Chapter 17: Bloody hell, took me a book and half to get here!

Thursday, August 13^th, 2015. Asim’s house.

Back in Riyadh, Asim and I fell back into our normal routine, almost like a married couple. He filled his calendar with appointments with other layabouts, discussing business deals that were far too much work to ever carry out or comparing their latest unearned trophies. I prepared to spend my days making numerous trips to supermarkets and dry cleaners, in between serving a largely ignored breakfast and a hastily scarfed, though not unappreciated dinner. He’s not a fussy eater, our Asim. I’ll give him that.

There was still the matter of the phone I had swiped. I was quite keen to listen to the recording of the meeting between Omar, Oleg and the North Koreans. Obviously both the British and American intelligence services would be interested as well, but for now neither of them knew about the phone. And so I waited until Asim was out of the house, opened a blank document on my laptop and sat down to listen.

Five minutes in I gave up. The recording had clearly been illicit, probably only made because the Professor wanted something to fall back on to boost his memory as he worked on his notes. I could hear his voice best of all, but Oleg was on the other side of the table and his strangled accent didn’t help much. The phone was probably hidden in whatever passes for an inside pocket in a dishdasha, so the sound was muffled. I could hear Omar and Asim consulting each other in rapid Arabic. There was nothing to be gained from this. It seemed to be picking up from an earlier discussion, it referenced ‘things’, ‘items’ and ‘projects’ that were never named and they seemed to be going over some sort of list. I transferred a copy of the file to my laptop and then decided I’d hand the thing over. Question was: to whom? The CIA, who had actually shown an interest and who were being quite helpful, or to MI6, who had yet to get in touch with me? Actually, that last part clinched it. I decided I’d create a software backup of the phone just in case someone needed it, but then turned it in with John Stein. This was surprisingly simple: I handed it in at the fishing supply shop.

I expected prince Omar to need a day or two to get rid of Professor Rasul’s corpse. He had remained on board of The Crescent and I was amused by the idea he had to spend the night in a room with a dead professor wrapped in a sheet in the walk-in closet, preventing housekeepers from coming in whilst calling his friends to help him dispose of the body, or come up with a plausible explanation for his death. But it wasn’t a certainty that he would call on me to tutor Princess Alexandra, so that worried me. It might all have been for nothing, and then I had no idea what to do.

I did check in with John Stein, obviously. Gerard was there, too. I swear they were giggling when I came into the back room of the fishing supply shop. Not chuckling: giggling.

“And there he is! The Best of Britain, haha!” said John, getting up to offer me a meaty handshake. Gerard just grinned.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” I said, somewhat stiffly. The more casual Americans get, the more British I become. I can’t help it.

“Did ya have fun?”

“Not particularly. Well, I did visit the Burj Khalifa. That was very nice.”

“And did the Professor put up a fight?”

“Not even as much as Esobe, and he was tied up. No chance of a cup of tea, I suppose?”

“It’s on its way, don’t you worry. That phone you brought in is already being processed, by the way. Couldn’t help noticing you made a back-up?”

“And what of it? I found it.”

“Suppose so. So ... We currently have eyes on The Crescent and yesterday it unloaded a crate of sound equipment into a van from the Ministry of Health. I take it that was the Professor?”

“Yup. I used the pen.”

“Did you hold it like this?” chuckled Gerard, and held an imaginary microphone to his mouth. And then he sang: “Vooooooolare! Oh oh! Cantaaaaare, oh oh oh oooooh! WHAHAAHAAAAAA!”

Well, apparently that was something they needed to get off their chest. Stein tried to hold back, but pretty soon they were both laughing out loud, including the guy minding the door who came to bring in a mug of tea and two paper cups with coffee.

“Oh God ... We just got the video,” said John, wiping the corner of his left eye. “I can tell you right now that you are already a legend at this field office. I’ve seen some stunts, but doing wetwork in between singing If I Were A Rich Man to a group of muslims, that’s just ... That’s the next level. I mean, how do you even WALK with balls like that? Mind boggles, really does.”

“Hang on, there’s video?! I asked them not to allow filming!”

“Yeah, well ... Someone did. We had an observer on board. He was invited anyway. Obviously he didn’t use a smartphone to record you. Oh man, I am so going to book you for the next Aramco corporate! You had a tough time getting them in the mood, didn’t you? But you soldiered on! Christ, that band was awful.”

“They were very good, actually. But not the right choice for this gig.”

“I suppose you’re right. Who’d have thought a German band singing all the Berlin hits from the interbellum would bomb on a Saudi yacht? Not me! Hahaaa! Anyway, you’re here, the Professor will be in the ground in a few hours and Omar is looking for a new tutor. Better keep your phone charged, Carstairs!”

“I wish I were as confident as you,” I sighed. “Omar and I don’t get along. He keeps getting my hackles up, and vice versa. Do you know he keeps making up names for me? Jeeves, James, Jarvis, Mr. Belvedere ... It’s like he’s got a list! What kind of boorish prat does that?!”

“Yeah. Ahem. Anyway, don’t worry. I know Omar. He’s very traditional and rather full of himself, but the things he values most are family and loyalty. He knows how hard it is to get Alexandra a tutor and he will look in his inner circle first. You’re on his radar, don’t you worry. And even though he behaves like an asshole, just be polite but firm. Don’t take any lip and prove useful and you’ll soon be in his good books.”

“Yes, that’s right,” added Gerard. “Nobody ever talks back to him. He respects people who do. Just don’t insult his dignity. That’s his thing. His hangup. But don’t be a pushover, either. One of the reasons he likes Asim is that Asim isn’t afraid to speak his mind.”

“I’ll bear that that in mind. Anyway, are we done? Or do you want a play by play?”

“Absolutely. Jerry! Look up the karaoke version of Nemmy Kitty Pez on Spotify, would ya? WHOOOOHAAAAAAHAAAA! Martin, stay! Come on, man! We’re just messing with ya! HEY! COME BACK! AAAAH! WE MADE YOU TEA AND EVERYTHING, FUCKER!”

August 15^th, , 2015. An ISIS mass grave containing the remains of seventy execution victims, including women and children, is found in Shingal, Iraq. Fifteen women are executed for refusing to marry ISIS militants in Ghazlani, also in Iraq. A dozen people are beheaded by the Islamic State in Sirte, Lybia. In Pakistan a man is murdered by religious hardliners. In Nigeria a suicide bomber kills three people at a market. The same happens in Maden, Iraq, and Ramirgo, Nigeria. Fifteen people at a used car market in a Shiite area of Habibiya, Iraq, are killed by a Mujahideen car bomb. Two days earlier, a truck bomb in a Baghdad market killed more than 70 and injured 200. A day later two accused homosexuals are thrown off a building in Syria. Also in Syria, twenty-two hospitalized people are murdered in their beds by Islamic fanatics. Islam means ‘peace’, by the way.

The call came on a Saturday, just when I was taking K-T through the car wash. She seemed a bit miffed that I had left Riyadh without telling her, even though she could now charge herself and had the run of the city. She also had another message from Miles for me, a request to call him back. I did, while K-T drove me around town. I felt like having a decent cup of coffee, so I asked her to take me to the Belgian coffee shop in the tiny mall across from the mosque Omar favoured. They did indeed serve very decent drip coffee and lovely Belgian ‘mattentaart’, basically cheesecake with a puff pastry crust. The owner served me personally and didn’t make fun of me for singing during a covert operation, which is something I have come to appreciate. It was very quiet in his shop, but most Saudis wouldn’t be able to find Belgium on a map of the Benelux.

On the way back K-T asked me to get her cleaned, so I took IT, because it’s a THING, to the most lavish car wash in Riyadh. It’s sort of a cross between a Disney ride and a car wash. I forgot the name but it’s the one behind the German hospital on Olaya Road.

I couldn’t get her detailed because she really doesn’t want a bunch of Pakis pushing her interior buttons, but I always keep my car tidy and I had a vacuum cleaner at the garage, so that was fine. Anyway, just after the blow dryer section my phone rang. It was Asim.

“Good afternoon, Your Royal Hi...

“Carstairs! Where are you?”

“I’m out shopping, Sir. I’m near As Sahafa right now.”

“I need you to come to the palace.”

“Very good, Sir. I’ll be home in about ten minutes.”

“No, not home! The Royal Palace.”

“Oh, I see. Any particular reason? I mean, I do have ice cream in the back.”

I didn’t, but I was buying extra time to change cars.

“That doesn’t matter! My cousin just came home and he wants to see us. Both of us. I’m already on my way there. Are you dressed?”

That caught me off guard.

“Uhm ... Well, obviously. Pants and everything.”

“No, I mean ... Are you dressed respectably?”

“Am I not always, Your Royal Highness? But no tails and gloves, I’m afraid. Just a suit and tie.”

“Good. I’ll tell the guard to expect you. Text me when you’re parked. Hurry.”

“Very good, Sir.”

Asim had seen K-T before, although he was obviously unaware of all her special abilities. In fact, he thought she ran on petrol. But he also thought I just kept her in a lockup somewhere, waiting out the period of ownership that has to pass before you can import a car duty free into the UK. I was waved through the first checkpoint when I produced the medallion Mr. Mohammed had given me, and a brief glance at my passport got me through the second checkpoint, even though they did have a sniffer dog walk around the car and had a quick look underneath with a mirror on a stick. It is still a Royal Palace, of course. The gardens looked very inviting, but today was too hot to enjoy them. Riyadh does get very warm and doesn’t catch much of a breeze either, so asthma sufferers may want to avoid it, but the humidity is not very high and there is lots of shade to be found. I find it tolerable, even in my suit and tie. Mostly I don’t wear the jacket, but only a waistcoat.

A soldier in a Saudi military dress uniform waved at me me as I parked in a small carpark behind the first building and when I got out he was waiting for me with a golf cart. I shook his hand, because that’s just how it’s done. Arab men shake hands all the Goddamned time.

“Salaam aleikum. I’m here to see prince Asim.”

“Salaam. Yes Sir. I’ll take you there.”

I got on the passenger bench and texted Asim. He sent back a picture of a thumb. Not the emoticon: an actual picture of his thumb he keeps in his image library. It’s got a smiley face drawn on in sharpie. It’s quite charming, really. Still, I hope he never decides to tell me to fuck off.

The Saudi Royal Palace isn’t just one building, but more like a resort. The biggest building is for King Salman and his family, but he has another palace somewhere that he prefers. This one is mostly his ceremonial palace, used for affairs of state and receptions such as the one I had attended on my first evening in town. Some other members of the inner circle occupied buildings elsewhere on the grounds, each with their own support staff. Only landscaping and security were shared. Most residents didn’t stay here permanently: they had a suite or sometimes an entire floor in one of the buildings, which they called home when in Riyadh. But if you have money and no actual job, there are better places to live. Anywhere by the sea, for a start. Or somewhere where trees will grow without constant irrigation. Or where the air doesn’t sting in your eyes when days of exhaust fumes hang over the city. And where there aren’t quite so many mosques, and maybe a liquor store or a cinema.

And so it was for prince Asim, who had a pied-à-terre here in the King Faisal II building, named after a King who ruled between 1834 and 1838. Because of its oval shape, it was also referred to as the ‘Albaydawiu’ or ‘Alba Palace’ for short. It was three floors high, with a large inner courtyard that held an inviting pool, accessible only for men. It was built in a traditional style, but that was clearly fake. No way were those actual wooden beams, prodding out of the sand coloured plaster at regular intervals. The roof was lined with Merlons, blocks of about one metre wide and spaced a metre apart. A green and white Saudi flag hung off a flagpole much like my balls were dangling in the stilted heat. My bum felt wet when I got out of the golf cart. The ride over had been lovely, though. Too bad they don’t give tours, because the landscape was dotted with marble fountains, cupolas, walkways lined with benches that ran past carefully trimmed hedges and of course rows and rows of palm trees. Those don’t provide much shade, but if you take out the brown leaves they do look nice. Or maybe that’s just the perspective of a Dutchman who generally only sees them in travel brochures.

The soldier gave a brief grunt in his two way radio, clipped onto his chest, nodded and drove off. Another guard, this one dressed in a light brown thobe and wearing a rather ornately draped red and black Guthra, stood at a glass door and waved me in. Clearly I wasn’t deemed important enough to be properly greeted, but he did give me a businesslike smile. Essentially I was treated like a member of staff, and I suppose I was.

“Mr. Carstairs, this way please,” he said in Arabic. I know I keep saying I don’t speak the language, but obviously I know the phrases you’d find in the back of a travel guide, and perhaps a bit more. Sometimes I’d watch TV or a movie with Asim, and he would pick something in Arabic with English subtitles, and explain a few things. That’s about as much effort as he was willing to put into teaching me Arabic, but it did help. I just didn’t feel comfortable formulating phrases myself. I’m practically fluent in English and people still pick on me for not knowing the eight levels of adjective placement (opinion, size, age, shape, colour, origin, material, purpose, in case you’re wondering) or starting sentences with a conjunction, so I guess I’m just too afraid to start mangling Arabic. Which is silly, because whatever else you can say about them: Arabs are generally very polite and will not correct your mistakes. Which doesn’t really help if you’re trying to learn their language, of course. Same with the Japanese. An employee of mine learned to speak Japanese from his girlfriend. They met online, but after a year or so he even moved there. After having lived about six months in Tokyo, his colleagues finally told him he spoke like a chick. Apparently there’s a marked difference in syntax, but only when speaking.

A short, traditionally dressed man with a rather ornate moustache appeared from an office near the entrance and looked me over.

“Is this him?” he asked, in Arabic.

“Yes, Khafama.”

I’m probably messing this up in various ways, but ‘khafama’ is a title for the ‘steward of the household’. It is a compound word and I can’t identify all the elements, but it’s what they used. The full version would be khwanfaman, at least according to Anaïs. She says it means ‘master of the table’, but I think it sounds more like ‘guy in charge of the warehouse’. You can see what I’m up against here.

The Khafama wasn’t interested in shaking hands, or introducing himself to me.

“Sit there,” he said, again in Arabic, and pointed at a tiny chair that Edwin wouldn’t even fit in. It was just for decorative purposes.

“I’m rather afraid I would damage the chair,” I said, smiling politely.

“Speak Arabic.”

“Awfully sorry, Sir. I’m afraid I don’t speak your language. I would appreciate it immensely if you could see your way to accommodating me in this regard.”

Sir didn’t, as it happened. He just turned around and left. The guard took me to a corridor with a very comfortable sofa and told me to wait there. As soon as his back was turned, I texted Asim to tell him I was on the ground floor. By way of an answer he appeared a minute later and ushered me to a lift, although he did make me wait before I was allowed to step off on the top floor until some women had scrambled out of sight.

It looked like a five star hotel up here. I walked on red carpet demarcated with gold (or rather yellow) lines that sometimes warped into geometric shapes, especially near corners. Cream walls, oak panelled doors, side tables with fresh flowers, chairs nobody ever sat in. The doors had locks with keyholes, but that was about the only difference with a real hotel. Also, fire exits weren’t marked.

“My cousin has a request,” said Asim, after he had beckoned me to come out of the lift. I felt it might be a good idea to seem a bit nervous. I could of course try striding in and exclaiming: “HA! He’s dead now! You have to hire me! Where is your laptop?’ but that might give the game away.

“Am I in trouble, Your Royal Highness?”

“No! Oh no! No no no. But listen...”

He stopped walking and placed his hand on my shoulder.

“I know I hired you to assist me. With business. But it has been going slower than I expected and, well ... All you do is cook and shop. Shop and cook. Cook ... and then shop. I like playing computer games with you, but you don’t really like hanging out with my friends and they...”

“Don’t like hanging out with a servant, and a khafir no less. I know what they call me.”

A khafir is someone who rejects or disbelieves the tenets of Islam. I presented myself as a member of the Church of England here, which was a distinction nobody cared about so they just considered me a Catholic, but even the pope is a khafir to a devout muslim.

“That’s not true! They don’t mind that you are Catholic. They mind that all you do is drink tea and read books, and that your face goes like THIS when you hear Arabic music.”

He illustrated that last point by scrunching up his face for a second. I couldn’t help but smirk. We weren’t friends by a long shot, but I did have a certain fondness for him. Asim was a very genuine person. Somewhat unfiltered, but because he was a decent fellow that didn’t cause any problems. If I ever lose my filter, I will find myself being chased by a pitchfork wielding mob before the day is out, I’m sure.

“I take your point, Sir. But what does that have to do with prince Omar?”

“Carstairs, I like having you around, but I don’t need you to make breakfast for me and you are clearly bored. No man goes to the shops three times a day if he is not bored. Now my cousin has a request and I hope you find it interesting. If you accept, you must know that I am fine with it.”

“Are you FIRING me?” I said, feigning anguish.

“No! No, that is not it! If you don’t want to do it, you can stay with me. We have fun, right! There is so much more to see of my country. But my cousin, he needs help. And I don’t. Not with breakfast, anyway. So...”

“I see. And what does he want me to do?”

“I’ll let him talk. Look, he finds it difficult to ask for help, okay? Maybe ... We can make it look like it is good for you. Maybe I lie a little bit in there, just to ... make it smooth. Just go along, okay? Don’t be upset.”

Two doors down, the Khafama popped his head around a corner.

“His Royal Highness is WAITING,” he spat.

“Coming, coming!” smiled Asim. Then, to me: “That is Abdulaziz. He is the uhm ... we say ‘Khafama’. You would say ‘Majordomo’. Like you call yourself, sometimes.”

“We’ve met. The guy is an asshole,” I grumbled. This shocked Asim.

“Carstairs! You never curse!”

“But he totally is, right?”

“Oh, yes. But you are dealing with my cousin, not him.”

I was led into Omar’s office. Like Mr. Mohammed, he had plenty of seating available, in the form of a sofa that ran around the outer walls of this room. Light came in via a window that looked out over the courtyard. Abdulaziz stood off to the side.

“Come in, come in,” said Omar in English, forcing a smile as Asim presented me at the door. “Sit, sit. Khafama, our guest probably likes some tea.”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness,” answered Abdulaziz in Arabic.

“Oh, and please speak English in the presence of our guest.”

“Yes, certainly,” answered Abdulaziz with a pained expression. He picked up the phone and ordered tea while Asim and I settled in. When he hung up, having spoken only two words, I said:

“Can I just check: I only drink black tea, not Earl Grey, mint or yansoon or hal or any of that.” (That’s anise and cardamom respectively. Quite popular here, revolting to me.)

Omar gave Abdulaziz a nod, who sighed and made another call. Before he hung up he gave me a furious stare and asked:

“Lemon? Milk?”

“No, thanks.”

“Good...”

So, there I was: ready to be interviewed for a job I literally killed for. Exactly one month ago, I had arrived in Riyadh. Incredible how at the time I thought I’d be walking in and out of Omar’s house in a matter of days!

I didn’t want to look too keen, but for now there wasn’t any indication there even was a job on offer. Instead, Omar began asking me questions about my life here. Now I have never actually been on the receiving end of a job interview, but I’ve held close to a hundred or so. Maybe seventy, if we don’t count the follow-ups. And this was a weird one, as they go.

“So, Mr. Carstairs: have you gotten used to the temperature in my country?”

“I have indeed, Your Royal Highness.”

“Good. And...”

He was straining his mind to come up with another question, which is very hard if you don’t give a toss about someone. Asim came to his aid.

“And Mr. Carstairs is really learning his way around town! I called him today and asked him where he was, and he said: ‘Near As Sahafa’. I had to look that up: it’s near the German hospital!”

“Ah. Yes. Very good. And how is your Arabic coming along?”

“I’m sorry to say I find it difficult to make progress. I mostly speak to salespeople and they speak English with me. Prince Asim is always willing to explain or translate something, but he didn’t hire me just to tutor me. But I am delighted to find that most everyone here speaks English. Which is all the more amazing because it’s an entirely different alphabet, and written in reverse from what you’re used to. It speaks to the quality of Saudi education, I must say.”

Butter ‘em up a bit, that always helps. Omar actually smiled.

“That is good to hear, Mr. Carstairs. But I understand you speak several languages yourself. Asim says you sometimes sing Italian opera, and I heard you singing in French.”

“Yes, but those are all Indo-European languages. Seen one, seen ‘em all, really. They all share the Latin alphabet and reading direction. I find it very difficult to switch. Perhaps I’m getting to it a bit too late in life.”

“Maybe. Can I ask about your life before you came to Saudi?”

Next to me, Asim settled in. He seemed to have relaxed, now that we were finally having an actual conversation and hadn’t yet managed to upset each other.

“What would you like to know, Your Royal Highness?”

“Your job? Tell me about that.”

I pretended to get a bit nervous.

“Oh. I ... Can I just ask: is there a particular reason you’re asking about that? I was told to get here post haste and now I find myself being quizzed about my past by a VERY senior member of the Royal Family.” He clearly liked hearing that. “If there is anything in particular you would like me to clear up, I would be most happy to...”

“No no! No, there is no problem, Mister Carstairs. Not at all,” said Asim. Tea was brought in by a young Saudi with a wispy moustache, who wore a black satin vest over his white dishdasha. Omar ignored him completely and the Khafama began to fuss over the cups.

“It’s just ... Maybe I should start with thanking you for what you did on my ship. Being a host in my absence, greeting guests and even stepping in when the entertainment was unavailable. I hear you even helped the technician. I appreciate that. You didn’t have to do all that, but you did.”

“Yes. Well ... glad to help. It’s why I’m here.”

“And I appreciate your discretion regarding the unfortunate passing of our friend, Markhan.”

“Yes, yes of course. That was very ... unsettling. Oh dear, I just now realise I have completely forgotten to offer my condolences. It’s just that, I was there just after you found him and...”

“That’s okay, that’s okay,” said Omar, somewhat soothingly. Right, let’s force him to show a bit more empathy, then. I won’t copy the entire MI6 playbook on getting targets to feel sympathy towards you, but one trick is to actually ask them for a favour. It’s called the Ben Franklin effect. Even if they initially resent doing it and are merely being polite, they later justify it to themselves by assuming they must have liked you. Cognitive dissonance: it’s a beautiful thing. And I was using a variation of it right now: asking forgiveness.

“And it later occurred to me that singing some more right after we found him might have been in poor taste. But I’m not really used to ... dealing with ... you know. It shook me up a bit, if I’m honest. I’m glad you knew what to do. It made me think of someone I lost, and I guess I was looking for a way to push that out of my mind. I should like to offer my sincere apologies if I overlooked your anguish at having lost a friend at this time.”

“Yes, yes, I see, don’t worry about it. I was happy to see that you were entertaining my guests when I myself was not available.”

Yeah. Like he’d have gotten up on stage to do a bit of stand-up ... Best you’re getting out of him is five minutes of aloof, stilted conversation about how Israel gets away with murder. He’s also happy to compare yachts with you, particularly if you don’t own one.

He stared out of the window for a second, and his face mellowed.

“Two years ago ... no, three by now ... my brother died in an accident. It was very sudden. We had become very close after our father died, two years earlier. It was a lot of sadness in a short period. You remember, Asim? Allah saw fit to test us, it seemed.”

“Yes. And we delivered ourselves to his judgement,” answered Asim. I knew him well enough by now to register that he seemed a bit surprised to hear his cousin telling me this.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I added.

Asim stirred his tea.

“My brother had two children. His wife was not ... fit to take care of them. I married her, because the Prophet says: ‘The one who looks after a widow is like a Mujahid.’ But she doesn’t like me. So I decided it was best to let her live in their home in Hail, and take care of my niece and nephew myself.”

I almost gasped. This man married a widow against her will and then took away her kids?! What the actual fuck?! Obviously I was quite keen to give him an earful about this, but Asim just nodded. He felt his cousin had done the right thing. And he had, within Saudi law. If a man dies, his wife and kids just become part of the inheritance of his oldest brother. Women are property and their consent is simply irrelevant. Maybe the actual laws say something different, but religious practice always comes first. All it took to arrange it was the say so of a senior cleric, and let’s not forget we’re talking about a branch of Islam that basically wants to deny women all forms of healthcare, unless their husband happens to be a doctor and can perform surgery in their own house. And so I focussed very, very hard on not screaming in Omar’s face. That took so much effort on my part I fell completely silent. This was noticed.

“I’m sorry, did I stir up bad memories for you?” asked Omar. “You said you lost someone, too. Your wife, was it not?”

My wife is alive and well with my son and daughter, no thanks to your disgusting reli ... Oh hang on, my pretend wife! The one who looks like Kelly’s mum! Fuck, what was her name again?

“Uhm, yes. Yes. My wife. Four years ago. Actually, it will be four years ago next week. So it’s been on my mind rather a lot.”

Just don’t ask me her name right now.

“What was her name?”

“Gertrude, right?” said Asim, clearly trying to help me out, since I seemed to be choked up by grief. I nodded, because it sounded about right.

“We don’t have to talk about it, Mr. Carstairs. I don’t want to upset you. But I understand how being confronted with death can shake you up.”

“It’s fine. Really. So your niece and nephew live here?”

“Yes. The boy is twelve. Rahmoun is like my son. But I have three children of my own. Two girls, five and nine. And a boy, Mohammed, who is seven. But my niece is older. Twenty-one. She finds it ... difficult.”

To read this story you need a Registration + Premier Membership
If you have an account, then please Log In or Register (Why register?)

Support the author's future writing by purchasing this book from Bookapy

Carstairs of Arabia

Ron Dudderie

$13.95