The Trespass (17 page)

“Are there dead people in there?” she asked in a whisper.

“They are our forefathers – they have served in past ages and have gone to their rest. There is nothing to fear from them.”

“It’s creepy.”

“Now look over there.” Jassim pointed ahead to where the wall curved gently, sweeping back on itself to form a wide U-shaped bend. Natasha craned her neck. “No, higher. See where the shadow lies across the last opening. Look to the left.”

Ruth heard Natasha give a little gasp. Now it was clear. The rock face of the extended crescent was covered in drawings of such intricacy that the images appeared to have a life of their own. There were many scenes: sprawling gardens populated with lush vegetation and exotic plants; a king and queen seated on two thrones of startling artistry, bejewelled and clothed in the bright, opulent garments of royalty; a city of evident prosperity under siege from an army of strange, winged creatures; a map of the heavens, each constellation glowing with an eerie blue brightness. But the most striking of all was the centrepiece: a huge, barge-like ship afloat on an empty sea. It was set in a circular frame, each segment of which represented some interior detail of the vessel. And such detail! Ruth had lost herself here on many occasions, slipping away from her brothers and sisters, finding herself guided inevitably to this spot.

“What do you think?” Jassim asked Natasha. “Do you know what this is?”

“It’s Noah. Noah and the Ark,” Natasha said slowly, but Ruth noticed that her eyes never left the paintings and that she was gently humming to herself, caught up in the spectacle.

They watched in silence for a long time. Ruth knew that the longer you looked, the more the paintings seemed to take on a life of their own, until you could feel the wind in your face, the swell of the great ship beneath you, the smell of the warm animal dung floating up from the huge decks beneath. The effect was hypnotic.

“Noah was our father,” Jassim said. “His family were the only survivors of the world before the flood. A world that God judged.”

Ruth found a projection of stone, worn smooth by centuries of spectators, and settled herself on it. She motioned to Natasha. “Come.”

The girl came meekly and sat beside her, Jassim’s voice an aural backdrop to the picture show unfolding before them. Ruth put her arm around Natasha’s shoulders and closed her eyes, stepping into the familiar story as if into the presence of a much-loved friend.

“Noah was a wise man, walking closely with God – and for this reason he was shunned by the people,” Jassim said. “The world was corrupt, degraded. It deserved judgement. But God remembered Noah. He warned Noah of what was to come and commanded him to build a boat, the like of which had never been seen before. His family came with him – they were aboard when God shut the door and let the waters collapse upon the Earth.” Jassim paused, moved by the recollection. “From the old world Noah had gathered many things onto the boat, many sacred things that had been revered from far off times. They were not to perish, but to be preserved until the end times, until the world would again face judgement.” Jassim turned to Ruth. “We are part of that.”

“You are Noah’s children,” Natasha murmured.

“All the peoples of the world are Noah’s children, Natasha,” Ruth said. “A testament to God’s mercy. But we are pure, set apart for God.”

“We are the
Korumak Tanri
,” Jassim said quietly.

Natasha whispered in Ruth’s ear. “What does it mean?”

“We are those who do his will. We are the keepers of the sacred things. His caretakers,” Ruth replied. “It is our destiny. Until the fulfillment of prophecy.” She looked at Jassim.

Her brother nodded slowly. “Yes. The time is upon us. The father has come home. Now his sceptre must also return.”

“What’s a sceptre?” Natasha looked away from the wall for a moment, a frown creasing her unmarked forehead.

Ruth looked at Jassim. She had never seen her brother’s face more serious. More
awestruck
.

“It is a symbol of power. Of authority.” Jassim spoke solemnly, his eyes fixed on the paintings.

“Like a king,” Ruth whispered to Natasha.

“Like a king,” Jassim agreed. “The king’s sceptre will return; the awaited sign that the end of the ages is near.”

After a while Jassim called them away. Ruth felt she was rising reluctantly into consciousness from a particularly pleasant dream, the characters and scenery flowing into one another like colours in a child’s painting. Her footsteps were light as they picked their way back along the labyrinthine walkways; she felt cleansed by the experience, spiritually recharged.

When they reached the stream, Ruth found her water jar and allowed Natasha to sit and dip her toes. She watched the child skim a stone, languidly, carelessly, as if her thoughts were elsewhere, exercising her new skill with an indifferent movement of her wrist. Ruth knew what she was thinking. The paintings always had that effect. Even now she felt soporific, sluggish; there was the usual reluctance to return her mental faculties to the present.

Jassim took her arm. “Ruth.” His eyes fixed on hers. There was something in his tone. At once she was alert.

“What? What is it?”

Jassim took her hands in his own and held them. It was a gesture of sympathy which, combined with his expression, implied a degree of helplessness, an inability to change something in her favour. “Ruth. Your sister –” He paused briefly then took a decisive breath. “Sara is coming home.”

Dracup parked the car outside his old house. He had passed another sleepless night, haunted not only by Natasha’s but now by Sara’s disappearance. He had tried to push thoughts of her aside – he needed the thinking space more than anything else – but his emotions refused to be tamed. He pulled himself together with an effort. This wasn’t going to be easy. He checked his appearance in the mirror and wished he hadn’t. It would have to do.

“Hello.” Dracup gave it his best shot, stretching his facial muscles into something he hoped resembled a confident smile.

“Hi.” Yvonne studied his expression briefly. “You’d better come in.”

Dracup stepped into the hall. Strange how a once familiar place could change. It didn’t smell the same. Houses adopted the smell of their occupants but his contribution was long gone, superseded by whatever equivalent Malcolm’s sweat glands were programmed to generate. And there was something else missing; the smell of a child. Toys, paints, Mr Foamy bath bubbles. Yet he could feel Natasha’s presence. Her reading folder lay on the telephone table. A teddy bear sat on the window ledge in silent witness to the household’s youngest member. He accepted Yvonne’s offer of a seat, strangely formal, and watched her arrange herself equally formally in the armchair as if about to embark on a conversation with her financial consultant. She had lost weight and the strain was showing around her eyes, where dark circles had appeared, a foretaste of a future where such marks would be a permanent feature.

He opted for a conciliatory starting point. “How’s Malcolm?”

“Fine. Busy as usual.”

“Has he been able to take any time off?”

Yvonne studied the flower arrangement on the side table. “A little – but the client needs him on site, you know.”

“I think you need someone on site too.”

She smiled weakly. “I’m all right.”

He shook his head. “You’re not.” He hated seeing her looking so crushed. “Look, I can’t tell you much, but I can tell you enough to keep you going. Enough to help.”

“Fire away. I’m listening.”

And she did, stopping him occasionally for clarification, asking him about Sara, which she understandably found difficult, soliciting his opinion about the French sighting. He covered everything apart from Sara’s sudden disappearance, found himself at the end of his update and waited for her reaction.

“And you’re going to
Africa
– against police orders.”

“I have to. I really believe that I can find her.”

Yvonne rubbed her temple with a surprisingly steady hand. “I can’t believe this. It’s like a TV drama.”

“I know how you feel.”

“Natasha’s alive. I know she is.”

“So do I.” He saw the first signs of emotion, a betraying tear angrily wiped away.

Yvonne took a deep breath. “Sorry. What do they want, Simon? They haven’t asked you for anything. It’s not blackmail – I don’t understand.”

“I think they want to punish me.”

“For Theodore? For stealing... whatever it was he stole?”

“Yes. Potzner will do anything to get this thing back. It’s critical for the CIA. That’s why I don’t want him along – he’ll go in like Bush and Iraq. His priorities are different.”

“I just hope you know what you’re doing. What am I supposed to tell that weasel of an inspector? That you’ve gone chasing after some archaeological trinket like England’s answer to Indiana Jones?”

Dracup dug into his coat pocket. “Look. This is Theodore’s summary – an explanation of what I found in Aberdeen. It clearly indicates Lalibela as the location of the missing part of the crest – the headpiece of Noah’s sceptre. The section I found is marked
Alpha
, and the African section –“ he passed the tablet to Yvonne for inspection, “– according to Theodore, is marked
Omega
. If I can find it, all I need to do is record the cuneiform and we’ll have the whole stanza. And it will tell us where she’s been taken. I’m convinced.”

“And then what? You just walk in and collect her?” Yvonne held the tablet gingerly, as if afraid to touch it.

Dracup bit his lip. “Something like that, yes.”

There was a long silence, then, “Simon –” Yvonne hesitated, frowning.

“What?”

“I’m sorry about the way things have been – between us. I never meant to cause you any difficulties – it’s just, I don’t know. Things have changed.”

Dracup nodded. “Inevitably. We’ve both moved on. We did the right thing.”

“Did we? Or did we lose sight of what we had?”

“Probably. We were under permanent stress.”

“Self-imposed.”

“Yes, but we both had our minds set on what we wanted.”

“But it’s not wrong, is it, to want a family?”

“No, of course not. But everything has its price.”

“It’s so unfair. Some people have it so easy. They pop them out like peas. They never think about it. They don’t realise how hard it is for some –”

“Life’s not fair, is it?” Dracup spoke softly. “But we did something right, didn’t we? Something went right for us in the end.”

“But not now – now that –” Yvonne had reached the end of her emotional resources. The sobs came, wracking and desperate; the sound of a mother whose child has been taken away.

Dracup swallowed, teetering on the edge himself. He sat on the arm of her chair and put a steadying hand on her shoulder, but even this small intimacy felt unnatural. She was not his property any more. Not his to comfort. The shock of touching her, even a slight physical contact, made him realise how far apart they had grown.

Her sobs reduced in volume, just the shoulders moving involuntarily. “I’ll be all right. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. You’ll feel better for it.” He moved away towards the fireplace. A photograph of Yvonne, Malcolm and Natasha nestled amongst the bric-a-brac of the mantelpiece. They looked happy, sitting together on some summer beach, eating ice creams. Natasha had a blob of ice cream on her nose and Yvonne was pointing to it, laughing. Dracup felt a sudden surge of anger and possessiveness. He wondered who had taken the photograph. Just a passer-by? Or one of their close circle of friends from which he was, of course, excluded?

Yvonne finished blowing her nose. “You’ll never get out of the country. Moran will be watching you.”

“He won’t be watching in the right place,” Dracup said. “If he asks, tell him I’ll be back. I’m not running.”

“
I
know that.”

“It’s the only thing to do. You have to trust me.”

Yvonne looked at him carefully. “You know, Simon, I do. I really think I do.”

A confirmed bachelor and familiar figure around the University, the archaeologist Charles Sturrock lived in a comfortable set of rooms in the original gatehouse building. He was a man of slight physique with a pair of finely-balanced spectacles perched on a permanently knitted brow. The overall effect was one of studious detachment from the world, but the man was an enthusiasm powerhouse when it came to pet subjects and hobbies. This had its pros and cons, as Dracup knew from past experience. Once the chocks of restraint had been kicked away there was no stopping Charles; it was a question of carefully managing the direction of the conversation, steering it onto a more relevant and productive flight path.

Sturrock’s study was the physical representation of his mental processes and the antithesis of Dracup’s ordered domain. Papers littered the desk, bits and pieces of rock, an old skull, a set of ritual daggers from Nepal, reference books acting as elevated resting places for several days’ intake of coffee. The walls of the room were covered with charts, pictures, noticeboards festooned with yellowed scraps of paper and long-forgotten reminders. Dracup couldn’t fathom how Sturrock could spend his days in such energetic turmoil yet still achieve consistently spectacular results from his students. But the answer was simple. Sturrock’s enthusiasm was infectious. He grabbed life with both hands and wrung every shred of enjoyment out of it. A happy by-product of this enthusiasm was that it always cheered Dracup enormously to spend time in the archaeologist’s company. Whatever Dracup’s mood at the outset, he always took his leave with a foolish smile plastered across his face. Not today though, Dracup thought as the housekeeper showed him in. Not
ever
unless he got this right.