until
the first week in December so please don't leave a
message. You can either call me on my return or,
if it's university business, contact the faculty direct
on 7943967. Thank you. Goodbye.'
She stopped, startled by the sound, as though
a part of her father was not properly dead
but remained suspended in some sort of electronic
limbo, neither in this world nor fully departed
from it. By the time she had regained her
senses the machine had beeped and started
recording.
At first she thought the caller had hung up, for
there was no voice from the other end of the line.
Then she caught the faintest hiss of susurration,
no more than a rumour of breath, and realized the
caller was still there, just not speaking. She took a
step towards the phone and reached out, but then
snatched her hand away again. Still he didn't hang
up – she knew instinctively it was a man – just
waited, breathing, listening, as if he knew she was
in the apartment and wanted her to know that he
knew. The silence seemed to go on for an age
before eventually there was a click and the
metallic whirr of the machine resetting itself. She
stood frozen for a moment and then, gathering up
her things, hurried out of the flat, slamming and
locking the door behind her. She felt suddenly
menaced by the building: the gloomy interior, the
creaking lift, the silence. She moved quickly down
the corridor, wanting to get out. Halfway along
something caught her eye, a large beetle sitting on
the clean marble floor. She slowed to look at it,
only to discover it wasn't a beetle at all but a
110
heavy nub of grey cigar ash, thick as a back-
gammon counter. She began to run.
The lift wasn't there and rather than wait for it
she took the stairs instead, leaping down them two
at a time, desperate now to get back out into the
fresh air. She reached the bottom and turned
the corner into the foyer, but suddenly her way
was blocked. She cried out, startled. It was only
the concierge.
'I'm sorry,' she said, breathing hard. 'You
surprised me.'
She handed him the keys and he took them. He
said something, his voice low, gruff.
'What?'
He repeated himself.
'I don't understand.' Her voice was beginning to
rise. She was desperate to get out.
Again he spoke, jabbering at her, and then
reached into his pocket. She had a sudden
irrational fear he was reaching for a weapon and
when he whipped his hand out again and up
towards her face she arched back away from him,
raising her arm protectively. It was only an
envelope. A small white envelope.
'Professor Mullray,' he said, waving it in her
face. 'Come Professor Mullray.'
She stared at it for a moment, breathing hard,
and then laughed. 'Thank you,' she said, taking
the letter. 'Thank you.'
The concierge turned and shuffled back towards
his desk. She wondered if she was expected to give
him another tip, but he didn't seem to be expect-
ing one and so she hurried straight out of the front
door, turning left and heading down the street,
111
enjoying the space around her and the warmth of
the open air. She passed a couple of schoolchildren
in starched white shirts, and a man in uniform, a
kaleidoscope of medal ribbons on his chest. On
the other side of the road a gardener in overalls
was watering a row of dusty rose bushes with a
hose.
After twenty metres she looked down at the
envelope in her hand. Instantly the colour drained
from her face.
'Oh no,' she whispered, staring down at the
familiar handwriting. 'Not after all this time, not
now.'
The gardener stared after her and then, leaning
his head to one side, began talking into his collar.
112
12
N O R T H E R N SUDAN, NEAR THE
EGYPTIAN BORDER
The boy emerged from the tent and started run-
ning, sprays of sand kicking up beneath his feet, a
herd of goats scattering in front of him. He passed
a burnt-out campfire, a helicopter covered in
netting, piles of crates, before eventually coming
to a halt in
the first week in December so please don't leave a
message. You can either call me on my return or,
if it's university business, contact the faculty direct
on 7943967. Thank you. Goodbye.'
She stopped, startled by the sound, as though
a part of her father was not properly dead
but remained suspended in some sort of electronic
limbo, neither in this world nor fully departed
from it. By the time she had regained her
senses the machine had beeped and started
recording.
At first she thought the caller had hung up, for
there was no voice from the other end of the line.
Then she caught the faintest hiss of susurration,
no more than a rumour of breath, and realized the
caller was still there, just not speaking. She took a
step towards the phone and reached out, but then
snatched her hand away again. Still he didn't hang
up – she knew instinctively it was a man – just
waited, breathing, listening, as if he knew she was
in the apartment and wanted her to know that he
knew. The silence seemed to go on for an age
before eventually there was a click and the
metallic whirr of the machine resetting itself. She
stood frozen for a moment and then, gathering up
her things, hurried out of the flat, slamming and
locking the door behind her. She felt suddenly
menaced by the building: the gloomy interior, the
creaking lift, the silence. She moved quickly down
the corridor, wanting to get out. Halfway along
something caught her eye, a large beetle sitting on
the clean marble floor. She slowed to look at it,
only to discover it wasn't a beetle at all but a
110
heavy nub of grey cigar ash, thick as a back-
gammon counter. She began to run.
The lift wasn't there and rather than wait for it
she took the stairs instead, leaping down them two
at a time, desperate now to get back out into the
fresh air. She reached the bottom and turned
the corner into the foyer, but suddenly her way
was blocked. She cried out, startled. It was only
the concierge.
'I'm sorry,' she said, breathing hard. 'You
surprised me.'
She handed him the keys and he took them. He
said something, his voice low, gruff.
'What?'
He repeated himself.
'I don't understand.' Her voice was beginning to
rise. She was desperate to get out.
Again he spoke, jabbering at her, and then
reached into his pocket. She had a sudden
irrational fear he was reaching for a weapon and
when he whipped his hand out again and up
towards her face she arched back away from him,
raising her arm protectively. It was only an
envelope. A small white envelope.
'Professor Mullray,' he said, waving it in her
face. 'Come Professor Mullray.'
She stared at it for a moment, breathing hard,
and then laughed. 'Thank you,' she said, taking
the letter. 'Thank you.'
The concierge turned and shuffled back towards
his desk. She wondered if she was expected to give
him another tip, but he didn't seem to be expect-
ing one and so she hurried straight out of the front
door, turning left and heading down the street,
111
enjoying the space around her and the warmth of
the open air. She passed a couple of schoolchildren
in starched white shirts, and a man in uniform, a
kaleidoscope of medal ribbons on his chest. On
the other side of the road a gardener in overalls
was watering a row of dusty rose bushes with a
hose.
After twenty metres she looked down at the
envelope in her hand. Instantly the colour drained
from her face.
'Oh no,' she whispered, staring down at the
familiar handwriting. 'Not after all this time, not
now.'
The gardener stared after her and then, leaning
his head to one side, began talking into his collar.
112
12
N O R T H E R N SUDAN, NEAR THE
EGYPTIAN BORDER
The boy emerged from the tent and started run-
ning, sprays of sand kicking up beneath his feet, a
herd of goats scattering in front of him. He passed
a burnt-out campfire, a helicopter covered in
netting, piles of crates, before eventually coming
to a halt in
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