INCARNATION

by Daniel Easterman

  ‘Are you serious?’ she asked. ‘I mean … you could go to jail for a scam like this.’

  ‘Only if they get me. It’s worth a go. Half a million each - that isnae bad.’

  ‘They’ll never cough up. They know I ran off with you.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No’ the way Ah sees it. For all they know, Ah could have hit you over the head and dragged ye ootay the hoose. For all they know, Ah could be a fuckin’ psychopath, Ah could be oota ma head.’

  ‘Are you?’ Maddie didn’t know if she asked the question seriously or in jest.

  ‘Ah do a good imitation. Now …’ He looked at her empty plate. ‘D’ye feel like dessert?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No, thanks. That was lovely. But… I’m feeling a bit sicky. If I could have …’ The craving was eating her from somewhere deep inside.

  ‘Ay, Ah ken what ye want. Wait here, Ah’ll see what Ah can rustle up.’

  He came back smiling, in his hand a shiny hypodermic filled with glistening liquid. She sat down on the bed and rolled her sleeve up meekly while he injected straight into her blue and waiting vein.

  She talked animatedly for a while, then fell like a snowdrop down through gulfs of darkness to her own resting place, in her own silence.

  He straightened her on the bed, with her head on the pillow and her hair arrayed behind it, copper hair necked with sunlight. She seemed at rest, but he could not pull himself away. He moved a long lock of hair from her forehead to the side, and gently traced the line of her eyebrows. Her eyelids fluttered softly as he did so. His hand moved to her cheek, and on to her lips.

  He wanted to leave before something awkward happened, but she seemed to exercise a hold over him. His right hand moved quietly down to her breasts, and for several moments he held her left breast in his palm. The fabric of her T-shirt shifted, and he let his hand move with it, round and round, against the softness of her body.

  Something stopped him from going further. He cupped her breast with both hands, then kissed it.

  He stood and went to the door, making sure to lock it behind him. Inside the room, Maddie opened her eyes with a nicker, and brought her hand to her breast, where the sense of another hand could still be felt. She smiled softly to herself, and fell asleep again.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Judaidat al-Hamir, 20 miles north of the Saudi/Iraqi border

  Looking about him, Captain Peter Terry had a distinct sense of deja vu. He’d been cut off about two hundred miles north of here during the Gulf War, and bloody lucky to sneak back to his own side of the border again. Back at Bradbury Lines barracks, he’d been decorated and slapped on the back; but he’d never forgiven his political masters for their failure to topple Saddam Hussein. His sense of deja vu was intimately tied up with some very strong feelings of betrayal.

  He wasn’t alone. His three companions had spent time in an Iraqi jail and had only come out again as a result of concessions made by the UK to Baghdad. They’d been over the moon to get out of their hell-hole alive, but they couldn’t help feeling that an unacceptably high price had been paid for their freedom. They’d volunteered to help bring a tyrant to his knees, only to see him, years later, still cocking a snook at anybody and everybody who got in his way.

  Peter looked his men over. They were a dusty-looking bunch already: the Syrian Desert did not waste time in putting its mark on intruders. He’d chosen them very carefully, regardless of the SAS and its internal politics, under conditions of absolute secrecy. He himself had been picked as team leader by someone very high up the military hierarchy. And details of the mission had been handed to him on the plane only minutes before he and his team had set off to cross the Saudi/Iraqi border.

  A special flight had taken them from England to Saudi Arabia the night before. Neither the plane’s departure nor its arrival had been recorded. They’d landed at a desert airfield that had been constructed during the Gulf War, abandoned, and now brought back to covert life for a single operation.

  The flight had been tense, tinged with irony. The drone of the heavy engines had intertwined with the steady hum of worries and fears that vibrated through each man’s head.

  Bill Burroughs, the youngest of the team at thirty-six, hated flying. He’d sat hunched up at the back of the cabin, counting off the minutes to touchdown. Barry Dobson, a Geordie from Whitley Bay who was reckoned the hardest, fastest, and most dangerous of them, showed round photographs of his youngest child, Mary, aged two weeks and three days. Dai Matthias, currently the only Taffie serving under the SAS cap-badge, had grumbled about the horrors of canteen food, and played chess with Peter.

  They’d landed in darkness, without lights, while Burroughs muttered fervent prayers in the rear. The Hercules - a C.Mk 1 - had been night-camouflaged and equipped with an automatic landing device called Charles (the airfield had been designated Camilla). The second they hit the ground, he changed completely. In a matter of moments, the flying phobic surrendered place to someone who could keep a cool head even under the heaviest fire. No one who knew him would have thought to sneer at his fear of flying. He’d made over three thousand parachute jumps, seventeen of them at the North Pole, and his leave weekends were spent hang-gliding in Scotland.

  They’d unloaded the plane by themselves, and unpacked their equipment by the light of heavy-duty torches: two Landrover 110s, a short-range Longline Light Strike Vehicle that was to be used for the last stage of the mission, four M72 antitank weapons, two Stinger surface-to-air missile systems, a Milan antitank weapon, two Minimi light machine-guns, two Browning 0.5-in machine-guns, Ml 6 assault rifles with attached M203 grenade-launchers, and any number of bits and pieces deemed to enhance the joy of combat.

  The moment the last bullet had been de-planed, the impatient aircraft turned and scrambled back up the little runway, taking off as effortlessly as if it had been broad daylight, en route for King Khalid Military City, sleep, and fresh fuel. Its low hum came back to them for half a minute, then disappeared in the night.

  They’d paused for a moment then, savouring this familiar, unfamiliar night world in which every sense was heightened. Nobody much liked being out here again. It was too quiet, too cold at night, too hot by day, too open, too closed. There were no landscapes here, no peaks or rivers or lakes or forests to rest the eye or the mind on.

  Then their training had taken over, and Peter Terry called them over to one side.

  ‘I’ve just been handed our mission orders,’ he said. He took a map from his pocket and unfolded it on the ground while Burroughs trained a light on it.

  ‘Our target is here,’ he said, stabbing his forefinger at a spot about forty miles west of Baghdad. Someone behind him groaned.

  ‘Al-Falluja. Jesus Christ, they’re sending four poor bastards in to smash up al-Falluja. I’ve got a better suggestion - why don’t we just top ourselves here? It’ll save fuel and we’ll be repatriated in a better class of box.’

  The speaker was Dai Matthias - the Dai Lama. His precise Neath vowels hung on the desert air like invisible moths. Peter did not bother to look at him or the others. Dai’s reaction was reasonable. Al-Falluja was one of Saddam Hussein’s largest weapons complexes, which included plants for the manufacture of nerve gas and Scud missiles, all constructed by German and Austrian firms in the eighties. It was among the most tightly guarded sites in the Middle East, way out of the league of a troop of soldiers, however tough, however Welsh.

  ‘Give me a chance, Dai. If you aren’t interested in this job, there’s a chip shop down the road.’

  ‘I’m off chips, me. Bad for the heart, see.’

  ‘Let’s get on with this briefing, then. We’re not heading for al-Falluja proper. Intelligence have got wind of something a few miles further south. Another weapons centre. A holding base for weapons being shipped in.’

  ‘Shipped in? Where the hell from?’ Barry sounded indignant, as though the thought of imported weaponry threatened to taint the purity
of the operation.

  ‘That’s classified. If I knew I’d tell you, but I don’t. I don’t even know what sort of weapons they are.’

  ‘Nukes?’ Bill leaned forward and scrutinized the map as if it held the answer.

  'I honestly don’t know, but at a guess I’d say you’re spot on. Somebody back in London is willing to go to war just for the chance to take these buggers out.’

  ‘Which is where we come in.’

  ‘Broadly speaking. We’ve got mugshots of the suspect area. You’ll get to see them in a minute. But all you’ll see is industrial clutter, camouflage, and desert. The real thing’s underground, in a series of bunkers going very deep. It’s impossible to pin it down to within less than a mile or two. London wants it within yards. The plan is for us to go in, locate it, and call in an air strike.’

  ‘And get away.’ Barry did not let so much as a hint of a question enter his voice.

  ‘Yes. We give the word “Go” and get the fuck out.’

  ‘Or perhaps we get the fuck out and then tell them they can go in.’

  ‘If circumstances permit, that might be an option.’

  ‘Not unless ...'

  Peter looked round.

  ‘Unless what, Dai?’

  ‘Unless they plan on using nukes themselves.’

  ‘Nukes?’

  ‘That’s what I said, boyo. Nuclear fucking missiles. They’d be bloody fools not to.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  One moment, there was only desert, the next an expanse of golden trees running away as far as the eye could see. A light breeze had come up suddenly that morning, and even before he stumbled on the trees, David heard their leaves rustling, as though he had fallen on a hive of bees or a colony of larks.

  ‘Nabila!’ he called. ‘Darling, come here quickly.’

  She hurried up the side of the dune and stared down with him at the little forest below. Bright yellow leaves fluttered along a sand-pressed valley, waiting for birds that never came.

  ‘Let’s go down,’ she shouted. ‘Oh, let’s go down.’

  Next minute she had vanished in a storm of sand and whirling limbs, tearing off her head-covering, leaping like a small gazelle through the hot air. David smiled and followed more slowly, bringing the camels with him. He knew there would be water for them, not far beneath the surface, for it was obvious that the trees must be growing along an old river valley, and that water must still be coming down from the mountains in the north.

  ‘What sort of trees are they?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve never seen anything quite like them before.’

  ‘They’re a bit like a gingko, don’t you think?’

  ‘Could be. Why do you think the leaves are yellow? It’s only August.’

  ‘Climate change. The nights are colder than they should be.’

  She went up to one of the trees and stroked its trunk. The bark was a pale burnt colour, striated with light blue, and hard to the touch. Nabila found a crack and forced her nail inside, pulling back a tiny section of bark. She bent and sniffed hard at the spot she’d uncovered.

  ‘David, come and smell this.’

  He bent down beside her and sniffed. A faint, resinous smell filled his nostrils briefly, then something else, a fleeting, jasmine-like odour that haunted him for days afterwards.

  Leaving the camels tethered, they walked through the little forest hand in hand. Underfoot lay a carpet of soft mulch, set down over who could say how many centuries by the drop of leaves in autumn.

  Once, Nabila looked up and saw a white butterfly flitting between the trees. Moments after it had vanished, she caught another movement to her left. When she turned, she found herself staring straight into the startled gaze of a young gazelle. Its huge green eyes were fixed on her in astonishment. She stood stock still and whispered to David to do the same.

  ‘This can’t be happening,’ David said, unable to see how such a creature could live in the heart of such a vast wilderness.

  ‘I’ve heard of them appearing further south, near the desert’s edge. No one knows how they survive, but they do. We must be the only other living things this poor creature’s seen.’

  ‘Or is ever likely to see. Except perhaps for a lady gazelle. Provided they use the same dating agency.’

  Whether at the thought of coming face to face with a member of the opposite sex, or the realization that he was already seriously outnumbered, the gazelle took fright and skipped off through the trees. Nabila laughed.

  ‘What’s a dating agency?’ she asked.

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ he said, then told her.

  ‘We have dating agencies too,’ she said. ‘We call them mothers.’

  ‘Would they have matched us, do you think?’

  ‘Not in a million years. You’re far too ugly for one thing. For another, you aren’t a Muslim. That’s a big problem. And you like sex too much.’

  ‘I don’t think I can take the blame for that. The sex is all your fault. Those big eyes, those curves, those legs … No man’s safe.’

  ‘Those are very sexist remarks. Even in Sinkiang.’

  ‘This isn’t Sinkiang. This is the Taklamakan. At least I have you all to myself out here.’

  ‘Let’s make love here,’ she said. ‘Beneath the trees.’

  ‘Now?’

  She nodded and started to undress.

  ‘What if somebody comes along?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ll just have to be polite and ask them to look the other way.’

  She lay down on the soft earth and watched the sun filter its way through the high branches, its heat broken, its glare fragmented into a million shards of light. Then David was beside her. She pulled him to her, blotting out the sunlight with his body, blotting out the past and the future.

  Afterwards, they lay together in silence broken only by the sound of the leaves high above their heads. The sun moved down across the sky, forming an intricate shadow play across the ground and over the surface of their skin.

  ‘There are people watching us,’ whispered Nabila.

  ‘Well, they’ll just have to be polite,’ laughed David.

  ‘No, not like that,’ she said. ‘I can hear voices all round us. Can’t you?’

  David looked round. A faint chill passed across his skin. He could see no one and hear no one.

  ‘It’s just the leaves,’ he said.

  She shook her head.

  ‘No, it’s not that. I think they were here before, centuries ago. Maybe they came out here from one of your cities.’

  ‘Ghosts?’

  ‘No. I don’t really believe in ghosts. Presences, perhaps. Memories.’

  He pulled her to him tightly. Their bodies fitted so perfectly together, it seemed like another form of magic. He had too many presences of his own, too many memories.

  ‘Will you marry me?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  'Why not? Don’t you love me?’

  ‘I love you more than you guess. But it’s not that simple. I have to ask my father’s permission.’

  ‘But surely …’

  ‘It would break his heart if I did anything else. I can’t be responsible for that.’

  ‘Is there any reason he shouldn’t give his blessing?’

  ‘You’re not a Muslim. A Muslim man can marry a Christian or a Jew. But not the other way.’

  'Then I’ll become a Muslim.’

  She looked at his face, so close it was almost blurred.

  ‘Be careful, David. That could prove a very dangerous thing. Islam is like the Taklamakan: you can get in, but you can’t get out again.’

  They spent the night in the forest. David dug a well at random, and found water six feet down. It was cold and fresher than any water they’d uncovered in the desert before this. The camels drank it down greedily, luxuriating in the coolness. David thought it might have been the best water they’d ever had in their lives.

  That night they camped on the ed
ge of the forest, afraid to light a fire beneath the trees. David brought out his map and spread it on the floor of the tent.

  ‘I’ve just taken fresh coordinates,’ he said. ‘Going by my earlier calculations, this forest should be slap on top of this river valley.’

  He stabbed his finger at a meandering line that indicated a river and bore the name Hsiao Shui: ‘Little River’.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Nabila said. ‘But what about one of these others?’ She pointed to another three lines coming down from the mountains into the desert.

  ‘Maybe. But comparing old Zhang’s map with the modern one, I’m reasonably certain this is it. It fits better than the others. Now, if we head due east we should hit this ...‘ He pointed to a square surmounted by a triangle. Beside it small red characters read ‘The Old Tombs’.

  ‘Anything strike you as odd about these tombs?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re … not attached to any of the cities. Yes, that is strange - they’re miles from anywhere. Who would want to bury their dead all that distance away? I mean, they’re not exactly within visiting distance, are they?’

  ‘I have a feeling that ...’

  ‘Yes?’

  'Well, that whoever built the tombs was afraid of ghosts. Maybe they thought it would be enough to keep unwelcome visitors at bay if they just buried their bodies a couple of days’ journey away.’

  ‘You think that’s who my ghosts are?’

  ‘Here? No, I doubt that. Your ghosts belong to you. But there may be another explanation for the position of the tombs. Look.’

  He pointed to a small circle without characters.

  ‘He’s indicated the location of a city, but he hasn’t given it a name. Instead, he’s written “He who enters will die.” I don’t know what that means. But I’m ninety per cent sure this is Karakhoto. The Black City.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  He took her for a walk twice a day, down by the loch. He taught her its name, Loch Monar, and the names of the forests that hemmed it in from three sides, Monar, and Strathconon, and Glencannich, and the names of the two highest mountains to the north and south, Sgurr a’Chaorachain and Sgurr na Lapaich. In truth, he didn’t know a word of Gaelic, but his accent made the names sound believable to her, and set a presence on the strange landscape.