Desert Barbarian

CHAPTER ONE

THE garden of the hotel was dimly lit by coloured lanterns which swung in a faint sea breeze blowing up from the beach below, shedding jewelled circles of red and yellow on the paths, the fringed palm trees and the flower-beds, giving the garden a new fairy-tale prettiness it somehow lacked by day. Now and then, when the wind blew more strongly, the lanterns swung far enough to bring the blue water of the swimming pool alive with shimmering images of colour, as if suddenly filled with exotic little fish. The gay umbrellas beside the pool, their function unnecessary at this hour, fluttered and flapped over their little white tables. The stone terrace running beside the pool was empty. No one sat at a table, no one swam in the bright water.

From the ballroom came the rhythmic beat of a local band, trying hard to imitate Western music but succeed­ing only in patches, occasionally the genuine echo of their own wailing rhythms sounding like a wraith beneath the regular drum-beats of the modern dance.

Marie had fled from the dance floor to escape the too-insistent attentions of a rather dull young man who seemed unable to recognise polite refusals when they were given. For five days he had haunted her morning, noon and night. She was on the verge of being rude, and had decided it would be wiser to hide from him rather than say the words boiling on her tongue. Discretion, as her father was fond of saying, is the better part of valour.

She leaned on the low stone wall, staring down at the moonlit sea, listening to the low murmur of the waves as they rolled gently along the curve of the little bay, mak­ing an ironic background to the insistent beat of the modern dance music. A lighthouse stood on a prom­ontory to the right of the bay, sending out a steady red beam across the water, laying a glimmering red path across the bay which reminded her of the red of a stained glass window. Somewhere beyond the reach of eyesight a ship made a low moaning, warning of fog far out in the distance.

It had been a mistake, after all, to come here. The brochure had promised her a world more ancient, more mysterious than her own, and it had been in search of that that she had flown here, only to find herself im­prisoned in her own world of air-conditioning, hot water and fitted carpets, unable to reach the teeming, enthral­ling secret world she had glimpsed in her visit to the Kasbah. Their visit had been a brief one, closely super­vised by a nervous guide who had not permitted them to wander far from the path he chose and who had con­stantly looked over his shoulder with visible anxiety as if expecting every moment to be attacked. From the main street they had followed, Marie had seen dark huddled alleys leading away into a tortuous maze of tiny dwel­lings; women in dark veils shuffling away with lowered heads, olive-skinned, striding men moving arrogantly through the crowds, their dark eyes passing over the little huddle of excited Europeans without interest. For a brief moment she had felt her imagination kindle, only to be led away by the guide, whispering to her of unimaginable dangers lurking in the shadows.

Somehow the fortnight in the mysterious desert had become yet another seaside holiday in a luxury hotel, and she was bored with the whole thing. She was tired of carpets and soft beds, expensive food that managed to taste the same every time, the relentless monotony of comfort and idleness. She might just as well have gone to the South of France or even some English seaside resort. It was true that the desert lay there, beyond the town, but the constrictions of the hotel seemed to impose a barrier between it and the holidaymakers. Marie felt as though she were wrapped in transparent plastic, hygienically protected from the dangerous world beyond.

She sighed. Suddenly a voice made her jump, and turning in surprise, she found Mrs Brown beside her, her freckled, healthy face alight with pleasure.

'Isn't this marvellous? Look at that view! Romantic, isn't it? Oh, I'm having such a lovely time here.' The enthusiastic, breathy voice made Marie envious. Mrs Brown and her quiet husband, Don, had never been out of England before and were ecstatic over their trip. They had won two weeks at the hotel in a competition, and could not get over their good luck. After forty-five years of sedate English holidays, life had taken on a more dazzling lustre for them both.

'I'm glad you're enjoying yourself,' Marie said, smiling at her. She liked Mrs Brown. They had shared a seat on the coach trip to local Roman ruins and become friendly over the sand-buried stone columns and broken walls of the old legion city.

'You're enjoying it, aren't you?' Mrs Brown gazed at her curiously.

'Of course,' said Marie, trying to sound sincere.

Mrs Brown's hazel eyes skimmed over the heavy white silk evening dress the other girl wore, enviously guessing at the price of such magnificence. The other visitors to the hotel could not but be aware that Marie was the daughter of James Brinton, the head of a vast electronics firm based in Southern England. Everything the girl possessed was of the same quality: expensive, stylish and worn with unconscious grace. Mrs Brown, on first seeing her, had been nervous of her, but on closer acquaintance had found that Marie was more approachable than her outward manner indicated. Mrs Brown's own blue chiffon seemed to lose its original charm when she stood beside Marie, and the older woman sighed.

'You're so lucky to have travelled all over the world, I do envy you. Don and I have never been able to afford to go beyond England—there were the children to consider. Our Joanne was never a good traveller, even a trip in the car made her sick, and she could never fly anywhere. Mind you, kids prefer the seaside anyway. They never missed anything. But I used to get travel brochures and read them from cover to cover, longing for faraway places. Now that we're on our own we could get away, but somehow we never got around to saving up enough. There's always something we need, a new carpet, a new car… something more important than a holiday.'

'You must have been thrilled to win that competition, then,' said Marie, nodding understandingly.

'Oh, I was over the moon! My dreams come true.'

'And it's all lived up to your expectations?'

'Oh, yes,' said Mrs Brown eagerly.

'I'm glad.' Marie smiled back at her, trying to imagine the life Mrs Brown had led, the quiet, busy days in her home with her children, the dreams and excitements of travel always at the back of her mind to comfort her. It was a totally different world from her own. In its way it was as interesting to her as the exotic desert world she had come here to see. What we do not know is always as exciting as a dream. The human mind is never content, always looking out beyond the confines of its surround­ings to grasp new con

cepts, new horizons.

'What about you?' Mrs Brown asked. 'You enjoyed that trip to the Kasbah, didn't you? I noticed how excited you looked as we got on the coach. Mind you, I was a bit nervous, I don't mind telling you. Some of those Arab stallholders looked a bit sinister. I mean, they say there are still slaves in some parts of the Arab world. You couldn't be too careful out here. If you went too far away from civilisation who knows what might happen?'

Marie laughed. 'I think I would rather enjoy getting away from civilisation. I'm sick of drifting in the swim­ming pool, drinking a glass of mint tea over the tables, driving around in an air-conditioned coach looking out at this world through plate-glass windows… I've half a mind to go off and explore on my own, find out what it's really like here…

Mrs Brown looked horrified. 'I shouldn't do anything like that, dear. I mean, you're a very pretty girl. That fair hair of yours makes you obviously European. I noticed some of those men in the Kasbah staring at you in a very furtive way. If I were you, I'd stay where I was safe…'

'Oh, safe!' Marie whirled round and stared down at the moonlit sea, her mind restless. 'I came here to see the desert, the wild, empty spaces of the world, not to eat French cooking and dance to pop music. I suppose I had a romantic dream, just as you did, Mrs Brown, but my dream was less accessible.'

'I expect you've seen so many interesting places that you're more difficult to please,' said Mrs Brown flatly.

Marie turned back and gave her a little grin. 'I expect you're right. I'm sorry, I didn't want to spoil your fun by moaning.'

'Oh, you haven't,' said Mrs Brown, smiling again. 'Come back into the ballroom and have a dance with that nice boy who seems so interested in you…'

'Not just yet,' Marie said quickly, suppressing a shud­der of dismay. 'I have a slight headache, actually. The peace and quiet out here is doing me good.'

'I've got some aspirin in my bag,' said Mrs Brown. 'Would you like some? I'll run and get it.'

'No,' Marie said quickly, stopping her with a hand on her arm. 'No, really. A few moments out here in this cool air will do me more good than any pills.'

'Yes, I agree,' Mrs Brown nodded. 'I hate to take pills, myself. Wiser not to. You get dependent on them some­times. I had to take sleeping pills after my last baby and it was months before I got a natural night's sleep. I never take them now.'

Marie saw her glance towards the brightly lit doors which led into the ballroom, and smiled at her.

'Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. You get back and have a good time. You're missing all the dancing.'

'Well, if you're sure…' Mrs Brown gave her a last smile and hurried back eagerly, leaving Marie leaning on the wall, inhaling the night fragrance of the garden flowers and the faint, salty tang of the sea.

Silence seemed to wash back like the waves of the sea. She felt herself slowly relax, her eyes feasting on the plum-dark sky arched overhead, lit by a thousand points of silvery light from the stars, with the lemon sickle of the moon pinned upon it like a diamond brooch.

There was a faint rustle in the bushes below the wall which lined the path leading to the sea. Marie glanced down, but saw nothing. It was probably one of the lean-ribbed, starving cats who haunted the kitchens of the hotel, she thought. She had seen them often and pitied them, scavenging around the waste bins for scraps of food, kicked and berated by the kitchen staff.

She reluctantly turned away. If she stayed out here much longer she suspected that Mrs Brown would send the dull young man out to find her.

As she walked between the gently moving fronds of the palm trees someone leapt out at her. She jumped, giving a stifled cry, but before she could see anything something dark was flung over her head, muffling her scream and blinding her. Hard arms then lifted her like a doll and carried her away. She struggled helplessly, panic flaring inside her. Faintly she thought she heard someone laugh.

Realising the folly of struggling in vain, she lay still straining all her senses to guess where she was being taken. She heard the grate of sand beneath feet, smelt the salt of the sea closer and closer, heard the increasing murmur of the waves. They were going down to the sea.

After a moment or two she realised that her captor was actually walking in the sea—she could hear the wet slap of water against cloth, the splash of feet moving through the waves. What on earth was the lunatic doing? she wondered dazedly.

Suddenly the arms holding her lifted, then lowered her body, and she found herself being placed on something firm. At once, as the hands released her, she began to free herself from the stifling folds of the material. She heard him moving beside her, felt a rocking motion, heard the slap of the waves against wood. Then her wrists were seized and bound together with something smooth and silky.

'Be still,' a deep voice murmured close beside her, 'If you try to escape you will make me angry.'

'Where are you taking me? Who are you?' Her angry words were lost in the heavy material.

'Like all women you chatter foolishly,' the deep voice said with an undertone of grim amusement. 'Be silent now.'

Her mouth was full of dry fluff from the material. Swallowing, she lapsed into silence, listening intently as the boat began to move, the oars rhythmically grated on the iron rowlocks. Inside the cloth she found it difficult to breathe. She grew hot and angry, twisting her hands in a vain attempt to untie them.

Suddenly the boat came to a stop, rasping across sand, bucking to and fro, throwing her helplessly back against the wooden seat, Straining her ears again, Marie heard the oars shipped, then movements, the scrape of feet against the bottom of the boat, then a loud splash. The boat rocked wildly. He had got out, she deduced. The next moment she was lifted and carried again through water which splashed and lapped, on to a beach which appeared to shelve steeply, judging from the way her captor walked.