The Labyrinth of Osiris (73 page)

Somehow the Israeli got an arm underneath him and buoyed him up, keeping his head above the surface as he gagged and gasped, water vomiting from his mouth and nostrils.

‘Ease back. Let me take your weight. Trust me. I’ve got you. You’re safe.’

The voice sounded closer now. He was managing to get some breaths into him. Things were coming back into focus. ‘Hold me, Ben-Roi. Please, hold me!’

He grasped at the Israeli, not caring how pathetic he sounded, just desperate not to be under the water again.

‘Relax, for fuck’s sake! Please, you have to relax and help me, otherwise I can’t do this. Just ease back. I’ve got you. You’re safe.’

Turning him around, Ben-Roi curled an arm underneath his throat, the two of them floating on their backs, the Israeli’s legs moving beneath him. There was something reassuring about the big man’s size and strength and Khalifa started to calm, allowing Ben-Roi to hold and guide him.

‘That’s good. Just take it easy. Keep breathing.’

They could still hear the rumble of the ship’s engine and occasional crackles of gunfire. The sounds were growing more distant all the time. Ben-Roi moved them in the opposite direction. The water was cool, but not too cold, the swell high but not rough. Strangely, the fog helped. Had Khalifa been able to see the lights on the shore, how far out to sea they were, he would have panicked. As it was, visibility was little more than a few metres in any direction and he was able to soothe himself with the illusion that safety was not that far away.

‘I think we might be able to do this,’ he said.

‘Sure we can. You and me. The A-Team.’

‘I hope the ship doesn’t come back and run over us.’

‘One problem at a time, eh?’

They paddled for a few minutes, then Ben-Roi slowed and stopped, treading water, struggling to keep Khalifa afloat.

‘You OK?’ asked the Egyptian.

‘Just a little out of breath. If you could kick your legs a bit, that might help to carry some of the weight.’

Khalifa tried, ended up thrashing and driving them both under the surface.

‘Don’t worry,’ coughed Ben-Roi, getting them back above water. ‘It’s probably easier if you just let me do it.’

He resumed paddling, pulling Khalifa with him, his legs kicking, although it seemed to Khalifa that one of the legs was working harder than the other. Another few minutes went by, then the Israeli slowed and stopped again. His breath was coming in gasps now.

‘Ben-Roi?’

‘I think a bullet might have nicked me when we jumped. Nothing to worry about. It’s just causing a bit of pain. If I can take it slowly . . .’

He bobbed a moment, grunting, fighting to hold himself and Khalifa above the surface, then went back to paddling. This time he only managed a minute’s worth before his strength gave out.

‘I’m sorry, Khalifa, I just need to—’

His head dipped under the water, came back up again. Khalifa tried to help him, to kick his legs, but it only made things worse. They coughed and spluttered, somehow got on to their backs again, splashed on for another thirty seconds before Ben-Roi called yet another halt. He was struggling. Struggling badly.

‘Let me go,’ said Khalifa. ‘Save yourself. Just let me go.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘It’s no good, Ben-Roi. We’re too far out. At least save yourself.’

‘I’m fine, if we can just . . .’

Khalifa started to push him away, trying to force the point, but Ben-Roi wouldn’t let him. For a moment they struggled, rising and falling on the swell, gasping and thrashing. Then, suddenly, Ben-Roi stiffened.

‘What the fuck’s that!’

Something was looming out of the fog. Something large and dark. Very large. Gliding towards them on the surface of the water. For a terrified instant Khalifa thought it must be a shark or a whale and he drew up his legs to kick it. As he did so, the thing lifted on a wave and came right up against them.

‘
Ward-i-nil!
’ he cried, terror turning to joy. ‘
Hamdulillah, ward-i-nil!
’

Ben-Roi had no idea what that meant. He didn’t care what it meant. All he cared about was the huge, floating mat of vegetation that from nowhere had miraculously appeared beside them. A dense tangle of roots and stalks and leaves that when he slapped a hand on top of it proved to be remarkably buoyant. Almost like a raft. Heaving and splashing and gasping, spasms of pain shooting down his injured leg, he somehow managed to get Khalifa up on to it, the Egyptian shunting his way forward until his entire body from the knees up was supported. Working his way round to the other side, Ben-Roi got himself up as well, clawing and scrambling until he was out of the water to the level of his waist.

‘
Toda la’El
.’

‘
Hamdulillah
.’

For a while they just lay there, catching their breaths, the vegetation undulating gently beneath them like some enormous lilo, the rumble of the ship still just audible in the distance, although the gunfire seemed to have stopped. Then, straining round, Ben-Roi felt the back of his thigh. There was a hole in his jeans, and he could feel blood pumping. Not too heavily, which was a relief. No exit wound he could find.

‘You OK?’ asked Khalifa.

‘A lot better now the swimming lesson’s over.’

‘Are you definitely hit?’

Ben-Roi confirmed that he was, but that it didn’t seem to be too serious.

‘I think the bullet might still be in there, but I’m not losing too much blood and it doesn’t hurt as much as it did. If I can just get a tourniquet round it . . .’

Fumbling, his face sinking into the mat of leaves, he managed to get his belt off and wind it round the upper part of his thigh. There’d been a moment back there when he’d thought they were goners. Now they were out of the water – halfway out of it in his case – he was feeling a lot more assured. They couldn’t be that far offshore, and once the fog had cleared they could either try to kick their way back on the raft, or else wait till they were picked up. His only real concern was that the ship would come back and run over them, but it was a big sea and hopefully they’d be all right. Like he’d said to Khalifa, one problem at a time. They were safe for the moment. He felt curiously relaxed. Drained, but relaxed. Light-headed almost. He yanked the belt tight.

‘That Nemesis Agenda thing was bit of an eye-opener, eh?’ he grunted, tying it off. ‘Couldn’t have got that more wrong if I’d tried. Not exactly a recommendation for teaching advanced investigation!’

Khalifa didn’t know what he was talking about, didn’t bother asking. Instead, bellying himself forward, he reached out and took the Israeli’s hand.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For saving my life. Again.’

Ben-Roi waved it away. ‘Bill’s in the post.’

They bobbed a while, their hands clasped, the fog wrapping them like a blanket, the only sounds now the plop and glug of water. Then:

‘I said some things, Ben-Roi. Before. On the phone. Some bad things. Please . . .’

‘We both said some bad things. It’s forgotten.’

A beat, then:

‘Cunt.’

‘Bastard.’

They laughed. Deep belly laughs. The laughs of two old mates out on the town.

Ben-Roi’s leg had started throbbing again, really throbbing, but it didn’t seem to matter. He felt happy. How crazy was that?

‘I’ll do whatever I can to help,’ he said. ‘With Barren, Zoser. We’ll get them. Together. I promise. For Ali.’

The Egyptian’s grip tightened, squeezing Ben-Roi’s hand. ‘Thank you, Arieh. You’re a good friend.’

‘You too, Yusuf. The best.’

In the four years they’d known each other, it was the first time they’d used first names. They didn’t even notice.

There was another long silence, a breath of wind coming up and stirring the fog. Then, struck by a sudden thought, Ben-Roi lifted his head.

‘Hey, listen, it’s probably not the right time, but there was something I wanted to ask you. A bit of a favour. To do with the baby. I don’t know if you’d be . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence. In front of him there was a soft snoring. The Egyptian was asleep.

‘For God’s sake,’ muttered Ben-Roi.

Shaking his head, he gave his companion a playful slap on the cheek, then wriggled himself over so that he was lying on his back, his legs dangling in the water, his arms thrown out to either side. He thought he could sense the bleeding getting stronger, even with the tourniquet, but he let it go. Why worry himself? He was on the raft, and his friend was there, and they were both alive, and the water wasn’t too cold, and the movement of the sea just felt so good beneath him. Why spoil the moment?

More minutes went by – or maybe hours, he had no idea, didn’t care. And then there was another breath of wind, harder this time, and he laughed out loud because directly above him a gap opened in the fog and he could see stars. Joyous, magical clusters of twinkling blue stars, fat as fireflies. The most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He lifted a hand towards them.

‘I’ll be there,’ he whispered. ‘I promise. I’ll always be there for you. My little boy. Or little girl. I’ll never let you down. I promise.’

He smiled as above him more and more of the sky came clear and more and more stars revealed themselves, shimmering and twinkling, a pathway of lights calling him home to the ones he loved.

He started humming.

It was late the following morning when Khalifa eventually made it back to Luxor.

Ben-Roi had flown straight on to Houston to start things moving against Barren, but he had wanted to be with his family and had told the Israeli he’d get a later flight.

As soon as he saw Zenab standing outside their apartment block, he knew something had happened in his absence. He tried to ask her what was going on, but she shushed him quiet and waved him upstairs.

‘Come quick,’ she said. ‘You have to see.’

He followed her into the apartment. Ali’s
Mary Poppins
DVD was playing in the living room. Full volume. ‘Let’s Go Fly A Kite’. With those terrible subtitles.
We’re launching our kite into the sky
. He started to tell her to turn it down in case they upset the woman in the flat below, but again she shushed him quiet.

‘You have to see,’ she repeated. ‘You won’t believe it.’

They came up to the door of the bathroom. Inside he could hear running water.

‘Come on, Zenab, enough mucking around. What’s—’

The words caught in his mouth as she threw open the door. The shower was running, splashing water across the concrete floor. And there underneath the shower, glistening wet, his head thrown back, laughing . . .

‘Ali,’ choked Khalifa, reeling against the door frame. ‘My son! My boy!’

With a wild, ecstatic bellow, he charged across the room and leapt underneath the shower, fully clothed, wrapping his son in a euphoric embrace, sobbing with joy. Water cascaded down across his hair and face, soaking him, getting into his eyes and nose and mouth, making him cough and splutter, but he didn’t care.

‘Ali!’ he cried. ‘Ali! Ali!’

He woke up.

It was daylight. His mouth tasted of salt. His clothes were sodden. All around him a vista of green-blue sea stretched off in every direction. He lay for a couple of seconds, flummoxed. Then, as it all came back to him, he shifted and craned his head. As he did so the
ward-i-nil
rose on a swell and he caught sight of a line of yellow shore. About a kilometre away. Maybe nearer. No sign of the ship. Or the dock either. They must have drifted down the coast during the night, although which way down the coast he had no idea.

‘Hey, Arieh.’

He turned to the Israeli.

He wasn’t there.

‘Arieh?’

No response.

Assuming his friend was merely tangled somewhere in the leaves of the
ward-i-nil
, like Ali had been tangled, he heaved himself up a couple of inches, running his eyes back and forth across the mat of vegetation.

No sign of him. He felt a shudder of panic.

‘Arieh! Ben-Roi!’

Nothing.

He tried to heave himself up further but the added weight pushed his arms right through the weave of stems and he slapped face forward, water filling his mouth. Maybe the Israeli had made a swim for shore? Gone to get help now the fog had cleared. Yes, that must be it. He’d left him sleeping and swum for shore. Crazy idiot! Again he tried to crank himself up, again his arms pushed right through the raft into the sea beneath. At the same moment the
ward-i-nil
lifted and he caught sight of something off to his right. About twenty metres away. At first he couldn’t see what it was and it was only with the next swell that he recognized Ben-Roi’s jeans and jacket. He appeared to be floating there, arms spread out to either side, face down, gazing into the depths.

Khalifa must still have been groggy from sleep because the first thought that came to mind was that the Israeli was looking for fish. It took a couple of seconds for realization to dawn. When it did he let out a howl of despair.

‘Oh God, no! Oh please God, no! Arieh! Arieh!’

He tried to kick his legs and splash with one of his arms, to drive the
ward-i-nil
closer, but to no effect. All he could do was lie there watching as his friend’s body hove in and out of sight, calling his name over and over.

‘Arieh! Arieh!’

His son’s name as well, the two of them weaving together in a single strand of unbearable grief.

‘Arieh! Ali! Arieh! Ali!’

For almost an hour he floated like that, crying himself hoarse. Then there was a particularly heavy swell and Ben-Roi’s body suddenly came a lot closer, to within a couple of metres. For a moment it floated there, one of the arms seeming to reach for Khalifa – ‘Like he was saying goodbye,’ the Egyptian would later describe it – before slowly, peacefully, his friend slid beneath the waves and was gone for ever.

‘Arieh! Ali! Arieh! Ali!’

He was picked up eight hours later, early in the afternoon, by a small fishing boat out of Rosetta. The fishermen were full of questions about what he was doing out there clinging to an island of
ward-i-nil
. By way of an answer, he pulled out his sodden wallet and flashed his police ID.