SECRET SKIN

By Frank Coles Copyright 2012 Frank Coles | Riding High Ltd

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

http://www.frankcoles.com

These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Dedication
For my mother. Naturally.

About the Book

This was the first book I ever wrote as myself. I'm still proud of it. I lived in Dubai for a number of years and it was an exciting place to be. It was where the lowly could become powerful overnight, hairdressers became property tycoons, laborers import-export multimillionaires. It was where politicians from the west mixed with gangsters, tribesmen, big oil and corporate rulers without anyone asking awkward questions. Spies went shopping, assassinations happened in hotel rooms where we partied. Stunning feats of architecture could be thrown up almost overnight and heritage demolished just as quickly. It was a town filled with good and bad and you either loved it or hated it. And as in the west there was brutality and slavery in the background, hidden, just as it is here. But sexual violence in fiction is nearly always focused on women. In real-life the other kind is hidden even deeper and rarely, if ever, talked about.

Prologue
Dubai, United Arab Emirates. The height of the last property boom.

A painfully skinny forensics officer stood on the edge of the creek wearing an absurd, almost theatrical uniform. His young manicured hands trembled as he pulled back the grimy tarpaulin like a child removing the cover of a surprise birthday present. One arm slapped the empty cobbled promenade of Dubais dhow lined creek. The other arm stayed where it was, crippled, the elbow twisted at an impossible angle in its socket. Deep burns scored and bruised the dead womans wrists where they had been tied together. Graded nautical rope still bound her ankles. In a last final indecency her knees had fallen open, revealing everything to a disapproving but fascinated male audience of boatmen and police. Unashamed, each mans eyes explored the bloody kaleidoscope of painful dark reds, soft purples, and long savage gashes where her naked flesh had been cleaved apart. The evidence of bondage and the obvious lack of clothes made it hard to believe she had fallen from a ship and been mangled by rotor blades. So, is it her? the captain said. Theres too much mutilation, I said. I cant be certain. I looked again. Her hair and eyes were the same color, and the deformed skin also had a familiar sallow tint, but then so did half the population of Dubai. Close her eyes, I said. Captain Khadim snapped his fingers and barked a short order. The forensics waif obeyed. Ignoring the patterns disturbed minds had carved into the body I moved in closer. My breathing shallowed, a feeble defense against its perfumed decay. There was one small feature that I knew intimately, something that would distinguish this disfigured corpse from any other, a small mole on her left eyelid. Her one imperfection she'd said. As the grand mosques early morning call to prayer echoed through the cool dawn air I probed her loose spongy skin and stifled a gag. Then I forced myself to look again.

Chapter One
The first time I saw her she strode assertively towards me, all but invisible behind the black folds of a traditional Muslim abaya. Then she purposefully flicked the flimsy fabric to one side to reveal the secret skin of a dark leg and the momentary sheen of a translucent hold-up stocking. Her movements disturbed the flat air of the afternoon and freed an intoxicating scent of hot flesh and heavy perfume hidden from the powerful Middle Eastern sun. As she passed she angled her head to capture my fascinated gaze with the desirable but uncommon green of her own. Emirati women rarely looked at a man so directly. And I almost never looked into the eyes behind a veil. I either ignored them or focused on the quality of their extremities and accessories instead. Designer handbags and jewellery, either real or fake, told you about their financial standing, or their aspirations. While heavy makeup, flashes of haute couture, or the impossibly perfect skin of surgery around the eyes confirmed that under the oh-so slimming black Emirati women cared about how they looked as much as any western woman with Voguish tastes. At the very least these cultural idiosyncrasies lent a helpful hop and a skip in my eager jumps to conclusions. She continued her teasing promenade along Al Diyafah Street, a working area of shops and offices by day, a family and couples area by night. As afternoon turned to dusk the street filled with crowds of transient men, either happily finishing a work day based on the cold climate hours of the western world, or returning to a sultry evenings toil after the more practical siesta of Arabian time. The oversized pavement cafes bubbled over with flavored shisha water pipes and an everyday street theatre of well-heeled local young bloods entertained. They cruised by in showroom fresh cars and sped between columns of slow moving traffic on expensive Japanese motorbikes, scaring pedestrians with their front wheels in the air. Every few months an impoverished laborer would throw himself in front of the traffic hoping to exchange his life for enough blood money to satisfy a demanding family back home. For this woman to be so bold and for the men to let her get away with it she just had to be a prostitute. A stray from the back streets, out to exploit the ready market of overheated testosterone and clammy, repressed sexuality. Despite claims to the contrary, a woman for hire was as easy to find in Dubai as a designer knock-off in the souks. Any hotel, shopping mall or downtown street in the city would provide. Normally I ignored this aspect of the bullish city state. She had forced me to pay attention. Curiosity aroused, I turned to follow her. Two rotund men with Levantine features seated at one of the outdoor cafs called her over. I took a nearby table and studied the routine conceit of their advances, imagining the tastes, smells and sights that she would endure pleasuring such damp little men. What you like? someone said. I looked up into the smirking face of a waiter. His expression told me he knew I wanted the woman more than anything he could provide. He was right of course. I did want her. Only not for the reasons he thought. You have Turkish coffee? I said. Arabic coffee, he corrected, yes, how you like it? Medium sweet. Anything else? he said, leering at the woman with the immodest legs. We both watched as she leaned in over the two men and listened obediently. She flashed her eyes at them, long fluttering lashes visible even from where I sat.

Maybe, yes. Maybe I have her too, I said and leered back at him. I made a thrusting, rotating, gesture with my fist and tried to make him believe that I meant what I said. When men shared desires to do painful things to others it disturbed me, awoke my past, and when that djinn escaped the bottle it was like the touch of a cold hand in an empty bed, nothing but trouble. The playground body language appeared to work though. For a moment the nodding acceptance of the over familiar waiter almost made me feel like one of the guys. He stalked off to a neighboring table and called out my order in Arabic to the front desk. I watched the woman and waited for my coffee, examining the way the abaya clung to her body to reveal the discreet curves hidden beneath the treacherously opaque fabric. If I was that type of man, I would definitely have been interested. But even without seeing her face I suspected that off duty she would probably have been out of my league. Happily, I mused, she would also outclass the two men in front of her, who by their gesticulations appeared to be haggling for a service that would involve both of them at the same time. As they negotiated she continued to ooze a casual sexuality and confidence that would make most men nervous. A nervousness that usually vanished once you realized that no matter how beautiful the woman, if she was a prostitute, she could be controlled. Although not always. Her patience with the men wavered. One hand moved to rest on a jutting hip. The haughty flick of her other hand signaled they had already bargained too hard. They didnt seem to notice. The waiter moved in beside her and asked the two men if they wanted anything else. While they struggled to pull their thoughts out from between their legs he spoke briefly to the woman. Something along the lines of, If these guys dont bite theres a westerner back there that will. Because when I looked up from my first sip of the potent murk that is Arabic coffee, she stood directly in front of me, the seam of her abaya parted at crotch height. Not enough to reveal anything to those on nearby tables, but just a few inches from my face the spanked red color of her exposed underwear triggered an anxious carnal yearning throughout my body. You want to fuck. she said, a statement, definitely not a question. *** Slut, whore, hooker, lady of the night, working girl, call girl, pro, streetwalker, courtesan, floozy, harlot? I said. She sat on a king size bed in a mid-range but well used hotel apartment, head uncovered, legs crossed, and eyes so wide her pencil-thin eyebrows looked like they might fall off the back of her head. I continued, Lot lizard, tochka, hostess, pickup, midnight cowgirl, party girl, tart, trollop, commercial sex worker, loose woman, sex slave? She seemed amused. I sighed. Scarlet woman perhaps? She was amused. You can call me anything you like darling. She said in an accent that wouldnt settle, French-Arabic one moment, American or English the next. No, thats notI know I could, but. She laughed silently at my awkwardness. Her shoulders shook as she tried to suppress the giggles. I pressed on, What I mean is, what do you call yourself? Do you use any of those terms to describe what you do? I am Yasmin. I work with men. What is this scarlet woman? They say English is the business language of choice but after the words Coke and OK understanding usually makes its excuses and leaves. I sighed again, wishing I was adept at any language other than my own. I checked my notes. Well, scarlet is a color, a vivid red. I like that. Souri, my family name, it means red. she said.

Okay, here we are. A scarlet woman. my notes defined an immoral woman and prostitute, but I wanted to gain her confidence not lose it. I leapt impulsively on the next hopeful sentence, Lets see, a biblical expression from Revelations 17:5 where St John describes a vision of a woman in scarlet with an inscription on her forehead Mystery, Babylon the Great, I intoned. The mother of harlots and abominations of the earth.... I stopped speaking when she stopped smiling. Im sorry. I remembered it as being flattering. I really dont think you are an abomination of the earth. I think they were referring to Rome. We sat in silence. She examined me calmly for the first time without the prostitutes mask of flirtatious body language. No teasing eyes or hostile pouting lips, no fluttering eyelids, thrusting bosoms or parted legs. She appeared to be a woman in her early twenties and like the city itself in between cultures. Occasional blonde streaks colored her dark hair, and shed visibly lightened her soft brown skin. I couldnt tell whether the green of her eyes was natural or colored contacts. For once I shut up and let the silence build, ignoring the questions struggling to be asked. Show me an open mouth and Ill usually put my foot right in it. Mercifully she spoke first. You want to just talk? she said, crossing her hands in her lap. I nodded. Why? I could have told an easy lie, but chose not to. Im a journalist of sorts, I said instead. Or I was. Back home. Now I regurgitate press releases about the wonders of Dubai for news or feature articles. I basically earn money re-selling the development dreams of sheikhs to gullible foreigners. And Im sick of it. I want to write something different, something more worthwhile. Take prostitution, I said, its not even supposed to exist in this holier than thou Islamic state. So when bad things happen, nobody hears anything apart from denials. Ive heard stories of women who are trafficked, enslaved, and forced to be here against their will. About women who are abused, raped, or killed. I want to find out first hand if these stories are true. She tilted her head to one side as if trying to figure me out. I guess I just want to make a difference, I said, and shrugged. A nave ambition perhaps. Most people without money cant ask questions and those with usually dont, she said. Except how can I make more, right? Her eyes sparkled agreement. I took that as encouragement. I dont intend to take pictures where faces can be seen and I will never use the real names of the people I speak to. I said. No pictures. she said waving a finger at me. No. Questions only. But what about censorship? she asked. I will be happy if they deport me tomorrow. If you say a wrong thing, you will either leave or go to jail. I expect a certain amount of trouble. I said. It means Im asking the right kind of questions. Her lips pursed and she shifted uncomfortably. I didnt want to scare her off. Listen, I said. I dont have a big corporation or government behind me but I do have a magazine published in the west and Middle East that will print anything I can find out. I also syndicate my articles through some of the agencies and I have the ear of a couple of news editors in Europe. That is good, she said, encouraging me, expecting more. To be honest, Im winging it. If I find a good story, someone will break it. I hope. So you want me for what exactly? I hear so many stories from men, she said. You really dont want this? She opened her abaya to reveal the red underwear that clung to her hips and breasts like a second skin, covering but not concealing what lay beneath.

No! I said and focused my eyes intently on hers. You are a beautiful woman Yasmin. But I just want you to talk to me. I want to learn about what you do. How it works here. I will even pay you for your time. She sat there for a frustrating age holding the robe open, testing me, willing me to look down and fall for her easy charms. Why did you ask me all those names? she said. Wriggling her hips from side to side and twisting her body until it was at its most seductive angle. She clearly understood the power she wielded. The men who pay me call me far worse things, she said, vile things, but I am not any of them. Your names were like a little boys. I recoiled at the sting, embarrassed by the truth of it. An editor asked me to do it, I said. He thought it would be funny. I thought it was stupid. But, you know how it isI have to keep my clients happy. Yes, I understand, she said and closed the abaya, finally letting me relax. I hoped believing in me. So what do you call what you do? I said. Work. What would you call it? Hard fucking work? She gave me a withering look. Sorry. When I was younger I imagined that being a porn star or gigolo would be a great way to make money. Who wouldnt? Sex on tap right? I was all hormones back then. You are not so old. What changed? she said. A lot of drink, insecurity, too many one night stands. After a while it all becomes a little functional. Sex becomes just another physical act, like digesting food, nothing more. It becomes hard to connect with anyone. All those sensitive egos, especially your own. Its tiring. Lots of conquests and the only person you really fuck is yourself. She was smiling again. Laughing quietly. What? I asked, smiling back. Many of my men do this, justify why they are here, with me. My wife doesnt understand me they say. Always the sex is so bohh-ring! laughing again as she mimicked her clients. Perhaps you just need to fuck someone else eh? Get yourself going. Are you sure thats not why youre here? I smiled my answer. She waved her hand. No matter. So can I ask you some questions? Yes, okay. I had a list of prepared questions, but still slightly unsettled, I rattled them off as if it was my first day on the job. What is your real name? How old are you? Where are you from? How did you get here? How much do you earn? Do you have a pimp? Where do you stay? Do you have a work visa? She grinned and shook her head. Then stood up and walked over to me. Okay David, she said covering my notepad with her hands. Enough. You have so many questions. Ask me next time. She pulled me up by my elbow, Now you go. I have to show my face. People will be looking for me. Who? Next time, we already take longer talking than three men take fucking. How will I contact you? You wont. Give me your card. I will call you when it is quiet. When? I asked rummaging for a business card. We will see, morning is better. Oh David, she said, dont forget to kiss me on the way out. What? Why? I said, as she pulled open the door. You never know who is watching, she whispered.

She held my face, pulled me close and our lips touched. A sharp tug of desire pulled me in. Lost for a moment, I closed my eyes and then heard her say, Youre a regular client now David. You must act like one. When I opened my eyes I was looking at the closed door of the apartment and standing in an empty corridor, feeling alone but unexpectedly content.

Chapter Two
The Media Rooms were the place to network. Its restaurants and bars took up the first and second floors of a business hotel at the heart of Dubai Media City and in the cooler months the rooftop as well. Drunken editors would commission more work there in one night than in a month of carefully crafted pitches. A debilitating hangover seemed a reasonable price to pay for such enjoyable efficiency. A successful free trade zone, Media City allowed foreigners 100% ownership of their business. This included me, operating freelance, a solo entity servicing the needs of tax free companies and corporations that couldnt retain staff. A common problem as the over-inflating city hit the peak of its first building boom. Downtown the half built Burj rushed to become the worlds tallest tower and the headline grabbing Palm Jumeirah geared up for its soft opening. Marketing slogans described it as the eighth wonder of the world. Locals believed these worn out claims without reservation, blind to earlier projects that already cracked and crumbled back into the sand. Bigger always equaled better in Dubai, but if you wanted to grow outside the free zone you needed a sponsor from the local population. The sponsor retained 51% of your company and there were countless horror stories of people investing in these deals only to find that when they wanted access to their capital the sponsor had already cleaned out the accounts. Unless you had wusta quite simply power, influence and the right family name you had a gambling addicts chance of ever seeing your money again. In the financial free zone the Emiratis had even created a British legal district so that international investors could feel confident doing business there. Nice idea, but the local exchanges still wobbled like a drunk on a tight rope. Oi, Bryson! shouted Martin Newman above the heads of the fashionable rooftop crowd. A long-term British expat from the old school of darkies, danger payments and denial he would have liked a beard on his aging baby face. Instead, he wore the cracks and wrinkles from too much drink and sun with boyish pride. Compulsively competitive and with a generous inferiority complex, he was likeable but often highly annoying. Bryson! Pull up a pint and tell us what youve been up to with those whores of yours. Every woman within hearing distance glared at me. He was also the editor of Arabian Outlook. The magazine destined to publish my wonderful exposs of Dubai. Hey! I called back, explaining to those nearest to me, Its just research honestly. Its not what you think. The tuts and disdain quickly disappeared as my audience returned to talking about themselves and sucking on the straws of their overpriced cocktails. And dont come over here without a Heineken and a Chivas from the bar, not if you want to work in this town again, he yelled. Yeah. Right. Of course. I muttered under my breath, cursing him. I contemplated telling him where to stick his drinks, and then bought them anyway. I needed him. *** So tell me again, what car do you drive? he said, already slurring his words. He grabbed both drinks from the tray in my hands and downed the whisky. A dodgy hire car Martin. You already know that. Yeah! he said, booming, even managing to pronounce the exclamation mark. Yeah thats right. Its purple isnt it? Its a black and red mini cooper Martin, its a modern classic.

Its a poofs car! Yeah, well, I said, if you dont watch out Im going to come out of my closet and shove my dingaling right up your jacksie. Ha, ha, haaaa! he boomed again, Give as good as you get son, go on. A fair haired and healthy twenty-something sat quietly next to him. He was obviously trying to impress her. Normally he would have taken more offence. Hello, I said to her. She smiled politely. This is Verity. Shes lovely. Australian. And bloody talented. Shes the new deputy news editor over at City Syndication. We smiled again, acknowledging each other, both feeling awkward as Martin swayed back and forth. Did I ever tell you how me and your boss. started Martin. Carl, she said. Yeah, thats the fella, we used to drag race round the back of Spinneys. Weve got the same car you know. We used to work together you see, in the Sudan. We go back a long time me and him. Really? she said, another statement posing as a question. Yeah, you know, we even did the Paris-Dakar Rally one year. Fucking laugh that was. Gonzo wasnt the word. You should have seen the bar bills! Fuck me, they were massive, you know? Not really sure who he was talking to we both mumbled agreement. I pointed over his shoulder and said, My goodness, look whos here. He turned to find out who and shouted, Oi, oi! at nobody in particular. Hey, said Verity, while his back was turned, Are you David Bryson? Yeah. Why? Whats the old fart been saying? Oh nothing, ignore Martin, hes just pissed. No kidding, I said inspecting the back of Martins head as he boomed at random strangers and laughed to himself about old times. No, Carl was talking about you today. He described you as a safe pair of hands. Wow, I said, genuinely surprised. You mean I actually have a reputation? He wishes he could offer you more work, but he says they dont really have the budget for freelancers. Yeah, I know that story. They do have a budget but its not anything you could make a living from. Its always a scrabble for the pennies in this game. Oh Christ, I know what you mean, she said with an appealing Aussie lilt. I was freelancing back in Sydney until I took this gig. How long have you been here? Just over three weeks. So how do you like Dubai, the shopping mall state? Well, its trying to be Miami without the vicebut its more like a Disneyland for adults. Welcome to the Arabian Dream, I said. She considered this for a moment, raised an eyebrow, and then lowered her voice as if conspiring against the fashionistas around us. You know, in my interview, the CEO asked me what Id do if a local slapped me in the face during a meeting. Youre shitting me? I said. She shook her head. What did you say? I said Id slap the bastard right back. The CEO wasnt too impressed. Carl loved it though. I bet he did. He hired me on the spot. Good on him, and good for you. I said raising my glass to a mutual clink. How about you? she asked.

Two summers, one winterno slaps yet. Christ that first summer was hot though. Presumably you have a card? she said, offering me her own. Sure. Everyone from cleaners to imams had a business card in Dubai. With such a transient population it was the only way to remember who was who. We swapped cards in a brief but playful tug-of-war. Oh ho, whats this, chatting you up is he? said Martin. Well keep your mitts off him Verity, hes got a job to do with a bunch of hos for me, and like a pair of embarrassed teenagers I stumbled over Veritys protesting words and she stumbled over mine. *** A few drinks later Verity was being schmoozed by someone far more attractive, sober and wealthy than either Martin or me. Ah women, Martin said. I love them, but they just dont love me. Boo hoo fucking hoo. Dont worry old son, I hear theres a secret underground club in the desert where affections can be negotiated at very reasonable prices. Thatll be next to the secret burial ground for illegal abortions then? Yeah, I heard that one; supposedly contractors are getting twitchy about what they might dig up the further into the desert they go. The rumor mill never stops turning here does it? Five star Arabian gossip beats sweat shop Chinese whispers any day. Hah! So, hookers, he said, tell me. Ive got someone lined up already, I said, Youre still covering my expenses right? Sure, but youll need your wits about you for that, my boy, dont go sticking your dick in any of them. Martin for somebody who publishes one of the most well respected, right-on magazines in the Middle East and Europe, youre a bit of a social bulldozer. Yeah, well, its just a product Bryson. Dont take it so fucking seriously. It sells well, thats the main point. We give people what they think they want, something that seems new and different and authoritative. Then, by being popular, we receive fat gobs of revenue for all the advertising we sell. And I get a new car. What do you drive again? I said. A second hand piece of shit. Hey fuck all that. Guess whos back in town? I give up. Vladimir Orsa. Apparently hes in Dubai, doing a little business. Hes the one that wants to be Nicholas Cage in Lord of War right? Back door arms dealer. Yeah. So are you going to do an expos on him? Bugger that. I want to do some business with him. Youre a wonderful man Martin. Im inspired. Fuck off! he said laughing, gesturing to an already overwhelmed waiter for yet another round.

Chapter Three
The following morning my penance was a headache, nausea and dehydration. As atonement I poured an unforgiving amount of coffee into a mug and nursed it to the beating heart of my business empire, the spare room. The half hour of clarity caffeine gave would help me deal with any lingering jobs and the energy to respond to emails that might be waiting from other time zones or early rising clients. Then I could go back to bed. By the time the computers operating system got going so had I. Virus software automatically scanned and sorted the emails that trickled into my inbox. The pleadings of penis extenders, Nigerian bank scammers and promoters of naughty nubile nuns went directly to the recycle bin along with all the old friends urging me to sign up to Facebook. Bandwidth hogging PR emails of political handshakes, celebs and business men all tomorrows news took a detour to the PR folder and were ignored. A reply to a feature pitch on Dubais property standards from a British broadsheet demanded my attention. Too populist, they said, try the tabloids. Inevitably if I sent it to the tabloids the response would be, Too high brow, send it to the broadsheets. Id been pitching these worthy story ideas for a fortnight and so far failed to entice any editors to open their check books. Id work on it though, make it right. Then two late payment excuses arrived from household name publications I irregularly wrote for and fouled my lazy morning after mood even further. Never again I swore to myself and fired off revised invoices with added late payment charges. Only one other email landed in my inbox but the forwarded subject line read like a warning. As it was from an existing editorial client I had to open it, the next job could come from anywhere. From: Joe Thompson (Editor) To: David Bryson Subject: FW: Where are you? Bryson, Sundays article was well received but Im not your social worker. If youre having problems with your family please deal with them direct. Keep the ideas coming though. JT -----Original Message----From: The Brysons To: Mr. J. Thompson Subject: Where are you? Dear David, We saw your byline under an article on Middle East tourism at the weekend. Is that where you are now? I had a hell of a time persuading the paper to give me your contact details, of course they refused, data protection act or some such nonsense. I wont go into things too much here son, not on an open line, just to say this: You didnt have to leave. We miss you.

Were here if you need us. Thats it. Your editor said he would forward this email. Wed like to hear from you just to know that you are safe. Please respond. Love Dad (and Mum). How simple, how effective. My editor would only see a sweet loveable father and a concerned but not overly pushy mother. Whereas I knew instantly, even cut off by more than three thousand miles, that my manipulative bastard of a father and the kinky peroxide bint hed dumped my real mother for were after something. As usual. I would never let them back in. They always seemed so polite, so mild mannered, so caring. But they hid behind a faade of respectability. They shared little apart from blind ambition, spite and the hoarding of status symbols, at any cost, even the children, their only collateral with any redeemable value. From: David Bryson To: Joe Thompson (Editor) Subject: Nuisance emails JT, Your first instincts were right, they are not who they say they are, add them to your spam lists and tell reception to deflect their calls. How do I know this? I spoke to my folks yesterday. I dont know who these freaks are. Ill have some more ideas for you in the next few days. Best for now, DB I stared blankly at the screen as the email left my desk and maneuvered its way through cyberspace. Contact from my father, I didnt need it or want it. I knew at some point Id have to deal with him again, a composed couple of hours in the far future perhaps, when I could talk to him without wanting to hurt him. Maybe one day, but not today. I closed my eyes, stilled my thoughts and focused on controlling my erratic breathing instead. My diaphragm rose and fell in jerks and then began to move more easily with each mindful breath. Even the simplest meditation works wonders for worry, but then I always neglected to do the things that were good for me. After much gentle persuasion my inner moppet finally let go. I savored the early morning warmth on my skin and the delicious yearning for sleep that hid beneath the tension. Then a shrill vibrating twitter disturbed the tranquility. My mobile phone mangling the film score to Friday the 13th. Some baby faced souse had obviously tampered with its ring tones during last nights session. I looked at the screen. It said: Holy Joe. Answer?

Irish but not catholic, unmarried but not gay, if Holy Joe hadnt become a charitable missionary he would have made a good debt collector. Probably the reason why the Christian schism he worked for had sent him to Dubai, their spiritual bailiff. A regular around the building sites and docks he always stuck up for the little man: hed pull truncheons out of policemens hands or put his face in front of them when the worker management synergy broke down. Out of hours he sipped OJs and hustled pool in the old school expat bars where the engineers and roughnecks hung out. Over time soft spoken Joseph Hayes became Big Joe, then Holy Joe once they found out what he did for a living. Liberal Dubai allowed non-Muslim, non-Jewish, churches their own little ghetto on the edge of the desert. But if they tried to convert anyone they faced jail or deportation. It made sense, the administration needed the foreigners to do the work but they didnt want their beliefs to infect the citizens and give them the idea there were alternatives out there. His call meant only one thing, a story. The hangover would have to wait. Hey you hairy god-botherer, I said into the mouthpiece, Whats up? *** I showered, shaved and threw a camera and recorder into a bag then rushed across town in light early morning traffic. I parked the car in a dusty lot and trudged over to Joes pick up point a half kilometer away from the docks at the sea-facing end of Dubai Creek. While I waited a text message came through from an unknown sender. Im sorry, I cant do it. Yasmin. Oh thats just bloody fantastic, I said out loud. My story killed before it even had a chance to live and no time to find another source. Red faced and bilious, Martin would react as only a belligerent expat editor could. Empty pages never went down well; it made the adverts far too obvious On the side of the road next to the dock workers housing block a ten minute wait seemed like forever as Yasmins text and the mornings scalding heat took turns to work me over. Somehow the Indian dock laborers cycling to their jobs in bright blue long-sleeved uniforms appeared calm, cool and unaffected by the rising temperatures. Whereas my head felt like the last tea bag in a builders yard, strained to the point of uselessness. And those pesky little black floaters kept gathering on the edge of sight ready to migrate into view. You look like hell, Joe said when he finally pulled up in a military green 4x4, a hand me down vehicle without air conditioning. Thanks, I said, slamming the door, and you look the image of Christian piety, but surely were in the wrong country for that? Oh sarcasm. Been drinking again havent you? Yup. Sinner, he said, pulling off. Its the pressures of a high flying career in journalism, I said, rubbing my temples. Got any water? Dont tell me you forgot to bring any? Uh, yeah. Idiot, he said shaking his head. He handed me a bottle from the side pocket of his door. So whats going on? I said. You remember that ship I told you about, the one stranded offshore for the last 18 months? Which one? Theres so many.

The Peri, the fallen angel. I think so, the one with the three crewmen on board? Thats it. What about it? Well, the local owners are still refusing to take any responsibility for it or the crew. They say the boat was decommissioned, sold on for scrap, and the crew given the funds to repatriate themselves months ago. Any proof of this? A receipt perhaps? What do you think? Wait, dont tell me, Im having one of my psychic flashes. They say they cant find the records, that its not their problem theres no proof of sale and that the three starving men on board arent their responsibility, and if they could help, they would, but oh dear, its lunch time already, they couldnt possibly. Joe laughed, Just about spot on, he said. Were taking them to court next week with local backing, and things should get sorted after that but right now I have a bit of a crisis. Ahuh, what sort of crisis? Well, he said, you know how I said Id try and get you on board one of these ghost ships as you keep calling them? Yeah, of course, thats why Im here. Well, they werent having it upstairs. What? You mean him? God? He raised an eyebrow at me, Oh please, I said with mock horror, not those blooming angels again? Its that Gabriel isnt it? Hes always had it in for me. He laughed for my sake. Dont test my faith David, he said and gripped the wheel tighter than he needed to. The muscles on his forearms and shoulders stood out against his thin white shirt like the knuckles beneath the skin on his hands. I took the hint and raised my arms. Youre right, so sorry. Ive been keeping the wrong company lately, journalists you see, that kind of thing passes for normal conversation with us. I forgive you, he said with a sly smirk. Why thanks, just what Ive always wanted. Anyway, they didnt want to have you anywhere near our project, a journalist poking around all those stranded ships could make things very sticky. Theres a lot of politics, my people have been here for decades, since this country began in fact. But if you dig too deeply into the finances of these floating graveyards we could suddenly find ourselves on the next boat home. Do you understand what Im saying? I get it, dont ruffle any feathers. Either for me or these guys stuck on the boats, you could rake a lot of muck, make your buck, but then where would they be? Okay, I get the picture. Good, he said You dont take any shit do you? No. Especially not from journalists. So how come Im allowed on today? He hesitated. For a holy man he had a wicked smile. Hang on a sec, he said. We pulled up to the main gate. The man in the booth wore a perfectly pressed sand colored uniform. He looked lazily up at us like a snake that couldnt be bothered to flick its tongue, clearly unwilling to expose his uniform to the possibility of creases. He looked away from us hoping wed go away.

Open the gate, Joe ordered, waving a hand in front of him. The guard ignored him. I am here to see the harbormastermy friend, he warned. The guard flicked his eyes briefly at Joe and considered his options. He stood up, pressed a button, and then sat back down very carefully. The gate lifted and we drove in. Thanks a million, Joe grunted after him. So, why are we going to see the harbormaster then? Were not, that was just to get past the guard. he said. Thats all it takes? I said. I thought the docks were supposed to be high security facilities. They are, he said, at the other end of town. But there are all kinds of businesses out here, this is the less secure port, he said spreading his gear arm wide, it fulfills a particular need. So why am I here then? Why did the arch-whatevers change their minds about me? They didnt, and they havent. On board the Peri, there are two Filipino crew members and their Egyptian captain. Theyve been stranded out there for eighteen months. Its basic survival, we take them water, food and medicine when we can, but they spend half their time starving and thirsty. Okay, I said and gripped the cars hand hold as he accelerated to the end of a long and busy loading dock. We shuddered to a halt beside a small motor launch. Joe chuckled quietly to himself. You were saying? I said. Well, he said, youre here to help me. I am? Yes, you see the captain has finally gone overboard, mentally that is. He refuses to drink or eat until the first mate agrees to become his lover. Youre joking? Nope, hes heartbroken Im afraid, and paranoid. He thinks the other crewman is out to steal the first mate from him. Soooo, what does that have to do with me? Well, you see, hes also become violent. Last night he tried to rape the first mate and stabbed him in his leg when he fought back. The two Filipinos managed to send a distress call and have been barricaded in their cabin ever since. Yeah, I said, And? And this was the only way I was ever going to get you on board. I think the story of these men needs to be told. Even if those who should know better dont, theres nothing they can do if a volunteer happens to ask questions or take a few pictures behind my back now is there? I glared at him. Volunteer? You are here as my protection David. I need someone else onboard to look after the captain if things get out of hand. You, my son, are it. Thats as good as its going to get. Its a one-shot deal Im afraid. He opened the driver side door and stepped down. That is, he said, if you still want this story? *** Im sorry, who is it? Joe asked the caller on my mobile phone. Yasmin? Hold one moment please, he said in his best telephone voice. David, its Yasmin, she wants to talk to you. I waved a fist at him and then jammed my head back over the motor boats stern, dry retching into the reflected heat of the sun.

Yasmin, Im afraid hes otherwise indisposed at the moment, were on a boat heading out to sea and, well, hes a bit worse for wear. Can he call you back? Youll call him? In 15 minutes? Okay, you can try my dear, but where were going he may not have a signal. Whats that? He has to answer? Okay well, Ill be sure to tell him thatohweve been cut off, he said, handing the phone back to me. Feisty, he added. We sped across the water and slammed into each wave with a hard thud, I nearly dropped the phone. As the speed increased the distance between swells shortened and the rapid-fire tempo quickened, testing the fragile peace between my stomach and its contents. I wanted to shout, Slow down, but couldnt get the words out. You know the worst thing for sea sickness is alcohol, tiredness and dehydration, he said over my shoulder, you havent had any coffee this morning have you? I couldnt move, even to look at him and curse, if I moved it would start all over again. Not to worry, he said, well soon have you off. Nick, he called to the helm, Can this thing go any faster? *** The sickness lifted as I clambered up the precarious little rope ladder that hung over the side of the ship. The steep climb and the constant movement of the waves triggered a welcome rush of adrenaline as I swung a foot out to stop myself crashing into the Peris hull. The Filipino crewman hauled me over the top rung and then pulled Joe up beside me. He looked healthy and happy. I scowled at him. Oh what a look! he said. Listen, you take a few minutes to get yourself together. Dakila here is going to take me to the first mate so I can patch him up, well be right back. He held out another bottle of water and smiled when I took it. Then I was alone on deck. But that ageing hulk felt like dry land compared to the motorized skipping stone wed arrived in. I wandered over to the edge of the ship to look at it. Nick motored back and forth keeping position beside us. He gave me a casual salute and then moved off to a safer distance. When I lifted my hand from the side to gesture back it was coated in large flakes of rust and dark paint. I explored the deck of a boat that had once been colored blue, black and white but had deteriorated into a dull patina of dark metallic ochre and smeared orange. Handfuls of crumbling metalwork pulled away in my hands. Even a minor puncture in the rusted hull would take care of the owners outstanding paperwork, and the crew. I leaned against a relatively rust free hatch on the side of the bridge tower and drank deeply from the bottle, willing the cold fluid to make me feel better. If only Id ignored his call. Id be in bed already. Without a story I reminded myself. Thank god for Holy Joe, the mixed blessing. My phone only registered one fluctuating pip of signal strength. Yasmins needs would have to wait for dry land. I pulled my shoulder bag round from my hip and set up for the job ahead. Keeping it simple, Id chosen a digital voice recorder and a compact camera that was nearly all zoom lens. It had barely enough room for the technology that made it possible to take print quality stills or basic video, a great bit of kit for uncertain days out. I checked the batteries had charge; they did, tried out the wide angle, and then zoomed in on the horizon. At the long end of the lens I saw for the first time an effect Id only read about. A string of distant ships sat below the horizon, appearing half submerged, almost as if they were sailing over the edge of the world.

Easy to see how people could believe in a description of the world so far from the truth. The fear of monsters in the unknown deeps and savages in foreign lands somewhere out there always kept us believing in the unreal. Although the sea sickness had gone the caustic tang of nausea began to seep back into my throat. I tried to cough it away. Then a familiar Dubai stench of rancid body odor overpowered my senses. My tender stomach clenched in retaliation and the viewfinder went black. I crashed the zoom out to wide to find a tall emaciated man with staring eyes filled the frame and lowered the camera. The mans filthy clothes clung to him with the well tested glue of sweat and dirt. He scanned me up and down then shuddered as if an electric current had just passed through him. Clearly over the edge of whatever hed been standing on he opened his mouth to speak then forgot what he meant to say. His dry lips hung open and his gaze followed mine as it fell on the vicious glint of the fish hook he held in his right hand, the kind of implement that could easily support the weight of a large mammal hung from its torso. His face contorted into a lopsided grin and his eyes opened wide as if hed just had an amazing idea. Captain? I said. He nodded in agreement and gurgled a disturbing, Hur, hur, hur, then twisted his shoulder back. I moved before I heard the scrape of metal on rust and kept moving, scrabbling forward on all fours from the crouch Id dropped into. The captain roared, furious that I didnt want to play his game. He struck out again as I lunged passed him. The hook caught in the material of my trousers missing the meat beneath. I lashed out with my other foot but the deranged sailor simply pulled the hook towards him and my leg out from under me. Face down on the deck every dulled sense screamed the same warning. Move. After a short disoriented dash I found myself wedged into the bow of the boat, staring out to sea. Like an idiot Id run myself into a perfect dead-end. I could jump over the side and swim round to Nick, but would he follow me in? I turned to see the captain stalk casually across the main hatch, carving efficient figures of eight on either side of him with that damned spike, blocking my way out. Fuck it, I said and ran straight for him, feigned left, then bolted right. He anticipated my move and swung the hook at my face. The rush of air came at the same time as a faint touch of metal against my cheek, but no pain. Hed missed. I opened my eyes, pounded across the deck and leapt onto a weathered access ladder that led up to the bridge. It shifted under my weight, pulled away from the wall, and then held. My feet dangled in the air for just a second. I found the next rung and jumped rather than climbed the remaining steps. I expected him to be right behind me, but fear makes you quick, the psycho captain was still only down on deck. Yahhhhhhh! I yelled without meaning to. Then fear turned to anger and I screamed every vulgar hatred I could think of at him. Ignoring my noisy but harmless protests he hopped onto the first rung and started to climb the all too short ladder. He swung the hook up at my feet and it shattered through the floor of the rusted upper deck. I stamped on it, forcing it to embed further into the worn out metal. He shook it violently, trying to work it free. I fell to my knees and held on. Forget the hangover, I wouldnt let go, and if he climbed any further hed feel my boot in his face.

Then I heard voices below. Over the captains head I saw the two Filipino crewmen, Joe right behind them. They called up to him. The captain bellowed back. The men grabbed one of his legs and pulled but the captain simply wound one arm between the ladders rungs and kept his other hand on the hook, content to stay where he was. A dizzying sense of unreality struck me as I stood up and looked down on the four men, the Irishman I barely knew yelling at a stranger hell bent on killing me. I searched the captains hard face for a way in. A human connection. He glared back. I simply didnt register, just another obstacle between him and his fixation. The ladder would give way before he would. Bryson, Joe shouted, my head snapped up. Do something. I tried kicking the captains hand off the hook, but he refused to let go. He needed more encouragement. Groping blindly my hand closed around a familiar shape in my bag. I pushed the pens nib out and began to jab at his fingers with the tip. His venomous shouts didnt need translation; the small sharp pains had registered. He pulled at the hook again, working to free it for another swing. Get on with it, Joe said. I hesitated. Get on with what? Without thinking I stabbed down into the fleshy part between his fingers, and pushed. Metal grazed bone. Jesus! I said and let go. Like a sixth ballpoint finger the pen stuck fast in his hand. Jesus, thats just fucking horrible. With a look like Id betrayed him the captain stretched his hand out to show me what I had done. A sharp timely tug from below and he lost his grip on the ladder. His staring eyes held mine as he screamed to the deck and the three men waiting to overpower him. So much for the journalist as impartial observer. I levered the hook out of the metal and stood panting in the sun wondering how my lazy morning in bed had turned into this. You alright? Joe shouted. Yer, I said. Is he? He nodded. The two Filipinos sat on the captain, talking him down with calm words. They were still a crew. You make good bait David. Well done. Bait? I said. You proselytizing shitweasel, when Im done having a heart attack Friday the 13th interrupted again. An unknown caller, but from my lofty position I now had three pips of signal strength. Yasmin? I answered. How did you know? Wild guess, I said. Why are you breathing so hard? Someone was just trying to gut me with a fish hook. What? Trying to kill me, someone was trying to kill me Yasmin. Oh. Why? He thought I was trying to steal his boyfriend, I said, catching my breath. Forget about that. I wasnt expecting to hear from you. I thought you didnt want to work with me? Im sorry, she said. Look its okay, Im disappointed but I understand. I would never force you to do anything you dont want to do. But I do want to David. Oh?

I am just scared. Scared of what might happen to me if anyone found out. I let out a long exaggerated sigh, buying some time. If I said the right things I still had a story. Okay, so how about that trial run? Ill pay you for your time, we talk and if you want to tell me things you can, if not, no problem. Worst case scenario: you walk away and take the night off. You get paid either way. The line went quiet. Yasmin? Are you still there? Yes, a pause, and yes, lets meet. If I dont like your questions I will leave. I cant ask for anything more. Thank you Yasmin. So how do we do this? I will send you a number, ask for me, say a time, a place and for how long and I will meet you there, okay? Sure, Im looking forward to seeing you again. She chuckled. Good, she said. We both hung up. Youre smiling. Things all square with your girlfriend then? Joe said. They are, I said, but shes not my girlfriend, she a prostitute. Oh. Its a story, not what youre thinking. There are worse things to be you know. No doubt, I said. So thats the captain then is it? Yup, he seems to really like you. Yeah right, poor bugger, I said looking at the captain and his desperate crew. Theyd been left to die on that ship. Who wouldnt be crazy after 18 months out here? I asked Joe. He shrugged. Why havent they just come ashore with you? No visa. Trust me its a different world when you dont have a western passport. Theyd be sent straight back on board. I threw the hook into the sea and held up my now dented camera. Can I take pictures then? Please. Great, I said. You can keep the pen.

--Thanks for reading. You can find out more or order Frank Coles's books through http://www.frankcoles.com/books or all the usual ebook outlets. Twitter: @FrankColes Facebook: facebook.frankcoles.com Google: google.frankcoles.com LinkedIn: linkedin.frankcoles.com

About the Author

Frank Coles is a globetrotting writer based in the UK. Hes edited two books, written three (as himself), been a contributing magazine editor, brand maker and copywriter and spent a decade in the TV and film business. His work has taken him all over Europe, the Middle East, SE Asia, North America and the Arctic Circle. He has his own NatGeoAdventure web channel, YouTube presence and blog. You can find all these and more at: www.frankcoles.com He finds writing author biogs in the third person a bit odd. He'd love it if you checked out his other books at http://books.frankcoles.com or the sample that follows. He's me, and I'd just like to say thanks for reading.