One Dirty Scot

by Donna Alam

  Slipping my hands from between his, I throw my arms around him as best as I can clasped into my seatbelt, and squeeze the living hell out of him.

  Chapter Twelve

  I’m so happy to be back, and arriving first class rocks!

  When I’d first arrived in Dubai, I’d had a twenty minute bus ride to the arrivals area because the airport is so large. This time around, it’s still huge—in fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if it had grown while I’ve been in Aus as things move so fast out here—but I’m stoked to avoid the bus. No hanging onto a pole, pushed up against some sweaty oik for me, as this time I’ve just a short stroll through one of those tunnel-y things from the plane straight into the brightly-lit terminal, escaping a trip on the crowded peasant wagon. Not that I have anything against buses, but my hair does. Or at least, it objects to being exposed to the evening humidity, which in Dubai can be a bit like wearing a hot, wet blanket, I’ve found. So by the time Kai and I get to the security checkpoint, my clothes are clean because my airline pyjamas bore the brunt of my sloppiness, my hair is behaving nicely—because, no bus—and I smell as fresh as a daisy, thanks to the first-class showers, instead of smelling like last week’s socks.

  Next stop, immigration. Fast-tracked, of course.

  I glance over at the rows of people queuing at the adjoining desks, trying not to feel too smug that I don’t have to wait in any of those massive lines. It’s gone midnight but the airport is still mega busy with flights arriving from all over the globe, at least judging by the myriad of nationalities waiting in lines snaking around red rope barriers.

  Two desks over, a couple about my age, backpackers by their appearance, are having a viciously whispered argument as they stand in line. It’s kind of funny that they haven’t realised how damned audible their hissing is.

  ‘I only said—’

  With a roll of her eyes, the girl answers. ‘I know what you said, Justin. And if it wasn’t funny at Changi Airport, it’s not gonna be funny here.’

  ‘Ah, come on,’ Justin replies with a cadence that leads me to believe he’s more than half pissed. ‘Alls I said was d’ya think they’ll let me through security with these guns!’

  Flexing his biceps earns him an elbow in the ribs and a hissed, ‘Do you wanna get arrested?’ along with a ‘Shut the fuck up!’

  As the girl catches my gaze, I turn away to hide my smile, feeling it physically slip from my face as I notice, for the first time, a change in tone from Kai. Beyond his pleasantly delivered greeting of As’salaam Alaikum, I hadn’t understood the conversation, given I don’t speak Arabic, so I’d zoned out to people watch. But as my attention returns, his tenor is unmistakable: he’s the other kind of pissed.

  At Kai’s guttural utterances, the immigration guy, an Emirati in national dress, holds out his hands, the tone of his answer placating as he gestures to his computer screen.

  ‘What’s wrong? Is his terminal not working?’

  Kai doesn’t answer me beyond the tersely delivered command. ‘Wait.’

  My eyebrows now sit somewhere in my hairline but I refrain saying anything. Until we’re alone, at least.

  With a flurry of words, the man grabs our passports, and opening the door to the cubicle, he slides from behind his counter. Hang on, he doesn’t take our passports. Just mine.

  ‘Hey.’ I tug Kai’s sleeve. ‘What’s going on? And don’t give me any of your high-handed shushing, all right?’

  He turns with a frown. ‘Seems there’s something wrong with your visa.’

  ‘Nobody said anything on the way out?’ I reply questioningly. My passport was scanned without comment at that point. Kai replies with a vague gesture, barely a distracted half shrug. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. Look, here comes the organ grinder.’ So denoted by his officious swagger and gaudy uniform.

  Kai laughs, covering it with a tactic cough as the immigration guy and his boss approach. It is an old fashioned idiom, the organ grinder and his monkey, but I didn’t think it was that funny. On second thought, judging by the tone of his outburst and the tickled look he has on his face, I’ll bet he thought I meant something entirely else.

  I can only think of one other inference for organ, so that much is obvious. But grinder? Oh. Yes, well.

  Seriously, what is he, twelve?

  Looks like we’ve disturbed this organ grinder’s dinner, judging by the crumbs his neatly clipped beard has accrued. Going on appearances alone, the immigration guy looks to be the senior of the pair, his clean cut countenance and gleaming kandura robe giving him the appearance of elegance, especially as his boss begins pushing his shirt into his pants. But no, it’s clear from the exchange who’s the boss. The senior guy takes my passport, and leaning over the counter, begins poking the keyboard with one pudgy finger.

  ‘Can’t imagine anyone grinding their organ over him,’ I whisper, hiding my mouth behind Kai’s arm. ‘Anyway, how come you find something smutty in everything?’

  Kai coughs again, this time to cover a harshly expelled laugh. Turning to look at me he answers with a smile. ‘Must be the company I keep.’

  His smile doesn’t last long, however, as he turns back and begins to show signs of becoming seriously irate. Not having learned the key to the Arabic language during the last five minutes, I still don’t understand, but there’s no doubt he’s on the verge of doing his block. Big time.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask, as he turns with an air of frustration. The expression on his face startles me because as well as irate, he’s clearly concerned.

  ‘Your visa has been cancelled and there’s a block on your return to the country.’

  ‘What?’ I swallow thickly. Surely there’s some misunderstanding, or maybe I’ve misunderstood? ‘What did I do?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all, as far as anyone can tell.’ He shoves one hand roughly through his hair. ‘This has happened while we’ve been away. It must be a mistake.’

  ‘Who are you trying to convince more? Me or you?’

  ‘I—I don’t want to jump to conclusions that are as yet unfounded, but if this proves not to be some kind of administration error, then I don’t think we need to wrack our brains to guess who’s responsible.’ He presses his lips together, his mouth a little more than a harsh line across his face.

  Fear slithers into my gut, my happiness at returning dissolved by just the suggestion of him.

  Faris.

  ‘You think—’

  ‘I don’t think anything. Not yet, at least.’

  I’m stopped from asking what we’re going to do, when the head of the immigration team, as he himself informs me in—yikes—perfect English, requests I accompany him into a nearby room.

  ‘Go,’ Kai tells me. ‘You’ll be fine. It’s best that you wait in there.’

  The side room’s interior is grey and sterile and not particularly heartening. Its harsh appearance, coupled by my separation from Kai, makes me feel like a fugitive. And very worried. I haven’t long to wait until I’m joined by another villainous person, this one almost man-handled into the room by a female security guard. Tall and solidly build, the guard’s hair is concealed by a navy hijab scarf, colour coordinated with the rest of her long-skirted uniform. Taking up a position by the door, she appears to consider her tiny charge to be a flight risk, judging by the way her eyes are trained on her. But then I see it isn’t a her, but rather a them. As the woman brings the covering of her bright blue sari from over her head, she reveals an infant clad in pink. One teeny hand and roly-poly wrist decorated by a slim gold bangle, shoots from the sari’s covering, shortly followed by the rest of her person, as she tumbles from her mother’s knee to her feet on the floor. Jet black hair, cow-licked and standing at odd angles, compliment the largest brown eyes I have ever seen.

  She’s cute, and she knows it as she begins toddling around the room, singing and babbling. Even the security guard thaws, crouching to her level and exchanging a lolly she produces from her pocket for a kiss. Next, those delicious
ly fat little legs bring her to me, where she holds out her hand, whispering, ‘Slalikum.’

  ‘Hello, sweetie.’ I take her tiny hand in mine. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Aisha, madim,’ her mother answers for her as the little girl toddles away. ‘Madim, you are needing hosmaid?’

  ‘I’m sorry? A h-housemaid, did you say?’

  ‘Aiwa, I am being berry good hosmaid,’ she answers proudly.

  ‘You are also not having a visa,’ interjects the security guard. ‘Or a passport.’

  ‘La, I have,’ she replies hotly. ‘You already take!’

  ‘Yes, because it is your sister’s passport,’ the guard answers with an exasperated air.

  ‘Sister,’ the tiny sari-lady addresses the guard, rather than repeats, because there’s a lot of that out here; addressing strangers as sister or brother. Presumably relations in humanity, though I’ve had to bite my tongue a few times from answering I so don’t remember seeing them at the dinner table growing up. ‘Sister,’ she repeats, throwing her hands wide. ‘My sister is dead!’

  The pair begin to hotly debate the validity of travelling on a dead relative’s passport in a mixture of broken English, Arabic and Urdu. The sari lady complaining passports are too much experience—expensive, would be my guess—to waste on a dead sister. But the interaction is much to the oblivion of the little girl, who begins flooding the tray of the water cooler in the corner, watching with fascination as the water streams down the plastic and runs onto the floor.

  The door opens, and my hopes of being released rise. But no such luck, as half a dozen Asian women are ushered in. A gaudily coloured bunch, and I’d like to say they resemble birds of paradise, instead of hookers from Bangkok but . . . if the slutty clothes fit?

  The noise is truly cacophonous; the women complaining, arguing, and bitching, and just generally talking over the top of each other. But as the new arrivals are ushered further into the room, the guard catches my eye, gesturing me to leave.

  Thanks be to fuck.

  Outside stands a weary looking Kai. I place my hand in his and he pulls me against his chest. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Is it sorted? Was it an admin thing?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’re free to go, but there are some provisos. For now.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning, can it wait for discussion until tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh, okay. I thought for a minute they’d be issuing me an orange jump-suit, and I’m too girly to go to jail, Kai. I’d end up being somebody’s bitch.’

  Walking hand-in-hand, we’re each lost in our own thoughts until I realise we’re almost at the airport exit.

  ‘Stop! We’ve missed baggage reclai—’

  ‘Bags are to be delivered. I think we’ve had enough hassle for one day.’

  Outside, Kai’s Mercedes town car waits, along with Rashid. Opening the rear door, he reaches for our carry-on bags.

  ‘Mr. Khalfan. Madam. Welcome home.’

  ‘It’s Mrs. Khalfan, you’ll be pleased to learn, Rashid. Kate did me the honour of marrying me.’ Kai slides into the car without waiting for his response.

  ‘My felicitations to you both.’

  As I follow Kai into the car, I wonder about Rashid’s reply; devoid of emotion.

  ‘Well, he’s hardly stoked,’ I murmur, fastening my belt.

  ‘Stoked?’

  ‘Happy for us. You know, congrats!’

  ‘I rather think it’s that he’s not pleased to be the first to know.’

  ‘You mean you haven’t called ahead?’

  ‘No,’ he replies taking my hand and placing it on his knee. He covers it with his own. ‘I’ll deliver the news tomorrow. Personally.’

  ‘So don’t want to be a fly on that wall.’

  Must be catching, as Kai’s laugh is without humour as Rashid pulls into the road.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I don’t ask where we’re going or where home will be from now on. One thing I am certain of is that it won’t be in the hotel. Better not be, anyway.

  It’s the early hours of the morning and yet the roads in Dubai aren’t quiet at all. We pass through the city, that oasis of chrome and glass, and I watch as familiar landmarks pass by: Burj Khalifa towering in the sky, the Marina, familiar shopping malls, the metro, and still we drive. The passing landscape becomes less lofty, the residential districts less green and more spread out, rather than statuesque. Then we pull up at a familiar set of gates. Wall mounted cameras swing in the cars direction and then the gates to the Khalfan estate open slowly.

  We’re going to Kai’s house. His home. The place I’ve never visited, but long wondered about.

  Though there may be a number of houses situated here, as I recall Kai once mentioning, you’d be hard pushed to tell. Each residence is set back from the sand-coloured road and obscured by palms and other greenery. I think we drive past Mishael’s house, but in the dark it’s hard to tell.

  ‘Is that where your mum lives?’ I lay my finger against the cool glass, pointing to the vague suggestion of a building, shrouded by the darkness though somehow still familiar.

  Kai lifts his head from the headrest with a jerk. He shakes it as though he could shake off his tiredness by sheer will. A tall order, considering every time I lifted my sleepy lids during our flight, he was awake.

  ‘Yes. She’s just over from me. Us, I mean.’

  Us. The newlyweds.

  ‘How many houses are there here?’

  ‘Never counted them,’ he answers through a stifled yawn. ‘A few, I suppose.’

  ‘I thought they were all family?’

  ‘They are, but it keeps expanding. Marriages, you know?’

  I nod that I do, even though I don’t. Multiple marriages? I’ll never understand the need for more than one wife. When we’d argued about our wedding contract, I recall the overwhelming desire to deck him, to land him one square on the jaw. He’d pointed out he’d included a clause forbidding him from taking subsequent wives on the pain of instant divorce. Pain of losing his balls, more like, because that’s what I’d’ve done. It had been the final straw, but now that we’re here, in the land of such rights, I feel reassured. Almost. Will there be a lot of that going on amongst Kai’s family? Feck, how do you keep up with multiple wives on a social side? Hope there won’t be a lot of strange women and their sister wives popping in to borrow sugar anytime soon.

  The car begins to slow alongside a stone-coloured wall, and I realise there’s not really an architectural theme running through the estate. Mishael’s house is what I’d call Moorish-Mediterranean as far as style is concerned, though I’m not sure you’d find the term in the Architectural Digest. Surrounded by an intricate and handsome wrought iron fence, the house is complete with colonnades and arches, yet somehow still appears welcoming.

  Kai’s house is über modern, from what I can see beyond the white, high wall surrounding it; thick, solid and impenetrable. It says stay away, keep out. Visitors are unwelcome here.

  We pull up in front of an opaque glass gate, Kai telling Rashid we’ll go in through the front.

  The car pulls away as Kai pushes on a steel coloured handle, the gate, which seems more like a door now we’re in front of it, opening slowly. He turns swiftly, swooping down and putting one hand behind my knees, then I’m in his arms.

  ‘I’m too heavy, you arse! I’ll break your back!’

  ‘Nonsense. And it’s customary to carry the bride over the threshold.’

  ‘I’d prefer you to retain the use of your spine.’

  Beyond the open gate is a timber walkway over a trough of water, floodlit from beneath the waterline. A large urn, almost as tall as me, stands in front of a screen of bamboo. The front yard has a tropical feel, but is very structured. Antique looking doors, the type you’d expect to find in a temple or the home of some Indian Raj, are seemingly unlocked, as Kai carries me inside.

  The entrance hall is dark, illuminated only by a light from somewhere i
n the depths of the house. There’s an art-deco inlaid table in the centre of the square, marbled floor and a very grand staircase leading to the next floor.

  Kai bends and my feet touch the floor.

  ‘Do you mind if we do the grand tour tomorrow?’

  ‘S’fine,’ I say, yawning. ‘Lead the way to your boudoir, milord, but can I have a bottle of water, please?’ One never drinks it from the taps; you can almost taste the salt in it out here.

  His face in response is half smile, half disconcerted frown. ‘You can have whatever you want. This is as much your home as it is mine now. Come on.’ He takes my hand and leads me to the staircase, stopping on the bottom step, sensing my reluctance. ‘There’s a wet-bar upstairs.’

  Of course there is.

  The wet-bar turns out to be part of a snug upstairs living area. Squishy sofas that look like they’ve never felt the pressure of a bum sit in front of a cream shaggy rug with a massive TV hanging from the wall. Behind the lounge area, there’s a tiny round basin set in granite, a small stainless steel fridge and accompanying wine cooler underneath.

  Kai hands me a bottle of water, and taking my hand, leads me further along the corridor.

  ‘This is us.’

  Beyond another set of double timber doors is a massive bedroom, luxurious enough to challenge any hotel. Neutral shades—mainly whites and greys—give the room a tranquil feel, but it’s also a bit sterile and impersonal. An off-white rug covers almost the entire floor, and standing in the middle of the room is a modern take on a four-poster bed. It’s covered with pale coloured coordinated bedding and stacked high with pillows, cushions and bolsters. It must be a pain to make every day. The walls are a textured grey, and an upholstered bench sits at the end of the bed matching low slung chairs in front of floor to ceiling window.

  Kai walks further into the room, opening another set of doors that lead into a dressing area that should come with its own post-code. But he doesn’t stop there, passing the rows of colour co-ordinated clothes to yet another set of double doors and a bathroom beyond. Quelle supris, it’s also mahoosive: a glass-walled shower almost the size of half a netball court. Okay, maybe a teensy exaggeration, but it is very big. An oversized claw-foot bath stands in one corner in front of a marble fireplace. Very out of place. Who needs a fireplace in Dubai? The walls are covered in a mosaic of neutral tiles, mirrors above a double vanity, and more doors leading to the toilet and bidet.