Dans le Murs (Part 13)

She turned to me and smiled. “Thank you Colin.” she said quite genuinely, “I am certain that gave you much pleasure and I assure you it gave me pleasure also. It is a great compliment to a woman for a man to permit what we just did. Rest now, I will not disturb you again.” She touched my temples with her fingertips before curling into the pillow with a wistful smile on her dusky face and becoming still. I adjusted my pillow and followed suit.
I jerked awake as the Airbus banked sharply to starboard. It was light and the movement almost threw me onto Fatima, except the seat beside me was empty. Boy had I slept soundly for her to have squeezed past, I assumed to the toilet, without disturbing me. After about ten minutes and she hadn’t returned I looked around the cabin for her. Not immediately seeing her I buzzed a stewardess. One arrived immediately, immaculately dressed in Western style uniform.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said softly, “but have you seen the lady who was in this seat? We were talking earlier and she seems to have slipped past me while I slept.” The stewardess smiled. “Do you know her name?” she asked, “I will see if she has moved her seat. Maybe she didn’t want to disturb you.”

“That’s probably it.” I replied, “I might have disturbed her; I do snore sometimes. Anyway her name was Fatima Rashid al Zarqawi, actually Doctor Fatima Rashid al Zarqawi en route to Paris. I just wanted to say goodbye before we landed that’s all.”
“I will check the passenger manifest.” the stewardess said, straightening up. After about five minutes the stewardess returned, looking a little flustered.
“Sir.” she said a little hesitantly, “Our manifest shows this seat to be unoccupied and nobody of the name you gave me is contained in it. Are you sure of her name?”
“Absolutely certain.” I retorted, “We exchanged names and shook hands. I remember quite vividly because hers was quite cold.”
“Could you describe her sir?” she asked, “We may have her under another name.”
“Oh, I never thought of that.” I raised my eyebrows, “Let me think; she was Arabic, forty three years old, very smartly dressed in Western style. Not bang up to date designer clothes, perhaps a few seasons old, almost apricot colour. Oh yes, she said she came from UAR. She said she was married with two sons and travelling to a medical conference in Paris. That’s the best I can do. Look, if it’s too much trouble then forget it; it’s not important; ships in the night so to speak.”
She shook her head. “I will return soon sir.”
I had almost dozed off again when she returned with a uniformed man. “This is Captain Abdul Mohammed.” she said respectfully, “He wishes to speak with you about the woman.” I signalled him to sit but he seemed unwilling to sit where she had sat and suggested I join him on the flight deck. This was crazy; who the hell was this mystery woman? Didn’t I have enough oddball problems to go on with without adding a lady in apricot? I was beginning to wish I hadn’t raised the issue. I followed him to the flight deck, a mass of instruments and lights; we sat at a small desk in a small corner. Two coffees were steaming and he offered me one.

“Mister deVilliers.” he began slowly, his voice more accented than the stewardess’, “I am deeply troubled by your search for Madame Fatima Rashid al Zarqawi, very deeply troubled indeed. You see sir, we have nobody of that description on board; we have checked and double-checked and as it is very unlikely we could lose a passenger at thirty three thousand feet, your request mystified us. All passengers who were aboard the aircraft when we left Doha are accounted for, so we ask ourselves what is to do?”
I stepped in. “I am sorry Captain;” I said apologetically, “it must have been an unusually vivid and dramatic dream. You know how they can be sometimes. I’m sorry to have been such a nuisance.”
“Dream? Perhaps, perhaps not.” he said very mysteriously, “You see, Mister deVilliers, there is, or rather was a Fatima Rashid al Zarqawi on this flight into Paris, travelling to a medical conference - eight years ago. You may recall the flight was highjacked to Tripoli and flooded with Sarin gas. All the highjackers and one hundred passengers perished; among them Doctor al Zarqawi. Now, either the records are inaccurate or ………” His voice faded as he looked cautiously at me. An icicle ran down my spine; I vaguely recalled the incident.

“I took the precaution of checking the records and you described exactly how Madame al Zarqawi was dressed when she boarded the aircraft – this aircraft.” he continued, “Also I have confirmed that it is highly unlikely that you would have such details to carry out any deceit and anyway, for what purpose?”
“For what purpose indeed.” I interjected, “I certainly do not seek any form of publicity; in fact quite the opposite is true. So what is your explanation Captain – apart from the blindingly obvious?
“As you say, Mister deVilliers,” he began, placing a copy of the Koran on the table, “apart from the blindingly obvious there appears to be none. Although I am Muslim, my faith is practical; I find the concept of ‘life after death’ to be difficult to embrace. If we discard such impracticalities then perhaps your dream offers the best explanation. What then is your rationalisation sir?”
“I have no more than you Captain.” I replied bluntly, “I cannot believe however that I could dream the correct name and description of someone who was on this aircraft eight years ago do you? I think, like UFO’s, we must put it down to unexplained phenomena. There seems no harm done although I admit to being a little shaken.”
He looked straight at me. “I tell you in the strictest confidence sir,” he said, “that this is not the first time the ‘lady’ has apparently visited the aircraft. On no less than five previous occasions has a passenger reported seeing her although none so clearly as you. You will appreciate our concern.”
“I do Captain.” I said sagely, “Passengers do not want to hear about ‘haunted’ aircraft at the end of the twentieth century do they; it’s certainly bad for business? Although there seems to be no malice, I can appreciate she could frighten some customers. From my observation, however, she looked very real indeed, which I believe she was.”
“You still suppose it to be some sort of elaborate trick?” he asked.
“Surely that is the more likely explanation Captain?” I said, “You admitted yourself it was not too challenging to obtain her details; it would not be difficult to imitate such a person especially as she would not be well known. No, I believe that one of the other passengers carried out an elaborate hoax and I would wager that if you searched you would find the outfit hidden.”
“But why?” he asked.

“Simply for fun and because it can be done.” I answered, “Or perhaps to damage the company although I find that unlikely. I believe that if you checked the passenger lists on the other days she was seen I think you would find at least one traveller common to all of them. Then you have your hoaxer.”
He smiled. “I will accept that challenge.” he said, picking up the microphone and spoke rapidly in Arabic into it. “It will take a short while, in the meantime let me show you the flight deck.”
I was given the VIP tour of the flight deck until the Captain was handed the mic. He spoke for a few minutes, his face fixed, giving nothing away. As he put the mic down he shook his head and spoke. “There is no common passenger.” he said simply.
“Ah.” I was equally simple, “Doesn’t prove it is not a hoax though, there could be accomplices.” I shivered not wishing to contemplate the alternative. We shrugged; there was nothing more to be done.
“Thank you for your help sir.” the Captain said through my thoughts, “The company would be grateful if you did not mention this incident and is prepared to offer you the sum of ten thousand US Dollars as an ex-gratia gesture for your co-operation.” The thought of the money was very tempting and it was clear that they considered the problem very serious. I shook my head.
“I decline your generous offer.” I said as his eyebrows shot up and he jumped in immediately. “I am authorised to offer you up to fifteen thousand but no more.” he interjected.
Once more I shook my head and smiled; he looked crestfallen. “No thank you.” I said, then quickly, “But, if you had let me finish Captain, I would have told you to donate the ten thousand, now fifteen thousand, anonymously of course, to the Royal National Institute for the Blind in London. You also have my absolute assurance that I will not seek to publicise this incident.”
His face changed and he extended his hand. I took it. “It will be a pleasure sir.” he said warmly, “It is an honour to shake the hand of a gentleman; I will make the arrangements immediately. Tell me sir, off the record, do you honestly believe it was a trick?”
“I would like to believe it was some sort of hoax.” I said, “But there are a number of details that seem to point to some other explanation. Like yourself, I am a practical man, a scientist who deals in facts, but here the facts are contradictory. I do not believe in a God or the continuance of existence after physical death but some things do not seem to ring true.”
“Details sir?” he asked as we concluded the business, “How do you mean, details?”
Only now was it becoming clear to me. “She seemed to speak about things as if they were known to her.” I said slowly, “And …. oh Hells Teeth! She …. she asked me personal questions and said that Tessa, my late wife, would not mind.” I faltered.
“And why should that be of concern sir?” he asked.
“For a very good reason Captain.” my voice trembled, “You see, we had never met before so how could she have known my wife’s name was Tessa?”
He said nothing but his eyes told me what he was thinking. I was escorted back to my seat in a daze. As we started our descent into CDG I idly flicked open the waste receptacle. In it was the tissue Fatima had used to wipe her hand, crumpled and damp. The subtle odour of semen was still apparent. I hadn’t dreamed that bit anyway! I belted up as the lights came on and the indicator pinged. My eyes were heavy and I let them droop as the change of air pressure stressed my eardrums. It was then I felt a featherlike, icy touch on my temples as a voice whispered in my head. “I am proud to have met you so briefly Colin deVilliers.” it whispered, “Do not feel guilty about your new love; you are forgiven.” Then, like the breeze among leaves, it vanished as my eyes shot open and I stared at the seat next to mine. It was empty of course.

**

We landed at CDG in a manner that I would call quite firm. I imagine the Captain was a little upset by the incident and perhaps was not so delicate of hand as usual. We taxied and bounced to a halt, all the lamps pinged off and we began to collect all our belongings. As I prepared to move off I whispered, “May the peace of the Prophet be upon you Fatima al Zarqawi.” and I was convinced I felt the faintest touch of a breath on my lips. I shook my head and made for the front door. Here both the stewardess and Captain Mohammed bid me farewell and I began the tedious business of luggage and immigration. Coming from a non-EU country I had to go through the rigours of customs and passport control that always takes longer than expected but eventually I made the Roussillon railhead. It had been agreed that I would not be met but would travel to the Eurolille terminal alone. Here I would be collected by taxi and taken to l’ecole. So I retraced my journey of many weeks before and boarded a TGV bound for London. Fifty minutes after leaving Paris GDN I alighted at the ultra modern EuroLille international terminal and hauled my small case to the exit. Almost at once I saw a sign that read ‘M deVilliers’ being waved frantically above the crowd. I joined the waver, a rotund man of indeterminate years, handed him my case and climbed into the back of large Renault. His English was about the level of my French so we communicated if not chatted.

He assumed, and I didn’t discourage him, that I was a teacher at the school returning late from summer vacation. The journey seemed to take very little time and very soon we were crossing the bridge and parking on the cobbles. As I opened the door and stepped out two figures dashed out of the building, neck and neck, towards me. Anne-Marie made it a moment before Simone and they both hugged and kissed me. The driver carried the case to the entrance with a Gallic shrug as I almost dragged the two delightful teenagers after him. Then, without another glance or demand for a tip, he jumped into his taxi and roared off. We entered, the two girls twittering and giggling, climbed the stairs to enter the large room that Joker was using as a base. Inside was a welcoming party consisting of all the team. For over an hour I was telling and retelling my adventures, keeping the sect completely out of it, as if I had been working for the film unit. By the time everyone had seen my injury I was really ready for rest but I knew I had to brief the Grand Master. I called for Madeleine, made our excuses and left for the temple. We clambered through the tunnels and emerged in a quiet moment. Little was happening as Madeleine guided me to the Grand Master’s apartment. On arrival I instructed her to find Melanthe and take her to my quarters. I entered the Grand Master’s apartment and was guided to his ‘office’ where he was shuffling a deskful of papers. He saw me, stood up with a broad smile and embraced me.

“Sethin, Sethin.” he patted me, “It is truly wonderful to see you in good health once more. We were so concerned when we heard the news. How could things go so badly? And Nahdya, she is recovering? Tell me my son, tell me your story over coffee.”

For the umpteenth time that day I recalled the story except this time without excluding any detail.
At the end he smiled. “You were very lucky.” he commented, “But all has slotted into place. As you know I have accepted a position on High Council and you, my son, will replace me. It is a great honour for one so soon. We have much to arrange and many people to meet. When do you plan to return to Delhi Sethin?”
“When my duties here are done Grand Master.” I replied.
“Well said Sethin!” he exclaimed, patting my shoulder, “You will stay here for two or three days, there are a number of high functionaries to be seen – starting tomorrow morning. I am sorry but my recommendation is not enough; representatives of High Council wish to interview you. But tonight we dine well with High Table and I am certain Sister Melanthe is eager to renew her acquaintance.” He laughed gently. “Go, relax, catch up with temple business; we will dine at eight in the Great Hall.”

I bowed to him and made my way to my apartment where I was confronted by 40kg of delightful, black teenager. Wearing formal clothes and the widest grin I had seen for many weeks she bowed, hesitated then ran and hugged me. After a few seconds I heard a sharp intake of breath as she disengaged her arms and drew back, her head low.
“Oh please forgive me Grand Master.” she cried, “I forget my position. I have no right to embrace you thus; I have offended your person.” She dropped to the floor and prostrated herself.
I bent and lifted her gently. “Melanthe.” I said gently, “You have committed no offence my child. For one thing I am not your Grand Master yet, for another I am very glad to see you once more and finally I appreciate the spontaneous display of welcome. Come, sit with me, let us speak of what has transpired; I take pleasure in your presence.”
She excused herself and vanished for some minutes. On her return she was dressed in smart trousers and a silken blouse and carrying, carefully, two cups of steaming coffee. I briefly described, once more, our adventures. To Melanthe I included the encounter with Fatima, without the intimate details of course, at which she became very quiet.
“Was it a ghost?” she asked quietly, her face serious.
“I simply don’t know what it was.” I replied, “All I know is that this woman sitting beside me started up a conversation. She told me quite a bit about herself, all of which was true, except that she had been reported killed eight years previously, in the same aircraft. I got her name correct as well as her age and dress. I can’t imagine how I would have dreamed it and I scarcely remember the hijacking incident from the news anyway. I am trying to find a rational explanation but I can’t.”