Tom Callaghan - A Summer Revenge

I kicked the engine into life and headed toward the vague glow on the horizon that was Dubai. I’d never driven in the desert before, and I was very aware that if I got stuck, the day’s heat would kill me before nightfall. And if by some miracle rescue came along, then trouble would surely follow it.

All the rules of desert driving say that you never go out in only one vehicle, in case you get into trouble. Being stranded with no mobile connection to call for help, no GPS to ascertain your position and no other vehicle to pull you out of the sand can easily be fatal in that blistering heat.

Or, like Jamila and Lev, you just pick the wrong time, the wrong place and the wrong guy.

Somehow I managed to steer the car toward the smudge of light on the horizon, my nerves on edge, my stomach churning with fear, sore with bile and vomiting. After an hour or so, I judged I was close enough to stop and abandon the car. It would be all too easy for the authorities to track it down, and right now I needed a profile so low as to be undetectable.

I found some rags in the boot of the car, unscrewed the petrol tank cap and fed the rags in until they were soaked in fuel. I laid two on the front and back seats respectively, jammed the last one into the petrol tank. Somehow, during the beating, gravedigging and various excitements, I’d managed to keep my cigarettes and lighter. The rags on the seats lit easily enough, and I touched a flame to the one stuffed into the tank.

I turned and started to walk toward the city. Despite what you see in the movies, cars don’t suddenly erupt in a fireball. It takes a little while for the flames to spread and the heat to build up, time I used to get into the shadow of yet another construction site. The car was out of sight when I heard the dull thump of an explosion. I was outside a residential building, this one occupied, with only one or two apartments still lit up. Several cars were parked at the back of the building, and I checked each one to see if the doors had been left unlocked, keeping an eye out for a watchman.

The Porsches, BMWs and Audis were all secure, but I found an elderly Toyota whose door scraped open when I tried it. Probably used by the family’s maid to take the kids to school. No key in the ignition, but anyone who wants to stay in the police knows how to get round that. Two minutes later I was driving with minimum noise out of the gate and onto a feeder access to Sheikh Zayed Road. Now all I needed to do was get back to my hotel, clean up a little, then go discuss the night’s escapades with Lin.

I dumped the car somewhere in Karama, where it was less likely to stand out, since every other car seemed to be a Toyota as well, and made my way by a combination of foot and taxi back to my hotel. Showered, changed and looking remarkably good considering, I debated whether to call Saltanat, decided against it. I had no proof that Lev and Jamila were connected to the Chechen, and I couldn’t see Saltanat breaking cover just to give me backup. And I didn’t see Lin as being that much of a threat to me.

For what felt like the hundredth time in my short stay I walked into the Vista. The African doorman with biceps the size of my thighs nodded; after seeing me leave with Lin, I’d clearly gained respect for my stamina. Or my stupidity.

It was getting near closing time, and all around me last-minute negotiations were taking place, with prices dropping faster than in a closing-down sale. Even as I spotted Lin and walked toward her, the house lights came up, and the full horror of everyone’s choices became apparent.

Broken red veins from heavy drinking, nicotine-stained fingers and teeth, wattles drooping, skin as mottled as a week-dead chicken. It’s not distance that lends enchantment to the view, it’s darkness. And when the lights come on, the desperation is plain for everyone to see.

Lin did a double-take when she saw me and looked to see if Jamila or Lev was with me. I watched her pick up an empty beer bottle, wondered if she’d really try to hit me with it. I pried the bottle out of her fingers, feeling the last dregs flow over my fingers, the way I’d felt Lev’s blood burst onto my face. I set the bottle back down on the shelf behind Lin, made it clear that I was the one in charge.

“Lev and Jamila have been unavoidably held up,” I said, giving the smile I use to put the fear into people. “They won’t be joining us. So I thought we might go to your place, have a little chat. Friendly. No pressure.”

Lin could hardly do anything else but nod. The shock in her face at seeing me had been as harsh as the blow Lev had doled out to me. The fear in her eyes told me that she’d known what Lev and Jamila planned to do to me, that it was as if a ghost had tapped her on the shoulder and asked her to accompany him to the grave.

The line of taxis waiting to help the drunk and the horny get home stretched as far as the main road. Business is always good at that time of night, when lust and greed defeat sense and dignity. Hands slithered over buttocks, groped bulges, stroked dangerously. None of my business, but I couldn’t help thinking that at times human beings are a sad denial of evolution.

“You want a cab?” Lin asked, struggling to put a normal tone in her voice. She even put her arm through mine, so that her breast was crushed against my elbow. I let her; it was one way of blending in with the rest of the crowd.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’d like to revisit that lovely car park where we last met. I’ve so many happy memories, and so much has happened since that I want to share.”

Lin tried to pull away, but I tightened my grip.

“Don’t be silly, Lin,” I said, the menace in my voice as naked as a switchblade in the moonlight. “How far do you think you’d get in those heels? And you really don’t want to annoy me. Do you think anyone gives a fuck about one more dead Vietnamese hooker?”

I recognized defeat in the way she sagged against me, heard the first sniff of tears, felt the first shake of the shoulders.

“Relax,” I said. “I’m not going to hurt you. There might even be some money in it if you help me. You scratch my back and I don’t slash yours. Win-win all round, right?”

We’d reached the center of the car park, and I steered us to a spot between two parked vans where we couldn’t be seen by anyone passing. Judging by the stink of fresh piss, someone else had had the same idea before us.

“Where are Lev and Jamila?” she asked.

“Don’t worry about them; they’ll turn up sooner or later,” I said, and I was pretty sure that one day they would, maybe after the next big sandstorm. “Right now what I want to know is why did you call them?”

Lin swallowed, looked around but couldn’t spot an escape route. And I was pretty sure that when she’d taken my arm, she’d felt the weight of the Makarov in my pocket. No point telling her I was out of bullets.

“I told you before: they helped me. There aren’t many people in this city who’d do that, and most of them want something in return.”

The fear in her voice was being slowly replaced by a kind of fatalism, an acceptance that I was going to kill her. But she still tried to play the only cards she had.

“If you don’t hurt me, I’ll do anything you want. You can fuck me however you want. I’ll suck you until you scream. You can hit me, do anything. But don’t kill me. Please.”

“How old are your children?” I asked. Women like Lin always have children; it’s part of the reason they end up where they do in the first place.

“Nine, and eleven. Boy and girl.”

“Father?”

Her face registered disgust, and she didn’t bother to reply.

“They live with your mother?”

She nodded. It might have been a cliché, but that didn’t stop it being painful for her and her children. Maybe they didn’t know how their mother paid for the school uniforms and the textbooks, how there was food on the table and new shoes when they needed them. But one day they would guess, or an older kid at school would taunt them, and their childhood would be over. Worse, the daughter might follow her mother, and the circle would begin again.