Strangers. Danuta Reah

had lost a sister in the events that had taken away their families, and they had found something in each other that came close to filling that–in Roisin’s case–almost subliminal gap.

      And then Amy had gone, years ago now. Roisin sighed and closed the book.

      Snapshots.

      A wedding: a bright gold autumn morning, Joe, looking at her in the pale green dress she had bought for the day, smiling that private smile he gave her when they were together in a crowd.

      Her mother, half proud, half anxious as she watched the daughter she had had to fight so hard for say the words that were going to take her away: I do solemnly declare…

      Her friends, laughing and talking as they came out of the register office, falling silent before they shook hands with Joe and congratulated him.

      And the moment when they threw petals, so that she and Joe were caught in a shower of brilliant colours.

      And she remembered Joe, his face bright with laughter as he scooped her mother off the ground and kissed her. ‘Hi, Mum,’ he said. Her mother laughed with genuine delight, and the anxiety faded from her face for a moment.

      Then, two days later, they flew to Riyadh.

PART TWO

5

       Riyadh, October 2004

      Embassy of the United States of America

      Riyadh, Saudi Arabia WARDEN MESSAGE October 2004

      The recent terrorist attacks on Westerners appear to have involved extensive planning and preparation and were likely preceded by pre-attack surveillance. Be aware of your surroundings. Take note of vehicles and individuals that do not appear to belong to the area and report them immediately…

      The ad-Dirah market was in the heart of the old city, a covered souk with labyrinthine walkways, cool and shadowed after the relentless sun. The air smelled of sandalwood and spices and the stalls were piled high with goods that ranged from the commonplace to the exotic: translucent chunks of frankincense and reddish brown myrrh, brass coffee pots as tall as a child or small enough to fit in the palm of the hand, camel-hair shawls and scarves. Old men reclined on Persian carpets, smoking hookahs and drinking tea, enticing their customers in with gentle persuasion.

      Roisin, dizzy with jet lag, wondered if she was dreaming a Hollywood incarnation of an Arabian street market. She felt as if she had closed her eyes in London on a grey October morning, and opened them again to the opulence and glitter of the souk.

      She pulled her headscarf forward over the telltale blonde of her hair. She had never been in a country where she had to veil before. The abaya had felt odd and theatrical when she had put it on an hour ago, but here in the bustling market, she was glad of the anonymity. All the women she saw had covered their faces, and were dark shapes in abayas and veils. She could see nothing of them but their eyes, which gleamed in the shadows as they flickered in Roisin’s direction. They looked oddly, exotically beautiful.

      In the cool dimness of the walkways, the light reflected off the brilliant fabrics, the silver of the jewellery, and the white of the men’s robes.

      A man from the agency had met them in the hotel lobby at nine. ‘Dr and Mrs Massey? I’m Damien O’Neill.’ The name was familiar from the flurry of correspondence that Joe’s sudden decision —and their precipitate marriage–had engendered. Roisin had studied him as they shook hands. His appearance gave very little away. He was wearing a lightweight suit, and draped round his shoulders was one of the chequered scarves the local men wore. His hair was fair and he had a thin, long-jawed face. His eyes were concealed behind dark glasses. His manner was pleasant enough, but he seemed a bit distant and distracted. ‘I’ll take you to the house and get you settled in.’

      She’d looked at Joe. ‘Do we have to go there straight away? Do you have time to show us a bit of the city first? I’ve never been here before, and…’ And the restrictions on women’s freedom meant that it would be hard for her to explore Riyadh on her own.

      ‘I have a bit of time. We could go to ad-Dirah. It’s in the old city. The market’s worth a visit.’ He must get bored with acclimatizing new arrivals.

      And now as she watched Joe bargaining with one of the market traders in a rapid exchange with hand gestures and laughter as his Arabic let him down, she was glad she had asked. She’d been told that the Saudis could be stand-offish and unfriendly, but these people seemed welcoming enough. She didn’t try to join in. She wasn’t sure what women were or were not allowed to do here. She could see local women, accompanied by men, haggling briskly at the stalls. She gave up trying to follow the bartering that was going on in front of her, and stepped back to join O’Neill.

      ‘It’s hot,’ she said to him distractedly, fanning herself with a guidebook she’d picked up at the hotel. She gave herself the day’s award for stating the blindingly obvious. ‘Isn’t that too warm?’ She nodded at his scarf.

      ‘The best way to deal with this sun is to cover up against it. Like they do.’ He nodded towards the crowds who were thronging the market.

      ‘Whereabouts is the university?’ She would be working there, teaching English to the women students. She wondered if they would pass it today on their way to the house.

      ‘It’s on its own campus, to the west of the city in al-Nakhil.’ He took off his glasses and slipped them into the pocket of his jacket. She saw that his eyes were grey. ‘The ex-pats call it Camelot.’

      ‘Camelot?’ She would be living in the magic kingdom and working in Camelot. She wanted to say something about this, to try and make some contact with this man who was part of the community she was about to live and work among, but there was something about his face that discouraged any further comment. They stood in silence waiting for Joe.

      He was moving away from the stall now, putting his money back into his belt, his eyes surveying the crowd. For a moment he hesitated as if he didn’t know where he was, and she was about to wave and call when she remembered that women didn’t do that here. He’d seen them, anyway, and came across. He caught Roisin’s eye and smiled a quick query at her: You OK?

      She smiled back and nodded. ‘What did you buy?’

      ‘Something for you.’ He showed her a cluster of bangles made of delicate, thread-like silver. He liked to buy her small presents. She had a collection of scarves and earrings and beads that he had bought for her over the few months they had been together. O’Neill was glancing at his watch.

      Joe slipped the bangles discreetly on her wrist. Men and women touching in public were likely to attract angry comment from the Mutawa’ah, the religious police. She felt the cold of the metal against her skin. ‘They’re beautiful. Thank you.’ Their eyes met.

      O’Neill hadn’t been watching them. Roisin had noticed the way his eyes kept scanning the crowd, constantly checking their surroundings. ‘We need to move on,’ he said. He led them out into the narrow streets where the shops of the gold market lined the pavements, filled with necklaces, bracelets, pendants, earrings, coins, piled up in glittering brilliance. In London, these shops would have been protected by heavy glass, by metal grilles and shutters. Here, everything was out in the open.

      As they threaded their way through the crowd, away from the covered market and back on to the street, Roisin’s eyes were constantly drawn to new sights–a child watching her big-eyed from behind a stall, the glitter of gold in the thread of a fabric, ornamented shutters across an upper window, the hard lines of the shadows as the sun rose to its zenith.

      The fragrance of cooking wafted over to her and she looked round. A man at a stall behind her was grilling kebabs on a clay oven, tearing open flat bread and slapping the meat inside it for the thronging customers. She could see salads of grain and chopped herbs, and dishes of hummus. Back home, it would