When the Siren Calls (2 page)

“This way,” said Ali, seizing on her hesitation and taking her arm, “you must see my special cloth, the cloth I must keep out of the sun and the dust.” And with that she was whisked behind a draping curtain and her head then guided down through a low opening more like a metal cat-flap than a door, to emerge into a dimly lit and cluttered stockroom.

Cloth was no longer the prime commodity. Arranged around the walls and along parallel rows of shelves was a hypermarket-like selection of tourist ware: watches, jewellery, sunglasses, handbags, shoes, clothing, and the household contents of an entire village. All that was obviously missing was a live camel.

The absence of natural light, the confined space, the silence, and the realisation that she was with two strangers, one ahead, one behind, suddenly pressed in on Isobel. She bit down hard on her lower lip.

“Please, you pick something, it is for the memory, no?”

Despite the ambiguity in Ali’s offer, Isobel was now expected to shop; that was clear. The opening she’d come through was closed, and Sharif was standing like a praetorian guard in front of it, his legs apart and arms folded. And for all Ali’s geniality, the atmosphere changed as soon as the door closed behind her. Isobel’s insides fluttered like caged birds. Did they want her money, or did they want more? In the dim light their eyes seemed red and never left her body.

“Do you have blouses?” she asked, desperate to keep the situation under control.

“Many, many. What colour you like?”

“Green. Or, or, maybe blue,” she stammered, thinking about the pendant. Ali handed her a selection of cotton tops, each in a clear plastic wrapper.

Isobel sought to give her most positive eager shopper look. “Yes, maybe these, but I need to see them in the light.”

“Here is light,” said Ali, gesturing all around.

“No, I mean natural light.”

“Green is green and blue is blue. Always same.”

“No, I need to see them in natural light.” Isobel held the half dozen blouses, and the question of price had yet to raise its ugly head. Ali looked off-balance.

“I can’t buy without proper light,” she repeated and with that, still clutching the blouses, she made for the door.

“Hold these, please.” She thrust the merchandise toward Sharif. It was an order and he took them as Isobel pushed her way past and ducked through the opening.

She needed to get back into the front of the shop before the two men could recover from the shock of her assertiveness. She looked around but the exit was concealed somewhere behind the realms of hanging drapes. Where was the way out? She thrashed at a few of the curtains that were beginning to envelop her, but was finally through.

She resisted the urge to rush headlong into the street. She composed herself as the two men reappeared, their nostrils flaring in anger.

“My husband is waiting for me. I’m sorry, I need to go. I will come back tomorrow.”

Ali held out his arm, stiff like a barrier. “Do you think you can rest from the heat of the day and drink tea in my shop for free? Can you drink tea in shop in London for free? Why you think you can do it here? You steal my time, you steal money. It is same. You buy now. No tomorrow.”

It was the younger man that now grabbed her arm in a determined sandpaper grip.

“I’ll come back tomorrow. Now let go of my arm.”

“You must pay now.”

“Let go of my arm, now.”

The older man stepped in between Isobel and the opening to the street. She jerked her arm free and pushed past him, fear closing around her like the Marrakech night.

“You steal my time, you are thief!” Ali shouted again, but louder, thrusting the blouses at her. Others were closing in, drawn by the commotion, and once more she found herself hemmed in. Stubbled faces with swarthy complexions were looking at her, joining in the melee. It felt like a hundred eyes were undressing her. She cursed her impetuosity in storming off from Peter, of not changing out of the revealing top and clinging slacks, both now wet from her own perspiration. A hand brushed the inside of her thigh and travelled upwards. She swung around and was met by a shrivelled face and a leering grin, a single black and yellow tooth behind the thin cracked lips. “Don’t you dare touch me!” she shouted. But as she said it she felt more tugging, this time on her bag.

She clasped the bag to her chest with both arms but in doing so felt her body more exposed, more vulnerable. Her heart pounding, she steeled herself for a fight, but before she could swivel around again, she sensed the threat dissipating. The hand on her buttock was no longer there, bodies were backing off, parting like the Red Sea, and faces were turning away from her. The crowd shrank to the sides of the stalls and was disappearing; someone was pushing through from behind, shouting.

“Everything ok, darling?”

“Peter, thank god —”

But it was not Peter. She turned to see a tall, well-built man forcing his way towards her with the confident assurance of a native. She felt a protective arm around her shoulder, as he pulled her still shaking body close to his, his powerful presence both intimidating and reassuring. Only the storekeeper Ali remained in the confrontation.

“You pay now,” he repeated, pushing his bundle of blouses forward.

The man grabbed the top-most garment; he spoke in Arabic to the storekeeper. From Ali’s reaction, Isobel guessed it was something uncompromising.

“How much?” asked the man; the shopkeeper gave his price in Arabic. The man pulled some crumpled notes from his pocket and pressed them into Ali’s hand. “Not the best time to bargain,” he quipped.

With the exchange done, the hostile manner of the shopkeeper gave way to supplication. Ali returned to the smiling well-wisher Isobel had first encountered.

She let out a long, audible sigh, her breathing easier, as the stranger led her towards the fading light. “Where did you come from?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” said the man as they passed a stall of shining metal-ware, “someone must have made a wish, one minute I’m in this brass lamp and the next —”

She burst out laughing, the tension falling from her body. “So how do we leave this nightmare?” she asked.

“Come on, follow me, it’s this way — or at least I think it’s this way,” he said, beckoning encouragement.

Was her rescuer all he seemed? It occurred to Isobel that she had already been deceived that afternoon by one smiling Samaritan. But she had little choice; the man took her by the hand and led her away with quick and purposeful strides, turning this way and that through the narrow alleys as if by instinct, into the spice market with its endless sacks of red saffron, golden curry, and bronze cumin, the aromas of mint and rose filling her senses and soothing away her fears, before they emerged into the square. The sky was darkening to a reddish brown, the orange veil which bathed the square now disappearing as the sun retreated beyond the horizon, along with the tourists and those who traded among them. From distant minarets came the wailing sound of the faithful being called to prayer.

The tension and seeming danger in the souk, the heroic intervention, the rapid escape, all made for a strange sense of elation in Isobel. She tried not to think of Peter back at the hotel waiting and, no doubt, worrying. Right now she wanted to enjoy the moment.

“Who do I have to thank for saving me from Ali and the forty thieves?” she asked, masking the strange importance she placed on knowing his name.

“Jay, Jay Brooke.” He offered his hand and Isobel took it. His blue eyes bore into hers.

“Isobel,” she offered in reply, unsure how to proceed.

“You were quite a fighter back there,” he said.

“Fight or flight, I suppose. You must think me very foolish to have gotten myself into such a mess?”

“These things happen. Probably down to misunderstanding mostly. But a woman, an attractive Western woman, alone in the souk, maybe not the best idea.”

Isobel blushed at the compliment but controlled her instinctive flirtatious response and settled for a simple request. “You must let me pay for the blouse.”

“Don’t be silly, you earned it,” he replied before being cut short as a taxi broke from the rank, turned full circle, and pulled alongside them.

Jay opened the rear passenger door. “Where are you staying?”

“La Mamounia,” she said.

Jay grinned. “Great taste. That’s where I’m staying. How long are you there for?”

Isobel felt compelled to break the dream, to make it clear she was accompanied.

“We’re just here for the weekend.”

She expected him to seek clarification on who the “we” was, but he didn’t.

“Me too. Maybe I can save you from drowning in the pool or something next time?”

He made no move to close the door and, taking the hint, Isobel slid across so he could join her.

He lowered his head to follow her movement. “I just need to get a couple of things before everything closes, lovely to have met you. Take care.”

And with that he gave a final smile, before pushing the door closed. Was their brief acquaintance to be confined to and immortalised in one fleeting moment of chivalry? He hit the roof of the cab, signalling it to leave with the same confidence that seemed to permeate all his actions. And as the taxi drove away, all Isobel’s feelings of elation evaporated, turning to embarrassment at her rejection and shock at her own forwardness. She huddled into a corner and willed herself home, perhaps not herself at all.Two

Isobel stared at her reflection in the gilded reception mirror. She fancied it altered from the face in the bathroom that morning, somehow younger and brighter. Her eyes descended her figure and halted in alarm at the still damp linen blouse which revealed her nipples like roses in the mist. Fear and embarrassment flooded over her at the thought of her involuntary immodesty, although if the stranger noticed then he certainly concealed it well. She remembered the way his bright blue eyes held her own with an almost hypnotic gaze and was certain they did not stray to her body.

The concierge eyed her curiously as she turned from the mirror.

“Welcome back, madam. Your afternoon in the bazaar was pleasant I trust?”

Isobel forced a laugh. “Your sellers in the market are very persuasive.”

The concierge simply returned a knowing smile. “Is there something I can help you with, madam?” She looked around the foyer and towards the bustling lobby bar with the golden statues at its entrance assuming poses of serenity that contrasted harshly with the harried staff that passed between them.

“Is my husband around, do you know?”

“Yes, madam. I believe he is in his suite. He rang down a short while ago.”

“Looking for me?”

“If I remember correctly, it was to do with a courier delivery he was expecting. Some papers.” Isobel feigned a look of surprise and nodded, turning her attention to a taxi that swept up outside. She watched in nervous expectation as a strong male figure, broad shouldered and straight-backed, emerged from the darkness of the interior. She craned her neck as the figure turned from her view and reached his hand into the taxi, helping an elderly lady from the vehicle and leading her into the hotel. Isobel blushed as he met her glance, his sandy hair and watery grey eyes worlds away from what she wished for.

She made her way back to the hotel room, choosing the staircase over the elevator, stepping on her anxiety and frustration with each firm footstep as she prepared to face Peter. The image of what this evening should have been — a night of dining under the stars with music, dancing, and horse riding across desert dunes — sat stubbornly before her eyes. Peter’s words, his careless and thoughtless dismissal of her plans in favour of the hotel restaurant and its internet connection, still rang in her ears.

He was on the phone when she entered the room, papers and files arranged on the coffee table like place settings.

“We need to be in the lobby at six-thirty,” she said, hovering by the bed to invite his apology, but he did not rise to greet her, just smiled and gave a thumbs up as he nodded assent.

“Six-thirty,” she repeated, already pulling her blouse over her head as she made towards the bathroom, the beginnings of tears making spots like raindrops in its translucent fabric. She turned on the shower and tried to compose herself as the jet-stream cascaded down her body, allowing her emotions to evaporate as the heat of the water turned the shower door a milky white. She drew a tree on the glass, her finger etching paths through the moisture like a figure skater, as the trunk became branches with fingerprint leaves. As her fingers slid along the glass she followed the passage of time; through fifteen years of marriage, from Peter’s growing infatuation with his work — a drug that fed his ego with a heady cocktail of success — to the missed anniversaries and interrupted holidays. As each year passed, things grew worse, and now she left the bathroom and Peter was asleep.

Isobel was running again through the winding alleys of Marrakech. Everywhere there were shopkeepers with many heads and many, many more hands. The square buildings grew rounder and rounder until they were crystal balls, filled with the sea and the sky, and great hands hovered above them covered in golden rings. Suddenly the rings started to fall, hitting against the glassy globes with a hollow knocking sound. The swirls of smoke became the damask pattern of the curtains in the half-light; it was 2am and the clicking was the whirring ceiling fan, the dullest of confirmations that she was back in the world of the living. Peter, she sensed, was also awake, his thoughts still no doubt consumed by the late night messages from Tokyo. They were as far apart in the king-size bed as it was possible to be, his straight, firm back repelling hers, and she felt sure that, if she edged closer, an invisible barrier would brush against her skin, so ingrained were the day’s events.