‘She’s gone,’ Ruth shouted. ‘She’s gone – Noor’s taken Anna!’
8
Noor could not believe it when she answered the door and Ruth was there, and Farid, brazen, asking her to look after Anna. She looked from one to the other and thought what a laugh they must have had at her expense. Stupid Noor, they’d say. Poor stupid, ugly Noor. She doesn’t even know what’s right before her eyes. And the way Ruth insisted: for an hour, she said, only for an hour – as if that made things better, as if Noor had no idea what sordid things the two of them were planning on doing. She almost slammed the door in their face. She almost spat at their feet, or swore, or told them what she really thought of them. But then: All right, she found herself saying, without even knowing that she was going to say it. All right, I’ll take Anna.
Anna was pleased to see her. She ran to her, jumped up at her, covered her face in sloppy kisses, stroked at her hair. She lifted Anna up and they stood on the Armstrongs’ doorstep, watching Farid’s car pull away. When it had left the compound, Noor turned quickly and went back inside. Bile was spilling up from her stomach – she could feel it, burning her chest, the bitter taste of it in the back of her throat. She made it to the bathroom and retched over the toilet. Nothing came out – there was nothing to come out, only acrid, acidic saliva. Little Anna beside her was big-eyed with concern: she kept trying to hug Noor better. Noor sat back, her head spinning, her mouth slimy and foul. Anna scrambled onto Noor’s lap and patted her cheeks. Noor hugged her, tight. Little Anna was so soft, and warm. So loving. All Noor’s fantasies of going to Ireland and living in Ireland came flooding back. She would have looked after Anna, brushed her hair each night and sat over her until she went to sleep, told her stories and sung her songs. She would have taught her how to read and walked her to school each day, baked with her, been like a mother and a sister. And instead, all Anna had to look forward to was a cheating mother, a lying, cheating, two-faced, hypocritical mother who probably wouldn’t think twice about packing her off to boarding school so she could run around having affairs left, right and centre. Anna did not deserve that. Ruth did not deserve Anna.
Suddenly, without even thinking about it, almost without knowing what she was doing, Noor was on her feet and in Anna’s room, gathering up clothes and toys. Anna capered after her, laughing: she thought it was a new sort of game. They went through the villa room by room, gathering things they might need. There was no plan to it, no forethought. Noor realised they would need a bag and she ran back to her villa to find a holdall, stuffed it with handfuls of her things: T-shirts and jeans, a washbag, her diary. Then she went to the safe and took all the currency she could find, US dollars and GB pounds, thanking her lucky stars that it was Sampaguita’s half-day. She ran back to the Armstrongs’. The maids were packing up and leaving: she suddenly panicked that they would realise what she was doing, but they barely acknowledged her. They were used to her coming and going with Anna. She shoved and pummelled Anna’s things into the holdall and zipped it closed. Last thing was to write a note for Ruth: she ripped a page from her diary and scribbled on it, her hand shaking so much she could hardly keep hold of the pen. She left the note where Ruth would be sure to see it, as soon as she and Farid returned. Then she strapped Anna’s sandals on and heaved the holdall over her shoulder. Nobody must see them leaving the compound: the sentry would be sure to stop them. But that was not a problem: there was the back alleyway. It gave her a grim, bitter satisfaction using the same underhand way that Farid used to get in and out of the villa. She had to lift Anna over the dustbins, and over the little walls dividing each villa, but Anna still thought it was a game. They waited at the end of the passageway, crouching metres from the sentry box, until she was sure the man was looking the other way. She picked Anna up and they ran for it, clumsily, Anna’s legs kicking and the holdall bumping against her back. And they had made it. There they were, out on the highway – they had done it!
She had no idea where they were going. It was just happening, so suddenly, without any time to think anything through. She put Anna down and started to walk. Left, there was nothing but the six-lane highway, so they turned right in the direction of the cold store. After only a few metres Anna started grizzling. She wanted to be carried. Noor rearranged the holdall and heaved Anna up onto the other hip. It made for slow progress. Anna played with her hair and kicked and the holdall kept slipping; she had to put Anna down, adjust the straps of the bag, then pick Anna up again. And it was hot: almost thirty degrees, with the midday sun glaring down. By the time they reached the cold store, Noor was sweating and her legs were trembling. She went inside: the cool of the air con and the shade was a relief. Anna started running about, colliding with racks of potato chips and pretzels, and screamed when Noor tried to catch her and make her stay still. Noor bribed her with an ice cream – using up a few precious fils – and Anna promptly dribbled it down her dress and blew messy raspberries over Noor’s T-shirt. Noor saw the owner of the cold store looking at them. They made an unlikely couple, she realised: the Arab-looking girl with the little blonde toddler.
‘Anna,’ she said, in best, poshest voice, ‘thank heavens your mummy will be collecting us soon. You look such a mess. She’ll think I’m a terrible nanny and it’ll all be your fault.’
Two men and a woman were looking at them now, as well as the cold-store owner. She felt her face burning and tried to seem oblivious.
‘I really’ – raihlly – ‘don’t want to get the sack on my first week, Anna,’ she said, loudly. Then she cursed herself, realised that she’d said Anna’s name, twice. People were sure to remember them now. She had to get out of here, fast. She turned her back on the people watching, so they could not see her face, written with panic. In front of her was the magazine rack, and she pretended to be studying the imported glossies, her mind racing. One of them, a travel magazine, had a Gulf hotels special. And suddenly she had an idea. She took out her mobile phone and, moving into a corner where nobody was in earshot, rang the number of one of the taxi firms advertised in the window – one that accepted American dollars.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said, still in her best tones. ‘I would like a driver for’ – she cast about wildly for an address, then settled on the street address and the name of the cold store – ‘going to a hotel in downtown Manama, please.’
‘Yes, Ma’am. Which hotel, Ma’am?’ the operator asked.
‘The—’ She racked her brains for the names of hotels. ‘The Ritz-Carlton, if you please.’
‘The Ritz-Carlton. Which Ritz-Carlton would that be, please?’
‘Which Ritz-Carlton?’
‘Yes, Ma’am. The Ritz-Carlton Seef District, the Ritz-Carlton Manama, the Ritz-Carlton Hotel and Spa—’
‘That one,’ she chose at random.
‘The Ritz-Carlton Hotel and Spa?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right, Ma’am.’
‘And please be quick, my niece’ – she looked quickly around again, to make sure nobody had overheard – ‘is very tired and needs to get back for her nap.’
She hung up, then wandered back within earshot of the cashier. ‘Yes,’ she said, pretending still to be talking to someone. ‘You’re sending a car for us, you say? That’s wonderful, we’ll wait right here.’
She was making an awful hash of it, she realised. She almost decided to go back, then and there – before Ruth could return and find them gone. But then the thought of what Ruth was probably doing, right now, with Farid, stiffened her resolve again.
The car came within a few minutes. If the driver was surprised to see how young his passengers were, he did not show it: he was well-practised in prudence and tact. A Gulf taxi firm had to cultivate a reputation of utter discretion if it wished to retain the custom of clients who might not wish their journeys – to where and with whom – to be observed and remembered. That, at least, was on her side.
He drove them through Manama, and to the ‘Hotel Strip’ – a highway along
the north coast where the city’s most exclusive hotels were situated. His meter was ticking at an alarming rate. Noor did the currency conversion in her head and worked out that this trip alone was using up most of her stolen dollars. But it was too late to turn back. The driver pulled up at the front of the Ritz-Carlton, she handed over the bulk of her money, and liveried bellboys came to open the door and help her out. They, too, masked any surprise they might have felt at seeing Noor and Anna. One of them lifted her holdall, but she wrested it back from him: as soon as he asked what room she wished it to be taken to, she would be found out.
‘We’re, uh, just going to—’ she mumbled, seized Anna’s hand and walked quickly away from the main entrance. She soon realised there was nowhere else for them to go, no other way into the building. She thought about just marching confidently in – but staff were sure to stop her and ask what room, what name. She wondered if they could try to tag along with another family – but someone was sure to notice them. Her mind was whirling. She was feeling sick again, as if she might throw up, any minute, into the sculpted bushes or flower strips. And Anna was lagging behind, dragging her feet, pouting and threatening to burst into tears.
Her mobile started ringing. It was Ruth. Ruth Armstrong, Ruth Armstrong flashed up on the screen. Noor froze. She couldn’t say she had just gone on an excursion because of the bag of clothes – and the money stolen, and the letter. The letter. She had written it in such a fit of rage, she could hardly remember what she had said in it. The phone stopped ringing, and immediately started again. Ruth Armstrong, Ruth Armstrong. She could answer, confess. But then she imagined what her father would say, imagined trying to explain to her mother, hysterical and furious on the phone. It was too late to go back. Ruth Armstrong, Ruth Armstrong. She pressed the button to reject the call, and turned her phone completely off. They could still track phones, though, even if they were turned off – couldn’t they? She looked around to see if anybody was watching, then dropped the mobile into a flower bed, right beside a sprinkler valve. She nudged it in under the flowers with her toe. Then she turned, picked up Anna and the bag, and made her way as quickly as she could out of the hotel grounds. At the exit, she turned left – towards the city, away from the sea. Anna started crying, thrashing out and drumming her fists against Noor’s back.
‘Please,’ Noor begged, and then, for the first time ever, she shouted at Anna. ‘Shut up. Shut up or I’ll give you a reason to cry.’ Anna stopped, momentarily, stared at Noor, then started howling again, twice as loud as before. Noor thought she might burst into tears herself. ‘Please, Anna. Please!’
But Anna would not be soothed, now. She writhed and kicked until Noor was forced to let her go, and she lay on the sidewalk, red-faced, convulsed with sobs.
‘Come on, Anna-pet. Come on, Anna-banana,’ Noor pleaded, trying all the pet names she had ever heard Ruth or Euan use. ‘Come on, wee love.’ But none of it was any good. Anna screamed until Noor was sure that one of the passing cars was bound to slow down, stop, and ask what was going on. But none of them did: and slowly, Anna’s tantrum blew itself out. Her screams turned to sobs, her sobs to whimpers, and finally she let Noor pick her up again, and lay limp across Noor’s shoulder. It was almost three o’clock, now. Noor was covered in dust and sweat, exhaust fumes from the cars. And she was suddenly terrified that Anna would be seized with heatstroke. They needed to get inside. She tramped along the strip until they came to the turn-off for the next hotel along. This time, she took the risk of walking straight into the lobby. When a bellboy came up to her, Noor said, with as much dignity as she could manage, ‘We’re meeting my uncle for afternoon tea.’ The bellboy looked dubious, but he pointed Noor in the direction of the restaurant. She walked through, pretended to be searching for someone. By now, the waitress had seen them, and she could feel the bellboy still watching. There was nowhere to hide. She stopped, tried to think. Nearby, two middle-aged men were eating plates of sandwiches and bowls of soup. The smell of food made her feel faint. She had not eaten, she realised, not at all, in more than twenty-four hours. She scrabbled for her purse and counted her dinar and fils. There was not much, but there was enough for a sandwich. She found a secluded banquette and sat down, letting Anna slump across her lap, and without even waiting for the menu she ordered a plain cheese and tomato sandwich and a Diet Coke. She could not tell if the waitress was looking at them suspiciously or not, so she made a point of strewing her dinars on the table and saying, ‘I’d better not eat too much, our uncle is taking us out for dinner tonight.’
The waitress stared and smiled a smile Noor knew to be fake.
‘Can I have your room number, please?’ she said.
‘Oh, we’re not guests here,’ Noor said. ‘We’re staying – we’re staying at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel and Spa, just down the road. But we’re meeting my uncle, my cousin’s father, here later on, he’s resident but I don’t know which room.’ She felt herself start to gabble. But the waitress did not ask any more questions. The sandwich came, garnished with crisps and parsley, and she savoured every salty, fatty mouthful. It was the most she had eaten in days. She could feel her stomach start to curl up in protest at the sudden influx of food. She eked it out as long as she could. Anna fell asleep, breathing hot, fast little breaths into her lap. She did not want to move, did not want to wake Anna and risk another scene. But the waitress was watching them, and she saw her conversing with another waitress, both looking in their direction. They might call the police, she thought, and then she would be arrested for kidnap.
Kidnap. She realised, in a panic, that was what she had done. She had kidnapped Anna. That was a crime: she could be thrown in jail for that. She stood up, bumping Anna’s head and waking her. Anna was white-faced and sleepy, a dead weight. She picked her up – it took both arms – and managed to get her left arm through the straps of the holdall. She left the restaurant, with all of her dinar still on the table. She had almost nothing, now. A few dollars, a few useless pounds – that was all. A group of businessmen were getting into a lift and she followed them in. They were English. One of them asked her a question – what was she doing, was that her baby? – designed to make the others laugh. She stared blankly back at him and spoke a few words in Arabic, hoping that Anna was still too sleepy to start babbling in English. The businessmen got out at the third floor. Noor pressed the button for the fifth, at random, and the lift went on up. When she got out, the corridor was deserted, but for a cleaning trolley. She wondered if they could slip into an empty room, stay there. But all the rooms were locked, except for the one the maids were making up. She walked round the corridor – it was shaped like a horseshoe, with the lifts in the middle of the curve – and back again. She heard voices, and ducked into the staircase, went down a floor. But the voices followed – they were in the stairwell, too – and she had to hurry down another floor, and another. Right at the bottom the stairs led to a corridor with toilets, male, female and disabled, and a baby-changing room. She went into the baby-changing room and closed the door behind them. It was a small room, with a changing mat folded against one wall and an armchair against the other, a sink and toilet sectioned off at the back. It had a door that locked with a bolt. She slid the bolt across and sank down, shaking. Her arms were almost dead from carrying both Anna and the bag. Anna wriggled, and started to whimper. It was cold in the baby-changing room. She made a nest for Anna out of all their clothes, and as they both curled up in it, Noor wondered how on earth there could ever, ever be any way back.
9
The villa is Peter’s gloomy dungeon, the darkness his chains. She is lost; there is no hope; her child is gone from her. That night, she knows hell.
*
At first, Farid had been calm. ‘She is a silly girl,’ he said, ‘a silly, silly girl.’
‘You don’t think it’s malicious, then? You don’t think—’ Her words, mind, would not continue.
‘I think she found out about us and flew into a rage, no more. She can’t hav
e gone far. We’ll find her.’
They searched the villa, room by room, then went across to the al-Husayns’. But it was closed and its front door locked. They knocked and knocked, but no one answered.
‘She could be in there, hiding,’ Farid said. But Ruth knew she was not.
They searched the compound, the swimming pool and tennis court, the alleyways behind the villas. But it could have been dead, a ghost town, as uninhabited as one of the traditional villages she had seen with Farid, where reconstructions of old-style houses gathered dust, the only people in them plaster, frozen blank-faced in imagined or approximated tasks. They questioned the sentry-man, but he swore he had not seen anyone go in or out. This meant nothing, Ruth thought bitterly. They had evaded him themselves countless times, thinking themselves clever, resourceful. Now it was coming back to mock them.
‘Well,’ Farid said, ‘she can’t have gone far. We’ll get in the car and go looking for her.’
‘But – what if she comes back?’
He shrugged. ‘We’ll leave her a note.’
On the back of some pages ripped from Euan’s notebook, Ruth wrote, in large capital letters: NOOR – ALL IS FORGIVEN. RING ME. RUTH. Her hand shook as she wrote forgiven. They propped one page up on the telephone table, by the door, where Noor had left hers, then pinned another to their front door and a third to the door of the al-Husayns’. NOOR – ALL IS FORGIVEN. RING ME. RUTH.
It was only then it occurred to her.
‘Farid!’ she said. ‘We’re being so stupid – we’re not thinking straight. We can try ringing her. Maybe she’ll pick up, and we can get through to her!’
The Meeting Point Page 22