Secret Skin (28 page)

The window we were leaning against shuddered violently. We looked at each other as a vertical crack split the glass between us.

Through the window we saw Orsa’s white hair. He was holding the soundman’s mixing desk with both hands, the two guards either side of him, and using it as a battering ram. The glass shuddered again and the crack erupted across its surface in all directions. A couple more hits and they would be through.

Martin held up cash to the young men on the jet-skis, pointing at himself and toward the shore. ‘Help?’ he said again.

They shook their heads; they thought it was a joke.

‘Oh fuck this,’ Martin said and walked off the side of the boat. When he surfaced, he turned to the men who were laughing at him, ‘Help me for Christ’s sake.’

One of the riders pulled him aboard. ‘Are you coming or what?’ he shouted up.

The window exploded out over the sea, shards of glass reflecting the harsh sunlight as they fell onto the heads of our rescuers.

I ducked and shut my eyes reflexively, when I looked up again Martin was slapping his driver on the back and pointing in my direction. The driver shook his head and pointed to his friends who were already racing away.

Martin looked back for a moment and then concentrated on holding on as the jet-ski picked up speed and skimmed across the sea.

My options were limited. Go back aboard for a severe beating, possibly worse, or overboard, where I could float in the salt-rich sea and hope that Martin sent someone back for me.

I licked my lips which were already drying in the sea’s reflected heat and thought to hell with it, but I couldn’t move. I clung to the boat beneath me my head still too clouded from the blow.

I heard Orsa’s bass chuckle. The sound-desk battering-ram he'd used jutted out over the water. He leaned over it and laughed again. His teeth shone, matching the white of his hair and beard. I realized it was the first time I had ever seen him genuinely happy.

‘Your friend won’t get far,’ he said, ‘And you aren't going anywhere.’

He reached a big hand around the jagged edge of the window frame and pulled me inside.

In the back room the sounds of the main floor were muffled but audible, the investors wanted off, only the boat wasn’t moving.

‘Lawrence, make sure those people give us our money,’ said Orsa nodding his head towards the main room.

‘How?’

‘Damage limitation, you’ll think of something.’

‘Right,’ he said, ‘Right, of course I will.’ He turned to Hamza, ‘Have you called the others yet?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Do it now. Call in a favor from Faisal. I think we’ll need the police here.’

‘No police,’ Orsa said.

‘It’s the only way, I can sweet talk these idiots but I’m only a man in a suit. Give me a man in uniform to discredit this, this worthless hack, and I can win them back.’

***

With my hands tied behind a solitary wooden chair and time spent alone with angry violent men it was a relief to finally hear the police motor cruiser pull alongside.

‘This is Faisal’s man?’ Lawrence said.

‘Yes. He dealt with him last time.’

‘Will he do what we tell him?’

‘He will work with us. Faisal has assured me.’

‘Good,’ Lawrence said. He opened the adjoining door which led to a landing deck at the back of the ship. Lawrence waited at the top of the steps. A uniform I recognized marched smartly to meet him. Khadim shook Lawrence’s hand. ‘Thank you for coming Captain.’

Khadim waved his hand dismissively, ‘It is not a problem Mr. Lawrence. It is my duty. Please tell me what has happened?’

Their voices lowered to a whisper. The policeman’s eyes flicked towards me from time to time as Lawrence told him his story. Orsa joined them and I felt rather than heard his rumble as he greeted the captain in a quiet voice.

Both men talked at Khadim who smiled back in a workmanlike fashion. Voices began to rise with what sounded like frustration until Khadim raised his hands in a halting gesture. ‘Please. Gentleman. Let me take care of this.’

He walked around the two men and into the air-conditioned gloom.

‘Clean his face,’ Khadim ordered the two guards.

They looked to Orsa for their lead.

‘Do what he says.’

They pulled me roughly to my feet and poured mineral water onto small paper serviettes in their oversized hands. They scrubbed at my face and neck until the white serviettes turned a deep muddy shade of red.

Their ungentle prodding and poking seemed to hurt more than their blows. As they wiped, they reopened the broken skin that the blood had sealed. With each touch painful sensation returned to another part of my swollen face.

‘That will do,’ Khadim said eventually, he pulled out a knife and cut through the cable tie the guards had used to bind my hands. Khadim slapped a more official looking pair of cuffs on me then dragged me by the elbow through another door back into the main function room.

The noise of angry investors overwhelmed me as we entered. The room was a mess, one floor to ceiling window was smashed through and another hung loosely in its frame. The sound desk had been pulled back in and a warm breeze battled with the air conditioning to keep the room cool.

The investors sat on the scattered chairs or congregated around surviving food and drink tables, exchanging stories about the afternoon’s fracas. The emotions on display were divided equally between excited and distraught.

‘Look, the police are here,’ a woman said, relief in her voice.

The noise of the room grew in intensity as the investors bombarded Khadim with questions.

‘What’s happening?’

‘Why isn’t the boat moving?’

‘When do we get our money back?’

‘Do you have any idea what’s been going on?’

Khadim waved his free hand in the air, ‘Please be quiet,’ he said.

A few hyped up drinkers kept babbling, ‘Please!’ he demanded.

‘Sssshhh!’ said the woman.

‘I am afraid that you have all been involved in a terrible hoax.’

‘A hoax?’

‘Ssshhh!’

‘Yeah, be quiet, let the man speak will you?’

‘Thank you sir,’ said Khadim. ‘The man to my right here is a journalist, a Mr. David Bryson, please remember that name. He is a British man who has been welcomed into our country but who has betrayed our trust. A few nights ago I arrested him after he was found soliciting an underage girl in a hotel. The man who has been your host, Mr. Lawrence, interrupted Mr. Bryson’s advances. Bryson broke Mr. Lawrence’s nose with a fire extinguisher and escaped. However we caught him on his way out and he is currently under investigation.

‘I believe that what you have witnessed today has simply been a revenge attack by Mr. Bryson against Mr. Lawrence. I urge you not to believe anything he might have told you.’

‘So it was him all along?’ the woman said. ‘The bastard.’

‘Does that mean he was lying about all the other stuff as well?’ a man asked.

Khadim didn’t say a word; he just let the crowd convince itself.

‘None of it was true!’

‘There is no money laundering, no scam?’

‘He was just trying to stop Lawrence from making money.’

‘And us!’

‘Yes, and us. God what fools we’ve been.’

‘Would you look at this place, what have we done?’

‘Lawrence stopped him.’

The hubbub rose as everyone convinced themselves of what they wanted to be true. That they would make money and that they had been duped. When Lawrence walked back in he was given a hero’s welcome. Spontaneous applause rippled through the room.

‘Well done that man.’

‘We’re so sorry.’

Lawrence couldn’t stop smiling. ‘Please, please….’ he started and then shook hands as the applause rose and hands patted him on the back. The man he’d hit gave him a hug. He ran up to the now disheveled stage and called for silence. He got it. Looks of admiration came from the dancers who hovered on either wing.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you from the bottom of my heart. We nearly lost everything there didn’t we? But don’t worry the bad guy has been taken into custody by Dubai’s finest and he won’t be able to harm us anymore, or, more importantly, anyone else.’

He left that thought hanging for the crowd who all turned to scowl with rabid malice. A room full of hatred and all of it directed at me.

‘Get me out of here,’ I drawled at Khadim using swollen lips that would barely open.

‘No,’ he said.

Khadim waited for the boos to begin, the lowing of investor cattle ‘You should have taken my uncle’s generous offer; you could have been a rich and powerful man,’ he whispered. ‘Now, tell me, what is left for you here?’

I recoiled at the room of hate filled faces.

‘Was it worth it?’

When I finally hung my head with shame he walked me out of the room.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Lawrence began, ‘please forget about him. We must not let evil men detract from our actions, not only did he try to hurt a young girl last week…I stopped him then…but he tried to hurt you. Tried to stop you making money simply because he wanted to get back at me. Well damn it I’m just not going to let that happen. Our skipper assures me the boat will be moving again in no time at all, so let us get back to why we are here…let’s make some money!’

I could hear him talking, selling, to appreciative cat calls and whoops as we left the main room and the door closed behind us.

Orsa sneered. ‘Very well done Captain. It appears that you have saved the day. I am sure we will be very grateful,’ he said.

‘It is my pleasure, I warned this man what would happen.’

‘Did you tell him about tonight?’

‘No that will be a surprise for him.’

‘Faisal has arranged it?’

‘It is…an ongoing arrangement. We will take him there now. Would you like to join us, or come later?’

‘Later,’ he said, ‘I have some business here to take care of.’

Khadim nodded and started walking me towards the landing deck.

‘Hey journalist,’ Orsa said. He slammed his fist quickly and repeatedly into my face opening each barely healed wound and breaking open a few more. He explained in a growl, ‘You were looking far too fucking pretty. Khadim get this soon to be dead bitch out of my sight.’

The sudden change in road surface and the sensation of sitting at the lip of a steep incline roused me from an exhausted stupor. The beatings had taken their toll. I was lifeless as soon as they threw me in the back of Khadim’s police 4x4.

The vehicle crested a dune, paused for a moment and then lurched down its steep sand face at a controlled crawl. Unbuckled, I slammed into the seat in front of me. Khadim and an Indian driver sat up front. They said something in Arabic and then released the brake, the sudden speed made me want to vomit. I almost did as we hit the bottom.

I buckled myself in and hung onto the handle embedded in the 4x4’s roof. The two men sniggered at me and cracked jokes I couldn’t understand. The driver aimed for the biggest dunes and we went through the same stomach churning routine for the next hour.

We drove further into the desert than I had ever been before. My previous excursions had been limited to quad biking and camel rides within sight of the highways. I had no idea where we were. Dunes stretched in every direction in a desolate panoramic arc. Gone were the sweet yellows and whites of the coast, where the sand was diluted with salt crystals. Out there the sand was corpse red and burnt orange from the iron in the Hajar mountain range as it slowly crumbled from rock into dust on the distant Omani border.

There were no sounds apart from the engine whirring through the ascent and descent of low ratio gears. The men in front barely spoke, silenced by the barren but beautiful landscape as the car labored through it.

There was no way I could sleep, no matter how much I needed to. The nausea slowly subsided as I found my dune legs only to be replaced by a dull terror.

What were they going to do to me?

If I told Khadim that his uncle was probably dead by Orsa’s hand would they let me go? As I’d set it up I figured I’d best keep my mouth shut.

The car finally came to a stop on the crest of another shallow dune that looked much like any other. Ahead of us I saw a weathered, off white and well used Bedu tent. It had two sections, one smaller canopy sat adjacent to a larger man size marquee, the main living space.

The tents were closed off to the elements, door flaps down, a sign that they were out of use. Whatever was stored inside would be safe; there were rarely thieves this far into the desert.

When Khadim turned off the engine a humid stillness closed over us. The two men spoke briefly. Khadim’s man opened up the smaller of the tents and pulled me toward it.

‘What’s happening?’ I tried to say.

The Indian said something to Khadim. The captain pulled something out of the car and trudged towards me through the slippery surface of the sand.

‘Please don’t hurt me,’ I said pathetically.

He grabbed the back of my head and poured an entire bottle of water into my mouth. I drank as much as I could, but mostly it spilled over my face and down my neck, mixing with the taste of dried blood.

‘I told you what would happen if you insisted on making a nuisance of yourself. As a journalist your life is now finished, your name is dirt. But don’t worry,’ he said, slapping me playfully on the face, ‘all this will be over soon.’

He waved a hand and the Indian man hauled me into the small tent and dropped me to the floor. I curled up in a fetal position, whatever was about to happen to me was not going to be good.

I was going to die.

I shivered despite the heat, cold with fear. The tears came and with no one around I sobbed uncontrollably and wretchedly like a forgotten child. I remembered the first time I cried like that. The day I realized I wasn’t going to live forever. Eight years old, sat in yet another bedroom, looking out over the grimy window of another new city, an alien environment. New smells, new sounds, new food, new people…it wouldn’t be the last move. I began to wonder how many more rooms I would live in. More than twenty since I was born, how many would that be in a lifetime? I knew that one day there would be a final room, the place where I would die, where everything would come to an end.