A Sacred Storm (21 page)

Despite Kandinsky's fears they reached the harbour without attack. He guessed that the sheik must have been rendered unconscious all night by the powerful tranquilizer, and therefore unable to issue a strike-force.

Once on board the submarine they took Stella straight to Dr Vashista who gave her a thorough examination. “I cannot be one hundred per cent certain,” he said. “But she is not showing any signs of internal injury. She appears to be just very badly bruised. She is going to hurt for the next few days though.”

“Excuse me,” Stella chirped from the examination table. “I am here you know.” The morphine had all but worn off and she was starting to feel the effects of her accident.

“How could we forget,” said Grady.

Jennings took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Vashista gave her another quick check, and then fed her some codeine tablets for the pain. He produced a wheelchair from under the table and Jennings pushed her to her quarters. After fluffing her pillows he helped her up onto the bed.

“Are you going to be alright?” he asked.

“I guess so,” she said. “Once these painkillers kick in properly I should be okay. I'd rather have had some morphine though.”

“I bet you would. But you heard Dr Vashista – he didn't think it was a good idea. You don't want to get hooked on the stuff do you?”

“I don't know – I can think of worse things.” She braved a smile. “I haven't thanked you yet have I?”

“What for?”

“For coming to rescue me. If you guys hadn't turned up I could have been stuck there forever.”

“I thought that's what you wanted,” Jennings grinned. “You didn't seem very keen on leaving when we turned up. You were all for staying there and becoming a princess.”

“Did I say that?” she frowned. “I suppose I did. It was the morphine. Dr Vashista's probably right – I really shouldn't have any more of it. Although being a princess wouldn't be too bad – as long as you've got the right prince.” She looked at him briefly then turned away.

“I'm sure you'll find one,” he said. “You won't be short of offers.”

Stella switched on the television screen and flicked through the music files, choosing
Radiohead's – The Bends
to soothe her battered mind. “Where's Stratton then?” she asked. “Is he still alive?”

Jennings thought for a moment trying to find a suitable explanation.

“Well?” Stella pressed.

“Yes, he's still alive. He's gone to Rome to help out Pat Cronin. It's all kicked off since you were captured.” He paused. “But anyway, I'll tell you all about it later when you've rested a bit.”

“I'm already rested,” she said obstinately. “I want to know what's going on. I want to know why Stratton didn't come to get me.”

Jennings sat down on the edge of the bed and touched her hand lightly. Stella whipped it away and said, “Just tell me.”

“He thought that it was more important that he went to Rome. Like I said, a lot has happened in the last few weeks. Basically it's like this – both the Muslims and the Catholics have access to the symbols, and they're both about to unleash a Messiah into the world. Each one will have miraculous healing powers, and each one will be considered real. And you know what's going to happen don't you? Each religion will try and debunk the other until it's all out war. Stratton's the only one with the same knowledge as these fake redeemers, so he's got to be out there helping to calm the whole situation.”

Stella chewed on it for a while. “How long did it take you to rescue me?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Jennings shrugged. “Maybe about eighteen hours all told.”

“Well then. Would eighteen hours have really made that much difference to him? He could have made sure I was alright before he went off trying to save the fucking world.”

“Listen Stella, he was in a difficult situation. He couldn't delay any longer. There was no need for him to come with us to get you, and he had the utmost faith in our ability to get the job done. He had to look at the bigger picture and make a decision…Of course, if you're really that bothered we can take you back there and get Stratton to rescue you single-handed.” He got off the bed and went to the drinks cabinet for some whisky.

“I'm sorry,” said Stella after a brief silence. “I wasn't having a go at you. I was just being silly and selfish. Of course Stratton had to look at the bigger picture. And I'm really grateful that you came for me.”

Jennings poured some whisky into a glass tumbler and sat back down next to her. “No, I'm sorry,” he said. “I shouldn't have made that last comment. I understand why you're upset. But I don't think his decision had anything to do with the way he feels about you. He was just trying to do the right thing. It doesn't mean he doesn't love you.”

Stella sipped at a glass of water. “I know,” she said. “It would have just been nice to see him, that's all. But you know what? I'm really glad that you're alright. The last time I saw you, you were lifeless, hanging upside-down from a tree – it made me sick. In fact I didn't know what had happened to anybody. For all I knew you were all dead. And where does Grady fit into all this? He was hanging next to you. Where did he suddenly appear from?”

She listened intently as Jennings related all that had happened since they split up in the jungle. When he'd finished she was beginning to feel sleepy once more.

“Well,” she yawned. “You've certainly been busy. I feel like I've had it easy.”

“Not at all,” said Jennings. “I'd rather have been in my situation than yours. At least I haven't been held captive. You can't put a price on freedom.”

Stella lay her head down and closed her eyes. “Still, you've been through a lot. I'm just pleased you're still alive. When I thought you might be dead…” Her sentence trailed off as she drifted into sleep.

Jennings watched her while he finished his whisky. Then he kissed her on the forehead and returned to his cabin for a much-needed rest.

Jenna carefully pulled back the duvet and slipped out of bed. She reached for her cigarettes in the dim filtered street-light and tip-toed across the room. As she opened the door Tariq's head stirred slightly in the hall light, and then settled back down into a peaceful slumber. She looked at him briefly and smiled, and then closed the door and went to the living room.

She had been trying to get to sleep for what seemed like an eternity, but every time she neared dropping off another thought would enter her mind and start a new train. At first it was merely annoying, but now her head was throbbing, her eyes were stinging, and her throat was sticky and dry.

She lit a cigarette and sat down on the sofa. There was still a half-full glass of chardonnay on the table and she took a couple of swigs from it. The room felt cold and ominous. She shivered and huddled up, stretching her nightshirt tight over her legs.

The reality of the day's events had crept up on her subtly. At first she hadn't really known what to make of it, and then it had all been too much. Making love to Tariq had calmed her for a while, but once he had fallen asleep the voices in her head began to clamour once more. Years of dammed emotions had been released; at first a steady trickle, and then a spurt, a gush, and finally a shattering burst. The resulting torrent eddied inside her head, her disparate thoughts flashing in the foam like irretrievable flotsam and jetsam; the pressure stabbing like keen knives in her temple. She began to cry.

The tears flowed and felt good, releasing the build-up of emotion. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her nightshirt and smoked the rest of her cigarette.

After clearing herself up with a Kleenex she went to the front window and looked out over the orange glow of the town. It was 3.00am, around the time that the clubs would be starting to empty. She wondered whether there was anybody out tonight, or whether the earth-shattering news had prompted people to stay in and think about their lives and where they were headed. In her heart she knew that nothing would stop the die-hards from their Saturday night revelry. There would be many a drunken conversation about God and religion, but it would all be a garbled mass of slurred words and alcohol-fuelled ideals. Inevitably it would end up in physical violence, maybe escalating to a full-blown riot. She imagined the scene down the high street, with police attempting to control hundreds of incensed piss-heads who were so smashed and wound up they'd forgotten what they were angry about in the first place. Then she glanced across at the glass on the table and thought about the damage it was doing to her own logic.

Tariq walked into the room in his boxer shorts. “What's up?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “Go back to bed, I'll be with you in a minute.”

“I'm up now,” he yawned. “You don't look so good. You look like you've been crying.”

Jenna shrugged. “Just a little,” she said. “It's nothing major, just me being silly. I'm overtired and emotional. I'll be okay once I get some sleep.”

“Do you want me to get you a cup of tea or anything?” he asked.

She smiled. “That'd be great. Are you sure you don't mind?”

“Of course not. I'll just go and put a T-shirt on, it's a bit cold in here.”

Jenna closed the curtains and turned up the thermostat, then sat back down. Although she hadn't wanted to wake Tariq she was pleased he was up. The living room was large and lonely in the dead of night, and her thoughts seemed to echo in the silence. Left on her own she would probably drive herself to distraction.

A few minutes later Tariq appeared with two cups of tea. He set them on the table before sitting down and giving her a hug. “So tell me,” he said. “What's going on? Are you still thinking about the news?”

“Of course I am. Aren't you?”

“Yeah, I can't stop thinking about it. I managed to cut it out and doze off for a while, but then I started dreaming and woke up.”

“What were you dreaming about?”

“I don't know really, I can't remember it that well. It was more like images than anything specific. Whatever it was though, it wasn't good.”

Jenna leant forward and picked up her tea. She blew on it and took a couple of sips. “That's perfect,” she said. “Just what I need. You're the best.” She lit a cigarette. “It's just so weird. I feel like I'm in some sort of parallel universe where the rules no longer apply. When I woke up this morning I knew exactly who I was, what I thought, and where I was going. Now it's all been turned upside-down. I don't feel I know who I am anymore. Or even what I am. Suddenly I'm in this world where God or Allah or whatever he is actually exists. What if I'm living my life totally wrongly? What if the priests and nuns at school were right about everything?”

“We don't even know if these people are genuine yet,” said Tariq. “And even if they are – do you really think that God would condone priests abusing young boys? It wouldn't make sense.”

“God's can condone what they like,” she said. “They're gods, that's the essence of their being.”

“I suppose so. But my heart tells me that peace and understanding are the messages of the true God.”

Jenna rubbed her tired eyes. “Well, I hope you're right. I don't think I could bear to live in a world ruled by priests or imams, telling me I've got to do what they say or I'll be banished to hell for all eternity. We're well on our way to building a free world, this whole thing could take us back to the Dark Ages.”

“I don't know about the Dark Ages,” said Tariq. “But I think you're right – it could set us back. I've been worrying about the same things. I don't want to be suddenly subjected to ridiculous and unjust laws. I like my life the way it is. I like my freedom of choice. I don't want to be told I can't do things that make me happy.” He leaned across and kissed her. “And most of all I don't want to lose you.”

Jenna touched his face softly. “What makes you think you're going to lose me?”

“I don't know. I've just got a bad feeling about the whole thing. I guess I'm worried that the Mahdi might say that you can't be with a non-Muslim. Like you said – there's so many things they could do. It's strange really; when I first heard about it in the mosque I was on a real high and got carried away with everyone else, but the more I've thought about it the more it seems like a bad thing. I mean, do we really need divine intervention – can't we just work it out for ourselves.”

“You know what,” said Jenna. “You're absolutely right. But what can we do? They're here now and I doubt if they're going away any time soon. Let's just promise each other that we'll stick together no matter what. Promise?”

“Promise.”

Arman Kandinsky sat at his private bar swilling cognac round a balloon glass. He was tired but not yet ready for sleep. He was pleased with the outcome of their mission into Yemen, but the news he had received back on the submarine was not so good. Overnight the world had changed. In the space of a matter of hours mankind had been ‘blessed' by two messengers from God. Right now people were celebrating a new era in the history of humanity. Part of him wished that he could join in the blind hysteria. But a stronger part was glad that he knew the reality of the situation.

After inhaling the vapour deeply he took a large sip of cognac. He lit a cigar and pulled a photo from his breast pocket. It was a picture he kept on his person at all times. Faded by time and creased by handling, it portrayed a young woman and her daughter. The girl was on a horse and the woman held the reins. They were both dark-haired and beautiful, the daughter a miniature version of her mother. Their wide smiles lit up the paddock around them. It was the girl's sixth birthday. Kandinsky gazed solemnly at them through cigar smoke. For a while he remained motionless, then in the corner of his eye he noticed a figure approach the bar. It was Grady.