Blood Moon Rising (A Beatrix Rose Thriller Book 2) by Mark Dawson Page B
Authors: Mark Dawson
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little.
The shack grew dark as the hour drew on. Mysha lit the paraffin lamp and hung it from a hook on one of the joists that supported the ceiling. The light was warm and inviting, flickering against the blanketed walls. Beatrix drifted in and out of sleep until she became aware of pleasant aromas. Mysha brought her a tray of food. She had prepared sabich , pita stuffed with fried aubergine and hard-boiled eggs. There was also shawarma, a wrap made of shaved lamb and goat.
“Have you kept food for yourself?” Beatrix said as the girl passed the plate across to her.
“Yes, I have plenty,” she said, although Beatrix knew that she was probably lying.
“Here,” she said, tearing the shawarma and passing half back to her.
“No . . .”
“Eat it, Mysha.”
The girl paused, but then did as she was told. She finished it quickly, betraying her hunger.
“Do you have a photograph of your brother?”
“For your story?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
She went over to a bag at the other side of the hut, and when she returned, she had a passport photo. She gave it to Beatrix. The young man in the photograph couldn’t have been much older than twenty. He was handsome, with a clear and open face and thick, jet-black hair. His hazel eyes sparkled with life.
“What’s his name?”
“His name is Faik. Faik al-Kaysi.”
“And his age?”
“Nineteen.”
“Do you mind if I borrow this?”
Her face flinched with reluctance.
“Don’t worry. He can bring it back himself after I get him out.”
“You can do that . . . ?”
“I’m going to try.”
Mysha put her fingers to her cheek, and her lip quivered. “I . . .”
“It’s alright, Mysha. I’m going to speak to some people I know. They will be able to help.”
Her voice cracked a little. “Thank you.”
She reached out and took the girl by the shoulder. “There’s something else. My station pays for stories . . .”
“I don’t want anything,” she interrupted quickly.
“I would feel bad if I didn’t pay you.”
She was about to protest again, but she was stalled by Beatrix’s raised hand. She put the other one into her pocket and took out two fifty-dollar bills. She pressed them into the girl’s hand.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll make sure you get your brother back again.”
“Thank you,” she sniffled, almost pitifully grateful.
Beatrix looked up at the wall opposite her. There were a dozen school achievement medals that had been clipped to the fabric covering, all in the name of Mysha al-Kaysi and all from at least three years ago.
“Those are very impressive,” Beatrix said.
Mysha was busying herself with cleaning the stove. She looked up and looked over to where Beatrix was pointing. She smiled shyly. “It is nothing. Just school.”
“Do you still go?”
“Not any more. I have to look after the house now that my . . .” She started to say “mother,” then “brother,” and then she stopped and looked down at the stove again. “It is alright. I was lucky to be able to go at all. Many of my friends cannot. They cannot read or write.”
“What do you want to do when you’re older?”
Mysha looked at her as if Beatrix was fooling with her. “When I am older? I will be a wife, if Allah is willing.”
“You don’t want to do something else? A career?”
“This is not America, Beatrix. That is not for me. I will be happy to have a husband and a family.”
“And your brother wants to work on the oil field?”
“It is a good paying job. We do not have much. It would help.” She looked reluctant as she said it.
“What do you think?”
“It is dangerous. Many men are injured. Many die. I would worry.”
Beatrix finished the food and then helped to wash the dishes. The girl pulled a box away from the wall and took out blankets and a pillow. She arranged them in the centre of the makeshift room, layering the blankets to soften the rough contours of the bare earth. When she had
The shack grew dark as the hour drew on. Mysha lit the paraffin lamp and hung it from a hook on one of the joists that supported the ceiling. The light was warm and inviting, flickering against the blanketed walls. Beatrix drifted in and out of sleep until she became aware of pleasant aromas. Mysha brought her a tray of food. She had prepared sabich , pita stuffed with fried aubergine and hard-boiled eggs. There was also shawarma, a wrap made of shaved lamb and goat.
“Have you kept food for yourself?” Beatrix said as the girl passed the plate across to her.
“Yes, I have plenty,” she said, although Beatrix knew that she was probably lying.
“Here,” she said, tearing the shawarma and passing half back to her.
“No . . .”
“Eat it, Mysha.”
The girl paused, but then did as she was told. She finished it quickly, betraying her hunger.
“Do you have a photograph of your brother?”
“For your story?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
She went over to a bag at the other side of the hut, and when she returned, she had a passport photo. She gave it to Beatrix. The young man in the photograph couldn’t have been much older than twenty. He was handsome, with a clear and open face and thick, jet-black hair. His hazel eyes sparkled with life.
“What’s his name?”
“His name is Faik. Faik al-Kaysi.”
“And his age?”
“Nineteen.”
“Do you mind if I borrow this?”
Her face flinched with reluctance.
“Don’t worry. He can bring it back himself after I get him out.”
“You can do that . . . ?”
“I’m going to try.”
Mysha put her fingers to her cheek, and her lip quivered. “I . . .”
“It’s alright, Mysha. I’m going to speak to some people I know. They will be able to help.”
Her voice cracked a little. “Thank you.”
She reached out and took the girl by the shoulder. “There’s something else. My station pays for stories . . .”
“I don’t want anything,” she interrupted quickly.
“I would feel bad if I didn’t pay you.”
She was about to protest again, but she was stalled by Beatrix’s raised hand. She put the other one into her pocket and took out two fifty-dollar bills. She pressed them into the girl’s hand.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll make sure you get your brother back again.”
“Thank you,” she sniffled, almost pitifully grateful.
Beatrix looked up at the wall opposite her. There were a dozen school achievement medals that had been clipped to the fabric covering, all in the name of Mysha al-Kaysi and all from at least three years ago.
“Those are very impressive,” Beatrix said.
Mysha was busying herself with cleaning the stove. She looked up and looked over to where Beatrix was pointing. She smiled shyly. “It is nothing. Just school.”
“Do you still go?”
“Not any more. I have to look after the house now that my . . .” She started to say “mother,” then “brother,” and then she stopped and looked down at the stove again. “It is alright. I was lucky to be able to go at all. Many of my friends cannot. They cannot read or write.”
“What do you want to do when you’re older?”
Mysha looked at her as if Beatrix was fooling with her. “When I am older? I will be a wife, if Allah is willing.”
“You don’t want to do something else? A career?”
“This is not America, Beatrix. That is not for me. I will be happy to have a husband and a family.”
“And your brother wants to work on the oil field?”
“It is a good paying job. We do not have much. It would help.” She looked reluctant as she said it.
“What do you think?”
“It is dangerous. Many men are injured. Many die. I would worry.”
Beatrix finished the food and then helped to wash the dishes. The girl pulled a box away from the wall and took out blankets and a pillow. She arranged them in the centre of the makeshift room, layering the blankets to soften the rough contours of the bare earth. When she had
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