The Exodus Quest

FORTY-ONE
I

'Airline people, huh,' said Augustin. 'You off somewhere?'

The young woman smiled warily. 'I'm here to check you're okay. Not to talk.'

'But what if I'm not okay? I think I'm seriously injured. I need a proper doctor.'

'You're showing remarkable resilience for a man at death's door. Besides, I know what I'm doing. I really do. And it's me or no one, I'm afraid. It was hard enough persuading Mister Griffin to…' She broke off, annoyed with herself for letting herself be drawn even that far, not wanting to compound it.

Augustin let it go. Push too hard now, he'd turn her against him. There was a footstool against the wall, so that people could reach the top shelves. She fetched it, stood on it to examine his scalp, parting his hair carefully to clean the mess beneath. Her blouse was close to his face; he glimpsed flashes of her pale freckled skin between the buttons, the sturdy white cup of a sensible bra. She applied a disinfectant. He did his best not to wince. She got off her stool, stood face-to-face with him, lifted his eyelids in turn, looked deep into his eyes. Her own irises were of speckled blue, her pupils dilating in response to his. 'Take off your shirt, please,' she said.

'What's your name?' he asked.

'Please. You heard Mister Griffin.'

'Just your name. That's all I ask.'

She gave him a reluctant smile. 'Claire.'

'Claire! I love that name.' He unbuttoned his shirt gingerly. 'You know it means light in French?'

'Yes.'

'It suits you. My grandmother was Claire. A wonderful woman. Truly wonderful. She had the kindest hands.'

'Is that right?'

'Of course.' He grimaced in pain as he tugged his shirt from his waistband, discarded it. He looked self-consciously down at his stomach, wishing he'd taken more exercise recently. 'So you're an archaeologist then, are you, Claire?'

'I'm not talking to you.'

'I guess you must be if you're working here.'

She gave a sigh. 'I'm project administrator, actually. I speak and write some Arabic, you see.'

'You speak Arabic? How come?'

'My father was in oil. I grew up in the Gulf. You know how easy it is to pick up languages when you're a kid. That's why the reverend asked me along, I think. That plus my medical experience. It always comes in useful in places like these.'

'Places like these?'

Her cheeks flushed, she ducked her eyes. 'Oh, you know.'

'No,' frowned Augustin. 'I'm not sure I do. Unless you mean places too primitive to have doctors of their own?'

'I didn't mean that at all,' she protested. 'Like I said, I grew up in the Middle East. I love it here. It's just, it can be awkward enough for people to go to a doctor back home, especially youngsters. But in a foreign country, you know, when they can't even speak the language…' She tried a smile. 'We Americans, you know. Not the best travellers.'

'So what medical experience do you have, exactly? If I'm to let you check me over.'

She placed her palms on his chest, palpating his ribcage gently, listening intently, checking his expression for signs of pain. 'I was a medical student for five years.'

'Five years? And then you just gave it up?'

'My father fell ill.' She tipped her head to the side, not quite sure why she was confiding so much to this stranger. 'He was out of work at the time. He didn't have… the right kind of insurance. My mother had already passed. He needed looking after.'

'So you stepped in?'

She nodded, her thoughts elsewhere. 'Have you ever looked after someone like that. Someone who's dying?' she asked.

He shook his head. 'I've never looked after anyone except myself.'

'Peterson and his church were great, you know. They did so much for us. They run this wonderful volunteer visitor programme. Honestly, we'd never have managed without them. And a hospice, too; where my father… you know. Plus an orphanage, and shelters for homeless people, lots of things like that. They're good people. They really are. The reverend's a good man.'

'And that's why you're here? To thank them?'

'I suppose.'

'How come I saw you leaving the site yesterday?'

She scratched her nose, pretending not to have heard, or not to understand. But Augustin let the question hang there, and the silence finally got to her. She looked up at him rather sheepishly. 'How do you mean?'

'I came here with the police to do interviews. Griffin was driving away from the site when we arrived. You were with him. Why did he hide you?'

She swallowed unhappily. 'No one hid me.'

'Yes, they did.'

She looked up. Their eyes met for a moment. Augustin felt his heart thump. Claire looked away, equally confused. 'You're fine,' she said, packing her medical supplies onto her tray. 'Bruises and soreness. That's all.'

'You know what happened that night, don't you?' said Augustin. 'You know what happened with Omar and Knox.'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Yes, you do,' he insisted. 'Tell me.'

But she fled for the door instead, pounding on it to be let out.