Topic: No One Can Know| Word Count: 1500| Genre: Thriller

Bedecked in black, she tiptoes across no-man’s land, barren ground she knows well. Rock and dust and debris soaked with the secrets of many happier days gone by.

The guards in the watchtowers are on their high alert, tension raised through the recent flare-ups. Male or female, if they catch her, they will not be tolerant. Whatever her cover story, she will be challenged to make them believe her. There are consequences for crossing into the walled city without permission, whoever you are.

Over time, she has listened to the people who know; the gaps she might exploit, but they come with no guarantees, for conditions change all the time, not least the shift patterns and state of alertness of the guards, her biggest concern in the exercise. With the night’s patchy cloud and partially shrouded moon, she knows where she can get through as safely as anywhere. And as she gets closer to this, the most vulnerable point in the trip, she feels herself tense. Her knowledge tells her to take a few, brief moments to breathe deeply to centre herself and keep calm.

At last, the opportunity arrives. The cloud cover thickens, the moon disappears and she makes her run. Slowly and precisely are the best for safety, her uncle had always told her, until that day when it wasn’t and he returned one last time in a box. She makes her own decisions now, based on intuition and experience.

The tightly focused searchlights glisten on the razor wire as they pass along the wall and to her relief the tiny gate in the citadel wall is unlocked as she anticipated, thanks to those who needed her on the other side. She could have been easily mistaken for a shadow passing, in a fraction of a moment, to anyone who might have been watching at exactly that instant.

Through the wall, she is less at risk. Their greatest fear is from the side she has just left and the soldiers are not as observant here. Even so, she remains vigilant, her footsteps guided both by distant memories from the days she had lived these streets as well as the gentle man who walks before her. She pulls the veil across her face as is the custom and to protect her anonymity.

For a moment, he holds her hand and squeezes. It’s over in less than a couple of seconds and it encourages her, as it always does. They make their way through dimly lit alleys, each curving slightly such that she cannot see very far ahead. But she does not need to. She knows where she is going. She has been there many times before.

As they make their way together, shuffling in silent steps between a walk and a run, the uncomfortable yet functional bag bangs against her hip with each stride. There is no time to look behind, for every time she makes this journey it demands complete trust. She is keenly aware that their needs are almost as great as her own to keep her alive. Not just now, but into the foreseeable future. Her safety guaranteed by the vital cargo she carries.

Finally, they round a corner and see a double green door, twice, maybe even three times her height. It could have been on one of those cobbled streets in Montparnasse, such was its style, but the street is too dusty, the air too thick and the sweat too annoying on her back for any Northern European city. The door a legacy from those colonial times that remained so prevalent even nowadays on this very different continent, far to the south.

Her companion gives two knocks, waits, and then one more. A small shutter opens in the centre of one of the doors, the noise echoing up the street and causing her to jump. She looks about her but still there is no one to be seen.

‘Nothing to worry about.’ Her lips form the words as she silently says them to herself. And not for one moment believing it.

“C’est moi. C’est Ahmed,” he says to the hole in the door. Nothing. Her companion is impatient as he waits.

“Allons. Allons. Vite!” he implores, looking to his left and right up and down the street once more. He flashes his eyes at her for the first time since they met and she acknowledges his anxiety with a tiny flicker of a nod. But they both know there is just a little more in the moment too.

After a few more seconds pass, the door is swung open by shadowy people who slam it shut behind them. They are grabbed roughly from behind and heavy sacks are thrown over their heads.

She hears Ahmed struggle, Arabic dialect she does not understand spitting from him as he thrashes away. One short word from somewhere a way off and he stops his writhing. The sacks covering their heads are removed and the mood changes.

“Thank you for coming,” the voice says. “He could not live without you.”

Ahmed is quietened too, the authority in the voice calming him.

She cannot see the person behind the words, but she senses he is a big man, back in the shadows, somewhere in a corner far beyond the olive tree in the centre of the square courtyard.

“I have brought it,” she says, “but there is no need to be so rough with me.”

“I am sorry,” the voice replies, “We live in troubled times, as you know. We all have to be careful.”

She relents and proffers the bulky bag she has been carrying. 

“You’ll need to keep it cool. The ice will have melted by now.”

One of the men takes the bag and hands it over to the man in the shadows, before returning to them, by the doorway.

She hears a zip opening and a rustling sound as the contents are inspected. He moves slightly towards the light of a window and she can see the mysterious shape of his silhouette, but not, enough to make him out, for that would not be allowed.

“How long will this last him?” he asks her.

“Two months, as long as you keep it cool, except once he’s started a vial. Once each one is begun, it is OK to keep it at room temperature, but no more than twenty degrees. If the ambient temperature gets hotter than that, I’d keep it refrigerated anyway.”

“We will look after it. There is a nurse helping us with the injections.”

“He’ll need regular monitoring and the dose adjusted accordingly. Depends on his eating.” She cannot shake off her duty of care, despite the unusual circumstances.

“I can get you more, but it’s not a long-term solution.” She leaves the comment dangling in the air to emphasise the point.

He doesn’t answer her for a moment as he thinks about his answer carefully. He does not want to frighten her. He needs her. At least for the moment.

“I know. We will find a better way as soon as we can. Please. Come. Take tea with us.”

She knows it would be offensive to refuse, despite the perils of her visit and the journey back she still has to make.

“Of course. But I cannot stay for long.”

She makes her way through darkened rooms to the back of the building where tea made in the customary fashion is set out. As careful as she has to be, she adjusts the cover to her face, not only for religious courtesies, but also to ensure the secret of her identity is protected as far as possible.

“I want to thank you for your help in this matter,” the voice says, still hidden in the darkness out of sight, in a room beyond.

“You are welcome. But I must go now.”

He thanks her once again and she departs with her guide into the still silent and deserted street.

They retrace their steps towards the gate, pausing just once in the shadows as a noisy troop transport passes by. As they approach the border, there is a little commotion as the soldiers change over for the rest of the night and they finally make it to the doorway.

He produces his key, but before she passes through, she turns to him and holds him by the shoulders, looking deep into his eyes.

“You are my blood, my little brother. Fate kept us apart in different lands all those years ago.

“But now we have these moments to share.”

One small tear runs down her cheek.

“No-one can know. It has to remain our secret. Make sure our father receives his medications properly. Keep him alive and peace may come.”

He nods his head, retaining his manly emotions controlled inside him. They hug tightly, as they do each time she comes across.

Then, as if she were never there, she is gone, into the darkness once more.

Until the next time.