The Weeping Desert (15 page)

“A parcel?” Khadija was mystified.

“A little square box. It looks like a jeweller’s box.” Khadija’s eyes brightened. It might be from John. Perhaps he had sent her another present. Perhaps, he had thought she might be lonely and needed cheering up. Her fingers were clumsy with the layers of adhesive tape, and she began to laugh as the sticky stuff stuck to itself and the box was no nearer to being opened.

“Let me help you,” said the doctor, putting down his cup.

“No, I will manage,” she insisted.

She ripped off the last strip of tape, tore away the paper and opened the lid.

Khadija looked inside the box. Her eyes dilated with terror. She shrieked and fell to the floor in a faint.

“Good heavens! Whatever’s happened?”

“She’s fainted. Help me.”

“But whatever…?”

“Carefully now. Some sort of shock. She’s gone awfully pale. Get the rug from the hall cupboard, Edith.” The doctor rubbed Khadija’s cold hands. She moved and, moaned something. “I think she’s coming round. Wrap it round her.”

Edith Cameron sat back on her heels. “I don’t know,” she said bewildered. “The things that have happened since John brought this girl home. We used to be such a quiet, ordinary household.”

“She’s obviously had a terrible fright. She’s almost rigid. How extraordinary. Where’s that box?”

The box had slid along the floor. Dr. Cameron picked it up gingerly. Inside it seemed half full of cottonwool. He snapped the lid back quickly and put the box on the table.

“What is it?” asked his wife curiously.

“Be careful,” he said quietly. “Some sort of insect—a scorpion, I think. Don’t touch it. I’ll get rid of it. You look after Khadija.”

Mrs. Cameron tucked the rug round Khadija as if she were a baby. The girl was very cold.

“No wonder she fainted. Whatever can it mean? Oh, I wish John had never got mixed up in all this foreign business. Why couldn’t he have stayed in Pinethorpe? There was that good position going in the Borough Engineer’s office—he could have had it.”

“Time enough for that, Edith. He wanted to see the world. He wanted his freedom. Look, she is coming round. There, there, Khadija. It’s all right, my dear.”

“I’m s-sorry,” whispered Khadija between her chattering teeth. “John. Where is John? I must see him. I must w-warn him…”

“John is quite safe,” the doctor assured her. “He is an expert climber. He won’t attempt anything that is beyond him. He’ll be home tomorrow anyway, and you’ll see him then.”

“But I must warn him! He is in terrible danger!” Khadija began to cry, and the tears ran unheeded down her cheeks.

Mrs. Cameron knelt on the floor and supporting Khadija’s head, gave her some tea to sip. The warm, sweet brew was comforting and Khadija’s distress was more controlled.

“I think you ought to tell us all about it,” said Mrs. Cameron sensibly. “We can’t help if we don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, don’t hurry—just when you feel like it. Take another sip. That’s better.”

The austerely furnished hall of Glen Craven House was a strange place to start explaining the violence of Arab customs. Here in the safety of panelled walls; oak table and old-fashioned hat-stand, it would sound unbelievable. And yet, the small box on the table proved that the cruel razor-edged Arab dagger could reach across the water and attack even in a civilised English seaside town.

“Arab justice is instant and often barbaric,” Khadija explained slowly. “We do not send people to prison for many of the crimes committed. Their punishment is more…more primitive. If a man is a thief, his hand is cut off; if he is a liar, his tongue. For another crime, his ears. An adulterous woman is beaten publicly. It is very cruel. Many Western customs are coming into Arab states, but the law takes years to change. Our elders are not convinced that the way to punish a man is to keep him behind bars for many years.”

All the time she was talking, the doctor was watching her carefully. The trembling had stopped and the patchy pallor was fading from her skin. “But why are you so afraid?” he asked gently.

“I am afraid for John,” she shuddered. “They think he is a thief. I am afraid someone will come, and without trial or justice, he will be p-punished.”

“But what nonsense,” said Mrs. Cameron brusquely. “My John—a thief? What is it that he is supposed to have stolen?” she demanded.

Khadija faltered. She knew the ways of hot-blooded Arab men too well. “Me,” she whispered. “They believe he has stolen me. The scorpion is a warning of death.”

Between them they got Khadija safely into bed. There the warmth of a hot water bottle and the calming influence of a sedative lulled her into drowsiness. When Mrs. Cameron was satisfied that Khadija would now sleep, she left the room quietly and hurried downstairs into the doctor’s study.

She knew exactly the number she wanted and what she was going to do. She dialled the number impatiently.

“George? Hello, this is Edith. I need some advice from you in your professional capacity. No, it’s nothing to do with the council…”

When John and James returned the next day, they were not prepared for the new atmosphere at Glen Craven House. They had left behind coolness and animosity, but when John clumped into the hall with all his gear, he felt a difference straight away.

Khadija flew down the stairs, her dark hair loose and tumbling. She flung her arms round him and clung to him crying incoherently.

“Hey, what’s all this about?” he laughed, surprised by the warmth of her welcome.

“You’re safe, you’re safe,” she babbled.

“Of course, I’m safe.” He prised her arms from around him, reluctantly. He held her away from him and smiled reassuringly into her tear-filled eyes. “We only went up little mountains. We weren’t attempting the Matterhorn.”

“I’m glad,” she smiled back. “So very glad.”

John was quite amazed at the change in Khadija. She had come running to him like any uninhibited English girl; not a trace of the princess. He felt almost jealous when he realised there was now a firm affection between Khadija and his father, and even a guarded friendliness between Khadija and his mother, as if even they had found some bond, some common factor. John did not know that it was concern for his safety which they shared.

“You’re home just in time,” said Dr. Cameron. “We’re having a little party on Friday evening. We thought we’d like to show off our beautiful visitor to Pinethorpe.”

Dr. Cameron and his wife had decided that a party would take Khadija’s mind off her dreadful fright. It would also show her that she was surrounded by English normality, and that Shuqrat was many thousands of miles away.

“The staff of the hospital are drawing lots for invitations, and the entire borough council is queueing up to come,” he went on with a grin. “Edith’s never been so popular.”

“It’s about time we had a party,” said James with enthusiasm. “I’d like to invite some friends, though knowing them, I shall have to put barbed wire round Khadija. How about a pop group, Father? Or a mobile discotheque?”

“If you care to pay for it, your mother and I have no objection,” his father replied. The doctor was not adverse to a bit of dancing himself. “But it’s a civilised party, till nine o’clock. After that, if the sherry’s run out, you young ones can do what you like.”

Khadija’s eyes were glowing. “A real party,” she was saying. “I have never been to a real party. You will teach me to dance?”

“I’ll teach you,” said James, demonstrating the latest disco steps round the room. “Watch this, baby.”

“No, not you,” said Khadija firmly, but with a suspicion of twinkling mischief. “I have asked John to teach me.”

“Do you want to buy a new dress?” John found himself asking. The thought of dancing with Khadija made him feel quite light-headed. All that loveliness legitimately in his arms.

Khadija declined politely. “No, thank you. I shall wear traditional Arab costume.”

It made perfect fashion sense, for the doctor’s friends and Councillor Mrs. Cameron’s friends were not coming to meet any ordinary visitor but an Arab princess—Flower of his Eye and Daughter of all Wisdom.

Khadija was eager to help with the preparation in the morning, but some time in the afternoon she slipped away, leaving Carol and Mrs. Cameron to cope. Slowly the house filled with the delectable scent of roses, musk and amber, and they could hear water rushing through the pipes.

“She’s having another bath,” sighed Mrs. Cameron. “I hate to think what our fuel bill is going to be this summer. I’ve never known anyone having so many baths—and using so much water. I thought water was supposed to be scarce where she comes from.”

“Perhaps it was scarce, even in a sheikh’s palace,” said Carol, decorating
canapes
with sliced olives and strips of salami. “And she knows there’s no shortage of water here!”

Carol barely had time to get ready for the party, although there was no evening surgery at Glen Craven House that Friday. Khadija could not do her hair by herself, and Carol spent ages trying to follow Khadija’s intricate instructions. Not that it mattered if she was late, Carol realised as she hurried home to change. It was definitely Khadija’s party, and no one would have eyes for anyone else.

Khadija had been so right. As she came down the stairs—floated down the stairs—John felt his throat constrict with emotion. Her long gown was chiffon, in many shades of rose, from the palest pink to the deepest. The bodice and sleeves were intricately embroidered with silver and tiny pearls. Her dark, glossy hair was braided into many tiny plaits, each interwoven with a silver thread. On her head she wore a circlet of pearls, and in the middle of her forehead hung one large pear-shaped pearl of immense lustre.

She looked like a rose drenched with early morning dew. John caught his breath. “An Arabian rose,” he murmured.

He held out a hand to guide her down the last turn of the stairs. Her fingers rested lightly on his and she gave him a smile of utter sweetness. He was so tall, her dear Englishman, and even this fleeting closeness made her tremble. They looked at each other, for a moment unaware of the gathering guests. They felt something that had not been there before, a stirring of something intangible and warm.

There was no doubt the party was a tremendous success. The elite of Pinethorpe fell over themselves to meet Khadija, and they were all charmed by her beauty and dignity. She knew many of the staff of the hospital, and with them she lost her shyness and was able to laugh and respond to their friendliness.

How the time flew; though she kept near to John or his father for reassurance. The hands of the clock moved on and some of the older people prepared to go. A group of young men arrived. They brought with them a great deal of electronic equipment and set it up in a corner of the lounge. Someone dimmed the lights.

Khadija was standing next to John. She was intensely aware that he was there. John did not appear to be taking much notice of her, but it was only because he found her presence so disturbing.

“Please,” she said, touching his arm lightly as the music began. “Now you are going to teach me to dance?”

“Lesson number one,” he affirmed. “Now, let me see. You put your left hand on my shoulder, so. And I put my arm round your waist, and I hold your right hand.”

They stood still, for some moments. Her nearness and her perfume were intoxicating. John closed his eyes.

“Now do we dance?” asked Khadija.

“Ah, yes. We’ll just move slowly at first to the beat of the music. That’s it. Then if there’s room, I’ll show you some steps.” John steered Khadija into the dancing space and she moved closer to him. Their bodies swayed to the music. Khadija closed her eyes; so this was dancing.

“I say, John,” James began. “I think we’ve got gate-crashers. Or are they friends of yours?”

Suddenly, without warning, Khadija was wrenched from John’s arms. She took one look at the stranger’s lean, hawk-nosed face and thin moustache. “Ahmed!” Her scream went unheard above the blare of the pop music. John staggered forward, but out of the shadows of the twisting dancers sprang two more men and there was a flash of knife blades. John choked against the arm pinning his throat and felt the cold steel against his skin.

The stranger was holding Khadija’s arms behind her. “So you sought to escape me, foolish girl,” he breathed into her ear. “Surely you knew I would follow you? No one takes what legally belongs to Ahmed Karim.”

“Let her go,” John gasped, as the man’s grip on his throat relaxed a fraction. “Who are you?”

A derisive smile curled round the dark stranger’s thin lips. He pulled Khadija against him.

“I am Sheikh Ahmed Karim, legal heir to the sheikhdom of Shuqrat. I am legally betrothed to the Princess Khadija Safieh. You, Englishman, have stolen this woman from me. I have come to take back what is rightfully mine!”

Chapter Eight

Sheikh Ahmed Karim. This arrogant young Arab was Khadija’s fiancé, the man her father wanted her to marry.

In an instant John knew the kind of life Khadija would lead as Ahmed Karim’s wife; she would exchange one prison for another. As Ahmed Karim tired of her and her looks faded, she would be replaced by younger and more beautiful wives and pushed into the background, perhaps to spend the rest of her days in some remote, half-ruined, badly air-conditioned hunting lodge in the wastes of Shuqrat.