Michael Pearce - The Bride Box

Satisfied on that score he went back to the boxes already piled there. Then he stood there keeping an eye on them while the station porters moved on to their next task.

He stood there for nearly an hour and then Clarke Effendi appeared, coming from the passenger area. He walked straight over to the boxes and began counting them, hardly sparing a word for Nassir, who hovered beside him. When he had finished counting, he said something to Nassir and Nassir signalled to someone at the end of the goods platform. In a moment, Abdul appeared with a crowd of burly porters. They began to pick up the boxes. The boxes were heavy and even Abdul could not manage one by himself.

With two men to a box, there were a lot of porters, and Georgiades saw that there had been a lot of work behind the scenes. By Nassir, presumably. Now they were here, though, it did not take long. They formed up in a convoy, with Nassir leading the way and Clarke coming behind. Once or twice he snapped something at a porter who had fallen short.

The convoy was moving out of the station, with Georgiades not far behind, when suddenly he saw Zeinab and Leila. They were crossing the Place Bab el Hadid, just in front of the Douane, the big Customs Office, when Clarke saw them.

He ran to the front of the convoy and seized Nassir by the arm. ‘That girl!’ he said, pointing to Leila. ‘Who is she?’

‘I don’t know!’ said Nassir, clearly taken aback.

‘Find out!’

Nassir hesitated, and said something. Probably he was asking what Clarke wanted him to do: stay with the convoy, or follow Zeinab and Leila? It was obviously the latter, for Nassir detached himself from the porters and went away after Zeinab and Leila.

Georgiades wondered what to do. Ought he to follow Zeinab and Leila in case of trouble? Trouble? From Nassir? He didn’t think that likely. Besides, he could find out from Nassir later what had happened. And Zeinab and Leila, of course.

No, the thing to do was stick with the convoy. They would surely be going to Nassir’s warehouse. But guns were guns, and Georgiades knew that the one thing he must not do was lose sight of them. If by some chance they did not go to the warehouse, and were lost in the warren of Cairo’s back streets, Owen would never forgive him.

Zeinab had picked up Leila from the kindergarten that morning. She often did so these days. They would usually go to the Hotel Continentale for an ice cream, which you could have sitting out on the terrace. Leila liked that because while you sat there you could watch the tumblers turning cartwheels along the street in front of you and the street sellers parading up and down with their monkeys. Sometimes the street sellers would poke their wares through the balustrade at the tourists. The tourists at the Continentale were European or American but not English, which suited Zeinab. The English usually went to Shepheard’s.

After they had had their ice creams they would walk home for lunch. By this time, after the morning at school, Leila would be getting tired. If it was Musa, not Zeinab, who was with her, he would usually pick her up at this point and carry her but Zeinab just held her hand. When they got home they would have lunch in the cool of the kitchen — there would be no cooking in the kitchen until Musa’s wife was preparing the evening meal. By that time Leila would just be getting up, as she went to bed after lunch for an hour or so.

Zeinab increasingly liked these moments together with Leila. They brought a bit of peace into her life, too; and whereas at one time she had enjoyed her morning gossips with her friends in their homes or the big European style — indeed, Parisian style — shops, now she liked the artless chats about the morning’s school that she had with Leila and with Leila’s friend, Aisha’s daughter.

Like Aisha, too, she was missing her other half. Owen had not been away for very long but she was used to having him around, and with him away everything felt slightly odd. Which was, perhaps, another reason for her turning increasingly towards Leila. She wondered what it would be like when Owen got back. She hadn’t really seen much of him with children and wondered how he would get on. When she had seen him with children they had seemed to get along very well, but having a child constantly in the house was different.

And would Leila be constantly in the house when Owen got back? This, he had told her, was a temporary arrangement, a means of safeguarding the child until they had got the slavers behind bars. When they had — and Zeinab was quite confident that Owen would do that — what then?

Mahmoud had got in that evening, tired after the journey and a little subdued. Aisha couldn’t make out whether things had gone well or whether they hadn’t. She knew he was angered and depressed at being so cavalierly, as he felt, summoned back to Cairo before he had quite finished the case. Why had he been? Aisha feared that he had crossed some political bigwig with influence in the Parquet. This had happened before, and was always likely to happen, with Mahmoud so fierce about his political commitments. Aisha was with Mahmoud every inch of the way on these, but sometimes she wished that his career progression was a smoother one.

He seemed a little downcast, which, again, was not unusual with him at the end of a case. No matter how successful he had been, somehow it always fell short of what he had hoped. This was usually part of a passing phase and she hoped it was the same this time.

A lot, apparently, turned on this man Suleiman. But he, it seemed, was now in the Sudan, where Mahmoud could not reach him. Mahmoud, in fact, was not too despondent about this. He knew that if he could not reach him, Owen probably could. There were advantages sometimes, thought Aisha darkly, in the English having power all over the place. Mahmoud had told her about this poor girl. It had put Aisha in an untypical fury. To treat a young girl like that! It was typical of the way women were treated in Egypt. And she was proud, very proud, that it was her husband who was leading the battle against it.

Mahmoud was glad to be home. It was frustrating to be dragged away just when he felt he was getting somewhere. But it wasn’t the end. Either he would still get somewhere or, if they had put someone else on the case, then that someone else would. Soraya would not go unavenged. It might take time — more time than he had thought — if, as now appeared, the politicians were taking a hand in it. If they were, there would be a struggle in the Parquet. But there were enough young men in the Parquet these days for the battle not to be hopeless. And he himself would take a hand in it. Now that he was back in Cairo he could play an active part in any politicking. They would see!

But, meanwhile, he was feeling a little puzzled. Just before he had got on the train a man had dashed up to him. He had been sent, he said, by the Pasha’s lady. And he was to tell Mahmoud that the Pasha’s lady had been summoned to Cairo, too. By her husband. And would shortly be arriving.

This was an unexpected turn of events. He had thought that the Pasha and his wife were so utterly at loggerheads that there could be no prospect of them coming together; much less of the Pasha actually inviting — or perhaps it was summoning — her. Or of her agreeing to come if he did.

And why was she telling him — and going out of her way to tell him?

The thought came to him that perhaps she wanted someone to know. In case she didn’t come back.

‘Well,’ said the genial Greek, as he stuck his head in at the warehouse the next morning. ‘So it’s all safely stowed, is it?’

‘It is,’ said Nassir, ‘and I can breathe again!’

‘And have a cup of coffee?’