“Tell me, goddamit,” the Scorpion shouted. In the corner, the cobra stirred uneasily. Braithwaite’s lower lip trembled nervously, its painted surface rippling like a fleshy worm.

“It’s Amair. He’s a Shiite,” Braithwaite explained. Shiite Moslems were a despised minority in most of orthodox Sunni Arabia.

“He’s a handsome lad, a bank clerk,” Braithwaite offered with an odd defiance. “It’s no good you’re t-t-telling me he’s just an empty-headed clothes-horse, or that he’s just using me. I c-c-can’t help myself, Nicky. Love’s not so easy, you know. It c-c-costs so bloody much … the price in self-respect alone … don’t you think I know?” Braithwaite pleaded, his eyes watery and unfocused.

“Jesus, Ralph. At your age …” the Scorpion began.

“At my age …” Braithwaite snapped. “At my age, it’s … why it’s like a m-m-miracle … The last burst from a star. For God’s sake, Nicky … don’t you understand? Romance is a f-f-farce, a stupid bedroom joke … but it’s the only answer … to death, don’t you see?”

“Look around you,” Braithwaite gestured at the junk-filled room. “The odd bits and tag-ends of a life. Once …” he mused, his eyes misty as he gazed down the corridors of time. “Once, I crossed the Empty Quarter with the Beit Kathir all the way to the Hadhramaut, where only Philby and Thesiger had gone before. I saw places that no white man had ever seen b-b-before and met Bedu who had never seen a Christian. There were nights in the sands bright as day from the stars. I became a Moslem, Nicky. I made the hajj to Mecca. I circled the Sacred Ka’aba and walked the sa’y between Safa and Marwah. I performed ‘the standing’ at the Mount of Mercy, praying on the blazing plain of Arafat. I served, Nicky. I have ridden with p-p-princes, boy. I have walked with kings. All gone …” his voice trailed off.

“Don’t ever get old, Nicky … they’ll just throw you away, like trash. Don’t you see? Before Amair, there was n-n-nothing … nothing except … Oh God, Nicky … I was so bloody lonely,” the old man finished in a wheezy quaver.

They sat silently for a long time. In the corner, the snake slept.

“You do believe me, don’t you lad?” Braithwaite asked at last.

“I believe you, Ralph. Nobody ever lies about being lonely.”

“Amair said if I didn’t t-t-tell … he’d leave me. He swore they wouldn’t harm you,” Braithwaite said pathetically. The Scorpion poured himself a drink and took a long, slow swallow, trying to delay what was coming. When he was a boy, the crumbling ruin before him had been someone to reckon with, someone who had ridden out from Buraida into the Nefud to bring him water.