‘Well, Omar?’ said his uncle in a humorous tone. His voice was back to normal, without the metallic intonation. ‘What is wrong? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’
Omar’s scalp still felt cold from his fright. But he managed to stammer, ‘No, sir – for – for – give me – I just –’
‘You thought I’d turned into a monster, like bazaar gossip has it.’ The Vampire was smiling, but his eyes stayed as impassive as ever. ‘You should know better than to listen to fools. I was merely testing a new style of gasmask and night-vision goggles. You have to keep up to date, you know.’ He nodded at the Secretary. ‘Tell them I will order several dozen of the goggles, for the inner circle. The gasmask still needs modification. Have they done as I said?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied the Secretary, ‘the designer has been flung into the Black Prison.’
‘Well, tell them that this time the designer will be rewarded if he comes up with a better one. You have to keep them guessing.’
‘Very well, sir,’ bowed the Secretary.
The Vampire got up. He was a tall man and athletic-looking, even at his age. Long ago, as a teenager, he’d trained as a wrestler and, it was rumoured, he still liked to challenge professional wrestlers to bouts – bouts which if they were wise, they’d make sure they lost.
‘So, Omar. Still small, I see. And too thin. Doesn’t that mother of yours feed you properly?’
Not waiting for an answer, he shot a hand out, dragging Omar forward. ‘I pay enough for your household. They could at least have made you into an approximation of a man. We’ll have a lot of work on our hands, I can see that. We’ll start this very day. Faisal,’ he went on, speaking to the Secretary, ‘you will send me the Head of Palace Physical Training. We will devise a full programme for this boy. He is also to have his hair cut. It is too long – like a girl’s.’
Omar opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. The Secretary shot him an amused, contemptuous look. He inclined his head to The Vampire: ‘Very well, sir.’
‘Now, then, Omar, come and sit with me on this divan and tell me everything that happened. Faisal has told me about the ambush, and I have given orders for the destruction of that quarter, and for all the traitors involved to be arrested and executed.’
It was just what Omar had been afraid of. He said, desperately, ‘No, no. You must stop them, sir! It was no-one from there. It was the Shadow Walkers, sir.’
There was a dead silence. Then the Secretary said, in a conciliatory tone, ‘I think, sir, that –’
‘Silence!’ roared the tyrant. He loomed over Omar. ‘Shadow Walkers?’ His voice had gone quiet again – ominously quiet. Omar gathered up all his courage.
‘I saw them, Uncle! I saw them – like black ghosts with red eyes – the ghost men, sir, from the north – the werewolf clans.’
‘Really?’ said The Vampire. His voice was quite calm.
The Secretary interrupted, ‘Excuse me, sir, but I think that the boy –’
‘Silence,’ said The Vampire again. His black-marble eyes were full on the Secretary. Omar saw the man’s face go pale as pale and the eyes behind the round glasses widen. Sweat trickled on either side of the spectacles’ bridge, just as it had done in the car. He did not move and he did not make a sound. It was as if … as if he had been turned to stone.
‘Now, Omar,’ said The Vampire in a much more friendly tone, patting the divan, ‘come here, sit by me. Tell me all about it. I want to know everything.’
Omar sat down beside his uncle, his anxiety starting to subside a little. Perhaps his uncle, despite everything, would listen to what he had to say, and act on it. For what was the good of destroying nonexistent traitors when real enemies threatened you? Haroun al-Alakah wasn’t stupid; all those who had underestimated his intelligence in the past had paid for it dearly. He had many supporters, too, amongst the people, despite the fear. Lots of people liked a strong man, as long as they never had to feel the ruthless strength of his arm.
It didn’t take Omar long to tell his uncle everything – or almost everything. He did not tell him about Latifa’s cat, or what she’d said about the tyrant, of course. He didn’t even tell his uncle her name, just called her ‘a beggar girl’. He found his account growing more animated as he went on. His uncle was a flattering audience; he made enquiring noises, and asked a question here and there, but otherwise listened with intense attention.
When Omar had finished, the tyrant was silent a moment and then said, ‘Nephew, I see you were protected by heaven today. I am pleased that somewhere in this city is at least one brave heart that succours the innocent.’ He pointed at the silent, spellbound Secretary. ‘He did not tell me of the Shadow Walkers.’
‘Perhaps he was afraid of what you might think, sir.’
‘Perhaps. He has been too long a pussyfooting bureaucrat, I fear. Now, Omar, are you sure of all these things you tell me?’
‘Perfectly, Uncle.’
‘Very well. I will take steps. Your protector will be sought and rewarded; and we will seek these Shadow Walkers and destroy them. People think they have otherworldly powers, but they are quite wrong. They are just men, masked to frighten the stupid. We will find them.’
‘And the quarter, sir?’ said Omar anxiously. ‘Will you rescind the orders to destroy it?’
‘But of course, child,’ said The Vampire lightly.
Omar took a deep breath, relieved.
‘Oh, thank you, Uncle,’ he said.
‘You see, I am not a monster,’ said his uncle. ‘Now, then, Faisal!’ And he clapped his hands. Instantly, the Secretary jerked into life, as if he’d been switched on. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Take Omar to his quarters to get refreshed and ready for dinner. And get me General Amin on the line straightaway. I have new orders for him.’
The Secretary’s eyes flickered nastily towards Omar, but he bowed obediently. ‘At once, sir.’
Six
Omar was so relieved he took no notice of the Secretary’s obvious displeasure. As they hurried towards his quarters, he began to think he could even dare to hope that things would not be as bad as he’d feared. His uncle was not an easy man or a good one, but he was capable of showing at least some mercy, as his decision to rescind his orders had showed. And despite what Latifa had said about the Shadow Walkers’ name being banned in Mesomia he had not been angry with Omar for telling him. It was the Secretary who had been upset by that.
The Secretary stopped before a door and opened it. ‘This is your room, Mr Omar,’ he said and bowed ironically. ‘Anything you want, just buzz on the intercom and a servant will come to do your bidding. Dinner is always at seven-thirty sharp. Someone will come and fetch you to take you to the dining room in just under an hour’s time. A hairstylist will come and visit you, so you will be presentable for your uncle. You will also find some suitable clothes in the wardrobe. Your uncle likes people to dress for dinner. Do you require a valet to help you dress?’
‘Oh, no, no,’ said Omar. ‘It will be quite all right, thank you.’
And he stepped into his new room and firmly closed the door.
It was a much nicer room than he’d imagined – not big and echoing as too many rooms in this place were, but almost cosy. It was true there was the unavoidable photograph of Uncle Haroun in full military regalia on one wall, but the others featured rather attractive colour photos of the desert and countryside, and there was a big picture window which looked out over a most beautiful courtyard garden. A rather artificial-looking fireplace, set with flowers, was in one corner. The bed was big and comfortable-looking, and there was a desk, on which reposed a winking-eyed computer. There was a dressing table and a large, fine built-in wardrobe. There was a bookshelf filled to bursting with new books: there were a few of his uncle’s own novels and poetry (for writing was one of his hobbies), but most of them, Omar was glad to see, were adventure stories and comic books, especially about his favourite superhero, The White Tiger. He had often
wished he could be as brave as The White Tiger, but he had magic powers – and Omar had none.
In several alcoves were stacked all kinds of other goodies: a games console with a row of brand new games, a DVD and video player, a television, a CD player. There was also something much more unusual than that: a beautiful golden crystal ball on a stand, with a sphere of black opal suspended within it, making it look for all the world like a giant eyeball. Omar, attracted by its unusualness and its glitter, went over and touched it. He jumped, for the ball felt warm, and little sparks leapt and frolicked under his fingers, within the ball’s interior.
Then he heard the voice of his uncle, saying, ‘Well, Omar, how do you like your room?’
As Omar watched, his uncle’s face appeared in the centre of the black opal. He was smiling.
‘Oh, Uncle, I like it very much indeed!’
‘This is a nicer way to communicate than a screen, don’t you think? Faisal was all for a screen. I said a boy like you would like this better. Am I right?’
‘Yes, sir.’ My uncle certainly does know quite a lot about me, Omar thought. It would’ve made him scared just a few short moments ago; now, it gave him a quite unexpected sense of warmth.
‘Did you think of this yourself, sir?’
‘I designed it; the palace magicians made it for me,’ said the tyrant proudly. ‘You will meet some of them tonight. Faisal tells me there is to be a special magic and entertainment show tonight, to give thanks for your deliverance. Now then, Omar, my men are looking for your beggar girl right now. I am even hoping we can find her before dinner is over, so you can be there to give her the reward with your own hands.’
‘Oh, Uncle Haroun!’ Omar felt tears spring into his eyes. ‘You are so kind.’
‘Oh, don’t thank me,’ said his uncle. ‘It is only natural. Now, have a shower, freshen yourself up, and get ready.’
‘Uncle, may I speak with my mother? Tell her I’m safe?’
‘I have already telephoned. But you may call her if you wish. There is a gold telephone on the desk. That is for outside calls. See you soon, Nephew.’
‘See you soon, Uncle,’ said Omar, and went to ring his mother.
She picked up the phone almost immediately. ‘Oh, my darling!’ she said, and her voice trembled. ‘You are safe.’
‘Yes, mother, I am quite safe.’ Quickly, he told her what had happened. As he spoke, he could feel her anxious silence at the end of the phone, could picture her gripping the receiver, her eyes full of tears. She was so small and so thin and so haunted, his mother; she wafted like a grey ghost in her own life. She’d never got over his father’s death. Omar suddenly felt very grown-up and protective. ‘Uncle has been so good to me, Mother,’ he finished. ‘I think everything will be fine.’
‘God be praised,’ said his mother, and Omar caught the thread of fear that was still in her voice. He said, ‘Don’t worry, Mother. Don’t listen to bazaar gossip. Uncle Haroun is well, and he is being very kind to me.’
He heard her make a strange little sound in her throat, then she said, quietly, ‘God bless you, my son, and keep you safe.’
‘And you, too, Mother. And Mariam. May I speak to my sister?’
She was on the phone straightaway. ‘Omar! I miss you already!’
‘I miss you too, Mariam. Soon, maybe you can come and visit me. I’ve got all sorts of games here, you know.’ He told her a little about his room. She was silent a moment and then said, in a small voice, ‘I think I’d be a bit frightened to travel so far.’
‘It’ll be all right, you’ll see,’ he said. ‘I’ll be here to look after you.’
They rang off. As Omar sat with the receiver in his hand, thinking of home, he heard a tiny ‘click’ inside the phone. Of course it’s tapped, he thought. What phone in Mesomia wasn’t? But it did not matter. Everything would be fine.
Refreshed after a great shower in his smart ensuite bathroom, and smelling good from the eau de Cologne he splashed over himself, he slid open the wardrobe door and stood gazing, amazed, at the array of clothes. There was everything here: a full set of magnificent white desert robes and headdress, with a coil of pure gold; jeans and shirts of all sorts, many with famous designers’ labels inside them; riding clothes, complete with hard hat; and a beautiful dinner suit with a pure white silk jacket, black paisley cravat and black trousers. On the floor of the wardrobe were neat rows of shoes, all in Omar’s size: sneakers and shiny, smart brogues, boat shoes and sandals, desert boots and riding boots. And in a small box was an array of watches – some silver, some gold – set with sparkling gemstones.
He took out the dinner suit. It looks far too smart for me, he thought. There was a knock on the door. Omar grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, pulled them on and went to answer it.
‘Who is it?’
A timid voice said, ‘Your hairdresser, sir.’
Omar opened the door. A very young man stood there. He was small, painfully thin, his wrists bony, his knees knobbly. He was dressed in a pale-blue uniform and carried a little case.
‘Good day, master. I am at your service. What style would sir like?’
The hairdresser was opening his case. Inside were all the tools of the hairdresser’s trade, plus a neat little pile of fashion magazines. ‘I made so bold as to bring these. There are many fine styles to choose from, young master.’
Omar looked at him. He seemed only to be a couple of years older than himself. He had a pinched little face and his eyes were full of a deep sadness. Omar suddenly felt very uncomfortable. He said, ‘Thank you. It is very kind of you. What … what is your name?’
‘My name, young master?’ The hairdresser looked anxious. ‘I am fourth hairdresser, sir, young master. They call me Scissors.’
‘Scissors?’ said Omar.
He began to look a little distressed. ‘Young master, would you have preferred someone else? You see, I was the one that was free, and so we thought –’
‘Don’t worry, don’t worry,’ said Omar hurriedly. He pulled up a seat in front of the wardrobe-door mirror, took a magazine and pointed randomly at an innocuous-looking style. ‘That one will do nicely, thank you, Scissors.’
Scissors said nothing, and produced a nylon cape from inside his pocket and placed it around Omar’s shoulders. He sprayed Omar’s hair with water, and took up his scissors and comb.
Omar wanted to talk to him, but he felt too nervous now, put off completely by the hairdresser’s anxiety. Scissors cut his hair without saying a word. Only the clicking of his scissors and the gentle scrape of his comb made any noise in the hushed room. It didn’t take very long. Soon, he held up a mirror to the back of Omar’s head and said, ‘Does this please you, young master?’
Omar wanted to tell him to stop calling him that, but he didn’t dare. Instead, he murmured, ‘Yes, it will do very well.’ And indeed, it was an excellent cut – smooth and sleek. It made him look more like a young man and less like a shabby boy.
‘Will that be all, young master?’
Omar nodded. He did not say anything as Scissors packed up his gear and left as quietly as he’d come, obviously relieved. Omar dressed slowly, feeling depressed and anxious. How could it be that in just a few hours he had changed from being an unimportant, scared boy from the country to ‘young master’, from whom a servant fled in fear? He must try and show Scissors and the other servants that they had nothing to fear from him.
Seven
Dinner was a very strange affair. Only Omar, his uncle and the Secretary – the three of them in full evening dress – were at the table. They ate not in the vast state dining room but a less formal one, yet it was still big enough to make Omar feel like a dwarf. Servants stood around them, silent as ghosts, anticipating every little desire, whisking away plates, refilling glasses.
It was a real banquet, for just the three of them, with delicacies from the far corners of the world. Omar noticed his uncle only ate a little, and consumed a great deal more of wine, while the Secretary
did exactly the opposite. Not knowing what to do himself, he pecked at his food and sipped at his own beverage – a very nice lemon sherbet – and listened resignedly as his uncle told interminable stories about himself and about how he had humiliated and tricked every other world leader ever since he came to power.
Omar knew that Mesomia was now a no-go zone for most respectable world leaders. Only fellow tyrants still availed themselves of Uncle Haroun’s hospitality – the exception being the Preacher in neighbouring Parsari. He was as ruthless as The Vampire but implacably opposed to him and had even gone to war – a long, bloody and exhausting war that had cost many lives – with him. Uncle Haroun was talking about the Preacher now.
‘That dirty fellow is a sorcerer, I am sure. How else do you explain that every plot I have devised to kill him has been exposed? He is a wicked man, a scoundrel who uses God’s name to further his own aims. I am convinced he has legions of demons to do his work, the dirty fire-worshipper. It is my dream to destroy him utterly one day.’ Further and further into his cups, his voice rose higher and higher, while the Secretary looked more and more sour. The tyrant noticed. ‘Well, Faisal? You don’t think I can do it?’
‘Of course you can, sir,’ said the man.
‘Bah, Faisal! You bore me. What a parrot you are.’ He reached over and stroked Omar’s hair. ‘This is my heir. This is my son now, Faisal. Look at him: is he not fine and elegant, like my poor brother?’ Omar saw there were tears in his uncle’s eyes.
The Secretary looked impassively at Omar.
‘Yes, sir, he is just like your brother, Ali. I was thinking that myself. With that hairstyle and those clothes, he reminds me of Master Ali when he was a young man.’
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