Into the Fire

by Rachael Blok

  ‘It’s almost one. If you’re going to catch the train in time for dinner, you’ll need to decide soon.’

  His skin crawls. He won’t sleep a wink later if she goes to Amsterdam. He thinks of Stefan unzipping her dress, slowly, of her breath quickening. Does she want him?

  ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ she says, and he holds the phone hard, wanting to manage to laugh it off, to offer an endearment. To ask her to come. But tears slide into the back of his throat.

  ‘Let me know,’ he says. It’s all he can manage.

  Where had it gone wrong with Sophie?

  On their honeymoon? There had been moments of such sweetness he’d realised he’d not really been alive before. But some negotiations at work had been rising and falling, and just as he could feel his nerves slow, just as he and Sophie were beginning to feel real, the deal had nosedived.

  He’d been busy: checking emails, on conference calls. He’d worked his way through it and pulled it back up.

  After forty-eight hours of being locked away, he’d gone out to the pool finally, and she’d been lying on a lounger, wearing a yellow bikini, looking new and untouchable: he’d been floored. He’d stumbled an apology – his authority of only moments ago vanishing.

  She’d ignored him to start with. Well, he’d been working, not focused on her for two days, so some payback was owed, he reasoned. But along came a James Bond contender, carrying a drink for her; and Filip felt his blood flood green.

  Aksel Larsen. He’d briefly met him before, and his profile was everywhere. If he wasn’t skiing in some high-profile charity race, he was sailing on the front of a magazine, and had even played hockey professionally, for about five minutes. As a major business figure from Norway, Filip knew of him, if he didn’t know him personally.

  Larsen handed her a drink and Filip could see her start to smile. By anyone’s standards, Aksel was attractive. His middle looked like a Greek god had spent time sculpting the grooves of a six pack, firm and tanned. Filip had glanced down at his own frame: tall and skinny, pale; he’d rarely seen the inside of a gym.

  Aksel had held his hand out to help her up and cracked a joke.

  Filip had coughed and she’d introduced him: my husband, and he remembers the look on Aksel’s face: mirth and derision.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve been looking after your beautiful wife,’ he’d said, and he’d reached out, put his arm around her.

  Filip was hit with two fundamental truths: he had more money; Aksel Larsen had more of everything else.

  Like a crashing wave, he’d rolled with the crystal realisation that while he could offer all the gold and trimmings she’d need, he’d never be able to compete. He wasn’t handsome, not like this. Nor funny – no easy quips. Others carried themselves with an ease he’d never possess. And through her eyes, he saw what he’d never minded before.

  He’d ordered a couple of drinks and had stewed, silent and churning on all his flaws, all his lack of grace. He’d answered her questions with silence. The intimacy he’d begun to feel, the secrets that had begun to flow between them, began to seal up.

  When they’d lain on the bed later, he’d touched her and doubted himself. He wondered how his hands compared to others she’d known. Stuttering, he hadn’t been able to hold himself back. It had been over quickly and he’d been too ashamed to give her what she needed; nervous he’d fail anyway. And while all he’d wanted was to please her, to touch her, he’d gone out to the balcony to check his phone. He knew he’d deserted her. His own inadequacy was finally apparent. She would go to bed dreaming of the hands of another man and his fate was sealed.

  It had never really recovered. That had been little over a year ago. They were still newly-weds, yet he was wondering how long it would be until she left him.

  The mists roll across the gravel drive. The door to the house sits ajar and he’ll have to go in soon. He can’t sit in the car forever.

  He taps out another text: Can you at least let me know if you’re going to come? I should let the hosts know.

  Did that sound too pleading?

  Sometimes, when his wife is out at another event with her agent, he thinks of their closeness, and wonders again about their honeymoon. When he had been ignoring Sophie and working, had she been with Aksel, finding all the pleasure he couldn’t give her?

  Filip has gone out of his way to avoid Aksel Larsen since. Not attending award ceremonies, business dinners, if Larsen was due to attend. It’s getting harder. He’s expanding his business empire out of Norway, widening his net.

  Maybe it’s Aksel Larsen Sophie is really seeing this weekend? Filip tries to breathe, to calm down.

  He wishes Sophie would come. Be here with him. By his side. Fucking Aksel, peering into all his business, like a snake slipping beneath a flap in a tent.

  At some point, Filip has lost his way. When he has had enough of answering his inbox, he sits in bed and watches TV he doesn’t care about; he watches Rotterdam unfolding before the huge window that looks out over the city. The lights move around on the ground like guests at a cocktail party and he watches, like someone without an invite.

  That moment. Weeks ago. When it had all built up to a towering wave of disappointment. When he’d felt small, weak, like he couldn’t see the light anywhere. Step, step, step. The tap of his shoes on iron stairs. The rush of wind. The nothingness. He’d stood on the empty factory roof and considered it. But no. He’d shrunk back. Shaking.

  Facing Sophie each day presents him with everything he loves and everything he hates about himself. He daren’t initiate sex, he daren’t touch her. Each time he fails. Can’t finish. Each time he leaves her, walking away like he doesn’t care. He is filled with self-loathing. He can’t even look her in the eye, unable to read what must be written there.

  Emptiness threatens to swallow him. Would it be better if he left her? But how does he leave Sophie? It would be like carving out his heart.

  6

  IQBAL

  Steam rises from the hob and someone is shouting about asparagus.

  ‘All OK?’ Iqbal asks and there are nods in reply. ‘Here, they’ll get you a drink if you like,’ he says to Filip’s driver, asking to refill his water bottle before he leaves for London, but no one steps to help, hands full of pans and knives. Iqbal takes the bottle and does it himself.

  The fairy lights in the hall are soft. The sisters stand waiting for Filip, who must still be on his call outside.

  A soft ping of an email notification in his pocket.

  He glances at his phone. He’d said no work emails for the three days. It’s from one of the admin team; they’ve forwarded something. The header flashes up:

  PERSONAL – For you, Iqbal?

  He stops, ducking left into the snug. Always on alert in case there’s news of Rajita, he opens it quickly. It’s been sent to the email address on the ‘Contact Archipelago’ page of their website.

  It’s an email from Obaidur.

  Skimming it, he falls against the door. His heart beats quickly and his knees buckle. He closes his eyes, opens them again. It’s still there. The room vibrates around him, and his ears fill with a rush and a thump. A flash of the factory, of flames, leaps into vision.

  Moving to the low sofa, he hangs on to the arm as he lowers himself.

  Fingers trembling, he taps on the inbox, scrolling down.

  Obaidur. The last time he saw him was nearly nine years ago. He’d been grey with dust, streaked red with blood.

  Iqbal had worked next to him for four years, been to school with him. Obaidur had been his best friend, like a brother.

  In 2012 the fire had happened. And all their lives had changed.

  Afterwards, Obaidur had vanished. Rajita had vanished. Iqbal had searched for them both, but there’d been no trace. His home wasn’t his home any more, not without his wife, not without his friend. He wakes to an empty bed. Their absence grew day by day. It ripped him apart. And they were nowhere. He looked everywhere.


  Skimming the email too quickly, none of it goes in. He starts again at the top. It begins with an affirmation of their friendship. Iqbal feels tears warm his eyes, his mind spinning. The email is in Bengali, and he realises how much he has missed the rhythm of his tongue.

  I can imagine your face, reading this. Surprise! It’s been so long. I’ve wanted to write for years, but I had no idea where you had gone. I’m sorry. I know I disappeared too. But I’m leaping ahead of myself. I hope you are happy to hear from me.

  I have so much to say to you. And to say sorry for. Before I go into all that, I must tell you I know Rajita disappeared. I spoke to someone the other day who has come back from a maid position in the Middle East. She works for a good household there, and she said that she spoke to Rajita a few years ago. She has not been so lucky. She is not working for such a good family. My friend said Rajita seemed frightened: she no longer has her passport. She heard that they moved on. Maybe even England?

  At this point Iqbal puts his phone down. Thinks. He will need to speak to the liaison officer who is looking into Rajita’s case. His head crowds with thoughts, they spin and weave. Picking up the email again, Obaidur’s voice sails across the oceans.

  And now I think you are in England too? You know I looked for you – Facebook, Google, everything. I know you’ve always hated those sites so I didn’t hold out much hope. But then yesterday I saw your photo. I found a business magazine in a café, left in a pile. Can you imagine what I thought, when I saw you looking out? The article was in English so I could not read the details but it ran over four pages – you must be doing well.

  I recognised another man whose photo was in that article, and I wonder if you know him too? Just before the fire, I sold him an idea. Can you believe it?

  Thanks to him, I had money and independence for a time. But I am back in the factories now. How strange that you have ended up working with him. But maybe it’s no coincidence: did you meet him in Dhaka too?

  Hot and cold, Iqbal reads and rereads. Obaidur goes on to explain a meeting with the man, a researcher, back before the fire.

  His eyes wide, the email burns his fingers.

  At the end, his palms sweat and his phone is damp to his touch: fingerprints mark themselves out on his screen.

  There’s a shout from the front step. People are arriving. He’s needed.

  So much information. So much he’s still desperate to know. He has tried for years to find Obaidur.

  And Rajita! If only she could be that close. This is not the first time there’s been a whisper of England. There have been leads before, but he can tell from the last meeting with his liaison officer that everyone has given up hope.

  And the information Obaidur details about the meeting with this unnamed man. If what Obaidur has said is true, then Archipelago could be sitting on shaky ground. Obaidur’s account of how he’d been given the money, why he’d been given the money, stirs Iqbal’s stomach.

  Could one of the men coming here today really have been capable of such a theft, dressed up as a purchase? One of the men coming to his home? One of the men investing in Archipelago?

  There’s a crevasse opening up before him. Rank and dark.

  Had one of the men arriving today been in Dhaka around the time of the fire? If he can find that out, then he can work from there. He can’t ask questions too directly: he can’t upset this weekend. But he also cannot ignore this email. If it were revealed that someone at Archipelago was corrupt, the whole company could crumble. They have built themselves up as a beacon of ethical business. People Before Profits. Lois could lose everything.

  Iqbal’s legs are shaky. He will need to tread carefully.

  Lois means so much to him.

  And what does Obaidur mean, so much to say sorry for?

  He thinks of Obaidur, back in those factories after his taste of independence. Iqbal closes his eyes, thinks of the endless shifts, the heat; the disproportionate way that business values lives.

  Before doing anything else, Iqbal types an email and sends it to the officer who liaises with him over Rajita’s disappearance. He copies the section from Obaidur’s email about Rajita across and presses send. His heartbeat speeds. His wife. To have her back…

  He misses the indent of her body in his. She slept deeply, her limbs would tangle into him. He would wake sometimes, lifting an arm carefully from his neck; ease away from a knee in his back. Her presence was solid, physical, even asleep. Now, he drowns in space. He wakes gasping for air, for her. The lack of her has untethered him, and he has not slept for years.

  He closes his eyes.

  ‘Iqbal?’ Another shout from the hall.

  He slips his phone back in his pocket. He’ll need to spend real time on this later.

  Swallowing, he looks out of the tall windows that take in the back lawn, the trees, the edge of the Roman amphitheatre. Lois and Ebba’s home. His home.

  Thinking again about Lois, he wonders if he should be honest with her, tell her of this now? But there’s nothing concrete to say, and they are so busy this weekend.

  Once the weekend is done, he will update her: he’s been searching for Rajita for so long. He hears her laugh. She was always laughing.

  There’s something telling about the timing. If one of the investors had been in Dhaka around the time of the fire, why have they never said so? Iqbal’s history is no secret. It is strange that they have never mentioned it.

  If what Obaidur has said is true…

  It feels as though the foundations are cracking.

  Replying to Obaidur, he wipes his face with the back of his hand, roughly clearing the tears. He will be able to help him; joy bubbles and explodes like a shaken Coke can. ‘Dear Obaidur, my friend…’

  For a second, he lays his head back and allows the spinning to slow. The autumn weather is kind and the light is soft over the lawn.

  Uneasy, premonition gnaws; the logs in the fireplace crackle.

  Secrets burn, and Iqbal itches. Obaidur remains in the workshops and Rajita is still missing. Was Archipelago founded on a lie? Does someone know that? Someone arriving today?

  Iqbal needs to stay alert.

  7

  FILIP

  ‘Welcome, Filip.’

  Ebba sweeps him up with the Dutch four-cheek kisses. She hands him a drink and smiles, talking easily, dropping in a Dutch phrase she’d learnt recently, laughing at her own stupidity with languages, but her accent is clear and precise. Her dress is a bright blue, like a cornflower, picking out the vivid blue in her eyes.

  Filip stumbles over a hello, looking at the floor halfway through his replies that his trip had been fine, that no, he isn’t tired. He finds beauty in women disconcerting; her social ease unsettles him, highlights his lack. He makes a comment about the flowers. There are flowers everywhere.

  Ebba calls to Lois, her hand warm on Filip’s arm. ‘I know you will be desperate to hear about the presentation tomorrow,’ she says, as she passes him to Lois. And he is; a rush of relief she has handed him a topic to discuss.

  ‘Filip! How lovely to see you,’ Lois says, accompanying him into the drawing room. She walks apart from him, her arms stiff by her side.

  Lois lacks the star quality of Ebba and he remembers he finds her easier to talk to. She looks like a student with her short straight fringe, cut bluntly across the top of her brow, and her hair hangs long and straight. Her glasses are square, clear frames. She looks eighteen, but she’s around thirty. So like a student, it’s reassuring. He often feels barely out of classes himself, despite his success. The boardroom he can handle, but he’s as shy now as he was at nineteen, stumbling into university parties with a warm beer and lasting only five minutes.

  Finding his tongue, feeling more comfortable, he manages, ‘I’m so sorry Sophie can’t make it – she’s really not feeling too well. Maybe if she’s feeling better later she will catch the train.’ He can’t look at Lois in case he blushes, and he fumbles with the stem of the glass, rubbing at an imaginary
stain.

  The apology is brushed away easily with hopes she is feeling better soon.

  Uneasy, he looks at his toes; thinks of Sophie and where she is now. He realises Lois is saying something, but she’s finishing as he looks up. Having no idea what she had said, he asks about the presentation. He can always talk about work.

  ‘Anything new in VR development at the moment, any hints of what we’re likely to see in the next few years?’

  ‘Filip, it’s so exciting!’ Lois smiles. ‘Major developments! I’ve something new to show you. It’s a prototype. I’ve not even shown Ebba yet. Virtual Reality that interfaces with the brain – it’s in its infancy, but the future – Filip, it’s going to be huge!’

  ‘Lois, that’s cyborg territory!’

  She laughs. ‘You’ll be impressed with the developments on our game; we’ll show you all tomorrow, but the visuals are much sharper than the last time you saw it. And we’ve managed to develop the sound further – it actually slides over your head, completely immersive…’

  Filip listens as Lois slips quickly into the technical detail. Usually so quiet, she speaks easily and quickly about the product, and he finds it relaxing, not being required to reply much. He nods as she speaks and he thinks again of Sophie, wondering if Stefan’s hands are slipping beneath her clothes. Whether she is enjoying it. He thinks again of Aksel, of his open sneers, his arm around his wife; while Filip stood, mute in board shorts, pale and stuttering in front of Sophie.

  He takes another drink.

  Lois slows her speech. ‘Anyway, top secret! And you’ll get a full demonstration when we go to the London studio tomorrow. We’ve booked a helicopter for the journey. Fuel-efficient too! I think you’ll be impressed. Sorry, I’ve been talking too much about the details. Nobody loves the games like you. How was your journey?’

  Nodding, he says, ‘Good.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it.’

  There’s a pause a little too long and he looks out of the window. Finally he manages, ‘Weather’s not too bad.’