Guy Fawkes Day

by KJ Griffin

  Chapter 6: Oxford: October 8

  Sophie Palmer set off twenty minutes early from Magdalen College to make it to the interview on time. She had been surprised and encouraged to get such a swift reply from Mr Hasan, and although his email invitation meant she would now be working against the clock to get her essay ready for today’s five o’clock tutorial, Sophie felt she would be prepared to write ten papers in a day if there was even half a chance of obtaining the fabulous reward on offer.

  Her journey took her up the High Street, where she turned into St Aldates then down to Folly Bridge. The address was a turning on the left, immediately after the bridge.

  The exterior of the house made Sophie gasp in admiration. It was a large, period-style Georgian house of ochre sandstone, with a manicured peristyle front garden visible through the black railings. Doric columns climbed to either side of the porch to cushion a corbelled arch. Two security men were on patrol there, suits and shades their badges of office. Nervously Sophie parked her bike against the railing and pressed the buzzer.

  A tall black security guard waved at Sophie in a surprisingly friendly acknowledgement and crunched across the gravel towards her. He opened the gate, radioed the house, and escorted Sophie through the vaulted entrance, ushering her onto an ornate couch in the hallway.

  There was a frenzy of activity inside the house. Workers were scurrying to and fro with exotic Turkish carpets and Arabian wall hangings in tow. Judging from the impressive work already completed in the hallway, their intention was to create an overhead canopy of vermillion, red-brown, and red-blue hangings, like the insides of those Bedouin tents Sophie had seen on television. But it was a conversion curiously at odds with the classical lines of the Georgian ceiling.

  Out of the hustle and bustle of the hallway a man strode purposefully towards her.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Palmer. I am Mr Hasan. Thank you for your application. Please,’ he gestured, ‘allow me to take your coat.’

  Which he immediately handed to a dark attendant, motioning to Sophie to follow him upstairs.

  The floor was wooden and their footsteps echoed sonorously on the polished parquet. Mr Hasan stopped once or twice on the main staircase to address workers who were fixing tapestries to the walls. Oriental gold and silver trinkets glistened slyly from alcoves and recesses. Scimitars and daggers hung in threatening postures from the latticed ceiling.

  On the first floor, Mr Hasan stopped in front of a dark, walnut door leading off to the right of the corridor. He knocked and waited, and although Sophie could hear no audible reply, after a few seconds she was ushered in.

  She found herself alone in a long, airy room that seemed to run the length of the house. The flavour here, too, was entirely Arabian. Lounging cushions, divans and sofas sat in centripetal groups on top of Turkish, Persian and Caucasian rugs, into whose rich fabric most of Sophie’s heel sank at any one time.

  Waiting nervously for her interviewer she walked over to the windows at the far side of the room and looked out at the ribbons of mist curling over the river and fields on the opposite bank. It was only then that the identity of the house suddenly hit her. Beyond the lawns that enveloped the rear of the house in a semi-circular swathe of neatly trimmed green she spotted a narrow, arching rococo bridge that connected the house to the towpath and the river beyond, cordoned off from public access by an ornate metal gate of neat black grilles.

  She had often admired the bridge before on walks with Marcus, Darren, or Joanna. At least she could tell her friends that she had penetrated the secret of the curiously detached Georgian mansion. They had often joked about it being the perfect setting for a ghost story, or the megalomaniac machinations of a Bond movie villain.

  Just then a door opened behind her.

  Sophie was baffled by the man’s appearance—he bore no resemblance to her mind’s eye vision of an Arab sheikh. The face was striking, but definitely European—no doubt about that. Age? Somewhere in his forties, she guessed. He wore a simple but elegant black suit, the red-striped tie clasped by a gold pin. The green eyes were intense, almost malicious, she thought. This was more likely to be the Middle Eastern gentleman’s European assistant.

  ‘Marhaba, Miss Palmer. Please, have a seat.’

  He gestured to a rug-strewn couch by the far windows overlooking the Isis, then sat down himself behind an exquisitely carved antique writing desk, casting a succession of severe glances at Sophie as he flicked through the papers on his desk. Sophie fidgeted with embarrassment under the intensity of his stare and tried desperately to think of a conversation starter, but her interviewer dropped his gaze before anything came to mind, pushed a button on the desk and gabbled something fast and whispered into a concealed microphone in what sounded like Arabic.

  ‘Good. I see Hasan has chosen well,’ the man commented approvingly when he had finished whatever he had to say. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Prince Omar Adil ‘Al-Ajnabi’ Al-Janoubi, Special Envoy of His Excellency Sultan Faysal of Ramliyya. Most people simply address me as Prince Al-Ajnabi.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Sophie stammered, smiling politely and rapidly trying to re-evaluate her host. His English was excellent, but the accent troubled her. Not Middle Eastern at all. Something odd. Almost South African.

  Sophie could see her CV and application form lying on the desk in front of the special envoy, and from time to time he continued to pick half-heartedly at the papers in front of him, asking her about her course, her background and her ambitions. Sophie felt unusually self-conscious in front of this enigmatic man. Perhaps he sensed her inhibitions, for he stopped his questions abruptly, pushing the papers to one side of the table.

  ‘Perhaps you find your situation here rather strange, Miss Palmer. Let me explain: I have come to your country to put into operation a long-planned business project. During my stay here I will need someone to act on occasion as a personal assistant. Oh, don’t worry,’ he rushed on, raising a hand to stall any concerns. ‘These are not permanent duties. I am aware that you are a full-time student. I am speaking only of the odd dinner party or function for businessmen, politicians, diplomats and so on.’

  ‘Wow!’ Sophie whistled, catching her breath sharply. ‘I hadn’t realized I’d be involved in anything like that!’

  ‘You are surprised? I’m sorry, I thought Hasan would have explained. But you should not be concerned. Your involvement may well prove to be an enlightening experience. Perhaps you will even meet people here who may well turn out to be influential in your later life.’

  At that, the Ramli prince smiled ironically, as if aware of a deeper subtlety of meaning.

  ‘No, it sounds great,’ Sophie insisted, determined to show the appropriate enthusiasm. ‘But tell me, Prince, what kind of business will you be engaged in here in Britain? I’d be really keen to do any background research for your business if you think that would help my chances of getting the award.’

  The special envoy sighed heavily and looked away. The straightforward question seemed either to bore him or to pose hidden complications.

  ‘Ah, good. Mousa is here,’ he observed, responding to the knock at the door. ‘We are served.’

  Sophie couldn’t help thinking that the interruption was a welcome diversion. Either her innocent question or something else about her seemed to have temporarily flummoxed the prince. While he looked askance, a servant clad in a white tunic and kofia skullcap served coffee from an Arabic coffeepot into two tiny porcelain cups. Not a word was exchanged between master and servant, and the Ramli prince waited until he and Sophie were alone again before their eyes met. His were saddened and troubled, even moist.

  ‘My business?’ he finally answered, clearing his throat. ‘Well. . . I think you will see some mention of it in tomorrow’s newspapers. Let us just say for now that I am an agent of change with a dual mission. Part of my brief will be to ensure that certain long-standing irregularities are settled,’ at that his eyes seemed to rest uncomfortably heavily on Sophi
e again. ‘And another part will be to encourage the whole world to pay attention to a new business model, a new way of operating that will be of benefit to all.’

  Sophie could think of no logical reason why this strange man’s words should be so discomforting, but they were. And despite a gnawing sense of unease, she thought she should show an intelligent interest in his projects.

  ‘And why have you come to Britain in particular to launch these projects?’

  ‘Why here?’ Al-Ajnabi smiled with what Sophie thought was a painful grimace. ‘I believe all that will become clearer in due course. But for now, let’s just say that your country, Miss Palmer, is the birthplace of the economic and political model that most of the rest of the world has come to follow. It has bestowed upon the world a model of benign, laissez-faire capitalism and parliamentary democracy that perhaps at one time served a purpose, but by now certainly has long since served that purpose. And the design faults in the original model have left the world in an elevator whose wires have been severed and are now unravelling, leaving us all in a precarious wait for a hundred-storey drop. Perhaps there is no chance of fixing the emergency before we all fall headlong to the bottom, but maybe at least from your country can one frantic push on the alarm button be made.’

  As the Ramli prince started to talk, so too did he become animated, and the cool detachment that Sophie had at first found to be studied was gone. Instead, he had shot up from his seat to begin pacing the room, pausing from time to time to inspect an ornamental weapon, a tapestry of Islamic calligraphy or an ebony woodcarving. The cold green eyes were lit up. But there seemed to be no genuine enthusiasm in the passion of his words. What was this crazy, pseudo-looking Arab really driving at?

  ‘So your business plans are linked to our parliamentary democracy, Prince Al-Ajnabi,’ Sophie continued at last. Then, before she could stop herself, as though she were sitting in a tutorial, where anything was open to debate, ‘Well, all that sounds very interesting, I suppose, but what I don’t understand, Prince, is why you haven’t implemented a democracy in your own country, if you like our system so much. Besides, Ramliyya has a terrible human rights record—at least, according to a report I read in the Guardian a couple of months ago.’

  Al-Ajnabi smiled again. It was the smile of a man whose sugary sweet tooth had just been slaked by a serving of ricin-coated rum baba.

  ‘Human rights?’ he scoffed. ‘Who can say what those are? If you mean by that the right of a human being to expect fairness and equality before the law, then I think that you will find that the Sultanate of Ramliyya caters rather better for its subjects than the United Kingdom does. If you are referring to our criminal punishments, then yes, they are more severe, but are they necessarily applied more unfairly? Our judiciary, like our political and economic policy, flows from the authority of one man, and his status is clear and known. Does the same transparency exist here in Britain, Miss Palmer? That is one question, at least, that must be solved before my projects unfold to their conclusion.’

  Again the double-edged smile. Sophie lent back into the soft couch and stared at her interviewer more perplexed than ever.

  ‘And will you be wanting me to help you solve such deep questions during your time here, Your Excellency?’

  Sophie watched her host carefully as again, an ironic smile flitted across his face. But it was as if she had caught him at it, for his expression changed just as swiftly and he instantly broke into more overt laughter; finally there was some humour in his voice.

  ‘Not at all, Miss Palmer. Your role here is to be far more straightforward, I can assure you. I must apologize. I see that we have digressed, and your time must be so valuable—all those lectures, essays and tutorials! Why don’t I take you downstairs and show you to your apartment?’

  Sophie let out a gasp of stifled delight.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Does that mean I’ve been chosen?’

  ‘Chosen?’ The green eyes were more piercing than ever. ‘Why of course you have!’ Yet again the irony in the voice was unmistakable, almost as if he were enjoying a parlour game of nuance and charades.

  There were questions Sophie felt she ought to ask in the face of all these gnomic utterances and bizarre glances, but her heart was racing so fast that all she could focus on were the unbelievable implications of the word ‘chosen’. Clarification of such unbelievable good fortune was all that mattered to her now.

  ‘And what about the other applicants?’ she gasped. ‘Do you mean I have…’

  ‘Others?’ he interrupted waspishly. ‘There are no others, Miss Palmer. I gave Hasan very precise and careful instructions about the sort of person I was looking for; he has followed those instructions and…here you are!’

  Sophie could hardly contain herself. It was true: twenty thousand pounds a year, free accommodation, and a mansion to live in! Her future at Oxford suddenly seemed secure, prosperous and intriguing.

  ‘I regret that Hasan did make one error in the advertisement you read,’ Al-Ajnabi sighed, as he escorted Sophie back down the stairs towards the ground floor.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘About the allowance.’

  Sophie’s heart sank.

  ‘The figure of £20,000 that was quoted is incorrect. The advertisement should have stated a sum of twenty thousand Ramli riyals per annum, which, at a present exchange rate of £1.82 to the riyal, makes a total of £36,400. I trust that this will make the offer seem a little more attractive to you.’

  ‘Thirty-six thousand! Are you serious?’ she gasped, rushing a hand over her gaping mouth and trying hard to believe what this genie was saying. Just then all the exotic furniture and decorations did not seem so silly. She really had walked into an Aladdin’s cave.

  ‘Quite serious,’ Al-Ajnabi replied, and looked it, too.

  They had arrived in front of a polished door leading off the main downstairs corridor. Prince Al-Ajnabi produced a key and showed Sophie in. There was a large reception room, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and study, all furnished with a mixture of the latest appliances and choicest antiques, more in spirit with the Georgian architecture. The rooms fringed the garden at the front end of the house. A balcony jutting out from the reception room promised a blissful summer’s lounging.

  Sophie looked up to steal a glance at her beneficent host. He, too, was gazing at the autumn branches fading in the large front garden, but he returned her appreciative smile with a cold stare.

  ‘Now this key will be yours,’ Al-Ajnabi continued, sounding unnecessarily formal. ‘No one else in the house, including myself, will have a copy, so I urge you not to lose it.’

  She took it reverently from the man who had suddenly become the most unlikely saviour from impending financial destitution.

  ‘Hasan and Mousa will be at your service when I do not need them,’ he added. ‘You should also notify Hasan of your bank details so that he can arrange payment of the first instalment of your allowance. You may order food from the kitchen as you wish. My own meal times are irregular, but you will be most welcome to join me should our schedules coincide. Oh, one final thing, Miss Palmer—will you be expecting overnight guests?’

  Sophie looked at him slyly.

  ‘No…I shouldn’t think so.’

  The stark question produced an embarrassment that did not normally afflict her, and in its unwonted prickly flush she started to twine a loose twirl of hair around her forefinger and stare at her shoes.

  ‘Good,’ he carried on, ‘then all that remains for us to do is to agree upon your first duty night.’

  ‘I beg your pardon? Duty night?’

  ‘The arrangement—Hasan did not tell you?’

  ‘Arrangement? What arrangement?’ Suspicion had caused Sophie’s voice to rise.

  ‘That was most neglectful of him. Let me explain: I request my personal assistants to sleep with me at least one night per week. I do not insist on more, though my other assistants have always been keen to increase the number of their visits
.’

  ‘What?’ she stammered, staring in disbelief at the Ramli prince. Her mouth quivered for a few seconds in silent shock. The hot flush descended the length of her spine, contorting her whole upper body into an involuntary convulsion when it reached its base. Finally, the fresh, hot anger found the form of words.

  ‘You bastard,’ she hissed. ‘You bloody… bastard! So this was just some pervy kind of set up all along!’

  With contrived calmness, Sophie started to walk towards him, not wanting to give this Prince Al-Ajnabi the pleasure of seeing just how badly she was hurting inside. Then, looking him straight in the eyes, she took hold of the Ramli’s hand, placed the key in his palm, and folded his fingers tightly over the top of it.

  ‘Why didn’t you just say right from the beginning you were looking for a whore?’ she seethed, voice so contorted in outrage it had sunk to a sibilated whisper. ‘You’d have saved us both a lot of time and trouble.’

  “Whore?” the Ramli chuckled. “Come, come, Miss Palmer, you’re being out of date. Today we are living at the very pinnacle of the market economy, and service industries are at the very heart of the system. The moral distinctions you allude to are absurdly misconceived in the world we inhabit. Do you despise the chairman of British Defence Systems because he sells lethal weaponry to the highest bidding country, a country which in all likelihood may be run by a murderous assassin? Of course not. You give him an O.B.E and buy shares in his company. Do you despise the City of London speculators who ruin vulnerable currencies or force the price of staple food commodities upwards if they smell a profit? Of course you don’t. You rush to invest your money with them. So why do you despise the humble prostitute, whose services are never so harmful? Besides,’ he continued, sounding almost offended, ‘you have misunderstood my meaning. I asked you only to sleep in my bed. No more than that. Any extra developments would be solely at your own desire and instigation.’

  ‘Fat chance!’ she spat into his face. ‘There must be hundreds of sites online advertising what you’re looking for. I suggest you try some of those.’

  Turning her back on Al-Ajnabi, Sophie tried to storm out of the room, but the silence of her angry footsteps, cushioned by the rich carpet, was almost mockingly comical.

  He called out to her when she put her hand on the door handle,

  ‘Perhaps I can overcome your scruples by increasing my offer, Miss Palmer. Let me raise the figure of your annual allowance to 100,000 – Ramli riyals, not sterling. Will that persuade you to reconsider my offer?’

  Sophie gave her answer in the loudest door slam she could manage.