the Madrassa. We greeted each other warmly and her parents joined us, also with some uncertainty.

  ‘Mrs Kate,’ said Amal’s Egyptian mother, ‘we are so very sorry about your little girl.’ She hadn’t picked up an Irish accent whilst living in Cork as her children had. Yet again, we explained what had happened an
d offloaded more fliers for distribution.

  ‘Mrs Kate, when are you coming back to school?’

  ‘Shhhhh, Amal!’ remonstrated her mother. Turning to me, ‘She misses you very much as do all of the children. But we understand why you must stay away.’

  ‘Well, I told the mistress-in-charge that I would not come back until we have found Anna, but now we know she is being held by someone, there is little we can do until the police find her.’

  ‘It is so shocking. We cannot understand how someone could be so cruel. We are praying that Allah will be good.’

  Philip and I thanked them for their prayers and good wishes and moved on to find Jake, who had clambered up the rock with Amal and her brother.

  On the journey home I said, ‘Perhaps I should go back to the Madrassa. Sitting around in the villa will drive me nuts.’

  ‘Well, if you feel you are able to cope, then perhaps you should. It will be a distraction, if nothing else.’

  Returning from taking Jake and his birthday cake and party snacks to school, Angelo took me to the Madrassa where I sought out my boss. She was taking morning line-up with the children, which involved a short talk in Arabic and the children doing exercises whilst singing a tuneful ditty in which the numbers one to ten were sung in Arabic – Wahed, Ithneen, Talatha, Arba’a and so on. I had learned my numbers thoroughly from the daily repetition by the children.

  She spotted me as I entered the front yard and gave me a welcoming smile.

  ‘Look, children! Mrs Kate has come to visit us!’

  My class cheered and even the other children who had little contact with me looked pleased.

  ‘Have you come back?’ they wanted to know.

  ‘Perhaps, soon. I must talk to…’ and I looked at the mistress-in-charge. I suddenly realised that I had no idea what her name was. The rest of my sentence was lost in the hubbub of the dismissal from morning assembly so I decided I must remedy that embarrassment before I went to speak to her. Aisha was about to take her class away when I caught up with her. We exchanged a few words. ‘This sounds stupid but I have no idea what our mistress-in-charge is called!’ I said. She laughed. ‘I can’t tell you what I call her sometimes. She is Sayyida Samah. Sayyida means Mrs and Samah is her name – like Kate.’