The Sand Men

by Christopher Fowler

  Cara rose to her feet, looking back at the shimmering screens. ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘They’re cleaning up before the resort opens. Getting rid of anyone who knows and keeps making a fuss. That won’t be hard; we’re all contracted to the company. The police will come back here. You’ll be taken to the vault and your disappearance will be explained away.’

  ‘You’re wrong. You’re sick, everyone says so.’

  ‘You’re in danger, Cara. We need to go back to the house and get our passports. We’ll have to be fast. They’re looking for you.’ She grabbed Cara’s hand, but the girl pulled away and stood her ground.

  ‘I don’t believe you. I don’t believe that Dad—’

  ‘Your father made his choice long ago. Before we moved out here.’ She spoke with slow deliberation.

  ‘I don’t fucking believe you!’ Cara shoved at her furiously.

  Lea grabbed her hands. ‘I went there, Cara. I saw it for myself.’ She waited for Cara to stop fighting her, then slowly released one hand. Digging into her jeans, she pulled out the chain she had found in the corner of the vault. ‘They always take something.’

  Cara turned the identity bracelet over in her hand and read the inscription:

  Joia Chalmers

  ‘You’re lying, you’re lying!’

  ‘Am I? Think about it, Cara, use your brain! Think about everything that’s happened. You play at being rebels, but if you decide I’m right then you have to do something real instead of all this—posturing.’

  ‘I can’t—get away from me.’ Cara leapt up, pushing Lea to the ground, tipping her chair over and knocking down the computer screens. Lea felt a searing pain through her right elbow as it connected with the concrete floor. By the time she had climbed to her feet and ascended the stairs, her daughter had gone. The beach house was surrounded by rustling dark bushes.

  As she left the building, she saw the dark outlines of men hopping and running across the distant dunes, slowly coming closer.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The Escape

  FROM THE MOMENT she had arrived, the Sand Men had told her where to go and what to do. They all just wanted her to shut up and go away. There was never any proof of wrongdoing. No evidence, no guilt, no shame. The private conversations of company men would horrify you, Rachel had said.

  She had nothing on her but the money in her purse, and there didn’t seem to be any stores open. She would go back to Dream Ranches and wait for Cara to return.

  There had to be evidence against the directors somewhere. Andre Pignot ran the oldest local magazine. He’d been here since before the oil boom, he had to know about the vault.

  She knew then that she had to see him. He was the only one she could trust. As the Renault approached the run-down building that housed Gulf Coast, she began to get a bad feeling. Nathifa and Sergei from Dream World magazine had been at Pignot’s offices the last time she called him.

  The cab stopped outside the door, and she saw that it had been removed and was being painted. Pushing past the decorator and climbing the stairs, she smelled turpentine and fresh varnish. Andre’s office had been emptied out. The rooms were completely bare. Dust sheets were down and the walls were being painted white. A stocky unsmiling woman with strong Russian features stood on the landing. She was writing notes in a sequinned pocketbook that looked as if it should belong to a teenaged girl.

  ‘I was looking for the offices of Gulf Coast magazine,’ Lea explained. ‘They were here.’

  ‘Gone now,’ said the woman curtly. She squinted at the wall and made another note. ‘Everything has gone to Dream World head offices,’ the woman replied. ‘Same company now.’

  ‘Do you know where I can find Andre Pignot?’

  The woman looked up for the first time and studied her. ‘He’s gone too,’ she said, her voice lower.

  ‘Where did he go?’

  The woman studied her properly for the first time. ‘Are you a friend of his?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Then I am sorry. He was drunk. He fell down stairs. Those stairs. Whisky.’ She pointed to the steep, narrow staircase ahead of her. ‘He broke his head. He did not live until ambulance arrive.’

  She saw now that the wooden landing was petalled with blackish-crimson bloodstains. She had to get out of the building fast. Turning, she pushed down the stairs, past the decorators and out into the deserted street. She scanned the road to see if anyone had seen her enter the building, and ran to the car.

  Nobody could afford to let Dream World fail. Not the Russians or the Europeans or the Arabs. Everyone kept telling her that. There would be firings and cover-ups and acts of damage limitation but nothing would change.

  After getting no answer from Roy, she texted Call me—urgent. She needed to hear his voice, to see if she could discern betrayal in it.

  Just as she was pulling back into the compound he rang back. She gripped the wheel, trying to stop her hands from shaking any harder.

  ‘Did you go to the beach house?’ he asked casually. ‘Did you find her?’

  ‘I couldn’t get there,’ she lied. ‘Hardy’s put the compound in lockdown.’

  ‘We’ve had more bomb threats. The security at the resort can handle the problem. So you haven’t heard from Cara?’

  ‘No, perhaps she’s gone to the mall with friends.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll be back later than I hoped. I have to go to the resort before I finish for the night. You know how important tonight is for all of us. Why don’t you go and prepare a nice meal, it’ll give you something to do.’

  She refused to let her anger reveal itself. ‘Good idea, I’ll do that.’

  I don’t know what to do, she thought, suddenly overwhelmed with panic. The wives could be trusted; they would not have been made privy to the secrets of their men. But they were unlikely to trust her in return; she had been branded the troublemaker, the catalyst.

  Heading upstairs, she added Cara’s passport to her own and filled a bag with clothes. She had some loose cash kept aside for tipping and her credit cards. Cara would have to come back to the house and when she did, Lea decided they would get away together even if it meant kidnapping her.

  All she could do now was wait.

  In the bathroom she found a packet of Zimovane sleeping pills in the cupboard, popped out two and washed them down with a glass of hot mint tea. She needed to rest, to gather her strength and be ready for Cara’s return.

  She remembered something Rachel had said. The world is divided into those who look for others and those who are looked for. The men weren’t remotely concerned. Only Ben Larvin had suffered a crisis of conscience. How long did he live with the burden before becoming a liability?

  Her thoughts fragmented. In the shadowed lounge she lay back on the couch, turned up the air conditioning and drifted into an uneasy, dislocated sleep.

  SHE HEARD HER neighbour’s front door snick open. A homely figure in pink carpet slippers tentatively stepped out. Betty Graham was in her cornflower-blue apron once more, but now her hands were tied behind her back and she had been blindfolded with an absurd floral dishtowel. She was being gently led out of the house by two men in hooded grey tops and black jeans. Behind her, orange clouds pulsed like jellyfish, rising slowly in the night sky as the compound burned.

  Puzzled, Lea slipped out of the car and followed. As they disappeared around the side, she heard Betty say something that sounded like ‘But I don’t want to leave.’ She had scratched her arm somewhere, and was dripping black spots of blood. She didn’t seem frightened, just confused. She still trusted the men who were leading her. She knew them, or at least recognised their voices.

  They were Hardy’s men, and they were still talking softly to her as they carefully lowered her onto her knees in the side-alley. She addressed one politely while the other pulled a Swiss Army knife from the pocket of his jeans. When he opened the impossibly long serrated edge, only Lea’s sense of self-preservation kept her from crying out.r />
  It was over very quickly. While one held Betty by her shoulders, the other pushed the blade into her pale throat, leaving it there for a moment while he wiped his hands on his jeans. Grasping the red plastic handle, he pulled it hard across and Betty fell silently forward, banging her head on the concrete with an audible crack. The whole operation had only taken a matter of seconds. Moments later a grey plastic body-bag was being unfurled and she had gone, as if she never existed. A trusting housewife, blindfolded and led to her death in a floral apron and dishtowel.

  Tall figures shifted around her, watching and whispering. At first they seemed familiar and friendly, members of her family, her mother and father, her daughter. As they moved closer she began to panic. She tried to explain, but they weren’t listening. Nobody was listening. Hands guided her gently downwards, soothing voices were telling her to calm herself and rest…

  LEA AWOKE.

  The room was in deep darkness. Her back was wet with sweat. A crushing pain pulsed behind her eyes. She could smell freshly baked bread. Puzzled, she opened her eyes and turned her head to one side.

  There were thousands of stars above the rooftops.

  ‘You’re awake at last,’ said a figure beside her.

  Mrs Busabi was knitting something, a vast unravelling maroon shawl of some kind, although how she could see the stitches was a mystery. A single candle flickered in a saucer on the side table. She rolled her armchair closer and smiled. She had put on weight. ‘I was beginning to think you’d sleep right through the night.’

  ‘Mrs Busabi, what are you doing in my house?’ Lea raised herself on one elbow and looked around.

  ‘Rosemary,’ said Mrs Busabi. ‘Call me Rosemary.’

  Her head was swimming. The sofa was the wrong shape, and the chairs had been moved. A dresser full of floral crockery stood against one wall. A clock ticked.

  She was not in her own home.

  Shadows stretched and flickered about the room. Outside, there were no street lights. The road was pale blue, illuminated by the starfield above. The sky was pressing down over the compound, brighter than the black buildings.

  ‘Why is it so dark?’

  ‘The lights all went out. There must be a fault. A good job I had candles. I always keep plenty of candles for emergencies.’

  ‘Where am I?’ She tried to clear her throat. Her mouth tasted as if it had been filled with sand.

  ‘You’ll probably want some tea,’ said Mrs Busabi. ‘Let me get it for you.’

  ‘Wait, I should be in my own home, why am I here?’

  ‘Dr Vance is here, I’ll just get him.’ Mrs Busabi set aside her shawl and hastily rose, leaving the room. Lea tried to sit up but felt suddenly light-headed. She had taken sleeping pills on an empty stomach and then…

  ‘Mrs Brook, you’re with us again.’ A pleasant-faced man, American or Canadian, with thinning blond hair side-parted, and ridiculously bleached teeth. She’d seen him playing in a jazz band. Dr Vance was avuncular and old-fashioned, a character from a Norman Rockwell painting. He seated himself on the arm of the sofa and smiled. ‘It’s lucky you’ve got good neighbours, Mrs Brook.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said thickly, ‘what am I doing here? I don’t remember leaving my house.’

  ‘You were in the street, very distraught about not being able to find your daughter. Mrs Busabi was driving past and brought you here. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘But she doesn’t live here. She moved to the other side of the compound after... something bad happened—’

  ‘Yes, and that’s where you are. On the North side. It’s only a short drive from your house. I was due to visit her and found you here. You felt quite feverish. I gave you a sedative.’

  ‘But I’d already taken sleeping pills.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it wasn’t very strong, it won’t do you any harm. You just needed to shut down that busy mind of yours for a while. Are you feeling better now?’

  She tried to rise. ‘I have to find my daughter.’

  ‘She’ll be here soon. You had a text message.’ He held up her iPhone so that she could read the screen.

  Staying late with the others. We’re working at the beach house. We’ll get something to eat out. Love, Cara.

  ‘That isn’t from her,’ said Lea firmly.

  ‘Then who else could it be from?’

  ‘From them.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, you wouldn’t understand.’ She tried again. ‘That text is not from my daughter.’

  ‘You know what I think?’ said Dr Vance patiently. ‘You’ve been upsetting yourself unnecessarily. I’ve seen it happen a lot with the ladies here. When you’ve got so little to worry about, you make yourself fret over the tiniest things.’

  ‘Can you stop fucking patronising me? I don’t have a fever, I’m not imagining things. I know when there’s a problem. I’m not a child.’

  Dr Vance winced at the use of coarse language. ‘Of course, but you must admit you’re overwrought, and it’s really over nothing. The children are quite safe.’

  ‘The children are safe? Do you have the faintest idea about what’s going on here?’ She looked around herself, trying to understand. She vaguely remembered standing on the lawn, a conversation which had turned into an argument. What had she said? How much had she given away?

  ‘Let’s try this another way,’ said Dr Vance. ‘Do you know what we mean by the term paraphrenia?’

  ‘I don’t know—’

  ‘It’s a less recognised state to that of paranoia. A mental disorder, characterized by an organised system of delusions that may or may not include highly lucid hallucinations, without any deterioration of intellect or personality. Of course, everyone’s a little paranoid. I often think people are taking my pens. Do you see what I’m saying? Paranoia is thinking everyone’s out to get you. Paraphrenia is creating a belief system that explains why everyone is out to get you. A classic example is conspiracy theory. People who believe in complex conspiracies are simply trying to reorganise their fantasies into a rational pattern. And I think that’s what you’re trying to do.’

  ‘But if I’m determined to organise my fantasies, that’s just what I’d be expecting you to say.’

  Dr Vance chuckled. ‘Very good, Mrs Brook. You catch on very quickly.’

  You have no idea how quickly, she thought. She gave what she hoped would be mistaken for a genuine smile of relief. ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps you’re right. I’ve been stressed for a while and I’m not sleeping well. I think I just needed to rest. In fact, I feel much better now. But I think I should go home, just in case my husband is worried.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re up to it just yet. Why don’t you stay and rest a little longer?’ Dr Vance’s smile was safe and vacuous. ‘Get yourself back to full strength. We don’t want you falling over in the dark. The street lights are out. We think there’s a problem with the substation.’

  She turned to the window and saw that the power was off across the entire compound. Above the rooftops was the distant glow of the city’s business sector, which clearly still had electricity.

  ‘I still feel very sleepy,’ she said, measuring her words carefully. ‘You’re right. Maybe I should have another nap, if it’s not putting anyone out.’

  ‘That’s better. I’m sure Mrs Busabi won’t mind.’ Dr Vance placed his hands on his knees and rose. ‘Perhaps you’d like me to get her to make you a nice hot drink. Then she can come back and sit with you for a while, just until you doze off.’ He took his leave with some reluctance, watching her. ‘If you think you’re going to be all right now, I should really be heading home to my family.’

  As soon as he left the room Lea climbed out from the cushions and searched around for her shoes. She found them neatly tucked under the sofa. Holding them in her hand, she walked to the door and listened. Voices came from the kitchen. She pulled the door open a fraction.

  ‘—keep her here for a while, if that’s
no inconvenience—’

  ‘—fine, I have no plans for this evening—’

  ‘—because she really can’t go home yet. You know how distraught some of the ladies get—’

  Lea opened the door wide enough to slip out, walking on tiptoe into the hall. She could see the doctor and Mrs Busabi in the kitchen with their backs to her. Gently depressing the latch of the front door, she tried to open it but it was stuck. She pulled harder, but it would not move.

  There was a bolt on the inside of the door, like the one she had seen in Milo’s house. Why did they have them in a secure compound? Rachel had known why. The enemy was inside.

  She slid the bolt back as quietly as she could but it squeaked painfully. She froze, holding her breath. No sound came from the kitchen.

  She tried again, gently easing the bolt out. Opening the door as quietly as she could, she ran down the steps and tiptoed barefoot across the lawn, out into the street. She was remembering more now; she had yelled at Mrs Busabi. The poor woman must have thought she was having some kind of a nervous breakdown. No wonder the doctor had given her a sedative.

  As she wandered out into the road, her shoes still in her hand, she felt the world tipping on its axis. She hadn’t smoked grass since college because it had thrown her sense of balance, and the sensation returned violently now, tilting the road at a drunken angle. Glancing back, she saw that Mrs Busabi’s front door was still pulled close. They hadn’t yet noticed her absence. She could not stop to put on her shoes; that would mean sitting down, and she doubted she would be able to rise again.