28th October 1997. Paris, France. 05:00 hrs

Chéri:

The thought that my husband and son might have been killed plunges me into a state of torpor. Nothing matters. I can neither move nor think. The smallest tasks seem impossible. I stayed in bed all morning. Allah, most merciful, protect them, bring them home to me.

‘Do not lose heart or fall into despair. You shall triumph if you are believers.’

I reread these words ten times, more, tracing the script across the page of my father’s Koran – the one I lost in Istanbul; the one you found and returned to me. I must not despair. I will not despair. Hamid needs me. Eugène needs me.

The police have not charged me, but the implication was clear: I am a suspect. How could they think I was responsible? I know they must investigate all reasonable possibilities, but it wounds me deeply. The young woman in the crèche must have been mistaken. Occasionally Hamid collects me from work in the car and together we go to the crèche for Hamid. The last time was the week before last. She has simply mixed up the days. Nevertheless, I know now I must take matters into my own hands, while I still can.

I’ve spent all afternoon and deep into the night going through Hamid’s study. I’ve gone through every business card in his catalogue, every paper in every file I can find. I’ve rummaged through boxes of warranty papers and expired passports, letters from an old flame (he told me about her before he proposed), envelopes full of faded photographs of his family holidaying on the beach in Lebanon, stacks of notebooks from his university days. I’ve done this as much because I miss them, as to find some clue to their disappearance. Just being here, surrounded by all of it, somehow makes me feel closer to them, wherever they may be.

I’ve tried getting into Hamid’s computer. I’ve tried every password I can think he might have used, without success. He has left me no choice. Earlier this evening, I telephoned an old friend. We did our training together, became close. I know he was in love with me. He even came close to telling me once or twice, but I managed to deflect him from something we would both have regretted. We were both very young, then. He is still there, at the Directorate, and is based here in Paris, working as a senior analyst and IT specialist. I haven’t spoken to him for years, since before I met you. He is on his way here, now, as I write this. He should arrive any minute. God bless him, he is a wonderful man.

The last big case Hamid was working on took him to Cairo at least a dozen times over the past year and a half. Some of the trips were short – a few days only – but several lasted longer than a month. I missed him terribly. I am a woman who needs a man in her life. I know it is not fashionable to admit this. But you will understand. It was always one of the things I loved about you, Claymore – your complete disdain for what one is supposed to think and say.

Hamid mentioned the case to me several times; never in any detail, just fragments. The defendant was an Egyptian engineer from a good family who had been studying Cairo’s chronic air pollution. He and a colleague were accused of treason, and ended up in jail and were being held without charge. Yusuf Al-Gambal was his name; he is the son of a respected High Court judge. He had been in prison for over a year when Hamid managed to bring the case to trial, and, spectacularly, won some sort of reprieve. I do not know any of the details.

I remember the day Hamid arrived home after the acquittal – if that is what it was. He was exhausted, as usual, but also different somehow – changed. At the time, it seemed perfectly natural to me. Intense experiences of that kind take a toll, sometimes in ways you are not even aware of. I know. That was four months ago.

Thinking back, the changes were subtle, and started long before the acquittal. We fought more, usually about the same old things, the simmering frictions about housework, about money (he thinks I spend too much on clothes and shoes), about his smoking. But new points of discord surfaced. Talk of moving to Lebanon so Eugène could be close to his grandparents (all of my family are dead, as you know). Arguments about Eugène’s education and future – Hamid seemed to have developed a deep distrust for the national educational system, and expressed concern over what he saw as increasing intolerance in France, particularly towards Muslims. I do not necessarily disagree with the validity of his concerns, and certainly as parents we should be thinking about them, but his tone had become increasingly strident. He began to dictate rather than discuss, something he had never done before. It did not happen often, a few times only that I can remember. But it was a definite shift. I can see that now. And it all started with that case. Something happened to him over there.

Something else changed, too. Hamid’s interest in Eugène started to grow. He wanted to know what food he ate, and how to prepare it. He had always tried to be there for bath time in the evenings, but now instead of going off to his study and leaving me to put Eugène to bed and read the bedtime stories, he would sit with us and watch. I was pleased, so I paid it no particular attention at the time. I just put it down to a father’s naturally increasing connection as the infant became a child. Hamid struggled when Eugène was a baby. I know he felt cut off from us, particularly with work taking him away so much. So, as Eugène began to walk and talk and become a little person, of course it was natural that Hamid should pay more attention, want to engage more. Was this all a precursor to what has happened? Am I reaching – reading significance into normal events? I need an alternative. I cannot accept that they are dead.

It is early morning. From the window I can see the sky paling over the city, the lights along the Seine. My friend has just left. He looks older than I remember. He is probably thinking the same about me. He got into Hamid’s computer easily, but the hard drive was full of encrypted files that my friend could not access. I suppose encryption must be standard practice in law firms dealing with confidential matters that may affect people’s lives. But still, it surprised me. Everything was encrypted. Everything. My friend has taken the hard drive with him and will work on it at the Directorate. He is taking a big chance, doing this for me. I am very grateful. And I know I can trust him.

Dawn comes. Lights go out. The city is shrouded in drifting smoke. I should go to the office, but I am very tired. Self-pity wells up inside me. I try to push it down but it comes nevertheless, thick, black, traitorous bile. I hate it, hate feeling it within myself, this weakness, this self-indulgence. This is not who I am.

But denial of the truth is an even greater sin. So yes, I admit this is exactly who I am. I am weak and I am alone and the tears come unabated. My husband and son have disappeared. They may be dead. Yet I am thinking about you, Claymore.

I try not to but I cannot help myself. I can only describe it as an emptiness, a void inside me that I can neither fill nor banish. My wickedness knows no limits. I dream of you, wake in my bed wet and panting. If you should ever see these words! I gasp at my shame.

I ask Allah to forgive me. How could He, so powerful and all knowing, have created such a weak creature, so lustful and deceitful, so full of selfpity and doubt? For more than two years now I have made love to my husband, and each time I have imagined that it was you, Claymore, who was inside me, kissing me, devouring me. God forgive me. Even on my wedding night, it was you I was with, in my mind. It was as if I could feel your big rough hands – hand, now, if you are even still alive – on my skin, your powerful arms enveloping me. After that first time, I was so shocked by the images my mind had conjured, that I promised myself I would stop. I would banish you from my thoughts and dreams, from my waking fantasies. For a time, I was successful. I blanked myself out. Hamid noticed immediately. I had become cold and distant. My husband told me he felt guilty coming unless I had also reached orgasm, and so he stopped, too. After a while we stopped having sex altogether. But I knew he was upset and hurt by it. I wanted to please him, to be a good wife. So, I let you back in. It was the only way I could reach orgasm.

I want to obliterate myself. I could never have imagined myself capable of such depravity. And now I know, deep down, that I am paying for my wickedness, for my betrayal. I have been unfaithful, I have debased myself, and in doing so have shown my disrespect for my God. And as punishment, Allah, most merciful, has taken Hamid and Eugène from me.

I pray to God, most humbly, to protect them. Please do not make them pay for my sins.