by Carla Banks
‘Yasmin has had her baby–a son.’
Roisin forgot about the lectures. Yasmin’s illness at the mall must have been the onset of labour. ‘A little boy? That’s wonderful. Is Yasmin all right? And the baby?’
‘Yasmin is well, but I believe the child is having some problems.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘The child was born healthy, but he seems to have become ill now. He was due to go home, but they are keeping him in the hospital. I have no more information. Yasmin should not have worked as long as she did. She was warned it could be dangerous.’
That was ridiculous. Yasmin was young and fit. ‘Will you let me know how they both are? When you hear?’
‘Yasmin is no longer my responsibility,’ the professor said. ‘It is a matter for her family.’
‘Is she in the hospital?’
‘Yasmin is home. The child is not.’
‘But if you have any news, let me know. I’d like to see her. And the baby.’ Before she left the mall, she’d bought a baby shawl, a drift of white cashmere, ridiculously expensive, that was now wrapped in tissue at the bottom of her wardrobe.
‘It is a matter for the family.’ Souad went to the door. ‘Lecture. Next week,’ she said.
Roisin watched her leave and turned back to her books. Souad wasn’t going to tell her anything. It didn’t matter. The students would let her know, or she could e-mail Najia.
She turned her mind to the problem of lectures.
‘Damien. It’s Amy.’
‘Amy,’ he said, keeping his voice level.
‘How are you?’ Her voice sounded thin and far away.
‘I’m fine. How are you?’
‘Fine. I just wanted to tell you, I’m leaving tonight.’
‘Leaving?’ He had no idea she’d been planning to leave. ‘For good?’
‘I’m not sure yet. I think so.’
‘Why? You never told me.’ But there was no reason why she should. He had no right to know about her plans, not any more.
‘I did,’ she said. ‘More or less. I told you I was getting my life sorted out.’
Then that was it. ‘I hope everything works out for you.’
‘Thank you.’ There was silence.
He couldn’t leave it there. ‘Amy, don’t you think you should have told me about Nazarian? Didn’t you owe me…didn’t we owe each other that much honesty?’
She was quiet for so long that he thought she must have put the phone down, then she said, ‘I was as honest as I could be. As honest as you’ve always been with me.’
As he’d always…‘Amy, I have never lied to you.’
‘No. You didn’t need to. You never told me anything.’
The truth of what she was saying silenced his objections. She was right. The habit of secrecy had always been strong in him. ‘I thought that what we had was enough.’
He heard her sigh. ‘That’s what I thought, too. But it wasn’t.’
‘And now…?’
‘And now I’m going. I’m leaving tonight. I want to be with my sister when she has her baby. I’ve taken a month’s leave, so there’s no need for me to work out my notice.’
They’d already said goodbye in all the ways that mattered, but…‘What time’s your plane? I’ll come to the airport to see you off.’
The brittle edge of her voice broke. ‘Will you? I’d…I’d like that.’
They’d say their final goodbyes in the chaos of the departures hall of Riyadh International Airport. Maybe it was the best place. In the meantime, there was work.
He had another meeting at the hospital. The management there seemed to think he could work miracles. He’d already told them: put up the incentives, or people won’t come. He pulled into the car park and was picking up his laptop from the back seat when he saw Majid. He was by his car, the key in his hand, staring into space. He looked as though he had been there for a while.
Damien slammed his car door shut and went across. He wanted to congratulate Majid on his recent fatherhood, but his greeting died in his throat when he saw Majid’s face. His jaw was clenched and tears were trickling down his cheeks.
‘Majid,’ he said.
Majid jumped and looked round as though he had forgotten where he was. Then he saw Damien. Damien put his arm round the other man’s shoulder, and held him in a quick embrace. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said, then, in Arabic, ‘You have troubles, my friend?’
‘I’m sorry. It’s not your trouble,’ Majid said.
‘My friend’s troubles are my troubles.’ The Arabic rituals of politeness were sincere and helped over difficult moments. Damien waited. It had to be Yasmin or the baby.
Majid stood in silence, trying to get his emotions under control, then he said, ‘Yasmin’s–our baby, he was born too soon. He is…’ His hands cupped themselves as if he was holding something fragile. ‘Perfect. Perfect.’ His gaze met Damien’s in baffled confusion. ‘But now they are saying…they do some blood tests–just routine, and then everything changes. This is wrong, that is wrong, nothing is well. So why didn’t they find it at once? Why did they wait? They moved him this morning to the ITU. They say, “This we will do, that we will do”…I am a policeman. I know when they are lying. They have done something wrong.’ His face twisted in grief. ‘I am afraid my son will die.’
Damien felt his throat tighten. ‘Majid,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’ He didn’t try and hide his own emotion. That wasn’t the way here.
Majid’s expression was bleak. ‘Yasmin…all these weeks she has been working.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘My mother says that our baby is ill because Yasmin didn’t take enough care. She wouldn’t go to the clinic. She went to work, she went to the mall, she saw her friends. My mother says it is Yasmin’s fault.’
Damien could remember the night he had seen the beautiful young face looking out of the window. ‘Majid, sometimes these things just happen. Sometimes it’s no one’s fault.’
‘A good wife and a good mother will always put her husband and her children first. Yasmin did not do this.’
Damien had seen this in Saudi families before–the mother held sway over her daughter-in-law, and the husband often listened to his mother before he listened to his wife. If the two were antagonistic, the daughter-in-law’s life could be hard. ‘Your son’s still here,’ he said. ‘He’s alive, he’s…perfect. You said he was perfect. Majid, he might be all right.’
Majid’s mouth tightened and he shook his head. ‘There is something wrong,’ he said. ‘I know it.’
24
Later that afternoon, Damien headed towards the hospital exit. He had been distracted through the meeting, his mind only half on what they had been discussing. He couldn’t get his conversation with Majid out of his mind. Majid’s insistence that there was something wrong, something odd or underhand going on, was making alarm bells ring in his head. He couldn’t ignore it. Majid was a policeman, he had an instinct for these things.
He needed to make some discreet enquiries. For a moment, he thought about asking Amy, but she was a professional to the bone. Even though she was leaving, she wouldn’t discuss details of a hospital case with him. He hesitated, thinking, then he followed the signs to the pathology department where he found one of the junior technicians, a man he knew, filling in report forms. Everything was quiet and orderly. This place had been chaos a few weeks before. Joe Massey had done a good job.
Damien and the technician exchanged greetings and the usual small talk. Damien wasn’t sure if this young man would do what he asked, but it was worth a try.
‘I’ve got a query about one of the infants in the neo-natal ITU,’ he said. ‘He was born earlier this week. He was moved to the ITU–this morning, I think. Apparently the blood tests came back showing there were problems. Can you give me some idea…?’
The technician looked puzzled. It was an odd thing for Damien to ask.
‘There’s just some potential for trouble. I’m covering my bases,’ Damien said. This
vague excuse seemed to work. The man’s face cleared.
‘What do you want to know?’ he said.
‘Just the reason for the concern–do they know what’s wrong with the child?’
‘Hang on.’ The man went and checked through a pile of reports in a document tray and pulled one out. ‘OK.’ He read through it, frowning slightly. ‘For some reason, the oxygen levels aren’t right. That suggests problems with the lungs, or the heart.’ He looked uncertain, and the alarm bells started ringing in Damien’s head.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘No…I can’t understand why they didn’t put the kid in an incubator at once. Problems like this don’t just…’ He was leafing through the papers. ‘The first set of results don’t seem to be—’ He stopped abruptly and put the report back into the folder. ‘Maybe you should talk to the consultant.’
‘Maybe I should.’ If someone had made a mistake, missed a serious health problem when the child was born, and as a result it died, then Majid would turn the hospital upside down in his search for the person who was responsible for the death of his son. He looked at the technician. ‘The child–is it going to survive?’
The technician shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I can’t answer that. I can call the senior pathologist for you. He could tell you better than I can.’
Joe Massey. ‘It’s OK. I’ll get on to him later. Thanks.’
Damien left, still unsatisfied. Majid’s story had disturbed him in more ways than simply his sadness for his friend’s looming tragedy. All his unease had found its focus at the hospital. It was at the hospital that Haroun Patel had been arrested. It was here that Joe Massey–or someone–had started stirring up the Patel case. It was here that Amy had started asking questions about things that were perhaps best left alone. And now Majid and Yasmin’s baby was seriously ill, and there was some indication that all wasn’t well in the laboratory. Damien had been able to complete the sentence the technician had started. The early reports on Majid’s baby, the ones that should have detected the problem immediately, were missing. Someone had made a mistake–a mistake that could have serious consequences–and the evidence had gone.
The problem filled his mind as he drove to the airport, and acted as some distraction when he put his arms round Amy for the last time. Her eyes were shiny with tears. ‘Goodbye, Damien. I’ll…miss you.’
He managed a smile. ‘I’ll miss you too.’
There was no sign of Nazarian. Whatever farewells she’d planned with him, they had already happened.
It was the weekend of the party. Roisin spent the whole of Thursday writing her lectures. She resented the task because Joe was at home–one of the first weekends he’d been able to take off. He didn’t seem to mind that they couldn’t do anything together. She could hear his music playing as he worked round the house. He brought her tea and fruit juice at regular intervals, and stayed to talk. ‘How are you doing?’ He leaned over her shoulder to have a look.
‘I’m nowhere. I’ll be at it for hours yet.’
‘Why bother? We’re leaving anyway.’
‘I know.’ But it was a matter of pride. She was a professional, and she was going to behave like one until she left. Joe understood. He was the same about his work. ‘I just wish this hadn’t come up.’
‘She’s protecting her turf.’
‘Right. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.’
The phone rang. ‘I’ll get it,’ Joe said. She heard his feet on the stairs, and his voice, ‘Joe Massey.’ She smiled as she turned back to her work. He was so different–it was as if the news from Melbourne had woken him from some dark place the Kingdom had taken him to. Suddenly he was the Joe she knew, the man she loved and had married.
She heard him coming back up the stairs. His footsteps were slow. ‘I’ve got to go into work,’ he said. ‘There’s a PM they want me to check.’ He made a reluctant face. ‘Great stuff for the weekend. Do you want to come in with me? I’ll be an hour. We could go for a walk round the market afterwards.’
‘I’ve got to get this finished.’ She stood up and stretched, and followed Joe into the bedroom where he was getting changed. He pulled off his shirt and threw it at the linen basket. It fell on to the floor. ‘Changed your mind?’ he said when he saw her standing there.
‘No. I just needed a break.’
‘Poor love. If I didn’t have to do this…Wait. I’ve got something to make you feel better.’ He rummaged in the wardrobe and came out with a small packet. ‘Here. I was going to give you these tonight.’
It was the first present he’d bought her for ages. She looked at him, and then she carefully unwrapped the package. Inside, there was a box and, when she opened it, she saw a pair of gold earrings with long, delicate chains.
She swept her hair up and held one of them against her face. The chains sparkled and glittered. Joe stood behind her as she turned her head, admiring the effect in the mirror. ‘Bling,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘I got them at the gold market. For tonight. It kind of felt right, you know?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Shit. I’d better go.’
She heard the door close and the sound of the car starting up and fading into the distance. She could hear the sounds of the weekend afternoon around her: children playing in the gardens, voices calling, laughter, the snip, snip of secateurs. She could smell the first smoke of the day’s barbecues.
She could be in her mother’s house on a Sunday in Newcastle listening to the neighbours. The TV would be on downstairs, and her mother would be clattering pots around in the kitchen and keeping up a vague, unfocused barrage of chat: Can I get you some tea, pet? Have you seen what they’ve done to the house on the corner? Did I tell you about…? You’ll never guess what…
Her fingers slowed on the keyboard and she let her mind drift. She was looking forward to showing Newcastle to Joe. He had never been there. It would be grey winter, but it didn’t matter. They could walk along the Tyne under the seven bridges. They could cross the gossamer arc of steel that was the Millennium Bridge to Gateshead. They could go to North Shields and watch the fishing boats bringing in the catch in the icy wind, then walk back along the river to the ferry eating fish and chips…
She’d lost her place again. She read through the notes she had been writing, and found she had no idea what she was doing. What had seemed like a good idea a couple of hours ago had faded into an irretrievable memory.
The phone rang. She picked it up, glad of the distraction. ‘Roisin Massey.’
‘Roisin, it’s Amy.’
‘Amy!’ She had been expecting this call since she’d left the message a few days before. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. I got your message.’
‘That’s OK. I wondered if you wanted to get together. There was something I was going to…’
‘That would be great, but listen, I’m not in Riyadh. I’m calling from Paris.’
‘Paris?’ A railway station, and Amy, hanging out of the train window as it pulled away, calling and calling…No wonder she hadn’t been able to make contact. ‘Is it your sister?’ She tried to remember the name. ‘Jassy?’
‘Yes. I left in a rush. The baby’s due any day. I wondered if–is Joe there? I wanted to ask him something.’
‘Joe? Is everything all right?’
‘Everything’s fine. It isn’t about Jassy. There was something at the hospital before I left. I just thought he might be able to…’
‘He’s at work. Do you want him to call you?’
‘No, it’s OK. I’ll try and get him at the hospital. Tell him I called.’
‘I will. When will you be back?’
There was silence for a moment. ‘I’m not sure,’ Amy said slowly. ‘I’ve got things to sort out. I’ll see after the baby’s born.’
‘You’ll be an aunt. Amy, I’m so glad for you. E-mail me lots of pictures. And we’ll celebrate when you get back.’
There was that same silence, then Amy s
aid, ‘I’ll do that. Listen, Roisin, I’ve got to go.’
‘OK. Keep in touch. Let me know how you get on–and don’t forget the photos.’
‘I won’t.’
The phone clicked into silence, leaving Roisin feeling unaccountably alone. She felt almost as if her only ally in the Kingdom had gone, which was crazy. And she hadn’t had a chance to ask Amy about Jesal, about where a runaway migrant worker might go if the police were looking for her. Maybe it didn’t matter now. Yasmin would have other things on her mind. She had her baby to worry about. But Roisin couldn’t forget the tension on Yasmin’s face as she had asked about the missing woman.
Unable to face doing any more work, she put her notes back in the proper files and the books on the shelves. There were papers piled up on the window sill gathering dust. She picked them up and flicked through them. They were the papers from Joe’s work file that she’d tipped out by accident the day Amy had turned up on the doorstep and had never got round to clearing up.
She tried to stack them so she could put them into a folder out of the way, bumping the edge of the pile against the desk to make the papers line up, but they were different sizes and refused to slip neatly into order.
Taking a few at a time, she started putting them away. She picked one up that had fallen on to the desk, her eye going over it automatically. She’d put it in the file before her brain registered what she had seen. She took it out again and looked at it more closely.
It was a photograph of Joe and another man. They were standing together by a car in a dusty landscape–somewhere on the edge of the desert by the looks of things–grinning triumphantly at the camera. The car bonnet was raised and Joe was holding up a piece of machinery–part of a car engine, maybe–in the manner of a hunter holding up a trophy.
It was a good photo, but that wasn’t what had caught her attention. The man with Joe, a small, dark man, looked very familiar. She stared at the photo for a moment, then went to the filing cabinet where Joe kept his papers. After a quick search, she found what she wanted: the newspaper cutting that had been in the case she’d unpacked, weeks ago.