Kingdom of Emptiness

Tom Gamble

Description

A final tour of duty in Afghanistan sees John Fox struggling to return to the West. In the Sahara, Badia's hopes meet once again with failure. Two turning points in this kingdom of emptiness bring them together over time and distance in a clash of cultures, love, the rise of terrorism, the fight for forgiveness and a common dream of life.

Informations

• Publié par: eBookPartnership.com
• Date de parution: 06 mars 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781783013517
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

THE KINGDOM OF EMPTINESS
TOM GAMBLE
All rights Tom Gamble 2014
Proofreading and editing: Fiona Kynaston
To
Joan Suckling and Tom Gamble
CONTENTS
Part 1
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part 2
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Part 3
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Epilogue
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Acknowledgements
PART 1
PROLOGUE
Through the sights. Left one millimetre. Standing next to her guard under the surveillance of a Kalashnikov, Badia wearing the pale purple gown. He remembered her smell, that sweet sweat, the trace of cumin and rose. The skin he had explored, the body he had held. And now she was in his sights, packing dishes. He noticed her forearms, the sleeves of her long, flowing melhafa wet and clinging so that they looked black, and he remembered he had observed them for long moments; the times his fingers travelled up that slender brown skin to the fragile complexity of her shoulder and collar bone.
He breathed deeply. The rifle was heavy and it had to be soon. A bead of sweat dripped from his eyebrow followed by another and ran down the stock of the gun onto his lip, cold in the second it took to reach him. Off the dunes, tangerine in the early hours, the sand scuttled on, listless in the undecided breeze, Mauritania. His finger curled softly around the trigger.
1
A coincidence. I can t stand the rain through the taxi radio as it rained outside and the windows steamed up.
Wotta coincidence! came the driver s voice, thick with Thames estuary. Couldn t be anything else, really, could it?
John Fox smiled at the driver s laughter and grunted an acknowledgement.
Been on hols, mate? added the driver.
Some would say, nodded Fox. Are we nearly there? I don t recognise the road.
Sun shining, was it? That ll be the new arterial - finished a couple of months ago. Saves time - he pronounced it toime - and money! Been away, have you, then? The driver wouldn t let go.
Yeah, said Fox, just to shut him up.
Yeah - me too, mate. A knowing wink in the rear-view mirror. Done three years in Sheppey prison, didn t I? Silly sod, really - got caught lifting a ring at the jeweller s. I was young and stark stupid. Still - wasn t no sun on Sheppey like you. You ve got a real tan, there.
Fox hesitated, wondering whether to quench the driver s thirst for information.
I was lucky, he said at last, choosing not to.
Off the new arterial. Familiar landmarks sped past - church spires, the distant chimneys of the Tilbury power station, Tesco s megamarket in the middle of the lowlands, the abandoned airstrip control tower as it had always been since he was a kidthough tagged light blue and violet now. And then new things: clusters of housing for the London overspill, a plush KFC drive in, the gangly structures of a wind farm, advertising panels everywhere, buy now save 20%.
For a few seconds he was lost, his brain struggling to make the two worlds fit - they were one of the same, right? How empty it had sometimes been. Just the wind, just the khaki funnels of dust in the distance.
Here we are, guv.
Here?
Greenfield Close, mate - number 11, was it?
Oh - yeah, sorry. Number 11.
Just around the corner. Half a way to heaven . Fox frowned and the driver saw it in the mirror. Another cockney cackle. Life s full a songs, mate - that s another one - Cock Robin . I dunno what I d do without music. Kinda keeps you going, dunnit.
Yep, said Fox, dismissively. His eyes raced ahead, up the street to where the magnolia would be stretching towards the pavement causing mums with strollers to crook their heads to the side as they pushed past: his front garden. Instinctively, his fingers searched inside his shirt collar and fondled the small, gold crucifix around his neck - the comforter and safe keeper. This ll be fine, thanks.
Drop you off here, is it?
Want to walk a bit.
First day out is always a bit strange, said the driver, rhetorically. The Saab came to a silent halt some hundred yards before its destination.
What s the damage?
Counter says thirty-five though - to be honest, mate - I fiddled the electronics a bit. For you, it s thirty.
No mind, said Fox, giving the driver a rueful grin. Take a fiver for yourself.
That s very decent of you, mate. Cheers. Money - new notes that snapped - were handed across and stuffed away. Just get yer bags for you. The driver made an intricate display of gratitude, extracting Fox s bags from the boot, refusing any help and carefully aligning them side by side perpendicular to the curb. Of all things, he leaned across and shook Fox s hand. Good luck, mate, he winked. And cheers, again.
All the best, said Fox, missing the few seconds it took for the driver to wave and pull away. Alone now, his mind muddled, he was almost unable to move. He stood there, next to his two cases and a plastic bag and looked. A car pulling out down the road. A cat crossing, stopping to look, crossing again. Brown brick looking neat and solid, green strip of lawn on the pavement, clusters of pinks and reds and whites peeping from the flowerbeds. The wind rustling green leaves, the nip of the sea in the wide clearing sky. Essex.
Five years ago, when Brad had been born, they d planted the magnolia, sixty quid s worth and consequently already quite substantial at that time. It grew sideways, a mass of thick, sharp leaves wanting to reach the other side of the road and a fig tree at number twenty-four. Maybe plants fell in love, said Fox to himself and wondered, as an afterthought, if love still existed at all.
Standing in front of Number 11. Home. Deb or someone - her brother maybe - had painted the window surrounds a pastel blue. Last time, eight months ago, they d been cream. It all looked so - what was the word - proper . The small front garden with its rectilinear beds, the bird box, the black tarmac driveway with their car, the silver-grey Mondeo. Net curtains, lace in place with two cherries falling, the satellite dish below where the Flemish-style roof began, pointing upwards towards Mars.
He sensed something was going to happen. An instinct that had become him. He d seen it all - almost , for the old hands had mentioned things they d seen in Bosnia they swore he couldn t imagine.
Sure enough a curtain moved and a face popped up. Brad, distracted no doubt by his sister in the background, grinning, saw him. His dad. The grin disappeared replaced by a second of incomprehension then a coy smile, tongue sticking out and licking his lips. The curtain flapped back into place. Brad was gone.
Fox laughed to himself, stooped low to pick up his belongings and swayed clumsily before regaining balance. Ten steps, carefully sidling past the Mondeo and he could hear movement behind the door. What music would they ? he wondered, momentarily picking up on the taxi driver s tune. Just around the corner
He rang - Chim-chime - absurdly, beautifully English and was met with silence. Chim-chime . This time muted giggles and footsteps in the hall. Deb s shape ( different coloured hair, now? Couldn t remember -) . White top, straps against the health club tan behind the frosted panes. The door opening. The lines around her blue eyes, the wide Saxon lips, an attempt at surprise and then in each other s arms. She felt full and good against him, smelt deep and expensive, something new and French on her skin. Had he bought her that? Kisses, hard then tender.
I love you, Foxy.
Love you too, Deb. I Fox groped a handful of breast. I want you.
Not now, silly, hissed Deborah, letting out a tiny squeal.
I ll try to be surprised, said Fox, pulling away.
At what?
The welcoming party, he whispered.
Oh yeah - who says there is one? Deborah looked wild, sexy.
Cheeky cow - let s go to the loo, he mouthed, giving her a tug.
Oh, come on - can t surprise you, can we, said Deborah, becoming serious. The kids are dying to see you. He hesitated and she leant forwards and gave him a peck on his nose. Duty first, soldier Fox - you know how it goes!
I know how it goes, replied Fox, flatly and then, grinning and taking a deep breath, he shouted Party time! and heaved through the living room door to a wall of shouts and squeals.
2
She heard Azra s voice - that shrill Arabic warbling that set the old lady, her mentor and only friend, apart from the deeper African desert-women. Azra the chicken, calling to her from fifty metres away - Badia get ready! Time to go. Maybe you will meet with luck, Inchalla!
Badia bent over, one last time, and kissed her son on the cheek before rising.
Stay here. Do not move. Mohammed, nearlyeleven with shadows under his eyes and his cheeks becoming hollow, looked up at his mother with compliant eyes. Remember what happened last time, reminded Badia, reproachfully. Wandering in the sun - your head boiled and went mad. It could have exploded!
My head? The boy s eyes grew wide and black like two big glass marbles.
Like this, said Badia, puffing up her cheeks and miming a head that swelled and swelled. Then splosh! Exploded.
Splosh. Exploded, echoed her son.
So what must you do while I m working?
Stay here, said Mohammed obediently.
Good boy. Mother will be quick.
How long?
If I said five hours, would you understand?
How long? persisted the boy.
About seven bedtime stories long - or three times wat