Chapter Seventy-Eight
‘Rashid! Rashid, are you down here? Where are you?’
I haven’t seen him since this morning when he’d appeared in the kitchen, asking if I required his services today. Now I’m in the depths of the basement which was the direction he’d headed when I said I didn’t have any plans.
As well as the parking garage, I think he must have an office or something down here.
‘Madam?’ Rashid appears out of nowhere. Well, out of a door I hadn’t seen, looming massively in the dim hallway: dark trousers, no tie. Rolled pale shirtsleeves.
Must be mufti day.
‘Fuck! I nearly—’ I inhale my words, swallowing them thickly. Telling him I nearly shat myself is maybe a little unbecoming. ‘Geeze, Rashid, I nearly had a heart attack!’
‘Asif. Sorry, Madam. You were calling?’
‘Yes. Yes, I was.’ I lower my hand from my chest, my heart rate beginning to slow. ‘I was wondering how I lock the front gate. Or the front door.’ Come to think of it, I didn’t see a key or any sort of locking mechanism on either.
‘Lock, Madam?’ he repeats, the space between his heavy brows narrowing.
‘Yes, it doesn’t lock,’ I reply, miming so. ‘Or maybe I don’t know how to do it. I know we live in a walled compound, with security, but I don’t feel—’ safe, especially with Essam prowling ‘—comfortable living and sleeping in a house with unlocked doors.’
‘Ah.’ Understanding lightens his countenance. ‘Madam, please.’ He makes a vaguely familiar gesture with his hand; palm down, his fingers curling. ‘Come. I will show you.’
I follow him into the room. Turns out, it’s security HQ. Far out, I feel like I’m on some bloody crime show, except in my shorts and thongs, I’m not quite glamourous, or swishy-haired enough for the CSI role.
One wall houses monitors, all depicting various views of the house. The front door and gate, inside and out, the pool, the gardens, a door to the outside I haven’t yet seen, and worrying, flashes of the interior.
Jesus Christ on a bike—Kai and I almost screwed in that hall!
I feel my lips curl into one and other, almost as though preventing the words from spilling out.
‘Madam?’
‘I—I—’ I’m on some hard drive somewhere, being driven very hard. I’ll be the Kim Kardashian of Dubai! Okay, with a little less arse.
‘Please, watch.’ With a furrowed brow, Rashid utters something guttural and a man in some sort of security uniform appears from the shadows of the room. He begins to flick through the monitors’ views. ‘Nothing, see? Nothing of a personal nature. Only views of the exits and service corridors.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Exactly. I see that Rashid knowsexactlywhat I’m thinking, as though my words and worries were written by sharpie on my forehead. I expect he’s also seen some things he would rather not have during his time working for Kai.
‘Also, the doors lock automatically on shutting. The security here—’ he gestures to the uniformed man ‘—is responsible for disabling the automatic locks when either you, or Mr. Kai, require it.’
‘Oh.’
‘There is also fingerprint technology,’ he adds. ‘But it has not yet been enabled.’
‘Thank you.’ I turn, tilting my head to look at him. ‘Thanks, Rashid, for explaining.’ For putting my mind at ease so deftly.
He inclines his head. ‘Madam has no need to be alarmed.’
‘Shoo hada?’
We both turn at the security guard’s exclamation, peering at the screen to which he points.
‘Madam, look.’
There, on screen, Martha stands at the open front gate, signing a delivery note, a large box at her feet. On-screen-Martha closes the gate, picking up the box and holding it to her ear, where she gives it a firm shake. With a shriek I’m sure I can hear without the aid of the audio feed, she drops it like it’s hot—the box—not the dance. I really can’t see her aged bones doing the slut drop in a muumuu and rubber thongs.
From the distance of about half a leg length away, she prods the box with her still bandaged foot.
