A World Away From Home

Further chapters of our serial

It took a little while before Clare began her reply to Dom’s email. She’d read the words over and over until she knew it off by heart. It was only brief, but you can say so much in very few words, can’t you? And he had.

They’d been in touch often by email while she’d been away, but his messages had been bright, breezy and distinctly lacking in romance, which was unlike Dom. It was as though he hadn’t got over her decision to come to Jordan and was distancing himself from her. As though he was deliberately misunderstanding her reasons for coming.

She hadn’t been running away from him – far from it. She had been running to Jordan for the experience and the desire to help… in the possibly mistaken belief that their relationship was secure and might even benefit from a brief separation. She’d been surprised when Dom hadn’t seen it that way. But this email showed another shift. HiClare,hopeyou’rewell.Iknow you’llbebusy!I’vebeenthinkingloads whileyou’vebeenaway.Imisjudgedyou. I’msorry.AndImisjudgedmetoo.Ormy feelingsforyou,anyway.Iloveyou,Clare.

Iloveyou. That was the first time he’d said that in an email since she’d arrived. Iloveyou. Her heart felt squeezed reading those words. So often she was too busy to think of life back in England. The desert hadn’t become her home exactly, but it was becoming a decent substitute. She felt part of the medical team, but also immersed in the many and varied details of camp life.

That was what her emails were full of: camp dramas and crises, the people, the food, the sun and sand. Although she was conscious she had never once mentioned Khalid, her Jordanian colleague, to Dom. Typing his name just didn’t feel right. She did question what she might be hiding, but not enough to include him in despatches.

Dom’s words had startled her, reminding her of her previous life. They’d nudged her into realising that, happy and

Had he been AFRAID? She’d SENSED something behind the STORYTELLING

fulfilled as she was here, she missed home. And she especially missed Dom. She began typing her reply. Hey Dom, so good to hear from you. There’ s so much going on here. The work people do is amazing. I’ ve so much to talk with you about when I…

“Clare! Come! A boy is missing. We need to know if he has been seen anywhere. Come to the fire, please.”

Hélène, the Belgian nurse, sounded panicked. It was unusual for her – she was more often the sea of calm amongst the choppy, stormy camp waves.

Quickly Clare saved the draft and followed Hélène from the tent in the direction of the campfire. Volunteers and staff weren’t sitting around it, sipping sweet spicy tea. They were standing, huddled in small groups and there was a buzz of noise, not the usual calm end of the day chatter. “When was he last seen?” “I’m not surprised, but he must be found. It is not safe for him out there.” “We must search for him.” People were talking over and around one another, men came and went in a swoosh of robes and alarm. Arms were thrown around and there was a general sense of panic and commotion.

Who had gone missing? Clare stood on the periphery of the group, just able to feel the warmth of the fire as the day lost the last of its heat.

“He is so mischievous, that one – just like a jinn.”

That startled Clare. Like a jinn? They weren’t speaking of Rafiq, were they? She remembered her conversation with him earlier in the day when he pointed out the cave, a fold in the orange sandstone plateau that broke up the rows of dunes.

“They are dangerous, the jinn. You

must watch out for them. Never turn your back on one,” he’d said.

The abrupt manner in which he had disappeared had concerned her. Had he been afraid of something? She’d sensed something was behind the story-telling, something troubling.

“We must go out and look for him. His name is Jamal, yes?”

Clare startled at the name, then shivered as a Bedouin man held a torch aloft, shining it into the darkness of the desert. A darkness that wasn’t easy to penetrate. So it wasn’t Rafiq who was missing. It was another boy called Jamal. She didn’t recognise the name. But there were so many boys in the camp.

“Come, we must go and find him. There are beasts…” The Bedouin man’s voice trailed off as he led a small group into the desert to look for Jamal.

Clare cupped her tea in her hands, sitting by the fire, waiting with other staff and volunteers. Once the search party had left, the atmosphere was subdued. It was rare for someone to disappear.

She was tired and she needed to finish her reply to Dom, but she couldn’t, not yet, she was too unsettled.

After an hour or so the men returned. Their demeanour said it all. Their shoulders were slumped and they approached the fire in silence, pouring fresh tea from the giant iron kettle.

“We could not find him,” one said, sitting on his haunches near the fire. “At night there are many dangers.”

Clare’s stomach turned at what was left unsaid. Tiredness overwhelmed her. She would have to finish her email tomorrow.

The clinic was busy the following morning. It was baby weighing-in day, which inevitably became much more than just that.

Mothers arrived with concerns about their newborns, fractious toddlers in tow. And that was on top of all the emergencies. There was a suspected stroke, a broken leg from over-vigorous football tackling. There were cries and shouts, demands for attention and people hunting for scarce supplies.

It was a busy morning, but not untypical. Clare didn’t have time to give Dom or the missing boy much thought. That would have to come later.

Instead, trying to drown out the general hubbub and commotion, she weighed and examined a six-week-old baby born prematurely and answer the mother’s understandable concerns.

“Your baby is thriving,” she was pleased to tell the mother who nodded and smiled, clearly able to hear Clare’s reassuring tone if she didn’t understand all the words.

Once that mother had dressed her baby and left, there was a momentary lull. Clare breathed deeply. She knew it wouldn’t last as she glanced around the tent milling with people. Old men in robes, women dressed in black, some with niqabs covering the lower part of their faces, their eyes cast downwards, children darting between the adults, hiding behind their mothers’ abayas, giggling and laughing, impervious to the medical kerfuffle. “Hello, Clare.” Haya. Clare smiled. Something about Haya that always made her smile. “The boy you talk to…” “Rafiq?” “Yes, Rafiq. He is football mad, no? He likes, who do you say, Man United?”

All boys in the camp were football mad, and many of them supported Man United, or Barcelona. “He is. Haya, yes. And?” Clare hadn’t intended to sound so abrupt, but it was an odd question. Where was Haya going with this? It was as though she wanted to speak of Rafiq but didn’t know quite how to approach what she wanted to say.

Clare wished she would just say it. It was a warm day and she was tired. She hadn’t slept well the night before, thinking of Dom and his email and the missing boy. She felt scratchy.

“Rafiq, I think that he…” This time Haya was interrupted by Dr Lehrer, the brusque Swiss medic.

“No time to stand around chatting ladies, please. Over here. Clare – we need your help with the broken femur. It’s pretty nasty.”

Clare glanced in the direction the doctor was pointing across the general melée in the tent. A teenage boy lay on a stretcher, his face contorted with pain. Hélène was talking to him, brushing his damp hair back from his forehead and holding his hand. Catching Clare’s eye, she gave her a tight smile. Clare turned to Haya. “You go.” The Syrian woman nodded. “I can weigh the babies. They can come back tomorrow if they have questions I cannot answer.”

Clare followed Dr Lehrer across the tent, weaving past people squatting and lying on the ground, all being treated or awaiting medical attention. There was no time to stop and offer comfort. The boy needed them most.

It was an unpleasant break that at home would have resulted in surgery. Dr Lehrer decided they would use a traction splint instead. There were so many more risks to weigh up when considering surgery in camp than at home, not least hygiene. It was reserved for absolute emergencies.

Clare administered pain relief for the boy. His distress abated with the medication and soothing words.

It had been a good morning’s work so far. Some of her tiredness and sense of unease began to disappear. Teamwork had ensured a that good job had been done, and that was always satisfying – especially in camp.

“That boy you are involved with – you need to be careful.” “Pardon?” Clare’s mind had been miles away when Hélène spoke to her as they tidied up the supplies.

The boy? Clare flushed. Surely she didn’t mean Khalid? He was most definitely a man.

“Rafiq. People notice you speak with him. You should be careful.” Hélène took a pile of folded towels over to a store cupboard, clearly feeling that the brief conversation had ended.

Clare not only didn’t know what to say in reply – she didn’t get the opportunity either.

What on earth was going on? Why were people playing games? Hélène? Haya? She considered them her friends. What did they know that she didn’t?

She thought of Dom and the unfinished email, and she thought of home. For the first time since she had arrived in Jordan, she felt truly and properly homesick. She felt an arm around her shoulder. “Hey there. What is it you British people say? Chin up.”

Dr Lehrer. No-nonsense Dr Lehrer. Clare wiped what she realised was a tear from her cheek and gave the doctor a watery smile.

“Chin up. Will do.” She finished packing the instruments away, wondering what was for lunch.

C lare took a small plate of rice and bread from the food tent and sat alone near the campfire. The same group of men who had searched for Jamal the night before were discussing arrangements in Arabic. Clare understood enough to pick up on the odd sentence. They were arranging another search party.

Listening to the description of the boy they were looking for made her wonder if it was indeed Rafiq. She hadn’t seen him around that morning – although that wasn’t unusual, and she had been especially busy.

But then there was her encounter with him yesterday. Something was clearly bothering him. Then the warnings from Haya and Hélène. Something was up.

It must be Rafiq who is missing, she thought. If so, why did he tell me his name was Rafiq, not Jamal?

The men were arguing now over where to begin their search. They were angry with him for having gone. She heard their voices fade as they disappeared into the desert. Scraping up the last few delicious grains of rice, she realised this morning’s clinic had whetted her appetite.

The men had vanished behind a dip in the sand. Clare thought about yesterday’s conversation with Rafiq, and she wondered if he’d inadvertently given her a clue as to his whereabouts now. Ac ave. The jinn live there. She needed to find Khalid. She didn’t want to search alone, and he knew the area well. However he was an elusive man. It was hit and miss whether she would find him.

“Do you know where Khalid is?” she asked people on her travels around the admin area of the camp. Most shook their heads or shrugged their shoulders as if to say “you know Khalid”.

“I think he is in that tent over there,” one man finally told her, nodding in the direction of the kitchen. Why hadn’t she thought of that? “But…” Clare had disappeared before the man could finish his sentence. She approached the kitchen tent, sure she could hear low, urgent voices, possibly a man’s and a woman’s? She hesitated. With a tent you could hardly knock, could you? But she needed his help.

“Hello,” she called, lifting the corner of the canvas door and glancing inside.

Khalid was in the tent, and he was with a woman. A Bedouin woman called Aaliyah, whom she has encountered in the clinic but didn’t know well. She was a volunteer, she thought.

Aaliyah held her scarf over her face and looked away when Clare appeared. She and Khalid were standing close to one another, in quiet conversation. It

She APPROACHED the tent, sure she could hear LOW URGENT VOICES

was a rare sight seeing Bedouin men and women together.

Clare was embarrassed; concerned she had interrupted something, which she quite clearly had. She wanted to reassure them both that she had heard nothing, but couldn’t think of what to say. What was appropriate?

Khalid was looking at her, holding her gaze, his face unreadable. Clare withdrew before he spoke to her and walked away from the tent, unsure of where to go.

Life in camp was unsettling. There was not just one mystery with the absence of Rafiq, but two now.

Not that she should be concerned about Khalid and Aaliyah. What business was that of hers?

Clare, were you looking for me?” Khalid called as she made her way across the camp. He had clearly left Aaliyah behind and had caught her up. “I was. I am so sorry I interrupted.” “No fue nada,” he replied. It was nothing.

She doubted that, but she left it, changing the subject.

“It’s Rafiq. The boy they call Jamal. I think I may know where he is.”

“Really?” He sounded sceptical. “Men are out looking for him. Bedouin men.”

She understood the implication. They would know the desert and its hiding places far better than she would. And he was correct, except that her conversation with Rafiq yesterday may have been more revealing than he had intended.

“He is not our brother nor our cousin but still they will search for him,” Khalid added. Clare recognised the Bedouin saying Khalid had spoken of when they had been cooking together.

“Tell me where you think he may be,” he said more gently.

Clare recounted Rafiq’s tales of jinn in caves and led him to the ridge where she pointed out the fold in the rock in the distance. The sun was at its hottest and she didn’t relish the walk across the desert to the cave, suspecting it was further away than it looked.

“I will go,” Khalid said. “I’ll come with you,” she said. “No, it’s not for…” He stopped mid-sentence. What had he been about to say? Not for a woman? Not for a non-Bedouin?

She would never find out. She and Khalid gazed at one another. That unreadable look again, his dark eyes like bottomless pools. And then he spoke.

“Yes, come. Rafiq will listen to you, I’m sure, rather than me. You will need a hat.”

Clare grabbed a few things from her tent and followed Khalid into the desert, heading in the direction of the cave.

It was a demanding walk, her feet plunging into sand, her light scarf whipped across her face by the desert winds, but she was determined to keep up. They walked in silence.

Her heart pounded as they finally approached the entrance, unsure of what they might find, if anything. It was a vast cut in the rock, dwarfing them, and as they peered in she could see nothing, her eyes unused to the darkness.

“He is here, I am sure,” Khalid whispered, taking a few steps forward.

“Jamal,” he called, his voice reverberating around the dark walls. “Azhar nafsak.” Show yourself.

Clare held her breath, hearing nothing but the fading echoes.

Khalid repeated his call, and then there was a rustling sound, followed by running footsteps as Rafiq rather than jinn darted into the mouth of the cave and attempted to get past them.

But Khalid was quicker. Catching him, he held on tight and bent down to speak with the frightened boy, who had lost much of the bravado he had shown when telling Clare of jinn or competing over football teams.

Clare couldn’t understand what Khalid was saying; the dialect wasn’t one she understood. But whatever it was, it clearly put the fear of Allah into Rafiq.

“Why did you leave?” Clare asked Rafiq, as gently as she could when they were walking alongside one another.

He refused to reply, shaking his head and kicking sand and stones instead.

Maybe now wasn’t the time, Clare thought, giving up.

Weary by the time they arrived back, Clare was desperate for tea and she, Khalid and Rafiq sat by the fire together as people congratulated them on the boy’s safe return.

“I will take him from here,” Khalid said once they were refreshed and, in Rafiq’s case, rehydrated and fed. “I will have him looked after well,” he added, sensing an unasked question on Clare’s part. “There are women who will care for him.”

Clare watched as Khalid led the boy away, not quite able to quell a sense of unease. Not least because she still didn’t know why Rafiq had disappeared.

He had revealed nothing around the fire, just looked sullenly into the flames. He had appeared to be a happy enough lad when she first met him kicking a ball around, but his demeanour had changed.

She had to trust Khalid, but she couldn’t help but wonder what the mystery was. Clearly neither of them were ready to tell her.

Another twinge of homesickness. She thought again of Dom and the unfinished email. Tired though she was, she must finish it and get it sent.

She just needed to decide exactly what to say to him.

That was all.

“JAMAL…” His voice REVERBERATED around the DARK WALLS of the cave