“Adam, I’m about to make a small, er, investment and need to lay my hands on about a couple of thousand dollars fairly urgently. I’m wondering about selling some more of my shares.”
“Well, let me see how you’re placed. Give me a minute or two to go into your account.”
“Right. I’ll hang on.”
Jackson’s call is put on hold and he is forced to listen to electronically-generated background music that would disgrace a string quartet in a first rehearsal. Eventually the music ceases and Adam comes back on the line.
“Mmm. Well, Mr Dunbar, I see that your share portfolio has been run down over the past six months or so. There isn’t a lot left, I’m afraid. However, your Shaft Mining Limited shares are currently holding up well, so if you sold those, you’ll probably get the dollar equivalent of about £1,500. Would that do?”
“Yes, Adam, let’s sell those. And as the banks are still open, I would appreciate an advance of £500 into my main operating account today.”
“Umm. Well, we don’t really like doing that, but as it’s you, I sure we can arrange it.”
“Good. That’ll be much appreciated.”
“Our pleasure as always, Mr Dunbar. And as you are in contact today, could I say that my colleagues and I are wondering whether these, er, investments you’ve been making recently are giving you the right sort of returns. Our chief financial adviser, Wilfred Travers, would be happy to talk to you. It is none of our business of course how you wish to--.”
Adam is abruptly interrupted by Jackson. “You’re right, it’s none of your business. I’d just be grateful if you could just arrange that money transfer, as requested.”
“Of course, Mr Dunbar. Sorry if I’ve been a bit out of--.”
Jackson terminates the call and mutters “cheeky bugger” under his breath.
Jackson brews a fresh mug of coffee and makes a cheese and pickle sandwich from fresh bread left earlier in the day by his part-time maid. He remembers that he forgot to ring his mother back. He again pushes the speaker button. He can’t remember her number, despite it being unchanged for at least a decade, and has to look it up in his contacts list. She answers promptly. “Good afternoon. Lady Dunbar speaking.” She speaks with an acquired upper class accent and a rasp that suggests she is a heavy smoker.
“Hello, Mother. It’s Jackson. Sorry I didn’t call you back sooner, but we’ve been very busy.”
“Yes, you’ve always got some excuse for not returning my calls,” she replies caustically.
“Oh c’mon, Mother. That’s not fair. You must have known it was a difficult time for us.”
“Well, I’m pleased you weren’t hurt, darling, but I don’t know why you agreed to go to such a terrible place. Why can’t you be sent somewhere nice like Paris or Rome or Washington? Even to Sydney, if it it’s just for a short while? It’s no wonder that no decent woman wants to marry you. Sir Roger was sometimes offered postings to uncivilised places, but he always refused them because he knew they would make me unhappy.”
“As I’ve told you repeatedly, I’m not Dad. And why do you always refer to him as “Sir Roger”, even in the family? I know he was a knight and all that, but people in the media don’t wave around their titles, except on very formal occasions. And don’t you think it’s time you dropped the “Lady Dunbar” bit? After all, you’re Anne Dunbar and a “lady” only because of Dad’s title.”
“That’s very offensive, Roger. I earned the title as much as your father. Without my social networking skills, he wouldn’t have had such an extensive pool of significant people to interview or write about.”
“Well, you know as well as I do that he wasn’t into hard-hitting bite-your-ankles journalism. He only got his knighthood because he sucked up to so many of the so-called great and so-called good.”
“How dare you, Roger!” she shouts.
Jackson’s doorbell rings. “Look, Mother, I’m not going to continue this pointless conversation. Someone has just turned up for an interview, so I must go. Bye.”
Jackson ends the call and goes to the door. It is Zareena. She is about 25 and tall with a neat figure, dark hair and olive skin. She is expensively and carefully dressed in a Western outfit that would not be out of place in high social circles just about anywhere. Although born in Armibar, she speaks perfect English with just a hint of a local accent.
Zareena and Jackson exchange friendly air kisses and she takes a seat on the sofa.
“A drink?” Jackson asks her.
“Just the usual fruit juice, if you have any.”
“Sure. I’ve got apple or orange.”
“Either, perhaps with a little ice.”
Jackson goes to the refrigerator, takes out two juice containers and checks their use-by date. He decides that the apple juice is the least likely to have gone off. He pours two glasses and adds some ice.
Zareena points to the electronic keyboard in the corner of the room. “Can you play that?”
“Of course.”
“What sort of music?”
“Oh, pretty much anything, I guess. I once played in a pop band, but I really enjoy Bach organ music. Sometimes when I need to get things out of my system, I prefer to blast away at something by The Rolling Stones. Start Me Up is a favourite, but it just depends on how I feel.”
“Can you sing?”
“Sort of, but it’s best if I’m drowned out by lots of loud instruments,” he laughs.
“I’d like to learn the piano,” says Zareena, “and perhaps one day I will.”
Jackson sits down beside Zareena with the drinks and they clink their glasses in greeting.
She points to his juice. “Aren’t you having anything stronger?”
“Not after last night,” he says with a shrug, “I overdid it with the whisky.”
She nods. “I saw what happened yesterday. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“That’s probably why I got so drunk.”
“You must take care. Things aren’t good in this country. As soon as I finish my business and English literature studies, I’m going to leave.”
“Where will you go?”
“Anywhere that’ll take me – preferably a country where I can use my English and my Arabic. Maybe I could get a job with the BBC. What do you think?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” admits Jackson with a smile, “but it’s not out of the question, you know. Social and racial diversity are buzz words of this age and you’re getting a good education.”
Zareena finishes her drink and changes the subject. “Well, my friend, that’s for the future. What would you like to do tonight? Straight sex?”
“Let’s start with a massage,” he replies, “and see how it goes from there.”
“Well, Leila says we owe you two hours. Is that okay?”
“Yes. Of course.”
They go into Jackson’s bedroom. Both undress. Zareena applies perfumed oil to his body and the massage begins. As it proceeds, Jackson realises just how tense the past 24 hours have made him. Zareena works her usual soothing magic, but there is one thing different from his previous encounters with her – an erection doesn’t seem in prospect.
Zareena pauses and looks down at him with a sympathetic smile. “Well, your little friend looks very tired tonight. I think we should just let him have a little rest. I am sure he’ll be more enthusiastic next time.”
“Yesterday’s events have hit me much harder than I thought.”
“Well, don’t be embarrassed. Let’s have a nice shower together then a relaxing meal at your favourite restaurant.”
Soon after, Jackson, now in his usual smart casual clothes, is feeling more like his old self as he escorts Zareena into The Cedar Tree, a pleasant Arabic restaurant a few doors from his apartment. The head waiter and owner, Jamil, knows them both. They exchange greetings in Arabic and are shown to a quiet table to one side of the dimly-lit room. For the next hour, they eat a light meal of seafood, olives, hummus and pitta bread dipped in oil and ta
lk as friends rather than as prostitute and client. The topics range from the political situation in the Middle East, to the future of the European Union, and to their own families in Armibar and London. It comes to an end only when Zareena tells him she must leave for another customer a few blocks away. Jackson is disappointed.
“Don’t worry,” she tells him, “it’s my last for the night – just a nice lonely old man who wants a ‘jerk off’ – so it shouldn’t take me long. If you like, I’ll come back to your place for the night. I won’t charge and Leila needn’t know.” Jackson sighs. He likes the idea of her returning for the night, but would prefer not to hear of Zareena’s other clients or what she is required to do for them.
When the time comes to pay the bill, Jackson asks that it be added to his account. “Very sorry, Jamil, but I accidentally left my wallet at the office,” he lies.
“That’s alright, Mr Jackson,” replies Jamil, “but may I respectfully ask in all kindness that you settle up before too long as we are just a small family restaurant struggling to make a living in these difficult times.”
“Yes, of course, Jamil, I’ll pop by in the next day or so.”
As Jackson and Zareena leave, she turns to him. “Tut, tut, Jackson. You’ve been gambling again and lost your money!”
Jackson just shrugs and Zareena waves down a taxi to take her to the next client.
CHAPTER 10
Zareena returns to Jackson’s apartment as promised and they literally sleep together. Both wake early and Jackson is refreshed. Zareena, now without make-up and wearing casual clothes for a day at Armibar University, treats him to percolated coffee and a full English breakfast – something she learned to do several years ago when she worked for a year as a waitress and assistant cook in a “24-hour Breakfast” café in London’s West End.
They both have spare time before Jackson needs to be in the bureau and Zareena has her first lecture of the day. As they eat, Jackson is curious to know more about her.
“Is Zareena your real name?”
She laughs. “Of course not. That would be stupid, and before you ask, I won’t be giving you the real one.”
“You’re a very intelligent woman,” he observes, “so why do you need to sell your body?”
“Money, of course,” she replies. “My mother, the only one left in my family, is not well. When I finally can get out of this wretched country, I want to be able to take her with me. It’s as simple as that.”
“Yes, but isn’t it dangerous sometimes? You know, just going off and having sex with anyone who is willing to pay?”
“But I don’t just have sex with just anyone. Leila’s club is very upmarket and she’s very careful who she does business with. At the slightest hint of trouble or inappropriate demands, the clients get banned, and if needs be, dealt with by her ‘heavies’. Also, I don’t take return bookings with anyone I really don’t like. So, you see, the risk is minimal.”
“I suppose I must have passed Leila’s vetting,” he laughs, “but isn’t there a special man in your life?”
“Umm. No.” There is a pause for a moment, then Zareena continues. “Do you realise that I’m ‘bi’?”
“Bi?”
“Yes. You know, bi, bi-sexual, or as you English sometimes put it, I ‘bat for both teams’.”
“That must present you with relationship problems.”
“I don’t see why. It’s just that if I ever wanted to settle down, it would probably be with a woman. Less complicated than with a man, I feel. As you can imagine, same-sex relationships are very difficult to have here, which is another reason why I have to move abroad to a more liberal society.”
Zareena turns the questioning back on Jackson. “So, why does a handsome young man like you need to pay for sex. Don’t you have any girlfriends who’ll satisfy your needs for nothing?”
“Not as many as you might imagine, and the relationships usually get rather complicated. Mostly my fault, I have to admit.”
“That’s a shame, Jacko.”
“You and I seem to have something in common: we both have difficulty with heterosexual relationships.”
“Seems like it,” she agrees with a smile.
“Do you enjoy your sex with me, Zareena?”
She laughs. “What sort of naive question is that? The important question is ‘do I give you sexual satisfaction’?”
“Of course, otherwise I wouldn’t be asking for you every time.”
“Good. Well, that’s it then, isn’t it! You get your satisfaction and I get your money. It’s a business deal, Jackson, but in your case, a pleasant one that suits both parties.”
Jackson is amused by Zareena’s frankness and decides that he should not press her further. Anyway, Yassin is due about now to take him and Pete to the bureau. He offers to drop Zareena off at the university, but she doesn’t want to be seen to be arriving in a 4x4 plastered with BBC and Press signs. He agrees, on reflection, that it would be best if they weren’t seen together, at least not by her university friends or his colleagues. They arrange to leave the building separately, Zareena departing first. Jackson waits for a minute, then catches the lift to the foyer. Pete is waiting downstairs for him, wearing a “I’m a wave rider from Surfer’s Paradise” T-shirt and carrying his camera.
“Hey, Jacko, did you see that tasty sheila leaving just now?”
“What ‘tasty sheila’?”
“You know, the tall dark-haired good-looking one in the jeans and sweat shirt?”
“Nope. Didn’t see her.”
“Well, I think she came from your floor, so it might be worth checking her out.”
“Oh, she’s probably just visiting one of the other tenants.”
Yassin is waiting downstairs as arranged. Jackson gets in the front seat and Pete in the back. As the car accelerates, Jackson notes that despite his outwardly-chirpy manner, Pete looks very ragged.
“Long night, was it, Pete?”
“No, not really. My lady friend and I did the business, had a drink and a bit of a chat and then I went home early.”
“So why are you looking as though you’ve been through a spin drier?”
“I kept having terrible nightmares. Suicide bombers kept running at me and blowing themselves up. I felt like my feet were nailed to the ground, and I kept being covered in blood and guts. It was just like watching a horror video on a loop.”
“Mmm. Not nice, but at least it was just a nightmare and not for real.”
“It sure felt fucking real, mate! Anyway, how was your night?”
“Oh, it was okay. I slept well. I think I got everything out of my system earlier in the day.”
“Lucky you,” says Pete.
******
Mack, Farouk and Samira are already at the bureau when Jackson, Pete and Yassin arrive. The morning editorial conference is over and Mack and Farouk are editing a TV package while Samira is checking budget spreadsheets on her computer.
“Morning, boys,” says Mack, full of good cheer as he turns to study Jackson and Pete. “Well, Jacko, you look much improved this morning, so that’s good. But I can’t say the same for our Aussie mate. You look well done in, Pete! Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” he replies without conviction. “Just overdid it a bit last night with my lady friend, if you get my drift.”
“Understood, young man. I hope she was grateful for all the attention you gave her.”
“It was mutually appreciated, I believe,” he says with a weak grin, being careful to avoid eye contact with Jackson.
“By the way,” asks Mack as an afterthought, “what does this friend of yours do when she’s not shagging you?”
“She’s the personal assistant to one of the British bank chiefs here.”
“Will she be able to give you any inside information?”
“Only in a very general sense, boss, but she tells me the bank is getting a bit nervous about the way things are going here.”
“Well, let us know if this n
ervousness shows signs of turning into panic. Meanwhile, today should be fairly quiet for you on the filming front. London wants Jacko and me to spend a bit of time sniffing around the traps for any insider guidance on the situation here.”
Samira remembers something. “Oh, Jacko, I nearly forgot. Your beloved mother phoned just before you arrived.”
“Hell! What’d she want?”
“She said to tell you that she’d sent you some nice new shirts and trousers to replace those ruined in the bombing. Oh, and there’ll also be a selection of half a dozen silk ties for you to wear.”
“Bloody hell!”
Samira breaks into a broad grin. “Only kidding. The shirts and trousers are true, but I made up the bit about the ties.”
“You stirrer!” he shouts, throwing a screwed up sheet of paper at her. She laughs and so does he.
Mack comes out of his office and announces that he has been invited to a briefing lunch with the American ambassador, Andrew Costello. He turns to Samira. “Fancy a free lunch, young lady?”
“What today?”
“Yes, today. With the ambassador.”
“Why would he want me to go along?”
“Oh, you caught his attention at that cocktail party you went to a couple of weeks ago.”
Samira is surprised. “I’m a bit busy, but I could go, I suppose. Always good to have an ‘in’ with a senior diplomat. If Yassin will drop me home I’ll change into a dress and tart myself up a little.”
“Yes, a pretty dress would be good.”
Samira understands the sexual sub-text, then says, “But what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Look at you! I’m not going out for lunch with any old scruff!” she laughs.
“I’m okay,” he insists.
“No you’re not! Go upstairs and get Joan to tidy you up. You’ll need a properly-ironed shirt and trousers, a clean tie and a nice jacket without any cigarette ash on it.”
Mack looks in the TV studio mirror and reluctantly agrees that he isn’t looking his smartest. “You’re a bossy thing,” he tells Samira with a grin as he leaves to go upstairs for the sartorial attentions of his wife.
The Mortal Maze Page 10