‘And the underground channels are the falajes?’
‘Yes, that’s it. They’re centuries old — a Persian irrigation system. In fact, they’re the same as the Persian quantas.’ He went to the passage and stood listening. ‘Bit of luck,’ he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘If we can get hold of the Land-Rover-’ He grabbed hold of my arm. ‘Come on.’
I followed him down the dimly lit mud corridors and out into the courtyard. The cooking fires still smoked. The camels still crouched in a shapeless, belching huddle under the walls. But in the whole courtyard there wasn’t a single Arab to be seen. ‘Look! Even the guard on the gate has gone.’
‘But why?’ I asked. ‘Why should that word-?’
‘Water. Don’t you understand?’ He sounded impatient. ‘Water is life here in the desert.’
‘But they can’t depend on one channel. There must be many to irrigate a place like this.’
‘Five or six, that’s all.’ He was searching the courtyard. ‘There used to be more than a hundred once. But tribal wars-’ He gripped my arm. There’s the Land-Rover. Over by the wall there.’ He pointed. ‘Come on! There’s just a chance-’
‘What’s the idea?’ I asked.
‘Get out whilst the going’s good. Hurry, man!’ His voice was high-pitched, urgent. ‘I’m not risking my neck on a mission of explanation to that bloody Emir.’ He had seized hold of my arm again. ‘Quick!’
I started to follow him, but then I stopped. ‘I’m staying,’ I said.
‘Christ, man! Do you want to get killed?’
‘No, but I want to find out why that boy was killed.’
He stared at me. ‘You think it was like that — that he was murdered?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. I didn’t know anything for certain. ‘But I’m not leaving here until I’ve seen Colonel Whitaker.’
He hesitated. But then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Okay. It’s your funeral, as you might say. But watch your step,’ he added. ‘He’s a tricky bastard by all accounts. And if what you’re suggesting is true and David was murdered, then your life wouldn’t be worth much, would it?’
‘I’ll be all right,’ I said.
‘Aye, I hope so. But just remember you’re right on the edge of Saudi Arabia here and the British Raj is worn a bit thin in these parts.’ He hesitated, looking at me, and then he started towards the Land Rover.
I stood and watched him, certain I was being a fool, but equally certain that I wasn’t leaving. I saw him jump into the driving seat, heard the whine of the starter, the roar of the engine. And then the Land-Rover was moving and he swung it round and came tearing towards me. ‘Jump in, Grant,’ he shouted, as he pulled up beside me. ‘Hurry, man! Hurry!’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not leaving.’ My voice was like the voice of a stranger to me. ‘You get out whilst you can. I’ll be all right.’ And I added, ‘I’ll make your excuses to the Sheikh for you.’ I meant it to be a jocular, carefree remark, but my voice sounded hollow. He was still hesitating and I said quickly, ‘Good luck to you!’
He stared at me hard and then he gave a little nod. ‘Okay. I expect you’ll be all right. I’ll notify the authorities, of course.’ And he slammed in the gear and went roaring across the courtyard and out through the empty gateway. The cloud of dust he’d raised gradually settled and I walked to the gate and stood there watching his headlights threading a luminous trail through the date gardens. And when they finally disappeared in the open desert beyond, I went slowly down the hill, heading for the murmur of voices, the glimmer of lights amongst the palms beyond the village.
I was alone then — more alone than I’d ever been in my life before.
The moon was just risen and with the stars the village was lit by a soft translucence. The mud buildings were pale and empty, the open square deserted save for the hens nested in the dust and a solitary sad-looking donkey. Beyond the village I followed the crumbling wall of a date garden until I came out into the open again. All Saraifa seemed gathered there, the men bunched together like a crowd at a cock-fight, the women dark bundles flitting on the edge of the crowd or squatting like hens in the sand. Everybody was talking at once, a thick hubbub of sound that seemed to lose itself instantly in the great solitude of the desert that stretched away to the east, to the dim-seen line of the mountains.
Nobody took any notice of me as I skirted the crowd. It was thickest close by the date garden. Out towards the desert it thinned, and here I found a raised water channel built of rock and spanning a hollow Roman aqueduct. It was my first sight of a falaj; and it was empty. I leaned over it, touched the inside with my fingers. It was still damp and in a little puddle of water at the bottom tiny fish flashed silver in the starlight as they gasped for breath. Clearly the water had only recently ceased to flow, turned off as though by a tap.
Fascinated, I crossed the hollow to the far side. For perhaps twenty yards the falaj was open, a neat, vertical-sided trench running a black shadow line across the sand. It was about two feet across and the same deep. I walked along it to the point where it was roofed over. For a hundred yards or so I could trace the outline of it, but after that the sand swallowed it up entirely. From a slight rise I looked towards the mountains. Anything up to thirty miles, Entwhistle had said, and they were the source of the water.
I walked slowly back along the line of the falaj, to the point where it broke surface, and at the sight of the empty trough with the little fish gasping out their lives, I could understand the calamity of it, the sense of disaster that had seized upon the people of this channel-fed oasis. A dry falaj meant a ruined date garden, the beginnings of famine. Only five or six left out of more than a hundred, tribal wars…. The place was as vulnerable as an oil refinery fed by a desert pipeline. Cut the falaj and Saraifa ceased to exist.
The sound of male voices died away, leaving only the high-pitched chatter of the women; there was a stillness of decision as I approached the crowd gathered about the falaj channel where it entered the date garden. In the centre stood Sheikh Makhmud and his brother Sultan. Khalid was facing them, arguing fiercely. His features had no trace of effeminacy in them now. From the skirts of the crowd I saw Sheikh Makhmud turn impatiently away from his son. He called a man forth by name — Mahommed bin Rashid; a fierce, hawk-faced man with a black beard, the one who had stopped us as we entered Saraifa. He gave him an order and a long A — a-agh of satisfaction issued from the throats of the crowd. Instantly all was confusion. Men brandished their weapons, calling on Allah, as a dozen or more of them were singled out and went hurrying back to the palace. Sheikh Makhmud turned and with his brother and his secretary followed them slowly.
It was the signal for the crowd to break up, and as they straggled away from the empty falaj, Khalid was left standing there alone. A few men only remained, a little, compact group of silent followers ranged behind him. They were different from the rest in that their arms were without any silver trappings; they carried British service-pattern rifles.
He stood for a long time without moving, staring after his father and the crowd that followed him, noisy now with the excitement of action. And when they had disappeared from sight he turned to his men with a gesture of dismissal and they, too, moved away, but still silent, still in a compact group. He was completely alone then, staring down at the empty water channel, lost in his own thoughts. Even when I approached him he didn’t stir. I don’t think he knew I was there, for when I asked him whether he spoke English, he turned to me with a start of surprise.