An hour later, in the fading light of early evening, the two men once again walked into the palace courtyard. Perhaps surprisingly, there were still twenty or so spectators there, wandering about under the watchful gaze of two guards. Most of them were looking at the body of a man who had been stoned to death, a killer convicted out of his own mouth earlier that day.
The moment they entered the courtyard the two men separated, one joining the largest group of civilians, while the other, the linen bag slung over his shoulder, moved over to the opposite side of the courtyard, and loitered near the doors that led into the hall.
Moments later, a scuffle broke out amongst the group of spectators, a dispute deliberately instigated by the new arrival, and which almost immediately turned violent. Raised voices and the sound of blows filled the courtyard, and within seconds both of the watching guards had stepped forward to intervene, lashing out with the wooden shafts of their spears to separate the fighting civilians.
The moment the guards had begun to move, the second man had pulled open the door to the hall just wide enough to allow him to slip through the gap, and disappeared from sight.
Inside, half a dozen flickering oil lamps provided barely enough illumination to see from one end of the hall to the other. But it was sufficient to clearly show the silver salver placed upon a table by the wall opposite the throne, on which the uneven outline of the decapitated head of the prophet was visible.
The man hurried over to the table and bowed his head in a brief prayer. Then, looking with sadness and reverence at the features that were as familiar to him as his own, he reached out to seize the hair of the decapitated head. But the gaze of the half-closed eyes seemed to accuse him even in death, and he changed his mind. The prophet deserved better from him.
Instead, he gripped the head with both hands, lifted it off the salver and placed it gently on the floor. It was heavier than he had expected and awkward to manoeuvre. He opened the linen sack, removed the second head — the head of another man he’d also been pleased to call a friend — and placed it on the silver dish. He took precious extra moments to arrange the hair and beard on the salver so that the replacement looked as much like the original as possible.
He gently transferred the head of the prophet to the linen sack, took a deep breath to steady himself and then strode back to the partially open door. Outside the guards were still trying to restore order, and the man could see another two guards approaching the mêlée from outside the courtyard. And then behind him, from inside the hall, he heard the sound of running feet. And then an angry voice rose in challenge.
The man didn’t hesitate. The guards would kill him on sight without waiting to question why he was there. He simply took to his heels, pushing open the door and running out into the courtyard, heading for the wide arched entrance. All of the guards, he knew, would be encumbered with weapons and would be unable to catch him, though obviously a well-thrown spear would bring him down.
And even as that thought crossed his mind, he felt a glancing blow on his shoulder and a spear slammed into the open wooden door a few feet to his right. He touched his shoulder. No blood. The blow must have been from the shaft of the weapon, not from the point.
He began jinking from side to side, but no other missiles came anywhere near him. Within a couple of minutes he slowed down to a walk, and before long his companion rejoined him. Together, they retraced their steps, heading back to the village with their gruesome but invaluable prize: the severed head of their leader, the teacher and prophet they had followed for the last decade.
1
When Chris Bronson stepped outside the arrivals building at Kuwait International Airport the humid heat hit him like a hot sodden blanket. It actually stopped him in his tracks, and for a few seconds it almost hurt to breathe. His aviator-style sunglasses instantly fogged up, so the heat had rendered him not only immobile but also unable to see.
‘Dear God,’ he muttered, putting down his two small bags at his feet. He only had a cabin bag containing his weekend stuff, a couple of books, washing kit and clothes, and a small leather computer bag that held his netbook and tablet. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, took off his sunglasses, squinting against the hard glare of the morning sun, and wiped the lenses. At least then he would be able to see what was in front of him, even if he had no idea at that moment where he should be heading.
He looked around hopefully, trying to take shallow breaths as his body began to acclimatize to the radical change in temperature and humidity. The air-conditioned aircraft, air-conditioned walkway and air-conditioned terminal building had left him woefully unprepared for the blistering-hot reality of the world outside.
‘Chris!’
He spun round and saw that a sand-coloured 4x4 vehicle had just come to a halt on the access road in front of him, and through the open window a woman was waving enthusiastically at him.
He grinned broadly and waved back, then picked up his bags and walked the short distance across the pavement to the vehicle, opening his arms for a hug as the woman climbed out of the vehicle.
But she shook her head and simply extended her hand for him to shake.
‘No, not here, Chris,’ she said. ‘They’re very touchy about public displays of affection, even between married couples. And we’re not even that any more.’
Bronson took her hand firmly and pulled her towards him, bumping shoulders as he met her eyes.
‘That, Angela, is the biggest regret of my life,’ he said with a wide smile, ‘and I’d be very happy to walk you down the aisle again. All you have to do is say the word.’
‘I do know that,’ she replied, taking a step backwards and looking up at the face of her former husband. ‘And I do kind of miss being Mrs Angela Bronson. It has a nice ring to it, but we had our reasons, Chris, you know that. Anyway, it’s good to see you again. You look well.’
‘So do you,’ Bronson said, his gaze running up and down her body, which was entirely covered apart from her face. ‘What I can see of you, that is.’
‘It’s practical, my dear,’ she said. ‘It’s cooler to wear white or light-coloured clothes out here, and local sensibilities mean I need to cover up.’
‘And the scarf?’ Bronson pointed at her head. ‘You haven’t fully embraced Islam, have you?’
‘Of course not. I don’t have to wear the hijab, but I prefer to, especially in the city. And being blonde always attracts attention in this region. It’s just easier to cover up to avoid being stared at. It makes me feel more comfortable.’
Bronson looked into the back of the vehicle, saw that it was loaded with boxes and packets, and pulled open the rear door, placed his bags on the floor behind the driver’s seat, then walked round and climbed into the front passenger seat.
His ex-wife and still his best friend got in beside him and then, shielded by the tinted windows of the Toyota, leaned over and kissed him firmly on the lips. Bronson grasped her hand and smiled at her, and for a few moments they remained almost motionless, relishing each other’s presence after too long apart.
‘That’s a better hello,’ Angela said, returning his smile. She put the Toyota into gear and pulled away as Bronson buckled his seat belt.
‘Tell me this jeep has got air-conditioning,’ he said with a groan, feeling the sweat already starting to dampen his shirt. ‘It’s like a bloody oven out there.’
‘Actually,’ Angela said brightly, ‘it hasn’t. But what it has got is climate control, which is much better, so if you just sit there and stop complaining about the heat, you’ll cool down in a few seconds.’