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Anne was a Leo, constantly basking in what little heat England afforded. I thought of Paphos and the fine blonde hairs on the coconut-scented warmth of her flat brown belly, a million years ago on a beach so hot the air shimmered above the sand.

  I smiled. ‘I’m going to come back at Christmas. Can you wait for me?’

  ‘You know I will. I’d come out to you, but you know how it is with the practice right now. I can’t take lunch off, let alone a long weekend.’

  Busy Anne the professional high-flyer, the BlackBerry-toting practitioner of international contract law. I often wondered what she ever saw in a scruffy journalist with a distinct distaste for big business and its corporate values. Her work and clients were something we didn’t talk about anymore because it inevitably led to rows.

  We chatted a little, whispering sweet nothings before we kissed air above our handsets. I undressed and drew a hot flannel over the drawn face peering back at me in the big bathroom mirror.

  I lay in the dark for ages, comfortable in the puffed warmth of the hotel duvet but kept awake by memories of Anne and the nagging thoughts of dank prison cells. I flailed myself in the silent room with thoughts about what the police would do now, peeling back the layers of false reassurance like onion skin until there was nothing left but the certainty of jail before disgrace. I found myself wondering how I would survive weeks or months in an Arab prison, although Jordan was now my prison – I’d never appreciated how much actually having a passport in your hand meant, how that silly little document meant the freedom to walk out, to turn your back and just leave.

  Sleep finally came and wiped away my cares, bringing dreams of home and being a kid again, playing with Charles before he left for university – a rare moment when he’d had time for his kid brother. My dad was there, too. Which was nice, if somewhat fanciful. He was never really there, even before he took his last walk out of the house without saying goodbye, leaving my mum sobbing on the sofa with the side of her face red and swollen.

  Jordan takes a Friday/Saturday weekend and my first Friday I stayed at the house taking deliveries of furniture and fittings. Aisha came around to help, hauling two friends along with her, a fussy little bird of a girl and her friendly, lumbering boyfriend. They were good people and we were instantly at ease working away cleaning, shopping and arranging my new possessions. I was humbled by how helpful and hospitable they were to a complete stranger, particularly when I found out they were actually packing themselves because the guy was moving to Kuwait for better money than Jordan could ever have offered him. She planned to follow him one day.

  Saturday afternoon I checked out of my hotel and into my new home. Aisha arrived soon after I did, banging on the kitchen door so hard I thought one of the glass panels would smash.

  I opened the door and she burst into the kitchen, grinning. ‘Here. A present for you, from Ibrahim. He says not to do anything stupid, he had to put a deposit against this.’

  We were supposed to go out for drinks with the couple who had helped me move in. Aisha, normally a conservative dresser, wore a low-cut top with a pashmina draped around her shoulders.

  I opened the brown envelope and my passport slid out. My relief was electric, the little burgundy document giving me the option of escape home. I felt ashamed of the thought. Ibrahim had acted as my guarantor and if I pulled a runner he would have to face the consequences. And yet, at that moment, I knew I’d skip the country if it came to facing a return to jail. I stammered my thanks but Aisha waved dismissal.

  ‘It’s okay, Paul. He said to tell you there’s no formal charge yet. He’s still negotiating with Captain Mohammed and hopes to have the case dropped completely.’

  ‘Please just thank him for me, Aisha.’

  ‘No thanks needed, Paul.’ She smiled at me, her big eyes on mine. ‘You’re a friend of the family. Come on, let’s go meet the guys.’

  The bar was a two minute drive uphill from my new home. Decorated in Arabesque, its red-tinted ambience was an escape from the chill night. Everyone seemed to be smoking, chattering over the funky Arabi chill-out backbeats.

  We sat together in a corner and talked about the Ministry and my initial meeting with the Minister earlier in the week. Harb Al Hashemi, the Jordanian Minister of Natural Resources, was one of a small band of reformers trying to introduce liberalisation and foreign investment in the face of an increasingly conservative parliament. He had been shockingly frank about Jordan’s problems during our meeting.

  Aisha laughed at that, hitching up the shawl around her shoulders. ‘We all like to talk about how bad things are. Harb’s probably glad of the chance to talk to someone from outside about it.’ She played with her wine glass, frowning. ‘He has a hard time trying to get these reform programmes pushed through, but Jordan desperately needs them. We need to cash in on the peace dividend. If they have truly reached a lasting deal in Palestine, Jordan has a new chance to build and grow. The water privatisation is really the most important job we’ve undertaken at the Ministry and Harb’s negotiating his way through a social and political minefield. But Jordan simply doesn’t have enough water.’

  Aisha’s friends arrived, weaving their way through the crowded bar. We ordered food, Aisha chatting in English, occasionally forgetting about me and lapsing into Arabic. Soon enough I found myself immersed in the conversation, revelling in the warmth of readily offered friendship and laughter.

  Leaving the bar at the end of the evening, we stood on the pavement and waved Aisha’s friends goodbye, our faces reddened by their rear lights. I could see my breath in the air.

  Aisha turned to me. ‘Do you want a lift?’

  Her shawl had slipped, exposing the small mole on the rise of her right breast. I looked up to find her eyes on me. The uncertainty on her face amplified the little thrill in me, the urge towards her broken only by an instant’s thought of Anne.

  ‘No, no thanks. I’ll walk down,’ I gabbled. ‘It’s only a few minutes away and I could do with clearing my head. Will I see you at the Ministry tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course, bright and early. Look, you don’t even have a fridge in the house yet. Why don’t you come around to my place tomorrow and have dinner? My mum’s been dying to meet our new Englishman.’

  ‘I’d like to very much. Thank you.’

  The valet brought Aisha’s Lexus and we said goodnight. The cold night air on the walk back brought a resolution to spend what little remained of my first month’s overseas salary on warm winter clothes. I hadn’t expected English winter weather in Amman. My mind wandered as I walked, back to winter nights at home – strolling back from The Two Badgers arm in arm with Anne, huddled close together for warmth and tipsy from the insanely expensive bottle of red wine we’d shared over dinner in the little back room restaurant. Striding down the hill to my little Jordanian home, the wash of homesickness made me hunch up, my hands deep in my pockets against the foreign coldness creeping insidiously into me, making my bones ache.

  FOUR

  Aisha had arranged an affordable hire car through a cousin and I managed to strike my way through the jostling traffic over to the British Embassy without any major incidents.

  The Embassy’s reception area was quiet and smelled faintly of antiseptic, like a school. I asked the fussy, grey-haired woman about registering as a British national and she handed me a form, explaining they had a warden system to keep everyone ‘in the loop.’ The Americanism seemed slightly odd in her plummy, Joyce Grenfell voice. She made a note of the area I lived in before asking what had brought me to Amman. She handed me a card with my warden’s name and mobile number and asked me to wait while she copied my passport for their records. Giving it up to her brought back a strong memory of the police cell. I took a deep breath of clean air.

  She left the room and I stood reading a faded leaflet on the joys of the Norfolk Broads. I was considering going to look for her when she returned, followed by a dark-haired man in shirtsleeves. He was a handsome-looking fifty-something, with a catlike surety o
f movement. He strode up to me, hand outstretched. ‘Hi. Lynch. Gerald Lynch. I’m the assistant commercial secretary here, Mr…’

  Two could play the Bond game. ‘Stokes. Paul Stokes.’

  He was sweating and I caught a hint of stale alcohol under the supermarket aftershave. His accent was Northern Irish softened, I guessed, by years away from home. He knew my name perfectly well, he held my precious passport in his hand.

  ‘Yes, that’s it. Stokes. So you’re a journalist.’

  ‘Of sorts.’

  ‘Excellent. Good man. Well then. Welcome to our little expatriate enclave. Sheila here tells me you’re settling in for a long haul.’

  ‘A year.’

  ‘Too long for some by half.’ He laughed, alone, but I noticed the laughter didn’t quite reach his slightly teary, drinker’s eyes. ‘Settled in yet?’

  ‘Yes. On the first circle.’

  ‘You know your way around already.’ He turned to Sheila, who was pecking at her terminal. ‘Fast lad, Sheila, eh? Settled in less than…’ Then to me. ‘Two weeks isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lynch patted my arm, a touch as welcome to me as his brittle geniality.

  ‘Just pop this way a second, then, Paul and we’ll get you sorted out.’

  I followed him down a corridor and into a small room. Lynch gestured to the seat in front of the desk and sat behind it, rocking back on the cheap office chair.

  ‘So. TMG. The Media Group. Didn’t you people get a Queen’s Award last year?’

  ‘Yes, I believe so.’

  ‘Grand. Her Majesty’s Government delighted at your contribution and all that. You know what they say, two Queen’s Awards and a flagpole before they go bust. Best not to go for the second one, just to be safe. Eh?’

  Another lonely laugh from Lynch, one of those people who find themselves funnier than everyone else does. His dark hair was cropped short and receding at the temples. He needed a shave.

  ‘You’ve been to Jordan before, I see.’ He stated.

  ‘I only came in here to register as a British national.’

  ‘Sure, don’t I know it. And a good move, too.’ He gave his nose a conspiratorial tap. ‘Difficult times, always best to be safe. Especially after peace has broken out. You can’t go trusting the locals now. Not when there’s Peace Breaking Out.’

  It sounded like ‘Piyuss breykin ayt.’

  I crossed my arms and sat back. ‘So what do you want?’

  His bushy eyebrows met above his snub nose and framed his blue eyes, making his direct stare somehow unnerving. He was rumpled, his shirt too big for him and it had a grease stain on the collar. Women would like Gerald Lynch, they’d want to tidy him up and care for him and he’d be a bastard to them in return.

  ‘Nothing in particular, my friend. It’s nice and quiet right now our pals the Yanks have brought everyone back to the table for the latest love-in. Camp David Three, isn’t it?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Sure an’ it’s not every day we get our hands on a real live journalist, let alone one working with the government here, you know what I mean? It’s always handy to touch base, you know, try and help out. That’s the old job description, see? Building export earnings and so on. Helping you Queen’s Awards types. And maybe you could keep an eye out for us, too. Give us a few hints and tips, like.’

  ‘Just commercial stuff, right?’

  Lynch sat back and smiled. ‘That’s right.’

  I stood up. ‘So what if I told you I’m not interested in being a provider of low level intelligence for you or any other outfit?’

  Lynch’s Northern Irish accent thickened, mangling the vowels. ‘I’d say you were being a very foolish young man. Our interest is purely in building commercial links and information for British companies doing business here. And you need friends right now unless you want to find yourself being sent down for assaulting a Jordanian policeman.’

  I put out a hand to steady myself as Lynch sat back, his hairy hands together in a steeple. He gestured to the chair and I sat down, my palms sweaty.

  ‘How did you know about that?’

  He ignored my question. ‘So, you’ve been beavering away on your magazine. Ministry of Natural Resources, eh? They’ve got some job on their hands, that lot. Jordan’s not an easy place to reform. The water privatisation, for instance. That’s going to change a whole lot of vested interests, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘I met the Secretary General the other day, and that’s a fact. Emad Kawar?’

  ‘That’s his name, yes.’

  ‘You meet up with him yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ve met the Minister.’

  It wasn’t a question. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nice bloke, the Minister. Harb Al Hashemi. They say he’s going in the next reshuffle though.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘It’s what they say. Be interested to find out what the view inside the Ministry is. Might affect the whole privatisation programme. Be a shame, for instance, to invest in bidding for a programme that’s not going to be taken seriously, wouldn’t it now?’

  ‘I’m sure it would.’

  Lynch sat forward, his neat forefingers paired over his mouth, his thumbs under his chin. He wore a signet ring. ‘Come on, Paul. Let’s work together. I’ve been asked to scout out some background information for a couple of British companies who are interested in becoming involved in the privatisation bid. No big deal, but you’re working on all that stuff and it would save us time and heartache.’

  ‘And you’re offering to help out with the police in return.’

  Lynch beamed at me, sitting back. ‘Aren’t you the smart lad, eh? Well, yes, that’s precisely the deal, Paul. I’ll help you stay out of prison if you can give me a hand. Nothing more, just a hand.’

  ‘And how do I know you can deliver?’

  ‘I have precisely the same question. We’ll just have to trust each other. Now isn’t that a quaint notion altogether?’

  Lynch pushed my passport across the desk to me. ‘I’ll be in touch, Paul,’ he said, standing. He opened the door and I didn’t look around as I went down the corridor, but I could feel his gaze on my back. I left the Embassy wishing fervently I’d never gone there in the first place.

  I found a stranger reading a book and drinking beer at my garden table when I got home, my mind still in a spin from the surreal meeting with Lynch. Wiry and tanned with a sweep of blond hair above a high forehead and sporting a goatee beard, he stood and offered his hand.

  ‘Hi. Lars Anderssen. I live upstairs. I’m sorry to steal your garden, but I sort of shared it with the last guy and hoped you would be open into the same arrangement.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ I said, responding on autopilot – Gerald Lynch and what he did or didn’t know about my nasty little secret dominated my thoughts.

  Lars offered me a seat at my own table and picked a beer out of the cool box next to his chair. I took the dripping can from him, wiping my hand on my jeans. ‘Isn’t it a bit cold to be drinking chilled beer?’

  He grinned. ‘Not for a Swede.’

  Smiling back, I found myself putting Lynch away in a mental cupboard and focusing on my charismatic neighbour. Working with a local telephone operator on secondment from a big Swedish equipment manufacturer, Lars had been living in the upstairs flat for a couple of years. He’d been travelling for the past ten days, a job in Saudi Arabia nobody else could or would take on, so they’d sent mad boy Lars in. He’d come back that morning and was now embarking on the process of getting splendidly drunk.

  ‘I haven’t seen a fucking drink in ten days. We’ve got a compound in Riyadh that swims in this stuff, but this damn job was in Khamis Mushait. You ever been to Khamis Mushait?’

  ‘Nope.’

  He raised his tin to eye level in a bobbing toast. ‘Well, then you take my advice. Don’t. It’s a flyblowing shithole.’

  I corrected him automatically.

  ‘Flyblown.’ />
  Lars’ smile was infectious. ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘So how have you found life here?’

  ‘Ya, it’s a good place, for sure. The people are crazy maybe and the government’s rubbish mainly. The women are beautiful, but too much of this hijab thing. The ones that aren’t wrapped are crazy. The wrapped heads are not so fun.’ He waved the tin at me. ‘The local beer’s shitty, but I think you can’t have everything.’

  We sat and chatted for a while about settling into Jordan, about the Ministry of National Resources and my magazine. Lars knew of the Ministry.

  ‘It’s a new Ministry, you know. They formed it two years ago. They realise finally they’re causing problems by not regulating the extracting industries. You say extracting?’

  ‘Extractive.’

  ‘Okay, so. The extractive industries. They went crazy licensing it all off before and they’re having problems with over-working some of these natural resources. You can’t replace the potash, or the Dead Sea mud, you know?’

  I nodded. ‘That was my understanding from the Minister. I had a meeting with him the other day. He’s an impressive guy. They’re trying to bring it all back under control. And the water’s a problem, too.’

  ‘Yah. They lost most of the water they had in ’67. It’s all Israeli now. You should go up there and take a look at Lake Tiberias. It’s huge and they just lost it in a crazy war they were never going to win. They’re like that. Crazy.’

  I sipped at my beer. ‘Well, I’m off to see the potash people later this week. It’s all down by the Dead Sea, apparently. I’ve got a fixer from the Ministry to hold my hand.’

  ‘The Dead Sea’s some place. You’ll like it. Who you are working with at the Ministry?’

  ‘Aisha Dajani? She works with the secretary general there, Emad Kawar.’

  ‘Yah, I’ve heard of her. Her family owns this place, you know?’

  I soon realised Lars had a massive network of friends and followers and was totally plugged in to the beating heart of Amman’s social scene. ‘Yes, she found it for me.’