Chasing Paper by Graham Hamer

Author:Graham Hamer [Hamer, Graham]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Graham Hamer
Published: 2016-02-21T23:00:00+00:00

SATURDAY 14 JUNE

Mohammed Al-Rashid Al-Sabah slid his feet into his worn leather sandals and left the house through the glazed aluminium doors that overlooked a patch of forsaken sandy ground that his ageing mother called 'the family garden'. As he stepped from the shade of the veranda into the full heat of the Kuwait summer, he screwed up his rheumy eyes against the unyielding glare of the late morning sun. His head throbbed from the lingering effects of the previous night's Glenmorangie, and his servant had left his sunglasses in the car - neither of which helped to improve his mood.

“Ibrahim,” he shouted. “Where the hell are you?”

A slightly-built figure wearing a short-sleeved white cotton shirt and grey slacks, appeared from the servants' quarters, which were attached to the rear of the diwanir. The dark-skinned man hurried forward with quick, short steps, scuffing the sand with his loose-fitting sandals.

“Very sorry Mister Mohammed,” he said, looking down at his dusty feet. “I just come back from shopping for Mrs Al-Sabah and stop to use the bathroom.”

“Well bloody-well use it in your own time in future,” Mohammed snapped. “And I hope you washed your hands afterwards. Now fetch me my sunglasses and let's get to the office.”

He scrutinized Ibrahim's every move as the Bangladeshi shuffled quickly to the four-wheel drive Cherokee, opened the driver's door, and climbed into its metal oven. Even in the shade, the mid-June temperature was in excess of forty degrees. It was a dry, parched heat that dehydrated and cracked the skin. Starting the engine, the servant turned the air-conditioning control to full. Though it took only seconds to chill, the first blast was, as always, scorching hot from the residue in the system, and he held his hands to his eyes to protect them. He reached into the glove compartment for the Raybans that he'd placed there the previous evening. Opening the leather case, he held the sunglasses in front of the cold stream of air for a moment. He closed the car door, to allow the air-conditioning to take effect, re-crossed the hot, dusty yard and presented the cooled glasses to his master.

“Bring the car.”

Ibrahim scurried away. The powerful engine revved and the vehicle moved forwards the few yards to where Mohammed waited. The diminutive driver stepped out, into the midday heat, and walked around the vehicle to open the passenger door for him. With considerable effort, Mohammed stood up. His belly protruded like he'd eaten a cushion. The dishdasha, which was tight around his gut, hung loosely around his legs and feet, like a flapping tent. He adjusted his white, linen head-dress, which hung over his shoulders and, with a practiced motion, tossed the hanging sides of the kufiya over the top of his head, covering all but a couple of inches of the thin woven cord of the iqal. Then, stepping into the cool air of the car, he slumped into the passenger seat as his servant closed the door behind him.

The car accelerated away, sending a sharp cloud of sand particles through the air as the wheels searched for grip.

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