The Sand Men

by Christopher Fowler

  There was still a faint aroma of charred wood in the air. The fire chief had warned that it would take several weeks for the smell to go away. Realising that the mosquito candles around the barbecue had gone out, Lea rose to put the outside lights on.

  ‘No, leave it like this,’ said Ben suddenly. ‘The dark is good.’

  ‘So, Lea, Roy tells me you’re writing for a magazine,’ said Colette with forced good humour.

  ‘It’s just an online piece about the resort. It won’t have as much detail as I’d hoped.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I’ve only got space for 2,000 words. I’d like to write about some of the things that have been happening here, like the hit-and-run incident and the Busabis’ fire.’

  ‘Yeah, well—I have a solid theory about that,’ said Ben, anger suddenly colouring his voice, ‘but I wouldn’t want you to write about it.’ He sat back, his face unreadable in the darkness.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you can’t trust anyone around here. Did you know the estate’s Wi-Fi network is being hacked into by our police bureau?’

  ‘Ben, don’t start,’ Colette pleaded.

  ‘You don’t know that for sure,’ said Roy hastily.

  Ben jabbed a finger at him. ‘Ask Dick McEvoy—he should know. He oversees the resort’s electronic traffic, and that includes mail coming in and out of the compound.’

  ‘Ben, please.’ Colette laid a restraining hand on her husband’s arm. It seemed to Lea that she hated any public exposure of emotion.

  ‘So, what’s your theory?’ Lea asked.

  ‘Ask yourself how many more “accidents” have to happen before somebody starts to make a noise? It’s the whole fucking thing. We’re all complicit.’

  Lea had never heard Ben swear in front of his wife before. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Ben’s exaggerating as usual,’ said Colette, panicking that anything her husband said might be reported back. ‘Didn’t you say the safety record has been unusually good for a site of this size? You can’t count things that have happened in the compound. Everything’s fine. Really. And what happened to Rachel—well, she was always doing crazy things. Once she went out in Ohio when the highway safety people were advising everyone to stay home, and she got stranded in a snowdrift overnight. She could have died. She told me she’d gone out for cigarettes—in a snowstorm!’

  Ben held up a hand to silence his wife. ‘There’s something I have to say—’

  ‘No, Ben—’

  ‘After the autopsy, we received Rachel’s clothing and personal belongings back from the coroner. The one thing that was missing—the only piece of jewellery she never removed apart from her wedding ring—was the silver neck-chain my grandfather had made for her twenty-first birthday. She was crazy about Indian gods, so her father crafted a piece, a Ganesh. She never took it off.’

  ‘You think someone stole it?’ asked Lea.

  ‘I damn well know they did And I know who.’

  ‘These things happen,’ Colette said quickly. ‘It could have been someone in the medical unit.’

  ‘She wasn’t the only one who lost something,’ said Ben. ‘That guy Rodriguez, the one who fell from the tower. His daughter was found dead in the creek without her ring. She wore her mother’s ring for so long that she couldn’t get it off. Someone cut off her finger.’

  ‘We’ve been over and over this, Ben,’ said Colette. ‘Please, let’s forget about it and try to enjoy ourselves.’

  But nobody did.

  The dark is good, Ben had said. It would have been more accurate to state that in all this searing light, the dark had become a necessity.

  THE BLACK AND yellow-striped cement mixer churned. Six men alighted from the yellow construction truck and began unloading wooden battens. They were preparing to seal up the underpass.

  Lea pulled the blue Renault over and watched for a while as the barriers slowly rose. Grabbing her laptop, she stepped out of the car and headed for a grass slope, preparing to make notes. She was about to sit down when she noticed a group of sullen-looking young Indian men standing on the embankment staring at her.

  ‘Hey missus, fuck you!’ called one of the youngest, a boy in a blue headscarf and vest. ‘You have no business here! Go back to your fucking house!’

  The others stirred in agreement. A couple began shouting in Hindi. Another ran closer. ‘You got no business here! This is our territory! Go home, fucking rich woman!’

  One of them stooped to pick up a rock.

  It had been a mistake to come here. Lea took a step back and stumbled. Stupidly, she put out her right hand to break the fall, the one holding her laptop. As she landed on her knees, the computer cracked against the concrete kerb. A rock bounced on the grass beside her, then another. She groped around for the laptop as a lump of concrete passed her head.

  A hand reached down to grab her arm. ‘I think you should get back inside your car.’ The man led the way and opened the door for her, running around to the passenger side as more rocks fell around them.

  He picked up the laptop, which had come apart. The screen had split from corner to corner. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t save it,’ he said, handing it back.

  ‘It was my fault,’ said Lea, ‘I should never have come here.’ She started to turn the car around.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked. The Indians were still shouting insults and hurling rocks.

  ‘I’m fine.’ She crunched the gears and reversed. ‘I didn’t mean to upset them. Can I give you a lift somewhere?’

  ‘Could you drop me off at the main gate? I came out in the truck with them. I can’t go back through the underpass, not when they’re like this.’

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ said Lea as they set off, ‘I’m Lea Brook, Roy’s wife.’ She held out her hand.

  ‘I know. Rashad Karmeel.’ When she looked back, he was still looking at her. He was a powerfully built man with thick tied-back hair, strikingly handsome. A strong face, she thought.

  ‘Why did they decide to go ahead with the closure after all? Was it because of the petition?’

  Rashad shook his head. ‘No, I heard there was one but I don’t suppose anyone even looked at it. They’re building a new road further along. The barracks is going to be torn down. Our work will soon be at an end.’

  ‘You live there with the other workers?’

  ‘Of course. They’re my responsibility. I’m sorry they reacted so violently to your presence. There will be repercussions over this incident, I can assure you.’

  ‘Please no, I don’t want to make the situation worse.’

  ‘They just want to be left to do their jobs,’ said Rashad. ‘The men gather there because they have nowhere else to go.’

  ‘They never go into town? To the beach?’

  ‘They cannot afford to go into town. And they are not allowed on the beaches.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. I’m afraid I must appear very ignorant to you.’

  ‘No. You live in your world and I live in mine. They don’t touch each other.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry for it. It isn’t the way things should be. People should not be divided by the colour of their skin.’

  ‘They are divided by money first, Mrs Brook.’

  The Renault was approaching the main entrance to the compound. ‘You can drop me here,’ said Rashad. He turned and solemnly shook her hand once more. ‘I hope you will all feel much safer now, and I am sorry for your trouble.’

  As he unfurled his powerful body from the car and strode away, she wondered how he could possibly have any sympathy for the white residents of Dream Ranches.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The Whores

  SHE MISSED HER laptop. The general-use desk computer they had brought out from London was overloaded and slow, but would have to do until the newly upgraded models came out next month. Lastri insisted on vacuuming the entire house every day, and nothing Lea said could dissuade her from her routine. The whin
e of the vacuum cleaner passing doggedly back and forth along the landing broke her concentration, so she pushed herself back from the screen and went next door to visit Colette.

  The Larvin household had become a sterile environment since Rachel’s presence had been removed from it. Colette obsessively cleaned the kitchen and lounge, tidying away all signs of life until the interior resembled a set in a furniture catalogue. The smell of bleach and polish was everywhere.

  Colette looked unsettled by Lea’s sudden arrival, as if she regarded her as an unwelcome force for chaos. She was wearing even more makeup than before, a beige mask that almost succeeded in concealing her facial expressions. ‘You’ve missed coffee,’ she warned sharply. ‘Everything got put away.’

  ‘I’ve had enough coffee to last a lifetime,’ said Lea. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m fine. I keep telling everyone that. Ben’s the one they should be worrying about. He’s virtually stopped speaking—to me, at least.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do you think, Lea? He’s somehow got it in his head that I should have stopped Rachel from going out to the desert by herself. You saw what she was like, she wouldn’t be told anything. I couldn’t have stopped her if I’d tried.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s not trying to blame you. I can see what kind of pressure he and Roy are under.’

  Colette moped at the kitchen counter, looking for something more to do. ‘The company’s aware of the problem. I know they think they helped with the Friday thing, but I guess that’s cancelled now.’

  ‘What Friday thing?’

  ‘You know, the time off.’ When Lea gave her a blank look, she added, ‘Early leave?’

  ‘What early leave?’

  This stopped Colette in her tracks. ‘You mean you don’t know?’

  ‘Colette, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘The senior architects and engineers are allowed to finish early on Friday evenings because they put in so much time over the weekends.’

  ‘Roy never mentioned that to me. He never gets back before eleven on a Friday. What do they do?’

  ‘I think they go off drinking somewhere,’ said Colette vaguely. ‘They’re not supposed to, of course, but I’m sure that’s what they do. Ben never tells me much about what goes on at the site anymore. He thinks I won’t understand.’

  ‘Well, where do they go?’

  ‘I don’t know, somewhere offsite. Down to the King’s Highway, you know where all those bars are past the airport? I’ve never been out there myself. I don’t think they’re the kind of places women go.’

  ‘You’re telling me they go to brothels on Friday evenings?’

  Colette looked stricken. ‘I really don’t know, I don’t suppose they’re actual brothels. They need to let off steam. I’m sure it’s all harmless.’

  ‘That depends. Which ones do they go to?’

  ‘I know there’s one called “The Pink Panther” or something like that. Ben’s always had a habit of picking up matchbooks even though he doesn’t smoke. I found one in his pocket.’

  LEA WAITED UNTIL 6:00pm, then set off. Under normal circumstances, there would have been no question of trusting Roy, but lately they were being pushed further and further apart. She wanted to see where her husband went on Friday evenings.

  She reached the strip just as the dipping sun had rippled and expanded, turning the horizon to a bilious shade of nylon pink. She had driven along the street once or twice before, but in daylight the dusty plastic bar-fronts were shuttered.

  A neon arcade suddenly came to life, twinkling with phosphorescent geometries. Signs in Arabic and mangled English sought attention from passing cars. The Desert Bloom. The Whirlwind. Sexy Sexy. Arabian Nites. Fluorescent tubing crackled with errant electricity. Doorways were illuminated with faded photographs of Chinese girls in the kind of old-fashioned nightclub gowns she associated with drag queens. There were no direct calls to action, but the images were unmistakably clear; girls were available here.

  The sidewalk was deserted; vehicles circled and slipped furtively into rear parking lots. Lea took a left turn and followed the route to the car park of a bar called Glamour Cocktails. At the back doors of the clubs, the inferences were more explicit. One sign said Girls At Your Table – Private Rooms. Another read Oriental Or American – She Always Say Yes.

  Lea applied the handbrake and waited, watching. Two Korean girls in low-cut shiny red bikini tops, thongs and high heels came out to the back step to smoke. A young Indian man parked his truck and headed over to talk to them, but an older Korean woman appeared and ordered him around to the front of the club, determined to receive her commission.

  Lea wondered what these places were like after midnight. She remembered what Rachel had said about Nepalese and Chinese girls working the strip. I have to take a look inside, she decided, getting out of the car.

  She chose the emptiest-looking bar, whose neon Pink Pussy logo featured a cartoon cat with disturbingly human breasts lounging in a martini glass. Inside was a single rectangular room, painted purple, hung with incongruous Christmas lights, smelling of disinfectant and incense. An old Elton John song was playing on the bar’s tinny sound system. Along the left-hand side was an American-style drinks counter with unoccupied swivel stools. In the centre of the room stood a square stage with a steel pole at each corner and a selection of mirror-balls hanging at different heights from the ceiling. An LED board displayed more cats with breasts, advanced technology conjuring the most juvenile fantasies.

  She felt as if she had wandered onto a porno set before they had begun shooting. A line of gold-painted kitchen chairs were occupied by a few bored girls in red nylon gowns. Each one had a number on her wrist like a beauty contestant. Clearly the rush-hour had yet to start.

  She was about to investigate further when a fat little Chinese woman started wheeling across the room in her direction.

  ‘You husband not here, missus,’ she shouted, flapping her hands as if batting away an annoying insect. ‘Nothing for you here. You go home now!’

  Mortified, Lea lost her nerve. Was the purpose of her visit that obvious? How many other wives had followed their husbands to the strip? Flustered, she turned and left, pacing past the gaudy venues lit purple and pink, the colour of bruised flesh.

  Peering through the doors, she saw crimson interiors, straw lamps, metallic stages. In some, girls in one-piece swimsuits were penned into corners like mannequin displays awaiting removal from long-derelict department stores.

  The last bar, Pussy Ranch, was themed like a spit-and-sawdust Wild West saloon. Above its counter fake ham-hocks hung in string bags, each with a garter attached so that they looked like severed thighs. It was early; the night’s main activities had not yet begun, but men were already arriving to get the best tables.

  She felt suddenly sick, and had to get away. Nothing Roy could say would dissuade her that these clubs were anything but brothels. She felt betrayed and disgusted, but there would be no way of resolving the issue without an argument that would paint her as the enemy.

  Roy arrived home at ten as usual, but Lea could not bring herself to respond. He went to the refrigerator and rummaged for the ingredients of a sandwich before noticing the silence.

  ‘Come on then, out with it,’ he said finally, ‘what’s wrong now?’

  It was important that she kept her temper. She tried to sound casual. ‘I was talking to Colette and she mentioned you’re allowed to finish early on Fridays. How long has this been going on?’

  If Roy was surprised, he did not show it. ‘Not long. It’s a PR exercise. We don’t really take advantage of it.’

  ‘You mean you just stay at work?’

  ‘We do for a while. Then we go for a few drinks.’

  ‘To the bars on King’s Highway.’

  ‘We’ve only been there a couple of times.’

  ‘They’re whorehouses, Roy.’

  ‘Some are. Some are strip-joints and some are just bars. T
he city’s three-quarters male, honey. We put in long hours. There has to be some level of tolerance. You know how guys can get.’

  ‘Is that how you get?’

  ‘Jesus, Lea! We go there for a drink, that’s all.’

  ‘Which bars?’

  ‘I don’t know—a country and western-type place, a couple of others, one with a Mexican theme, I can’t remember.’

  ‘You could go to any number of hotel bars but you go out there.’

  ‘The men don’t want to pay the prices at hotel bars. They’re not tourists, they’re saving their earnings.’

  ‘Aren’t you meant to set some kind of moral example?’

  ‘Morality only covers our work conduct, it doesn’t control what goes on inside our heads.’

  ‘If you’re going there for any reason other than to have a drink with the boys, you really need to tell me right now.’

  ‘Or you’ll do what, Lea?’ Roy’s patience had run dry. ‘What are you going to do? History is not going to repeat itself. I have a tough job. We all have to cut loose sometimes. You just have to trust me.’

  ‘I want to believe you. I was prepared to fight for you before, but right now I don’t know if I’d do it again. I love you, Roy, and I love Cara. But things feel different between the three of us now.’

  ‘You’re making too big a deal of this.’

  She wanted a drink, a cigarette, anything but the conversation they were having. ‘You know, when I was a girl I used to think that love was this fragile thing, but it’s not. It’s tough and strong, and it can survive almost anything. I just need a word from you to tell me we’re okay.’

  ‘Well, I thought we were. I don’t tell you every little thing because I know how you get. Cara keeps her distance from you because you smother her. In the back of your head there’s always the knowledge that you can’t have another kid. Maybe you should explain that to her one day.’

  ‘You know I want the time to be right—’