Secret Skin (33 page)

‘If he does what he is told he will be fine. As for you I will escort you to the airport. Now.’ He commanded.

‘There’s really no need.’

‘Oh but I insist,’ he said grabbing my arm.

‘Of course you do.’

‘Pick up the latest edition on the way out,’ Martin shouted after us, ‘You’re going to love the cover.’

***

In the police cruiser we drove like any other madman on the road, but we were the police, we could get away with it. Then the traffic slowed to a stop as we neared defense roundabout. The driver put on his siren and forced his way through the stalled cars until we broke out into open space.

The traffic was being held back by two police cruisers. Behind them the road was blocked by Indian and oriental men in a wall of uniformed color. They formed a line nearly a hundred men deep that spanned the highway. The laborers from the construction site. All of them by the looks of it.

‘What are they doing?’ I said to Khadim.

He ignored my question and climbed out of the car to talk to his colleagues.

Then someone in the line of men raised a hand and they started to walk towards us. They swarmed over and around the stalled traffic. At first the policemen tried talking to them, then shouting. The laborers ignored them and just kept going.

The men were all smiles as they walked through the horns and hollers of either support or scorn from the cars.

More policemen arrived; they held their truncheons in hand but didn’t know what to do in such a public setting. Before they had a chance to think of something the journalists turned up and started to ask their annoying questions.

The atmosphere was ecstatic; the construction workers were scared but demonstrating anyway. After the pre-prepared, over-packaged consumer delights of Dubai something so spontaneous and meaningful couldn’t be anything other than fun.

A hand slapped the window and I looked into a smiling face I recognized, those slightly distant eyes. ‘Mani?’ I said.

He grinned and shouted something, more faces that I recognized from the construction site squashed up against the window and then the surge of bodies swept them forward.

I caught Khadim’s eye. He stared back, confidence gone. When the crowd cleared he pushed through the pack of journalists and got back in the car.

‘That was great,’ I said to him, ‘good for them.’

‘They will pay for this,’ he said.

‘Sure, when no one is around to see I’ll bet.’

He smirked but didn’t answer.

With lights and sirens blaring we made the airport in less than ten minutes, easily doing 200kph the whole way.

Khadim and his companion walked me into the Emirates Airline terminal and spoke to a uniform on the front desk. A tall, serious looking man in a cream dishdash appeared and talked to Khadim. His muscles bulged through the fabric and he spoke into a mouthpiece in his ear. He scanned my passport and walked us quickly through customs. The money stayed in my pockets.

We sat in a small plain white room that looked out over the airfield. Khadim sat across from me becoming increasingly restless.

‘Why didn’t you shoot me?’ I asked him.

‘I have my reasons,’ he said deflecting my question.

‘C’mon, Khadim. I know you’re not part of the team. You avoided playing with the cattle prod as well, and now you’re putting me on a complimentary flight instead of taking me to your friends.’

‘I do things because I have to Mr. Bryson. Why do you insist on asking so many questions?’

‘I have my reasons.’

We sat in silence for a moment, listening to the sounds on the other side of the door. Thousands of confused tourists wondering which way to go.

‘So why is the head of the Anti-Human Trafficking Department so heavily involved with human trafficking?’

‘Let me ask you this, if you were close to the people who ran things, and you knew that no matter which law you tried to implement it would simply be ignored because of who was involved, how would you try and stop bad things from happening?’

‘I honestly don’t know.’

‘Neither do I,’ he said and smiled. ‘I simply do what I can, when I can.’

‘So you’re a good cop in a bad system.’

‘No I am a bad policeman, I don’t always follow orders, but I am a good man.’

‘Are you?’

‘You are still breathing are you not? As is your little Yasmin and that boisterous friend of yours. I’m afraid I couldn’t prevent what happened to the girl in the creek.’

‘But why?’

‘If this was your world what would you do? Things are changing, power is shifting, and even your people will have to change. Do you think the Americans will last forever?’

‘Do you? How about Oil?’ Or Islam?

He chuckled, ‘Perhaps you think us uncivilized? But I learnt my history in your schools,’ he smiled, ‘your kings killed their wives when they wanted more, we build ours another house. Tell me, which do you think is more civilized?’

‘It’s easy to blame culture Khadim, we each choose our own actions.’

‘I simply try to be noble Mr. Bryson, to do the right thing,’ he said as the door opened, ‘so should you.’

Khadim stood up and turned to leave.

‘Hamza told me Orsa killed your Uncle,’ I said.

The captain flinched but he didn’t look back. His shoulders rose and fell and he said, ‘When did he tell you this?’

‘On the boat, just before you arrived.’

He walked stiffly out and left me in the hands of the cream colored official; who escorted me onto a plane bound for London just as the door was closing. The cabin crew led me to a seat in the rear across from two British men, strangers in mid-conversation. One wore his England Coeur-de-Lyon football shirt proudly and the other a conservative blue, gold buttoned, double breasted suit.

Both stared at my battered face as I took the empty window seat across the aisle from them.

‘Christ mate, you look like you’ve been in the wars.’

I nodded confirmation and rested my head against the window. I could barely keep my eyes open but was forced to as we were made to listen to the safety announcements and unwelcome adverts.

The two men talked loudly and openly to each other about the hotels in Dubai, the bars, the beaches, those funny Arabs with the best cars money could buy and their hand-me-down driving skills.

I heard the businessman say, ooh those women, they sent this Russian girl up to me one night, my god you should have seen her, just beautiful, and all for me. I heard his satisfied laugh.

The football supporter said, that doesn’t really do it for me old son, not my cup of tea, she may tell you her name is Nadia and tell you how wonderful you are, but it’s all bollocks innit? It’s a fantasy ‘cause who knows how that girl got there? Do you?

Why do you care?

Why don’t you? She’s somebody’s daughter for god’s sake and there you are ‘avin her sent to your room as if she’s a fucking Caesar salad or something. You’re fucking slime, blokes like you really wind me up, you know?

I heard movement, then: Oi, elephant man, mind if I sit next you? No? Good. Now see, if this bloke here was to go to a prostitute I’d understand. I mean who’s gonna float his boat with a battered mush like that, hey?

I fell deeply asleep.

A uniformed stewardess shook me awake at Gatwick. I was the last passenger on the plane. I talked my way awkwardly through customs and then headed straight back to departures. I found an overpriced coffee shop and drank as many sugary lattes as I could handle.

The long sleep had revived me and as my brain began clicking through the gears I realized I was about to be shafted again. My name dragged through the dirt as a sexual deviant so that the real horrors could remain hidden but marketable.

The coffee table where I sat was littered with spent cups and disheveled newspapers. A stained headline on one of the free papers caught my attention: LONDON IS CAPITAL OF SEX SLAVE TRADE.

I need never have left home.

At one of the public internet terminals I signed into Skype, the web based telephone service they wouldn’t let you use in Dubai. The government monopoly on overseas calls meant stealth taxes came via your phone bill.

I trawled the web for the numbers of editors I used to work with and rang around. The first two weren’t answering. I reluctantly called the third.

‘Yes,’ she said impatiently.

‘Charlotte, it’s David.’ I let that hang long enough for her to recognize my voice.

‘David,’ she said genuinely shocked. ‘Long time, stranger. You still having fun with camels?’

‘I’m at Gatwick Airport,’ I said.

‘Well get over here and let’s talk.’

‘I’m not sure if I can. I think I might have to leave again.’

‘For Christ’s sake…what have you done this time?’

‘I’ve got a story, a government involved in prostitution and human trafficking with ties to money laundering and a property scam that will affect UK investors. Investors who also happen to be your readers.’

‘Do you have proof?’

‘Yes telephone and face to face interviews in mp3 format backed up online. Also some video of the pick up before a murder. I’ll email you transcriptions of the best quotes once my feet are back on the ground.’

‘Okay David, but why can’t you come to see me? We can bash this out together.’

‘Because as soon as this story gets out the people involved are going to crucify me with information they’ve manufactured to make me look like a pedophile.’

‘Jesus fucking Christ David. Is this going to come back and bite me in the arse?’

‘Maybe, maybe not. I’m not sticking around to find out. I’ve been beaten to a pulp, I look a sight…our family name is about be dragged through the dirt again…maybe.’

There was a long pause.

‘You should never have gone out there in the first place.’

‘I had to.’

‘You didn’t David; you were just running away from things like you always do.’

I couldn’t find the right words to tell her otherwise.

‘Damn it. Write it up send it over, if it’s good and it’s a slow news day we’ll run it somewhere up front. If not who knows somewhere in the middle…800-1000 words, you know the format. Okay?’

‘Yes. Thanks sis.’

‘You should give the olds a call.’

‘I thought you were all business. Why would I want to talk to them?’

‘They say they worry about you.’

‘It’s too late for that.’

We said nothing. Brother and sister running through the images of our past. Thinking the same thoughts. Coming to the same conclusions. It was too late. We both knew it and sighed at the same time. She changed the subject.

‘Is it worth ruining your life again over another story?’

‘I hope so. It’s what I do.’

***

When Charlotte put the phone down I prepared a package of links to copies of the recordings on a free one-size-fits-all server. Then I opened up another window and registered a new email account with fictional personal details.

It would only be used for one message and it had to be anonymous. I searched for the right email address on the Dubai government website.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Akbar’s killer

FAO: Captain Khadim

Click here for film showing the killer of M. Akbar and his abduction.

In 48 hours this footage will be made public.

I pressed send and logged out. If Khadim hadn’t already found a way to take care of Orsa this would give him what he needed. Unless something went wrong in the next 48 hours Sunset Heights was finished and so was the big Russian. Like a Dubai sheikh in the fast lane he’d never see this coming.

Once Orsa was gone Newman should be able to relax. Khadim would still call me names in his magazine, but journalism was my business, what did he know about it anyway?

In two days I was going to send the whole package to every news agency I could think of. Faisal, Orsa, Akbar, Lawrence and Khadim the whole sleazy pack of them.

***

I walked into the first travel agent I could find in Departures and emptied my pockets.

‘There’s about five hundred quid there. I want the next flight out of here that I can afford. Where will that get me?’

Her name badge said: Mandy, Travel Consultant. She examined me with a skeptical eye.

‘I had a bad accident,’ I explained. ‘Now I need a holiday. What do you have?’

She hesitated then began typing quickly on her keyboard.

‘Let’s say four hours from now sir,’ she said with a soft Essex lilt that was surprisingly pleasant on the ears. ‘We’ve got Bangkok for 369, Jo’burg for 260, Nice for 150, LA for 299, St Petersburg for 400, as well as Rome, Paris, Prague and Alicante all for less than £100.’ She looked up at me with gaping baby blues, ‘Does any of that interest you sir?’

‘Yeah,’ I smiled, ‘All of them. Anything else?’

‘Well sir, for 320 including taxes, how about Dubai?

***

I sat in departures with the only piece of luggage I had with me, a rolled up copy of Arabian Outlook. I unrolled it and started to read it through. Then I closed it again and examined the cover.

The cover photo was of a man sat against the front bumper of a Dodge Viper, his legs pointed forward, arms at right angles to the headlights. It was a beautiful medium-format picture of a foreshortened figure crucified on a sports car. The headline read: DODGE THE TRAFFIC: How The Viper Saved My Life by Martin Newman.

The man’s face looked familiar because it was my own. A picture taken while I was unconscious on Sheikh Zayed Road.

‘That scheming bastard,’ I said out loud and laughed.

It was an ego-inflating picture that made me think unwelcome thoughts of angels and martyrs. We’d had them for thousands of years and still we repeated the same old mistakes, constantly living in other people’s pasts. It was time to move on.

When they called my flight I left the magazine behind.

***

From: Martin Newman

To: Bryson

Subject: Look what you did

Bryson,

See the teaser off the wires below. Khadim’s off my back, Arabian Outlook’s my own again. Don’t know what happened to your girlfriend but that tent sounds painfully familiar.