The Sheikh's Son

Published by:

Katheryn Lane on Amazon

The Sheikh’s Son

Copyright
©
2013 by Katheryn Lane

All rights reserved

Cover art by Rae Monet, Inc at
www.RaeMonetInc.com

Thank you to The Atwater Group for copy editing this book.

www.TheAtwaterGroup.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and events depicted herein are either a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

* * * * *

Also by Katheryn Lane

Sarah Greenwich is a British doctor in London.

Her estranged husband is a Bedouin warlord from the Middle East.

Ali, their nine-year-old boy, is caught in the middle.

When Sheikh Akbar manages to track down his long-lost wife, he also discovers the one other thing that he has always wanted: a son. However, reclaiming what he wants and loves is not as easy as he first thinks.

Who will win in this renewed battle of wills and what lengths will Akbar go to in order to keep his child?

“Ali, I’m home,” Sarah called out to her nine-year-old son as she walked into the house. “Sorry I’m so late. I got held up at the surgery with a patient and then there was a delay on the Tube. Honestly, you’d think that after three months of maintenance work, they’d have sorted out the trains by now.”

Sarah took off her coat and dumped her umbrella into the kitchen sink, where it dripped all over the remains of the breakfast dishes.

“Ali, what have I said about doing the washing up when you get home and a bit of tidying up?”

She cleared a pile of toy cars off the kitchen table, put down a bag of shopping and then began picking up dirty clothes off the kitchen floor. She shoved them into the laundry basket in the corner, which was already overflowing.

“Ali, I thought we’d have pizza tonight. I bought your favourite, pepperoni.”

Sarah turned on the oven and removed two frozen pizzas from their plastic wrappings.

“Ali?” She called up the stairs to his bedroom. “Ali, are you there?”

There was no reply. Sarah dragged herself up the steep, narrow staircase. She was too tired to keep running up and down the stairs after him. She knocked on his door. No answer. She waited a moment and then knocked again. Finally, she opened the door and put her head round.

Ali was standing in front of a TV screen, playing some type of game that seemed to involve shooting people. Sarah walked in and removed the headphones from his dark, curly hair.

“What have I said about this? You know I don’t like you playing violent video games.”

Ali carried on clicking the controls in his hand. On the screen in front of them, Sarah watched as a man’s head got blown off.

“Turn that off now!”

Ali carried on clicking. Another man had his legs shot to pieces. Sarah turned off the TV screen and the control box.

“Mum! I was just about to reach my top score.”

Sarah looked at her son. He had dark, swarthy features and an unruly mass of black hair that fell in front of his eyes. Through it, she could see that one of his eyes was swollen and there was a cut across the eyebrow.

“Ali, what happened? Were you in a fight again?” Barely a week seemed to go past without Ali getting into some kind of trouble.

“It wasn’t my fault. The other boys started it.”

“You know what we said about fighting: if somebody says something you don’t like, you have to explain to them why you don’t like it. Hitting people is not a solution.”

“But they called you names.”

“I don’t care what they call me. Don’t get into any more fights.” Sarah knew what the other kids said. She went into school often enough to talk to Ali’s teachers about it to know exactly what was going on. Ali’s school had a high proportion of children in it who were from the Middle East and North Africa and they teased Ali for being of mixed race. Even worse, though, was the fact that they told Ali that his mother must be a whore for sleeping with and then leaving Ali’s Arabic father.

“Come here. Let me look at your eye.”

Sarah brushed away his hair and looked at her son’s injuries. As a doctor, she could see that the cut didn’t need stitches, but it might leave a scar, which would match the one he already had across his other eyebrow.

“Why did you leave Dad?” Ali asked.

“We’ve gone through this before, my dear. Sometimes two people find it very difficult to be together and so they have to separate.”

“So you didn’t love each other?”

“No, that’s not true. We loved each other very much.” Sarah remembered how Akbar called her his desert rose and how he promised to give her a thousand nights of seduction, a promise that he had more than fulfilled.

“So why did you leave him? Was he a bad man?”

“Ali, your father was a wonderful man and great sheikh. He was respected by everyone in the whole of Yazan. He did his best to look after his people, the Al-Zafirs.” However, looking after his people had also meant looking after Rasha, an exceptionally beautiful Al-Zafir woman whose fiancé had died in a riding accident, leaving her pregnant but unmarried. The protective Akbar had taken it upon himself to take care of Rasha by asking her to be his second wife. Sarah couldn’t stand quietly by and let another woman share her husband’s bed. However, she couldn’t bring herself to tell her son all of this. How can you explain such things to a nine-year-old boy?

“Come on. Let’s put our pizzas in the oven. And Ali, please, no more fighting.”

Sarah would have to call the school the next day to make another appointment with his teacher, Miss Baker, but she didn’t really hold out much hope that Ali’s teacher would be able to put an end to her child being bullied. As nice as she was, Miss Baker had little to suggest except trying to avoid the boys and ignore the name-calling. The only other solution was to change schools. However, that would mean moving to a new house, so that they would be in a different school district, but that wasn’t possible as the houses in the better locations also came with higher price tags. Sarah could barely afford to pay the mortgage on their tiny two-bedroom terrace house where they were, much less anything more expensive. Somehow, she and Ali would just have to find a way to sort things out.

******

Fifteen minutes later, the two pizzas were ready, but just as Sarah was taking them out of the oven, the doorbell rang.

“Ali, could you go and see who’s at the door?” Sarah asked. “Why do people always have to ring the doorbell just as we’re about to eat?” Sarah said more to herself than her son as she took the pizzas out of the oven. Both of them were burnt down one side. If she could afford it, she would have bought a new oven years ago, but at the moment, kitchen appliances were very low on her list of financial priorities, especially as she never did much cooking. There was just no way she could fit in cooking with her work at the local women’s clinic, bringing up a child on her own, and trying to keep their house in some kind of semblance of order.