17th November 1997. Luxor, Egypt. 23:10 hrs

I am not sure I can write. And yet I must.

Today I was reunited with my son. Today I was widowed, again.

Today I saw you, the man I love, reveal yourself for what you are: a brutal, clinical killer.

Today I was witness to a horrific massacre that will remain etched on the cracked-china surface of my consciousness until I die.

And yet Eugène lies here beside me, sleeping quietly. He has changed since I saw him last. His face is fuller, his arms and legs longer. His eyes are different, larger somehow, the colours of his irises more intense, deeply patterned. He looks so much like his father, may his soul rest in peace, despite what he has done. Even with all that has happened, what I feel now is joy. Deep, uninhibited joy. My son is alive, and he is home.

The events of the last days now seem as a continuum. Our journey here, following that hateful woman into the mosque, pretending to pray in the corner, seeing her emerge from one of the back rooms with Eugène, whisper her thanks to the imam. Following her into the hills, and then, seemingly centuries later, walking back across those same barren ridges with you beside me, silent and so far away. And then Mahmoud driving us north, across the river and back into Luxor, explaining that when he’d gone to the police, they would not believe him, had paid no attention to his warnings.

This evening, back at Mahmoud’s house, we heard on the television news that the terrorists fled the temple on foot and were found a few hours later in a cave in the hills, dead by their own hand. Leaflets were found at the scene of the ‘accident’ as it is already being called on national television, some thrust inside the wounds of the dead, proclaiming this the work of Al-Gama’a al-Islamiyya. God help us all.

As expected, all hell is breaking loose. The president himself is coming to Luxor tomorrow to visit the site – the same president who is now grooming his son to take over from him when he retires. The security services have been put on high alert across the country, and tourists are fleeing in droves, cutting short their holidays and going home. We saw them this evening, streaming from hotels into buses for the airport. The same is happening across the country. Mahmoud’s brother, who works in tourism, is despondent. It seems that, initially at least, GI has achieved its goal.

Tonight, after dinner, I spoke with Parveen. We were alone. She is very worried. Mahmoud speaks of nothing except a conspiracy within the police, their refusal to even consider his warnings, their complete absence from the temple as the massacre unfolded. She has tried to caution him, counsel prudence, but he is furious. We have put this lovely family into real danger, I know. I assured her that we were only here to retrieve my son, that we had nothing to do with the massacre, and quite the contrary, had tried to stop it. I did not tell her that, in my heart, I know we could have done more.

Now that we have Eugène, we will leave. Mahmoud is arranging this now. I pray to God to please look after these good people, protect and guide them.

And yet these murderers have killed and died in Allah’s name. How can this be? How could He have allowed this? Such hate must dwell in their souls, to do such a thing.

The future lies before me as a dark and unknown sea, vast and deep.