Esha Ex: Chapter Fourteen

The next instalment of Esha Ex, a novel-length work of new fiction, updated daily. For more details click here.

I ran into the car park, past the bored, chain-smoking valets and drivers and deep in between the rows of cars. I stayed low, kept going until I was certain I had at east eight vehicles on either side of me. The men were spreading out carefully at the edges of the car park. They slanted their torch beams through but couldn’t get a hold on me. I ran to the far side of the car park, to the last line of cars, the burning expanse of the desert directly in front of me. The younger, more cavalier valets were taking some cars for a joyride into the middle of nowhere, doing wide loops, spinning the tyres to kick up high plumes of sandy, rubbly dirt.

            To my right, a couple of hundred yards’ away, was an encampment of dirty trucks and a few tents. It must be for the party performers to change and practice in, a sort of backstage area. I heard loud, happy voices and popped up to see animals stalking towards me: a jackal, a lion, a horned cat. It was the dancers’ head-pieces. They had finished their performance and were loping away exuding steamy, loose limbed satisfaction. There were about twelve of them in the team, the eight dancers I’d seen on stage and four lumpier men in T-shirts and loose pants.

“If you wait, the shuttle bus’ll take you to the artist area,” one of the valets told them.

“That’s okay, we’ll walk.”

            The valet let them pass. I darted forward to join them.

“Could I grab a lift with you?”

 Like a herd of elegant animals they all stopped as one and looked at me.

“Where are you going?” said one eventually, a woman. “What direction?”

“Wherever.”

            I came closer, feeling  foolish.

“Hey…” said the woman, “you’re that girl, from that bullring thing.”

“The boar run,” I said, nodding.

“You helped that girl,” said a male dancer.

“I didn’t like what was going on,” I said.

“Is she a friend of yours?” asked the woman.

            I nodded. Now the buzz between us was friendlier and a bit less mistrustful, although the four T-shirted men were standing well back, watching me.

“Let’s go,” said one of the men.

“You’re not just knocking off for one night, are you? You’re running away,” said the woman.

            I was tired. I couldn’t hustle any more and I couldn’t beg.

“If you don’t want me to ride with you, it’s okay. I’ll find… some other way,” I said, turning away.

“No. No… it’s okay,” said the woman firmly.

 “We had a good contract for tonight. That girl was very helpful. Sahar,” said one of the men – the one who seemed to be in charge.

“I won’t be any trouble, I promise,” I said quickly. “I just need a lift to the next place. The next place from here.”

            The dancers weighed in on my side. Grudgingly, the man let me join them. We trudged towards the artists’ enclosure, which I realised was really quite far away. The desert darkness and open horizon messed with the way distances appeared. I turned back and looked at the Family villa and its twinkling lights. It looked like a perfect place where nothing ugly could ever happen.

            The woman gave me a spare pass to get me into the enclosure.

“There’s a checkpoint when you drive off the Family campus,” she said. “They’ll stop you if you’re spotted in those clothes. We’ll give you something to change into.”

“Where are you from? Where’s home?”

“Nowhere. We travel with the work,” said the young man, springing forward to catch up with us. “We have another performance tonight.”

“Can I help with anything?”

“We can always use help,” said the young man – although I could feel the black T-shirted men’s eyes on me.

“I’m Orzala,” said the woman.

“I’m Lyceus,” said the young man.

            I introduced myself.

 “You’re like us,” said Orzala. “Ex class, right? Your folk must be from the mountains – I can tell by those pink cheeks. We were desert people. Nomads.”

“No real deserts any more,” I said. I was out of breath; despite appearing to move at leisure these dancers had long strides.

“Nope. Just casinos, oil mines, golf resorts - and luxury villas that pay our wages,” said Orzala.

We got to the artists’ enclosure. Two villa workers were checking people’s passes.

“Here.” Orzala draped her costume across my shoulders. It hung down past my knees. “They won’t recognise you from this evening will they?” she said.

“Not if they were posted here all night.”

“They were. We saw when we left before our performance.”

            I did attract a double-take from them because I was neither a tall, honed dancer or a lumpy bloke with a black T-shirt straining over my gut.

“That’s our dresser,” said Lyceus quickly.

They let us through.  

“We’re at the end,” said Orzala, pointing to two white vans parked alongside each other. “We have another show tonight and you can bunk with us overnight. We wouldn’t chuck you in a place like this at night, no matter what you did.”

“Where’s the next show?”

“Also in the villa district, but closer in to Binar.”

She had the keys, and I went with her while she unlocked the first van and opened the back doors.

“Orzala, who’s the man with the beard?”

“Bilal. Lyceus’s father. He manages us.”

“I thought so.”

“He’s good at business. Just don’t get on the wrong side of him.”

“I’m already on the wrong side.”

“No – we’re cool with you being here.”

“But in the end, he’s the one who really decides,” I finished.

            She nodded, very minutely. We looked back to see Bilal himself standing some distance off, too far to have heard us, but with his tiny, black, shrewd eyes watching us closely. Inside the van were plastic boxes for the costumes, and army-style kit bags for the dancers’ personal things. Bedding was stacked neatly to one side. I got inside and shook out and folded the costumes as Orzala gave them to me, quickly learning which ones went where. Then came the heads, large but quite fragile, which I wrapped up in newspaper.

“What was the show you did tonight?” I asked Lyceus, who was last in line to give me his head.

“Legends of the Egyptian Underworld. The next big one’s called Lotus Dancers of the Concubine Palace.”

            The dancers breezily stripped down to their underwear, passed a bucket and sponge between themselves and sponged off the glitter-flecked gold paint which they had been covered in for the performance. They changed into jeans and T-shirts. I quickly learned whose kitbag belonged to whom, and the names of the other six dancers: Ruby, Shekar, Vero, Orhan, Gena and Ashva. Three young men and three young women, alongside Orzala and Lyceus. The black-clad men who did the technical stuff didn’t bother introducing themselves to me by name, so I called them Lighting, Sound and Timing. And then there was Bilal. He chose a place to sit that was close by me.

“You’re quick,” he said gruffly. “A quick learner.”

            He glanced back into the van, where I’d packed and stacked everything.

“We used to have a dresser but times are tight. Dressers need to be paid, like everyone else.”

“I don’t need to be paid. The Family don’t pay.”

“Don’t they?” he said sharply. “That’s not right. We’re poor. If I had money, I’d pay you. They’re rich.”

“Rich people are tight,” I shrugged.

            He caught my eye and gave a thick, smoker’s laugh. I could hear the tarry phlegm bubbling out of his lungs and into his throat.

“No payment. Just board and food, and you do what I say.”

“Got it.”

“Got any papers?”

“Nope.” The only papers I’d had my name on came from the courthouse near the parade – and I wasn’t about to tell him that.

“Keep it that way. Better to be a nobody than a somebody with a reputation,” he said.

            The dancers got me some clothes – too long in the legs and sleeves, but anything was better than the dyed blue uniforms. We bundled into the two vans, with Ruby driving one and Shekar driving the other. I made sure to stick close to Orzala and Lyceus. We cleared the last checkpoint and drove into the night.