The Society by Karen Guyler (feel good fiction books .txt) 📗

They walked to the end of the street where it dead-ended in a series of stone bollards. Terry had always liked his privacy, being off-grid, foot access only would have sold living there to him.

A gaggle of people spilled out of a street food café, windowed walls covered in yellow paper, shouting animated streams of Arabic above the general din. Sun-bleached stone reflected heat back at them from the pavement and the road. It felt wholly foreign.

The passageway between buildings took them out of the direct sunlight into a cooler, hushed world, where their booted feet traced the footsteps of a thousand years of people. A handcart ahead of them made its jerky way, being pushed by a teenager behind, pulled by one in front. The one at the back, tall, skinny, white shirt pulled out over jeans, sleeves rolled up to show sinewy arms, turned around and smiled at Lily. Charles flicked a glance at her, but her stream of chatter didn’t falter. He checked behind them, it could just be that she looked foreign. It could be something innocent, nothing to do with Charles.

A woman in a doorway to their right dressed head to foot in dark navy, embellished with a silver pattern, paused in her hitting a rug against her yellow rendered doorway to frown and shake her head.

How had he not thought? He stopped.

“We there?”

“You have a scarf?”

“You cold?” Lily laughed. “You know I do, we just came from winter.”

“Put it over your hair.”

“You’re kidding, it’ll be boiling.”

“It’s accepted practice that women here don’t show their hair. Put it on until I can get you a summer one.”

“You don’t—”

“Lily, it’s discourteous not to respect local custom. We’re the outsiders here, so we will follow what’s accepted. You need to cover your head.”

“Easy for you to say, you don’t have to.” She pulled it out of the pocket of her coat she was carrying, a silver glittery wool scarf. Poor kid.

Charles set his holdall down between his legs, pressing his calves against the bulk of it to hold it while he helped her wrap the scarf on. She accused him with a paler version of his own eyes while he tried to tuck away her long hair.

“It’d be easier if I just wore my hat.” she sulked.

 “Good idea, not much further.”

“Better hope I don’t pass out with heat exhaustion before we get there.”

He stopped himself calling her out on all the times she’d gone out in an inadequate cardigan or denim jacket in the rain or freezing cold. Instead, he took her hand to hurry her past the two teenagers who’d stopped to watch them.

“How long till we get to the hotel?”

“We’re not staying at a hotel, we’re going to your uncle’s.”

Lily didn’t pick up his distinction, going to was very different to staying with. He had to hope the years between them had mellowed his brother enough to at least let the past remain there. He knew he couldn’t count on Terry being open to them staying in the same space while Charles got his bearings, his future settled. But a payment should be enough of a sweetener.

“I don’t have an uncle.”

“You’ve never met him, my brother, Terry.”

“Uncle Terry?”

“Yes, Lily. Uncle Terry.” It sounded strange. The most unlikely person to be an uncle. Left here or right? The labyrinthine streets, Terry’s defence, were almost proving beyond him. The street view he’d memorised kept wavering away behind dark curls, the parting kiss of fingertips.

“Why didn’t you or mum tell me I have an uncle? Do I have any cousins, and an auntie too? Can I take this off yet, I’m super hot.” She looked behind them. “There’s no one here to see me.”

That was where she might be wrong. Charles turned them right, trying to follow a circle as he’d learned, but in the boxy alleyways it was difficult. He was sure they weren’t being followed. And the proximity of the surrounding buildings was its own defence against spying drones.

Could they mobilise so quickly? The second the pilot had filed Charles’ revised flight plan, the stop watch timer had restarted until The Society found him again. But getting people there, that would take even them time.

“We’ve been down here already.” Lily pointed out the obvious.

“I’ve gone wrong, I remember now where it is.”

“Dad.”

“Come on, aren’t you looking forward to meeting your uncle?”

It would be an interesting reception for both of them.

Back to the junction where he’d taken them in the opposite direction on purpose, still no sign of anyone. It was eerie, in such a noisy, busy city in these narrow paths being cocooned in a subdued silence. But the buildings carried a weight, beyond the bricks and cement, concrete and stone of which they were constructed. The possibility of spying eyes weighed heavy.

The doorway was tiny, easy to walk right past. It was the red tile painted with the out-of-place words that stopped him at ‘Riad Lucky Eight’. Set at the bottom of three steps down from the path, a wooden door was fastened by a padlock. Charles’ luck was holding, with Terry out, he could get what he came for and leave without having to see him. Best all round, everything considered. Charles placed his holdall down to open the combination lock. Terry, did you still believe?

8, 2, 8, 4, 8, 8, good luck numbers according to the Chinese and Terry’s superstition. Charles pulled on the padlock. Good luck for him too - it clicked open.

“In you go,” he gestured to Lily to proceed him.

They walked through a dim entrance hall that opened out into an interior courtyard, an oasis in an urban landscape. Lush tall plants leaned against a terracotta painted wall on one side. The middle was taken up by a hexagonal plunge pool; the inside painted an inviting brilliant blue. The riad climbed two floors above their heads on the four sides of the courtyard.

Terry had got all this from gambling? He’d never been so lucky when Charles and he had