I have ideas for stories. They come to me in dreams, when I'm talking to people, going for walks... and sometimes the jotted notes emerge into the beginnings of a novel. Below are some of those beginnings, unread and unedited. Let me know if there are any you think I should finish. Contact me here.
This is just one of those stories that popped into my mind from nowhere in the middle of the night when curtain-shadows were falling across my bed and I couldn't sleep.
SIPPERS
Mosquitos
“Oh dad, can I just have another sip?”
“Come on Timmy you know you can't?”
“But dad it's so yummy!”
“We'll be back in a couple of months. You know the rules. You're old enough to follow them now.”
“But no one will ever know. And last time, the window was shut.”
His father looked at his son, his pleading eyes, he was only nine, not really at the punishment age for Sippers and definitely too young for his Second Cycle. He wished Timmy’s mother was alive for the millionth time. She’d have been far better at teaching him this stuff.
Timmy watched his dad and knew he’d half won. Widening his eyes, he clasped his hands under his chin. “Pleeeese.”
“Fine. One little sip and that's it. Then you close it up and we need to be gone.”
“Thanks dad. You’re the best.”
Timmy leaned over the sleeping woman. Placing his sharp little teeth on her neck, he sucked slowly.
“Mmm...” He couldn’t help the groan of pleasure. Honey, chocolate and something salty he couldn’t quite detect. He wished he could eat those things.
“That's enough Timmy.” His dad’s voice was distant. “I said, that’s enough.”
Timmy felt his dad drag his arm and slowly pull him away from the human. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Timmy looked over his shoulder at his father. There was growing worry frown on his forehead.
“Come, we need to go now. Close her up.”
“Okay.” Timmy spat on his finger and touched the two holes on her neck. They sizzled, smelling of burning flesh for a few seconds before beginning to seal.
Suddenly the woman sat up. Her eyes glazed over. Then she noticed the two people in her room.
“Who are you?” She glared at them.
Timmy backed into his father.
“Err...”
His father grabbed his son and pulled him into his chest.
“Dad, dad, they're not supposed to wake up.”
Blood dribbled down her neck. She reached up and touched it, bringing her fingers to her nose and sniffed.
“Why am I bleeding?” Her voice was demanding, her eyes narrowed as she stared at the intruders. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
Timmy and his dad stood as still as petrified trees, knowing warm bloods had limited vision and hearing. If they were very careful, she’d look past them.
“I said, what are you doing here?” Her voice was demanding and scary.
Timmy flinched, whispering his response. “You can see us?”
“Of course I can see you, child.”
“And you can hear us?”
She flung back the covers, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She was wearing blue-striped pyjamas. “What's going on?” This time she spoke directly to Timmy’s dad. “ I'm going to call the police.”
His dad leaned over, so he was at eye-level with the woman. “No, you're not. You're just going to go back to sleep. None of this happened.”
For a moment, her eyes dazed, but then she shook her head like a dog flinging water off its fur. “What are you talking about? None of what happened.” She reached over to her bedside table to pick up her phone. “If you don’t get out of my house right now…”
Timmy backed away further pushing his father into a lamp. The lamp crashed over onto the floor.
“Dad, I think we have to go.”
“No wait. She can't remember any of this.”
The woman had tapped a number on her phone. “Hello, hello is this the police? Please help. I have two intruders in my room.”
They could hear a tinny voice from the line. “Can you give me your name please?”
“My name… look they’re standing right in front of me.”
Timmy's dad moved towards her and leaned over. He reached out his hand to close her eyes. “Go to sleep. You will not remember any of this.”
She slapped his hand away. “Get off me.”
The voice at the other end of the line asked a question.
“Yes, yes they're in my bedroom. No, no they're not attacking me. They are. They are. I don't know what they’re doing. They’re just standing there.”
“Come on Timmy, let's go!”
Timmy and his dad ran to the window. Both leapt out and hit the ground running. The woman dropped the phone and rushed to the window.
“What the heck?” She couldn’t see anything. No man, no child. Just the orange glow of a nearby lamppost. “Am I going mad?”
The person on the other end of her phone was speaking again.
“What's your name? Are they still there? Is your life in danger? We’re sending a police car. Stay on the line please.”
Her heart pounded as she pressed the loud speaker icon on their phone.
“Err… no they've gone. They ran away.”
“Are you sure? How did they escape?”
She could hear the siren of a police car at a distance.
“They jumped out of the window.” The woman pushed her hair out of her face.
“Are you on the ground floor? Can you see them?”
“No, I'm on the third floor.”
The officer on the end of the line was quiet for a few seconds. “Ma’am, are you sure you weren't dreaming?”
“I… I…” she was stuttering. “I don't know. I'm sorry, maybe it was a nightmare.”
The siren went quiet.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?”
“I’m sorry. Very sorry.”
“Do you need help?”
The woman slumped, sitting on the edge of her bed. “No, no, I’m fine.”
Putting the phone down, she turned on the lamp. The empty room lit up. All was quiet. She moved over to the window again. A fox sauntered down the road, sniffed at a tree and moved on. Shivering, she unlatched the window and closed it, and then, for extra security, turned the lock.
“A nightmare…” she uttered the words to herself. “…but it seemed so real.” The boy had blond hair and green eyes. The man was tall with dark hair. They were both very pale. She could picture them in their blue jeans and tops – one black and the other purple. How could she remember the boy had a smattering of freckles across his nose?
“Exactly…” Her mind turned over the question. The room was dark, how could she have seen freckles? “A nightmare, a stupid nightmare!” And she’d called the police. They must think her mad.
“Camomile tea.”
She pronounced it as if someone else was in the room and she was asking them if they wanted a hot beverage. Wrapping her robe around her, she left her bedroom and headed for the kitchen, switching on every light as she went.
As the kettle boiled, she looked out of the French doors into the back garden. The moon was high and full, the sky clear. Stars flickered in the sky. Everything was normal. She breathed deeply and watched as her reflection in the window stared back at her. Reaching up, she scratched her neck and felt a couple of lumps. They were itchy, like a mosquito had attacked her – perhaps that’s why she’d had such a strange dream. Moving over to the wall mirror, she inspected her neck.
As she suspected, she’d been bitten. Two bulges protruded from the right side of her neck just where the vein passed by. There was a red stain of dribbled blood.
“Must have had a feast! Maybe there’s a nest of them in my room.”
She imagined a family of bloated mosquitos buzzing around her room and decided, after her chamomile, she might just sleep in the guest room tonight. Tomorrow, she’d have to buy some insect repellent spray. She couldn’t imagine what the police would say if she called them again because of a tribe of greedy mosquitos.
I met someone called Kathy in Egypt. She became a fantastic friend, even if she spelt a few words wrong. (American). We went on a few holidays together and I always remember her laughter above all else. She had a way of brushing things off that bothered her only for a few seconds. She would say, 'Meh' and flick her hand as if it was a mosquito and was now gone.
We both loved reading and she always read my poultry attempts at writing. One day, we just began discussing how strange out bodies were. If, in fact, we are mainly made up of water, why don't we leak?
GEORGE IS LEAKING
Chapter 1: Normal
George was a normal boy. Normal height. Normal weight. Normal smell of sweaty socks slung on his bedroom floor. He didn’t even think of the word normal. He just was. He played football in the playground. He did his homework on time. He loved chocolate cake.
When he was eleven, he went to big school. He was excited. He was allowed to walk to school on his own. He got his first proper phone. His mum had been really strict about not giving him one before then, even when all his friends got one. It was a happy day when he walked through the school gates to his new school.
A few months later, the leaks began. It was so little at first, he barely noticed. It was winter. The school heaters were on full blast. He was sweating a bit.
Then, one day, as he walked down the corridor to his locker, a couple of boys crashed into him and knocked him sideways. He’d flushed with embarrassment as they pointed at him sprawled on the floor. A small gang surrounded him, laughing. Grabbing his books, he’d stormed away, saying nothing. That was the best way to deal with idiots. And there were a lot of idiots in his new school.
By the time he reached the toilets, he was sweating even more. From his armpits, from his forehead, even from his eyes. It looked like he was crying, but he wasn’t. He’d quickly wiped his face with a rough paper towel and scurried away to his first class. English with Mr. Thompson. He liked Mr. Thompson, he made him laugh, and reminded him a bit of his dad, but Mr. Thompson was strict about not being late. So when George walked in to find the lesson had already started, he felt his stomach knot. Mr. Thompson said nothing and that was the worst. He reserved a desk in the far corner for latecomers to which he glanced. George knew that was where he was supposed to go. He sat down and leaned his chin in his hands. There was sheet of paper stuck to the desk. This is what it said:
Being late for my class is rude!
Being late for my class is disruptive.
Today, you are both rude and disruptive.
I do not like rude and disruptive people.
Continue on this path at your peril.
George had never sat at this desk before. He slumped in the seat, his shoulders curled over. He felt he’s let Mr. Thompson down. An idiot boy at the next desk threw a scrunched up piece of paper at him. It landed on his lap. He didn’t want to get into more trouble so he just stuffed it in his pocket. Mr. Thompson was already walking around handing out papers. He was a tall man with big feet and large brown eyes.
“This is a quick quiz on chapter four so I hope you all read it last night. The first one to get all the right answers wins a prize.”
He reached George’s desk and stopped; his forehead creased.
“Are you unwell?”
George grunted he was fine, though he was feeling a bit damp. He wiped his forehead, only to find the palm of his hand came away wet. He stared at it as if it was some alien appendage – not part of his body. Why was he dripping?
Mr. Thompson was staring at the floor. George looked down. He was sat in a puddle. That’s when the snickering began, the hide behind your hands type of snickering, the whispers and pointing. He’s wet himself.
George was used to the snickering, but words can’t hurt you. His mum had said best to ignore them, so he did. But wet himself? That was stupid! George looked up at the ceiling and at the walls. Some pipe had burst. He just hadn’t noticed when he’d sat down.
“I think you should go to the nurse George.”
George frowned, he was confused. What was going on?
Mr. Thompson shushed the class. “Quiet now. Will, can you please go with George to the nurse’s office? No dawdling on the way back.”
Will stood. He was a quiet boy, keeping himself away from the crowds. As they walked down the corridor, George noticed he kept a distance from him too.
“I haven’t wet myself.”
Will just glanced at him, hands in his pockets. “Okay.”
George could tell Will didn’t believe him. He looked down at his uniform. There were damp patches on his shirt and his grey trousers stuck to his legs.
“I just sat in this puddle without noticing… cos I was late. There must have been a burst pipe or something.”
Will kept moving. “Okay.”
At the nurse’s office, they gave him spare trousers and a shirt from the lost property but George insisted he didn’t need them.
“That class has a burst pipe…”
The nurse had smiled, dumped the clothes on her desk and sat opposite him.
“Is there anything or anyone troubling you?”
George was getting angry. He tried to control his squeaky voice.
“No… why don’t you believe me?”
“It isn’t that I don’t believe you.”
But she didn’t…
When his mum arrived about half an hour later, he could hear her raising her voice at the nurse outside the room, but the words were muffled. Something about not standing for this and that they should do something about it.
George stuffed his hands in his pockets. He just wanted to go home now. The nurse’s room was colder than the classroom and his wet clothes were beginning to make him shiver. His knuckles touched the scrunched up piece of paper in his pocket. He wrapped his fingers around it, wondering what it was. Taking it out of his pocket, he remembered the idiot boy throwing it at him. He knew he should just throw it in the bin, but his fingers unfurled it anyway. There on the paper was a cartoon image of a boy standing in a puddle. The bubble writing said: Baby George Needs a Napy
George muttered to himself as he tore the scrap into bits. “Can’t even spell!” By the time he’d finished, his mum came in.
“Come on George. We’re going home.”
George watched her eyes go from angry sparks to a sad, watery gaze. She held her hand out as if he were a child. He wanted to take it but he didn’t want to be her baby anymore, so he just stood and picked up his bag.
At home, he had a hot shower, changed into his pyjamas and crawled into bed. He felt odd. He couldn’t quite say why or what it was. He just did!
Chapter 2: More Leaks
George pulled at his collar. The top button was too tight on his neck. His first thought was he must be dreaming, but he knew he was in his bed, in his house, so it couldn’t be a dream, or could it?
He sat up and tried to tug the button open, but his fingers weren’t doing what they were supposed to do. He couldn’t undo his top. He thought he was going to choke until at the last minute he managed to get one finger under his collar and yank at it, snapping the cotton and the button at the same time. Only then, did he looked at his hands. At first, he thought his eyes were blurred. He rubbed them, thinking it would help. It didn’t. His fingers looked different. Chubbier, each digit blown up like a balloon, squashed into the space the end of his hands.
George screeched. Something was wrong. He struggled to get his legs out of the bed and in the end rolled over on his side and slumped to the floor. His face slapped into the soft carpet and one of his smelly socks. “Mum.” The shout was feeble. That’s when George noticed his toes. They, too, were swollen as if filled with jelly. So were his legs and arms. In fact, his whole body looked as if it was a sleeping bag, stuffed into a rucksack that wasn’t big enough. Even his pyjamas looked at least three sizes too small. “Mum.” His voice was a bit louder, but his bedroom door was closed and she couldn’t hear. He rolled onto his side and pushed himself up to balance on his hands and knees, like a dog. He was even panting like a dog, his heart beating hard in his chest.
That’s when it started again. The leaking. His eyes began first. Then his face, his ears, his nose and mouth. It spread throughout his body as if the pores themselves were opening up and flooding the room with liquid. George didn’t understand. His limbs folded beneath him and he lay his face against the soft carpet and closed his eyes. Was he going mad?
The next thing he knew, his mum was lifting him up. “George, what are you doing on the floor?” Her voice was anxious. “You’re soaking wet.” She touched his forehead. “Have you had a fever?”
George began shivering.
His mum put her arm around him. He didn’t stop her. “I think you need to see a doctor, but let’s get you out of these clothes first.”
He looked down at his fingers. They were normal size now. He sighed with relief, though he felt very weak and his head hurt. “My fingers got fat, mum.” He croaked as she slipped the pyjama top off him.
“What?”
“My body leaked.”
His mother tutted as she wrapped his dressing gown around him. “I’ll get you some water whilst you get the rest of gear off, and then we can have a chat.”
“Thanks. Am thirsty.”
I wrote this as part of my MA. We did a whole term on autofiction. I'd never been a huge fan of it until I read some amazing books for this section of the course. Some stay with me even now... one I even mention on my book list page.
UNTITLED
Chapter 1
“I’m here for a few days on business.”
“Really!” I was undecided. Should I encourage his chitchat or not? My introverted reserve clashed with the new ‘throw yourself out there and have an adventure’ agenda. I plunged in.
“I have a job teaching English.”
The man seated next to me lifted his plastic cup in a silent one-way celebration. As he attempted to slug back the amber liquid, I watched as a trickle slipped out from the corner of his wide mouth. He shrugged and grinned, wiping his chin.
“It’s the turbulence.”
My fellow passenger had chatted off and on, but now, a couple of whiskies in, he’d become more loquacious. He wore a dark suit, with an open-necked shirt. His straggly light-brown hair hung around flushed cheeks.
“Where are you working?”
Digging into my sackcloth bag, I pulled out a scrap of paper.
“A school. The International Living Language Institute.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Shaarya ElGergawi, Dokki?”
He leant closer, reading over my shoulder. “How did you get the job?”
I felt like a fake. The tiny advert in the Telegraph had claimed ‘English Teachers Wanted. No experience necessary. All training given. Native speakers only.’ Well, I was a native speaker, and I had no experience, so my qualifications were perfect. Only later did I learn their training was ‘on the job.’
Here’s your board pen. There’s the classroom. Your students are waiting. Off you go!
Watching the curvature of the earth, seeing the sky turn from an amazing blue to a myriad of pinks and purples, before settling into an unfathomable darkness, I felt elated. Getting on the plane had been a miracle in itself. It had taken months of begging for flight money. I pestered local radio and TV stations, for whom I’d promised to write explosive articles. They’d smiled kindly in the way older people do when a child suggests something slightly ridiculous, excusing their lack of interest, in what was clearly a brilliant idea, by informing me of limited budgets. Banks, on the other hand, just pictured me absconding with a pocketful of cash. It was nineteen eighty-seven, I was twenty-two and a one-way ticket cost two hundred pounds.
My mother believed in angels and asking the universe for what you wanted, before the popularity of books like The Secret came out. It was not a matter of prayer but throwing out the right vibrations.
“If you really want to go, you’ll get the money.”
Eventually, when I’d gulped in enormous sighs of miserable resignation - it was impossible, obviously the universe wasn’t listening - Barclays Bank called me. This was at a time when local managers actually made decisions. Having originally refused, his reversal was a surprise. His reasoning would never happen today, but always stays with me.
“I’ve decided to loan the ticket money because I wish I’d done the same thing when I was younger.”
My mother’s response was I told you so! Mine was exhilaration, like tiny creatures hopping all over my skin. I was postponing adulthood and seeking excitement. As I sit typing, I cannot help but picture Bilbo Baggins in The Hobbit film running through the fields shouting, ‘I’m going on an adventure.’ I don’t think my feet are particularly large or hairy, though I am short, and my second toe is longer than my first, so perhaps there was a bit of the thrill-seeking hobbit in me. I envisioned charging headlong into the unknown, to be free from responsibilities that loomed as university ended and proper adulthood called. I remember the energy and the conviction that the whole world was out there, just waiting for me.
I tell women I work with now, ‘the decisions you make today are creating your future history – it’s your choice.’ They are quiet, reluctant to respond. I wonder if it is just their own lack of faith, the brutality of the world they’ve experienced thus far, or whether they think my words don’t apply to them. Perhaps, from where they sit, with their doubts and fears, I’m not like them, I don’t have their experiences, but they’d be wrong. And ultimately, if what I say is weird and unrelatable, it does not matter. I say it anyway. For them, for me, for a life lived, and to remind me of my crossroads, of how I flung myself into a future, ignorant of each passing minute as it constructed my own history.
Family and friends believed me when I said, I was going to see the pyramids and I’d be back in three months. I even believed it, but three months turned into over ten years, after which, I hopped over to Saudi Arabia.
“Someone meeting you?”
“I’m to take a taxi to the school.”
He frowned and sighed; the stench of whisky reaching my nostrils in the cramped confinement of economy seating. “At night, in Cairo?”
“Err, yes… someone will be there.”
This was a time before the internet, mobiles and widespread understanding of how much danger there was out there, or at least, in my small-town, naïve existence, it was. I had checked with the British Embassy in Cairo. They’d informed me the school existed. Their fax had been short. ‘If your alternative is being on the dole in England, then you have nothing to lose.’
“Listen, I don’t know the exact street, but my hotel’s in Dokki. I can give you a lift.” He noted my hesitancy. “It’ll be safer. You don’t want to get stranded at night in the middle of nowhere. Besides which, the airport is a nightmare.”
What to do? I had twenty-five pounds in cash, wasn’t sure how much my limited funds would buy, and an unknown man was offering a lift.
It’s almost laughable. So many years in hot countries and I never liked the sweltering heat. There were many mad English people who lavished their body in oil and worshipped the mid-day sun, but I always hid in my cool hobbit-hole. In the flatlands of the Humber Estuary, we are protected from the worst of seasonal weather, but this morning, it’s chilly. Sugar icicles sparkling in the bright winter light dust the tarmac and coat the shivering hedge. I suck in the stinging morning air and relish the icy burn cooling my insides.
Waiting for a lift, I gaze down the narrow street, at the 1920’s houses, the evergreen hedges, the tall trees until finally, my eyes rest on our gate. I say gate, but it’s really just nails protruding from broken slats like some war-torn relic. As time drifts on, it becomes more disfigured, no longer secure, but rather struts of wood, with no purpose. The niggly voice in my head reminds me the external house walls are supposed to be white, not mouldy grey, the garage doors are hanging on with rusted hinges, and the garden is a wilderness loved by the many creatures that stalk the night.
I acknowledge all these objects and places, their calls for repair and tidiness, even on occasion, mourn their slow decay, but they’re nothing but intrusions to be pushed aside. Today, there are planned priorities. I’m good at making lists and filling my hours with important things. Work lists, personal ‘to-dos,’ writing notes, reminders for others, birthdays, payment dates, bills… my lists are endless. When my son was a toddler, and we played, he had lists he couldn’t read. Still, we marked them off together as we ended one game and began the next. The earth has turned thousands of rotations whilst I’ve sat on my sofa, notebook in my lap and pen in my hand, scribbling and crossing, ticking and re-writing.
I promised my son a trip to Egypt when he turned eighteen, when it was safe, when the law and his father couldn’t take him from me, but university beckons him and so does his freedom. I know that feeling and am excited for him. He is my little Frodo with identical feet and soon he will explore the world in his way.
But, just for a moment, I wanted to show him my Egypt in the early years; to travel down the Nile once more, to visit the temples and bazaars, taste the sweet black tea in the coffee shops and ride horses through the sand dunes. I wanted to see that long ago time through his eyes, to experience the novelty of a culture unknown once more, to step into the deafening Cairo traffic, but my son has grown tall. Even though his second toe imitates mine, he has broader wings and is currently standing on his own precipice, ready to leap.
Screwing my eyes, I stare up at the boughs of my mighty trees. Linden, lime and conker, now undressed for the winter solstice celebration. I glimpse the light between the negative spaces of the branches. It shimmers like heat off a long hot road and shoots outwards, its energy connecting with the universe. Reaching out, I stroke the tree’s rugged bark, and just for a second, it permits my intrusion as a temporary fixture in its world, and my body feels lighter.
It must look odd. The dark-skinned lady with short black hair from across the road, stands at her window, scanning the street, casually watching the strange middle-aged woman, staring up into the sky. What’s she doing? What’s that smile on her face for? Is she crazy? I’ve seen her looking, I’ve even acknowledged her with a nod. I wonder if she wonders, or if she knows what I see and craves a part of it.
A blue car turns the corner at the top of the street. My colleague sits behind the steering wheel. I have only seconds before the world begins turning again, before I climb in and say ‘Hi! Did you have a good weekend?’ and smile on our way to work.
Let’s stop time. Just you and me, Tree, and my little existential crisis! Let’s forget our lists and together question the meaning of our lives, our purpose. Who planted you so many years ago? Maybe a bird flew over and dropped a seed. The wind blew you into the soil. Evolutionary chance, rather than purposefully sown by caring hands. Nevertheless, you grew and stood your ground, even when the house usurped your land. Your roots expanded, curling around the steel foundations, reclaiming the underworld. If I could fast forward like some mythical time machine, I might imagine the house aging and crumbling, before being hauled away, but you, my trees, stand tall. Your deep, arthritic knots bulging and your limbs spreading wide, reaching for the sun.
There was an old black and white programme I watched when I was three. It had an opening theme song about ‘snowy white horses.’ I’d totally forgotten it until a couple of years ago, when my brother found it on YouTube and laughed as he played it. He remembered how much he hated ‘Tracy’s special’ programme as he was told to leave me alone to watch it. As he showed me the jittery clip, something in my brain fizzled, as if tiny, dormant synapses were shooting electricity to reconnect a long-forgotten memory. A different me resurfaced. I saw the little girl on the sofa, blond curls, stubby legs, staring at a boxy, monochrome TV, mesmerised with the tune, the galloping stallion and the pretty girl stroking its mane. Later, I rationalised, I must have pulled the image together from an old toddler photo, a room I remembered from the house we grew up in and a TV I probably saw on a search engine, but there I was. I existed in that space of time because my brain cells struggled to create an acceptable memory, a picture of my past, of me in relation to the world. Perhaps Descartes was right. We only exist if we can think and narrate our own stories.
“Do you have a tourist visa?” The man to my left has changed the subject.
“No. Do I need one?”
“You just buy it at the airport. It’s cheap enough and all they want you to do is exchange a hundred dollars.”
I sat back, my face heating up. Why hadn’t I thought to check? Getting here had been trouble enough. I pictured airport officials manhandling me back onto the plane just as I was about to start my great adventure. My whisky knight jumped off his horse and came to my rescue.
“I have enough money to exchange two hundred pounds and I’ll need it for work anyway. Don’t worry.”
I’m sure, there must have been more conversation on the seven-hour journey, but my memory is selective. I’m rushing us along through customs and, with my one suitcase, into a taxi. It’s strange I don’t remember my saviour’s name. Is he still out there somewhere? Does he know the impact he made? If he hadn’t paid the visa money, would I have returned home? Or perhaps I should thank the banker who gave me the two hundred pounds, or even my mother, who found the two-by-two inch advert for the job and sent it to me. What was she doing reading The Telegraph anyway? Did she just ad-hoc pick it up? This three-way, utterly oblivious collusion, sent me on an alternative life trajectory, spinning me into another world. Like a germ scattered across the universe, forcing its way up through stones and mud, I was a seedling, finding my way through chance and happenstance.
Imagine standing in front of a hot oven, expanding your lungs, desperately trying to find particles of fresh air, and you can place yourself at Cairo Airport in in the height of the 1987 summer, long before it had air conditioning. Your skin prickles as you join the perspiring masses and your body fights to cool you down as you scramble through jostling crowds.
The stink of a sweaty city, car fumes and cigarettes mingled with scents of a sweet smoky perfume, I had yet to identify as incense. Men in long white galabeyas stalked the pathways, some with turbans selling hot tea from large cannisters, others in smart hotel uniforms carried suitcases and hustled tourists to cooled coaches.
Groups blocked movement, unbothered with the shoving as people tried to circumvent them. Some hugged, patting backs, shaking hands, laughing and greeting their loved ones.
“Zayek?”
“I’m well, and you?”
“Alhamdulillah. And your family?”
“Well, God Willing.”
People moved as if a mass migration were taking place. Large black bags, huge sacks on their backs and children in tow. Words I could not comprehend, loud and guttural, filled with emotions of joy, anger and frustration, created further commotion. A cacophony that was at once amazing and overwhelming, brilliant and frightening.
As the foreigner, I was immediately accosted.
“Taxi?”
“Where you go?”
“Lady, lady. Come here. Cheap price.”
My whisky knight herded me through the gaggle of would-be drivers.
“Thank you. No. Shokran. La.” He pointed towards a carpark, “This way. I have someone meeting me.”
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