Shadow of the Rock (Spike Sanguinetti) (24 page)

A louder moan rang out, as though the two brothers were competing.

‘How long will you stay here?’ Spike said.

‘A week or so. See if I can get any answers about Ibrahim.’

‘Ibrahim?’

‘My father.’

‘And then?’

‘Back to Tangiers to apply for another visa.’

‘You’ve tried before?’

‘Five times.’

‘No luck?’

‘You think they want some Bedouin girl in Europe?’

‘But your English –’

‘Means nothing.’

‘Well, I probably ought to get back tomorrow.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Zahra said tersely. ‘I’ve spoken to Othman. He’ll drive you to the bus stop in the morning.’

Spike reached for the oil lamp. ‘Mind if I turn this down?’

‘Off is better.’

Spike extinguished the flame. In the darkness he heard a swish as Zahra removed her kaftan. He caught a waft of citrus perfume, then rolled over to face the wall.

Chapter 56

Spike woke after dreaming of a thunderstorm. His bladder felt taut, his lungs shrunken and dry, reminding him of why he’d given up smoking. After a minute of trying to go back to sleep, he pushed himself up, cursing under his breath.

A faint glow was coming from the tunnel; Spike used it to locate his trousers, espadrilles and a fresh white T-shirt, glancing, as he dressed, at the heap of blankets on the far side of the room. He was impressed by how silently Zahra slept, until he realised she was gone.

He walked through to the main chamber. The open doorway spread a runner of lemony light over the mud-packed ground. The stove was still smouldering as a man lay on the central cushions, arms splayed, cotton nightdress revealing hairy ankles. Spike heard a loud, moist snore: Salem, flat on his back, unmarked bottle by an outstretched hand.

Spike strode carefully past him to the corridor, catching a whiff of yeasty hooch. The back door was double-bolted; Spike turned round, poking his head through the hatch to check the peaceful shape of Rami, still sleeping in his cot.

Outside, the light was pale and washed-out, the sun concealed, the stillness of the air oppressive. Desert mornings were not as chilly as he had been led to believe. Moving to one side, he saw a plastic tub soaking last night’s crockery. He unzipped his flies in a corner by a thorn bush. A cockerel crowed. Dew clung to prickly foliage. The rich orange sand dune formed a sharp contrast to the brilliant blue sky.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a tall, shawled figure emerge onto the dirt track. He zipped up. The sun rose over the top of the dune, and he saw a headscarf sparkle: Zahra. She was walking quickly, glancing occasionally behind.

Spike stepped out onto the track. Two stray dogs were lying opposite one another, touching paws, enjoying this tranquil, human-free moment. Zahra was about forty metres ahead, skirting the village along the line of the dunes. Spike thought about calling out, but didn’t.

Approaching the rock face at the base of a dune, he caught the sweet-sour tang of sun-warmed rubbish: the village midden heap, carved into an indentation. A small fox with bat ears watched from amid the rubbish bags and oil drums. Hens pecked on the path. The fox followed Spike with its yellow eyes.

Zahra had passed the prefabricated houses and was climbing the rocky mound that marked the end of the village. Spike saw her glance left and right; he readied himself to raise a hand in greeting, but she disappeared down the other side.

A breeze tickled the nape of Spike’s neck as he reached the top of the mound. To his right ran the wide road that led to the heliopods – Zahra was walking parallel to it over arid, featureless scrub. A hundred metres ahead of her lay the green oasis.

A single needle of light fired from the solar-power site. One became two, until an entire pincushion was gleaming back, bright as magnesium. The sun had mounted the dune behind and caught Spike up.

He descended the slope, keeping his espadrilles square-on to avoid slipping. Once on flat ground, he felt solid slabs of bedrock beneath the sand. Three-inch thorns grew between; a pale, translucent scorpion fled Spike’s foot, tail curved like a cracked finger as it plunged into a bolt-hole.

Spike walked on, feeling the hot roughness rise through his rope soles as the sun teased a first bead of sweat from his brow. Zahra was fifty metres ahead now. He checked behind: the hillock he’d just climbed obscured the village, and for a moment all he could see was the crumbly orange rock and the smooth sand of the dune. This absence of human habitation caused a brief, seasick feeling before he turned back round, taking comfort in the distant tents pegged out around the oasis.

He increased his pace. The sun troubled him less as the breeze picked up. It gave a sudden blast, like a blow from bellows, prickling his neck with grit. Then the air went still.

Ahead, Zahra was almost at the oasis. She was jogging now, keen to escape the sun. Spike wondered if he should shout out; instead he looked back round to check his location.

Head turned, he stared into the distance. The sand dune behind the village appeared to have changed position. It was as though it had stepped forward from the other dunes in order to move up the line. Spike’s eye muscles relaxed and he looked out more clearly. The momentary pleasure at being able to see without squinting ebbed when he realised that the sun had gone in. He glanced up at the sky. A cloud of dust was blotting it out.

He swivelled back round and started running. The shadows grew darker. ‘Zahra!’ he called, and saw her glance over one shoulder before the dust cloud blurred her to brown.

Visibility faded further until Spike could see no more than a metre ahead. He slowed down. Was he even going in the right direction? He tried to look around but the sand was too painful. The whistling grew shrill, like a train conductor’s signal. His damp, prickly T-shirt puffed out in front; the ankles of his cargo trousers billowed as he jumped in the air and felt himself carried a metre. The smell was of hot sawdust.

He could barely see his shoes now. He shouted and felt sharp salty powder coat his throat and nose. An image flashed into his mind of the concrete bases of those heliopods: he crouched into a ball as the sand squalled on his neck and scalp. What if he were buried here? Shielding his eyes, he caught a glimpse of the dune ahead. That meant the road was in the other direction. If he could find the road, it would lead him back to the village.

He shunted back round until he was facing the opposite way. Still crouching, he placed one espadrille in front of the other and fought to make progress forward. A plastic bag flew by, inflated like a toy parachute. The noise was all around, increasing in strength like a jumbo preparing for take-off.

Heart thumping, Spike wrinkled his nose to breathe. His head felt light, but like a tightrope walker he managed to construct a forward line with his espadrilles, one step at a time. His clothes were clinging to his chest and thighs; the skin on his head felt like it was being rubbed with sandpaper.

In front stretched a perpendicular line. He half straightened up and was nearly blown over; hunching again, he shuffled forward until he felt the soft spring of tarmac beneath his feet.

Grit gouged at the corners of his eyes. Slowly he manoeuvred himself round into the direction he hoped was the village. The prickling on his face was unbearable. He turned back – better to head for the site, find shelter in the concrete hangar. If that was locked, he could use the walls as a break.

The wind was on his back now, propelling him on. After a few steps, he heard a noise. Distant and hollow, like a foghorn in the Straits. He forced his head round and saw the muffled glow of headlights. The vehicle was moving almost as slowly as he was. It drew up beside him. A white pickup.

‘Hey!’ Spike called, and more dust flew into his mouth.

The passenger door opened a fraction, then slammed closed. Straining against the wind, it started to reopen. Spike edged towards it, hands over ears. He looked up to see Othman hunching on the road, headscarf flailing behind him like a ship’s pennant.

Othman’s jaw was clenched. His arm began to rotate as though he were bowling a cricket ball. Something hard hit the top of Spike’s head. The wailing of the wind grew still.

Chapter 57

Spike tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. He gave a cough and felt a salty bolus of sand scrape down the back of his throat. Breathing through his nose, he opened his eyes. His chin lolled forward; he started to raise it but felt a pain in his head, as though someone were grinding a finger down on the skull.

Blinking crust from his eyes, he stared lazily ahead. He was slumped in a chair at the edge of a room paved in concrete. He heard a voice and saw a man in a blue turban sitting cross-legged in front of him, heating something on a Campingaz stove. Othman. The hangar. The pickup truck . . . Spike snorted and felt a plug of sand pop from one nostril. What an idiot he’d been venturing out like that.

He pressed down with his feet. Nothing happened. He tried to move his arms: still nothing. A first squirt of adrenalin washed through him. ‘Othman?’ he managed to say, voice coming out as a croak.

He heard a sudden clatter of cooking utensils as Othman shot to his feet. Salem appeared beside him, overbite clamped shut as though he had grave news to impart.

Spike felt his head pulse as he flicked his eyes to the doorway. A woman was standing beside it: Fatiya.

‘
Dónde Zahra?
’ Spike mumbled.

Fatiya gave a giggle, covering her mouth with one hand. Othman called out and she came and stood in front of Spike.

‘
Bisha’a
,’ she said with a coy grin.

He tried to stand again but something was restricting his ankles. Looking down, he saw his feet strapped to the front two chair legs. He tried to move his hands: they were bound to the top of the back legs.

He raised his eyes to Fatiya’s face. Her small white tooth rose like a tusk. Salem passed her a square of paper. Spike recognised his business card.

‘
Abogado?
’ Fatiya said with a smile. Lawyer.

Spike snorted again; they must have been through the wallet he’d left in his chamber.

‘
Abogado, no profesor
,’ Fatiya continued, as Salem passed her a larger piece of card, face as serious as a court official. ‘“Dunetech”,’ Fatiya read aloud. She held up the invitation to the Investor Roadshow. ‘
Abogado para Dunetech
,’ she concluded.

Spike half shook his head. ‘
Abogado, sí
,’ he groaned. ‘
Para Dunetech, no
.’

Fatiya translated this to Salem; he moved towards Othman, who was cross-legged again in front of the stove. In one hand Othman held a large serrated knife with a blue plastic handle. He turned the flat of the blade in the roaring flame.

Spike looked more urgently at Fatiya. He tried to move his legs but succeeded only in shuffling the chair. He strained outwards with his hands; the rope seemed less tight on his left wrist. He started to rotate the joint.

Othman called something to Fatiya, which she mangled into harsh, accented Spanish. ‘
Tú es abogado para Dunetech. Sí o no?
’

‘
No
,’ Spike said.

‘
No?
’

‘
No, no, no
.’

Salem hove back into view, a small wooden box in his hands. Keeping his distance, he circled Spike like a matador. A moment later Spike felt hands clasp his forehead from behind. The skin stung; he struggled but Salem’s grip was too firm. The wooden box dipped before his eyes, open-sided like an insect inspection chamber without the glass.

Spike struggled again as he felt the box pressed into his mouth. Shutting his lips and teeth, he heaved in air through his nose. Salem had managed to hook Spike’s forehead in the crook of his elbow, lowering his free hand to his mouth, fingers working open the lips. Spicy-tasting nails slid beneath Spike’s teeth; he opened his jaw, then snapped it closed.