But it was lies, all lies.
The British had no intention of letting Hussein and his son Feisal be rulers of a greater Arab nation. The Levant was just another corner of the map to be shaded in pink. Najid said it was about oil. Mesopotamia was full of it, he said, and before the war the British had had a nice little earner in the Turkish Petroleum Company. They wanted to safeguard that and ensure access to the Mediterranean. Almost as importantly, they wanted to make sure the French didn’t get it. And then there was Palestine. The jewel in the crown of the Arab world, the sacred land where the holy city of al-Quds – which the English called Jerusalem – had stood glittering since the beginnings of history. For over a thousand years Arab fellaheen had tended its crops and fished in its waters. They had defended it from the Crusaders and worshipped Allah in its mosques.
And the British meant to give it to the Jews.
How could Lawrence allow it?
He wondered briefly if he was being unfair. After all, the letter made clear that the British were pretty suspicious of Lawrence’s intentions themselves. Could it be that he really had no idea? Abdul-Malik couldn’t claim to know Lawrence, not as a man. But he’d never struck him as a dupe.
He fished his battered old copy of Kipling from his camel’s saddlebag and turned to the page marked with its folded-over corner. They’d told him this was the work of Civilisation; that if he understood the poem it would reveal how the British and the French and the Germans saw the world. He’d brought it with him into the desert in the hope that it would help him understand why they fought, how the new Arab nation must be built. It was hard to tease the meaning from the strange script and foreign words, but when he’d finally and imperfectly grasped it, Abdul-Malik couldn’t help but feel roused by the stirring sentiments, proud to be an ally of a British Empire which had such a noble calling.
In the light of the letter, those verses suddenly struck him somewhat differently. There was a darkness, a contempt about them that discomfited him.
‘Penny for them?’ asked a voice at his shoulder. It was Jo. Abdul-Malik stumbled over his reply – he didn’t understand the expression. She didn’t seem to expect an answer anyway.
‘Ooh, Kipling,’ she said. ‘I loved the Jungle Book! I didn’t know you could read English.’
‘A little. I’m not like Najid or most of the others. I wasn’t born a nomad in the desert. My father’s home was in Wejh. Have you heard of it?’ She shook her head. ‘A small town by the sea. My uncle’s family came from Egypt, from Cairo. We went there once, to visit them. When I was a boy. The city was like nothing I had ever seen. I was a foolish boy, never listened to what my father told me. Second morning there we were in the souq shopping for rice when I noticed this stall selling little monkeys. Have you seen monkeys? So full of energy and mischief – no child’s going to be able to resist. I wandered over for a closer look. I was only there a minute or two, but when I turned back, my mother and aunt were gone.
‘I ran all round that souq, out of my little mind. I shouted for them so much my throat was as dry as it is here in the desert. Wherever I looked there were only strangers. A souq’s a terrifying place if you’re small and alone. All the bustle and noise and shouting. I thought I’d be lost there the rest of my life.’
‘What happened?’ she asked, her voice touched with genuine concern.
‘I was found by a professor. A scholar from the university. He was a strange sight to my eyes – half Arab and half European. He looked like us, but he wore a European suit. He had one of those little fezzes the Egyptians like. He knew the city well, and when I told him who my uncle was he was able to take me home. On the way he told me he was a digger, a – what do they call it? – an archaeologist. Worked with the British, delving into tombs and ruins. They’ve found all kinds of things out in the desert there. Makes you wonder what’s under our sands. Those kind of places always gave me the creeps. My grandfather had filled my head with silly tales about the djinn that haunt those places. I must have looked scared when the professor mentioned them. He laughed and told me not to worry. Said there are no such things as djinn. All that was superstition we should have to leave behind if we were to become a modern people.
‘I asked him about the Europeans. Egypt was still meant to be Ottoman, but the British had made themselves at home by then. I’d seen them everywhere, even in the short time I’d been there. So alien in their white suits and pith-helmets. They fascinated me. I asked him if they were as strange and advanced as everyone said.
‘“Advancement,” he said to me, with a little smile, “is in the eye of the beholder. If you want to know if they’re advanced, you must learn about them and judge for yourself. Of course, to do that, you must learn to read their language.”
‘He returned me to my uncle’s home. My mother beat me hard for wandering off, but not as hard as she might have. I could tell from her eyes that she’d been weeping. My father and uncle invited the professor to stay for dinner as thanks for bringing me home. After the meal, when night had fallen and it was late, he came to me and showed me a book. An English book. He pointed out the different letter-forms to me. After we had looked at it for a while, he told me that he had to go then, but that if I liked, and if my father would allow, he should like to return and teach me more.
‘My family spent two months in Cairo. Almost every night he would call on me and we’d read English together by lamplight. When the time came for us to leave, he presented me with some of his books and told me to carry on studying. It’s harder on my own, but I try. Things were simpler then. Sometimes I miss those Egyptian nights.’
They sat in silence for a while, then Abdul-Malik spoke again.
‘I think I was wrong, though. About the British. For a long time I thought they were noble and modern, bringing culture and progress across the world.’ He waved the poetry book slightly.
‘That’s what this says: seek another’s profit, work another’s gain. But listen, Mr Kipling talks too of “new-caught, sullen peoples, half-devil and half-child”; he talks about “sloth and heathen folly”. He’s talking about the Negroes; I understand that. Of course they need taking in hand and showing the way into civilisation. They might not see it now, but they’ll be the better for it in the end– ’
‘Hang on!’ Jo objected. ‘You can’t talk about them like that. They’re people too – just like you or me!’
‘But that’s what I mean. I always thought we were different, that the British recognised us Arabs as civilised. But that letter – to them we’re no different to the Negroes, are we? Just sullen heathens who aren’t qualified to rule ourselves!’
‘I– ’ Jo began, then stopped awkwardly.
‘Did you speak to your friend? About the letter? You said he’d help us?’
She looked embarrassed. ‘It’s not quite as simple as that. There’s a lot happening right now. Someone tried to kill Lawrence, and the Doctor thinks it was the Master! He’s an enemy of ours and he’s probably got some frightful plan to change history or something and–’
Abdul-Malik nodded sadly. ‘And Lawrence’s life and your English feuds matter more than the fate of the Arab nation. I see.’
He didn’t blame Jo. Not really. Like him, she was utterly out of her depth. And at least she had the grace to look terribly, adorably ashamed.
Why couldn’t they have left him with his pistol? At least then Quinn might have done the decent thing. But no-one seemed interested in punishing him at all, really. They’d just shoved him off into a spare tent and told him not to leave. There was a half-hearted Arab guard outside, but everyone seemed satisfied that he was no longer a threat. From the hustle and bustle he could hear outside, they were preoccupied with the business of striking camp and preparing to move out. No mean feat for an army of this many unruly natives.
Quinn was left alone with his thoughts. He felt absolutely wretched.
He had tried to kill a superior officer. He was weak-minded enough to succumb to mesmerism and to commit treason under the ‘fluence of some damned oriental Svengali! How was an officer and an Englishman supposed to recover from that?
He wished he could remember more. About what he was doing in Mada’in Saleh in the first place, about what his manipulator might have hoped to achieve. But even that scant redemption was denied him.
~~~
Why couldn’t they have left him his pistol? A single bullet. That’s all it would take.
But in his heart, he knew even that wish was false. If he’d meant to top himself, there were countless ways he could do it. Hang himself from the tentpole with his belt. Refuse water. Provoke one of the Arabs into doing it for him.
If he didn’t, it was because he did not dare.
Weak-minded! he berated himself. Weak-minded, cowardly traitor.
‘It’s not your fault, you know old chap.’
‘I shot Lawrence,’ Quinn told him glumly. ‘Who else’s fault is it if not mine?’
‘Self-pity never solved anything. The Master is one of the finest hypnotists this universe has ever produced. I’ve seen him mesmerise an Arcturan battle-walrus and they’re as stubborn and wilful as any walrus you could ever hope to meet. There’s no shame in this. Believe me, old chap, there’s nothing you could have done.’
Quinn appreciated the sentiment, but shook his head. ‘There’s always something one could have done,’ he told him softly. ‘That’s what being British is all about.’
~~~