Beneath a Burning Sky

by Jenny Ashcroft

  ‘What? Where are you taking me?’

  ‘You must go to my friend’s,’ said Hassan.

  ‘Your friend’s?’ Nailah’s eyes darted from him to Jahi. ‘Where is that?’

  ‘Somewhere you’ll be safe,’ said Jahi. ‘We just need to keep you safe, out of the way.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘please don’t do this. I beg of you. And you must leave the boy alone too.’

  Jahi winced. ‘I have no part in Hassan’s plans for the little sir.’

  ‘You do,’ said Nailah. ‘By not stopping him, you do.’ Fear pressed in her throat. She turned to Hassan. ‘What would Tabia think?’

  His eyes snapped. ‘Don’t bring her into it.’

  ‘But she’s what it’s all about,’ Nailah sobbed in dismay. ‘Or have you forgotten that?’

  ‘I have not forgotten.’ Hassan took a deep breath. ‘I do not forget.’

  Nailah looked down at Babu, asleep and oblivious, a pink flush on his cheeks. ‘What happens to him?’ she asked. ‘And where’s my mother and Cleo?’

  ‘I’ve taken them to the station,’ Jahi said heavily. ‘They’ll get the train to Cairo once we drop Babu with them. I’ve given them money, all I have. Isa knows the city, she’s been there often enough; I’ve told her to find them somewhere to stay. I thought to get them away in case the police try to question them, just for a few weeks.’ His brow creased. ‘Maybe they should stay there now.’

  ‘Why can’t I go with them?’ Nailah asked.

  ‘It’s too dangerous,’ said Jahi. ‘We need you somewhere you can never be found. The captain and the colonel have already been after you, they’ll want to find you more than ever once they discover Ma’am Sheldon visited you at the hospital.’

  ‘And,’ said Hassan, ‘once they discover Ma’am Sheldon is dead. Bertram will raise hell when he finds that out. He loves her I think.’ He shrugged. ‘She’s very loveable.’

  Nailah let another sob go, this time full of disgust.

  Hassan appeared not to hear it. ‘He won’t rest until he tracks you down,’ he said. ‘We need you to vanish, somewhere well away from Tabia’s children.’

  Nailah shook her head. How was this happening? How?

  Hassan reached into his pocket for a pad and pencil, saying he had one final job for her. ‘We’ll ask Ma’am Sheldon to meet me on the outskirts. I’ll do it at the oasis, I can have men collect her body, and no one will hear.’

  ‘I don’t want to know,’ said Nailah, ‘and I’m not writing that letter.’

  ‘You must.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Jahi sighed and, in a voice as pained as Nailah had ever heard, said he would do it. His hand shook as he took the paper, but still, he wrote exactly what Hassan told him to, then handed the note over, not once looking at Hassan’s face.

  Nailah started to weep.

  ‘Ah, Nailah,’ said Hassan. ‘This will all be over soon. And you’ll wake tomorrow breathing.’ He set his eyes on the door, made for it, and then paused, frowning briefly. He squeezed his beads in his pocket. For the first time, he looked unsure, nervous maybe at the night ahead. Nailah saw it through her tears and felt a stab of hope. But then Hassan gave a nod of resolve, and left, taking hope with him.

  At length, Jahi said, ‘We should go too.’

  ‘No, please,’ Nailah said. ‘She doesn’t deserve this, the child doesn’t —’

  ‘Come, Nailah.’

  ‘I can’t go.’ Nailah sat down on the floor, gripping the boards with her toes. Now that the moment was here, she was overcome with panic. She’d never see the children again, she couldn’t even say goodbye to Kafele, she would probably never find out what became of Ma’am Sheldon. ‘It doesn’t need to be this way.’

  Jahi took her by the arm and pulled her, feet scraping, to the door. ‘It’s for the best,’ he said grimly. ‘It’s too late for any other path.’

  ‘It’s not, Uncle, it’s not. Please, you have to listen to me. Hassan’s gone now, please stop and listen.’

  But he didn’t. He dragged her away, down the stairs, and out into the baking street.

  It was as they turned the corner into the neighbouring alleyway that Nailah glimpsed Ma’am Carter and her servants approaching the house. Ma’am Carter hadn’t seen them. Nailah opened her mouth to call out to her.

  But then Jahi’s hand tightened on her arm, and her voice wouldn’t work.

  To her shame, and despite all her protests inside, she said and did nothing at all.

  Olivia sat out on the terrace with Sofia, running her finger around and around her water glass as she watched Ralph half-heartedly swing a croquet mallet. She was exhausted from the mess in her mind, her wonderings as to where everyone was, if Edward was on his way back.

  She was sore from the weight of Mildred’s shadowy presence in the drawing room.

  ‘Don’t slouch, Olivia.’ Her papery voice sliced through the air from the chaise longue. ‘And you should be wearing your hat, you’ll get freckles. Your mother had them.’

  Olivia closed her eyes. Sunlight ebbed through her lids; the high afternoon heat beat down, soaking through the stiff layers of her bodice, her shirt, her corset.

  ‘The children have been out too long, Nanny,’ said Mildred. ‘Angus will get burnt again. Really it’s most irresponsible.’

  Where are you, Edward? Where are you?

  Tom narrowed his eyes into the spout of his water flask. ‘I’m out,’ he said. ‘You?’

  ‘Same.’

  ‘We won’t make it back without water.’ Tom nodded at a spot in the distance. Two palms formed a silhouette against the white heat of the sky. ‘Let’s go.’

  It was a tiny patch of land. Barely an oasis at all. But there was a hut there. It had blankets within, a mound of ash outside. Edward sat down on his haunches and rubbed the flakes between his fingers.

  ‘Nomads?’ suggested Tom.

  ‘I don’t know.’ All Edward’s senses suggested otherwise. He frowned, trying to work out how far they were now from Lixori, that ramshackle cluster of dwellings from which Wilkins and Alistair had taken that farmer. A few hours’ ride at least. Still, it was a fairly direct line from here to there. Had the farmer passed this place, spotted something? Was that why Wilkins had been so interested in him in the first place? It wasn’t unthinkable: if the farmer had been travelling to Alex, perhaps to sell his crops, he might well have ridden by and seen… what?

  Clara?

  ‘I think she might have been here,’ he said.

  Tom looked around the small oasis. Edward followed his eyes. There was nothing but the hut, the palms, and a small water spring. No one but them.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do now,’ said Tom at length. ‘Come on. Let’s get back to the city. We can still make it by nightfall.’

  Imogen returned as dusk was falling. She told Olivia, in whispers in the hallway, how she’d failed to find Nailah. ‘I’m going to the ground now to wait for Tom. Come with me?’

  Olivia shook her head. ‘I’ll stay here, wait for Fadil. He can’t be far away. I’ll bring him on as soon as he gets here.’

  Imogen frowned. ‘I can’t think why he’s taken so long. I don’t like it.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ admitted Olivia. It had been hours. She was worried about him. Had he been hurt, fallen from his horse?

  Or had something worse happened?

  Sofia bustled past with a pile of towels in one arm, Gus in the other, and Ralph in her wake. ‘Bath time,’ she announced unnecessarily. ‘Mr Jeremy will be home soon for stories.’

  Imogen smiled tightly and took her leave.

  Olivia went back out to sit on the garden terrace. Mildred was still on the chaise longue. Her watchfulness, the crackle of her taffeta skirts, needled into Olivia’s spine. Eventually, unable to bear it any longer, she decided to wait for Fadil in the front porch, and went to fetch her hat and bag from where she’d left them in the study.

  The room was full of muted gold light. The air stil
l. As Olivia lifted her things from the desk, she saw a note beneath them, and caught her breath.

  It wasn’t in a hand she recognised, although it was addressed to her; the thought that some stranger had put it there whilst she was outside made her skin crawl.

  Meet me at the fork to the desert road at seven o’clock. I will explain everything. Come alone. Tell no one what you are doing. This is the only way you can be safe.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  If there was someone fool enough to go hightailing off to one of the remotest areas in Alexandria in this land where women went missing and were mown down by horses, it wasn’t Olivia. There was no question of her not telling anyone about the note, no matter what idiocy her penfriend asked of her. In the ongoing absence of Fadil, and too jumpy to go anywhere alone, she decided to send word for Imogen to return. They could work out together what to do next.

  She tried to find Hassan to fetch her. Since he wasn’t in the stables, she asked an underservant to go in his stead. The boy spoke very poor English, but she managed to get her message through. With him dispatched, she tried to locate the police guarding the house, thinking to put them on high alert, ask if they’d seen anyone suspect who might have got in. Finding them nowhere (where the bloody hell was everyone?), she scribbled another note to be taken to the police headquarters, asking for two new, preferably competent, men to be sent. She handed it to the butler, who told her Hassan would take care of it; he’d returned from town not twenty minutes before.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, and went back outside to wait for Imogen.

  It was about ten minutes later that the underservant returned. He told Olivia, in a mix of mime and broken words, that he’d gone to Imogen’s house, but she wasn’t there.

  ‘Of course she wasn’t. I told you she was at the parade ground.’

  He smiled, nodded.

  ‘Do you understand what I’m saying? I said the parade ground. The. Parade. Ground.’

  Another smile.

  She sighed irritably.

  ‘Her servants, they say she go see you. I think, ah!’ He raised his finger. ‘She at Ma’am Sheldon’s house.’

  ‘My house? No.’

  ‘No.’ The boy grinned, nodded. ‘Just Sir Sheldon. He say he come.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘He need to…’ The boy mimed pulling on trousers.

  ‘Change?’

  He beamed.

  Olivia sighed. The last thing she wanted was to be present when Alistair arrived. Since there was nothing else for it, she was going to have to go to the parade ground herself.

  She dismissed the boy and went into the stables to tack up Clara’s mare. Her hands trembled at the prospect of riding a horse other than Bea, the journey alone… never mind what came after. She eyed the mounting stand, struck by its morbid likeness to a gallows block.

  She clambered into the saddle without it.

  Just as she was about to kick off, Hassan arrived. He said the butler had given him her message for the police, but he’d just seen the two guards in the kitchen, they’d be back on duty soon. He asked Olivia where she was going.

  She told him.

  ‘It’s almost dark,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you.’

  ‘No, really, that’s too much to ask.’

  ‘Ma’am Sheldon, please.’

  ‘Thank you for doing this,’ Olivia said to fill the silence as the two of them clopped their way along. Hassan held his reins in one hand, his beads in the other. The road around them was deserted. Cicadas burred, the dry shrubs on the sandbanks crackled. The wind had changed direction, it smelt of salt. On the horizon, the sun was bleeding into the Mediterranean, orange light seeping into the blue. Ahead to the right was the turning to the parade ground. Not long.

  ‘Be still a moment,’ said Hassan. ‘Your saddle’s loose.’

  ‘Is it?’ Olivia knew a loose saddle by now and it felt fine to her. Hassan leant over and took her reins, pulling her to a halt. His tarboosh was on an angle, his normally serene face appeared strained as he looked up at her. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked. He didn’t respond, just stared back at her, twisting their reins together. ‘Why are you doing that?’ she asked. Was that sweat on his forehead? ‘Hassan? You’re worrying me. What is it?’

  He glanced over her shoulder and frowned. Olivia followed his stare. Alistair was riding towards them. He looked smaller from this distance, but packed with force. The sight of him sent something loose in Olivia’s stomach. And on edge as Hassan was making her feel, it was unfathomable to run towards him, her husband. The only plan that made any sense was galloping at all speed to the ground.

  ‘I want to go now,’ she said. ‘Can you free my reins, Hassan?’

  His eyes remained fixed on Alistair. Those puddle-like eyes. So sympathetic when Clara first disappeared. Did you manage to speak to the soldier you were looking for?

  Oh God.

  OhGodOhGodOhGod.

  ‘I never told you that I was trying to find Fadil.’ The words seemed to leave her slowly, it was as though time was stretching around her. ‘You asked me, that day after Clara was taken, if I had. But I’d never told you I was looking for him in the first place.’ She swallowed. ‘Did you see me trying to find him, on the Cherif Pasha?’

  Still Hassan watched Alistair; his face was fixed, intent.

  She looked again at his beads, read the letters. ‘You’re Rohi,’ she said.

  His face didn’t move.

  ‘You are, aren’t you?’ Nothing. ‘When you stopped me falling into that ditch on the way to the beach the other day, it was because you knew it was there. You’ve been there before. It’s you. It’s always been you.’

  Alistair was coming closer, the steady tread of his horse not fifty feet away.

  ‘Have you hurt Fadil, Hassan? Is that why he’s not back yet? Did you follow him after he left the stables?’

  Hassan reached into his saddle and drew out a single-shot pistol.

  Olivia’s legs turned to water.

  And time, which had been moving so slowly, suddenly sped up. Hassan freed her reins and whacked her horse on its rear. It jolted into motion. Olivia grabbed its mane, righting herself. In the same moment, Hassan yelled, ‘Ha,’ slapped the horse again, and she was off.

  A gunshot sounded.

  For a heartbeat Olivia thought it might have been Alistair that had fired. But when she looked over her shoulder, it was to see him keel backwards, bounce floppily in his saddle, then fall as his beast galloped off. She didn’t have time to feel anything, be it shock, relief or fear, because Hassan was fully conscious, sitting upright in his saddle, and coming fast towards her.

  She spurred Clara’s horse on. She had no idea where she was going, only that she had to get away. Dust blew up around her. She kicked and hit and kicked again. She scanned the road for a sign of somebody, anybody, but it was empty.

  She kept on, the ground rushed away beneath her. On and on. Hooves sounded behind her, striking a discordant rhythm with her own. Give her the reins. She could hear Edward’s voice in her ear. Let her go. She loosened her grip and leant forward. ‘Faster, faster.’ She clutched her legs tight. She didn’t look back at Hassan chasing her, but fixed her eyes straight ahead.

  She realised too late that she had headed the wrong way. She was riding in the opposite direction to the ground, towards the deserted shores of the Aboukir Peninsula, away from people instead of closer to them. She risked a look behind her. Hassan was closer than she’d imagined, blocking her path back.

  She rode on, on and on. If I can just make it to the Pashas’ house, any house.

  Clara’s steady nut-brown mare slowed, exhausted. Olivia more felt than heard Hassan gaining on her.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, kicking again, ‘come on.’

  It was as they neared the cliff tops that Hassan caught up with her. She saw a flash of steel, felt pain in her face.

  And then there was nothing.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Incen
se and sweet oils, it was all Nailah could smell. It filled the air, mingling with the tinkle of ankle chains and earrings, whispers and laughter. Nailah watched the women from behind her door, their heads tipped coquettishly, the slow smiles. A pair on the far side of the room were singing. One touched the other on the shoulder as she reached for the high note, flirting, even with one another, as though they couldn’t help themselves.

  She could barely believe Jahi had brought her here, to this fort in the desert, this… this harem. ‘Hassan says you’ll be kept safe,’ he had told her as they rode, ‘that is all that matters now.’

  ‘It’s not all that matters,’ Nailah had said, tears starting again. ‘If Tabia could only see what you and Hassan were planning, she would hate you both.’

  Nailah ran her hands over her stomach, pushing against the churning concave there. She was still clothed in the same robe Ma’am Sheldon had given her. She was meant to be getting changed into her uniform, the same wide-legged trousers and silken top that all the maids here wore. She glanced at the garments waiting on her low mattress, the towels, soap and razor. A bossy lady had told her to use the blade on her armpits, her legs. ‘No need for those red cheeks,’ the lady had said, ‘all the maids do it. He prefers things pretty. Rest tonight, we’ll set you up with your duties tomorrow. Do your work well and you’ll have a good life here. He’ll watch over you.’

  Nailah asked who he was. The lady told her it was Nassar Shahid, a man Nailah knew to be a peripheral star in the constellation of the Egyptian aristocracy, and as wealthy as Tut. Nailah had heard the rumours of his involvement in the uprisings of ’82, his resentment of the British. She found she wasn’t surprised that he was the friend who had helped Hassan steal Ma’am Gray, then told him where to keep her: that remote oasis with the small hut of provisions, a good water supply, and the shade of two palms.

  She wondered why Shahid had done it, though. Was he saddened by Tabia’s death, a charitable aristocrat with a good heart? Or an opportunist, a proud man on the lookout for a chance to stand up, make life hard for the British?