The Sheikh's Son (7 page)

“I’ve got the highest score out of everyone,” he told Akbar, who was sitting at the kitchen table. “I’ve killed more than five hundred people and blown up more than twenty cities on Death March II. If I kill another hundred, I’ll be one of the best in the school!”

Akbar smiled and nodded. “So your mother will let you kill people in games, but she won’t let me teach you how to use a real gun.”

“It’s completely different,” Sarah said.

“It is, yes. I’ve seen these games. On a computer game, there is no regard for human life, just mindless killing, whereas if he were in Yazan with me, he would learn how to use a gun properly and respect the lives of others.”

“Now that you’re back, Dad, are we still going to live with you in the desert?” Ali interrupted.

“No, my son. If your mother won’t let you come and she isn’t willing to come herself, it looks like we’re all going to stay here.”

Ali looked upset.

“Ali, go outside and play football for a bit,” Sarah said.

“But I want to talk to Dad.”

“But your father wants to see you practising your football skills. Go outside and we’ll watch through the window. Quickly, while the sun’s out.”

Ali ran outside to their minute strip of garden and began practising his football tricks.

“What do you mean, you’re staying here?” Sarah asked once their son was out of earshot.

“Perhaps not here in this house, if you don’t want me, but I’ve decided to stay in England so I can at least be near you and my son.”

“But what will you do?” Akbar was well-off but England was expensive and he couldn’t live off his savings forever.

“I’ve found a job at some stables. Not the one that I took Ali to. They weren’t interested—another one, a few miles farther away.”

“Doing what? Training horses?”

“No, at least not yet. Maybe one day.”

Akbar seemed reluctant to discuss it, but Sarah persisted. “So what kind of job is it?”

“Brushing horses down, cleaning out stables, that sort of thing.” He stared at his feet as he said it.

It seemed to Sarah that he had shrunk. The mighty ruler of the Al-Zafir tribe, known throughout his country, was willing to be a common stable hand, mucking out horses.

“What about your people? What will happen to them?” she asked.

“My nephew, Saeed, will have to take control.”

Sarah remembered Saeed. He was an aggressive, uncouth man who had married Minna, Rasha’s cousin and best friend. “But what will happen to the peace you’ve worked so hard to build?”

“Saeed will have to do his best to maintain it.”

Sarah couldn’t believe that Akbar was giving everything up. “You can’t do this. You have to look after the Al-Zafirs. You are their sheikh.”

“And you are their sheikha and Ali is the future sheikh, but if you won’t go, then I won’t either. I can’t live without you again and I can’t leave my son.”

“I don’t want to lose you either, but this isn’t the solution.”

“Then what is?”

“I don’t know, but somehow we’ll work something out.” Sarah put her arms around her husband to check whether he really had shrunk as much as he seemed to have done.

After a long moment together, Sarah said, “If we came back with you, I would want to work at the hospital.”

Akbar’s face lit up. “Of course, anything. You must continue your work as a doctor. Yazan needs good female doctors.”

“What about the letter of consent?”

 Akbar shrugged his shoulders and didn’t reply.

“Akbar, I know why you didn’t write it.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You can’t read or write Arabic, can you?”

“I’ve learnt English. I hired a man from the city to come and teach me. I’ve been studying for more than eight years now. I can read and write it, too!” He was clearly very proud of his achievement.

“Why didn’t you tell me that was why you wouldn’t write the letter? I would’ve understood.”

“You would’ve thought I was a barbarian. You have all your books and learning. You know so many things that we Bedouin don’t. You would never have married me if you’d known.”

Sarah wondered whether he had a point. She hoped that she was above intellectual snobbery, but she remembered her feelings when she found out that he was illiterate. “I could’ve taught you,” she offered.

Akbar laughed. “How would that have looked? The great sheikh being taught by his wife like some kind of schoolchild! Impossible.”

“And what about Ali? If we go back, what will happen to him? Where will he go to school? Surely you don’t want him to grow up the same way, do you?”

Before Akbar could answer, Ali called out from the garden, “Dad! Come and watch me. Come and see what I can do.” Akbar went outside to be with his son.

“Tickets, please,” the woman asked. She was sitting behind the airline check-in desk at Heathrow and looked surprisingly perky for six in the morning.

Akbar passed a paper printout over the counter and waited while the woman entered the details into the system.

“Sheikh Akbar, I’m pleased to inform you that you’ve been upgraded to first class.” The woman beamed at him. She had two rows of perfect white teeth and looked pleased to have the chance to show them off.

Akbar merely nodded in return.

“Wow! That’s great, Dad!” Ali was clearly impressed. He knew that his father was an important man, but as far as he knew the only people that travelled first class were Prince Charles, David Beckham, and Madonna.

“It’ll be a comfortable flight,” Sarah said. The upgrade would make the six-hour trip a lot more relaxing. “At least you’ll be able to get some sleep.” She looked at the dark circles under Akbar’s eyes. They had been up all night and both of them desperately needed some rest.

“What do I care?” Akbar replied. “What does it matter how I travel if I’m going back without either of you?” His application for an extension of his visitor’s visa had been declined and he either left that morning or became an illegal immigrant.

Sarah and Akbar had spent hours at the Home Office in Croydon fighting Akbar’s case, but everyone they spoke to said the same thing. Akbar had been issued a visitor visa for two months. Those two months were up now and his visit had come to an end. If he stayed in the UK, he would be doing so illegally. If he was caught, he would be deported and prohibited from ever entering the UK again.

Sarah and Akbar told the officials that they were married, but they had no paperwork to prove it—no marriage certificates or documents. Akbar said that it wasn’t Bedouin custom. In Yazan, a man and a woman were married by the local religious man, the imam, in front of both families, all their kin and all the surrounding tribes, which is why Arab weddings were such huge—and often costly—events. Everyone had witnessed it, so why did they need a piece of paper to prove it? However, the UK immigration officials had not witnessed it and it made them especially wary of Akbar’s application. If he really was married to Sarah, he was more than just a visitor; he was a potential immigrant with plans to stay in the UK long-term.

They also argued that they had a son and were willing to have DNA tests to prove it. However, the officials wanted to know why it had taken the father almost ten years to come and see the boy.

In the end, Sarah told Akbar that his case was hopeless. He refused to believe it and every day for the last week he had taken the bus down to Croydon in the hope that he would see someone who would help him with his visa application. However, it was no use and finally they agreed that Akbar had run out of time and that staying illegally was too great a risk. If he was deported, that would be it, whereas if he returned to Yazan this time, he would at least be able to come back in the future to see Sarah and Ali. And, of course, Sarah and Ali could always go out and visit him. They’d already booked tickets to travel to Yazan in December for a fortnight. Ali would be off school and Sarah had asked for a couple of weeks’ leave from work.

“Excuse me, sir.” It was the air steward with the bright smile. “I’m sorry but you need to proceed to passport control, as your flight will be boarding soon.”

“Please don’t go, Dad!” Ali gave his dad a huge hug and pressed his head against his father’s chest.

“Be good, Ali. Practise your football and keep horse riding.” Akbar had pre-paid for all of Ali’s lessons at the stables. “When you come out to Yazan in December, we’ll ride out into the desert together and go camping, just the two of us, like I used to do with my father. I’ll give you your own horse, Hawa’a, and you’ll ride like the wind!” Akbar bent down so that he was eye-to-eye with his son. “Until then, look after your mother for me, won’t you?”

“Of course! I’ll even learn to cook for her like you showed me.” They both laughed and then Akbar turned to Sarah. “My desert rose.” He took her hand, kissed it and then walked off through airport security.

Sarah didn’t reply. She was trying to hold back the tears and be strong for the sake of both her son and for the sake of the man who was walking away from her.

Akbar didn’t once turn around to look back, but Sarah stayed and stared at him until he was out of sight.

“Mum, can we get a pizza on the way home?”

“Ali, it’s just gone six in the morning. You still have to go to school today and I have to go to work.” Though quite how Sarah was going to cope at the clinic, she didn’t know. However, both of them sitting together at home moping over the loss of Akbar wouldn’t help either. The best thing they could do was try to keep busy until they, too, were getting on a flight to Yazan, when they would be reunited with him, even if it was only for a few weeks. However, all the way back into central London, Sarah sat on the London Underground, calculating how many weeks, days, and hours it would be until she saw Akbar again, while Ali slept with his head on her shoulder.

“Welcome to Yazan!” Akbar lifted up his son and swung him round in the air. “Welcome home!” He bowed to Sarah. Akbar then called out to a nearby porter to help with their bags and led them out of the airport.

Outside, the sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky and the winter desert air was warm, like freshly baked bread. Immediately, Sarah felt that the oppressive gloom of London really was a million miles away. As they rode out of the airport, she let Ali sit in the front of the Jeep so he could tell his dad all about what he’d been doing recently. This left her free to quietly soak up Akbar’s presence. She had longed for this moment for so long and now she was finally here. There, right in front of her, was her handsome, wonderful husband, just within her reach. She promised herself that she would savour every second of the next two weeks with him, though she was fully aware that it would pass like water through her hands and before she knew it, she would be coming back to the airport to return to cold, wet England and life as a single parent.

Sarah was so caught up in her thoughts that it wasn’t until they were quite a ways from the airport that she realised they were driving in the wrong direction.

“Where are we going?” she called out to the front of the Jeep.

“You’ll see. It’s a surprise. We’re almost there,” Akbar called back. “I have something very special for you, my son,” he said to Ali. “It’s something that I’ve been planning ever since I came back from London. Do you like surprises?”

“Is it my horse?” Ali asked. “Please say it is. Wait ’til you see how well I can ride now!”

Sarah smiled to herself. Ali had been going horse riding regularly, thanks to Akbar’s generosity in paying for all his lessons in advance, and he was now a very capable rider. Akbar would be proud of his progress, though Sarah hoped that the horse he was about to present his son with wouldn’t be too big or too fast. However, as they drove through the outskirts of the city, she did wonder why Akbar didn’t keep the horse at his Bedouin camp with all his other horses and camels. Maybe he was going to let Ali pick one.

Soon they were driving through one of the more affluent suburbs, up on the hillside, away from the fumes and dust of the city. Then, to Sarah’s surprise, Akbar stopped in front of a large villa surrounded by high, white-washed walls. It was on a beautifully kept avenue, lined with palm trees, and obviously belonged to someone important. Sarah wondered whether the horse dealer lived here.

Akbar knocked on a carved wooden door in the wall. It was opened by an elderly man, who probably held the position of gateman. He had a thick grey beard that covered much of his long white robe, and on his feet were a pair of worn-out leather sandals. He greeted Akbar with reverence, but also some familiarity. Akbar had obviously been here several times before. After they exchanged greetings and Akbar introduced both Ali and Sarah, the gateman led them into the house.

It was exquisitely furnished with antique furniture, silk curtains, and Turkish carpets laid out on pale marble floors. However, what really caught Sarah’s attention was the garden. It was huge and was more of an orchard than a garden as it was filled with pomegranate, lemon, lime, and orange trees. Close to the walls grew fig trees alongside vibrant pink bougainvillea and in the middle was a mosaic-tiled fountain. Then Sarah noticed that in the corner, in the shade of some jasmine, was a cluster of desert roses that had just come into bloom. Sarah walked to the soft pink and white flowers and breathed in their delicate scent.