“And now you’re here?”
His smile died. He put down his glass, briefly. “You must be mad to live here, Andrew. I haven’t felt safe for a single minute.”
“The Saudis seem very tense just now. They’re trying to keep out news from abroad. I bought a copy of
“It was like a paper doily,” Frances said. “What’s bothering you, Fairfax? What’s bothering you specifically?”
Fairfax ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know … I keep accusing myself of racialism or something. I don’t know what’s worrying me, I suppose it isn’t anything rational. The men on the streets, in those white
“Oh, you’re like us,” Andrew said, “you’ve got too much imagination. But we’re on edge at the moment, it isn’t always as bad as this. Or if it is … you get used to it.”
She took the coffee cups out to the kitchen. You never get used to it, she wanted to say, if you think you have got used to it that is the beginning of disaster; and she felt again, as she stacked the dishes, as she ran the tap, that cold bar of metal across her hand, and felt the Visitor’s fist against her shoulder, fending her off, spinning her away from him. He could quite easily have knocked her unconscious, one blow would have done it; she had never been so conscious before of her physical frailty, it had never really mattered. Her flesh shrank when she thought of it—the Visitor’s strength, and her own thin skin and snappable bones.
And here she is, getting a little dinner together, listening to men talk about thermostats. What else is there to be done? Dunroamin was very quiet; in four days she had not seen Yasmin or Samira, not even a glimpse. Until Fairfax came—if you did not count the phone call from Daphne—she had spoken to no one since the burglary. How could she begin, now, to unravel her thought processes for Andrew? How would she explain to him the hierarchy of suspicions, the discrete tiers of insight, the violent shock of fantasy confirmed? “I watched it go up, the Visitor … I thought to myself, Saudi women don’t move like that … then, no, I did not hide, I did not go inside and lock the door and double-lock the door, I waited for the Visitor, and I did a thing of unbelievable foolishness, of such horrible and frightening implications …” No, she can’t tell him this.
Perhaps, she thought suddenly, I could tell Fairfax. Fairfax is not part of any of this. In three or four days’ time he will take a plane, and disembark in London. Perhaps he could carry a message for me, like a message in a bottle, from me to the real world.
At once she discounted the idea. She pictured her guest’s face: dawning incomprehension. But while it lasted, the notion had offered a few seconds’ hope; and that was not to be despised.
“And this is my wife,” Fairfax said. He passed the photograph to Frances, and she held it under the lamp. “Judy is a giantess. Those are our three giant daughters, the eldest is five. Judy only married me so that she could wear high heels on her wedding day, instead of shuffling up the aisle in gym shoes with her knees bent.”
“Do you travel around much?”
“Oh yes. I go here and there. You see, the firm has moved to Cumbernauld, and we hardly sell much to the locals. I went to Kowloon. Of course, you know that.”
“Does Judy mind?”
“She always gets me back.” Fairfax’s conversation had become a little rambling; a hiatus between each thought, and the odd line of poetry. So she was asking him short, simple questions. He drained his glass, and said, “Strong stuff, this, Andrew. Not what I thought.”
Andrew had fallen asleep, sprawled on the sofa, his head flopped back against a cushion. Fairfax leaned across and touched his shoulder. “Andrew, what shall I do, I’m drunk.”
Andrew sat upright, as if in slow motion, shaking his head. An hour or two seemed to pass. “I think Jeff has conned us,” he said at last. “His last batch of wine only made you throw up.” He surveyed Fairfax—whose gray eyes had developed a blazing concentration, though they were focused on nothing at all. “I say,” Andrew said admiringly, “you are drunk.” He seemed to pull his thoughts together. “Fran, can you stagger into the kitchen and make us some black coffee?”
Frances stirred herself from the depth of her armchair. She did as he told her; and yet making for the kitchen she didn’t stagger, but seemed to float. She felt warm, and pleased with everything she saw; she acted without planning to act, spoke without calculation. She drifted a hand to her eyes, as if to dispel a mist. What did Jeff put in his wine? There must be a secret.
Andrew was standing in the doorway. “Fairfax must stay,” he said. “He’s not fit to drive.”
“Are you not fit to drive him?”
“Not remotely. And even if I were, I don’t want to be stopped by the police with someone in that state in my passenger seat.”
She didn’t comprehend. “Why should the police stop you?” she asked gently.
“For any reason.”
“Oh, for any reason. Yes, I see. For just existing, you mean.”
She seemed to have lost direction. She had ajar of instant coffee in her hand, and seemed to have forgotten what she was doing with it. She looked at the cups and saucers as if she had never seen them before. “Husband, please, can you take over?”
Andrew took the coffee jar from her limp hands. “You don’t usually get like this,” he said.
“I seem to be having an evening off from my life.”
“I thought for a little while that you were having an evening off from our marriage.”
“Oh, Andrew, are you jealous of Fairfax?”
“Yes,” Andrew said.
“But he’s a joy. He’s a delight.”
“For an air-conditioning expert.”
