Page 43 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
The words hungbetween them, heavy, irreversible, like a cold stone pressing against Ivy’s ribs.
Ivy’s breath caught, and, for a moment, everything around her seemed distant – the cold, the headstones, the sound of the sea against the cliffs. She felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach.
‘Drug smuggling?’ she said, her voice barely louder than a sigh. ‘In Devon?’
‘No. Kabul.’
Unbidden, her mind conjured images: dark alleyways, desperate hands exchanging packets for crumpled notes, hollow-eyed addicts slumped in corners. Had Omar stood among them? Facilitated their ruin? She swallowed. No. Thatdidn’t fit. The man who patiently scooped up Jez when he misbehaved, who whittled toys for the puppy, trimmed the hedges in this churchyard, returned dropped wallets and cooked meals rich with spice and memory. A man who had started tobelonghere – he wasn’t some callous criminal.
But desperation could twist even the best of people. A man with no way out might take any route he could find. Had he done it? Or had someoneaccused him of it? In the Taliban-run Kabul, she suspected accusations could be as deadly as the crimes themselves.
She breathed in, her mind churning. If itwastrue, could she still look at him the same way, continue to protect him? ‘Drug smuggling,’ Ivy repeated, the words tasting foul on her tongue.
Helen nodded. ‘You know he used to be a teacher?’
‘I guessed he might have been. He told me he had a degree in education.’ Ivy admitted, hoping she wasn’t about to learn Omar had been peddling drugs to children.
‘He worked for a charity, the Fowler Foundation. I worked for the FF in London; I was hoping to be posted to Afghanistan, but after the regime change, they became nervous about sending a woman into the field.’
‘Yes, I can understand that.’
‘When rumours surfaced that he was involved in drug smuggling, it caused a huge scandal in London. Omar was never officially charged, but he went into hiding; apparently there were people looking for him. Then he just vanished.’
A wave of nausea rolled over Ivy. She feltfoolish,reckless. She had let this man into Fred’s home. Defended him. Cared for him. But then she thought of the way he had laughed, truly laughed, just last night. The way he seemed to be slowly converting the villagers to his side.
Ivy closed her eyes in silent prayer. Doubt had already wrapped itself around her heart, and she couldn’t shake it free.The church bell tolled, low and resonant, the sound vibrating through her bones like a warning she couldn’t ignore. She opened her eyes. ‘I need to speak to him.’ Helen exhaled, her breath visible in the cold air. ‘Ivy—’
‘No.’ Ivy cut her off, her voice steadier. ‘I do. Ineedto know the truth.’
And with that, she turned toward home, towards Omar, and towards the truth she was no longer sure she wanted to hear.
Fourteen
The fire crackled softly in the hearth. Light fractured against the crowded bookshelves, sending restless shadows sliding across the worn leather bindings of Ivy’s poetry books. Outside, a storm was claiming the village,mirroring her inner turmoil, snow and wind battering the windows like the questions battering her mind. Jezreel lay curled up on the rug, his tiny body rising and falling with each peaceful breath. Ivy moved about the kitchen, the calming aroma of cocoa mingling with the mouth-watering scent of savoury snacks cooking in the oven.
She tipped steaming cocoa into a mug and poured a large glass of red wine for herself. Ivy retrieved the snacks and set them out on the coffee table and said a brief grace. Before Omar selected anything to eat, she warned him off with a wry smile. ‘Not the sausage rolls,’ she said, her tone light, but her eyes intent. ‘You won’t like those.’
Omar sat stiffly in the armchair by the fire, his long fingers wrapped around a mug, staring into the dark liquid. He looked distant, more so than usual, and Ivy knew the time for patience had passed. She needed his story – the raw, unfiltered truth – directly from him. Evasions and half-truths had built a wall between them, and tonight she would tear it down, brick by brick if necessary. Whatever secrets he harboured, whatever pain lay beneath his careful mask, she would uncover them. She couldn’t wait for him to volunteer what he clearly never would. Tonight, she would know.
The information from Helen burned in her mind but revealing it might make him defensive. She began gently, ‘You don’t have to tell me everything,’ she said, settling into the chair opposite him. ‘But you’re carrying a weight, Omar. And I don’t think you should carry it alone. You have friends in Brambleton.’
At first, he didn’t answer, his eyes fixed on the fire. After a long silence, he let out a breath. ‘It’s not that simple.’
‘It never is,’ she agreed. ‘But you trust me, don’t you?’
Another silence. He nodded slowly. ‘I do.’
She waited, sensing the delicate balance of the moment, like a dream caught between waking and sleeping, its gossamer edges fraying at the touch of consciousness. He set his mug down and reached for her glass of wine. She watched, stunned, as he lifted it to his lips and took a gulp. Then, just as shockingly, he plucked a sausage roll from the tray and bit into it.
‘I thought—’
He swallowed, then spoke. ‘I’m not a Muslim,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m a Christian.’
The revelation stunned her into silence. She had assumed, just like the rest of the village, just like everyone who saw his dark skin and heard whispers of refugees, that his faith must match their expectations. Even she, who prided herself on being better than the gossips, had painted him with the same lazy brush. What other assumptions had she made? What other secrets lay hidden behind her own blind certainty?
‘Helen spoke to you. What did she say?’ he asked.
Ivy gulped. She didn’t just want the truth; she needed it. But she hesitated – Omar would connect her private meeting with Helen to her suddenly demanding answers. He already suspected the teacher had hinted at his past, and Ivy desperately wanted to keep his trust. ‘Helen said you were accused of being involved with drugs.’
