by Susan Lewis
Pausing as a pool attendant rolled a parasol past her, she felt suddenly inexplicably uncomfortable and began to wish that she’d brought a robe or sarong with her. As it was she wore only a bikini with a hotel towel draped over one shoulder. It was unusual for her to feel self-concious, but for some reason, as she approached the edge of the pool and dropped her towel on an empty lounger, she felt oddly disturbed by the scrutiny of her fellow bathers. It seemed furtive, almost voyeuristic, as though she and they were at opposite ends of a peep show. She glanced up and it was as though an invisible magnet suddenly tugged a hundred pairs of eyes in the opposite direction.
Frowning curiously and wondering why she should feel so absurdly conspicuous, she was about to turn back when she noticed that one man had continued to stare at her. Not only that, he was astonishingly brazen in his admiration and obviously not in the least bit embarrassed to be discovered. He was sitting half a dozen or so loungers away, his elbows resting on his knees, the dark hair on his chest and arms clinging damply to his skin and a large nugget of gold dangling from a chain around his neck.
He had to be Italian or French, Rhiannon decided as she averted her eyes, for only the Latins stared so frankly and lecherously at a woman and expected to be esteemed for it. Except he hadn’t looked particularly lecherous, just friendly, she thought, and she was vaguely sorry that she’d been so horribly English in the way she had so abruptly turned away. But to glance back now would only encourage him and that she most certainly didn’t want to do. So, with the sun blazing relentlessly down on her, she stepped up to the edge of the pool, raised her arms above her head and made a perfect dive into the deep refreshingly cool water.
It was, of course, a totally insane thing to do and why she hadn’t realized it sooner would forever be a mystery to her, for against the force of the water her microscopic bikini quite simply didn’t stand a chance. It was only as the bottom tangled itself around her knees that she realized what had happened and as she went into an underwater wrestling routine to try dragging it back up over her legs, while attempting to keep herself from either sinking or surfacing, she could only watch in dismay as the strapless top drifted blithely out of reach.
Within seconds she was desperate for air so clutching her bikini bottom tightly she allowed herself to rise swiftly through the water when, to her horror, she felt something snap. A hip clasp had broken, meaning that her bikini bottom was now all but useless.
As she broke the surface, filling her lungs with air, the warmth of the sun was as nothing compared to the heat of her embarrassment. Keeping her eyes closed and trying to persuade herself that no one had noticed, she began a pathetic one-handed doggy paddle towards the edge of the pool. Oliver was never going to let her live this down, though she wished to God he were there now, for at least then she’d have someone to go in search of her top while she held on to the final shreds of her modesty.
There were only a handful of swimmers in the pool, none of whom appeared to be aware of her predicament. She was at the edge now, but the water was still too deep for her to touch the bottom, so she had no choice but to cling on to the tiled lip of the pool with one hand, while with the other she held her bikini bottom together. Having no idea how many people were watching and definitely not wanting to know, she began working her way towards the corner ladder. When she got there, with any luck she might be able to signal to someone to bring her towel to the steps. But of course no one was looking and everyone was deaf. She glanced helplessly up at the balcony to their suite, but there was no sign of Oliver and the man who’d been staring at her just now had transferred his interest to a book.
Faced with no alternative, she climbed awkwardly up the steps still pinning the two sides of her bikini bottom together with one hand while using the other to haul herself from the water. Her breasts, which were unquestionably ample anyway, felt enormous as she walked around the corner of the pool, past her admirer, and over to where she had left her towel. At least she thought she had left it there, but though her shoes and sun-glasses were still on the lounger the towel had vanished.
Groaning inwardly and torn between laughing and screaming, she slipped on her shoes and tried not to think about walking through the hotel bar, across reception to the lift and riding up to the second floor where no doubt an army of housekeeping staff would be waiting with well-trained averted eyes to wish her a good afternoon. This was worse than the nightmare of being found naked in Sainsbury’s.
‘Excuse, me. May I be of assistance?’
Rhiannon swung round to find her admirer standing behind her, a vaguely humorous smile in his eyes as he held up a towel.
‘Oh, yes, thank you,’ she said, forcing herself not to snatch it. ‘I don’t know what happened to mine. I know I left it here . . .’
‘The pool guy probably took it,’ he told her, smiling at her in a way that made her feel as self-conscious as it did appreciated. Though his voice was heavily accented, his English was perfect and Rhiannon was again struck by the friendliness of his smile.
‘Yes, I guess so,’ she said, wrapping the towel tightly around her. Then laughing she added, ‘I feel such a fool. Thanks for coming to my rescue.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he smiled. ‘Happy to oblige,’ and raising a hand in farewell he returned to his lounger and lay back down with his book.
It was quite some time after Rhiannon had disappeared inside that he picked up the phone beside him. When he finally made the connection he spoke into it quietly and sparingly. ‘Maguire’s sick,’ he said.
‘How sick?’
‘Nothing terminal.’
‘The girl?’
‘I’ve just met her.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Gone back to her room.’
‘Keep an eye on her. If Maguire’s sick she might go out alone. Did either of the Straussens arrive yet?’
‘Yes, first thing this morning.’
There was a pause, then the voice at the other end said, ‘Cosecha, amigo.’ Harvest time, my friend, and the line went dead.
‘Votre mari, il est malade?’ the guide asked Rhiannon, turning in the front seat of the taxi to look back at her.
‘Oui,’ she responded. ‘Malheureusement.’
‘What goes wrong with him?’
‘Tummy,’ she answered, patting her own.
The guide nodded gravely, then turned to the driver and began issuing a string of unintelligible commands as they swept out of La Mamounia’s drive. The driver merely nodded his head and smiled affably while steering his taxi off the main road and into a warren of cluttered streets. Clouds of dust billowed up from the caked earth as they passed, while tired and worn-looking donkeys trotted in front of the car, their eyes as forlorn as the dusky-faced children who sat carelessly on the roadside. Beggars riddled with flies crouched in doorways, their gnarled hands cupped for coins, their dark, leathery faces reflecting the years of poverty and pain.
As the taxi pressed on through the crowds heading for Djemma el Fna – the centre of the medina – Rhiannon gazed out of the window, both fascinated and appalled, as she watched the women in their shapeless gallabiyahs and variety of head-coverings going about their business. The heat was blistering, beating down on the russet walls of the town as though to set them alight. Wood carvings, silver jewellery, sizzling food, squawking livestock and a hundred other sights and smells spilled over the roadsides, while giant storks nested on the rooftops and the vibrant green of giant palms contrasted starkly with the arid streets and striking blue of the sky.
As she took it all in she wished Oliver were there to experience it too. She’d left him propped up in bed, a single fresh sheet covering him, a stack of newspapers and magazines within easy reach and the doctor’s number imprinted on his memory just in case.
He’d insisted he was feeling much better today and had almost come along, but at the last minute a sudden dizzy spell had persuaded him that his first jaunt out had better wait a while yet. ‘But don’t
be gone too long,’ he had told her. ‘And do as I said, get the concierge to find you a guide.’
Their parting kiss had been so lingering and provocative that she’d very nearly stayed, but seeing how pale he was and realizing that, though he might like to think otherwise, he was probably still not capable of much more than the thought, she had left. The concierge had eventually come up with Mohammed, a veritable giant of a man with a wide, gentle face and seven teeth – one for every day of the week, he had glibly informed her.
As they came to a halt in the midst of the teeming, seething crowds of Djemma el Fna, Rhiannon zipped up her belt-bag and strapped her camera securely across her body. Stepping out of the car, she looked around in amazement. The heat and the noise were incredible, as thousands upon thousands of people in bright, flowing gallabiyahs and brocaded headwear wove a path through the overladen stalls, passing by snake-charmers who were piping tunes for their reptiles; water-vendors who were jangling their bells and tourists who were wielding their cameras. Steam wafted from numerous kebab and couscous stalls, multi-coloured carpets hung from windows and walls, false-teeth sellers beckoned potential clients and monkeys hopped on to unsuspecting shoulders. There were endless bowls of snails and seafood, row upon row of dried sheep- and snake-skins, giant rocks of salt, whole families whizzing by on mopeds, a constant beat of drums . . . The diversity and splendour were indescribable, the atmosphere was like nothing she had ever experienced.
‘Hey!’ she cried as a monkey landed on her back and encircled her neck with its arms.
‘Photo, ma’am. Photo,’ the owner nodded eagerly, while tugging at her camera.
‘I take,’ Mohammed butted in, thrusting the monkey man aside and unhooking Rhiannon’s camera. ‘Give him five dirhams,’ he said when the picture was taken.
Rhiannon obliged, taking the coins from her pocket as she handed the monkey back.
‘You take drink, ma’am,’ a water-carrier insisted. ‘Hot day. You take drink.’
‘You need guide, ma’am? I good guide.’
‘You want carpet, ma’am? Come with me, I give you good price.’
Laughing and covering her ears, Rhiannon turned to Mohammed.
‘You go! All go,’ he shouted, shooing them away with his hands. ‘You follow me, ma’am. You stay with me. Don’t get lost. Souk is big place. Very crowded. You stay with me.’
In the heaving, pressing mass of humanity that churned through the souk it was almost impossible not to get lost, but somehow, as they wound their way through the sprawling network of lanes, Rhiannon managed to keep Mohammed in sight. Or, more accurately, he seemed to sense when she had been swallowed up by the crowd, or accosted by an exuberant salesman and came back to find her.
She had rarely seen such a riot of colour or known such an amalgam of smells. All around her, from the frayed bamboo ceilings, down to the straw-littered ground, there hung yard upon yard of gaily dyed thread, glittering gold slippers, hand-tooled leather bags, crimson gallabiyahs, copper pans, saffron-coloured scarves, gold, silver, turquoise and amber jewellery and sack upon bulging sack of herbs and spices in flavours and quantities that defied imagination. And the noise was tumultuous.
By the time they entered a dark, sour-smelling stairwell at the heart of the souk, Rhiannon had no idea where they were.
‘You meet my cousin,’ Mohammed told her, as she rounded a bend in the staircase ahead of him. ‘He good man. Honest man. He sell you carpet if you want one. Not if you don’t. He give you very good price because you friend.’
As he spoke, both he and Rhiannon were turning to look back down the stairs to where a woman in a blue gallabiyah was coming in through the door. Seeing them watching her, the woman bowed her head shyly and hesitated, waiting for them to move on, as though politeness forbade her to continue until they did.
Minutes later Rhiannon was flopping into a sumptuously cushioned couch in a room that contained mountains of rugs in every colour and size imaginable. Mohammed’s cousin, Rashid, was pouring mint tea from an ornate silver service and asking if she preferred kelim carpets, very new carpets or very special, very genuine antique carpets. Taking the gilt-edged glass of tea, Rhiannon looked around. Through the beaded curtain, in the next room, three teenage girls sat at a giant loom, weaving and knotting with their finely skilled hands, while small wiry men hefted and folded the rugs they had recently laid out for other buyers.
‘I come back in half an hour,’ Mohammed told her. ‘My cousin look after you. He make you good price.’
‘Just don’t forget me,’ Rhiannon responded, turning her face towards the whirling table-top fan beside her. ‘I’ll never find my way out of here without you and I’ll never be able to carry everything on my own.’
No sooner had she spoken than all her packages were laden on to one of Rashid’s young assistants who was instantly despatched to the Mamounia Hotel.
‘Now you are free to buy more,’ Mohammed grinned as the boy vanished down the stairs.
‘The carpet we ship,’ Rashid assured her. ‘Or maybe, like Cleopatra, we roll you up and deliver you to your husband in it.’
Rhiannon’s eyebrows arched at the unexpected humour; it was a response that seemed to delight both Rashid and Mohammed as, giggling like schoolboys, they bade each other farewell and Mohammed took himself off.
Half an hour later Rhiannon was still mulling over her decision. Rashid’s workers looked tired and bored and the teenage girls at the loom had long since disappeared. Rashid himself was seated on a short three-legged stool beside the couch, maintaining a limitless spiel and mint tea. Ending up choosing something she didn’t really want, simply because it was impossible to say no to this man, Rhiannon handed over her credit card and waited while he went off downstairs.
A while later she glanced at her watch. Rashid’s workers had left the unfolded rugs where they were and disappeared along with their boss. The looms in the next room had been abandoned a while ago and it was some time since she’d heard other tourists passing through. The cacophonous bustle of the souk outside was incessant, though muted by the windowless walls and deep insulation of the densely piled rugs. A musky incense was burning in a clay pot beside her and the discarded tea glasses sat cold and smeary on the small glass table.
Frowning, she looked at her watch again, then getting up from the couch she fixed her visor back on her head and pulling aside the beaded curtain wandered across the deserted workshop to the stairs. She hadn’t noticed the thick steel door on her way up, probably because it had been open then. Now it was closed, sealing the only exit to the stairs.
Her heart gave a twist of unease. Why on earth would the door be closed? Surely they hadn’t gone home and forgotten about her.
There was no handle on the door, no way at all of moving it. She looked around the room with its silent shadows, high slit windows and abandoned loom. The beaded curtain swayed in a current of air from the fan. A thin spiral of smoke rose from an incense stick on a shelf beside her. Her only companions were the shapeless piles of rugs, clustered around the walls. Everything seemed suddenly odd in a way she was finding very hard to define.
Turning back to the door, she was about to call out when the single overhead bulb went off, plunging the room into darkness. A quick fear pulsed in her heart and reaching out to search for a switch, her hand hit the incense pot, sending it crashing to the floor. She looked down at the red glow, then hurriedly extinguished it with her foot. Her hand was on her heart, as though to smother the unease. Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness, but there was nothing to see, nothing to hear.
‘Rashid!’ she called. ‘Rashid! Are you there?’
She spun round. The door was moving. The solid bulk of steel was inching slowly towards her. She rushed to it, thrusting her hands into the gap and pulling.
‘Oh thank God,’ she gasped as a man stepped into the room. ‘I thought I was going to be here . . .’ She stopped as another man came in behind him.
Rhiannon stared at the
m, her eyes wide with confusion as she instinctively backed away. ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘What do you want? I don’t have any money.’
The first man moved towards her, reaching for her. Her heart thudded with terror as she raised her arms to defend herself. ‘I told you,’ she cried, ‘I don’t have any money. Rashid took my . . .’ She gasped as her arms were wrenched behind her, almost snapping the bones. Then a fist smashed into her face, bringing the blood spurting from her mouth and nose. Pain and terror rendered her speechless, as the grip on her arms tightened and her head was jerked back by her hair. Then her head was thrust suddenly forward as her legs were kicked out from under her. The grip on her arms stopped her falling, the pain was worse than anything she’d ever known.
‘Please,’ she sobbed. ‘Just tell me what you want.’
Her head was yanked back and she saw a woman standing in the shadows.
‘Please,’ she whispered, tears and blood mingling on her face. The woman stared through the slit in her veil, then lowering her eyes she turned and left the room.
Rhiannon didn’t even see the blow coming. All she knew was the terrible blinding pain as it exploded through her head and the slump of her body to the ground as she was swamped by darkness.
When the knock came on the door, Oliver was dozing. An open magazine was slipping from his lap and a CNN report from Somalia was playing quietly on the TV. Down by the pool the string quartet had finished for the day and early evening cocktails were being served in Le Bar du Soleil.
Unsure what the tapping was, Oliver inhaled deeply and blinked open his eyes. The double doors to the bedroom were open giving him a clear view of the sitting-room, and hearing a key turn in the lock and the call of ‘room service’, he quickly pulled the sheet back over his legs.