I awoke this morning from a nightmare, and realised I was in another.
No matter how bizarre, I can always trace the genesis of my dreams. A few nights ago, I dreamt I was back in the Algeria of my childhood. It was a place I have been before, but only in recurring dreams in the years since my father was killed. The place is not real. I know that now. Nonetheless it retains elements of the real: the sweep of the terrain, the stony ground, the olive grove and rows of cypress trees, the quality of the light. But the route I take, which is always the same and passes houses that exist only in my dreams, leads to a place I have never seen with my eyes. My father was there. He was alive. He had grown old. His hair was grey. I wanted to ask him how it was that he was still alive, but dared not, lest it not be true. And then they came, the men with guns. I woke, as always, breathless and sweating, before the past could catapult into the present.
Last night it was different. The place was real, recognisable in every detail. Our flat in Paris. My favourite print on the back of the bathroom door. Hamid’s study, usually so tidy, strewn with papers as if it had been ransacked by burglars. Hamid and Eugène are there, sitting at the breakfast table. They look at me as if I am a crazy woman. There is a pile of old computers stacked on the floor, Eugène is sitting among the screens, peeling open motherboards, playing with live wires and glass.
I shriek, run to my son, pick him up. His fingers are bleeding. I start to scream at Hamid for his irresponsibility, but he has vanished and I am standing ankle deep in sewage and my son lies cold in my arms.
I shudder at the dark violence of my own psyche. How can my subconscious conjure such things? Are these the kinds of nightmares you have so often, my love? How terrible they are. My own wickedness assails me, makes me double over in pain. I vomit up my meagre breakfast. I am getting sick. My body is not used to the germs, the insufficiency and poor quality of food, the unsanitary conditions, the cold at night, the dense, sulphurous air. To think how many people live their entire lives like this, Claymore.
I shudder to think how close I came yesterday to whoring myself.
I need to find Yusuf, to speak with him. If that lecherous Kemetic knows who I am, then I can only assume that Yusuf does also. But how could they know? And do they really know who killed Hamid and Eugène?
Just writing their names sends me into a paroxysm of grief. How could I have thought that I did not love Hamid? I am sorry, Claymore, but I did love him. I do love him. I am his wife, his widow. He is – was – the father of my son. Nothing can change that. I must do it for them. I must learn the truth. Justice, or vengeance, must be satisfied.
I do not trust the Kemetic, but I do trust Yusuf. There was something vulnerable and tragic about him that I cannot place. And yet he seems to trust the Kemetic. What is the basis of their relationship, I wonder? Is Yusuf also a member of that dead religion? Are they related somehow? Or, as he claims, are they simply allies in the fight against a common enemy, this group they call the Consortium?
Did the Consortium, whatever and whoever it is, kill my husband and son?
I have no choice. I realise this now. I must use every weapon available to me. Not to do so would be to put my own honour above the memory of my son and husband. To keep faith with them, I must debase myself even further than I already have. Only then might I find redemption.
In this that I am about to do, may Allah protect and guide me.
This morning, I went to the main post and telegraph office in the city. I placed a call to France, to my friend in the Directorate. I called him at his house. We followed our protocol. He called me back a few minutes later.
He was silent a moment, then said: I am running facial recognition algorithms on all the airport CCTV records. I could hear the stress in his voice. We’re looking for you, he said.
It was not a surprise really. But I still felt myself go cold.
Where can I reach you? he said.
I will check in.
You must be careful, he said. The Egyptian police have asked for the Directorate’s assistance in finding you. It is very unusual.
Will the Directorate cooperate?
I don’t know. It’s a political decision.
Of course. Are you sure the enquiry came from the police?
No one knows for certain. It came through the embassy.
It could be anyone.
As always.
I thanked him and he wished me good luck.
Then I tried Yusuf’s number. Despite his warnings, I felt compelled to try. I need to convince him to talk to me, to open up. I had decided to be honest with him, to tell him that I am Hamid’s wife, despite the danger. It is the only way. I need to offer him my vulnerability to inspire his confidence.
I waited as the line engaged, practising my speech. I was connected. A recorded voice played, different from the one before. His number had been cut off.
Now I have no choice.