Khalid had been raped so many times and with such brutality, that his insides were torn and he’d needed emergency surgery and serious transfusions. His dad stayed at his bedside for the first three days and the nurses fawned over the royal Princes. The Detective Inspector came, asked questions under the Sheik’s steely gaze and it went no further.
Mr. Compton-Baird came to visit us and was admitted only after we vouched for him.
Khalid was fearful of every shadow and stranger. He begged me to come home with him and after an initial bout of indecisiveness, I agreed.
With whirlwind speed, the Sheik had us discharged, on his private jet and on the way to Dubai to his summer palace. In the mountains where it was sunny, cool, surrounded by armed and loyal Tuaregs, his whole family fussed and fawned over both of us. Even though I was totally excited about the flight and the trip, I slept through most of it like Khalid. I suspect the doctor gave us something to keep us quiet. Khalid needed it; his injuries were more severe than mine were. All I had was a bruised larynx, whip lashed neck and contusions where Chelmsley had punched me. Khalid’s spleen was torn, his nose, cheekbones broken, and four fingers fractured, two ribs and his insides torn to hell. The doctor told me he would have hemorrhaged to death if I hadn’t gone for help.
The sheikh personally saw us to a wing of the white stone palace. The ceilings were high and light were everywhere. Bright and clean, like the air of mountains.
We slept in regular beds made up with the softest cotton sheets I’d ever felt and lazy fans stirred the air over us. There were silent people moving about, ready to fall on our every whim. It drove me nuts not to have a moment away from someone’s attention.
The rooms were white and blue. Lots of blue. Deep dark cerulean, glazed tiles in aqua and navy. Every blue imaginable.
Tile work that rivaled great masters; of chunky little horses with spidery legs and ladies with big almond eyes in brilliant colors that made them seem like jewels.
There were no doors; just archways closed with intricate latticework that Khalid told me was all that separated prying eyes from the interior occupants.
“I thought you people lived in tents,” I commented and he hit me.
“Maybe forty years ago. This is one of the most progressive Arabic sultanates running.”
“So we don’t get to visit a tent?”
He punched me and I yelped, rubbed my arm, and laughed. His smile grew and by now, I could almost tell he was smiling.
Chelmsley and his friends had damaged the nerves in his face amongst the breaks and swelling; his face was just returning to near normal. There were no mirrors in our wing.
“What’s on the agenda for today?” I asked. Bored. Too much time, not enough to do.
“You don’t have to stay with me, Aid,” he said, sitting carefully on a stack of pillows. It still hurt him to put any weight on his bum. “You can go out. My father has a great stable, there’s archery, hunting, hawking, swimming. Some great cliffs to climb or, you can watch the latest flicks in his theater. He has a bowling lane, too. Videos and games. Girls.”
“Concubines from the harem?” I perked up.
He snorted. “I told you my dad is a progressive modern Arab. He doesn’t keep a harem.”
I raised both of my eyebrows. “Hullo? Number 22 I think you said?”
“Well, he sort of inherited them. Couldn’t turn them out. They live with him in the other Palace and if they want to leave, he divorces them, sets them up financially. A lot of them were betrothed by his dad way back when he was born. Contracts. He honored them.”
“So how many wives does he have?”
“Just one,” he said quietly. “My mother, Noori. The love of his life. Would you like to meet her?”
“Yes.”
The process of getting him ready to visit his mum relieved my boredom. Three men came in, helped him into a shower chair, and then into a room done entirely in blue tiles, even the floor. It felt like you were floating in the sky. Water came out of the walls in a gentle stream and he washed himself slowly and carefully. His body was lean, coffee colored where green fading black and blues were. Save for the stitch marks on his belly where they’d opened him up to repair his spleen. It almost matched one of mine.
The servants helped him, didn’t see, to mind getting wet. One of them, a young teen said something and made him choke with laughter.
He said, “Aidan speaks Arabic and Tuareg. He asked, Aid, if you were hung like my dad’s stud horse.”
I blushed and that set off another round of genuine laughter, which changed their solemn manner to camaraderie. I retreated in a dignified rush.
“Just wait!” he shouted. “It’s your turn next!”
I ran for our rooms.