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.