Strangers

by Carla Banks

  ‘Damien? It’s Amy.’

  He sat up. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Wrong? Nothing. I needed to talk to you.’

  A wash of exasperation flooded over him, followed by an unwelcome warmth. ‘Amy, for God’s sake–it’s four a.m. If you wanted to talk, we had plenty of time this evening.’ He’d only gone to the party because she’d asked him to, but she’d arrived late, and then been edgy and evasive, so he’d left.

  ‘I didn’t…I’m sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  It sounded almost as if she was crying. She never cried. ‘Amy? What is it?’

  There was silence at the other end of the phone, and when she spoke again, her voice sounded firmer. ‘Nothing. It’s just…I came across a part of my past last night. Damien, when did Roisin Gardner arrive? What’s she doing here?’

  His mind tangled as he tried to make sense of what she was saying. ‘Roisin Gardner? I don’t know of a Roisin Gardner.’ Amy must be talking about Roisin Massey, but he wanted to know more about this before he gave her the information.

  He heard the impatient catch in her breath. ‘Roisin whatever she’s called these days. I used to know her, years ago.’

  ‘Amy, is four in the morning the right time to talk about this?’

  Her laugh was edgy and he heard the sound of a lighter clicking. He could hear her sigh as she exhaled. ‘I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what time it was. I was sitting up watching the moon. It’s very bright tonight. Have you seen it?’

  Pale light was streaming through the ornate window screens. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It made me think about that night in the desert. Do you remember?’ Her voice didn’t sound calculated or seductive, it just sounded sad.

  ‘Of course I do.’ He could hear her breathing on the other end of the line. ‘Amy, why would I forget?’

  He could still hear the sadness in her voice, hear the slight shake that told him she wasn’t completely in control of her emotions. This wasn’t the Amy he knew. ‘Sometimes I hate this place,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I can’t wait to go home. But the trouble is, I don’t know where home is any more.’

  ‘Where do you think of when you dream about home?’ For Damien, that was Riyadh. The other dreams, he preferred to forget.

  ‘England,’ she said. ‘The North East. I grew up in Newcastle.’

  ‘Maybe that’s where you need to go.’

  ‘The place I dream about?’ She laughed. ‘It doesn’t exist, not now.’

  There was silence. When Amy spoke again, her voice was brisker. ‘I was curious about Roisin–we used to be good friends, more years ago than I like to admit. I let her down badly. I’ve been sitting here thinking about her. And watching the moon. I want to contact her.’

  He sighed. ‘It could have waited until morning. She’s out at al-Haidah, on the north side.’

  ‘Miles away. And the number?’

  ‘I don’t have the number, but she’ll be in the book. It’s Massey, by the way. Roisin Massey.’

  There was a beat of silence. ‘She’s married to Joe Massey?’

  He waited.

  ‘OK, I’ve got that. Thank you, Damien.’

  ‘Goodnight, Amy.’

  ‘Goodnight, my love.’ She put the phone down.

  …My moment with you now is ending…The words of the song ran through his mind. He wondered where that had come from. He didn’t want to think about Amy, but he couldn’t get her out of his head: the moon in the desert sky, her face on the pillow, flushed and warm, the feel of her body under his hands.

  Amy.

  He had had his life all sorted out before she came on the scene; the relationships he embarked on always carried the seeds of their own ending, relationships with women who were married, or women who were leaving the Kingdom soon, relationships where no future could be planned or intended. He had been called heartless, he had been called a bastard, but the nature of the attachment had been on the table from the first. But with Amy…sometimes it felt as though they were both edging towards the precipice of a commitment that neither of them seemed to welcome.

  He pushed his mind away from things he didn’t want to think about, and let the events of the evening before run through his mind: his unsatisfactory talk with Joe Massey that had been cut short abruptly when Massey had left him to join his wife. Haroun Patel is dead, Massey had said. That’s the end of the story as far as I’m concerned.

  There would be no more sleep tonight.

  He sat at the window watching the moon set. The light on the stone turned it silver like sand. He stayed at the window until the call for Fajh, the prayer between the beginning of dawn and sunrise, came from the minaret, and the night, one among the thousand and one, came to a close.

  And then Aboulhusn the sleeper woke up.

  18

  Amy lived in one of the characterless apartment blocks crowded behind the wall of an ex-pat compound. Damien always thought that it must be like this to live under a witness-protection programme, a flat that had been occupied by a hundred transient inhabitants who had left no trace behind them. He wondered sometimes why she didn’t move somewhere more attractive. She’d been in the Kingdom for over two years, long enough to have made some decent money, but she always shrugged the suggestion off. ‘Why should I pay extra money for rent? This is good enough. What more do I want?’

  He’d been surprised when she’d called him a couple of hours ago, asking him to come round and see her. ‘I need to talk to you,’ she’d said, but so far, talking hadn’t come into it.

  He lay back on the bed watching the sky through the dimness of the nets. Amy’s hair was fanned out across his chest and he could feel the steady beating of her heart. The moments after sex were some of the best when the antagonism that sparked between them was satiated and quiescent. He remained there for a while, enjoying the silence, then he checked his watch. ‘I’ll need to go soon,’ he said.

  Amy sat up, stretching. She had been uncharacteristically subdued, and he could see the troubled expression come back to her face as she returned to reality. He felt her eyes on him as he came back from the shower and began pulling on his clothes. He didn’t say anything. She would talk to him when she was ready. If she was ready.

  ‘Damien, there’s something I have to tell you.’

  He looked at her, buttoning his shirt. ‘I know. What is it?’

  She wrapped the sheet round herself and got out of bed, then came and stood close to him by the window, letting the light that was diffused by the nets fall across her. ‘I don’t want to say this.’

  ‘But you’re going to.’

  ‘Yes. This…thing we have, this…’

  ‘Relationship,’ he said. ‘It’s called a relationship, Amy.’

  ‘Relationship, then. It can’t go on. We have to finish it.’

  Of all the things he had expected, it wasn’t this. A stab of pain, shocking in its intensity, silenced him for a moment, then quick, angry responses jumped to his lips. He suppressed them and kept his voice even as he said, ‘I see. Do I get to know why?’

  ‘Because we’re bad for each other. You know that.’

  ‘I don’t know anything of…Amy, if you want to end it, then do it. But tell me why. Don’t play games.’

  ‘But we are bad for each other. That’s what I mean. I do this all the time–I get into destructive relationships and I let them take me over, then it all goes wrong. It’s got to stop. It has to. I know where this will end, otherwise. We don’t care about each other, not really. It’s about sex. About…Christ, face it, Damien: it’s all about fucking.’

  ‘Is that what this was, Amy? Just fucking?’

  It wasn’t, and they both knew it. Her eyes moved away from his. ‘I don’t know. I just know we aren’t going anywhere. When we aren’t fucking, we fight.’

  That was true. He and Amy were like opposite poles. As soon as they were together, the sparks, edgy and dangerous, started to flicker and arc. He met her gaze and held it. ‘I thou
ght that was fore-play.’

  Her face flushed and softened. ‘Stop it, Damien. Please. This is difficult for me. I don’t want to do this, but I can’t go on with it. I just can’t.’ It was the nearest thing to a plea he’d ever heard from her.

  ‘It could be different.’

  ‘It couldn’t. Not here.’

  He looked at her in frustration. He was angry with himself for letting this happen, for not realizing soon enough what was in her mind. ‘Does this have anything to do with seeing Roisin Massey?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Yes…maybe. I don’t know. It reminded me about things…There are things about my life I have to change. Maybe Roisin made me see that. I’m going on leave soon. I need to think some things through. I want to spend some time with my family. With my sister. I’ve let all of that go. I’m…’

  She’d never talked about her family before, never mentioned a sister. ‘It sounds like more than just a holiday.’

  ‘It is. It’s going to be a time to get things sorted out in my head. I need to decide what to do next. Don’t you see, Damien? I don’t know anything at the moment. It’s all…’ She shook her head and stopped speaking.

  He didn’t know if she was right or not. His thoughts about her were always tied to her physical presence–her touch, her smell, the feel of her body, and these were things he didn’t want to lose. ‘You have to choose, Amy,’ he said. ‘I don’t want this.’

  ‘I know.’ Her eyes searched his face, but whatever she was looking for, she didn’t find it. ‘I had to say it, now, or I wouldn’t have been able to.’ A single track of moisture glittered on her cheek. A tear, from Amy?

  He touched his fingers to the trace, then put them to his lips. His eyes didn’t leave hers. ‘Then this is goodbye?’ he said…. my love, good night. My moment with you now is ended…

  She nodded.

  There was nothing else to say. He could feel her eyes on him as he left the room, and when he reached his car, he looked up to see her watching from the window. He raised his hand in salutation, and after a moment she raised hers in return.

  When Roisin woke, the sun was bright. The light stabbed through the blinds, making her eyes ache. Joe’s side of the bed was empty. He had got up quietly and left without disturbing her, and she had no idea when he would be back.

  They’d had–not exactly a row. Joe didn’t row. He just withdrew behind a bleak, cold wall that she couldn’t break down. He wouldn’t tell her why he didn’t want her to contact Amy. ‘She sounds like bad news,’ was all he’d say. And later, ‘Christ, Roisin, leave it. Contact her if you want to. I need to get to bed.’

  She’d spent the night in an exhausting half-sleep in which Joe and Amy were running together along the canal tow path, getting further and further away while she struggled to free Shadow from something that lurked in the darkness of the undergrowth. Then Amy was in the lock, calling out in words that Roisin couldn’t hear as the gush of water dragged her under. I can’t hear you! And Joe, beside her, said, Sounds like bad news…

  She’d planned to do an extra day at work, but she felt so weary, she decided to stay at home. She made herself clear up the kitchen and clean the house, but these chores weren’t absorbing enough to engage her mind.

  Needing something to distract her, she went up to the study to download the assignments the students had been working on. She logged on to the university site, but instead of downloading the students’ work, she went on to the discussion forum. Damien O’Neill had been quick with his questions when she’d asked him about a possible women’s movement in the Kingdom. He’d been more relaxed when she’d told him that her interest had arisen from the online forum, which was partly true. One student at least was posting arguments in favour of reform for women in the Kingdom, a student who posted under the pseudonym Red Rose.

  But when she logged on to the discussion boards, she saw that all the threads that had originated in postings from Red Rose had been tagged with a sealed letter sign: This topic is now closed. She tried the link, but she could no longer get access to them. So much for the new openness.

  She posted an article about teenagers and junk food that she’d told her students to look out for, then began downloading the work for marking. Most of the students had completed the assignment, but not Najia, which was odd. Najia was usually meticulous about deadlines.

  The marking took her over an hour, then she began to plan her classes for the following week. It was peaceful working in her study. The window looked out over the garden, and she found herself drifting away from work and watching the birds that came down for the crumbs she put out every morning.

  Amy. She had to decide what to do about Amy. Or did she need to do anything? They’d seen each other at a party. She had no idea what Amy was doing out here, where she lived. Her name was Seymour now, which meant she must be married, maybe had children. It was sixteen years since they’d last seen each other. Did they even want to meet again?

  The phone rang, interrupting her chain of thought. She picked it up. ‘Roisin Massey.’

  It was one of Joe’s colleagues, wanting Joe’s direct line at the hospital. Roisin could never remember it. She rummaged round in the desk drawer but she couldn’t find her address book. ‘I’ll call you back,’ she said, and pulled Joe’s work folder out of the filing cabinet. Her fingers slipped, and the papers spilled across the desk and on to the floor.

  She swore, and crouched down to pick them up, but they were hopelessly disordered. She scooped them up and was about to try sorting through them, when she heard the door bell. She wasn’t expecting anyone.

  Dumping the papers on the desk, she ran downstairs and opened the door. A tall woman stood there, her face shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat. She was wearing jeans and sandals. Her eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. ‘Hi,’ she said. Her voice sounded uncertain. She lowered her glasses, and for a dizzy moment, Roisin felt as though she had stepped back sixteen years.

  It was Amy.

  The silence seemed to go on for ever, then Roisin found her voice. ‘Amy!’ She stood back from the door. ‘I hardly recognized you. Please, come in.’

  ‘I didn’t know if you’d want to see me.’ And now this new Amy looked uncertain as she followed Roisin into the low-ceilinged living room. She ignored Roisin’s invitation to sit, and walked slowly across the room to one of the photographs on the wall. Roisin had taken it in Newcastle years ago, the River Tyne from the iron bridge, a study in shades of grey, the heavy girders making dark lines across the mist that rose from the water. The only colour was the faint glimmer from a warehouse sign. Amy looked at her. ‘I remember that.’

  ‘So do I.’ The warehouse had provided a venue for raves when they were both younger. ‘It’s a wine bar now.’

  ‘No, I mean the photograph–I was there when you took it. That day on the high bridge–do you remember? That was when we decided to go to Europe together.’

  ‘I remember.’ For years after Amy had gone, Roisin had missed her with a painful intensity, first with puzzlement, then with anxiety, and later, much later, with a kind of bewildered anger that had no clear focus–towards the authorities for refusing to look for her, towards Amy for not being there. She had vanished completely.

  Roisin realized she had been staring at Amy in silence. ‘Coffee?’ she said. Her voice sounded brittle.

  ‘I thought…’ Amy bit her lip then delved into the bag she was carrying. She brought out a bottle. Roisin was amazed to see it was champagne, genuine French champagne. ‘I brought you this. If you threw me out, I was going to give it to you as a kind of sorry-welcome-goodbye present. If we’re going to talk, maybe we could have a glass.’ Before Roisin could say anything, Amy went on quickly, ‘Of course, coffee would be fine, if that’s what you…Roisin, listen. All I want to do is say sorry. I did a dreadful thing to you. I made all sorts of promises, and then I let you down. I’ve wanted to say that for years, but I was too ashamed of myself to get in touch.’ Her voice died away and s
he watched Roisin anxiously.

  Roisin felt a thousand responses in her mind. Among the confusion of emotions, the only one she could identify clearly was gladness–Amy was here, Amy was back. ‘I just wish you had–got in touch, I mean–I didn’t know what had happened to you. I thought you were…’ She felt her throat thicken and shrugged angrily. Those emotions belonged to yesterday. They looked at each other in silence. Amy’s eyes were suspiciously shiny. Roisin forced a smile. ‘Champagne. I don’t know when I’ll taste that again. I’ll get some glasses.’

  ‘Good.’ Amy placed the champagne bottle carefully on the table.

  Roisin escaped to the kitchen, which gave her a moment to collect herself. This was Amy, on her doorstep after all these years. She told herself that she didn’t know the elegant, sophisticated woman who was standing in her living room. Amy had been a teenager when she last saw her. They were both different people now.

  When she came back into the room with glasses, Amy had picked up the small framed photograph that stood on the coffee table and was studying it. ‘Is this your wedding?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. We got married just before we came out here.’ She could remember looking up as the petals showered down, Joe’s hand in hers as they stood there laughing. She could still feel the touch of his fingers as he gently disentangled a petal from her hair. She touched the wedding ring that hung slightly loose on her finger. It was engraved round the outside in a fine script: Joe∼Roisin, and around the inside with a phrase from a poem that they had chosen to read at the ceremony: ‘Western Wind’…It was a fragment of a love poem that dated back to the seventeenth century:

  O western wind, when wilt thou blow?