Chapter 47

B ut who . . . who is she married to?”

Saif shrugged.

“And they think he’s . . . a jihadi? A terrorist?”

“Perhaps.”

The silence sat between them. This was absolutely ridiculous, thought Lorna. She was a primary school teacher in a tiny village in the Scottish islands. She didn’t get mixed up with horrific political situations in the Middle East.

She looked at Saif’s head, still bowed. Nobody did, she thought. Nobody asked to get mixed up in this. But war could come and burst through the gates of peace; it could crawl in any window, sneak under the cracks of any door, just when you thought you were safe.

And they were safe. They were.

But oh: Amena.

“Will they let her come?”

Saif shrugged again.

“Do you want her to come?” she asked, more quietly this time.

He let out a muffled sound that was more howl than anything else.

Lorna drew closer to him and encircled his waist with her arms, sitting behind him, her knees on either side of him.

“There, there,” she said.

“I have to get back to the boys.”

“Not yet, my love,” said Lorna, so quiet it was almost a whisper. “Stay awhile.”

He took hold of her hands, lifted them to his face, which was wet with tears, and kissed her hand gently.

She shifted round to face him, so now she was crouching between his knees. Looking into his face, she felt suddenly, overwhelmingly filled with desire, desperate to feel his strong arms around her, his long body jolting against hers.

She moved closer toward him, gazing into his dark brown eyes.

“Stay awhile,” she said again, and he closed his eyes and rested his entire face in her hair, breathing her in, trying to surround himself with her, the only thing that made him feel better. She moved even closer toward him, until he entirely engulfed her in front of the flickering firelight.

“Darling,” she whispered, and moved in to kiss those sad, soft lips.

He pulled away, furious with himself, with the world, with everything. Shaking his head forcefully, he stood up. She stood up too, looking at him, their two bodies still touching.

“You can be angry,” she said, barely recognizing herself, her voice cracked and hoarse. She had never been so desperate for someone, never in her life. It was absolutely crazy what he did to her, what he did to her body. “You can be angry. It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re with me.” She looked straight at him, full of desire, and said what she wanted out loud. “You can take it out on me.”

He understood her meaning in a moment and grasped her on either side of her arms, staring fiercely down into her eyes and suddenly pushing her hard against the wall. He kissed her passionately, and she felt his long, lean body tightly pressed against her, every inch of him, and she felt herself melt into his hardness, pushed herself frantically against him, felt her breathing quicken and the blood rush to her head.