Chapter Thirty-Eight

The Secret History

 

 

LEA PULLED INTO the car park of the Dubai National Geographical Institute and turned off her engine. Like the rest of the city’s municipal buildings it was monumental yet somehow understated, as if the architects sought to misdirect people away from it.

A woman at the front desk issued her with a visitor’s pass and allowed her into the public archive, a pristine area which looked as if it had not been visited by anyone since it opened. Illuminated glass displays explained the history of the city and its region, but there was no-one to read their story.

Finding maps on the coastal region was easy enough, but the electronic files only referenced the present. To follow the timeline back she had to go into the print archives, a series of tall blue steel cabinets on tracks that traversed the lower ground floor, sharing the space with a library.

The strange thing was, it wasn’t at all hard to find. It featured on every map and diagram, in every sketch and fanciful painting, a circular stone dwelling that had once stood at the edge of the ocean, with a cart-track leading from it to the only tall rock in the area. An aerial photograph taken two years before the work on Dream World began showed the blurred outline of a circle submerged beneath a veil of sand. It was captioned: Ancient meeting-place of the Ka’al. She found a young attendant and asked him.

‘It is probably a tribal reference,’ he told her solemnly. ‘Please follow me.’ He led the way to a glass temperature-controlled room and unlocked the door. ‘You must wear gloves for these books.’ He brought her a pair of white cotton gloves tied with a blue cardboard band, then set out a large album covered in grey linen. It was published in 1892 but she supposed that in a city like this, which had only existed for a handful of years, it must have seemed like an ancient artefact. She read.

 

The first human settlement in Dubai was in approximately 3000 BC, when the area was inhabited by nomadic cattle herders. In the 1st century AD the Ka’al (lit: ‘Men of the Sand’) became the first known tribe to stay in the coastal area. Their elders met in a small circular building (Site A attached to Site B), the High Rock, where sacrifices were made to the sun. In the 3rd century AD, the area came under the control of the Sassinid Empire which lasted until the 7th century, when the Umayyad Caliphate took control and introduced Islam to the area.

Ka’al Tribe: Secretive tribal settlement whose members were periodically wiped out due to public disapproval of their sacrificial practices. The Ka’al believed that prosperity could be assured by virgin slaughter. Ka’al elders held positions of high tribal status. The cult returned in considerable numbers in 430, 1200, 1560 and at other times later still before being finally eradicated. The last known adherents of Ka’al rituals died in 1908. Members of the Ka’al could be recognized by a ceremonial burn-mark made on the left arm. Their status may be derived from a more mythological meaning of ‘Ka’al’, suggesting ‘doom’ or ‘doomsayer’, one who grows strong by dooming others of lesser, more innocent status.

In his book Corruption of The Gods Dr Omar Shamon explains how the Ka’al sought to infiltrate the ranks of local property owners in order to buy land and establish permanent bases, therefore providing sites for commerce.

Modern-day re-interpretation of the Ka’al: Rumours continued to persist throughout the 20th century that the Ka’al would return in a new, more commercial guise, and that the souls of the young would once again generate wealth for the old.

 

How could people not have noticed what was hidden in plain sight? The Ka’al had returned. Perhaps they had never been away. They took the girls to their ancient sacrificial site. They dumped their bodies afterwards. They got rid of anyone who suspected.

She scrolled down the DWG page on her phone. The directors’ list had been expanded to include its latest pair of inductees: Ben Larvin and Roy Brook.

If we could see inside men’s minds, the truth would appal us.

Were the directors of the Dream World Group knowingly following in the footsteps of the Ka’al, or had the tribe simply reappeared like spring water bubbling up through the rocks, impossible to eradicate because it was part of the landscape, part of its history, part of its existence? A secret enclave within a private company, the lines of responsibility and guilt blurred like charcoal on parchment, until it was impossible to tell whose hands were stained.

 

 

AS SHE PULLED out and inched the vehicle forward through the sea of hot engines, she understood everything. What horrified her most was its sheer inevitability. The worst fears were always true, even though they were clothed in kindness and rendered acceptable. Power was like water or stars or the arid soil, something that was simply there.

A truck horn blared at her, snapping her attention back to the outside traffic; she had missed her turn at the lights. The few people on the streets were walking faster than normal, as if they had all been energized by the thought of the world’s gaze once more turning to this desert land.

The journey home took forever. She pulled in to the compound entrance and a new young guard shambled out to check under her car with his mirror, moving as slowly if he was underwater. Suddenly everything was normal again, and her fears seemed as absurd as the plot of a multiplex movie.

Just ahead, across the white demarcation line on the tarmac, were the rows of perfect villas with neat green turf and white garages, every bush and flower in place, down to the last leaf, bud and petal. Somewhere a dog yapped. Sprinklers hissed. Droplets shivered on acacia leaves.

As she waited for the guards to finish, she recognised one of the men standing behind the booth, Rashad Karmeel, the construction workers’ supervisor. She rolled down her window.

‘Mr Karmeel,’ she called, ‘could I have a word with you?’

Rashad broke off his conversation and came over. He looked overheated and uneasy. Dark patches showed beneath the armpits of his white workshirt. ‘Hello, Mrs Brook, is everything all right?’

‘Have you seen my daughter or any of her classmates?’

‘Not today. Quite a few of the kids are helping to decorate the nursery for your dinner party tomorrow, aren’t they?’

She had forgotten that Mrs Garfield had persuaded them to volunteer their services. ‘Thanks, I’ll check there,’ she said. ‘How long are you staying on?’

‘I’ll be here for a few weeks yet. My men are looking forward to seeing their wives and families again.’

‘I hope they’re being properly paid.’

‘Our contracts were extended by a month, without any extra pay. There are some people who do not like to see black men making money, Mrs Brook.’

She closed the window and drove off. The streets were silent and empty. She parked the car at the kerb and went into the house. Lastri had returned to her own home at five, and the rooms were in darkness. Roy was presumably stuck in his meeting with his mobile turned off. She had to talk to someone, but had no idea whom to trust.

She remembered the young woman who acted as an off-site assistant to the senior architects. She existed as a voice, a conduit without an identity of her own, which made her easy to talk to. What was her name?

‘Irina, it’s Lea Brook. Do you know when my husband is likely to get out of his meeting?’

‘There are sessions running right through the evening, Mrs Brook. I have not heard from him in a while.’

‘Roy told me one particular appointment was arranged late downtown. Something to do with curtains or blinds.’ She was amazed by the calmness of her voice. She held out her left hand and found it was shaking.

‘I can’t see anything,’ Irina replied. ‘He might not have had time to add it to the central diary.’

‘Have you spoken to him at all this afternoon?’

‘Not since this morning. He has not called in. Do you want me to pass on a message?’

‘No, it’s okay.’ She rang off and called the nursery, but the line was busy. Had Cara and her friends forgotten that they’d offered their services and dashed over there, running late? She found it hard to imagine Cara rushing anywhere.

There was still no response from Roy. Outside, a Mercedes passed her front door slowly, and she ran to look. The driver leaned over in his seat to check out the house. His face was in shadow, indistinct and unfamiliar. Before she could find her glasses, he had driven off.

Evil was unfolding in the silvered dusk. The phantoms were flesh and blood after all. They had moved from a world of sand and silence to one of steel and silicon. The days of enforced lethargy were crawling to a close, to be replaced by a virulent, relentless malevolence.