The Second Coming
Long beetle, copper shelled, a murky old penny scuttling across my shoe. Always there, each leg clicks across the polished leather and its bulbous head turns and looks up at me. I see malice in its every movement, its every crooked joint, it's blackened specks for eyes. It knows something. It definitely knows something. I look up, defiant. I am not drawn in to its world of deceit. Not today. I will not succumb to it's vile corporeality.
With my head up, shoulders back, I find that the beetle and I have company. Of course! I share platform 13 with a figure, a man. Youthful, he is, and tall, shoulders broad. A thick coat, similar in colour to the beetle, hangs from his broad frame with the drama of stage curtains, down to his leather-clad ankles: a fine disguise. He looks to the track awaiting the 20:10. His hair, long and thick, tumbles down his back in rippling shades of chestnut and auburn, meeting a beard of the same shades, with sunlight, of which there is none, reflecting off each hair. I look at his hands, gloved in black, and I imagine the bloody perforations that he hides: symbols of his passion, his unlimited devotion. I can almost see red stains on the black wool.
He turns, gently strolling, lighting up the platform with his eyes. And what eyes! The midday sun shines through them, into the darkness of the evening. The unquestionable kindness of creation resides there, in his plaintive smile. Then he turns and it's gone. I am left longing for that light.
I look at those feet, hidden under leather, and desire them in my hands, to bathe them, to cleanse them with my earthly brown locks as the unspeakable She once did. I could nurse those wounds, those treacherous sores. Just to be near him, to touch the organic shell, the ultimate flesh, the embodiment of transcendence, would set my soul alight, removing the mist of corporeality. My entire life has been leading up to this.
I sit on the cold plastic seat, so chilling that I apply as little weight to it as I can. It removes much of the joy of sitting, yet still I sit, and I wonder if it could really be Him. He turns, walking my way, and gives me a smile, just for a moment, and its all for me. If it is Him, this is my moment. I am Julian of Norwich. I am Margery Kempe. And no murky penny can take that from me. All of creation is but the size of a hazelnut for this man, and what I wouldn't give for him to put it in my hand. I rise and stand before him. He looks into my eyes.
“How unusual this is...” He says, with a smile so invigorating, so stimulating, that I must catch my breath. “...to find one so deserving.” He continues. His voice resonates around the platform, with such intensity that I lose all self awareness, all spacial awareness. He smiles and I find my hands clinging to my chest, the ends of my fingers digging into my ribs. His being there touches me while he stands paces away. I feel my heart, my lungs, are being held into place by this figure. He sees that I know his identity. He knows that a change of dress, a change of scene, of time, cannot fool a follower with the devotion that I possess. As I look into his eyes I see that he is staring into my soul, viewing all that I am. “You know me” I say, questioning only in part. He says nothing, but smiles. I feel smothered by fresh air. It is too fresh, so sharp it causes a sting, an exhilarating sting that reminds me of my creation.
His irises tell a thousand stories and a thousand reflections. I can see that he knows of my loneliness. He has heard of my loss, the rupturing of my heart. He has come to repair the shell that I have become in recent days. He understands the torment I feel, the crooked mockery I hear so often. Feelings of regret, of fear and resentment, they are blown away by the light and distant breath of this man.
“Saviour” I begin, tumbling over each consonant, conscious of the sound of my lips touching and separating, conscious of the rustling of my eyelashes as I blink. I breathe slowly, looking deep into his eyes. And he splutters, suddenly laughing, suddenly cackling cruelly. “My Lord?” I plead. He claps his hands and rubs them together, as if enjoying a dance, a crude comedy. He stamps one foot, throwing his head back, his hair tumbling provocatively down his back. I fail to understand his movements.
“You fool!” He exclaims, vehemently. “You will cling to a glance, a smile, a voice. For you have nothing.” His words pierce me, they reach into my rib cage, crushing all in their path. My legs can no longer carry me and I stumble, my rupturing organs failing to sustain me. The colour of his coat suddenly catches my eye once more, that murky copper, that cruel encapsulating shade. His eyes, once dazzlingly light, appear as dark spheres, as black specks. His smile is no more. Those repugnant mandibles, ready to sheer, to crush, with mucous dangling from them, protrude where his plaintive smile once rested. His legs: six of them. They click with every movement. And as I focus, crouched on the ground, I see that his tiny hard body resumes its place on my shoe. Treacherous beast. My despicable companion's malice knows no bounds. How I long to go on without this foul company, to push through my misery without this psychological parasite.
And with the noise of its engine, the arriving train reminds me of my surroundings. I shake my shoe with the hope of dispelling this unbearable creature but to no avail. As always, he clings to me, sucking my humour, my optimism. I board the train and make the lonely journey home.
Friday, 30 January 2009
Fiction: 'Love Story'
Love Story
She came to be at 25, at least that's when she noticed she was. It happened all of a sudden when somebody looked at her. She was sitting in a bus, cold and damp from the rain, and he sat beside her and she saw his stare. His pupils, intense and drilling, became a mirror and suddenly she came to realise her own being.
He who stared and sat beside her, a crumpled person in shades of brown and grey, became, consequently, the second person she noticed. Looking right back at him, she noticed a message written on his hand. It was smudged in black ink but she could see that it said 'be enthused' and being as she was, now present and actual, she felt inclined to enquire. He raised his blanched eyebrows and looked up, looked down, looked back at her, licked the sleeve of his jumper and scrubbed at the writing until his hand turned pinkish grey. Then he smiled, a long streak of colour on his otherwise barren head. He asked her name and told her he liked going to the theatre. And that it was his birthday. He looked older than 27. She felt newer than 25.
After some days, she noticed she liked holding his hand and so she held it and sometimes he kissed her. She noticed he smiled when he looked at her, the colour now more than a streak. After a week it spread to his eyes and she saw they were bright blue. He took her to the theatre and pointed out things she'd never noticed before about Beckett and Pinter and some others that she hadn't heard of. They bought a globe and she spun it and he stopped it, with his finger, at the place they should go to, even if only in their imaginations. It landed in the North Pacific Ocean so she spun again. He told her she made him smile and he stopped writing on his hands.
After some time, she noticed that when he thought no one was watching, he looked up and closed his eyes and breathed slowly. She wondered if he was in the North Pacific, trying to keep afloat. He didn't say. So she carried on holding his hand, and occasionally talking about Pinter and her imaginings. That always made him smile. Later she noticed he was getting smaller and the blue in his eyes started fading. He became more crumpled until eventually, he said he was going to stop. And he'd known for a while, since that day that she'd first noticed herself.
And he did stop and they wrote his name on a stone so that people would know that he had been. Knowing already, as she did, that he had been and likewise that she still was, she found it difficult keeping afloat, stuck out there in the North Pacific. Lost as she was, she went to the theatre, for the first time alone, and on her way home, she wrote 'be enthused' on her hand in black ink and tried not to smudge it.
She came to be at 25, at least that's when she noticed she was. It happened all of a sudden when somebody looked at her. She was sitting in a bus, cold and damp from the rain, and he sat beside her and she saw his stare. His pupils, intense and drilling, became a mirror and suddenly she came to realise her own being.
He who stared and sat beside her, a crumpled person in shades of brown and grey, became, consequently, the second person she noticed. Looking right back at him, she noticed a message written on his hand. It was smudged in black ink but she could see that it said 'be enthused' and being as she was, now present and actual, she felt inclined to enquire. He raised his blanched eyebrows and looked up, looked down, looked back at her, licked the sleeve of his jumper and scrubbed at the writing until his hand turned pinkish grey. Then he smiled, a long streak of colour on his otherwise barren head. He asked her name and told her he liked going to the theatre. And that it was his birthday. He looked older than 27. She felt newer than 25.
After some days, she noticed she liked holding his hand and so she held it and sometimes he kissed her. She noticed he smiled when he looked at her, the colour now more than a streak. After a week it spread to his eyes and she saw they were bright blue. He took her to the theatre and pointed out things she'd never noticed before about Beckett and Pinter and some others that she hadn't heard of. They bought a globe and she spun it and he stopped it, with his finger, at the place they should go to, even if only in their imaginations. It landed in the North Pacific Ocean so she spun again. He told her she made him smile and he stopped writing on his hands.
After some time, she noticed that when he thought no one was watching, he looked up and closed his eyes and breathed slowly. She wondered if he was in the North Pacific, trying to keep afloat. He didn't say. So she carried on holding his hand, and occasionally talking about Pinter and her imaginings. That always made him smile. Later she noticed he was getting smaller and the blue in his eyes started fading. He became more crumpled until eventually, he said he was going to stop. And he'd known for a while, since that day that she'd first noticed herself.
And he did stop and they wrote his name on a stone so that people would know that he had been. Knowing already, as she did, that he had been and likewise that she still was, she found it difficult keeping afloat, stuck out there in the North Pacific. Lost as she was, she went to the theatre, for the first time alone, and on her way home, she wrote 'be enthused' on her hand in black ink and tried not to smudge it.
Fiction: Mither
Mither
Wih werenae exacklae an ordinry familae, wir wih, Mither? It wiz just thi two ay us, aa those years. Eh musteh been a weird wee lad cuz eh rimember yih were meh best pal. Eh couldnae trust thi other wee laddies at school cuz wee laddies kin be wee shits but Eh could trust you, Mither. Yih wir aw-wiz there when eh goat back frae school, even though you hed yir joab at the cafe jurin the day. Eh knew yid be there, nevir questioned it. Yid aw-wiz be cooking somethin tae, braa it wiz. Lookin back, Eh dinnae ken how yih hed the time. Eh dinnae ken how yih managed it aa.
Dih yih mind, Mither, wen eh wiz ten or eleven, Eh gote intae a wee scrap wi the laddie frae doon thi road? Well, not a wee scrap so much as eh belter o een. His name wiz Georgie Swankie, wat a wee shit he wis. He said meh breeks wir tinky two-stripe and eh couldnae afford the gid eens. Eh wiznae that bothered but the wee kids on the street wir pishin themselves so Eh said he wiz a ginger poofter. Funny cuz 10 years later and he wiz tae. Eh heard he'd moved tae Glascae wi some poncey lad. But aye, when Eh said that tae him, he proper lost it and swung fir meh and aboot ten minutes later, his fither comes along and proper grabs meh by thi breeks and swings meh. Dih yih mind the state Eh wiz in, Mither? Eh wis aa dirt and scrapes and you wir furious but yih gave mih a proper gid cuddle cuz Eh wiz weeping like a wee girl. Yih asked meh wat happened and Eh aw-wiz telt yih thi truth and yih aw-wiz believed meh. Georgie's Fither nevir believed meh though. I got a hidin frae his brither the next day and kept meh mooth shut fir a wee wile. Dih yih mind, Mither? Eh didnae want tae go oot so yih played wee games wih meh in thi hoose efter school. Yih gote that game oot the cupboard, wi thi wee glass balls and the straws and weh played it fir oors. Eh mind laughing, Mither, cuz Eh knew yih wir cheatin.
And dih yih mind, Mither? Dih yih mind wen Mike the coal man took a shine tae yih? Eh musteh been mehbee... thirteen? Eh wisnae used tae haying men aboot the place and suddenly there's this joker hangin aboot, after yir attention aa the time. So I telt yih straight, Mither, I telt yih Eh didnae like it and yih said “Well Dereck, if you dinnae like Mike, than Eh dinnae like Mike” and he stopped being aroond the hoose and it wiz just the two o us again. That Mike the coal man wasnae gid enough fir yih, Mither. He wasnae right fir yih.
Eh'm a grown man now, Mither. Are yih proud o me? Eh'm older than Mike the coal man wiz wen he took a shine tae yih, back then. Weird tae think o it. Eh'm nae shovelin coal though. Naebidy's daeing that now.
Wat Eh wanted tae say, Mither, is that Eh'm sorry. Eh'm sorry that Eh didnae look efter yih as well as Eh couldae done. Eh'm sorry that yih had tae live in that wee hoose all on yir ain when ye started tae forget. Eh'm sorry that Eh didnae dress yih properly wen yih werenae able tae. Yih dressed me as a wee laddie, Mither, but Eh never dressed you like that wen yih gote old. Eh mind that yih were aw-wiz so smart lookin, Mither. Yih were the smartest lookin wifey on the scheme back wen Eh was a wee un. Yih never spent much money on yerself but yih had some pride.
So Eh'm sorry that Eh let yih go oot in your baffies wen the forgettin set in. Eh'm sorry that Eh didnae dae yir hair in the morn. It wiz aa such a fuss, Mither, and Eh didnae aw-wiz hae the time. Eh'm sorry that Eh dressed yih in colours that didnae match, in colours that yih wouldnae have worn before the forgettin. Eh'm sorry that Eh didnae aw-wiz feed yih healthy food, Mither. But yih got so angry, so difficult tae talk tae, so frustrated when yih couldnae remember. Eh just wanted some peace sometimes, Mither. Eh just wanted yih tae smile wi a bag o chips. Efter a wile Eh just wanted tae play a wee game wih ye, wi the glass balls and the straws, but yih didnae ken, Mither. Yih didnae even ken who I wiz some o the time. Eh'd stay in wi yih and try and find things tae make yih smile but Eh wasnae as good as you were, Mither. Eh didnae ken wit tae dae half the time.
Eh remember one day, I got yih up in the morn and it wasnae you. Yih opened yir eyes, Mither, and Eh couldnae see yih in there. Eh looked fir yih, Eh spoke like yih were in there, but Eh couldnae find yih. Eh think yid just popped oot coz yih came back in thi efternoon.
Yih got scared sometimes. Yih didnae ken wat yih were daeing or where yih were. Yih were like a wee lassie sometimes, Mither. Yih'd look at mih and yid ask fir yir ayn Mither and Eh couldnae help yih there. Eh went oot that night, Mither, dih yih mind? Eh went oot wi the boys for a couple o pints, just a few, ye ken? Eh left yih at 9, aa wrapped up warm in bed wi the light aff. Yih were sleeping like a wee baby wen Eh left but yih gote up. I wasnae there and yih gote up and put those baffies on yir feet and yih went for a wee stroll, even though it was freezin ootside. Eh wasnae there and yih didnae ken where yih were goin, did yih Mither? Yih walked tae the end o the road and yih found that wee tabby cat and yih followed it along a wee bit. And it took yih quite far, it took yih a-way far doon the next street and on tae the next een. It took yih tae the fields behind the hooses at the edge o toon, int that richt, Mither? And Eh wiz doon at the pub wi the lads, drinking meh pint, haein a gid laugh wi Roddie, haein a gid catch up. He telt me aa aboot his his new hoose and his jobe. Eh wasnae there, Mither, when you walked into the field in yir baffies, yir wee foot crunching doon on thi frozen grass. Eh wasnae there Mither, wen yih tripped and cracked yir wee head on the ground. Yih were shivering, Mither, weren't yih? Eh wasnae there tae hold yir hand, tae gie yih a wee cuddle. Eh'm sorry Mither. Eh'm sorry that yih died there alone.
But dinnae be fooled, Mither. Yih did a good job, yih brought me up well. It wasnae yir fault. Eh'll hae a wee laddie o me ayn someday, Mither, and Eh winnae let him oot meh sight. Eh'll play games wi him, Mither. Eh'll be the best Eh can be.
Wih werenae exacklae an ordinry familae, wir wih, Mither? It wiz just thi two ay us, aa those years. Eh musteh been a weird wee lad cuz eh rimember yih were meh best pal. Eh couldnae trust thi other wee laddies at school cuz wee laddies kin be wee shits but Eh could trust you, Mither. Yih wir aw-wiz there when eh goat back frae school, even though you hed yir joab at the cafe jurin the day. Eh knew yid be there, nevir questioned it. Yid aw-wiz be cooking somethin tae, braa it wiz. Lookin back, Eh dinnae ken how yih hed the time. Eh dinnae ken how yih managed it aa.
Dih yih mind, Mither, wen eh wiz ten or eleven, Eh gote intae a wee scrap wi the laddie frae doon thi road? Well, not a wee scrap so much as eh belter o een. His name wiz Georgie Swankie, wat a wee shit he wis. He said meh breeks wir tinky two-stripe and eh couldnae afford the gid eens. Eh wiznae that bothered but the wee kids on the street wir pishin themselves so Eh said he wiz a ginger poofter. Funny cuz 10 years later and he wiz tae. Eh heard he'd moved tae Glascae wi some poncey lad. But aye, when Eh said that tae him, he proper lost it and swung fir meh and aboot ten minutes later, his fither comes along and proper grabs meh by thi breeks and swings meh. Dih yih mind the state Eh wiz in, Mither? Eh wis aa dirt and scrapes and you wir furious but yih gave mih a proper gid cuddle cuz Eh wiz weeping like a wee girl. Yih asked meh wat happened and Eh aw-wiz telt yih thi truth and yih aw-wiz believed meh. Georgie's Fither nevir believed meh though. I got a hidin frae his brither the next day and kept meh mooth shut fir a wee wile. Dih yih mind, Mither? Eh didnae want tae go oot so yih played wee games wih meh in thi hoose efter school. Yih gote that game oot the cupboard, wi thi wee glass balls and the straws and weh played it fir oors. Eh mind laughing, Mither, cuz Eh knew yih wir cheatin.
And dih yih mind, Mither? Dih yih mind wen Mike the coal man took a shine tae yih? Eh musteh been mehbee... thirteen? Eh wisnae used tae haying men aboot the place and suddenly there's this joker hangin aboot, after yir attention aa the time. So I telt yih straight, Mither, I telt yih Eh didnae like it and yih said “Well Dereck, if you dinnae like Mike, than Eh dinnae like Mike” and he stopped being aroond the hoose and it wiz just the two o us again. That Mike the coal man wasnae gid enough fir yih, Mither. He wasnae right fir yih.
Eh'm a grown man now, Mither. Are yih proud o me? Eh'm older than Mike the coal man wiz wen he took a shine tae yih, back then. Weird tae think o it. Eh'm nae shovelin coal though. Naebidy's daeing that now.
Wat Eh wanted tae say, Mither, is that Eh'm sorry. Eh'm sorry that Eh didnae look efter yih as well as Eh couldae done. Eh'm sorry that yih had tae live in that wee hoose all on yir ain when ye started tae forget. Eh'm sorry that Eh didnae dress yih properly wen yih werenae able tae. Yih dressed me as a wee laddie, Mither, but Eh never dressed you like that wen yih gote old. Eh mind that yih were aw-wiz so smart lookin, Mither. Yih were the smartest lookin wifey on the scheme back wen Eh was a wee un. Yih never spent much money on yerself but yih had some pride.
So Eh'm sorry that Eh let yih go oot in your baffies wen the forgettin set in. Eh'm sorry that Eh didnae dae yir hair in the morn. It wiz aa such a fuss, Mither, and Eh didnae aw-wiz hae the time. Eh'm sorry that Eh dressed yih in colours that didnae match, in colours that yih wouldnae have worn before the forgettin. Eh'm sorry that Eh didnae aw-wiz feed yih healthy food, Mither. But yih got so angry, so difficult tae talk tae, so frustrated when yih couldnae remember. Eh just wanted some peace sometimes, Mither. Eh just wanted yih tae smile wi a bag o chips. Efter a wile Eh just wanted tae play a wee game wih ye, wi the glass balls and the straws, but yih didnae ken, Mither. Yih didnae even ken who I wiz some o the time. Eh'd stay in wi yih and try and find things tae make yih smile but Eh wasnae as good as you were, Mither. Eh didnae ken wit tae dae half the time.
Eh remember one day, I got yih up in the morn and it wasnae you. Yih opened yir eyes, Mither, and Eh couldnae see yih in there. Eh looked fir yih, Eh spoke like yih were in there, but Eh couldnae find yih. Eh think yid just popped oot coz yih came back in thi efternoon.
Yih got scared sometimes. Yih didnae ken wat yih were daeing or where yih were. Yih were like a wee lassie sometimes, Mither. Yih'd look at mih and yid ask fir yir ayn Mither and Eh couldnae help yih there. Eh went oot that night, Mither, dih yih mind? Eh went oot wi the boys for a couple o pints, just a few, ye ken? Eh left yih at 9, aa wrapped up warm in bed wi the light aff. Yih were sleeping like a wee baby wen Eh left but yih gote up. I wasnae there and yih gote up and put those baffies on yir feet and yih went for a wee stroll, even though it was freezin ootside. Eh wasnae there and yih didnae ken where yih were goin, did yih Mither? Yih walked tae the end o the road and yih found that wee tabby cat and yih followed it along a wee bit. And it took yih quite far, it took yih a-way far doon the next street and on tae the next een. It took yih tae the fields behind the hooses at the edge o toon, int that richt, Mither? And Eh wiz doon at the pub wi the lads, drinking meh pint, haein a gid laugh wi Roddie, haein a gid catch up. He telt me aa aboot his his new hoose and his jobe. Eh wasnae there, Mither, when you walked into the field in yir baffies, yir wee foot crunching doon on thi frozen grass. Eh wasnae there Mither, wen yih tripped and cracked yir wee head on the ground. Yih were shivering, Mither, weren't yih? Eh wasnae there tae hold yir hand, tae gie yih a wee cuddle. Eh'm sorry Mither. Eh'm sorry that yih died there alone.
But dinnae be fooled, Mither. Yih did a good job, yih brought me up well. It wasnae yir fault. Eh'll hae a wee laddie o me ayn someday, Mither, and Eh winnae let him oot meh sight. Eh'll play games wi him, Mither. Eh'll be the best Eh can be.
Fiction: 'Red Sand'
“Listen love, this is serious” the Inspector told me, as if there was any doubt in my mind. “The Mauritanian military are after you lot and we need to know exactly what happened!” Looking down at my feet, I could see the sand stains still on my trainers. It's funny how sand varies so much. In the Sahara, it's so fine and bright that it turns your clothes a terracotta colour. And there it was, as dizzyingly fresh as the image of that poor man, lying there in the sand, an image forever imprinted on my retina.
It could have happened to anyone, except that it wouldn't have. Most people go to Morocco and enjoy themselves, they spend some time at the beach, go round the markets, buy cheap souvenirs. But John wanted to see the sand dunes and Ed wanted to drive through the desert and Steph wanted to leave the tourists behind. And I, well... I wanted all of that, I didn't need much encouraging, really.
We'd left the other tourists behind within days of arriving there. Our first move was to get a bus to Western Sahara, the desert coast. With the occasional wild Camel to our left and fierce ocean to our right, the journey was breathtaking, in the most literal sense of the term. I frequently gasped at the sheer expanse of emptiness, the mystifying feeling of self negligibility.
We arrived at the most southern settlement occupied by Morocco: the Western Saharan town of Dakhla. It's a suspiciously attractive place, considering its unfathomable remoteness, with restaurants and shops lining a coastal promenade. The high-class car rental shop that Ed spotted somehow did not look out of place there, in the Sahara desert. I knew it was a bad idea to rent one. I knew we'd have problems. But it was exciting: the idea of roaring down desert roads, stopping to see the nomads and the camels. I found myself as enthusiastic as he was, even when we met Thierry. He was a Spanish business man, in the fish trade, who stopped when he spotted out naïve European faces. Upon hearing our plan to cross over to Mauritania, he warned us it was dangerous there. He told us that strange things happen in the desert, there were wide spread reports of slavery, he explained, before recalling the tale of an unfortunate French family, ruthlessly shot to death in the sand dunes. Ed caught my eye and raised his eyebrows, a nervous smile spreading across his sunburnt cheeks. We assured the thoughtful stranger that we would be careful and he smiled, presumably amused by our audacity.
The Inspector cleared his throat. “He was a military officer, the man who died” he informed me, narrowing his eyes further, trying to gage my familiarity with a such a man. I remained silent.
Ed had suggested we left the following day and we all agreed. The boarder police searched our car with bemused reticence: working outside in the desert, it seemed, was inconducive to jollity. Before long, we found ourselves breezing down the open road, past dunes in varying shades of gold, the dazzling sunlight glaring off them. The same road went on for hundreds of miles without another settlement and more often than not, there were no other vehicles in sight. Hoping to reach the capital, Nouakchott, while the sun was still high in the sky, Ed upped the pace, and we roared through the nothingness.
Before long, the four of us found ourselves squinting as we tried to make out a shape in the distance. Ed began to slow down, sighing to himself. Far from us on the boundless dusty road, a dark shape was moving. As the shape became clearer, Ed glanced at me, and I could see his mind too had turned to those murdered French tourists Thierry had spoken of. Out there before us was a lone figure with what appeared to be a rifle. “Put your foot down!” I yelled at him and we sped towards the armed figure, each of us visibly gritting our teeth. And he didn't move!
“Why didn't he move?” I realised I had thought aloud and found the Inspector biting his lip before me. I sighed and put my head in my clammy palms.
He didn't move. And we were too frightened to stop. He didn't move, he stood straight, gun pointing towards us, before smacking into the windscreen and landing face-down in the sand. Ed stopped the car and without hesitation, we all leapt out. Around his head, some of the terracotta sand had become blood stained and already, it seemed to be drying in the fierce heat of the sun. “I can't get caught for this! They still have fucking slaves! They probably have hangings!” Ed cried out. I couldn't tell whether it was sweat or tears running down his cheeks. “Lets go.” I said. “We'll get the next flight out of here.” And within 48 hours, we had flown back, were arrested in Heathrow and felt oddly relieved to be confronted with the hospitality of the British Police Force.
“Ok, I'll tell you what happened.” I told him.
It could have happened to anyone, except that it wouldn't have. Most people go to Morocco and enjoy themselves, they spend some time at the beach, go round the markets, buy cheap souvenirs. But John wanted to see the sand dunes and Ed wanted to drive through the desert and Steph wanted to leave the tourists behind. And I, well... I wanted all of that, I didn't need much encouraging, really.
We'd left the other tourists behind within days of arriving there. Our first move was to get a bus to Western Sahara, the desert coast. With the occasional wild Camel to our left and fierce ocean to our right, the journey was breathtaking, in the most literal sense of the term. I frequently gasped at the sheer expanse of emptiness, the mystifying feeling of self negligibility.
We arrived at the most southern settlement occupied by Morocco: the Western Saharan town of Dakhla. It's a suspiciously attractive place, considering its unfathomable remoteness, with restaurants and shops lining a coastal promenade. The high-class car rental shop that Ed spotted somehow did not look out of place there, in the Sahara desert. I knew it was a bad idea to rent one. I knew we'd have problems. But it was exciting: the idea of roaring down desert roads, stopping to see the nomads and the camels. I found myself as enthusiastic as he was, even when we met Thierry. He was a Spanish business man, in the fish trade, who stopped when he spotted out naïve European faces. Upon hearing our plan to cross over to Mauritania, he warned us it was dangerous there. He told us that strange things happen in the desert, there were wide spread reports of slavery, he explained, before recalling the tale of an unfortunate French family, ruthlessly shot to death in the sand dunes. Ed caught my eye and raised his eyebrows, a nervous smile spreading across his sunburnt cheeks. We assured the thoughtful stranger that we would be careful and he smiled, presumably amused by our audacity.
The Inspector cleared his throat. “He was a military officer, the man who died” he informed me, narrowing his eyes further, trying to gage my familiarity with a such a man. I remained silent.
Ed had suggested we left the following day and we all agreed. The boarder police searched our car with bemused reticence: working outside in the desert, it seemed, was inconducive to jollity. Before long, we found ourselves breezing down the open road, past dunes in varying shades of gold, the dazzling sunlight glaring off them. The same road went on for hundreds of miles without another settlement and more often than not, there were no other vehicles in sight. Hoping to reach the capital, Nouakchott, while the sun was still high in the sky, Ed upped the pace, and we roared through the nothingness.
Before long, the four of us found ourselves squinting as we tried to make out a shape in the distance. Ed began to slow down, sighing to himself. Far from us on the boundless dusty road, a dark shape was moving. As the shape became clearer, Ed glanced at me, and I could see his mind too had turned to those murdered French tourists Thierry had spoken of. Out there before us was a lone figure with what appeared to be a rifle. “Put your foot down!” I yelled at him and we sped towards the armed figure, each of us visibly gritting our teeth. And he didn't move!
“Why didn't he move?” I realised I had thought aloud and found the Inspector biting his lip before me. I sighed and put my head in my clammy palms.
He didn't move. And we were too frightened to stop. He didn't move, he stood straight, gun pointing towards us, before smacking into the windscreen and landing face-down in the sand. Ed stopped the car and without hesitation, we all leapt out. Around his head, some of the terracotta sand had become blood stained and already, it seemed to be drying in the fierce heat of the sun. “I can't get caught for this! They still have fucking slaves! They probably have hangings!” Ed cried out. I couldn't tell whether it was sweat or tears running down his cheeks. “Lets go.” I said. “We'll get the next flight out of here.” And within 48 hours, we had flown back, were arrested in Heathrow and felt oddly relieved to be confronted with the hospitality of the British Police Force.
“Ok, I'll tell you what happened.” I told him.
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