Crimson Hunger

Chapter 39

Hussein, Ian's favorite uncle, was in Dubai when he finally received news of his nephew's whereabouts. The news was very vague and raised his suspicion, but he was positive his powerful brother Ahsan would pull some strings and bring Ian home. He didn't wish to tell him that he had gone to Syria, but hiding it under the current circumstances would do more harm than good.

The two brothers sipped tea at Shakespeare and Co. in Dubai Marina. "There is something wrong with the concept," Ahsan said, a frown creasing his forehead as he looked around.

"What concept? Ian going to Syria or Ian held captive by some drug lord?" Hussein asked, staring at his brother's face in bewilderment.

"The café's concept," Ahsan replied, taking a sip of his strong black tea with condensed milk, "it's called Shakespeare and Co. yet the place looks like it belongs to the Victorian era and not the Shakespearean—we're speaking of almost a two-century gap here. It could've been named Dickens and Co. perhaps."

"You can't be serious!"

"I am serious," Ahsan continued to sip his tea, "this place is very beautiful and elegant yet I don't find the concept quite convincing."

"I tell you the life of your unfortunate nephew is in danger and you're busy pointing out flaws in the café's concept?" Hussein frowned, his irritation leaking into his tone, "You think this is a joke?"

"This isn't the first time this lad gets into trouble," Ahsan responded, his tone indifferent and composed, "you should've stopped him from going to Syria in the first place," he leaned back in his seat, "I'll speak to some friends and pull him out of the swamp he got himself into but, trust me, his punishment will be very creative this time."

"Can we focus now on bringing him home safe and maybe you can come up with some 'creative punishment' later?"

"He can get himself into trouble but can't get himself out of it. It's about time he learned his lesson," he sipped some tea then added, "I honestly wish I could leave him for a while longer, but I'm not sure what those people want from him so I'm afraid I'm gonna have to act fast."

"And acting fast does not include holding your phone and making a few calls... like now?"

Ahsan let out a loud laugh. "My dear doctor brother," his laugh shrank into a forced giggle and he shook his head, "these things cannot be handled over telecommunication networks."

"I don't know how you do this business just, please, do it fast."

"Your tea is getting cold and you haven't touch it yet," Ahsan motioned for the waiter to bring more tea before he added, "relax, Hussein, this boy is a survivor. He survived being the son of a crazy man, he survived my beatings... he even survived death—he'll survive this time," he giggled, "sometimes I think he's a devil that refuses to die easily."

"That's not funny," Hussein said, not a tad interested in his tea, "and do stop calling him a boy!" He leaned forward and raised a pair of accusatory eyebrows, "Ian is a grown man and if he's messed up, that's largely your doing." He sat back in an upright position and tidied his navy blue pinstriped blazer.

Ahsan put his cup down and shot his brother a dagger-like stare. There was a moment of silence before he said in a stern tone, "Ian proved he has no interest in becoming an adult," he paused then added without breaking eye contact, "and it wasn't I who messed him up. I raised him and I loved him just like one of my own. The boy was born messed up and his mischief—combined with half the family spoiling him—messed him up even more."

"I don't wanna argue with you," Hussein got up, "let's talk later tonight."

"Don't tell the ladies about this," Ahsan cried as he watched his brother march away.

Hussein turned, shrugged and flashed him a mischievous smirk. "I'm not sure I can keep this secret from your wife," he replied.

Ahsan swore under his breath and requested the bill.

***

"What do you mean you've known me long enough?" Ian spat, vigorously wriggling on the hard chair, trying to free his restrained arms.

"Come to the light," he yelled, panting and sweating like a horse, "show me your face."

He heard slow footsteps draw closer. He looked up and anticipated as a man emerged from the dark, his face gradually illuminated by the dim, slowly-perishing bulb dangling from the ceiling above his now-bald head.

The man stopped walking. Ian squinted but still couldn't see his face well. He couldn't tell whether it was his sight that became so weak and blurry or the light wasn't enough to reveal the identity of this provocative man.

"Why did you stop?" He asked, breathing heavily.

"Who would want to come near a despicable animal like you?" Edimmu hissed in Ian's ear then broke into vicious, sardonic laughter.

Ian threw his head forward and clenched his teeth. He stared at a drop of sweat that crawled down his nose bridge, tickling it, hung onto his nose tip for a second then fell onto the chair between his thighs and shattered into oblivion as if it never was.

"Shut up," he said from between clenched teeth.

"You should kill yourself," a nasty woman's voice hissed in his other ear, "Kill yourself, Ian. No one wants you. No one loves you. You're disgusting. You're despicable."

He vigorously turned to his left—in the direction of the woman's voice—and yelled, "Fuck off, bitch!"

The shadowy man in front of him laughed. "You should be in a straightjacket," he said, "and I see you still haven't learned to respect ladies."

He took a step forward to tease Ian, who immediately looked up, still unable to see well. His thick eyelashes could not keep the sweat from seeping into his eyes and blurring his vision. He blinked repeatedly and watched as the dark figure in front of him pulled a small box out of his breast pocket, flaunted a short straw that he'd drawn from the box and lit it.

Ian gently closed his eyes and inhaled the smoke, savoring it as if it were the aroma of a rich chocolate cake. It was a cigarette. How he longed at that moment to smoke a cigarette. One cigarette was all he needed.

"You quit after the accident, no?" The man asked.

Ian furrowed his brows. "The accident?"

"London, January 1st, 2006," the man replied, "outside Ballie Ballerson."

Ian opened his mouth to respond but was unable to find his voice.

The figure drew closer, blowing smoke into the air. He bent and put the cigarette between Ian's lips.

Distracted by the nicotine-packed smoke that filled his lungs and found its way to his head, Ian did not look at the man's face even though it was a few inches in front of his. The man pulled the cigarette from between Ian's lips, allowing him to blow out a soothing cloud of toxins.

Half-dazed, Ian looked up at the face in front of his. His jaw dropped as he studied it—the small, dreamy blue eyes, the sharp nose, the strong jawline, the thin-lipped smirk, the deep dimple in his right cheek. His heart stopped and every fiber in his body began to shake. Bile rose in his throat and his chest was hollow as if the air were sucked from it. His neck felt stiff and all the moist in his mouth and throat evaporated.

"Garrick?" The word finally escaped his chapped lips in an undertone.

***

Thank you for reading Chapter 39.

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Chapter 40 will be available on Thursday!