Osama

TWO

Pembrokeshire, Wales, UK. The following morning, 0830 hours.

Mrs Bethan Jones had only been out of bed for an hour, but at her time of life an hour could feel like a day. The very business of dressing herself and making her way downstairs was enough to exhaust her. She had lost count of the number of well-meaning doctors who had tried to persuade her to move out of her remote, cavernous, draughty house and into a retirement home. Or: ‘Isn’t there a relative who might help you out, Mrs Jones? A friend?’ But there were no relatives, apart from a distant cousin of her late husband, Gethin, who’d had her eyes on the house ever since he’d died nigh on twenty years ago now. No friends either, not any more – unless you counted her pale gold cat, Dandelion. And Bethan Jones would rather die than spend the rest of her days dribbling in a home. Anybody who suggested it was given short shrift.

Dandelion was curled up over her feet. Bethan was glad of the extra warmth. Her feet were ulcerated, and she found it too painful even to put on a pair of slippers. She’d been warned by the health visitor who made the journey out here every two weeks – even though it was several miles out of her catchment area – that she really ought not let Dandelion anywhere near the suppurating sores on her feet. The moulted cat hairs had a habit of getting stuck to the skin, causing infection. But there was no way Bethan would ever banish her cat. If Dandelion was comfortable where he was, that was good enough for her.

Although it was a large house, Bethan as good as lived in this one room. Twice a day she would totter out to the kitchen to fill Dandelion’s bowl with food and her own glass with an inch of Bell’s and water that was practically her only sustenance; come nightfall, she would strap herself into her stairlift and go up to bed. But the rest of the time was spent in here. It was the biggest room in the old house, about eight metres square, with a large, stone fireplace that hadn’t seen a fire since the day before Gethin passed on. Instead, an electric heater sat in the fireplace, both bars on.

Bethan’s eyes flickered over to the window. The panes were misted with grime and the frames rotting on account of the salty wind. It was raining outside, but that was no surprise. It had rained all winter and showed no signs of stopping now that spring had arrived. She pulled her floral housecoat more tightly around her and turned her attention back to the television. It was on full volume – Bethan was more than a little deaf. It was also positioned just two metres from the sofa as her eyesight really wasn’t what it used to be.

For the third time that morning, she listened to the news bulletin – to the only story that the shiny breakfast TV reporters had any interest in today. ‘Osama bin Laden, the Al-Qaeda leader and mastermind behind the September 11th attacks, is dead. He was shot in the early hours of this morning by US special forces, who raided his compound in the Pakistani town of Abbottabad. His body has already been buried at sea, in accordance with Muslim practice…’

Bethan peered more closely at the television. A familiar picture of bin Laden, one finger raised up in the air, filled the screen. She felt a sour look cross her face. ‘Such a wicked man, Dandelion,’ she said out loud. On the bookshelf behind the television there was a photo of Gethin, staring out fiercely, with his splendid lamb-chop sideburns. ‘He always said so,’ she continued talking to her cat. ‘“You mark my words, Bethan lass,’’ he used to say. “Those Arabs, they’ll be more trouble than the blacks before long. Rivers of blood, lass, rivers of blood…” He knew what he was talking about, did my Gethin.’

She had been sitting in exactly this seat ten years previously, watching the 9/11 attacks unfold on TV, and she had recalled Gethin’s foresight on that day too. Dandelion had been a kitten then, not the elderly clump of fur he had now become. The cat miaowed lazily as the TV cut to footage of the US President announcing bin Laden’s death to the world, but suddenly Bethan’s attention was diverted. Dandelion had cut short his miaow and jumped up onto her lap, and she could see something else on the television screen. Her own reflection stared dimly back at her in the glass, but she could also see the reflection of a second person. A tall man, standing behind the sofa. Thin. Dark skin. Dark hair. A slight stoop to his lanky shoulders.

Bethan started and fumbled for the remote control, causing Dandelion to jump down to the floor as she located the mute button. Silence filled the room – a silence that was almost as oppressive as the noise it had replaced – and Bethan realized that she was flushed, that her heart was beating hard.

‘I do hope I didn’t alarm you, Mrs Jones,’ said a quiet voice behind her.

It was an effort for Bethan to turn round, and she winced trying to do so. Immediately she felt light fingers on her shoulders.

‘Please, Mrs Jones,’ said the voice. ‘Don’t move on my account. I only popped in to say goodbye.’

‘Oh, Mr Ashe, I’m afraid I didn’t hear you…’

‘I did knock, Mrs Jones.’ The figure was walking round the side of the sofa.

‘Oh, I’m sure you did, Mr Ashe, I’m sure you did. My hearing’s not quite what it was, you know, and I was just catching up with the news…’

Mr Ashe smiled. Only now did Bethan see that he was carrying a mug.

‘I’ve brought you a cup of hot Ribena, Mrs Jones. There was no milk for tea.’

‘Oh, bless you, Mr Ashe,’ she said as he placed the cup on a small table by the sofa intended for just that purpose. She patted the seat next to her, indicating that he should sit down, which he did. Dandelion immediately jumped onto Mr Ashe’s lap, where he curled up contentedly and purred as his ears were scratched by his long, well-manicured fingers.

‘They’ve caught that dreadful man.’

‘So I understand, Mrs Jones.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Ashe? I’m a little hard of hearing, as you know.’

‘I under—’

‘Really, I don’t know how it’s taken them so long.’

‘So long, Mrs Jones?’

‘To catch him, Mr Ashe.’

Mr Ashe gave a little shrug, as if to indicate that this was, for him too, a profound mystery. For the next two minutes they sat in silence, watching the mute pictures on the screen: the bland white compound in Pakistan, now surrounded by a collection of armed police, reporters and ordinary onlookers. Flashing sirens. Curious locals.

A thought suddenly struck Mrs Jones. ‘You’re not from… ?’

‘Saudi Arabia,’ said Mr Ashe gently.

Bethan nodded, pretending this meant something to her, but in truth one of these countries was the same as another to her. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Saudi Arabia, yes. Of course, I’m not saying all of you are… But I don’t care what anybody says, Mr Ashe, the world’s a better place without him.’

‘Safer,’ Mr Ashe agreed. ‘I wouldn’t wish to bring up children in a world where—’

‘I was never blessed, Mr Ashe.’ She adopted a look of mild tragedy as she glanced at Gethin’s photograph again.

A silence, broken by Mr Ashe clearing his throat politely. Bethan blinked. ‘Saying goodbye?’ she asked, as it dawned on her what he had said several minutes ago. ‘But you’ve only been here for two days, Mr Ashe. You know how I enjoy your company.’ And it was true.

Mr Ashe gave her a regretful little look. ‘My time is not my own,’ he said. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a thick wad of notes, bound with a red elastic band. ‘My rent,’ he said, handing it over, ‘for the next six months. Would you like me to put it in the sideboard for you?’

‘Thank you, Mr Ashe,’ Bethan replied. ‘Really, I don’t know what I’d do…’ But she failed to finish what she was saying, silenced by a dismissive wave of his hand as he stood up again – Dandelion jumped to the floor – and walked to the far side of the room, where there stood a large mahogany cabinet. He opened a drawer, slipped the notes inside, and walked back over to the sofa, where Bethan was lifting her Ribena to her lips with hands that trembled gently with old age.

‘Is there anything I can do for you before I leave, Mrs Jones? Any little jobs around the house? I can’t be sure quite when I’ll return…’

‘Oh, no, Mr Ashe. Really, you’ve done quite enough… You might pop some new batteries in the control for my stairlift… I wouldn’t want them to run out while you’re away. Do you know where they are?’

Mr Ashe smiled and bowed his head before striding out of the room. Such a pleasant man. So helpful. Bethan didn’t really hold with foreigners. Couldn’t trust them, her Gethin used to say, and he should know after all the trouble they’d given him during the war. But Mr Ashe wasn’t like most of them. She had taken to him the moment they met. He was so much nicer than any of her previous lodgers. More like a helpful neighbour for whom nothing was too much trouble. So much so that Bethan actively looked forward to him staying. She felt somehow more secure with a gentleman like that in the house. But he was seldom here, even though he paid for his rent many months in advance, and that saddened her. She cast a slightly guilty look up at Gethin at this thought – how he would have disapproved…

‘All done, Mrs Jones.’ Mr Ashe reappeared by the side of the sofa, from which he picked a single one of Dandelion’s pale hairs. ‘Would you like me to turn the volume up again for you?’

‘Thank you, Mr Ashe,’ Bethan said. ‘My hearing isn’t what it used to be…’

And as the volume returned and Mr Ashe took his leave, she took another sip of Ribena, closed her exhausted eyes and allowed the sound of the TV to wash over her as Dandelion snuggled up around her feet once again.

Mr Ashe closed the door of the front room softly behind him. The hallway smelled as neglected as it looked: musty and damp. There were cobwebs thickening over the yellowed plaster cornices, and by the heavy oak door a pile of wellington boots and an antique stand containing old walking sticks. Mr Ashe was quite sure they had not been taken outside for years. On the opposite side of the hallway was a door leading into a dining room that was never used. The flagstones on the hallway floor sucked the warmth from his feet as he walked to the wide wooden staircase. Mrs Jones’s stairlift was at the bottom, looking out of place beside the burnished, rather ornate banister. There was no way the old lady could make it upstairs without it, however. Mr Ashe laid the remote control on the seat and made his way upstairs.

Seventeen steps. He had counted them the very first time he came here.

Mr Ashe’s room was immediately to the left at the top of the stairs. The door, as always, was shut. He let himself in. It was a large bedroom – the largest in the house, Mrs Jones had told him when she showed him the room, but having examined all the others he knew that was a lie. Or rather a mistake, for he suspected Mrs Jones was past remembering such details. There was a lumpy double bed against the far wall with a patchwork quilt, and an enormous mahogany wardrobe in another. Behind the bed was a window that looked out onto the neglected back garden and, perhaps 200 metres beyond that, the brim of the cliff on which this old house stood, overlooking a grey sea that was only just visible through the rain. Three pictures hung lopsidedly on the wall: two of them were inexpertly painted oils of the imposing house, each from a different perspective, framed in cheap plastic with thick layers of dust and grime along the tops; the third, right next to the window, showed a sailing ship battling through stormy seas.

The floor was littered with big cardboard boxes – about fifteen of them – and taking up the centre of the room was a circular table about two metres in diameter and covered with a crumpled yellow tablecloth. Piled high on this were stacks of papers, files and photographs; books; a chunky Dell computer and what looked like an early mobile phone – boxy and with a six-inch antenna – but which was actually an Iridium satellite phone: Mr Ashe’s sole link with the outside world in this remote region where internet connectivity and mobile-phone reception were nothing more than rumours.

Closing the bedroom door behind him, he carefully laid on the table the cat’s hair he had pulled from the sofa, before walking over to the wardrobe. His few clothes were hanging next to some long-forgotten garments of Mrs Jones’s. He selected a heavy green Barbour raincoat and loosened the hood from its pouch, before returning to the table. Lying on top of the Dell was a book. It was about two-thirds the size of an ordinary paperback, but a good two inches thick, and wrapped in a sturdy leather binding with a push-button fastener. Embossed in gold on the front were the words ‘Holy Koran’, in both English and Arabic. Mr Ashe picked up the book and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat.

Then, rummaging around in one of the cardboard boxes, he found a small tube of superglue. He recovered Dandelion’s hair, left the room and locked the door: the key he used was newer and shinier than the one Mrs Jones had given him, because the very first thing he had done on moving into his new lodgings had been to change the lock after the old woman had gone to bed. She’d never mentioned that her key no longer worked, but that didn’t mean, of course, that she had never tried to get in, or would never try in the future. Half blind and confused, it was unlikely that she would ever understand the significance of anything behind the locked door, but Mr Ashe still didn’t want any prying eyes. He squeezed two tiny blobs of superglue, one onto the top of the door, one onto the frame, then carefully fixed the cat’s hair to them. It would only take a minute to dry, and nobody would notice it was there if they weren’t looking for it. He went downstairs again.

The voice coming from the television was slightly muffled here in the hallway, but it was loud enough for him to make out. ‘More details are emerging of the daring raid in Pakistan by US Navy SEALs that has killed Osama bin Laden…’

Mr Ashe could not help a brief smile. He pulled the hood of the coat over his head, patted his pocket to check that his Koran was still there, and stepped outside. He made it a rule to drive here as little as possible, and Mrs Jones, of course, had no car. So he walked briskly into the rain, not stopping to look back at the solitary shape of the house standing on that deserted clifftop. His face was dripping wet in seconds; within a minute, the rain had soaked the leather of his inadequate brown shoes. When he had walked the thirty-metre length of the driveway and exited through a pair of rattling iron gates, he turned right onto the road that would lead him, if he continued for another four miles, to the nearest railway station, Thornbridge. Perhaps one of the infrequent country buses would pass him before then, but if not he was prepared to walk.

A crack of thunder ripped the sky overhead. Mrs Jones’s house disappeared in the distance. Mr Ashe continued to walk, his shoulders still slightly stooped, his brow furrowed, the lower part of his trousers already sodden, his mind deep in thought.