Cyanide Sunstroke

Chapter One

Six o’clock in the morning is an uncivilised hour for any form of exercise.

Unfortunately it was also the only time of day that the promenade wasn’t littered with careless tourists, at risk of being bulldozed over by me on my daily run.

Two weeks in Egypt and I had the perfect routine: to make sure I’d actually get out of bed, the first thing I’d see on waking was a photo of my lycra-clad rear at last year’s Christmas party. I’d sleep in my shorts and socks so all I had to do was hoist my generous bosom into an unattractive sports bra and throw on an extra large t-shirt. Quietly closing the door to avoid waking the others, I would retrieve my smelly Reeboks from the windowsill and decide which songs would get me through my punishment for loving cheese too much.

I glanced blearily at my I-Pod. Definitely a punk rock kind of morning - Latin House just wasn’t going to be enough to jolt me out of my hangover. Last night we’d gone to the Pirate's Nest to celebrate the end of another fantastic holiday, and ended up staging an impromptu Eurovision song contest with some Norwegians and a lovesick Russian. I wasn’t going to worry about my eardrums this morning: the volume was going up.

During the first fifteen minutes my stomach, lungs and calve muscles all did their best to convince me to just give up and crawl back into bed, but I stumbled on. After half a mile I’d reached the promenade, where the glorious sight of the Red Sea slightly jolted me out of my stupor. I started to settle into a rhythm, an electric guitar gleefully butchering ‘Surf City’ and adding just that extra bounce to my lethargic jog. I actually managed to make it to the larger hotel resorts. Just think cheddar, I reminded myself.

I was starting to get into my zone; my body wasn’t protesting so much anymore and I pushed it into a faster stride. I was halfway down the promenade now and could focus on the sea, a few small yachts dotted across the bay. My breathing was deeper now, legs finally feeling strong and powerful. I increased the pace slightly, passing the beach bars and the “hotel guests only” beaches and was almost near the new development where I had discovered a shortcut a couple of days ago. Building seemed completed, but the resort wasn’t open for business yet.

I ran on, music blocking out all other sounds, which was unfortunate, because it would have alerted me to the fact that an irate fat man was running after me as I passed through the large gap in the padlocked gates. It also meant that I didn’t hear his companion and was blissfully oblivious to his shouts for me to halt.

Agitated as they were -- this being their first day of work and unaccustomed to carrying out their duties in such a public area -- the fat man drew his gun. Something I also failed to see, because I was focusing on the steps leading up to the hotel courtyard –- to make a run really worthwhile you need a Rocky moment -- otherwise I would have had a couple of things to say about the presence of guns in a holiday resort.

And I’d really have liked to hear the fat guy managing to pop off a round and shooting me in the leg. Things didn’t improve when he decided I might still make sudden movements and sat on me.

Chapter Two

I’m not going to elaborate on the unattractive fainting, but when I did regain consciousness the sky had turned burnt ochre.

Two weeks ago it would have been just another beige to me, but 3 hours in tax-free airport shops with best friend Lizzie, waiting for the pilot to turn up, had taught me things about autumn fashion trends that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

Closer inspection of the burnt ochre revealed that I was looking up at an expanse of silk wallpaper. Now I was reasonably sure that the ceiling in our hotel-room didn’t possess this level of 'understated sumptuousness' (Lizzie again) and was wondering what had happened to the unassuming stucco that I’d grown quite comfortable with over the past two weeks.

I would probably have gone on and contemplated the entire rainbow but that old chestnut ´where am I?´ was pulling at my sleeve and insisting on being uttered. So I did. Five harassed-looking faces blocked out the burnt ochre.

Being stared at solemnly, particularly in stereo, is not reassuring. I couldn’t figure out if they were pleased to see me. Probably not. They looked rather worried, except for a sixth individual who now joined the coven above me and had opted for mild indifference.

“It would seem that the tremendously dangerous and grievously wounded assassin has regained consciousness,” face six said. “Maybe we should find out whether she is in extreme pain or still intent on murdering us all.”

“Be quiet Ali,” one of the original group of five, an elderly woman, admonished. “Your mockery is inappropriate. As usual.”

“You do have to admit that both options seem unlikely,” the man called Ali replied. “All we have here is a trespassing tourist who will have a great big bruise on her thigh in a couple of hours. Hardly a criminal.”

“A criminal?” I managed to croak. “I’m not a criminal, I’m a jogger.”

“It seems our security staff has trouble distinguishing between the two,” Ali said.

“But I don’t look like a criminal,” I replied pathetically.

They looked at my sweat-stained t-shirt.

“I must admit your disguise would be somewhat atypical, but you must understand how careful we have to be about security,” the elderly woman pointed out.

“But I was just jogging,” I rambled, getting increasingly more upset, “and then something stung me. And someone sat on me. And now I’m here. And I don’t know who any of you are, and you’re accusing me of being a criminal!”

“Calm down,” Ali said. “Despite appearances you’re quite safe here. After the accident,” he briefly glanced at the others and then looked at me, “you were carried here. A doctor is on his way to look at your leg.” He frowned. “It is unfortunate that you got hurt, but you were trespassing. Until this place officially opens this is still a building site, and we can’t have any unauthorized jogging going on.”

“But why throw rocks at people and sit on them,” I protested. Definitely a lawyer, I thought.

“Actually they shot you,” Ali said, hastily adding “with a rubber bullet. It is only intended to incapacitate.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” I glared.

“It doesn’t inflict quite as much damage,” he replied neutrally. Standing up, he pointed at the others. “The man with the healthy appetite is directly responsible for the bruise, but, in his defence, he used to be a bodyguard for a Cairo entrepreneur with rather volatile business associates. Hasan’s colleague is Mohammed, who used to work in army intelligence and is usually more inclined to ask questions first -- but they tell me you were wearing a walkman and your music was so loud and horrible that you failed to hear his shouts.”

“I need music in the morning to get me going,” I muttered.

Ali moved towards the elderly lady and hugged her briefly. “This is my aunt Maha, who can be a little impressionable at times.” He smiled down at her. “But she means well.”

When he glanced at the remaining two strangers his features had become neutral again. “Thomas is responsible for this project and has informed me that the two-month delay is caused by small acts of sabotage and disappearing materials. Which is why he decided to employ our gun-toting security staff.” He nodded at the remaining person, a brisk redhead. “This is Susannah Pinchot, co-owner of our modest sanctuary in this barren wilderness, and equally anxious about the delays. Which is why she approved hiring the gun-toting security staff.”

“And we'd also like to know who you are, dear,” Aunt Zaha said.

“I’m Harriet. Or Harry. Harry Worth. And I’m not a criminal, or an assassin, or a saboteur,” I added, just in case. “Like your nephew said, I’m just a lazy tourist who took the wrong shortcut.” I sat up and moved my legs off the bed, trying to ignore the pain in my leg. “It was nice to meet you, all but I think I should be going now -- I have a plane to catch this evening.” And I was going to stride determinedly from the room, had every intention of doing so, but when I tried to stand I crumpled into an inelegant heap on the floor. Ali scooped me up and resolutely deposited me on the bed. Strong for a lawyer, I thought. Needs to work on his bedside manners though.

“Perhaps you should wait around for the doctor, Harriet Worth,” he suggested.

“It’s Harry. Harriet is my grandmother. And you never told me your name,” I grimaced.

“How rude of me. I’m Alistair MacPherson.”

I stared up at what I’d assumed to be the archetypal desert warrior, now probably more used to fighting his battles in court.

“Right... and you’re here to stop me suing you for shooting innocent tourists?”

“Not at all. I’m just here to swim with the fish.”

Chapter Three

The doctor turned out to be an ebullient walrus of a man, who cheerfully prodded the afflicted area and declared x-rays were required, and would some strong volunteers kindly carry me to his large beaten-up Volvo, which he would then use to transport me to his clinic. While they got me installed in the back it dawned on me that this was going to take a while. I asked Ali to find Lizzie and Judith and at least get someone to pack my suitcase.

Mission accomplished, I clung to the back seat as the Volvo stuttered its way through the customary logic-defying traffic, while doctor Saeed, as I was instructed to call him, alternated between hurling what I assumed where rather creative expletives at other road users, and enthusiastically contributing an ambitious baritone to a string of eighties hits.

“Wonderful ladies! Reverend’s daughters,” he pointed at his cassette player while the Pointer Sisters proclaimed their state of excitement, “Saw them in concert once. Chicago I think. Or Las Vegas. I forget.”

I nodded queasily, and returned to contemplating the car ceiling which seemed to be the only non-moving part of the car. Everything rattled, clattered or jangled.

“You are doing alright back there, yes? Not feeling too poorly? We’re nearly at the clinic. Just think nice thoughts. You here on holiday, right? Diving or lazing?” Doctor Saeed turned in his seat and examined me critically. “Diving,” he declared. “You look sporty. Sensible. Not a silly woman who only comes to my wonderful country for an even tan and a stiff drink at three in the afternoon.” He briefly returned his eyes to the road and just missed hitting a taxi. Unperturbed, he turned back to me, ignoring the fact that I’d clamped myself crablike to the backseat. “You will probably be fine. Just need to lie still for a week or so. No moving. Maybe a small fracture. Not a nice way to continue your holiday if you are an active girl. But you can stay on a stretcher. In the sun. With a hat. And sunblock of course. ”

I protested that I was supposed to fly back this evening, at which he guffawed and unearthed a mobile phone from the confines of his shirt. “Not possible. Need to make other arrangements. Which hotel you staying? Which tour operator? Where are you from? Canadian, English, Danish?” he fired off, already stabbing at the buttons when I started replying. After a succession of phone calls, he announced that other arrangements had been made and not to worry; which was easy for him to say: every time I was brave enough to look out the window he seemed to nearly miss hitting another scooter.

After a thorough perusal of the x-rays, it turned out I had a displaced fracture of the ankle. The walrus cheerfully explained that this meant more leg elevation, ice packs, followed by six weeks in a cast, no swimming, and plenty of rest.

Just as I started to protest the doors burst open and Lizzie rushed into the room. “I did it Harry!” she shouted. “I caught the bastard!”

Our third travel companion and other best friend Judith had followed Lizzie at a more sedate pace. She smiled her usual crooked grin, but her eyes betrayed concern. “You alright, Harry?”

“Oh Christ yes Harry, I’m so sorry! How are you?” Lizzie exclaimed, hurrying to my bed. “What happened? Are you hurt? We had a strange man calling us at the hotel, I was just in the middle of telling Judith about that utter swine, and---”

“I’m fine Lizzie, just a fractured ankle,” I interrupted. Lizzie was lovely, but she rambled. “Six weeks in a cast. I’ll need that leg space on the flight tonight,” I joked feebly.

“Not going to happen, I think,“ Dr Saeed looked up from completing some forms. “You will stay at the hotel. Mrs Maha insisted. You need someone to look after you. You’re staying in one of the finished suites. Already arranged it.”

“That’s very kind, but I’m supposed to fly back tonight,” I protested. “I start a new job next week.”

“I don’t think that is a very wise idea,” doctor Saeed frowned. “Not a wise idea at all. My advice is plenty of rest. You should be courteous and accept this kind offer.”

“Besides, it’s only working for my brother,” Lizzie interjected. “It’s not as if it’s a real job, raking leaves. I’ll phone Gordon, he’ll understand.”

There’s this to say about Lizzie: she is not shy about expressing her opinion, which is probably why she makes such a good professional shopper. But I didn’t always have to like it.

It was a real job, and it was not raking leaves. At least not all of it. I was going to manage Gordon’s landscaping projects, a marriage of my organisational skills and his passion for all things horticultural. And it did involve pitching in and getting my fingernails dirty. So far Gordon’s clients included his aunt and her friends from the bridge club. At one point he actually did have a proper client, who finally stopped threatening to sue him after I arranged for work on the gazebo to be completed. Gordon had stared at me in astonishment, muttered something about his lack of organisational skills and offered me a job, seeing as I was “only sitting at home and moping”.

I was not moping. I had been made redundant, as in superfluous to requirements. Redundant! After four years of running around like a mad rabbit and doing my best, I’d been informed that due to yet another major restructuring our team would cease to exist. Two years earlier we’d been ‘integral to the new strategy’.

But I was not moping. I was merely assessing my options and considering what route my career path should take, and it was purely coincidental that I did my best assessing during CSI marathons. And a chunk of Cheddar within reach.

Okay, maybe I had been moping a little bit. And initially I hadn’t been sure about running after Gordon and cleaning up his mess. But then I’d seen his aunt Rose’s garden, a joyful riot of Foxglove and Hollyhocks, and a perfect reflection of Rosie’s boisterous personality. I was smitten. If Gordon could do this for other people, capture their tastes, quirks and follies, bring it all together, and create a garden that would bring a bit of pleasure, at a reasonable price, and on time, then we might be on to something. And I’d never be the victim of corporate strategy again.

So I protested Lizzie’s careless dismissal of my bright new future, but she ignored me. Did I mention that she is also extremely stubborn?

“It’s not actually such a bad idea, Harry,” Judith suggested. “Gordo is set up for the next month or so, and you could do with a rest.”

“I just had a bloody rest,” I pointed out, getting annoyed. “I just had a bloody holiday.”

“You know what I mean, Harry.” Judith looked at me. “You need some time to clear your head. Not partying until two and getting up at six for one of your jogs, and spending the day looking at fish so you don’t have to think. ”

Judith is a vet, and unlike mister Alistair MacPherson, she has excellent bedside manners. She is also too perceptive sometimes.

“Ahhh…. Burning the midnight oil and no routine,” doctor Saeed nodded. “And probably a poor diet. That explains the slight anaemia. Plenty of rest. You’re staying here.”

“And I’ll keep you company Harry,” Lizzie added enthusiastically. “I won’t be following Jonathan to Marbella now that I know he’s been cheating on me with Nicky and Jane and Lena.”