The Missing Twin
ALEX DAY

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www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

Killer Reads

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Published by HarperColl‌insPublishers 2017

Copyright © Alex Day 2017

Alex Day asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2017 ISBN: 9780008271282

Version 2017-08-15

Epigraph

A little water clears us of this deed.

Macbeth; William Shakespeare

It was a dry cold night, and the wind blew keenly, and the frost was white and hard. A man would die tonight of lying out on the marshes, I thought. And then I looked at the stars, and considered how awful it would be for a man to turn his face up to them as he froze to death, and see no help or pity in all the glittering multitude.

Great Expectations; Charles Dickens

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Summer, 2015: Edie

Fatima

ONE: Edie

TWO: Fatima

THREE: Edie

FOUR: Fatima

Edie

FIVE: Fatima

SIX: Edie

SEVEN: Fatima

EIGHT: Edie

NINE: Fatima

Edie

TEN: Fatima

ELEVEN: Edie

TWELVE: Fatima

Edie

Fatima

THIRTEEN: Edie

FOURTEEN: Fatima

FIFTEEN: Edie

SIXTEEN: Fatima

SEVENTEEN: Edie

EIGHTEEN: Fatima

NINETEEN: Edie

TWENTY: Fatima

Edie

TWENTY-ONE: Fatima

TWENTY-TWO: Edie

Fatima

TWENTY-THREE: Edie

Fatima

Edie

Fatima

TWENTY-FOUR: Edie

TWENTY-FIVE: Fatima

Edie

Fatima

TWENTY-SIX: Fatima

Edie

TWENTY-SEVEN: Fatima

TWENTY-EIGHT: Edie

Fatima

TWENTY-NINE: Edie

THIRTY: Edie

THIRTY-ONE: Edie

THIRTY-TWO: Edie

THIRTY-THREE: Edie

THIRTY-FOUR: Edie

THIRTY-FIVE: Edie

THIRTY-SIX: Edie

Fatima

Edie

THIRTY-SEVEN: Edie

THIRTY-EIGHT: Fatima

Edie

Edie

Fatima

Edie

Epilogue

Author’s Note

About the Author

About the Publisher

SUMMER, 2015
Edie

A shaft of bright sunlight found the gap between the misaligned wooden screen and the window frame and lanced across the room. The girl in the bed groaned, shifted onto her stomach and buried her face in her pillow. Moments later, she turned back onto her side, clutching her stomach as she fought back the nausea. Tentatively, she opened her eyes, feeling her pupils contract painfully against the light and becoming aware of a dull, persistent pounding in her head and a thumping at her temples.

Little by little, Edie Marsh woke up enough to sincerely regret the amount she had drunk the night before, and to chastise herself, as she had many times before, for not knowing when to stop. Hauling herself into an upright position, she reached out for the glass on the floor by her bed and drank, finishing it all even as she screwed up her face at the water’s stale taste and tepid temperature. Holding her hands to her head in an attempt to calm the throbbing, she shut her eyes and tried to concentrate. Something was wrong.

She dropped her hands to her lap and forced her eyes open again, head still drooping down with the effort of it all. Gazing around the room from corner to corner, scouring all pathetic three square metres of it, she did not see what she was expecting to. There was no one there.

No one but her.

The door was firmly closed – no sign that anyone had got up early for a swim or gone out in search of hangover-curing coffee and paracetamol. Even so, in case her eyes could not be trusted, Edie got up and investigated a couple of piles of discarded clothes, picking garments up and immediately throwing them back down again. She even looked under the bed. Then she slumped down onto the single plastic chair, the pulsing in her head suddenly overwhelming and uncontrollable. Massaging her eyelids with her thumbs, she searched her memory. What had happened last night? Hazy snapshots drifted through her mind but the details were sunk in alcohol and wouldn’t surface.

They had planned to sleep squashed into the single bed together, something that they were used to, that they’d grown up doing, of that she was sure. ‘They’ being her and her adored identical twin sister, Laura, whose unexpected arrival at the holiday resort on the shores of the Adriatic sea where Edie was working at midday the day before had filled Edie’s heart with happiness. They’d gone out on the town that evening, for sure. But right at this moment, Edie couldn’t remember how or when they’d got home or anything much of what had gone on at all, during their night out or afterwards.

And the bed, now that she, Edie, had got out of it, was completely empty.

Where the hell was Laura?

Fatima

The sea looked flat and calm. Benign. Perhaps it always did from the shore, with the lazy ripples of tideless waves lapping the fringes of golden sand that gleamed in the heat. Fatima didn’t know as she’d never been to the seaside before. She wasn’t exactly here for the beach, anyway. Screwing up her eyes against the sun she could see, hazily in the distance, the outline of what she supposed must be the island they would be heading for.

It wasn’t far. Really not far at all. Just a little water in-between. Compared to the distance she had already travelled it barely registered. You could almost swim there.

But she had never learnt to swim and neither had her children. She was sure that Ehsan didn’t know, either, nor his son Youssef. Despair threatened to engulf her, together with an utter weariness that suffused her body and made her bones feel liquid, no longer able to support her weight. She sank to the ground, right there on the seafront promenade, crouching into the scanty shade offered by the low beach wall whilst tourists strolled past, all wobbly pink skin and red noses. They were so well fed and rested, so oblivious. But that was to be expected – they were on their holidays, after all.

A sudden, searing jealousy made Fatima want to stop them, to tear their expensive clothes from their backs, grab their over-priced ice-creams and throw them into the sea. Look at me, she would say to them. This is what it’s like to have nothing. But the problem was that wasn’t what it was like. Having no property, no income, no possessions, was not the problem.

The problem was having no hope.

The sun beat down on her head. She wanted to lie down and rest, regardless of the passers-by, heedless of the noise and bustle. She felt she could sleep for a hundred years. Perhaps if she looked pitiful enough, someone would save her. But she knew they wouldn’t. The more needy you were, the more they ignored you. The more woeful, the more uncomfortable for others. Few, if any, wanted to get involved and who could blame them? There had been kindness amidst the devastation in her home country, people sharing their shelter and what little food they had. But Fatima wasn’t stupid and not ignorant, either. She knew how she and her compatriots were viewed, talked about, written about.

As ‘swarms’ and ‘floods’ and ‘marauding invaders’. Or, possibly even worse, as piteous and desperate, each pair of pleading eyes or outreached arms diminished by the sheer number of them, dehumanised and depersonalised by being one face amongst so very many.

In deciding to leave her country – although was it a decision when there seemed to be no other option? – she had taken on inconceivable, unimagined challenges. There was nothing to do but pull herself together and face those challenges. To get on with it. Think about Marwa and Maryam. She closed her hand around the warm, metal object in her pocket and squeezed it tight. It was the key to her house that no longer existed in her city that had been razed to the ground. She should throw it away and would have already done so but for the fact that it was all that was left of her old life, the only thing to remind her.

Getting up off the pavement and dusting herself down she defiantly tucked in her headscarf where it had come loose. Some women had stopped wearing a scarf so as not to stand out, to avoid being noticed. But Fatima would no more go out with an uncovered head as with uncovered breasts. They had not taken everything away from her yet, not reduced her to being ashamed of her culture, her identity.

Setting off along the busy promenade, she held her head high and tried to look purposeful. She had a list of things she must buy, but it meant spending money and she needed to protect every cent because there were so many things to be paid for. She must choose wisely and purchase only what was absolutely necessary for the next stage of their odyssey.

Perhaps the saddest fact of all, the most depressing, she thought as she handed over the precious notes for the life-jackets, the plastic wallets for the mobile phones, water for the journey, was that if it wasn’t her and her fellow citizens fleeing for a better life, it would be other people from other countries. There would always be another war, another catastrophe whether man-made or natural, to cause the human tide to swell and surge. This was a fact that would never change.

ONE
Edie

‘Service!’

The cry rang out as it did endlessly during the lunchtime shift. Edie seized the large platter of mixed seafood from the counter and walked to table ten, as quickly as she could without looking too deferential. It might be her job to serve but there was no need to look servile in the process. She passed Milan, one of the other restaurant staff, on the way there.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked, grinning cheerily. He was always inexplicably jolly.

‘Not bad,’ replied Edie. ‘Ask me again in a few hours’ time when I go off shift and I’ll be even better.’

Milan chuckled heartily. ‘I will!’ he answered, and twirled the empty silver tray he was carrying on his forefinger, one of his favourite party tricks. ‘Keep smiling, Edie.’

Edie did, indeed, smile, at the same time as shaking her head in mock despair. There was simply no keeping Milan down; he was irrepressible. She wondered what it was that made her so relentlessly cynical, what trauma or trouble from her childhood had caused it. Perhaps always playing second fiddle to her twin Laura was the root of the problem; the knowledge that Laura would always have the edge in looks, intelligence and charm. In response, Edie had resorted to affecting a generally world-weary and sceptical persona that meant that, whenever she failed – at a spelling test, a netball match or A-level history – and Laura succeeded, she could pretend that she hadn’t tried and didn’t care in the first place.

Nevertheless, despite their innate competitiveness, Edie thought the world of her sister and missed her like crazy. Not a day went by that she didn’t think about her and wonder what she was doing. Today was no different to any other. Laura was always on her mind.

‘Excuse me.’ A customer calling for her attention broke her reverie. Edie deposited the seafood platter with its eager recipients and turned to address the enquiry.

‘You didn’t bring us any cutlery,’ declaimed the bottle-blonde, her voice an exaggerated lament.

You didn’t ask for any, Edie wanted to retort but restrained herself just in time. She was aware of the need to mind her step. You never knew when Vlad, the vulpine resort manager, was watching. Perfectly positioned at the centre of a horseshoe bay of golden sand, the location meant that the beach bar and restaurant was popular with tourists and locals alike. There was a constant stream of customers from opening time at 8 a.m. until they shut up shop at midnight or later. The resort itself was aimed at wealthy Russians and Europeans – French, English, German, Italian – hence Edie’s job there, for Vlad felt that an English girl would understand the requirements of the cosmopolitan clientele better than a local. Edie had been somewhat economical with the truth about her ability to speak French (failed GCSE but he wasn’t to know) and English was her mother tongue. That had been enough for Vlad to take her on, but he could equally get rid of her if her work wasn’t up to standard.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Edie apologised to the customer, who gave a long-suffering sigh in response. ‘I’ll get you some right away.’

She turned back towards the bar and kitchen, trying hard not to drag her feet. She had cleaned cabanas all morning and then come straight here for the lunchtime shift and she’d now been taking food orders, pulling pints of pale yellow lager, preparing cocktails with coloured parasols and handing over bottles of fizzy pop with bendy straws for the kids for over two hours already. It was the first time in her life she’d had to work so hard, on her feet for hours at a time, her breaks never seeming long, frequent or restful enough.

Once she’d delivered the cutlery, she sought respite by going round behind the kitchen, ostensibly to fetch a crate of Coke but in reality to get five minutes’ time out from the frenzy. Standing in front of the huge fridge door, Edie sensed a presence, someone near her, an uncanny sensation of being watched. She looked around. She couldn’t see anyone but knew that she was being spied on. A curl of excitement slid through her, that feeling of playing hide-and-seek as a child and knowing that you are about to be found and starting to giggle even as delicious fear slides through your veins.

She stood quite motionless for a moment. It must be Vuk, playing games with her. Big, bad, incredibly sexy Vuk, deputy manager, Vlad’s right-hand man – and Edie’s latest and most covetable conquest. The slither of fear turned to a frisson of excitement that began in her belly and spread tantalisingly outwards.

Then came a stifled giggle, audible even above the music and voices and laughter filtering through from the restaurant. Not Vuk then; someone female by the sounds of it. Edie turned rapidly around, took two great strides forward that brought her to the corner of the building where she halted, almost falling over, momentarily blinded by the brightness of the light. Her eyes recovered, she looked up. And came face to face with herself.

Or rather, with her twin Laura, who was standing there with a teasing, ‘how long does it take to get noticed around here’ look on her face, her perfect, pale pink rosebud lips drawn into a half-mocking, half-delighted smile, a tiny backpack dangling casually from one shoulder. Forgetting everything, her job, her customers, the Coca-Cola that was needed out front, Edie shot straight at her, hugging her vigorously and squealing incoherently in astonishment and excitement.

‘How did you get here? Where have you come from? How long are you staying?’ And then, ‘Is that all the stuff you’ve got with you?’ as she took in the minuscule size of Laura’s minimal luggage. Her excited questions poured out of her, leaving little time for her sister to respond.

But Laura wasn’t giving any answers anyway. She merely stood there, mute and smirking, letting Edie release her excitement unabated.

‘I was thinking about you only a few moments ago, I must have sensed you were nearby although I never thought you’d just turn up, I can’t even imagine how you found me, I didn’t exactly give you precise directions …’ Her voice tailed off as she took in Laura’s expression, the smirk having faded away and been replaced by a glassy-eyed stare.

‘Are you OK, sis?’ she asked, fear gripping her heart that Laura was really sick and had come to tell her so.

‘I’m fine, Ed,’ said Laura, wearily. ‘Just fine. But now I’m finally here and I’ve found you, I’ve hit the wall. I’ve been on the road since forever and I’m too tired to talk. I’ll explain everything later. But now …’ she held out her hand to Edie. ‘Room. Key. Sleep.’

Edie pulled her key from her shorts pocket, gave it to Laura and pointed her in the direction of the staff cabins at the back of the resort, quickly telling her the number of hers. She could hear a voice calling her from the bar, telling her to hurry back. But she waited a moment, watching Laura drift up the path that wound between the cabanas and through the olive grove. There was no one around, not a soul in sight, just the shimmer of a heat haze above the silver-leaved trees. Laura’s slim, lissom body sported a perfect tan and even after hours of travelling, her wavy brunette hair swung buoyantly around her shoulders as she gradually disappeared from view. It was exactly as Edie was so well aware. Laura was, had always been, the top twin.

A lizard scurried out from behind the garbage bins and straight over Edie’s toes, bare in her leather sandals. She squealed, just as the voice from the bar became louder and was suddenly right beside her.

‘What you doing, Edeeee?’ It was Stefan, the bar and restaurant manager, who always pronounced her name with a few extra ‘e’ sounds at the end. ‘You been gone too long, you got three orders waiting.’

Edie shot a last glance after Laura, but she was no longer visible, swallowed up by the twists of the path and the sheltering tree branches.

‘Sure,’ she answered, flicking open the fridge, hauling out the Coca-Cola and pushing the door to with her foot. She wanted to go and hang out with her elusive sister, not get back to work. ‘I just noticed we were short of this stuff. I was only trying to help.’ She flashed a reproachful smile at Stefan, playing on the soft spot she knew he had for her.

‘Here, let me,’ said Stefan, pulling the crate from her hands. ‘I take it.’

He was too much of a gentleman, too calm and kind and far too beguiled, to get truly angry, despite her many failings. His entrancement was nothing less than she expected; she and Laura had learnt early in their teenage years the power that youth and beauty could wield. This translated now into the fact that Edie could get away with murder on Stefan’s watch. As Stefan lugged the crate of soft drinks back to the bar, she felt herself mellow, towards her job, the resort, everything. Her sister’s electric presence brought the promise of excitement that overrode the mundanity of working. Despite the feelings of inferiority that Laura unintentionally engendered in her, when Laura was around Edie instantly became a better, nicer, happier person. And of course there was always the impact of ‘double trouble’ to enjoy; the two of them together somehow held more than twice the allure of one twin on her own. They would have some fun in the next few days and weeks, for sure.

As the hours wore on, however, Edie lost hope that Laura, whose capacity for sleeping during the day was infinite, would reappear anytime soon. It was a shame, as she could have got some free food for her and had her nearby as she plunked baskets of bread and bowls of tomato salad, cups of coffee and bottles of beer onto the rough-hewn wooden tables. The up-market atmosphere meant plastic was kept to a minimum; Vlad wanted to create a rustic, authentic feel, but it was hard to eradicate almost half a century of Communism with a few artisan accoutrements and some things just weren’t quite right in Edie’s eyes. The restaurant still sported those naff metal dispensers that contained paper napkins so small and flimsy as to be good for nothing and Vlad had stared at her in utter bemusement when she had suggested serving beer in jam jars, as the trendiest places in London and Sydney did.

He’d had to concede to plastic chairs, though, as diners in bikinis had not appreciated splintered bottoms, but had confined these to the area at the front on the sand, keeping the wooden ones for the fully covered section, where people were expected to turn up with the semblance of being dressed. Of course by the end of every long night the chairs had invariably been moved and mixed up and one of Edie’s least favourite jobs was reorganising them all; she had about ten bruises on her legs from hefting around heavy, unwieldy lumps of pine. That was another legacy of Communism, Edie presumed; no concessions to ladies that they shouldn’t put their backs into physical work. Doing it really, really slowly was the only way she’d found of mitigating the situation but Vlad had got her number and threatened to put her on toilet-cleaning duty so she’d had to speed up a bit.

Slave driver Vlad was an enigma. His height was average – about 5 foot 10 – and he was dark like most people here, clean-shaven and well-groomed. His brown eyes burned bright in his thin face and seemed to be always scrutinising, judging, appraising; when he smiled, it did not reach them. He was slightly built but wiry – Edie had heard that he’d been a long-distance runner in his youth but that he hadn’t quite lived up to his promise and had only competed locally. Perhaps it was disappointment that lay behind his icy gaze.

Edie had never seen him with a woman and had found out, through not very discreet enquiries of other members of staff, that he was unmarried. What was puzzling – and unusual – was that he hadn’t tried it on with her. It had crossed Edie’s mind to wonder if he were gay. Now that Laura was here, this theory could be put properly to the test, as it was unheard of for any red-blooded male to refuse her sister. She was irresistible.

Although they were identical, with even their closest friends finding it difficult to tell them apart, there were differences between them that came from something intrinsic, primordial. Where Edie was pretty, Laura was beautiful. Edie was slim and attractive but Laura was something more, something harder to define, a heady mixture of sex appeal and mystery mixed with a pinch of dismissive contempt that kept every man she met drooling at her feet and coming back for more, however badly she treated them. Edie was generally considered a looker; her friends had nothing but envy for her appearance and figure and charm. But everything that Edie had, Laura had also, doubled. Laura was a stunner. At least, that’s how Edie saw things.

Their parents had tried hard to make sure that they never showed any favouritism, constantly reassuring Edie that they loved both girls just the same. Edie couldn’t remember the birth of her brother James, who was three years younger, but she was pretty sure that during their growing-up, all three children had enjoyed nothing but fair, equal and unconditional love. They had lived a life of plenty; plenty of money, plenty of space in their five-bedroomed semi-detached house in a leafy Brighton suburb, plenty of support. Edie, Laura and James had never wanted for anything and for sure, Laura had made a career out of getting others – men, namely – to provide for her. Edie, on the other hand, having dallied with university and modelling and travelling, had tired of life and needed to get away from the superficiality of everything that surrounded her. She was fed up of being supported, protected and smothered by her parents, Laura, doctors – all of them making decisions about what was best for her or what she should or would do. She had had to escape. So she had come here and got a solid, honest job and now she was working her socks off on a daily basis and wondering what on earth had possessed her. And yet … and yet she stayed. At three months and counting, it was getting to be the longest she’d ever stuck at anything.

The long afternoon dragged by. A group of lads, young and fit, provided the only entertainment, ordering beer after beer that kept Edie running backwards and forwards to the bar. She flirted with them a bit, out of habit as much as anything else, and also from a feeling she had that she was expected to provide the eye-candy at the beach bar that would keep the customers – the males, at any rate – coming back. She was glad when the group, half-cut and with glazed eyes, retreated to the beach to sleep off the alcohol, lying flat out on towels flung onto the soft sand under the pine trees, oblivious to the flies and the kids scuffling clumsily by and the volleyball game going on only metres away.

Even with the boys gone, there was no let-up from work; just customer after customer ordering meals and drinks and sandwiches. The resort itself wasn’t that big – only two dozen cabanas amongst the olives, all with plunge pools and cleverly situated to have sea views. But it was at full occupancy at the height of the tourist season and, though the accommodation was self-catering, most residents didn’t, and their custom was augmented by that of the constant ebb and flow of visitors, who came from far and wide to enjoy the beach’s clean yellow sand and shallow, crystal clear water. All of these people couldn’t be wrong and indeed it was an idyllic place. It could have been this that had made Edie act totally out of character and hang around so long, without ever intending to do so, and commit to the entire season working with Vlad. But in all honesty, her decision had more to do with Vuk; to being close to him by working with him. Or working on him. And now, working hard to keep Laura and Vuk apart, in all senses of the word.

Because Vuk, Edie realised, could be a problem now that Laura had arrived, the only blot on the rosy horizon of life with her sister. Vuk was devastatingly handsome and tall with it, well over 6 foot, strongly built with well-defined biceps and a six-pack to make a girl weep. His black hair was cut close to his scalp and a five o’clock shadow darkened his face even immediately after he’d shaved. The tan that enhanced his indisputable masculinity was deepening by the day now that the season was in full swing; Vuk was responsible, amongst other things, for running the sailing trips on the resort’s luxurious yacht and so was almost permanently outside. He was the strong, silent type that Edie always fell for and mostly spoke in monosyllables, barked out in his deep, seductive voice. He rarely smiled and when he did it was sensually lopsided, as if only the right side of his mouth could be bothered to make the effort. He was utterly gorgeous and Edie was not only determined to snare him but also not to share him.

Little by little, perhaps not as swiftly as she had hoped, she was reeling bad boy Vuk in. They’d had sex a few times, each time better than the last; Vuk’s hard, strong body the perfect complement to Edie’s willowy, lithe limbs. Even to think about his white teeth on her breasts, his strong tongue probing between her thighs, his thick cock pumping into her, made Edie wet and set her clit throbbing in anticipation. He could circle her wrist with his thumb and forefinger and pull her towards him as if it were no effort whatsoever, could pick her up and throw her onto the bed as if she were nothing, could part her legs and pull them over his shoulders like she was a rag doll with no strength of her own. The power he had to dominate was dangerously attractive. But Edie still wasn’t sure she really had him where she wanted him; namely committed to some kind of a relationship with her.

It would have been good if Vuk had been there to see how those boys had ogled her, to imagine how their dicks swelled in their swimming trunks, to feel the same himself. That would have been a minor triumph. In Edie’s experience, there was nothing better than jealousy to make a man keen. But Vuk was nowhere to be seen, his comings and goings on the resort always erratic, his schedule impossible to pin down.

Edie just had to hope he hadn’t bumped into Laura.

***

Finally, the sun shifted to the far side of the beach and the orders diminished. Edie threw her pad and apron into a heap in the kitchen and, shouting a hasty farewell to Stefan and Milan, set off as fast as she could bear in the still intense heat. As she walked, the sweat gathered on her back and chest and trickled down her spine and between her breasts. It was boiling.

In her room, she saw with relief that Laura was not only still there but still sleeping, face down, one slim, delicate arm flung out of the bed like the boom of an idling sailing ship. No sign she’d encountered Vuk or anyone at all. She looked as if she’d been asleep for ages. Edie sighed with relief. She dug around in the tiny fridge that nestled in one corner and pulled out the vodka she had stashed there. She’d bought cups of ice from the restaurant, and a water bottle filled with fresh lime juice. Mixing the drinks, adding sugar and stirring, she watched as the white crystals slowly dissolved. She slurped a mouthful; delicious. Putting the glasses side by side on the upturned crate that served as a bedside table, she sat down beside her twin. She shook her gently. No response. She tried again, more vigorously, and added in a little tug at her long tresses of brunette hair. Laura muttered something that sounded a bit like ‘fuck off’ but did not open her eyes. Exasperated, Edie stuck her fingers into one of the glasses, retrieved an ice cube and shoved it down the back of Laura’s T-shirt.

‘Christ!’ Laura’s cry was bloodcurdling. ‘Shit! What the fuck ….’

Edie fell onto the floor, clutching her sides and gasping for breath as the laughter spewed out of her.

‘Sleeping beauty, it’s time to get up! There’s fun to be had, drinks to be had, boys to be had. Every moment you’re snoring is a wasted moment.’

Laura rubbed her eyes and wiggled her back, standing up to let what remained of the ice-cube slide out of her T-shirt. She shuddered.

‘Oooh, that was actually quite nice. It’s bloody bugger hot around here, I must say.’

‘Yup. And you being here is just going to make everything even hotter. Drink up.’ Edie handed Laura her vodka and lime. ‘Ziveli.’

They lifted their glasses and drank. Laura exhaled loudly and shook her head. ‘Wow. That’s strong.’

‘That’s just for starters. Now you need to get yourself all tarted up cos we’re going out.’

Edie threw Laura a faded beach towel. ‘The showers are at the end of the block.’ She looked around her, located a bottle of shampoo and chucked it in Laura’s direction.

‘By the way,’ she added, as Laura turned to go. ‘How on earth did you find your way here? I didn’t give you the precise address. And where did you come from, where have you been the last few months?’

‘My very own personal, inbuilt sat-nav, little sis.’ Laura had been born first, by ten minutes or so, and never let Edie forget it. ‘I could track you down anywhere.’ She twirled the shampoo bottle round and round in her elegant hand. ‘But – questions later. Right now, I need to wash. I can smell my own armpits and that’s not even the worst of it.’

Laura glided out of the room and Edie drained her glass, still not quite believing that her twin had appeared as if from nowhere. She pulled a bundle of clothing out of the canvas shelving that was all she had for storage and dumped it onto the bed. By the looks of it, Laura would definitely be needing to borrow clothes – she didn’t seem to have anything with her; her pack couldn’t hold much more than a few pairs of knickers. Make-up, she always helped herself to anyway. Men – the same. Edie stopped short at this thought. Not Vuk. She was not giving up her claim on Vuk. This time, Edie would make sure she kept the big prize for herself.

TWO
Fatima

When the barrel bombs came to their neighbourhood, Fatima and the girls were not there. They had gone to visit friends in another suburb. They heard the explosions as they travelled home but explosions were nothing new so they tried to ignore them. You could never tell exactly where the bombs were falling anyway; sound ricochets and distorts, making distance incalculable. It was better to assume – to hope – that it hadn’t hit your street, your home. Inuring yourself to the violence, the terror, the bloodshed, was the only way. So many times already it had been someone else’s turn to take the brunt of this insane and insatiable war. Fatima gathered the twins protectively to her as the taxi proceeded through the deserted streets. For so long the fighting had taken place elsewhere and perhaps they had all assumed it would continue to be so even whilst knowing that there must surely be a limit to how often they could escape it.

As they neared home, it seemed that that limit had arrived. The taxi driver pulled over abruptly and told them it was finished; he would go no further. As if in a dream, Fatima got out of the car and pulled the children after her. She had had no phone call from Fayed, her husband, or his parents or brother with whom they lived, so she assumed things were all right at their place. But as the three of them stumbled onwards, picking their way through rubble, choking on dust, tripping in potholes, it was clear that their neighbourhood had been the target. And that it was bad. Really bad. She tried to remember what Fayed had said he was doing that afternoon, where, exactly, he would have been. Had he been planning to spend the hours that she and the girls were out at home? No, Fatima was sure he had mentioned popping into the office – his accountancy premises that were in the downtown business area about twenty minutes’ drive away. He would have been far enough away to have avoided danger.

‘Mummy, where are we going? What’s happened?’ asked Marwa, always the bolder of the twins. How to answer such questions? With the truth: ‘I do not know’, or with a platitude, blatantly untrue, ‘Everything’s fine, don’t worry’? However much parents across the land tried to shield their children from the dreadful events that were occurring, it was impossible. They saw the images on the television, heard the news reports, gazed uncomprehendingly, but with full awareness of the horror of it all, at the pictures in the newspapers displayed on stands outside shops. Children, after all, were not stupid.

As Fatima searched for a response, Marwa’s inquisition continued.

‘Why did we come here? What are we doing? This is not where we live.’

And then, when greeted by Fatima’s continued silence, more urgently, ‘Mummy? Answer me.’

Children grow up fast in war. They have no other option. Today would mark a stage in that process for her twins, Fatima realised. There was no point in trying to hide what was plain to see.

‘There’s been a bomb.’ Fatima took a deep breath. She looked around her, at the ruins that lay everywhere. ‘Several bombs. Lots. We need to find out what has happened to our house.’

Maryam began to cry. Fatima gripped the girls’ hands and held them tight as they walked on. Drawing closer to where they lived, she began to lose her bearings. Familiar landmarks were gone, buildings she had walked past a hundred, a thousand times, were no longer there. The main street, where she had drunk coffee with Fayed in happier times, shopped and chatted with friends, pushed the girls up and down in their pram when they were babies, had been badly hit. Some structures were still standing, upright but crooked teeth that only served to emphasise the gaps on either side. But most were wrecked and half-collapsed. The contents of shops and houses were strewn across the road; broken toys, smashed plates, ruined furniture. The carpet shop’s façade was blown away, the handmade silk floor and wall-coverings still hanging forlornly inside, coated in dust that weighed them down and robbed them of texture, pattern and colour.

Both girls were sobbing now, wailing and screaming, not understanding, despite her explanation, why their mother was dragging them through this hinterland of horror. The sluggish surge of fear that had begun when the taxi stopped began to grow in Fatima’s stomach, rising up through her diaphragm and into her throat. She coughed back the bile, shuddering at its bitter taste and caustic burn, trying to avoid the children seeing or sensing her fear. They were at the corner of a block, only five minutes from home. Their house was this way – just down the short side-street ahead, and then right where the fruit seller had his stall, into a wide, tree-lined boulevard that led towards the little park by the river where the children played in the sunshine. The winter her twins had been born it had snowed and she had wished the girls were old enough to build a snowman and join in the snowball fights. There had been no snow the next winter, nor the next. Looking around her now, it was as if the snowfall had come at last, out of season and discoloured, a thick, grey, flattening blanket that stank of staleness, dirt and desiccation and covered everything with the pall of devastation.

Should she walk down the side-street, take the right turn and amble past all the well-tended courtyard houses towards her own? What chance was there that it would still be standing? The trance-like sensation intensified and Fatima felt that she was walking on air, not really touching anything, distant from all that was unfolding around her, as if it were not real. The feeling was intensified by the absence of any other living being. Those who had survived must have fled already, fearful of repeated onslaughts. Or perhaps they were hiding in dark corners, too terrified and traumatised to emerge. Whatever the truth, no friend or neighbour could be seen; not even a cat prowling the pavement.

The dream-state propelled her onwards and, advancing cautiously along the rough stone sidewalk, at first things didn’t seem as bad as all that. The concrete apartment buildings still stood firm and the only obvious signs of damage were broken windowpanes and shattered car windscreens. Even the fruit-seller’s stall was intact, the cartwheels chocked with wooden blocks that were blackened with age rather than any more recent calamity. The carefully constructed piles of fruit, of apples and persimmons, mangoes and guavas, had collapsed into muddled rivers of greens, browns and yellows and the fruit seller himself was nowhere to be seen, but with a little bit of tidying up there’d be no sign that disaster had struck so close. Fatima had to stop herself from a compulsion to pause and right the fallen fruit, to rebuild the neat pyramids, as if somehow repairing this small piece of damage would mend the horror that surrounded her.

Instead, she turned the corner, tugging a twin on each arm, and started down the boulevard. Each step was a step further into Hades. Bombs had fallen here; direct hits that had left craters in the road and taken rugged slices out of buildings as if a drunken giant had tramped down whatever lay in its path. Lazy flames licked around a battered, roofless estate car slung sideways across the road, the tyres on one side flattened so that it was crooked and lopsided like a small child’s drawing. For a terrible, fleeting second Fatima thought it was their car; that Fayed had been coming home as death rained down.

But then she saw that it was the wrong make, and the wrong colour, beneath the grime. The relief was momentary; behind the pitiful vehicle, a building’s steel rods, stripped of concrete and plaster, reached towards a sky leaden with dust and ash and full of the stench of obliteration. Fatima was staring all around her, struggling to make sense of the sights her eyes were relaying to her, when she heard the noise. Involuntarily, her gaze sought to find its source. With a sickening surge of terror she saw that there were people in the estate car, the fire-blackened corpses of a family who had tried to escape but been too late and too unlucky. And that one of them was moving, groaning, dying in excruciating agony and unimaginable fear.

Fatima froze to the spot, quite literally petrified. The feeling of being in a dream evaporated in an instant. This was reality and it was awful. Nothing in her life so far had prepared her for a moment such as this. She should help, do something, call an ambulance. She fumbled in her bag for her phone and drew it out, frenziedly trying to tap in the emergency number, forgetting that there was a shortcut button for this. She had never had reason or cause to use it before.

The children were whimpering in terror, but saying nothing, seeming to have lost the power of speech. She should get them away from this horror but still she hadn’t managed to make the call and she couldn’t leave that person to die like an animal. She stabbed furiously at the keypad again, missing the numbers, her hands trembling too severely to hit them accurately. It was a nightmare, one of those hideous ones where you are trying to run but your legs won’t move and you keep replaying, over and over, your efforts – futile – towards flight.

A blast of intense heat, accompanied by a loud, fizzing hiss and the whoosh of fierce flames, brought her struggles with the phone to an abrupt halt. Nearly knocked off her feet, instinctively she grabbed the girls to her, hugging them close as if just her embrace could save them. The car’s petrol tank had ignited and the vehicle was engulfed in a swirling ball of fire, blue, red and orange. A wretched, animalistic scream ripped out from its innards, rending the smoke-laden air apart. And then stopped. Even the roaring flames could not fill the silence that followed. The world whirled around her. Fatima was struggling to breathe, was drowning in fear. She turned towards the car as if she could help, realised immediately the stupidity of such an idea and tried instead to flee. Running, she tripped and fell, taking Maryam off guard and pulling her down with her. Dizzy and disorientated, all Fatima could think of was getting away from this apocalypse. She stumbled back to her feet, dragging Maryam up with her, not even checking to see if she were hurt.

She had to get home, to find Fayed.

THREE
Edie

‘Ready to paint that town red?’

The sun had disappeared behind the mountains and much vodka had been imbibed by the time Edie pulled the scooter out from the shade of a handy oleander bush, clambered aboard and revved the engine.

Laura giggled, delightedly and drunkenly. She had had more vodka than Edie, and nothing to eat.

‘Sis,’ she announced, whirling her sunglasses in an exultant twirl, ‘I’m so, so ready.’ She jumped onto the scooter behind Edie. ‘By the way, I hope you know how to drive this thing,’ she added, resting her feet on the metal supports.

‘Just call me Jensen Button,’ shouted Edie, already speeding off down the steep track to the exit gate.

‘He drives cars,’ shrieked Laura as Edie increased velocity alarmingly quickly. ‘Extremely fast cars!’

‘Whatever.’ Edie was having fun; she hadn’t had anyone ride pillion since she’d taken possession of the scooter and she wanted to make the most of it before Laura insisted on being the driver. ‘Hold on tight!’

‘I am,’ Laura hollered, ‘believe me.’ She gripped Edie’s waist and attempted to blow a stray hair from her forehead.

At this time of year the heat lingered long after twilight and there was not the slightest breeze to bring respite. Being on the scooter, even at top speed, was like driving through treacle, as if the warm air had to be literally pushed aside to allow them to pass. The vodka, plus the unaccustomed weight on the back, meant that Edie wobbled on the sharpest bends, inducing shrieks of alarmed laughter from Laura. They were still laughing when they arrived at the marina, parked the scooter and used its mirrors to put right their dishevelled hair and make-up, bending low to get the fullest view possible.

The marina was the place to come for the smart set, home of super-yachts and their super-rich owners. Edie had notched up a few successful conquests here – before Vuk, of course. The quays were lined with boats flying flags from around the world, and the people strolling up and down and drinking at the numerous bars were dressed to impress; all designer labels and immaculate hair and smile-free pouts. Heads turned as Edie and Laura promenaded past; a perfectly matched pair in tiny shorts and crop tops. Spotting a table just being vacated at the bar with the best vantage point, Edie seized Laura’s arm and dragged her towards it, ordering double vodkas for them both before they had even sat down.

‘I’m a tad short of cash, Ed,’ said Laura, pulling out the lining of her pockets in illustration. ‘I had a bit of a mishap in Italy, got my rucksack stolen with a whole load of euros in it. I was just lucky my passport didn’t go too.’

‘You idiot!’ Edie shook her head in disbelief. ‘First rule of travelling: never keep all your money in one place.’

‘Okay smart ass, rub it in.’ Laura took a swig of her drink. ‘It wasn’t all my money anyway. Just a fair amount of it. I had enough to get the ferry across the Adriatic, find my elusive sister and beg her to rescue me.’

Edie snickered. ‘Glad I’m useful every now and again.’ She clinked her glass against Laura’s. ‘I’ve got enough for us to get by on. My enormous earnings from my marvellous job, for a start, plus I’ve still got some savings.’

They both drank and put their glasses down simultaneously onto the high glass table. Edie could see her reflection, distorted and watery, in the sheen of the polished surface. She thought for a moment before asking the question, cautiously.

‘What about you? Have you spent all your modelling money?’

Laura was notoriously reticent about how she made her living and even more so about how she spent it. When they had finished university, they had both signed up with a minor modelling agency. At 5’9” (Laura) and 5’8” (Edie) neither was tall enough for catwalk work. Edie had got one job for a knitwear catalogue and then given up in disgust, finding it impossible to wear a pink fluffy tank top with a smile on her face.

Laura had done rather better, gaining work from various sources and going to America twice. Edie wasn’t entirely convinced that her earnings were exclusively gained from putting clothes on. She suspected that the reverse activity might be involved somewhere. But Laura divulged nothing and suddenly, without warning or explanation, had given it up and told Edie that she was fed up with being a clothes horse and that they were going travelling.

They’d had a great few months in Eastern Europe – Krakow and Warsaw, Prague and Budapest – and then Laura had met a handsome Slovenian man, much older than her, and gone off to the mountains in search of inner peace and really hot sex.

Edie wasn’t sure exactly what had transpired but had a feeling that the discovery that the man was married with children had had something to do with Laura’s sudden disenchantment with her Slovene lover. The rest of the story, the gory details, the retribution that she was sure her sister would have wreaked on such a traitor, she had yet to hear but she was going to enjoy it when she did.

‘I’ve got a bit of dosh left but it’s in the bank at home – I’ve had to cancel all my cards because of the robbery, so I can’t get hold of it at the moment.’ Laura grimaced dolefully. ‘Pants, isn’t it, being skint.’

Edie reached across the table and squeezed her sister’s hand. ‘I can keep us in vodka, no worries. Although,’ she made a sweeping gesture with her head across the crowded forecourt of the bar, ‘the real skill is in not buying our own drinks.’

Laura giggled and nodded. ‘Way to go, Ed.’ Laura was the only person who called Edie ‘Ed’. Edie liked it; it made her feel special and cemented the bond between her and her twin that no one could sever.

Edie continued scrutinising the clientele. She kicked Laura under the table. ‘Those guys over there – you see them? Russian, probably. Let’s see what we can squeeze out of them.’

Laura cast her eyes casually in the direction that Edie was indicating.

‘I’ll drink to that.’ She gave a low wolf-whistle as she appraised the two men, both of whom were dressed in white shirts and chino shorts as if they had just stepped out of a casual wear advert. One sported an ostentatious watch on his left wrist, which even from this distance Edie could tell was a Bvlgari. The other had a pair of mirror sunglasses pushed up onto his head. Both were clean-shaven, blue-eyed and handsome, though one was slim and slight and the other much chunkier – not overweight but solid and sturdy.

It didn’t take long to attract their attention.

***

The rest of the night had passed in a haze of flirting and alcohol and more flirting and more alcohol. Edie recalled going back to the men’s apartment where they had put music on loud and played strip poker, which led quickly to nudity since they were all wearing so little. The watch, she clearly recalled, had stayed firmly on Mr Bvlgari’s wrist although at some point Laura had grabbed the sunglasses and put them on, refusing to give them up for the rest of the evening.

Thinking back on it now, in the cold light of a new morning, tearing her memory apart to remember the details, Edie kept reaching a blank. Disjointed bits of dialogue, snapshots of her and Laura posing naked for pictures on the balcony, of the two of them in the bathroom taking turns to pee, collapsing into heaps of giggles whilst raiding the kitchen cupboards for food, dancing wildly to some Beyoncé number, kept appearing and disappearing in her mind, making no sense and giving no indication of timing or indeed veracity. One thing she knew for certain is that nothing – other than a bit of kissing and cuddling – had happened. It had all just been good, clean fun. Now that Edie had Vuk in her life, the casual flings and one-night stands that had peppered her existence previously no longer appealed. She craved a true partner, a companion, intimacy and love. She longed for Vuk to be the one and only. When – if – he ever reappeared from one of his damn sailing trips, trailing dreary tourists around hidden coves and picturesque harbours, she hoped she would find out for certain that he was of like mind.

In her room, feeling sick and confused, Edie stared around her once more. There really was no one else there. But she herself was there, had woken up in her own room in her own bed and she would never, ever have deserted Laura. That was the code, the rules of the game – one in, both in, never get separated, no one left behind. She slipped her feet into her flip-flops, went to the door and opened it tentatively. The sun hit her full in the face, making her pupils contract painfully and causing the throbbing behind her eyes to intensify. She stepped to the front of the narrow veranda that ran the length of the building and off which each of the staff bedrooms opened. At the far end, by an oleander bush, she could see her scooter, parked haphazardly, leaning heavily to one side.

A dim recollection of leaving it there in the early hours before the dawn surfaced, sending misty tendrils of memory through her sleep-deprived, hungover brain. Had Laura ridden home with her, holding on behind and screeching in alarm when she took a corner too fast or seemed to be coming off the road and heading for the clear water of the bay? She must have done. Edie could not remember unlocking her door, getting undressed and into bed. But she was wearing her pyjamas now so she must have done. It would have been a squash in the single bed with Laura but they had done it before. Had Laura slept beside her last night? She must have done.

It was completely clear that Laura must have done all these things. But beyond that certainty lay nothing. There was absolutely no sign of her.

FOUR
Fatima

There was no home.

Her house and those immediately around it had taken a direct hit. The tree-lined street, once green and peaceful, alive with birdsong and the gentle rustle of branches in the breeze, was now filled with noises of an utterly different nature. The sounds of carnage; of pain and despair. A man was running along the street carrying a child, a boy of about six. The boy was screaming with pain, his left leg bent at an impossible angle and his left arm dangling, limp and lifeless, by his side. Tears were pouring down the man’s face so thickly that his vision must have been obscured and his frequent trips and stumbles testified to that. Fatima turned her head away, appalled by their suffering. There was nothing she could do to help.

She stared around her. Charred remains of tree trunks stabbed at the sky where the once majestic maples had provided shade. Colour had been obliterated and replaced by grey, interrupted only by spatters of blood, deep red blotches on the shattered concrete. And everywhere she looked she saw bodies strewn amongst piles of stone and plaster and roof tiles. Or not, in fact, bodies, only pieces of bodies, randomly distributed; an arm here, a blackened and filthy leg, ankle and foot there. A head lay face down in the arenaceous soil of what was once someone’s carefully tended garden; its hijab soaked with so much blood it was hard to tell what its original shade had been.

Fatima walked forward a few steps, incapable of lucid thought. She would have screamed herself, like the young boy, but she had no voice, could not make her vocal chords produce any sound. A couple, ghostly in their dust-coated clothing, were standing on a pile of rubble, frantically but futilely sifting through it, lifting pathetically small pieces of wreckage and throwing them aside, their shredded hands raw and bleeding, making no impact on the huge mound beneath their feet. Fatima knew them; they were her neighbours, a young man and woman with a new-born baby. She put her hand to her head, covering her eyes as she realised what they must be looking for, and staggered on, away from them and their tragedy.

She continued her stumbling progress, the twins beside her. Somewhere here should have been their house with its courtyard and lemon tree, its almond orchard and its years of family history.

The house was gone.

In its place was a body. Its clothes were ripped to rags by the force of the bomb blast but it looked surprisingly intact, no injury visible. It was a body so familiar that Fatima knew instantly who it was.

Fayed.

Her husband; her children’s father.

She sank to her knees and vomited, retching so violently it felt as if her stomach would burst apart. The girls were becoming hysterical, screaming and sobbing and Fatima didn’t stop them, couldn’t stop them. Violently, she pushed them away to prevent them from seeing what she had seen. But, terrified as they were, they wouldn’t go, instead clinging desperately onto her, burrowing into her back as she crouched down, hiding their faces in the folds of her scarf. Their weight took her by surprise and she lost her balance, falling forward and instinctively putting out her hands to save herself only to find herself pressing down on Fayed’s stomach. The disgust of making contact with his dead flesh made her throw up again and again, her throat raw and burning, her mouth filled with the foul taste of bile.

Despite the warmth of the day and the heat from the fires that burnt amidst the remains, his body was already cold. Soon rigor mortis would set in and then, if the corpse were not buried, the flies would come, followed by the maggots. Fatima forced herself up and lurched away from what had once been her husband. The girls, clinging to her clothing, dragged behind her. They had seen the body, for certain, but Fatima didn’t know if they had recognised their papa. Please God that they hadn’t. They were screaming, and Fatima wanted to join them, wanted to howl at the dust-shrouded sky, wanted to make it all go away and not be true. But a mother’s instinct to protect her young kicked in. She must get away. She wrenched the twins after her, speeding up to a hobbling, stumbling, wreckage-impeded attempt at a run. With no idea where she was going or how she would get there, she knew only that she must flee, must escape these killing fields and arrive somewhere that still had a pretence of normality. Run. All she had to do was run.

Running, barely feasible for an adult, was almost impossible for a child. Marwa’s tiny legs could not navigate the treacherous terrain and she fell, banging her knee on the sharp protruding edge of a bent and contorted piece of metal that sliced into her flesh with the ease of a knife. There was a long pause before the first bellowing screech exploded out of her, far too loud for such small lungs, a yell laden with fear and pain and uncontainable panic. Fatima had no words with which to console her, nothing to say that would make it any better, no will in her body to tend to her daughter’s injury, the seeping gash in her baby-soft skin. Marwa howled and sobbed without cease, on and on, whilst Maryam whimpered and Fatima’s tears erupted from her eyes and poured unstoppably down her cheeks. She hauled herself and her children onwards.

A single gunshot rang out, close by, coming from behind one of the half-standing buildings of what had, until so very recently, been a peaceful and affluent middle-class street. Wiping snot from her nose with a filthy hand, Fatima’s legs froze, paralysed by terror. Her gaze darted from side to side. The sniper fire had prompted forth shadowy figures from other nooks and crannies, creeping, scuttling creatures, the undead, fleeing like prey escaping an unseen enemy.

What have they done to us, Fatima’s soul cried out. What have we become?

‘Run,’ a voice, dust-coarsened and gravelly, urged. ‘Run, now.’

Swept up in his wake, driven by the urgency in his voice, Fatima grabbed up Marwa and placed her on her hip, took Maryam’s hand in a vice-like grip and ran. She did not falter when the second shot came and her companion stopped in his tracks and languidly, as if in slow-motion, fell to the ground.

She just ran, on and on, through the dirt and destruction, between the mountainous heaps of boulders and rubble, iron and steel, traversing every obstacle, as if it were possible to ever truly get away.

Edie

Ripping off her pyjamas, Edie pulled on her bikini, then tied a sarong around her waist. She needed to think clearly, banish the fug that was clouding her mind. Grabbing a towel from the pile of stuff on the floor, she left the room, quelling the need to be sick; her temples pounding afresh from the sudden activity. She marched through the olive grove, where people were stirring, coming out of their cabanas in search of breakfast or, for those with children, heading for the beach even at this early hour. She should be at work already, collecting the cleaning equipment from the store and starting to scrub however many effing cabins Vlad had assigned to her. Sod that.

Veering off the path, she took a short cut that skirted through the trees and close to one of the plunge pools. A man stood there, casting a long shadow over the water, his net extended, capturing the silver-grey leaves that had fallen in the night. Zayn. Why couldn’t it be Vuk? The trips he ran constantly denied them the time together that Edie yearned for. She waggled her fingers towards Zayn in a half-hearted wave. He made as if to say something but stopped as he noticed that her pace did not falter. His gaze followed her as she passed, fixated, Edie was sure, on her breasts that were only just contained by her tiny bikini top. She sighed to herself. Poor Zayn. She turned and gave him another, more enthusiastic wave. She didn’t want to be cruel, but he simply couldn’t hold a candle to Vuk.

Zayn had been the first person she’d got to know when she arrived on the site, basically because he’d hung around her like a moth around a flame. They’d had a fleeting dalliance but he’d got too keen and she’d had to cool the whole thing down, which was lucky as the next thing that had happened was that Vuk had shown up, back from a sailing trip and Edie had fallen for him, hook, line and sinker. He was more suitable in every way, apart from anything else because he was only a few years older than Edie, whereas Zayn was about thirty-five, Edie reckoned. Way too ancient to be taken seriously.

There was something intriguing about him, though. He was pale-skinned, paler than the local people, with heavy-lidded, dark eyes that were soft and forgiving. He wasn’t from here, he came from somewhere else; he’d told Edie a bit about himself but she hadn’t really been listening and now it slipped her mind, but she knew the place he was from he could never go back to for all sorts of complicated reasons from blood feuds to civil war. He had numerous ideological opinions that he liked to air, despite the fact that Edie had made it quite clear that she didn’t do international politics; in fact didn’t do politics at all. She left causes to Laura, who was always marching or fasting or writing letters for something.

Edie reached the tree-shaded concrete path that skirted the beach and headed for her favourite swimming spot. Come to think of it, she pondered as she meandered along, doing her best to avoid a pair of butterflies involved in an elaborate mating ritual, Zayn and Laura would probably get on like a house on fire and he could be a useful diversion, steering Laura well away from Vuk. She happily skipped a few paces off the back of this thought, threw off her sarong and, balancing on a protruding rock that just had room for her size 5 feet, dived into the cool, clear water. Laura might fancy Zayn, she always had a soft spot for the underdog, and she liked older men, viz the Slovenian guy – and if she did, that would kill two birds with one stone; provide a girlfriend for Zayn, who clearly really wanted one, and also ensure Laura would not be making eyes at Vuk. A marvellous solution, though Edie said it herself. Sorted – or it would be if Laura were here.

It was just so typical of Laura to disappear at precisely the moment that Edie had everything worked out and under control. She was, quite simply, the most unpredictable person on the planet. Once they’d left school and home and supposedly become independent adults, Laura had developed a habit of sauntering in and out of Edie’s life – although Edie couldn’t help but admit that it was a tad unusual that on this occasion, Laura had said absolutely nothing at all about her plans. She would probably materialise in a few hours and come over all affronted if Edie pulled her up on her unexplained desertion.

Coursing through the water, Edie concentrated on her breathing and then dived down, deeper and deeper. The underwater world was blue and green and grey, fish flitting between clumps of seaweed and submerged rocks, the occasional bright glint of some sunken litter the only discordant note. She relaxed her body, shut off her mind. She had spent some time with free-divers in Greece and tried to learn their techniques. Although she’d only managed to hold her breath for just over three and a half minutes so far, she was constantly working on it. Swimming was her passion – she’d been in a squad in her school days, won tournaments and medals. At one point it had been thought that she might compete nationally, perhaps even internationally. But then she’d become a teenager, discovered boys, got ill … and those ideas had faded away into the distance. She was still a better swimmer than Laura, though. That was one thing – the only thing – she’d always been best at, and what better place to show off her prowess than here at this idyllic seaside resort?

Now all she had to do was sodding find Laura.

FIVE
Fatima

Distant relatives in a nearby town that had so far avoided attack took them in. Fatima and the children, together with Ehsan, Fatima’s dead husband’s younger brother and his son Youssef, who had been at a football match when the bombs hit the house and so survived. Ehsan’s wife Noor had died of breast cancer eighteen months ago, about the same time Fatima’s own parents had been killed in a car accident, and he and Youssef had lived with Fatima and Fayed from then on, along with Fayed and Ehsan’s parents. Death had seemed to surround them for a few awful months, but they had got through it, she and Fayed, because of the strength of their love. Missing her parents and Noor, who she had been close to, had diminished over time. Now death was back with a vengeance, claiming Fayed and so many others.

Fatima had not imagined that they would be subsumed by such loss again and had not contemplated having to pull through once more. At times, her grief was like being in an earthquake, nothing secure, nothing to hold on to; everything shaking and rocking out of control. She longed for her husband and soulmate and knew the longing would never end. But she had two children to care for and had no choice but to do so. In this terrible war, which had seemed to come out of nowhere and to grow and grow until it engulfed them all, like being sucked inside the rapacious mouth of a giant monster, the only way to survive was to concentrate solely on the here and now, on how to get through each day and night and make it to the next sunrise.

Fatima knew she should be thankful that she was not entirely alone, that she still had her brother-in-law Ehsan. But she had always felt a little uneasy around him. He seemed to be constantly looking at her, observing and appraising her, following her with his eyes, noticing parts of her body that he should not. She’d never mentioned it to Fayed; he had a terrible temper that, when provoked, made him irrational and unpredictable and she didn’t want to bring his wrath down on either herself or Ehsan, because she had no reason to cast aspersions against him. All she had were feelings and feelings were not enough to accuse anyone of anything.

Ehsan was a weak man, though, she knew that for sure. A few months ago Fayed had beaten Youssef for bringing a magazine into the house. It contained pictures of scantily-dressed women, as far as Fatima had gathered, although she hadn’t seen it herself and couldn’t imagine where a thirteen-year-old could have procured such a thing. Ehsan hadn’t joined in the beating but he hadn’t stopped it either. That just made him even more unappealing in Fatima’s eyes – Youssef was his son and he should have taken the lead in disciplining him, not cowered in a corner whilst Fayed thrashed the boy.

Despite this, there was one undeniable fact to contend with. She was a widow now, a woman with neither father, husband, brother nor son to take care of her and protect her. That was not a good position to be in at the best of times, and these were the worst of times. Ehsan, whatever his failings, was a necessary evil. She would just have to put up with him, as with everything else that had befallen them. In thinking this, tears flooded her eyes and the grief clenched at her heart once more. Her anguish and misery were more than she could bear; she could not live without Fayed who had always led and guided and protected. She wanted to shout out at his ghost, release her fury that he had not, as he had suggested he would, gone to the office that afternoon but instead had stayed at home and been pulverised by the falling bombs. Why had he betrayed her like this?

But then the tears fell with renewed intensity, as if desperate for release, as she railed with herself for her disloyalty and evil thoughts. Fayed had not meant to die. He had not wanted to leave them. And now that he had, she must somehow and some way, find the inner resources to keep going.

A test of her resolve came from the rightful demands of Safa, the matriarch of the family with whom they had found shelter.

‘We need food – bread and rice, and lots of other things that are nearly finished,’ Safa declared bluntly to Fatima, a few days after they had arrived. She and Marwa were sitting in an armchair. Fatima was trying to read the little girl a story but she kept losing her place on the page, her thoughts drifting away, her voice falling silent. She swallowed hard and fiddled with Marwa’s hair to cover her embarrassment. She should have thought of the need to contribute without having to be asked. Of course the family couldn’t afford to keep them; everyone was struggling enough as it was.

The shock of losing everything had temporarily eclipsed all else from her mind and then the trauma of arranging a funeral for Fayed, once she had managed to get his body recovered, had also taken its toll. It had all been overwhelming and she hadn’t been thinking straight but now that must change. Money must be procured to give to Safa, Fatima understood, immediately the demand had been made. She had not left Safa’s house since they had arrived there so she had had no opportunity to get cash. She had told herself that she was not going out because there was no reason to and she was tired but she knew that really she was scared. Scared to leave the house and not know if it would still be there when she returned. So she and the girls had stayed at home, if you could call it that, but now she had to pull herself together and pull her weight.

‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised to Safa. ‘I’ll go to the bank and withdraw some money.’ As she spoke, it occurred to her what Safa probably really wanted. ‘And – I can do the shopping on my way back. Tell me what I should get.’

‘Bread, rice, as I already mentioned,’ replied Safa, disappearing into the kitchen to check the cupboards. ‘Salt, meat, flour–,’ she continued, reeling off a seemingly endless list of the household’s requirements. Fatima wrote it all down on a scrap of paper.

Armed with the list and a veneer of bravado, Fatima left the girls drawing pictures in Safa’s kitchen. The queue at the bank stretched all the way out of the door but Fatima only needed to use the cash machine so she didn’t join it. Putting her card into the slot, she marvelled at how ordinary life continued amidst the mayhem, or at least the approximation of ordinary life. She could still shop. She could still go to the cinema or to a restaurant if she wished. Not that she could imagine doing either of those two things, but it was somehow unbelievable that such diversions still existed.

The machine bleeped and rejected her card. ‘Transaction not possible’ flashed up on the screen. Fatima frowned at the message. She reinserted her card and tried again. A line was forming behind her, of people anxiously shifting from one foot to the other, looking around them and up at the sky. Air strikes had become more frequent recently.

Once more, Fatima’s card was spat back out at her, emphatically. Puzzled, and with a knot of anxiety forming in her belly, she joined the queue which was only fractionally shorter now than it had been when she arrived. She had never taken much notice of their financial position before; she hadn’t had to. Fayed, older than her by ten years, already had a well-established business when they had met, fallen in love and got married. Fatima had been happy to take care of the children whilst he made the money. They were well off and she was able to continue studying English in her spare time, with the goal of going to university to do a degree in English literature when the girls got a bit older. She had plenty of time – she was only twenty-three.

Reaching the front of the queue, she handed her card to the cashier.

‘I don’t know why the machine wouldn’t process my request,’ she said, feeling the need to explain herself. The man tapped numbers into his screen and then looked at her incredulously. He had small, narrow eyes and a mean mouth.

‘It’s nothing to do with the machine,’ he explained, speaking very slowly as if she were extremely stupid. ‘It won’t give you any money because you haven’t got any.’

SIX
Edie

The mop handle clanged angrily and water sloshed onto her bare feet as Edie lugged the bucket into the cabin and began to clean, making wide, bad-tempered arcs across the tiles. Three cabins in two-and-a-half hours was too much, especially when so many of the guests were absolute slobs, leaving dirty dishes in the sink that she had to wash up and making sure that they’d messed up all the beds so that she still had to make them again even if they hadn’t actually been slept in.

She snatched a clean sheet from the pile she had dumped on the sofa and snapped it out across the double bed in the main bedroom, tucking it in haphazardly. Really, if anyone thought they were paying for hospital corners, they had another think coming. Pillowcases next, then the same to the single beds in the twin room. She swept the floor, whisking the grains of sand swiftly across the tiles so that they flew and caught the light like mini crystals. Slowly, she backed towards the door, dragging the bucket with her and cleaning right to the threshold. She paused to flick the air-conditioning off and stepped outside into the broiling heat. Fumbling for the key in her pocket, she could feel sweat gathering on her forehead and trickling down her back and legs, running from the nape of her neck to her shoulder blades. The door slammed as she pulled it closed.

The next cabin on her list was number 15, which brought back a few fond memories. She’d spent an interesting night there with two Serbian lads whose willingness to muck in together and get themselves – and her – into some gravity-defying positions had been entertaining to say the least. Not so much fun in here now though, she mused wryly to herself, pulling pubes out of the shower trap and trying to rid the sink of a tide mark of grime. Eleven o’clock already and still one more cabin to go. It was simply too much.

It was after midday when she locked the door of her third cabin and emptied her bucket out, slinging the water towards the roots of one of the parched olive trees nearby. She turned around, pushing her hair behind her ears with the back of her free hand and jumped out of her skin. Standing motionless in front of her was a man. Edie shrieked and then, realising who it was, clapped her hand to her mouth to suppress it. Zayn. She glared at him.

‘Not funny, Zayn, not funny at all. You nearly killed me.’

‘Sorry, Eeedie.’

In contrast to Stefan the chef, Zayn stressed the first part of her name so that it rhymed with an elongated ‘seedy’. Seedy-Edie – she was surprised the boys at school had never come up with that as a nickname, but they were mostly too preoccupied with Laura to bother their heads with her.

‘It’s OK,’ she conceded, feeling a twang of guilt at how sad and perplexed he looked and sounded. ‘Did you need me for something, because I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

‘Why are you in such a rush? And looking so angry?’

Edie suppressed a quiver of irritation that slid through her; she could do without an interrogation right now. ‘Sorry, Zayn. It’s not you – I’m just mystified about where Laura’s gone, that’s all.’

‘Laura?’ Zayn’s bushy eyebrows knitted together in further puzzlement. ‘I don’t know any Laura. Who is she?’ Edie sighed in exasperation; Zayn was evidently another one of those unobservant people who couldn’t tell them apart, who thought identical twins were exactly the same in every respect, from appearance to number of fillings in their teeth and bra cup size. Whereas in fact Edie not only had no fillings to Laura’s three but also was a D cup to Laura’s C.

Zayn was staring at her expectantly, waiting for an answer. Slowly, it dawned on Edie that she was forgetting a crucial fact. Neither Zayn, nor anyone else, had actually met Laura nor even known of her existence. No one at all other than Edie had seen her when she arrived at the resort. Edie had been in no hurry to advertise her presence, partly because she had wanted to keep her to herself for a few hours at least, partly in case Vlad made a fuss about someone freeloading and partly, of course, to make sure Laura didn’t get anywhere near Vuk before Edie herself had had a chance to consolidate her position.

‘Laura’s my sister. My twin sister,’ she explained, a flicker of irritation causing her to frown. ‘She came yesterday but now she’s disappeared and I don’t know where she is.’

Zayn said nothing for a moment. Then, gently, he asked, ‘But can’t you phone her and find out?’

For one fleeting second, Edie thought that Zayn had come up with the answer, the easiest and most obvious way to make contact with Laura. And then something Laura had said whilst they were drinking drifted back to her. She’d had her phone stolen along with everything else and had no money to replace it. That was one reason why she hadn’t so much as sent a text to alert Edie to her imminent arrival. She had suggested that, if Edie didn’t mind lending her the dosh, that’s the first thing she would do in the morning. This morning, right now, Laura had intended to take the scooter into the town and buy a new phone. Edie would have told her where to go, drawn a map of the old town which was so confusing with its maze of cobbled alleyways and passages. She would have asked her to buy homegrown strawberries from one of the old women in the marketplace to bring back for them to feast on. But none of that was happening now and, as Edie thought about it, tears began to trickle down her cheeks. Honestly, it was too bad of Laura to leave her in the lurch like this.

‘No, I can’t,’ she snapped back at Zayn. She folded her arms angrily over her chest. ‘She doesn’t have a phone right now.’

‘That is not good,’ answered Zayn, his brow furrowed in concern. ‘But don’t worry!’ He released the frown and smiled at her encouragingly.

‘We’ll look for her, we’ll find her.’ He cast his gaze skywards, narrowing his eyes as he searched for the right words. ‘How do you say in English? I’ll put my thinking cap on and see what I can come up with.’

Edie shrugged. ‘Yeah, thanks Zayn. That’s great.’

He was trying to help, and she appreciated it, but in all honesty what would he be able to do? Being sweet and kind wasn’t what was required right now. To work out Laura’s whereabouts she needed someone with natural authority about them, someone who knew how to kick ass. A description which exactly fitted Vuk. She also needed someone who could console her for the brevity of the time she’d had with her adored sister. Surely he’d be back from whatever boat trip he was on soon? Suddenly she felt desperate for him, for the soulmate that she was sure he was beneath his taciturnity and undemonstrativeness. She yearned for arms around her, strong and capable arms. Vuk’s arms.

Abruptly taking leave of Zayn, Edie sloped off to the bar for her shift. The afternoon dragged, each order an irritation, every customer an inconvenience. She kept looking around, anxious for any sign of Vuk, simultaneously expecting – hoping – that at any moment Laura might also reappear, a taunting smile on her face, wondering what Edie was making such a fuss about, decrying that anyone might have so much as noticed her absence.

‘Where on earth have you been?’ Edie would ask.

‘Here and there, shooting the breeze,’ Laura would reply, and that would be that.

So much for the idea that twins are psychic. Edie had never been able to read Laura’s mind. She banged down glasses and crashed piles of plates together for several long hours. ‘Edeeee,’ remonstrated Stefan. ‘You need be careful. You break something.’

‘Yeah, sorry.’ Edie began shoving handfuls of clean cutlery into the grey plastic tray on the table behind the bar. ‘I’d slow down but Vlad always tells me I’m letting the team down if I do that.’ She smiled self-righteously at the long-suffering Stefan as she flung down the last handful of forks.

‘You are a good worker, Edie,’ countered Stefan, his voice eager and anxious at the same time. ‘I’ve told Vlad that.’

‘Thanks, Stefan,’ said Edie, turning to survey the tables and assess what needed doing next. A tiny glow of pleasure seeped through her, despite herself. Stefan’s praise was nice to hear; at least someone appreciated her.

And then she saw him.

Vuk was making his way across the dry, powdery sand that edged the beach. Tall and upright, attracting admiring gazes from every woman around, just the sight of him turned Edie’s stomach upside down. Haphazardly depositing a pile of teaspoons on the counter, she raced towards him.

‘Vuk!’

He looked in her direction. Flying across the loose, shifting sand, Edie could not focus on his expression. She arrived at his side, grabbing his arm and hanging onto it while she caught her breath.

‘You are in a hurry today, Edie.’ The few words he spoke were always in impeccable English, learned during a few years he’d spent as a student in Leicester. She looked up into his eyes and saw the outline of herself, perfectly reflected in his black pupils. He smiled his lop-sided smile and she melted.

‘Oh, Vuk, I’ve been desperate to find you. I’ve missed you so much.’ As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. She mustn’t put Vuk off by being too available, too clingy; she’d made that mistake before. But he just riffled her hair with one of his dextrous hands and smiled, albeit somewhat distractedly.

‘Let’s go and get a drink,’ she suggested hastily, to cover up her over-zealous greeting. ‘I could do with one.’

She squeezed her fingers around Vuk’s. His hands were so big, so strong and muscular. They were hands that could cope, that could fix things.

The bottles that Edie fetched from the bar bled with condensation and foamed pale and yellow as Vuk poured the beer into glasses. Edie stuck her finger into the middle of the spume and circled it, observing how the frothy bubbles attached to her skin and then quietly imploded and melted away. It reminded her of the tops of the breakers on the Atlantic beaches of home, where she and Laura would wave-jump, shrieking from the cold and even more so when they landed and felt the squirm of a disappearing crab underfoot. How James had longed to join them when he was small but their parents had said it was too rough. It must have been hard for him, Edie suddenly realised, to be always on the outside looking in, always chasing after them but never quite catching up. A bit like how she felt about Vuk right now. She seemed to be doing all the running.

‘Edie, you should not play with your food and drink. It’s not hygienic.’

Edie smirked in pseudo-embarrassment. ‘Sorry, Vuk. I forgot you were Mr Clean.’ She put her finger in her mouth and sucked it, long and slow.

She expected a reaction to her provocative action but Vuk merely lit a cigarette and began to smoke.

‘There’s something I need your advice on,’ she ventured tentatively, looking up at Vuk through her eyelashes and pushing out her chest in her skimpy T-shirt. Rather than dropping the flirting as a reaction to Vuk’s seeming indifference, she intensified it.

Vuk raised his eyebrows infinitesimally in response. Edie nearly snapped with exasperation.

And then he reached out and ran his thumb and forefinger around her cheek and chin and along her lips.

Finally! Satisfied that he wanted her and that she had his attention, she was able to say what was burning her tongue.

‘I don’t know where Laura is.’

Vuk’s eyes creased as they narrowed in perplexity. ‘Edie, you are talking in riddles. I don’t understand.’

Remembering again that Zayn was still the only other person who knew about Laura, she qualified her explanation. ‘Laura’s my twin sister, she came yesterday but now she’s gone. I’ve been half-expecting her to turn up all day but there’s still no sign of her.’

Edie put her fingertips to her forehead, covering her eyes. She shook her head, took a deep breath and slid her other hand down Vuk’s forearm.

‘So what do you think I should do?’

Vuk took a long draught of his beer.

‘Nothing.’

‘Uh?’ Edie’s surprise made her inarticulate. Surely Vuk could do better than that.

‘She has gone travelling again,’ he continued, laconically. ‘That’s all,’ he shrugged.

‘But I don’t understand why she would have done that without telling me,’ protested Edie, flinging her arms in the air. ‘Why would she? Why would she come one day and leave the next? It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘You are twins. Don’t you know?’ Vuk drained his glass and made as if to get up from the table.

‘NO!’ Edie slammed the palms of her hands on the table. ‘That’s all just bollocks. Of course we know each other inside out but we, like everyone else on earth, need a telephone or a computer to have a long-distance conversation. Cut the “twins are psychic” crap – everyone does it and it really annoys me.’

Her anger rolled off her like the hot breeze from the nearby fan. And then dissipated as Vuk pushed his chair back and picked up his sunglasses from the table.

‘Wait, where are you going? Is that all the help you’re going to give me?’

‘I have an appointment. See you later maybe.’ Vuk was already making his way towards the side path that led away from the beach and up into the resort. All he ever had was appointments, business to conduct. Where was the time for her?

‘You need to stop fussing, Edie,’ added Vuk as he retreated. ‘Laura is okay. You just look after yourself.’

Edie slumped into her chair, her head in her hands. And then sat bolt upright, her eyes widening with horror. No, no, no. Surely the thing she’d dreaded hadn’t happened? There had been something so strange about the way Vuk dismissed the whole story. He knew something, she was sure of it … could Laura possibly have got her hands on him so soon? But even if so, it still didn’t explain why she had completely vanished, he would hardly be keeping her prisoner.

Edie hauled herself out of her chair and started to make her way up the sandy brown slope of the hill towards her room. She was tired after such a short night’s sleep and, as well as her suspicions about Vuk and Laura, she couldn’t get his words out of her head. ‘Look after yourself.’ What had he meant by that? If anyone needed minding, it was Laura. Why on earth should she, Edie, need looking after – and if she did, why not by him?

SEVEN
Fatima

‘I don’t understand,’ stammered Fatima, feeling her legs go weak. ‘It can’t be right. I – we – always have money, we – my husband was an accountant; he had many clients. Of course not the same as it used to be …,’ her voice faltered.

‘Maybe your husband was planning something,’ the bank clerk shrugged, half-bored and half-enjoying her discomfort. ‘I can see here that he withdrew all the money from this account and the associated savings account a week or so ago.’

Fatima leaned against the counter for support. She felt hot and sick and dizzy.

‘You better ask him why,’ continued the clerk by way of conclusion. ‘Now if you don’t mind, many people are waiting.’

Fatima inched herself along the counter just far enough for the next client to take her place. She rested her forehead against the cool glass of the empty booth in front of her. In that moment, she hated this war as she had never hated anything before and surely never would again. It had made Fayed do something which he would not have countenanced in any other circumstances – act in secret, without discussing his plans with her. Fatima knew his actions would have been driven by love and a desire to do the best for his family. But that was little comfort now that he was gone and all of their money with him.

All Fatima had was what she kept deposited in an account she had set up when the girls were born, that she herself managed and paid into. She took out every penny. The sum that had disappeared by the time she had bought the items on Safa’s list was frightening; prices of the most basic goods were escalating by the day. That evening, Fatima sewed a secret pocket into the waistband of her trousers and stashed the remaining money inside it. There was only one explanation for Fayed’s actions. He must have decided that they should leave; he probably hadn’t wanted her to know to prevent her from worrying or perhaps because these days, it was often best to know nothing in case of summary arrest and interrogation. Aware of what Fayed had had in mind, and believing in her husband’s ability to make the right decisions as he always had, she went to Ehsan to talk about their future.

It turned out that Ehsan had a fair amount of cash; between them, they might just be able to manage. Manage to get away, that was, not to stay. The widow Safa and the various members of her family who lived with her were kind but, like everyone, were struggling hard enough to keep themselves going in these terrible days. Often, there was not enough food, power supplies were intermittent and unreliable and the cramped conditions they were living in were bound to breed illness and disease. When the next winter came, everything would be a hundred times harder. By then, who knew what would be left of the country.

More and more bombs dropped by day and by night. Where they struck was random and indiscriminate. House raids could happen anytime; nobody knew when the door would be broken down and the men, such as were left, taken, imprisoned, tortured, killed. Towns in the north were besieged; starving residents reduced to eating grass and cats to stay alive. New threats arose all the time, bands of fighters more vicious than the last, their methods and ideologies ruthless and barbaric, devoid of mercy. Public beheadings were commonplace, mass slaughter just another everyday occurrence. The enemy was everywhere and everyone; most people no longer knew who was fighting who or why.

It was obvious to Fatima that they must make arrangements to leave. There was no time to apply for new passports to replace the ones that had been lost along with the house. That could take weeks or months in the current chaos, even supposing they were issued at all. Anyone could be accused of being on the other side, an enemy of the state, and then there would be no documents and probably no freedom. In any case, it was not a good idea to make yourself known to the authorities, to draw attention to yourself. They would have to take the chance of getting across the border illegally.

There had to be a better life for them all than this. There had to be a life.

***

In the idle days before they left, and the silent hours of the night when there were no air strikes, Fatima began to think about contacting Ali. For the first time since the war had begun, it seemed that perhaps now was the time to mend bridges and renew family ties. Ali was out there somewhere, in Europe Fatima assumed. He was in a safe place, and maybe if she could find him, he would be able to help, send money, get them a route out, support them into Europe also. But so much had been said; so many accusations been made against Ali by her father when he was still alive – accusations of betrayal because he had refused to have an arranged marriage, did not want to take over the family business and did not follow all aspects of Islam – that it seemed unlikely the rift could ever be healed. Fatima had been instructed to join the rest of the family in disowning him, and she had done as she was told because she had been so young at the time, only twelve, although underneath she still loved her big brother like she always had.

She thought about contacting him now the chips were down and their lives might depend on it, but did not do it. He would most likely hate her for being party to the whole sorry affair of his banishment from the family home and subsequent exile, and for only getting touch when she needed something from him. To track him down and then have her requests fall on deaf ears would be worse than not hearing anything at all, because then she would know that she had lost her only brother for ever. She pushed thoughts of Ali from her mind. Imagining that out there somewhere lay a saviour, a guardian angel who could guide and help them to safety, was plain fantasy. She, Ehsan and the children would survive only on their wits, by the making of good decisions, and with a whole lot of luck.

Angels do not exist.

EIGHT
Edie

Abandoned anew by Vuk, Edie meandered through the resort, at a loss for what to do. She had thought about the whole Laura shenanigans almost without let-up and decided that in all likelihood, she had gone off with some bloke – perhaps one of the Russians they had met at the marina – and would amble back once his flight had departed for Moscow or St Petersburg or Vladivostok or wherever it was he was from. She had no idea where Vladivostok was but she liked the way the letters rolled off her tongue and it amused her to think what its inhabitants would be called. If people from St Petersburg were Peterburzhy, would it make them Vladivostokhy? Or Vladivostokites like Muscovites? Either one could double as the name for an unpleasant intimate infection or a particularly repellent insect.

She passed cabana 16, grumpily kicking at the sand as she walked. The cabana was quiet and still; the loungers piled on top of each other in the corner, the washing line free of swimming costumes and towels, the recycling crate by the front door empty of bottles – all indicating a property waiting for its next inhabitants.

Pausing only for a second to think about it, Edie slipped through the gate and disappeared behind the fence. Stripping off her clothes as she walked, she arrived at the edge of the pool in seconds. It was not deep enough for diving so she slid into the water and struck off from the side, reaching the opposite wall in just a few strokes. The cabana pools were small but kept at just the right temperature – cooler than the sea at this time of year, and in the middle of the afternoon, when the beach was at its busiest, Edie preferred to stay away. It was all right if you had nothing to do but lounge around and read trashy novels, but when it was only ever a brief respite from her life of drudgery, it made her too jealous of the holidaymakers.

Pushing her body down to the very bottom of the pool she practised her breath-holding, relaxing completely, slowing her heart-rate, counting to sixty as many times as she could. Three minutes twenty. No improvement, in fact a relapse; she needed to keep working at it. She surfaced and arched her body backwards, streaming effortlessly onto her back where she lay still, her arms and legs spread into a star. She floated with her eyes shut, bright red pricks of light pulsing behind the lids, the gentle swoosh of the water filling her ears.

‘Mummy, mummy, this one, this one.’

‘Let’s go in, I want to go swimming.’

Voices filtered through to her, clearly audible but barely registering.

‘There’s someone in our pool!’ A child’s helium pitched squeal, suddenly much too close, seared into Edie’s stupor.

Shit! The new occupants had arrived and were about to discover her, Goldilocks-like in their swimming pool, and not only that, but stark naked. Her body convulsed from back to front and into swimming position, and she opened her eyes to be greeted by two little faces bent low to the water. They were examining her as if she were an exotic bug of a type they had never seen before and were curious about.

‘I’m so sorry, I just finished cleaning and I was so hot,’ she lied, thinking off the top of her head as she climbed out of the water. As she did so, she noticed that the children were accompanied by two adults, one a woman, shortish and plump with a blonde bob that swung around her ears like a shaggy, past-its-best halo and the other a ginger-haired man, open-jawed in amazement.

Attempting to cover her breasts with one arm and her genitals with other, Edie executed a comedic, half-hopping, half-shuffling movement towards where her discarded clothes lay, distributed in random heaps on the poolside tiles.

‘Who are you? Why are you here?’ The woman’s voice was well-educated, her words elaborately enunciated. ‘Is this definitely our accommodation, Patrick? If so, I think we should complain,’ she continued, turning to the man, presumably her husband, beside her.

It was a few moments before he regained his composure enough to reply. ‘Oh no, Debs, that’s not necessary.’

Edie had gathered up her clothes and was pulling on her shorts whilst performing a weird, fumbling run towards the gate. ‘So sorry,’ she called out behind her. ‘Bye. Enjoy your stay.’

‘We have disturbed Psyche at her bathing,’ she heard the man say before she was through the gate. ‘I can think of worse things …’ and then Edie was out of earshot and never heard the end of the sentence or found out what the worse things were.

At least he didn’t seem likely to complain to Vlad. The last thing she needed was to be chucked off the resort right now, when Laura might reappear at any moment.

On her way to the bar a bit later, she encountered Zayn hovering amidst the olive trees, almost as if he were waiting for her.

‘Has your sister turned up yet?’ he asked, his heavy eyes doleful as ever.

‘Nope,’ replied Edie, curtly. She couldn’t hang around chatting as she was already late.

‘And you have still heard nothing?’ Zayn had secateurs in his hand and snapped off a stray olive branch as he spoke. It tumbled gently to the ground where its silver shimmer was quickly obliterated by the sandy soil.

‘Nope,’ repeated Edie, impatient to get on.

Zayn pursed his lips and nodded his head slowly up and down whilst making a low, tutting noise.

‘What?’ demanded Edie. ‘What are you getting at?’

‘Nothing.’ Zayn forced a smile. ‘Nothing at all. Just that I hope you find her. I know what it’s like to lose a.… ’ he tailed off, without finishing his sentence. He looked as if he might cry.

‘I wouldn’t describe her as lost so much as temporarily mislaid,’ countered Edie, horrified at Zayn’s barely disguised emotion, and backtracking hurriedly on her previous assertions that Laura was, indeed, missing. Without pausing for Zayn’s reaction she made her escape. ‘Sorry, got to go,’ she called out as she galloped off down the path, her sandalled feet sending sand flying.

But all evening, working behind the bar, she could not rid her mind of the seeds of worry that Zayn’s words and troubled demeanour had, probably unintentionally, planted.

The fairy lights sparkled and the stars lit up the calm, flat water of the bay, and everything looked gorgeous but Edie found herself eyeing every male customer as a potential suspect in the Mysterious Case of the Disappearing Sister; presuming all were hiding knowledge of her twin’s whereabouts. The only person she couldn’t accuse of nefariousness in this respect was Patrick, the man whose pool she had invaded earlier, given that he’d only just arrived. When he came to the bar to ask for two Coca-Colas, a white wine and beer, she faced up to him, looking him squarely in the eye and serving him as if she had never seen him before. He responded in similar vein, although when Edie turned back from taking the glasses from the shelf, she was sure she caught the shadow of a smirk on his lips.

‘Can I put it on my room?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, sure.’ Edie took a notepad and a pen, which she tapped idly against her teeth as if deep in thought. ‘That would be cabana 16, wouldn’t it?’

Each flashed the other a complicit grin and Patrick walked away with the drinks.

A few moments later, Edie jumped when an arm encircled her waist and a pair of firm lips planted a kiss on the side of her neck.

Vuk.

Overcome with relief, she turned to face him and put her arms around him, her ally. ‘Hello, stranger.’ His hand grazed the back of her thigh and slid up towards her buttocks. She stiffened, her body tight with desire.

‘Back already?’ Edie couldn’t hide her surprise. ‘I didn’t expect you so soon.’

Vuk shrugged, but didn’t answer. His hands were inside her shorts now and he kissed her again, hard on the lips. And then brusquely detached himself and went to sit at a table with a group of locals where Edie kept a surreptitious eye on him until Stefan awarded her a break. Immediately, she joined Vuk, alone now, silently smoking and staring into nothing.

‘Howdie,’ she said, standing behind him and running her hands over his shoulders and down to his pecs. His muscles were hard, his body solid. She bent down and kissed the top of his head, smelling the sun in his warm, thick hair.

‘Sit down, Edie. You look tired.’

Edie flopped into the chair next to him. ‘I’m officially knackered,’ she groaned, letting out a long sigh.

Vuk wordlessly pushed his glass of beer over towards her, indicating that she should drink.

‘How was your trip?’ asked Edie, wanting to break the silence.

‘Fine.’

Vuk really took the prize for being economical with words. One-syllable answers were his speciality.

‘Just a short one this time, then?’ She desperately tried to elicit some more information.

Vuk merely flicked his head backwards in affirmation.

‘I’ve made a decision,’ she announced, only aware of this fact as she articulated it. ‘I’m going to go to the police about Laura tomorrow. Just in case.’

Vuk said nothing, merely raised his eyebrows.

‘Yes,’ asserted Edie, as if convincing herself that the action she had just thought of was definitely the right one. Vuk’s attitude was hardly encouraging and seemed to demand that she came up with some kind of justification. ‘I’m sure Laura is fine but I’m thinking of our parents; they’re away at the moment, trekking in the Andes, so they’re out of contact. But I’m imagining what they would say if they knew Laura had vanished and I didn’t do anything about it.’

Vuk drew on his cigarette, tipped his head back and blew smoke rings, small and perfectly formed, into the blackness of the night.

‘It will be difficult to get the police to understand,’ he replied, his voice deep and even as usual. But Edie thought she detected a flash of annoyance in his eyes.

‘Look, I know I don’t speak the language but there’ll be someone there who speaks English, surely? Especially in a tourist place like this.’

She fell silent, expectant, waiting for him to say he would come with her. She was desperate for him to prove his devotion to her, could feel her need growing and swelling like blotting paper in a pool of water. She pressed her lips hard together and clenched her fists to stop herself from articulating that need. She had done this before, scared people off with her intensity. That could not be allowed to happen again.

She watched, all her muscles tensed to contain herself, as Vuk crushed his cigarette into the ashtray in front of him, pushing it down so forcefully that the stub bent and split at the side, spewing forth a few flakes of golden-brown tobacco that fell infinitesimally slowly onto the grey ash.

‘I suggest that you do not go to the police, Edie,’ he said. His countenance was calm, but his eyes had a steeliness that seemed to contain the inexplicable hint of a warning.

‘I really do not recommend it.’

‘Why not?’ It seemed absurd. The police were where you went for help. Everyone knew that.

‘There is a lot of corruption here. The old ways die hard and the truth can be a rare commodity. People say the police are in league with the drug gangs, that they don’t try to prevent the wars that break out between them now and then. Foreigners should take care to stay away from authority, lest they get involved.’ He sighed, as if he had the weight of the world and inefficient officials on his shoulders. ‘The police will do nothing to help you, I can guarantee that.’

‘What if you spoke to them, then?’ retaliated Edie, even while Vuk’s words played in her mind. She really didn’t know what he was talking about, did not understand the pre-democratic era he seemed to be describing. ‘Surely that would make a difference?’

Vuk emitted a short snort of incredulity. ‘I don’t trust anyone in uniform. If you had lived all your life in our world, you would not either.’

Edie gaped, open-mouthed. Vuk’s cryptic words had floored her.

He reached toward her and stroked her cheek, gently and firmly. ‘I only want the best for you, little one. Nothing but the best.’ Bending forward, he kissed her on the lips, hard and purposefully.

Edie felt herself relax. Only the best. Of course that’s what he wanted for her. And Laura, too, she was sure.

She kissed him back.

NINE
Fatima

The pudgy fingers of the man in the gold shop repulsed Fatima as he picked at her bracelets, her necklace, her wedding and engagement rings.

‘They’re not much, are they?’ he stated disparagingly, his grubby glasses fallen to the end of his nose and dandruff from his greasy hair coating his shoulders.

You disgust me, Fatima wanted to say. You are a horrible little man who feeds on the plight of others.

She kept her mouth tightly closed. The odium she felt was not really for him; it was for the perpetrators of this conflict that allowed some to profit whilst most were reduced to utter ignominy. Watching the dealer distastefully poke her earrings she wondered how her happy, settled, ordered life had come to this. And then gave a contemptuous inner laugh at the idea that she had it worse than anyone else, at the audacity of even thinking that she didn’t deserve what had been meted out to her. Millions of lives had been slashed to pieces, tens of thousands slain, a multitude left with scars that would never heal. And she was sad about selling her trinkets. She despised herself for the pettiness of her thoughts.

And yet her heart lurched in her chest when the dealer held a magnifying glass against the stones in the necklace that she always wore. The chain was pure gold and the pendant an interlocking figure of eight shape with two emeralds surrounded by tiny diamonds and seed pearls. Fayed had given it to her when the twins were born, an emerald for each of them to match their mother’s green eyes, he had said. It had been in his family for years and Fatima had always admired it but never thought to own it herself, assuming that Noor, who possessed the status conferred by seniority, would get the pick of the most valuable pieces.

‘This one – this is nice,’ the man said, laying it carefully back onto the table.

Fatima gave an almost imperceptible nod of agreement. Remain implacable. Give nothing away. This had been her advice to herself as she set off for the shop.

‘Take whatever you can get,’ Ehsan had urged her, his brow growing taut and his eyes wide, obviously fearing that she would bungle it somehow and get ripped off, end up selling everything for a song.

Fatima had nodded whilst secretly concocting her own game plan. She was not going to panic and give the jewellery away. She was nobody’s pushover. She’d been telling herself that since the day at the bank and she was beginning to believe it – or at least to make a good enough pretence. There had been bad decisions in the past, though. If only they’d sold the house and left at the beginning, when it all started, Fatima railed at herself now. Then she’d have cash in her pocket and could keep the jewellery for later, for the rainy day that would undoubtedly come all too soon. But no one had known, then, how bad it was going to get, how long it would all go on for. No one could possibly have predicted such a complete breakdown of society, such carnage, such an exodus. Now Fatima had only her few pieces of jewellery to fall back on and thank goodness Fayed’s accountancy business had been lucrative, once, and that he had been generous and rich enough to bestow gold and silver and precious stones upon her, and that she’d been wearing so many of them on the day the bombs fell. She was going to need every single pound she could glean from them today. There was nothing that mattered now except getting Marwa and Maryam out of here.

The gold dealer offered a price. It was derisory.

‘I don’t have time for this.’ Fatima scooped up all the jewels, delicate chains dripping between her fingers, the stones of her engagement ring digging into the palm of her hand, and left. She said nothing more, just turned her back and walked away.

The man called her bluff, shrugging and busying himself with some paperwork. She almost lost her nerve and returned to the counter but just managed to hold on long enough for him to have to summon her.

‘Wait,’ he called out, ‘let me take another look.’

She was at the door already and she paused, hovering on the threshold, making him wait for her to turn back.

His second offer was better, but still nowhere near enough. Fatima scowled scornfully and refused, but this time remained where she was standing. The dealer did some more poking and prodding and examining and scrutinising. Fatima put forward an amount that she would find acceptable. He laughed in her face. She almost capitulated, anything to get away from the humiliation he was joyously meting out to her.

Inside her head, a voice was crying out to her, this is all you have! Nothing else, just this. Don’t mess it up, you foolish woman. She stood firm.

Pursing her lips tightly together, squaring her shoulders, Fatima steadfastly gave the dealer another sum, her absolute minimum. It was not much less than the previous number. Negotiations like these could take hours or minutes. It all depended on how much the seller wanted to sell and the buyer wanted to buy. However much she affected nonchalance, the dealer knew that a woman only sold her jewellery, her wedding ring, if she had to. She only had so much power to influence the outcome.

Eventually, they agreed on a price. It was far lower than the value of the items, but considerably higher than Fatima had expected to get.

‘Thank you,’ said Fatima, and actually meant it.

‘No, thank you, madam,’ said the gold dealer, suddenly jovial now the deal was done. ‘It was a pleasure doing business with you.’

‘Likewise,’ nodded Fatima, and did not mean it.

She stashed the money in the waistband pocket, nodded a perfunctory farewell and left. It was small, but it was a victory. It was proof that she could cope, that she would continue to cope. She would do it for her children because not doing so was not an option, and for Fayed, for his memory. As she walked back to Safa’s house, her thoughts strayed to how life used to be when they were all so happy together and had everything to look forward to. The twins were healthy and bright, they were comfortably off and, most importantly of all, she and Fayed were in love.

Fatima remembered how he had brought the emerald necklace to her one evening as she sat in the girls’ nursery in the courtyard house, singing them to sleep with the songs she had learnt from her mother that had been passed down through the generations. He had hung it around her neck, gently fastening the clasp and then leading her to the mirror to show her how it complemented her dark skin and sparkling eyes. In that moment, Fatima’s world had been complete. The rumbling protests and skirmishes in the big cities far away had been expected to pass over quickly; order would quickly be restored and life would go on as before.

How naive that complacency seemed now. Fayed was dead and the country dying. Life itself could no longer be taken for granted. Fatima quickened her pace as the sky darkened. She had a feeling there would be a raid that night. She must get back to the twins before the bombs began to fall.

Edie

‘So you will forget your idea about the police?’ Vuk’s voice was low, full of concern. ‘Remember that you need to think about your status here. You do not have a work permit, for example.’

He squeezed her hand conspiratorially. ‘It is not advisable to draw attention to yourself or the resort. Vlad would be most unhappy.’

Edie was speechless for a moment. No one had mentioned permits or any kind of legal nicety when she had pitched up and asked for a job. Typical of Vlad to use threats to keep people down. Suddenly, the tension that had been building exploded out of her.

‘Fuck Vlad,’ she shouted.

She got up, knocking her chair over in the process; it was one of the plastic ones, light and unstable. Exactly how she felt at that precise moment.

‘And fuck this whole stupid place.’ Without stopping to pick up the fallen chair, she marched off in the direction of her room. But her flouncing protest soon ran out of steam and she was already regretting her tantrum before she got even halfway through the olive grove and long before she reached her door. Once inside her room she flung herself onto her bed, clenching her fists tight and drumming them onto the pillow, tears of frustration pouring down her cheeks.

Edie needed Vuk right now, really needed him. She couldn’t go to sleep after their argument. What had her mother always said to her? Never let the sun go down on a quarrel. Not that it had been so much a quarrel as a disagreement – her disagreeing with Vuk, him implacable as always. But still, Laura’s presence, her support, could never be relied upon, whereas in Vuk Edie had seen the possibility of building the permanent, fulfilling, mutually beneficial relationship she so yearned for.

Slowly, she sat up and shuffled along her bed until she was facing the mirror she’d propped up on a shelf on the wall. She would have to go and see him, apologise, make up with him. Sniffing loudly, she rubbed her finger over the smudges of mascara on her cheeks whilst deciding what to do. Her make-up was strewn across the room and she gathered up the elements she needed – powder, mascara, some nude lip gloss that accentuated her pale rosebud mouth. She set to work on tidying herself up.

The heat still had not dissipated as she picked her way back though the olive trees, their silvery leaves shimmering in the moonlight. The paths were lit at ground level and by overhead lanterns, but she always deviated from them, preferring to take the most direct course possible, and she had already established an off-piste route to Vuk’s cabin. As she drew near, she could see Vuk sitting on a lounger, his legs stretched out in front of him, his bare feet crossed one over the other. It was impossible to tell if he was asleep or awake, except for the twitch of his fingers as he tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette. Silently, Edie slid through the darkness and onto the terrace. She paused, sheltered by the huge fig tree that grew there. It was heavy with fruit, small and green, that clustered pugnaciously on every part of every branch like knuckles on a clenched fist. Hidden from view, she watched Vuk, his brown limbs at ease, his eyes shut, his breathing slow and relaxed.

‘Edie.’

She jumped and her heart beat wildly. She had thought he couldn’t see her, wouldn’t know that she was there.

‘Why don’t you come over?’ His deep voice set her pulse racing.

Stepping out of the shadows, she padded across the rough stone slabs, designed to prevent water from making them slippery. She had heard that in the winter the rain here was torrential, sheeting off the mountains and cascading downwards towards the sea, forming seasonal waterfalls that thundered during their brief revival and then fell silent when summer came again.

Arriving at his lounger, Edie stopped and took a deep breath.

‘I’m sorry I shouted at you.’ The blurted apology was hard to make, but necessary. ‘It’s just because I’m worried about Laura. I mean, I wasn’t worried until Zayn put doubt into my mind and I probably don’t need to be worried, but somehow I am.’ She paused. ‘Just a bit,’ she added, lamely.

Vuk flicked his cigarette butt into the flowering oleander bushes that sprawled beside his cabin walls.

‘You like a beer? Go inside and fetch one from the fridge.’

Edie took the invitation to be Vuk’s way of saying ‘It’s OK, no problem, all forgotten.’ She made her way silently inside and into the kitchen. The senior members of staff who lived on site, namely Vuk and Vlad and Ivana, the admin manager, had cabins of their own. Although not as luxurious as the guest cabanas, they were still comfortable and Edie saw how they could be made really nice with the right touch – some rugs to absorb the echoes, pops of colour to break-up the monotony of the white walls and floors. An enormous bowl containing nothing but fifty lemons or limes sitting on a counter-top, like in the interior magazines or the home sections of the Sunday supplements.

Vuk’s cabin, though, had nothing homely about it. Containing only the bare minimum – bedclothes, a few mugs and a kettle in the kitchen, his toothbrush in the bathroom – the cabin could have belonged to anyone. It was utterly impersonal. She resisted the temptation to go into the bedroom and check it for signs of female visitors other than herself.

She came back with the beers, handed Vuk a bottle and kept one for herself.

‘Sit.’ Vuk indicated to his left hand side. As there was no chair there, Edie knelt down, resting on her upturned heels.

‘Are you still cross with me?’ Vuk was often so unreadable, so inscrutable that Edie could not tell what he was thinking.

‘Of course not.’

Vuk drank and put the bottle on the ground. Reaching out his left hand, he caught hold of the back of Edie’s head, his fingers tangling in her hair causing tiny stabs of pain in her scalp.

‘I’ll make some enquiries around and see if I can find anything out about your sister. You should stop fretting. Leave it to me.’

Adoration flooded through Edie. Vuk would not let her down.

His right hand was on his shorts zip, undoing it, opening the waistband wide. Whatever he wanted, she would give to him, in return for being her knight in shining armour. He wrenched her head roughly forward, grinding her face into his groin, and then releasing the pressure to allow her mouth to find his penis beneath the soft fabric of his underpants. Her lips felt him swell and harden, and she began to tease him, bringing him to full size. He pulled himself free and guided her mouth onto him. Controlling the rhythm, his fingers even more tightly wound in her hair, he made her take all of him in her mouth, arching his back to her until he came, emitting a groan that seemed to originate from somewhere deep within him, and then relaxing back into stillness.

Edie climbed onto the lounger and lay beside him, fitting her body into the spaces around his, nestling down between him and the arm of the chair. She shut her eyes and listened to the roar of the crickets and his steady breathing and the rustle of fallen leaves in the sandy soil as some night creature went about its business. She was so happy that she could please him, satisfy him. So happy he was finally here for her to do so. She didn’t mind that the sex they had was so often about satisfying his needs and so rarely about hers. If she could give him what he wanted, she regarded that as a privilege.

‘Shall we go to bed?’ she asked eventually. She thought he had fallen asleep and didn’t want to disturb him but it was getting uncomfortable wedged against the hard plastic and she had a sudden desire for sleep. She pushed herself upright and looked down at Vuk.

‘I’ll walk you back to your room,’ he said, swinging his legs over the side of the chair and getting up.

She stared at him, wondering if she had heard correctly.

‘What?’

‘Come on.’ Vuk had slipped on his shoes and was waiting for her expectantly.

Edie didn’t know what to say and Vuk was clearly impatient to be off.

‘Edie, please hurry. I have things to do.’ He was walking towards the path already, striding purposefully forward, not even looking to see if she were following.

‘What on earth do you need to do in the middle of the night?’ demanded Edie, running to keep up.

Vuk didn’t answer, just continued up the hill. When they reached the staff cabins he bent down and pecked her on the cheek.

‘See you later,’ he muttered, looking into the distance, his mind clearly on other things. And then he was gone.

In her room, Edie tried to think objectively. She was not Vuk’s keeper. Her mother had tried so hard to instil in her how important it was not to overwhelm people with demands and impositions. It had taken her years to accept that it was OK for Laura to have other friends, to occasionally want to do her own thing instead of always being with Edie. That doctor-type woman she’d seen in her teens had impressed on her the need to let go, to live and let live. Now she must put this into practice with Vuk. To keep him, she had to set him free. And that meant not questioning him to the point where he would get annoyed with her, not keeping tabs on his movements. Free, easy and undemanding, coupled with sex whenever the bloke wanted it; that was the way to conduct a successful relationship, Edie was sure of it.

Remember those rules, she told herself sternly as she got into bed. It didn’t stop her feeling lonely, though, and wishing Vuk were with her.

TEN
Fatima

Ehsan had been vacillating about leaving with Fatima, one minute certain, the next full of doubts again.

‘How will we manage it with three children in tow?’ he demanded, his voice gruff with anxiety. ‘What if they get sick? What if we do?’

Fatima bit her lip. ‘But if we stay we’ll get sick for sure, next winter, if we haven’t been blasted out of existence by then.’

Eventually, he made up his mind. He and Youssef would accompany her after all. Just like Fatima they, too, had nothing more to lose. It would work for both of them; she would do better with a male protector and Ehsan would benefit from the fact that she spoke much better English than him; an asset that would surely help them on their journey. And Fatima was happy to be with Youssef, who was a kind and loveably boy, and who deserved the same opportunities as her own twins.

They would all attempt to get to Europe where they could begin again. One thing was clear to both adults; neither had any intention of just crossing a border and staying put. They had heard about that life, from friends and acquaintances, from the internet. The appalling conditions, the abject poverty, the abuse and degradation suffered daily by the refugees, the lack of work, of opportunities, the reliance on charity handouts that diminished in line with thinning donations as compassion fatigue set in around the world.

Fatima knew also about the rape and domestic violence suffered by the women, the return of child marriage, families offering up their pre-pubescent girls for a fraction of the dowry they should have received in normal times, literally selling them into a life of early pregnancies and childbirth that would destroy them even if the bombs and shooting and soldiers didn’t. The parents would tell themselves it was to keep their daughters safe. It was a safety Fatima would never accept for her children, however far off it might seem right now, when the twins were still so very young.

Above all, life in the camps was a life in limbo, waiting for a change for the better that would never come. That’s why they had never even contemplated leaving before now. It had seemed preferable to stay put and pray for an end to the war and the violence and the suffering. Until now. Now, anything seemed better than remaining where they were. Fatima only had to recall in her mind’s eye that vision of her once beautiful street crumpled and beaten, the lurking shadows of the injured and dispossessed scuttling like rats out of holes, the hideous sight of her beloved husband’s body, lifeless and stiff, to know that she would never, could never go back.

The ancient cobbled lanes of the old town, suffused with scents of clove and cumin, the bright clothes in the shops, the bakery that smelt of warmth and cinnamon and everything good to eat, were all gone. The courtyard house, with its lemon trees and almond orchard and trickling fountain, was gone. The girls’ nursery where she had soothed them to sleep, with its white-painted walls and matching beds covered with the counterpanes she had embroidered by hand in the months she waited for them to be born – gone now.

Her city, the only one she had ever known and where she had lived all her life, had been eradicated. Everything was in ruins. Nowhere to live, nowhere to work, nothing to eat. No Fayed.

The only choice left was to go and to keep going until they reached northern Europe. That there were so many hundreds of thousands of others doing the same she was well aware. But she couldn’t think of them, couldn’t let the fact that she would be just one woman in the midst of a nameless multitude put her off. Of the two routes available, both were fraught with danger. They could get to Egypt and try to cross the Mediterranean from there, or from Libya. Disadvantage: a long and extraordinarily perilous boat ride to Italy during which it was highly likely one or all of them would perish. Advantage: from Italy it was the EU all the way to Germany or Sweden. Alternatively, they could take the Turkish route. Disadvantage: the danger inherent in getting to and crossing the border, in getting to one of the islands and then traversing Macedonia and Serbia before reaching the European countries. Advantage: a much shorter boat ride – the possibility that they might all survive.

Fatima and Ehsan discussed the options until late into the night in the days following the destruction of their home and lives.

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