How to Betray Your Country by James Wolff (spicy books to read .TXT) 📕

point. But it’s wholly insufficient to the task if what you want to hide is the fact that there’s a war going on out there. I leave the hotel at a trot and find what I am looking for three streets away.

The bell above the door jangles nervously.

He doesn’t appear surprised to hear such an urgent request at that hour of the morning.

“Calm down,” he says. “I need to ask a few questions first. What exactly is the problem?”

“I want something to help me relax.”

“Please.” He holds up a hand to slow things down. “In what way?”

“I need to … flatten things out. In my head.”

“I do not understand.”

“It’s like a room full of sharp edges. I keep on bumping into things.”

His eyes go to the bruises and cuts, to the bandaged finger, to the way I grip my side.

“It certainly looks as though you have been bumping into things.”

“I don’t mind this so much. I can deal with the physical pain.”

“You are talking about psychological pain.”

“Yes.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“No.”

“Eating?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Alcohol? Drugs?”

“I’m clean.”

“Why is your hand shaking?”

“I don’t know. I’m pretty tired. Look, please, I just need something to help me find my balance. The world’s gone a bit wobbly.”

The bell above the door rings again. A young man who just a few moments ago was seated in the corner of the hotel lobby has rushed in and is now breathlessly examining a shelf filled with bottles of sun lotion.

“Of course there are things I can give you,” says the pharmacist, eyeing his new customer with suspicion. “But I am not sure this is what you need. It will be better if you speak to a doctor before thinking about medication, given the nature of your problem. Do you have family or friends with you?”

“I only have four days left.”

“What do you mean? What happens in four days?”

“I have four days to make things right. I need something that will allow me to be normal for four days.”

“What will you do in these four days?”

“Find someone.”

“And after that?”

“I can be as crazy as I like.”

He shakes his head and starts to say something.

“I’m joking,” I tell him quickly. “I’m only joking. Crazy people don’t make jokes, do they? Look, after four days I’ll speak to a doctor. I give you my word.”

He considers the situation for a full minute before disappearing among his shelves.

“This affects people in different ways,” he says, placing a small white box on the counter. “It may take several attempts to find the right dosage. Start with half a tablet at mealtimes, no more. If it does not allow you to do what you want, try a smaller or larger amount by one quarter of a tablet. But be careful – this is a temporary solution, do you understand? If you have ever had any problems with addiction —”

“I’m very grateful. More than I can say.”

“There is enough here for four days. Come back after that. I cannot give you more of this, but there may be other things that will help.”

“Thank you for listening to me.”

“Have you eaten breakfast yet? I have some —”

Even the bell above the door sounds relieved.

At the time I didn’t know how much I meant it when I thanked him for listening to me, but it turns out that he really listened to me, because within minutes of getting back to the hotel and swallowing a tablet I feel completely flat, exactly as I requested, but not in a bad way, and softened to the extent that the things causing me such distress just an hour ago have suddenly lost their ability to hurt me, despite retaining their sharpness, by which I mean that I can still see every edge and line and point with astonishing clarity. The vizier, the abandoned house, the puddles of plum-red blood; Youssef locked in a detention centre many hundreds of miles away from his wife and daughter; the craving for a drink – these things might all be features of someone else’s story for all the significance they possess.

Just as surprising is that Lawrence’s inevitable return doesn’t prompt any irritation.

“Hello? August? Hello?” He coos at me through the door as if I am a baby. “I’ve brought you a coffee. I’ll leave it outside your door, unless you feel ready for a chat. Your call, mate.”

Even the memory of Martha’s death evokes no particular feeling. I take another step forward, curious to test the boundaries of the medication, curious to see how far I can go before hearing the click of a landmine underfoot.

“Elif’s goons are still in place, you’ll be pleased to hear,” Lawrence is saying. “The guy in the lobby looks a bit hot and bothered, as though he’s been for a run around the block. You haven’t left the hotel this morning, have you, August? I couldn’t see the older man, but it might still be a bit early for him.”

It really does appear that an entire emotional landscape has been declared safe: the coroner’s photographs, Martha’s diaries, the birthday present I found hidden among her clothes.

“Any thoughts on when you want to leave? You can’t be comfortable here. It’s a funny old hotel, don’t you think? There was a blind man checking in downstairs. I imagine he’s their ideal guest – no complaints from him about cobwebs and peeling walls. But you could really do a lot better than this.”

The terrain quickly becomes hostile – ravines, a cliff face, an impassable river – but it feels as though I am floating above it all. And it isn’t long before I stumble upon a conversation with Martha just a month before she died. She is asking me to help her plan a protest against a visit to London by the Egyptian Minister of Justice. She is giddy with excitement at the thought of what we can achieve together. Not just the usual ineffectual placard-waving, she explains, but something that will take political protest to a new level: a personal note pushed