She had nightmares and twice she awoke screaming. She rose to make herself coffee, switching on all the lights and hurrying apprehensively past dark corners. She attended church on Sunday for the first time in ages, and after the service, sat praying that her actions would have no serious consequences.
She spent the afternoon weeding the garden and deadheading the roses, which was normally a task she enjoyed, but even the bright sunshine couldn’t pierce the gloom weighing her down. She went to bed early and again she had nightmares.
Kirsty arrived back on the Monday, found Alan’s letter and spent a long time reading it again and again. She then finished her own letter to him and posted it at the local post office. She prepared tea for them both, then hearing Claire’s key in the lock, she went to the lounge.
When they saw each other they both started talking trying to apologise, and ended up giggling.
“I’m sorry for all the bad feeling towards Alan,” Claire managed to say. I’ll accept him and try to be friends.
Kirsty, surprised, then suddenly sympathetic, confessed, “Alan didn’t really dump you for me I met him before he knew you.” Claire’s eyebrows rose. Kirsty continued dreamily. “I’ve loved him ever since I was twelve.”
Claire was puzzled. As far as she knew, Alan had spent his school days in Edinburgh and had only come to Dundee recently. Kirsty had rarely been to Edinburgh, except for occasional shopping trips.
“When did you meet him?” she asked.
Kirsty smiled. “Remember the hockey match in Edinburgh?”
Claire searched her memory. And suddenly it came back to her, Kirsty standing wide-eyed, looking after a fair-haired youth in a green blazer and the youth turning to smile. She recognised a younger version of Alan. At that point, all her resentment of him vanished. For although she had never admitted it to herself, her antipathy towards Alan rose from a sense of unfairness that she’d spent the best years of her life caring for Kirsty, and now men preferred Kirsty to her. Dread and remorse warred inside her as if vying to see which could cause the greatest pain.
A shocking realisation trickled into her mind. Kirsty and Alan were meant for each other, and she had interfered.
She sank onto the settee, took a few deep breaths then asked, “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
Kirsty reminded her. “You were so against him, every time I mentioned his name you flared up.”
She thought of the letter and wondered if she should confess. No! Kirsty would go mad, and with a war on, maybe Alan was on his way home now. Anyway, if he did get the letter he would get the second one soon after. She was subdued at tea and went to bed early but didn’t get to sleep until the early hours of the morning.
Over the next few weeks Kirsty followed the events in the Gulf with a sense of unreality. On the ninth of August Iraq closed its borders and it was announced that its “foreign guests” would not be allowed to leave. On August the twenty-third, Stuart Lockwood a seven-year-old frightened British boy appeared on Iraqi television with Saddam ruffling his hair. Tens of thousands of Egyptians, Indians and Pakistanis fled through Jordan. International aid was requested, with pictures of huge tented towns in the desert, and refugees fighting for water. She worried.
During the days following the invasion of Kuwait, the research in the marshes went on very much as usual, but when the members of the party gathered together in the evening, there was a quietness and a growing feeling of tension. Most of them had radios, so they could follow the unfolding events and the comments of the Middle East experts. The British contingent were particularly worried by the news of the seizure of thirty-five British servicemen in Kuwait and the British promise to send Jaguar and Tornado aircraft to defend Saudi Arabia in operation “Desert Shield.” The news of the closure of Iraq’s borders came as a shock.
They became anxious about their own position. Professor Suleman advised the group to sit tight and stay near the fort. As there could be few safer places in Iraq. They continued with their assigned tasks, in fact apart from sitting around in the fort worrying, there was not much else that they could do.
One evening, near the middle of August, they came back from the marshes to find that the army had taken over. They were told that the party was confined to the fort, “for their own safety.” When they got to their rooms they found that their possessions had been searched, but when they complained to Professor Suleman, and he took it up with the officer in charge, he was told in no uncertain terms, that the country was on a war footing, and the party were lucky that they were not being detained in camps near the airfields, to prevent attacks like other foreigners were. They were warned that if anyone left the fort without permission that his men had orders to shoot. The Iraqi students were told that they would be returned to Basra the next day.
That night, Warid and Umm were near to tears as they apologised to Alan and Dot for the behaviour of their countrymen. In the privacy of Alan’s room, Warid spoke quietly to Alan.
“You can use my mashhuf if you get the opportunity to venture into the marshes, and if you are in trouble you can find sanctuary in my village.”
He marked it on Alan’s map and impressed upon him the names of his father and brother who would help him if the need arose. They said their goodbyes there and then. Since they both knew that they wouldn’t have the opportunity the next day when the soldiers would be present and any show of friendship for foreigners might be noted.
The next morning, there were a few tearful faces as the sombre native students loaded their belongings into the rickety bus and were driven off. The members of the group settled into a routine of reading, playing cards, listening to the news on their radios, and watching the Iraqi broadcasts on the portable television in the meeting room. Professor Suleman did what he could to keep them supplied with books and essentials and drove out from Basra as often as he could.
Towards the end of August, he arrived with a batch of mail. Alan found there was a letter for himself and when he looked at the back and saw Kirsty’s name in block capitals, he was overjoyed. and so, his shock was magnified even more when puzzled as to why the envelope felt so thin. he opened it, unfolded the single sheet and read:
Dear Alan
I’m sorry but I’ve met someone else who is younger than you and I’ve fallen in love with him. Please don’t write again as I find your letters embarrassing. Kirsty.
He sank onto his bed to read the letter again and again, but he couldn’t take in the crushing news. His mind refused to accept it. He relived his memories of Kirsty, the softness of her body next to his, her eyes, her lips her very essence. He thought that he’d known her so well. There had to be some mistake! It just wasn’t possible! He read the letter again. But it was true. He felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. He felt sick. The question why? kept hammering in his mind. Had she decided that she didn’t want him? What was wrong with him? Had everything she’d said and done been a lie? He remembered their intimacy, their closeness. The breath-taking beauty of their lovemaking. No! it just wasn’t possible, if her love was a lie, then the whole universe was a lie. But he had the evidence in his hands. Why? Why? He wanted to feel pain. He wanted to beat his fists against the wall in despair. Then he remembered her softness and her eyes, her whispers of love. His thoughts swung backwards and forwards like a pendulum. Eventually his attempts at rational thinking broke down. He sat as if in a coma. Eventually feeling returned to him and for some reason the field in Glen Clova and Kirsty’s eyes. He felt a tearing inside himself and a terrible wrongness.
When Alan didn’t appear for dinner, Dot came to his room, and found him sitting on his bed staring vacantly into space. She gave him a shake. He slowly became aware of her, but didn’t speak. She noticed the letter and took it from his fingers and read it. She was appalled. What kind of a girl was this Kirsty? How could a girl with any feelings at all do something like this? She sat close to him, pulled his head to her shoulder and just held him. He didn’t speak but she knew by
his breathing and the occasional low moan that he was crying inside, the worst kind of crying.
“Don’t be ashamed Alan let it out,” she murmured.
He gave a slight shake of his head. Dot sat cramped from holding him. But not moving, until early in the morning when she felt the shaking stop. She found that he was asleep on her shoulder, so she pushed him flat on his bed, where he curled up like a baby. She took his shoes off, pulled a blanket over him, then sat next to him with a blanket around herself.
Her thoughts turned to her own broken romance. After Peter had left her, she’d looked on all men with suspicion, believing them to be uncaring, using women and then discarding them. Now she was seeing the other side of the coin. Here was a young man, a very special decent young man, who was deeply in love and had been discarded when his fiancé met someone else. She’d never seen a man break up like Alan. Men had feelings too! She’d known that but only with her head. She lay beside Alan on the bed, hugged him and stroked his hair. When Alan woke in the morning he was like a man dispossessed, and just wanted to sit in his room, so for the rest of the week Dot collected him and took him for his meals and for walks round the inside of the fort. Her heart bled for him. at the soul-deep hurt in his eyes.
He began to take notice of his surroundings towards the end of the week, even if he was only a shell of the old Alan, as if the spirit had gone from him. He spent most of his time in his room or on the roof terrace gazing into the distance.
At the end of August. it was announced on the radio that all women and children among the “foreign guests” were being allowed to leave. Dot wanted to stay but Andrew persuaded her that it was important that their government were informed about their predicament. Paul Moreau could not persuade Irene to go, despite any argument he used, she was adamant, telling him that her place was with him so immensely proud of her he gave in.
The rest of the party were busy that night, writing letters to their families and friends for Dot to take back. Farik was also being allowed to leave as he was a Jordanian and Jordan was one of the few countries still openly friendly to Iraq. He’d chosen to return to Britain. Rather than to his native Jordan so he would be accompanying Dot on the journey to the airport. Alan wrote a letter to his parents, telling them he was well and hoped to be released soon, and not to worry as he was in about the safest place he could be in Iraq. He tried to write a letter to Kirsty. He sat for hours, he didn’t know what to say. He wrote letter after letter tearing each one up in a spiral of despair. Eventually he settled on a short note.
On the roof terrace that evening he looked at all his photographs of Kirsty and to his demented mind it seemed that in every photograph, what he’d previously thought was a smile, was really a sneer. Sobbing, he tore each photograph into tiny pieces then watched. as the wind carried each fragment away. That wind, which he used to imagine whispered “Kirsty, Kirsty” lovingly to him, now seemed to mock him and carry faint jeering laughter to his ears. He took out the small plastic packet from his shirt pocket, pulled Kirsty’s lock of hair from inside, felt the texture and smelled the fresh scented fragrance of her that still lingered. The touch and the scent brought back all the memories of her that he cherished, and his grief burst out anew. He let the wind capture the hair, letting it escape from his fingers strand by strand. He watched each red-gold glimmer until it disappeared into the sun’s radiance and each strand that blew away seemed to take a precious memory with it.
He stopped. The thin circle of hair was all he had left of the girl he loved. All he would ever have now. He absently watched the play of colours, holding the hair up so that the sunlight played among the strands. He remembered Kirsty’s tears when she had given it to him. He curled the remaining hair into a circle, replaced it in the plastic packet and returned it to his shirt pocket then looked sightlessly across the marshes, remembering.
He was vaguely aware that Dot had come to sit beside him. She cradled his head on her shoulder and murmured words of comfort to him. But his eyes were directed inward to a part of him that was dying, as if all the most beautiful blossoms on the tree of his life had withered and were now lying mouldering at his feet. They sat and watched the blood red sun go down like a huge fiery ball, sinking into the marshes, and she was still there, comforting him when the sun rose the next morning. At last he stirred and kissed Dot on the lips.
“Thanks for staying with me Dot,” he sighed. She shook her head, her eyes moist. He gave her a tight smile. “I’ll be all right now. You’d better get ready to leave.”
She eyed him, wondering if she should leave him, there was something, a glimpse of darkness in his eyes. She almost changed her mind, but he smiled again and assured her that he was okay, and would say his goodbyes now. They had a long hug,
“Look after yourself Alan,” she pleaded.
“Phone me when you get home.”
She left, vowing she would visit Kirsty when she got back and tear her hair out.
Alan absently watched her go. He shook his head, sighed and took the packet from his shirt pocket. He held the lock of hair to his lips and remembered a young girl in plaits, with spindly legs looking up at him in adoration. He remembered Glen Clova and Kirsty running wild and free. Her flaming hair blowing in the wind. He remembered on the Tay Road Bridge, the taste of the strands of her hair in his mouth, the feel of her in his arms. He remembered …
Something inside him at last broke. An anguished moan forced itself through his lips fluttering the strands of hair. He stroked the red gold strands back into a circle, and slipped them back into the packet, and replaced it against his heart. He stood straight and proud, looking out across the marshes, smiling at his memories. At last he took a deep breath, turned and strode purposefully down the stairs then across the yard and out of the gates, ignoring the sentries. There was a flurry of shouting and a single rifle shot. Dot and the rest of the party rushed to the gates only to be held back by a hastily formed line of soldiers. They saw two officers holding Alan’s body by the arms, his bloody head hanging down between them, dragging him off with the toes of his sandals leaving a pair of furrows in the soft earth behind him.
Chapter 40
Claire sat bolt upright, her heart pounding. She looked at her bedside clock, it said four a.m. A moment later she heard a terrible long drawn out scream. She rushed to Kirsty’s room and found her sitting up, white faced, holding the side of her head and weeping uncontrollably. Claire held her close and waited for the crying to run its course. Kirsty between sobs, eventually managed to explain.
“Something’s happened to Alan, Claire, I think he’s dead.”
Claire gazed into the darkness of Kirsty’s dilated eyes. “Don’t be silly Kirsty, how could you possibly know that.”
But Kirsty was adamant. “I felt him take a terrible blow on the side of his head.”
“Even if he did, he could just have fallen and knocked himself out.”
Kirsty shook her head. “No, it’s more than that, I could feel Alan’s presence inside me even in Iraq but now he’s gone.”
Claire found this hard to believe but tried to reassure her sister. “There could be lots of reasons. Maybe he is unconscious or ill, or he might have had a bad dream, or maybe your pregnancy is affecting you.”
But Kirsty burst into a fresh storm of tears and wrapped her arms around Claire. “No! he’s dead, I know it. Oh! Claire what will I do, I can’t live without him.”
Claire stayed with Kirsty for what was left of the night, holding her and trying to reassure her. But all the time she was praying that the letter she’d sent to Alan didn’t have anything to do with Kirsty’s nightmare.
There was a near riot at the gates of the fort as the furious members of the party tried to push their way past the restraining soldiers despite being clubbed with rifle butts. It was only when reinforcements arrived and fired a volley into the air above their heads that calmer counsel prevailed, and they reluctantly retired to the meeting room to have a council of war.
They could get no information from the guards who cocked their weapons whenever they approached the gate or even when a sergeant flanked by two armed privates came to tell them that the transport for the two who were leaving had arrived. Dot was adamant that she would not leave until she heard what had happened to Alan. Farik didn’t want to leave either, but he was persuaded that the outside world needed to hear about what had happened. Reluctantly, he gathered his belongings and the bundle of letters to be posted, then miserably said his goodbyes to the rest of the group who gathered to wave, as he was driven off in an army Land Rover. The scientists felt impotent, held in the fort without access to any channel of complaint, except Dr. Suleman. When one of their party shouted that an army ambulance had arrived. They rushed up to the top floor and watched as Alan’s body was carried into the back on a stretcher. Dot took comfort from the way they carried the stretcher, hoping they might be taking the body to a hospital rather than a morgue. Later, when there was still no news. She admitted to herself it was a vain hope. It would be a miracle if someone shot in the head survived.
About noon, Professor Suleman arrived, and was horrified at what had happened. He stalked off to speak to the officer in charge. But came back a short time later saying that he could get no information, and left for Basra to take it up with higher authorities.
On Sunday the second of September, an Iraqi jumbo jet with two hundred women and children on board touched down at Heathrow airport, amid widespread television and media coverage. The inevitable interviews with weeping and angry wives and mothers clutching frightened children, told horrific tales of atrocities in Kuwait. Farik, who stayed in the plane until the excitement died down, was interviewed by foreign office officials. He told them all that he could about the members of the expedition and described how he’d seen Alan’s body being carried away by Iraqi soldiers. When he was released, he phoned Alan’s parents to tell them what he’d seen, stressing he didn’t know for sure how badly Alan had been hurt, but it looked as if he’d been shot in the head while trying to escape. After promising to visit as soon as he could, he posted all the letters then decided to return to Durham University.
Love Patterns Page 32