Guy Fawkes Day

by KJ Griffin

  ***

  Sophie was gazing out of the window of the Gulf Air flight from Muscat to Sana'a as the plane began its descent. Somewhere to the right in the vast, heat-numbed wilderness must be Ramliyya. She remembered the emotions that had swilled around inside that day just over two years ago when she had touched down in Madinat Al Aasima: how she had felt on entering Omar's amazing 'cave' in the mountains; the days spent lounging in the swimming pool; the horror of the execution and Hasan's petrified reaction. Poor old, Hasan! She felt her eyes watering at the thought of the laconic Somali, now long-dead like Marcus and she tried to stop her eyeliner running.

  It had taken her three days to get this far, during which time she had been met at various airports and been ferried across a bewildering number of bustling Middle Eastern cities, most of the time being forced to wear the black abayya to avoid recognition. As far as she could remember, since arriving in Cairo from London she had been whisked by car across the Sinai peninsula through the night, into Saudi Arabia, Jordan and from there by plane to Muscat, though her inability to see through the abayya had made it hard to be certain.

  When the plane landed in Sana’a she was again asked to put on her abayya. Despite its discomfort, she was beginning to see the advantages of travelling that way. Veiled women were escorted through a special room in Arab airports, where the fake Lebanese passport which Omar's people had given her had received scanty attention, and a few coy smiles had disguised her lack of Arabic.

  At Sana’a airport, however, she found that she did not even have to pass through passport control. Both she and her chaperone were escorted round the back of customs. A man, introducing himself as Saeed, took them straight to the baggage collection hall and then out to a white Land Cruiser.

  It was dusk in Sana’a and they had not travelled far before Saeed told Sophie she could remove her veil. The air was deliciously cool after the heat of the last few days, for the Yemeni capital sat at high altitude; Sophie leant out of the window as Saeed thrashed the Land Cruiser up and down dramatic mountainsides, enjoying the rush of the air through her hair after the discomfort of the veil.

  They continued that way for several hours with the climbs getting progressively steeper. A three-quarter full moon took its place in the starry sky, illuminating some of the vertiginous drops that peeled away alarmingly close to the road.

  By eleven they were entering a large mountaintop town that smelt of dust and musk. Old men lined roadside cafes chewing bundles of leaves.

  ‘What are they chewing?’ Sophie asked.

  Saeed laughed.

  ‘Qat. It's a drug. Very good. Makes you high but keeping clear head.’

  Saeed pulled up outside one of these cafés and two armed youngsters jumped in, one next to Sophie and one in the front.

  ‘Don't worry,’ Saeed tried to reassure her. ‘Just normal security.’

  After that, the next hour was spent hurtling downhill at breakneck speed, being shoved alternately against the door and the armed escort next to her as Saeed swerved on the bends.

  She could smell the sea before she saw the lights of the large port ahead. It was warmer now, too; much warmer.

  ‘Aden,’ Saeed shouted from the front.

  ‘Is it far now?’ she asked, feeling tired but too nervous to sleep. It was as it had been when Hasan had driven her from Arusha to Tarangire across that shimmering East African savannah: the further they drove, the more intensely she could feel Omar's presence out there, sucking her towards him and making her stomach feel uncomfortable.

  They screamed along a road that followed the coast—eastwards, she guessed. The tarmac became progressively bumpier until the sound of tires flicking stones and gravel into the leaf springs replaced the crunch of tarmac. The moonlight over the sea was spectacular and the balmy offshore breeze relaxed her nerves.

  ‘Wasalna, We have arrived, Miss,’ Saeed announced.

  Sophie peered out of the windscreen and could see a small solitary villa perched stealthily on a rocky hillside.

  The gates opened and a crowd of young Arabs of both sexes thronged the sides of the car, laughing and shouting noisy hellos, most of which seemed to be directed at Sophie.

  Sophie would never have expected such a reception but it helped to lift her mood, especially the young women, for none of them wore veils and they were all making a big fuss of her. Henna-covered hands escorted her inside the gates and then she saw him, standing arms akimbo on the terrace in western clothes.

  ‘Sophie! My God! How good it is to see you again!’

  His voice sounded relaxed and genuine, a far cry from the reserved irony of their first encounters.

  It was only when she reached the terrace that the awkwardness set in. How had she imagined their reunion would be? Had she expected them to throw their arms around each other and embrace passionately? No, that was certainly not going to happen here. Not in front of all this crowd.

  She left it to Omar to set the tone; he gave her a warm hug, but the sort of hug he might have given a long-lost friend or relative, not a lover.

  ‘I'm afraid they all want to be introduced,’ he smiled, moving around the circle and articulating names.

  She repeated the name of each one in turn and smiled back, shaking the men by the hand and kissing the women on the cheeks.

  ‘And finally this is Jameela,’ he announced. ‘One of my wives. From Morocco.’

  One of my wives! One of my wives! Such simple words, such simple devastation. She felt worse than she had done when the bomb had exploded, sending her sprawling to the ground in front of the police barrier while she had realized that Omar was inside there somewhere in the middle of the blast.

  From somewhere inside Sophie found the strength to smile back at Omar's new 'wife'. Jameela was an exceptionally beautiful, sallow-skinned woman, not tanned, but with that taste in heavy make up she had noticed on all the Arab women. In a strange way Jameela's beauty made Sophie feel better, but she couldn't explain it.

  For the next hour Sophie sat on the large rug while interminable bowls of boiled lamb, rice and dates were produced, washed down with endless cups of sweet tea and juice and all peppered by lively conversations in Arabic and broken English.

  Eventually, Omar lent over to her and whispered in her ear,

  ‘I am sorry. I hadn't intended them all to be here for your arrival. Will you come with me for a walk by the sea or do you want to sleep straight away?’

  Sophie looked at him hard,

  ‘Will your wife come with us?’

  He shook his head nonchalantly.

  ‘Won't she mind?’

  Again he shook his head.

  ‘Not at all. Come on, let's get out of here.’

  They were back to the old days; he was commanding and she was obeying. But it was said so naturally Sophie found she could hardly refuse.

  Omar took her hand and Sophie felt self-conscious in front of Jameela and the other guests.

  ‘I think I should leave tomorrow,’ she told him when they had passed the gates. ‘This has been a big mistake. You're full of surprises, Omar. I didn't even know you were married.’

  ‘Four times over, actually. I took advantage of the full quota when I converted,’ he laughed.

  ‘Why didn't you tell me that before?’

  ‘You never asked. And you were right not to. It wouldn't have changed anything.’

  ‘Does Jameela know about what happened between you and me?’

  He took her hand again while they negotiated some stony ground.

  ‘No, and she would never ask about such things. Of course, I'm sure she suspects something, but she wouldn't mind at all about that. She seems to like you a lot. If I told her something had happened between you and me she would probably only try to make me divorce one of the others and marry you instead. It works differently over here.’

  ‘Obviously!’

  He sighed and stopped walking, taking hold of Sophie's other hand and gazing into her eyes.

&n
bsp; ‘Look, to be honest with you, Sophie, I did plan on you finding me with Jameela. But that wasn't meant to hurt. It was meant to redefine our relationship. You see, I wanted to make it clear to you from the start that things will never be as they were between us. They couldn't ever be, even if we both wanted that. I'm the world's most wanted man, a terrorist who's officially dead but who's still being tracked and hounded by intelligence agencies across the world. How could we possibly be together like that? It could never work.’

  ‘Certainly not with all your wives running around with us as well!’

  He smiled, and suddenly out of nothing they were both laughing.

  ‘But that's precisely it: they don't! They are not dependent on me emotionally. I see my wives very rarely, but I never fail in providing for all their needs.’

  ‘Have you got any children, then?’ she persisted.

  ‘I can't,’ he replied. ‘And my wives know that.’

  ‘So you brought me all this way just to show me you are married? Couldn't you just have said that in a letter?’

  They were right on the beach now. The stiff breeze combined with the stars and a setting moon, which sent shards of silver light flickering across the wave crests was a powerful cocktail.

  ‘I brought you here for a very different reason, Sophie. But I do hope that your coming here will help you forget about what we would both have liked in a perfect world. No, it's not to do with any of that, I'm afraid. I have a different favour to ask.’

  Either because of the overwhelming tiredness or because of the soft warmth of the night air, Sophie felt the bitterness inside her starting to subside.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I want you to interview me for a full-length article. I am sick of it, you see, Sophie. Sick of seeing how all that hard planning and hard work, how the lives of good people have all been hijacked by the extremists so that they can use our statement for their own causes. The siege at Westminster was not intended to father a thousand atrocities. Not at all. It was intended to set the standard for a new geopolitical awakening. And it nearly worked. How it so nearly worked! Remember all those massive, peaceful demos from Seoul to Mexico City and back again. We set the world alight for a few days. All the millions of little people came out and had their say. And it so nearly turned into something more.’

  Sophie sighed.

  ‘I'm sure an interview with you will set the newsrooms of the world on fire again, Omar, but is that really what you want? Won't it just turn the pressure up on you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘It will but it will be worth the danger it brings. I need to get the message out one more time, especially to the West. People there think that their lifestyles may be slightly faulty but that their consumer culture is the best way forward for the whole world. They remind me of some terminally obese glutton who continues to stuff his face with whatever he wants whenever he wants with no thought for his future health because he has blind faith in a miracle drug that will be developed sometime in the future to allow him to keep on over-indulging himself and at the same lose weight. There is an easier alternative: by voluntarily checking his greed, exercising and eating a modest and balanced diet he will eventually return to normal weight and good health.’

  ‘Alright Omar, I'll get the political message across but I also want to know some of the personal stuff, starting with how you escaped from Parliament.’

  He smiled warmly in the moonlight.

  ‘I'm going to enjoy that bit especially, Sophie. It's certainly one of the more positive outcomes of the siege, but it is strictly not for publication or repetition to anyone. You'll soon see why. Do you promise?’

  She shrugged, pensively curling a couple of strands of chestnut hair around her little finger.

  ‘OK, if you want me to.’

  ‘Good, then let's head back to the villa now. I'll tell you on the way.’

  The End

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