Black sparrow, p.25
Black Sparrow, page 25
Shazia lays her prettily hennaed palms flat on the table between us, breathing steadily. I'm not ready for what's next. She's getting desperate. Talk about coming at me from left field.
“Jameel, in a few weeks, or months, after the funeral and when Uzma's back home, I'm going to tell Sanjeev about our affair. I'll leave him and we can move away, somewhere new, make a fresh start.”
The words buzz at me as though they're coming from an old, crackly radio. What's this she's saying? Am I hearing correctly? No, this isn't the way it's supposed to go at all. This is a really bad idea.
In a split second, my decision is made. My only concern is for my children, the two people in my life that I'm solely responsible for. Their mother is gone, so now they have to be able to fully depend on me.
“Shazia, it's over,” I murmur softly, taking her hand in mine to soften the blow. “You and I, it can't be. Too many people will get hurt unnecessarily and I owe it to Khalid and Uzma to be there for them.”
She looks panic-stricken, eyes wide, not blinking. “No, Jameel, no. Please, think about this. Given time, they'll get used to us being together. I can help them to get over Farida's death. Don't push me away.”
This is so hard. I love this woman. Shazia is funny, beautiful, slim, everything a man could wish for, but suddenly it's not enough. Something shifts inside me. I need more than this. I realise that I crave for what I've already lost. I need a faithful and diligent woman, someone who will look after my home and my children, not one who will embark on an illicit affair and bring shame upon her whole family.
I need someone pure, true to their strong Muslim principles. I need Farida.
“It will never work,” I whisper, levelling my voice and keeping my head low. “This, what we had, what we've meant to each other, it was great, but it wasn't meant to last. I'm so sorry, Shazia, truly I am.”
She's crying now. Big, round, fat tears stream down Shazia's cheeks in an unstoppable torrent. People are starting to look curiously in our direction and I'm beginning to feel embarrassed by the situation.
“Come on,” I urge, “let me pay the bill and we'll get out of here. Perhaps we can sit in the car for a while, at least until you feel calmer and able to make the short drive home.”
Shazia claws gently at my sleeve again. “But can we at least talk about this, Jameel? Please?”
Her pleading is the last thing that I need right now. It's too much. I have enough to deal with already.
“Shh, please. My wife is hardly cold and we're sitting here being selfish. How do you think that news of our relationship will affect our children, eh? Not just Khalid and Uzma, but Maryam, too. And what about Sanjeev? He's given you a decent roof over your head and works hard. Sanjeev's a good man, Shazia. Please, come on, be rational.”
“Rational?” she spits. “Were you being rational when you were having sex with me in those hotels?”
This is getting out of hand now. I knew that sitting here in full view of the public was probably not the most ideal location. I gesture curtly to the waitress and pull a ten-pound note from my wallet.
“Keep the change,” I tell her briskly, sliding out from the booth and buttoning my coat.
“Is everything alright?” the woman asks, regarding Shazia and I with interest. The tears and trembling hands are a good indication that we are not, in fact, in the best of spirits at this moment.
“My wife is suddenly feeling unwell,” I say abruptly. “We should be getting home.”
Shazia follows me outside. I don't look back at her, but instinctively feel that she must be trying desperately to control herself, to keep calm, to stop crying. I've broken her fragile heart.
Sitting in her compact car, I wait for the woman I love to berate me. I can see the anger building in her.
“All this time, you've used me,” she accuses, banging her hands heavily on the steering-wheel.
I take Shazia's hands in mine, afraid that she may hurt herself and sorry for the emotional pain I'm causing her.
“My darling, no,” I whisper, pulling her to me and allowing her head to rest upon my shoulder. “I do love you, but my children have just lost their mother and this changes everything. It has to.”
I'm unable to resist stroking her soft curls. This woman is so deliciously tempting and fragile.
Shazia looks up at me, desperation and hurt in her huge brown eyes. “But Jameel, maybe in time…”
“No,” I utter, taking my hand from her soft, shiny locks. “Shazia, it's over. Really, it's over.”
I don't know how long we've been sitting here. It's far longer than I had planned, that's for certain, and rain has begun to pelt down onto the windscreen, providing us with a modicum of privacy. Shazia has been silent for quite some time and I'm hoping that she's coming to terms with my decision. At least she still has Sanjeev, a decent Muslim man, hard-working and good-natured, if not the most handsome.
“I have to go,” I say gently, sliding my arm out from round her back. “Ali and I are going to try to get a flight to Paris today, to find Uzma. Will you be okay? Are you alright to drive?”
Shazia nods, but her jaw is clenched as though she's holding back a torrent of poisonous words.
“Go then,” she tells me sharply, reaching into the glove compartment for tissues. “I'll be fine.”
I feel the urge to leave her with a kind gesture, to show that this hasn't just been about the sex, although I have to admit that I'll miss her incredible body, so I kiss the very top of Shazia's head.
“Take care,” I whisper, before opening the car door and setting foot out into the rain. Behind me, I can hear the sobbing begin again but I don't turn or look back, I won't allow myself a last glimpse.
Clambering into the driver's seat of my saloon, I notice that the rain has penetrated the bottom half of my trousers where my overcoat didn't quite reach. I turn the ignition and switch on the heater, all the time trying not to let my eyes rove back towards Shazia's car, which is parked a few bays away.
I allow warm air to take the chill off the sodden fabric for a couple of minutes before clicking on the windscreen wipers and pulling on my seatbelt. It's then that I finally look up and notice the car parked directly in front of mine. A sporty convertible BMW, silver with a black soft-top.
The engine is running, and a couple sit inside. I can just make out their faces through the dripping rain. The man, a complete stranger, is red-haired and wears a dark jacket; the young woman, I already know. Maryam stares straight at me and then glances over at her mother's car, shock and confusion written on her young face.
I drive out of the car park, heading for home. The only thoughts in my mind now are speculations as to how long Maryam has been sitting there, how much she saw and what exactly she has taken from it.
I'm over the speed limit for this part of the city and gradually ease my foot off the accelerator as I weave my way through the housing estate, beads of perspiration studded along my forehead. I'm panicking. I need to calm down and think this through rationally. What a start to a tough day.
Whatever Maryam was doing there, sitting in that car, with that man, it looked as secretive and inappropriate as my meeting with her mother. She must have a Western boyfriend, perhaps someone from the hospital. It's almost as bad as what my Uzma is doing. Young women have no morals these days. But then, isn't that 'pot, kettle, black', as my English colleagues would say? Haven't I just flouted every rule in our Holy book by sleeping with another man's wife, a friend's wife?
As I swing the car back in through the open double gates of my driveway, I let out a shout, finally. Everything has been bottled up so tightly lately, I need to focus on going one step at a time to bring my children back together, to save what scraps of a family unit we still have left. My first priority today must be to get to Paris, to locate my wayward daughter and bring her home where she belongs.
I run up to the house, the rain and wind buffeting me hard as I enter the porch. There's still a nagging issue, one that I cannot resolve. I just hope that Shazia has the sense to make up some tale to tell Maryam about our secret get-together. Is she smart enough to do that?
A slight relief washes over me. Of course she can do that. Her best friend has committed suicide, Maryam has lost her Aunt Farida. My former lover has a reason to be upset today. I was delivering the news in private and comforting her. Perhaps I am saved from shame after all.
MONDAY 8AM – COLETTE JOUBERT
I am totally exhausted this morning. The confrontation with Colin last night brought me a night fraught with unease and restlessness. I suppose that now he is aware of my identity, as the wife of his former employer, there will be many questions, most of which I am unprepared to answer.
Still, he cannot be avoided completely, and will no doubt be checking out this afternoon once his final mission is complete. I will miss our little soirees. The trips to the theatre were very pleasant and he did make a companionable dining partner. C'est la vie! Such is life, everything must inevitably go on.
As I enter the warmth of the dining room, the pompous Englishman is already sitting there studying yesterday's Sunday Times newspaper that I ordered especially for his perusal. The colour supplement lies discarded on a side table and I make a mental note to pick it up, something to occupy my mind later while waiting for events to unfold. I honestly do enjoy reading in English, It keeps me alert and enhances my language skills, although the English fashion articles are a cause for occasional amusement, as it seems that only French and Italian women know how to dress appropriately for their age.
“Good morning, Colette.” The familiarity of his greeting stings me like a wasp as I swiftly make my way to the kitchen. “I must say you look a little peaky, my dear. A sleepless night, perhaps?”
There is subtle irony in his voice and despite the red-painted smile upon my lips, I would very much like to slap him across the face. This man knows how to rile me.
“I am perfectly well, thank you, Monsieur Foster,” I reply through firmly gritted teeth, as I come to a halt next to his table. “Now, is the lovely Maria seeing to your breakfast?”
He nods eagerly, never a man to play down the importance of mealtimes. “Oh yes, indeed she is. I've been promised Eggs Benedict. Quite a treat. I'm rather famished this morning.”
“In that case, I shall see how preparations are going. Please excuse me.”
I glide through the double doors to the kitchen, holding in my breath and feeling confident that the tone of my voice has put paid to any ideas Monsieur Foster may have had about whisking me away into the sunset. It's ridiculous how perspectives change, really it is. If Colin had asked me to go travelling with him a week ago, I would have been upstairs looking through my wardrobe for beach hats and sarongs. But now, circumstances being as they are, my professional head has won the game and I will see through the task that the bureau has entrusted me to do.
“Maria, are these eggs for Monsieur Foster?” I ask of my housekeeper, as she carefully plates up two perfectly poached ovals. “They look impressive.”
The plump woman smiles at me and gives a knowing wink. “The only guest allowed to dictate what he eats every morning, Madame. Monsieur Foster is very special, oui?”
“It pays to keep him happy,” I tell her. “You know how fussy these middle-aged men can be.”
My housekeeper gives a little chuckle and carries the plate through to where the Black Sparrow is hunched over the financial pages, looking every bit the professional city gent.
The reception desk bell rings twice, creating an echo in the darkened passage.
Leaving Maria to attend to our hungry Japanese guests, I go out into the hallway to see who it can be. A courier stands there, in neon cycling shorts and an orange safety helmet, with a white envelope, a large package and a clipboard in his hands.
“Bonjour. A signature please, Madame,” he grunts tiredly, itching to leave. “Au revoir.” The door bangs shut behind him.
I am left clutching the two items tightly to my chest. The bulky parcel is for C.FOSTER, the other is addressed to me.
I know exactly what they are. The first contains instructions and a weapon to enable Colin to remove his target. The second is probably a receipt regarding the bank transfer that the bureau will have deposited into my overseas account. I am surprised at them arriving together, though, as I rarely receive payment before an assignment has been completed.
Pushing the large package under the desk with my foot, I pocket the other envelope and return to where my antagonist is grinding black pepper onto his breakfast plate.
“Everything to your liking?” I ask sarcastically, keeping the smile rigid for effect. “Perhaps I can bring you another cafetiere? Blue Mountain roast, wasn't it?”
Colin turns his steely eyes towards me and purses his lips for a second. “Thank you, that would be most agreeable. And the eggs, they're perfect.”
Returning with a second coffee pot, I wander around the other tables and check that everyone is happy. It seems that they are. A moment later, the door swings open and Uzma enters the dining room, still looking pale and tired.
“Come and sit here, Miss Rafiq, by the window,” I tell her, knowing that Sylvain will be exceptionally careful to stay away from me today. “What would you like to eat?”
“Some coffee please.” She smiles faintly. “And just a croissant.”
“Wouldn't you like an omelette?” I ask kindly. “Eggs are a wonderful way to start the day.”
She nods, looking at me from under heavy lids. “Okay, that would be nice, thank you.”
I encourage the young woman to help herself to cereal and yoghurt but she makes no attempt to move from her spot at the window and sits gazing sadly out. It looks as though there are three of us who haven't slept, and I'm partially to blame for two of those insomniacs.
I have done my damnedest to keep Uzma from locating Sylvain and Colin has been given a lot to consider after finding my passport last night. The next few hours are going to be very long, for all of us. Never before have I wished a day to pass by so quickly.
Having cleared the breakfast tables and left Maria to attend to the dirty dishes, I go back out to Reception to check how many guests will be departing, or arriving, today. I have three groups checking out, not including Monsieur Foster, and no more arriving until Wednesday, an ideal situation. We will have plenty of time to change the bedding and replenish the store cupboards. Excellent.
As I make a few notes in the heavy desk diary, I suddenly remember what lies close to my feet. The package is tucked out of sight but its presence is drawing me close like a magnet. I reach down and pull it towards me, carefully tugging at the heavy-duty tape that covers the seal. I know that what I'm about to do breaks all of the bureau's rules of confidentiality, but the intrigue of the situation is powerful. I need to see who it is that the Black Sparrow will be eradicating this afternoon.
Inside the parcel, a bulky, bubble-wrapped item is the first thing that my fingers encounter. I know exactly what will be inside; the weapon of Monsieur Foster's choice, a handgun with an effective silencer attached. The bureau chiefs are excellent at keeping their hired killers well-equipped. I don't need to touch it. Only the identity of the target will quench my thirst for knowledge. Besides, I wouldn't want to be stupid enough to put my fingerprints on the gun. Foster has already shown that he can be careless, carrying those blessed photographs around in his suitcase. I wouldn't want to run the risk of him leaving the weapon at the scene of the crime and leading the police to my door.
There's a white envelope with a card inside it. This is what I'm searching for. My fingers tremble slightly as I expertly navigate the seal with my sharp letter-opener. Then I read.
SYLVAIN RENO.
I cannot read the next line, although I know that it contains my son's address. It also states that Sylvain will be coming here at four o'clock to collect my car. My head is swimming and the air is being sucked out of my lungs as though I've been delivered a heavy blow to the chest.
I sit, quickly gripping the sides of my desk chair as the printed white card quivers in my hand, a photo of my handsome son attached to it with a flimsy paper clip.
No, not my Sylvain! How can this be? Who would want to have my boy killed?
“Madame Joubert?” a voice calls. It sounds distant, as though my head were underwater. “Are you alright, Madame Joubert?”
I blink, lifting my head slowly to meet the dark eyes that look down upon me. I cannot speak.
“Shall I get you a glass of water?”
I nod and Uzma Rafiq runs quickly towards the dining room.
During the minute or so before her return, I manage to hide the package in my desk drawer and take a few much-needed breaths.
“Here you are.” Uzma smiles as she offers a glass tumbler. “Drink this.”
I sip gently, not taking my eyes from her, grateful that she was here to help me regain my composure.
“Did you need something?” I manage to murmur. “Were you looking for me?”
She shakes her pretty head. “It doesn't matter now, you're obviously not well.”
“It's fine,” I insist. “Please, what was it you wanted?”
“My suitcase,” she confesses, a little embarrassed at bothering me. “I wondered if…”
“Ah, yes.” I smile weakly. “I promised to phone the airport. You need to find your suitcase, as does Monsieur Foster.”
“Don't worry if you're not… Mr Foster has a missing case, too?”
“Oh, yes, perhaps you weren't aware. Monsieur Foster's luggage was misplaced on the same flight as yours. I'll ring them right now.”
Something flickers in Uzma's eyes, a tiny light, a glimmer of insightfulness as she takes in my words.
“Non, ce n'est pas necessaire. Merci, Monsieur,” I tell the luggage officer a few minutes later, as both Uzma Rafiq and a very curious Colin Foster stand watching. “Au revoir.”
