before she moved.
It was only much later when she saw the glow of the fire lighting the
sky, and the flames flickering through the trunks of the palm trees,
that she forgot her own safety and dragged herself back to the bank.
She knelt in the mud at the water's edge, shuddering and shaking and
gasping, weak with loss of blood and shock and the reaction from fear,
and peered at the flames through the veil of her wet hair -and the lake
water that streamed into her eyes.
"The villa! she whispered. "Duraid! Oh please God, no! No!
She pushed herself to her feet and began to stagger towards her burning
home.
acheet switched off both the headlights and the engine of the Fiat
before they reached the turning into the driveway of the villa and let
the car coast down and stop below the terrace.
All three of them left the Fiat and climbed the stone steps to the
flagged terrace. Duraid's body still lay where Bacheet had left it
beside the fishpond. They passed him without a glance and went into the
dark study.
Bacheet placed the cheap nylon tote bag he carried on the tabletop.
"We have wasted too much time already. We must work quickly now."
"It is Yusuf's fault," protested the driver of the Fiat. "He let the
woman escape."
"You had a chance on the road," Yusuf snarled at him, "and you did no
better."
"Enough!" Bacheet told them both. "If you want to get paid, then there
had better be no more mistakes."
With the torch beam Bacheet picked out the scroll that still lay on the
tabletop. "That is the one." He was certain, for he had been shown a
photograph of it so that there would be no mistake. "They want
everything - the maps and photographs. Also the books and papers,
everything on the table that they were using in their work.
Leave nothing."
Quickly they bundled everything into the tote bag and Bacheet zipped it
closed.
"Now the Doktari. Bring him in here."
The other two went out on to the terrace and stooped over the body. Each
of them seized an ankle and dragged Duraid back across the terrace and
into the study. The back of Duraid's head bounced loosely on the stone
step at the threshold and his blood painted a long wet skid mark across
the tiles that glistened in the torchlight.
"Get the lamp!" Bacheet ordered, and Yusuf went back to the terrace and
fetched the oil lamp from where Duraid had dropped it. The flame was
extinguished. Bacheet held the lamp to his ear and shook it.
"Full," he said with satisfaction, and unscrewed the filler cap. "All
right," he told the other two, take the bag out to the car."
As they hurried out Bacheet sprinkled paraffin from the lamp over
Duraid's shirt and trousers, and then he went to the shelves and
splashed the remainder of the fuel over the books and manuscripts that
crowded them.
He dropped the empty lamp and reached under the skirts of his dishdasha
for a box of matches. He struck one of them and held it to the wet run
of paraffin oil down the bookcase. It caught immediately, and flames
spread upwards and curled and blackened the edges of the manuscripts. He
turned away and went back to where Duraid lay. He struck another match
and dropped it on to his blood- and paraffindrenched shirt.
A mantle of blue flames danced over Duraid's chest.
The flames changed colour as they burned into the cotton material and
the flesh beneath it. They turned orange, and sooty smoke spiralled up
from their flickering crests.
Bacheet ran to the door, across the terrace and down the steps. As he
clambered into the rear seat of the Fiat, the driver gunned the engine
and pulled away down the driveway.
Durid drifted. He groaned. The first thing he was aware of as he
regained consciousness was the smell of his own flesh burning, and then
the agony struck him with full force. A violent tremor shook his whole
body and he opened his eyes and looked down at himself.
His clothing was blackening and smouldering, and the pain was as nothing
he had ever experienced in his entire life. He realized in a vague way
that the room was on fire all around him. Smoke and waves of heat washed
over him so that he could barely make out the shape of the doorway
through them.
The pain was so terrible that he wanted it to end. He wanted to die then
and not to have to endure it further.
Then he remembered Royan. He tried to say her name through his scorched
and blackened lips, but no sound came. Only the thought of her gave him
the strength to move. He rolled over once, and the heat attacked his
back that up until that moment had been shielded. He groaned aloud and
rolled again, just a little nearer to the doorway.
Each movement was a mighty effort and evoked fresh paroxysms of agony,
but when he rolled on to his back again he realized that a gale of fresh
air was being sucked through the open doorway to feed the flames. A
lungful Of the sweet desert air revived him and gave him just sufficient
strength to lunge down the step on to the cool stones of the terrace.
His clothes and his body were still on fire. He beat feebly at his chest
to try to extinguish the flames, but his hands were black burning claws.
Then he remembered the fishpond. The thought of plunging his tortured
body into that cold water spurred him he pain roused Duraid. It had to
be that intense to bring him back from that far place on the very edge
of life to which he had to one last effort, and he wriggled and wormed
his way across the flags like a snake with a crushed spine.
The pungent smoke from his still cremating flesh choked him and he
coughed weakly, but kept doggedly on.
He left slabs of his own grilled skin on the stone coping as he rolled
across it and flopped into the pond. There was a hiss of steam, and a
pale cloud of it obscured his vision so that for a moment he thought he
was blinded. The agony of cold water on his raw burned flesh was so
intense that he slid back over the edge of consciousness.
When he came back to reality through the dark clouds he raised his
dripping head and saw a figure staggering up the steps at the far end of
the terrace, coming from the garden.
For a moment he thought it was a phantom of his agony, but when the
light of the burning villa fell full upon her, he recognized Royan. Her
wet hair hung in tangled disarray over her face, and her clothing was
torn and running with lake water and stained with mud and green algae.
Her right arm was wrapped in muddy rags and her blood oozed through,
diluted pink by the dirty water.
She did not see him. She stopped in the centre of the terrace and stared
in horror into the burning room. Was Duraid in there? She started
forward, but the heat was like a solid wall and it stopped her dead. At
that moment the roof collapsed, sending a roaring column of sparks and
flames high into the night sky. She backed away from it, shielding her
face with a raised arm.
Duraid tried to call to her, but no sound issued from his smoke-scorched
throat. Royan turned away and started down the steps. He realized that
she must be going to call for help. Duraid made a supreme effort and a
crow-like croak came out between his black and blistered lips.
Royan spun round and stared at him, and then she screamed. His head was
not human. His hair was gone, frizzled away, and his skin hung in
tatters from his cheeks and chin. Patches of raw meat showed through the
black crusted mask. She backed away from him as though he were some
hideous monster.
"Royan," he croaked, and his voice was just recognizable. He lifted one