Feeling like I’m suffering the world’s worst ever hangover, I force myself to my feet and realise at this point that I’m all but naked, dressed only in bra and pants. Who the hell undressed me? Please don’t let it be the two men – I’d die of shame!
All at once my embarrassment is overcome by a violent urge to vomit. Summoning up sufficient energy to move off the bed, I stagger towards the door. It’s locked, and no one answers my shouts or the puny effect my fist has on the thick wood. Shit! But what did I expect? The strangers have kidnapped and imprisoned me. I start to heave and look around the room, my eyes alighting on the bucket in the corner. I rush towards it, hands covering my mouth, and only just make it before I completely void the contents of my stomach. To make matters worse I’m unable to hold back my long hair in time and I feel a wave of disgust, realising that I’ve got sick on some of the strands. Another wave of nausea hits; I move away from the bucket and breathe through my nose, just about managing to suppress it. The fuzziness in my head begins to clear now I’ve thrown up the residue of the drugs. With the rebellion in my stomach subdued, my body sends me another signal: my bladder is full to bursting. With a cry I realise there’s nothing I can do but hover myself over the same bucket I was just sick into, and add my urine to the filthy contents. What
is
this place with its primitive facilities?
As I inhale the stink of my own excretions, I feel degraded and humiliated, and the thought crosses my mind this might be exactly the result my kidnappers were aiming for. I’ve hacked into their computer systems, and on the face of it, stolen their money. Shit! What have I done? Removed from command central, I begin to realise I’ve been very, very stupid. The games I play from behind my computer screen have an impact in the real world and now, it would appear, I’m reaping what I’ve sown. Is this a prison? Have I been convicted without trial? Without being given a chance to explain? Is this cell my new home?
My body’s shaking, and it’s not just because I feel weak. I’m scared: scared because I’m in a situation I cannot control. Kneeling beside the bucket I feel dirty and disgusting, and my head is spinning. I want to curl up into a ball and cry, but tears don’t help. I’ve already learned that lesson. Fear is good if the adrenaline keeps me sharp and focused; it’s not great if it keeps me comatose. Holding my hand to the wall I drag myself to my feet, leaning against it for support until I feel steady enough to move. I grab the sheet from the bed and wrap it around myself like a toga, immediately feeling better now I’ve got something covering me. I shudder again, wondering who has seen my body, and a tiny flame of anger flickers inside me. Well, whoever it was got an eyeful of something they wouldn’t want to see. Serves them bloody well right!
I stare up at the window I’d noticed earlier. It’s far too high to see out of unless I can put something under it. Perhaps I can move the bed?
I make my way over to see, trying not to trip over the end of the sheet I’ve got wrapped around me. As a cover it’s adequate, but as clothing, it’s certainly not the most practical. But any hindrance it might be is of no consequence; I can’t shift the bed because bolts fasten it to the floor. The window offers no escape route. I sit back down on the bed, the only furniture in the bare room, putting my head in my hands in despair. Why have I been brought here? And where, exactly, is ‘here’?
Thrusting back a wave of panic that this feels like an
oubliette
, a place where prisoners are thrown and forgotten, I force negative thoughts to the back of my mind and examine my rudimentary prison cell. No plumbing, and no electricity that I can see. An ancient type of torch holder is on one wall, but there’s no light bulb or switch. Christ! How old is this place? How come it’s still in use? How long will I be left here?
It’s suddenly difficult to breathe as claustrophobia creeps up on me; I begin to hyperventilate, my mind playing tricks on me. The stone walls seem to be closing in. I squeeze my eyes shut and as much as I want to, I can’t afford to panic. I have to keep myself together. The walls are not moving, I tell myself firmly. It must be the after-effects of the drugs. I open my eyes again and exhale the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
I collapse back down on the bed and try to kick my brain into gear, going back over the thought that they must have discovered my crime – and then the flaw in that thinking hits me. I’m certain the invitation to Amahad predated my actions to divert their funds. But what other reason could they have for bringing me here? I laugh out loud at the thought of white slavery. I’d be the last person anyone would choose to traffic like that! In the emptiness of my cell I smirk, the idea providing some humour, even in this dire situation. Unless someone has very peculiar tastes, that is.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, Cara, think!
My mind still foggy, I try to recall the exact words the kidnappers had said, and stiffen. Could they have found the genetic link between me and my father, as Hunter suggested? But even if that was a possibility, and they knew of the relationship, why would they kidnap me? The man’s dead – and there’s no one who would pay a ransom for me. I shudder, recalling just how much money Benting had conned out of this Arab country. Did they somehow think I was involved with his business? I had nothing to do with his crimes and nothing to do with the man himself!
Putting my head in my hands, running my fingers up and down my cheeks, I realise I have absolutely no idea why I’m here. I must be losing my mind because I only just manage to suppress an impulse to laugh hysterically. Things like this don’t happen to someone like me; I’m a boring accountant, for heaven’s sake!
The sound of a key turning in the lock and voices speaking outside the door in a fo
r
eign language interrupt my thoughts and, at first, I perk up – at least they haven’t forgotten me. Then I have to fight off another wave of panic. I’m not ready to come face-to-face with my kidnappers again, or to learn why they’ve brought me here. But I have no choice in the matter; the door clicks open. Pulling the sheet tight around me, as if it will help hide my trepidation as well as my flesh, I stand tall, ready to face whoever enters.
I’m slightly relieved when a woman enters, instead of the men I’d been expecting. She’s wearing a black abaya that covers her down to her feet, and a hijab covering her head. Only her face is visible, but that’s sufficient for me to see that she’s looking around in surprise, her nose wrinkling in disgust. Feeling mortified, I look away. Although I had no choice but to use the only receptacle they left for me, her reaction is humiliating. She turns to beckon a man in and points to the filthy, stinking bucket, and gives him instruction in a foreign language. He picks up the offending item and removes it from the room.
She gives me an assessing look, and then passes me a black robe, similar to her own. “You wear this.” Her accent is thick, and I have a little difficulty understanding her.
Taking advantage of the fact that she does speak at least
some
English I try to get answers, something to reassure me.
“Where am I? Why am I here?” I’m ashamed that my voice sounds shrill, my nervousness obvious.
For a moment, I don’t think she’s going to tell me anything, but then she tells me succinctly, “This” – she waves her hand around vaguely – “Palace of Amahad.”
I’d figured out it was Amahad, but the palace? I’d assumed this was a prison of some sort. “Why am I here?”
It seems that’s the extent of the information she’s going to give me; she ignores my question, telling me, “Come. Put on robe.” I stare at her. Her face is blank, difficult to read. She’s neither friendly nor unfriendly, just matter-of-fact. Perhaps she knows nothing more.
Is she my gaoler? What does she think of the way I’m imprisoned here? I’m frustrated with the lack of information. I work with data; I need facts to process, and details to try to make sense of why I’m here.
“Who are you?” I try.
“I am Tahirah. I palace maidservant. You wear robe. Come.”
Breathing deeply, I summon up some inner strength, telling myself I don’t want to stay in this bloody cell a moment longer than necessary, and anything has got to be better than this. Swallowing down my fear of the unknown, I turn my back and struggle into the robe, trying hard not to drop the sheet until I’m dressed. Somehow I manage it. Turning back to the maidservant I nod, and then regret it as the action causes a stabbing pain in my head. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“You ill?”
“My head hurts.” There doesn’t seem to be any point in hiding it.
“Come. I help.”
This time there’s a touch of sympathy in her voice, so I move to follow her, walking slowly, trying not to jolt my head. Outside the door, a heavily armed guard is waiting. He wears a long white robe and under his belt has a holstered gun together with a long curved sword, a scimitar. As I walk alongside Tahirah, he takes up position behind us and I shiver, his presence curtailing any thoughts of possible escape. Able to do nothing but go with the flow, I walk with my new companions through cold corridors and grasp that they have housed me in what probably was a dungeon. The worn flagstones underfoot show evidence of the thousands of feet that must have passed by here. I follow on past open cells similar to the one where I’d been kept; my not entirely rational mind summons up images of prisoners and torture, and I can almost hear imaginary screams of pain echoing from the walls. I close the gap between myself and the maid, wanting the comfort of human company, whoever it might be. There are too many ghosts here. At last, we come to a flight of stairs and ascend, leaving the cold stone cells and forgotten souls behind as we enter a newer section with white painted walls. More modern features appear. I can see wiring tacked to the walls, although there is still an aura of emptiness and disuse, and our footsteps on the flagstone floors are the only sounds I can hear.
Tahirah stops in front of a door. “Here bathroom.” She enters a large room and indicates a smaller room off it. I peer in; the plumbing looks ancient but serviceable. There’s a large bath with a shower over it. Someone has laid out a selection of bottles containing shampoos and soaps, evidently for my use. The idea of being able to wash the cell’s stink from my hair and body is very attractive.
Tahirah leaves my side but quickly returns, this time carrying a glass of water and two white tablets. I eye them warily, baulking at the thought of being given drugs again. She sees my reluctance.
“Help head.” She holds the foil packet containing the tablets out on her palm, and with her other hand pushes the glass towards me.
I hesitate, but the thumping in my skull has become almost unbearable, and at that moment being drugged again is possibly preferable to the pain. I take the risk and swallow what will prove to be, hopefully, just painkillers, and drink all the water.
“I stay? Help wash?”
Horrified, and despite the pain, I shake my head emphatically. No one is ever going to see me naked! “No, I can shower on my own.”
She studies me and then nods her head. “Clothes on chair.” She waves her hand behind her. “I come soon.” With that comment, she turns to leave and I hear the sound of a key turning in the lock.
What do I do? I still have no answers as to why I’m here, and the only certainty is that I’m in Amahad. How can I escape, and what happens if I do? I’ve no passport. Maybe there’s a British embassy here. But making an attempt to leave has got to be better than staying and awaiting my fate. I try the door, though I’m sure it’s bolted. It is. I move quickly to the window, but that’s locked as well, so I satisfy my curiosity with looking out, trying to get my bearings. The view doesn’t tell me much, being only that of a walled courtyard, beyond which there is sand. Miles and miles of sand. My shoulders fall. Even if I got out of the palace, I would have no idea where to go. Disheartened, I resign myself to the fact that I’ve no choice but to let things play out as they will. I decide to shower and dress, knowing I’ll feel better for it. Whatever lies in store for me, I’d prefer not to face it with dried vomit stuck in my hair.
I shower, dry myself, and then move to inspect the clothes left out for me. There’s a pair of silk trousers and a tunic, both in jade, with intricate embroidery around the edges. Silk underwear, the likes of which I’d never considered wearing before, and which would probably cost more than I earn in a week, has also been laid out. The clothing looks strange; pretty and delicate, but made for someone much slimmer than me. They apparently didn’t know who they were expecting. Reaching out my hand, I wistfully caress the beautiful-looking fabric. What would it be like to get away with wearing something so exquisite? A very far cry from the masculine business suits I usually wear when out, or the loose-fitting sweatpants I lounge around in at home.
I laugh softly, mocking myself. I can’t wear that. It’s not my size. Or style. But what alternative have I got but to try it on? The black abaya is stifling and oppressive, and I don’t want to wear that all day. It couldn’t hurt to try these garments on
.
With that thought, I put on the underwear. Hmm, it fits. That’s strange. Must be some kind of one-size-fits-all. Then I slip the tunic over my head and decide the material must be stretchy, or have hidden pleats, because it doesn’t feel tight; in fact, it seems as though it’s been tailored especially for me and is, I have to admit, extremely comfortable. The trousers too. The silk whispers around my body as I move; its touch caresses my skin. The costume screamed quality and elegance and probably would have looked wonderful on the right person. But it’s light and cooler than the abaya, so I keep it on, even though it makes me feel like mutton dressed as lamb. I shudder to think what I look like.