I went into the dining room to tidy up after the séance. It had been instilled into me since childhood that one always left one’s home immaculate when going away, and now that it was fixed that we were leaving that very day I felt an irrational pang of guilt. When I looked round the room I saw that all I needed to do was rearrange the chairs and collect the fragments of glass scattered over the carpet. It was remarkable that there had been no serious injuries considering that we had been grouped round the table when the tumbler had gone off like a glass grenade. I found a heart-shaped piece of glass actually embedded in the wall and I left it there. Evidence, but for whom?
In the late afternoon we drove along the light-dappled lane and out into the warm landscape of hayfields, the still tender green of corn and here and there the sulphur squares of rape. After the check-in ritual at Gatwick Airport we were shepherded to the 707 with the courtesy one received before the boom in cheap air travel made it impractical. And once we were airborne we realized why. A stewardess in a long-skirted beige uniform and filmy headscarf hurried to us with a decorative bottle of Perrier-Jouet in an ice bucket.
‘We had a telex from a very important person in Abu Sabbah saying that you are his guests and must be treated as such,’ she explained as she poured the champagne into a pair of flute glasses.
‘I’ll travel on this airline again,’ Ashley said.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to,’ the Arab girl answered. ‘The only other way out of Abu Sabbah is by camel. Will you have a European supper or our special kebab dish?’
We settled for the kebabs, and by the time the meat arrived on its bed of spiced rice we were slightly euphoric with the wine.
‘It’s so good to be getting away for a while,’ Ashley said. ‘Although I love Whispering Corner, the stress there has been too much over the last few days. I was afraid you were on the way to a breakdown.’
‘I wasn’t that bad,’ I said defensively.
‘You didn’t hear yourself muttering in your sleep. But it was nothing to be ashamed of — what with the difficulties over the book, and the bank, and finally the spook invasion. It was a lot to carry alone.’
‘I never felt alone.’
‘Nor were you, my darling. But one thing I now realize about the haunting — it must have been much harder for you to accept the manifestations than someone with an open mind. Like a life-long atheist being suddenly confronted by a vision of Our Lady of Sorrows.’
‘Quite,’ I said, and let it go at that.
When the kebab trays had been removed and Ashley had drifted off on a tide of champagne bubbles, the stewardess returned with a sheaf of glossy magazines.
‘This is a very nice one,’ she said, proffering a copy of Voyageur. ‘It just reached us from New York. Our queen used to work on it as a photographer,’ she added with a touch of shy pride.
‘I know,’ I said. The magazine still smelled of ink and art paper. The girl gave me a smile as bright as her silver leopard badge and moved on to the next row of seats. I started to turn the pages and there it was — a full-colour, double-page advertisement for the new perfume which had enabled Pamela to return to her career as a copy writer.
Reading it I felt proud of Pamela, and at the same time an ache of regret. She had so easily found a new lifestyle without me. And the pain I felt was a sadness from the past, for something that never quite was.
I turned to the book reviews.
14
After our aircraft touched down and had followed a path of coloured lights to the small floodlit terminal building, the cabin door opened and over-heated air was sucked into the air-conditioned cabin like breath from an oven. And as we straggled across the spongy tarmac, sweat breaking out on our faces, the hot soft darkness was full of the indefinable redolence of Arabia.
When we reached the impassive immigration official and placed our passports on the table his face became almost friendly for a second as he said, ‘Mis’r North, you go through with lady.’
We went through a door to where a khaki-uniformed policeman with a low-slung pistol was waiting.
‘Mis’r North? This way, min fadhlek.’
He led us out into the sultry night where a Rolls-Royce, marred by a coat of military khaki, was waiting. The policeman opened the door for us and I saw that there was already an occupant — King Syed.
‘Welcome to my small kingdom, Jonathan and …’ I hastily introduced Ashley to His Majesty.
‘You both must be exhausted. Such a beastly flight. I propose to take you straight to the house where you will be staying so you can catch up on your sleep. Everything is prepared for you and there is a maid and a reliable watchman. Tomorrow night my wife and I shall be delighted to entertain you to a quiet dinner at the palace.’
As I settled on the seat opposite him I felt my foot touch a hard object.
‘Sorry, that is my machine-gun,’ Syed said. ‘Alas, we live in difficult times. It used to be Marxists, now Fundamentalists. But do not worry, this car is armoured.’
He gave an order in quiet Arabic and the Rolls seemed to float forward.
‘Our luggage,’ Ashley exclaimed. ‘Er … Your Royalty.’
‘It has already been placed in the boot.’
Now that the doors of the car were closed the air-conditioning took over so effectively that we suddenly felt chilled in our perspiration-soaked clothing.
Syed turned to Ashley.
‘Jo, my wife, is eagerly looking forward to meeting you,’ he said. ‘Considering her American background, she has fitted in remarkably well to this medieval state, and any reservations my subjects had about a foreigner becoming their queen evaporated when she embraced Islam. But it is natural that she should like to spend time with people from her own world. There are very few Western women in Abu Sabbah, and those who are here with their diplomatic husbands are not exactly in tune with Jo who made her own career before she married me. Do you ride?’
‘I used to ride to school when I was a kid,’ Ashley replied. ‘I’d love to be on horseback again.’
‘Excellent. Since she came here Jo has developed a passion for riding. I am sure she would be delighted if you would accompany her.’
I was pleased to see how easily Ashley and the king got on together and I was happy to let them chat while I gazed out of the windows of the big car. It would be trite to say that I felt I was back in the days of Haroun-al-Rashid, but let’s be trite. The car glided like a low-flying magic carpet, its headlights catching the date palms that lined the highway, and the occasional group of white shrouded figures squatting round tiny camel dung fires on the roadside. Once we overtook a string of camels, led by men wearing the shawls known as kaffiyeh on their heads, carrying produce for the morning’s market. Sometimes we slowed to pass through villages of square white buildings huddled round a mosque, and one caught glimpses of men drinking coffee from tiny brass cups through the open doors of dimly lit cafes.
Once the strip of cultivation which flanked the road gave way to desert sand, and in the harsh moonlight I saw a small domed building rising from the sand.
‘That is the shrine of a saint,’ Syed explained casually. ‘He was martyred several centuries ago by the Turks, but the locals speak about him as though it was yesterday. Time has a different dimension here.’
A few minutes later the car turned off the road and lurched along a track until it reached a group of carob trees and a single-storey Moorish-style house. Beyond, a stretch of sea gleamed like burnished pewter.
‘Your residence,’ said Syed. ‘May you be content here.’
‘It’s wonderful,’ Ashley said enthusiastically.
The old watchman, carrying a Lee Enfield .303 which must have originated from the North African campaigns of the Second World War, and a young maid in a black chawdor bowed and smiled.
‘She has enough English to serve you,’ Syed said. ‘I hope everything has been prepared satisfactorily. Take it easy tomorrow, and the car will call for you at sunset.’
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br /> We thanked him and followed the servants into the house. There we were offered sweet tea and our luggage was placed in a spacious bedroom with goat skins scattered on the polished wood floor. Ashley hurried to the large window and angled the Venetian blinds so that she could look over the white beach to the sighing sea, then she took me by the hand and led me out on to a terrace fragrant with flowering vines planted in ancient amphorae.
‘I can’t believe this,’ she murmured. ‘Last night all hell was breaking loose in Whispering Corner, and now we’re looking out on the Red Sea. And it feels so safe and peaceful.’ She laughed. ‘I’ll bet that old saint will watch over us.’
‘I must say Syed has done us proud.’
‘He must be keen for you to take up that post at his new college.’
‘It might not be a bad idea if I go broke …’
‘Darling, while we are here try and put all negative thoughts out of your mind.’
‘You’re absolutely right,’ I said, ashamed of sounding low-key on such a night. Although we were both weary from the long flight, the sight of the sea reflecting the Arabian moon and the caress of the warm breeze had the effect of casing our fatigue.
‘On a night like this Antony must have given up the world for Cleopatra,’ murmured Ashley in a half-humorous way.
‘And Abla gave her heart to Antar,’ I agreed.
‘Ant — who?’
‘Antar was the Middle Eastern equivalent of Robin Hood,’ I told her. ‘He started life as a black slave and became a desert leader. Abla was his Maid Marian.’
‘With you I learn something every day,’ said Ashley, mocking my tendency, endemic among authors, to repeat an anecdote at the drop of a hat. She ran her fingers down the side of my check to show that she did not really object and said, ‘I’m going in for a swim to wash away the journey.’
With quick movements of her fingers she unbuttoned the light cotton dress she had worn for the flight and it slid to her ankles. Her white underclothes followed it to the tiles, and she stepped out of the tangle and turned to me with a slightly mocking smile.
‘Coming?’
I must confess that the sight of that smile and her lithe body — even though I had come to know it so intimately — sent a breath-catching ripple of excitement through me. In this hot shadow world she stood poised for a second like an alabaster figure carved by a master sculptor, then with a shake of her dark curls she turned and ran down the steps and across the beach to the sea.
As soon as she was far enough in she dived into a small wave creaming towards the shore. A moment later she was standing up again, thigh-deep in foam, and she glowed. Her skin was luminous with phosphorescence. Her raised arm beckoned me and then she turned and swam away from the beach.
Wishing that I was a stone lighter and that my waist tended more to the concave than the convex, I undressed and sprinted over the still warm sand. I have always been a good swimmer and soon I began to overhaul Ashley’s dark head, which rose and fell with the slight swell. She turned and saw me, and changed from breast stroke to a stylish crawl. The race was on but after a few minutes I was almost level with her; she half rose out of the water to fill her lungs, then dived out of sight. I followed the wake seething behind her until she turned and held her arms wide to me before soaring up to the surface. I saw her legs move lazily above me to keep her floating comfortably.
I followed and broke the surface beside her, my own arms now glowing with pale fire.
‘You look magical,’ she cried. ‘You’re alight. What is it?'
I told her that she looked the same, thanks to a microscopic organism that thrived in these warm shallow waters.
‘A microscopic orgasm!’ she cried with a peal of laughter.
I made a jokey retort about casting aspersions and we floated side by side, our legs moving gently to keep us in position. To the south a halo against the black velvet sky indicated the position of the old city.
Our hands touched and locked and we turned towards each other. I put my free hand behind the nape of her neck and drew her laughing face towards me until our lips touched. Then under we went, into the black sea, our arms round each other and strings of bubbles trailing us.
At last we had to break our embrace and kick up to the surface to gulp air like drowning sailors. When we had regained our breath we floated on our backs again, our linked fingers preventing us from drifting apart.
‘I do love you,’ she said impulsively.
‘And you,’ I said, which was our ritual of endearment.
‘You know what I want?’
‘And me.’
‘Here. In the sea.’
‘We’d drown.’
‘But what a way to go,’ she laughed.
I caught her desire, and I was no longer a middle-aged man but had the illusion of youth upon me. In the caressing sea, under the moon which in this Tropic of Cancer acquired a golden voluptuousness, it seemed anything was possible.
Ashley turned towards me.
‘Mermaids and tritons must manage,’ she said, still joking but with a throaty undertone that I had come to recognize during our nights together in Whispering Corner. ‘Come, darling.’
Treading water we came together, our arms round each other, and while we kissed our salty kisses I felt her legs encircle my thighs. My response was automatic and a second later I felt myself enter the warmth of her body. In the shine of the phosphorescence I saw her eyes widen and her mouth smile at me with a mixture of affection and eroticism.
There are difficulties in making love in such circumstances. Any movement of our bodies resulted in our faces dipping below the surface, and so we had to be content to float together while we rose and fell to the immemorial cadence of the sea. And in this yielding liquid world the anemone-like response of my lover was rapidly bringing me to the point of climax. I tried to hold back, tried to dissociate my mind from the surges of pure physical pleasure which beat from my loins …
‘I can’t bear this any more,’ Ashley muttered. ‘Let’s make it to the beach.’
She wrenched herself away from me and briefly vanished under the glimmering surface, while the shock of exposure to seawater postponed my looming climax.
Ashley surfaced a few yards away and began to swim towards the shore. We had drifted further out than we had realized and both of us, already breathless, were panting by the time we felt the coral sand beneath our feet. We were actually swaying as we waded ashore and lost the support of the sea.
I took Ashley’s hand to lead her up to the bungalow, but she shook her head and pulled me down beside her so that wavelets hissed and died about our ankles. In the moonlight I saw a dazed look in her eyes, and her slack mouth seemed incapable of speech. She was possessed by the demon of unfulfilment. That expression of uninhibited need aroused me more than any of the carnal triggers I had ever known and a hot tide of lust — sheer unapologetic lust — flowed through my system in a physical reaction so powerful I winced with the unexpected pain of it.
Before I could roll over to take her, Ashley straddled me, her fingers digging into my shoulders, her body moving as she sought to give me entrance. Then once more there was the electrifying spasm of entry and Ashley rode me, her head thrown back, her eyes shut and her breasts showering me with drops of seawater which the moon transformed to pearls. If Death had tapped me on the shoulder during those frenzied minutes she would have had to wait.
At last Ashley gave a soft cry of triumph and as she reached the end of her race I felt myself fountain within her. Then we lay side by side, barely conscious, while the wavelets splashed our feet and creamed along our legs.
*
Sunlight slanting through the slats of Venetian blinds cast slim stippled bands of shadow on the naked body of Ashley lying beside me. During the hot night we had sleepily cast aside the cotton sheet and now the heat was increasing with morning so that already her skin was beaded with perspiration. Summer was not the ideal season to visit Abu Sabbah, but I was not
going to begin finding fault. I recognized that King Syed’s invitation had probably saved me from something nasty. I was several thousand miles away from my problems and here with luck I would get back on to schedule with my novel.
Eager to begin work I rose gently, slipped on a light robe and went in search of the coffee whose aroma permeated the bungalow. In the kitchen the maid looked up from the brazier on which an ornate coffee pot was balanced.
‘Salaam aleikum,’ I said, having tried to memorize a few words from a phrase book on the flight.
‘Good morning, she managed. ‘You sleep good?’
‘Very good.’
I took the coffee to the bedroom where Ashley was waking up.
‘I love this heat,’ she said as I gave her a cup. ‘It’s me for the beach until we go to the palace. You’ll be working on your novel?’
‘Of course.’
‘I wish you’d let me read what you’ve written. I feel shut out, somehow. If I read it I could tune in to your difficulties with it.’
‘Sorry.’
There was an urgent knock at the door.
‘Please, you get up,’ cried the maid. ‘Queen come.’
I went to the window and between the slates I saw Syed’s wife riding a black horse and leading another along the dazzling beach.
‘A royal visit,’ exclaimed Ashley. ‘What the hell shall I wear?’
‘As she’s bringing a spare horse I expect you’ll be invited to go riding, so I suggest you put on your cotton jeans.’
A couple of minutes later I saw the watchman bow low and take Jo’s bridle. On the terrace I introduced her to Ashley, who with some instant magic looked like a model for casual outfits. Perhaps because she came from a warm climate she wore her jeans and tailored shirt with the same sort of flair as Jo. Seeing them together I guessed they would have much in common.
The maid brought out a brass tray with coffee and sherbet and extremely sticky little cakes, and we lounged in worn deckchairs and squinted at fishing boats creeping along the coast, dark elegant craft riding a sea of sparkles. Jo told me how pleased her husband was that I had accepted his invitation, especially as his enthusiasm for his new college increased in ratio with its construction.
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