The Abrupt Physics of Dying Page 9

  Clay pushed open the door. The front office was cool and dark, the shutters pulled down against the mid-afternoon glare. A dark-skinned Yemeni slouched behind a steel desk. The man looked up at Clay through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Merhaba,’ said Clay, using the secular greeting more common in this part of the South. ‘I’m here for results on a water sample.’

  The clerk searched through a bound ledger, flipping pages with dark fingers.

  ‘Petro-Tex,’ said Clay, showing his contractor’s badge. ‘It was two days ago. One bottle, a water bottle. Rush. I brought it in myself.’

  ‘Yes, sir. It is here.’ The clerk put his finger to a line on the list, glanced towards the laboratory area and back down at the ledger. ‘Sir, there is a problem with this sample.’

  ‘What kind of problem?’

  The clerk pointed to the far column. ‘Here. Sample insufficient.’

  ‘It was a full one-litre bottle. There should have been plenty.’ The tests he had requested would normally require less than half that amount.

  ‘I am sorry, sir. We do many samples for Petro-Tex. Very good business with Petro-Tex. Very sorry.’

  ‘Is the technician here? The one who did the work?

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I would like to speak with him.’

  The clerk disappeared through the double doors into the laboratory and reappeared a few minutes later with a short, balding, bespectacled man with a greying moustache and large bulging brown eyes. It looked as if he had a thyroid condition.

  Clay asked the man about the sample, pointing it out in the ledger, describing the big, light-blue plastic drinking-water bottle. Normally he would have used the proper polyethylene, glass and Teflon sample phials that good Western labs provided. ‘It was an emergency,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t prepared.’ The clerk translated his question into Arabic.

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ said the technician in Arabic.

  ‘Insufficient sample,’ said the clerk.

  ‘There was a whole litre.’

  The clerk translated.

  The technician babbled away, fidgeting with his hands, clearly uncomfortable.

  ‘Sorry, sir. It was spilled,’ said the clerk. ‘This man apologises.’

  The technician stood, head bowed.

  Clay walked back down to the waiting Land Cruiser. Bloody crap Yemeni lab. Poorly maintained and calibrated equipment, untrained staff, poor record-keeping. Damn it. He would have to take another sample next time out, with or without Karila’s approval.

  Locked in

  He had just enough time to drive back to the guesthouse, shower and change, get the meal packed up, and arrive at the Mövenpick before five. He waited in the lobby, ordered a whisky soda to calm the shattered obsidian of his nerves, and tried not to think about Abdulkader, the PSO or any of it. At a quarter gone he ordered a second, thought about calling up to her room, reconsidered. By half past and the third whisky he was feeling a lot better, but started to worry that she was not going to show.

  He was about to walk to the front desk when a woman in a long black burqa with a shimmering gold-embroidered half veil stepped from the elevator, followed by two oilies dressed in jeans and T-shirts – the idiots from the pool. The woman stopped a moment, looked around the lobby, and started moving towards the main entrance, floating over the tile, the two oilies close behind. Clay stood. One of the oilies, the shorter one, fatter, grabbed her arm and spun her around. Male laughter echoed from the lobby marble. The woman was facing them now, looking up at the two men. Clay could hear the woman’s raised voice, the men’s laughing replies. Clay started to move across the lobby towards the trio, adrenaline surging, pace quickening. The woman was backing away now. The fat one grabbed her wrist, held her. ‘Come on now, darlin’,’ he said in a gruff Southern accent. Louisiana, Clay thought, Oklahoma. ‘Show us what y’all got under that there sack.’ Clay was almost to the tile floor, ten metres from the woman, when he saw her lash out with her right hand. A loud crack split the air. Fat let go of her, put his hand up to his face.

  Clay pushed his way between the woman and her assailants, stood to his full height, a good head taller than either man.

  Fat’s friend, more muscular, leaner, stepped forward. His breath reeked of booze and cigarettes. ‘You got a problem?’

  Clay guessed this one fancied himself a bit of a fighter. ‘Nothing that can’t be settled outside.’

  Fat blanched, backed away. His friend stood his ground.

  The woman tugged at Clay’s arm. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Do not.’

  Clay spun around. Only the eyes gave her away. She had the most amazing eyes. It was Rania.

  ‘I can look after myself, Clay.’

  ‘You heard the bitch, fuck off.’

  Clay turned in time to see Fat’s friend flick out a switchblade. He held it straight-armed, like a pointer. Clay pushed Rania back, gave himself room. By now Fat had backed away towards the elevator doors.

  ‘Come on, asshole,’ hissed the guy with the switchblade.

  ‘Leave him,’ said Rania. ‘Please, Clay. Let’s go.’

  By now some of the guests had become aware of what was going on, and stood gaping at a distance. Somebody called for security. Clay started to step away, but Switchblade lunged. He was clumsy and slow, came at Clay with arm straight and extended. Clay took a step to his left, turned side on, caught the man’s arm at the wrist, rolled in and pulled the arm back with all his force. He felt the tendons go first, audible pops, then a bone, louder, a crack. The knife clattered to the floor. Switchblade howled in pain, slumped forward. Clay brought his knee up hard into Switchblade’s face. He felt something give way. Blood drooled to the tile. Clay let go of the arm. Switchblade dropped to the floor in a heap.

  Fat stood back against the wall between the two lifts, mouth agape. Clay was only just aware of people screaming, a couple of security guards moving through the crowd towards them. He turned and looked at Rania.

  She stood a moment, lifted the hem of her floor-length burqa to reveal a pair of low-top hiking boots. ‘Good?’

  ‘Very.’ She had nice ankles. The black material of her veil cinched up. She was smiling. ‘Ready?’ he said, offering his arm.

  ‘Allons-y,’ she said, taking it.

  Clay led Rania through the lobby and out of the front doors into the sun, feeling better than he had in months, clear-headed, precise.

  They drove in silence through the flats of Khormasar, past the Inner Harbour and the Ma’alla wharfs, the water of the bay, that shallow protected shade of green, and then through Tawahi with its rundown mansions of Empire, the gardens leafy and green still, overgrown. The road narrowed as they reached the point and the last settlements, and soon they were following a gravel track that skirted the coastal bluffs, the Gulf of Aden opening up azure blue and blasted with light, the outer bastions of the crater towering before them now, mafic and barren.

  He slowed the vehicle, rolled to a stop, shut down the engine. They sat gazing at the sea and the mountains. Clay pointed along the coast. ‘You see that point jutting into the sea, where the rock goes green?’

  She nodded yes, veiled still.

  ‘Reservation for two, right there.’

  The trail wound its way along the contours of the bluff, first through craggy fractured boulders, and then, as they rose up over the sea, into columns of barren rhyolite, the rock hot from the day’s sun. They passed a series of sawblade cliffs, the weathered basalt fractured and crumbling. The varnished gravel of the path popped like bubblewrap under their soles and the smells of the sea swirled in the breeze. By now her veil and burqa were gone, rolled up and stashed in his daypack.

  He stopped and pulled a stainless-steel water bottle from his pack. They had gained enough altitude now to see back across the point to the harbour and the old town, its stone buildings the colour of the surrounding rock, the sun low now in the western sky. Beyond, the coast swept away in a long sunburned arc up towards the Red Sea. He off
ered her the bottle.

  She took it and drank deeply. Her face glistened with sweat. ‘Magnifique,’ she said, looking out to the sea.

  He looked out over the water. ‘I was questioned today, by the PSO.’

  She turned to him, eyes wide.

  ‘They wanted information about Al Shams.’

  She sat on the benched side of the slope and retied her boot laces. She looked up at him. A strand of hair fell across her face. ‘You must be careful, Clay.’

  ‘That’s what the PSO said.’ He smiled. ‘Sounds a lot better coming from you.’

  She stood and took his hand, looked him in the eyes. ‘Please, Claymore. Promise me. The PSO is a very unpredictable organisation. Stay out of their way.’ She ran her fingers across his jaw and then went up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. Before he could react, she turned and started up the hill again, leaving him standing open-mouthed, as he watched the sway of her hips under very small, very tight shorts.

  They walked on and reached the point just as the sun was setting. They found the spur of green basalt and Clay threw down a blanket, unpacked dinner, lit a small hurricane lamp. A series of pebbly coves and rock promontories spread out before them, with not a road or building in sight. A soft breeze played in her hair. They sat on the lichen-rainbowed rock with their legs dangling over the edge of the sheer drop and watched the sun dissolve into the water. They ate in silence, looking out over that small piece of seemingly untouched world.

  ‘I am impressed,’ she said finally. ‘Such culinary skill.’

  ‘My friend Atef, the cook at the company guesthouse, he made everything.’

  She smiled. The sun was gone below the water now and her face shone in the lamplight. ‘Give him my compliments.’

  He reached for her hand. She looked away, but let him take it. He moved closer, his hip touching hers. The air around her was thick with perfume, smouldering lichen, jasmine. He breathed deep. She was trembling. Or maybe it was him.

  ‘I am sorry for what happened,’ she said. ‘Back at the hotel.’

  ‘Don’t be. They were idiots.’ One of them wouldn’t be pretending to be a tough guy for a long time.

  ‘You could have been hurt.’ She dropped her chin to her chest. ‘They saw me at the pool. I tempted them.’

  Clay sat for a moment, analysing this. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Rania. They knew exactly what they were doing.’

  ‘You have no idea what it is to be a woman here,’ she whispered. ‘This is not your world, Clay.’

  ‘It’s not theirs, either.’

  He’d seen so many like them, clueless oil-industry cattle, moving between Western hotel, oilfield camp and business-class flight home, with hardly a look out the window.

  She looked out over the water. ‘The first time I came to Yemen, I checked into a local hotel in Sana’a. I was alone. The desk clerk kept looking past me, as if he was expecting someone else to join me. They were flustered and confused, like they were dealing with a problem they had never confronted before. Finally I was given a room. Later that evening I went down to the restaurant for dinner. When I returned to my room, there was a cot next to my bed. It was all made up with a fresh sheet; there was even a plastic baby rattle hooked to the rail.’ She looked away. ‘I do not expect you to understand.’

  There was a lot he didn’t understand. Too much. Everything. ‘Alfa foxtrot seven six six oh two eight four seven nine one,’ he said.

  She looked at him, a question forming on her face. ‘What is this?’

  ‘All I know about you.’

  She smiled. Her teeth were strong and white. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Your driving licence number.’

  The dark planets of her eyes gleamed out at him from perfect orbits.

  ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t been spying on you.’

  Her smile dissolved.

  ‘I saw it when it fell out of your bag at the pool.’

  She caught a wisp of hair on her tongue, pulled it into her mouth, sucked on it a moment. ‘You were in the South African Border War,’ she said. ‘In Angola.’

  He took a breath, his turn to be surprised. ‘It was a long time ago.’ She had done her homework.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘There’s not much to tell.’ He’d never spoken about any of it. No one had ever wanted to know, and he’d never wanted to tell. He looked out over the sea, said nothing.

  After a while she ran her index finger along his cheek, traced the scar there through its camber to his jaw. ‘Please,’ she said.

  He turned to her. She looked up at him, her face open, receptive.

  ‘We were protecting South Africa against the communists – that’s what we were told. I was very young. I had no idea what I was doing. I was scared shitless or bored stiff the whole time.’

  ‘You did three tours, were wounded several times,’ she said, running her finger now along his right forearm, tracing the angry old ridgeline of scar tissue from wrist to elbow. It was as though, in this touching, she believed she could transduce words into flesh, reconstruct events from consequences. ‘You were decorated.’

  Part of him was flattered, but only a small part. Mostly he felt ashamed. He said nothing.

  ‘Then court martialled and dishonourably discharged.’

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ he croaked.

  ‘What happened, Clay?’

  ‘Let’s just say I’d had enough.’ She’d obviously seen his SADF service record. How she’d done that, he had no idea.

  ‘Of the fighting?’

  ‘Of everything.’ He gripped her hand, looked into her eyes, stared hard. ‘Why are you asking me this, Rania?’

  She held his gaze for a moment, lowered her eyes. ‘It’s what I do, Clay,’ she whispered. ‘I research.’

  Clay said nothing.

  After a while she said: ‘Did you …?’ but then stopped, fell silent.

  She was staring at him, her pupils wide, dark.

  ‘Hope you’d keep our date? Definitely.’

  She smiled, lowered her eyes again, those long dark lashes. ‘And after? The war, I mean.’

  He searched her face but it gave nothing away. ‘I drifted for a while, went to university, tried to get myself together.’

  ‘Science.’

  He looked over at her. ‘Engineering. I liked the math, the physics, the certainty of it. It calmed me. I was good at it. I wanted to do something worthwhile. Hasn’t worked out so flash yet.’

  Her hand was still in his. He could feel the warmth there, the softness of her slender fingers. His own hand felt clumsy and oversized in comparison. His insides were churning. ‘What were you doing out there in the Masila that day, Rania?’

  ‘Interviewing some of the locals.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘I am used to it.’

  And she’s telling him to be careful. Jesus.

  She looked away, her face flushed in the hues of night coming. He bent to kiss her, but she turned away, pulled back her hand.

  ‘I …’ he stopped. ‘I’m sorry.’ Stupid.

  She said nothing for a long time, just sat with her hands in her lap, staring out across the water. Finally she stood, rubbed her arms. ‘We should get back.’

  It was dark by the time they reached the car. She had not said much on the walk back down, and he had left her alone with her thoughts. Abdulkader’s Land Cruiser started with a cough and she climbed in next to him. They drove back to town the way they had come, the docks and the ships in the harbour lit up, the cool night air flowing over them. He wished the drive would go on all night, up along the coast all the way to Ta’izz and the mountains.

  But it was only a matter of minutes to her hotel. He pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine. Covered again in the burqa and veil, she was almost invisible in the darkness beside him.

  ‘I’m going to the Hadramawt tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in Aden in a week. I’d really like to see you again, Rania, get
to know you.’

  She reached over and touched his arm. ‘Please, Clay. I do not want to give you the wrong impression. I cannot get involved with anyone right now.’

  Clay felt the ground fall out beneath him. ‘I thought maybe …’ He shut up.

  She put a card on the seat next to him. ‘If you would like to talk, on a professional level, I am based in Sana’a.’

  ‘A professional level, right.’ He closed his eyes.

  ‘Yes. If you have information for me, about Al Shams and the rebellion.’

  ‘Information, sure,’ he managed. ‘No worries.’

  He expected her to get out, walk away. But she just sat there in the darkness, so close, an arm’s length away, silent and dark.

  ‘Are you seeing someone?’ he said.

  ‘Mon dieu, no,’ she snapped and fell silent. After a while she said: ‘And you?’

  ‘Not now.’

  It hadn’t lasted long. None of them did. He’d met her at an expat house party in Cyprus six months ago. She was English, bored, attractive in that confident mid-thirties way. Her husband travelled for work. Like teenagers they’d skulked off to an upstairs bedroom and he’d taken her on the floor. She told him that her husband knew, that he didn’t mind, encouraged her even. They’d been together four or five times only, usually after he’d returned from overseas, a couple of hours each time, no more. It had been lonely, dispassionate, hotel-room sex that left him feeling hollow and dead inside.

  He could smell Rania’s tears now, sweet almost, enzymes on bare skin. He rocked forward and grabbed the steering wheel, looking straight ahead into the darkness.

  She opened the door, hovered there a moment, half in the vehicle, half out. ‘Do you ever feel as if you needed to go back and choose again, Clay?’ she whispered. ‘As if you were locked in, going the wrong direction, but could not get out?’