Page 48 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘Robby knows that Omar’s in Brambleton. He wants him back in Kabul. We can’t just sit here and wait for that man to force him to move on by accusing him of selling drugs in the Smuggler’s Inn, or something equally ridiculous. Sadly, half the village would believe it. What should we do?’ Her eyes swivelled between the two men, waiting for signs of inspiration.
Omar’s eyes narrowed as he wriggled, but his focus was still elsewhere. His hands clenched the arm of his chair, his body rigid. ‘I’m not interested,’ he muttered, dismissing Ivy’s speech with a wave of his hand. ‘It’s my problem and I’m done fighting it.’
Fred hunched forward, a hint of concern creasing his forehead, and spoke in a low firm tone ‘Ivy, maybe it’s best if we don’t stir the hornet’s nest any further.’
How could Fred suggest doing nothing? ‘He told you everything?’
‘Yes,’ said Omar.
Ivy raised her eyebrows at Fred. ‘And your response is,’ her tone switched to incredulity, ‘don’t stir the hornet’s nest?’
‘Yes.’
Ivy’s eyes narrowed. Where was Fred’s moral compass? She had expected him to be outraged. He must be concerned that by getting involved she would be courting danger. ‘I’m not talking about stirring up trouble. I just want to help Omar clear his name.’
Fred raised a warning finger. ‘Leave it.’
Ivy’s frustration bubbled up, mixing with a deep-seated need to protect. She told herself it was understandable that Fred, a retired teacher unused to challenging powerful people, didn’t want to tangle with the Taliban. Neither did she. But she couldn’t walk away; Omar had trusted her with his pain and he needed her help – the last time a friend did that, she’d failed them. Broken her promise never to cross to the other side of the street. She wouldn’t do that a second time. Omar wasn’t asking for anything, but she could see he needed help just the same. ‘Fred, I know you’re worried, but what if – hear me out – we tell Robby that Omar can’t return? We don’t have to explain why?’
Fred shook his head; Ivy glanced at Omar, but it seemed as if he wasn’t listening. She swallowed hard, sensing the desperation creeping into her voice. ‘We can’t just do nothing.’
Fred blinked rapidly but he didn’t meet her gaze. ‘And say what exactly?’ he challenged, his tone rising slightly. ‘Tell Robby that Omar can’t go back because the Taliban are nasty people who might pick on him for running away?’ He snatched up a biscuit and bit into it so forcefully that Ivy was momentarily speechless.
Ivy’s eyes wandered, trying to process her disappointment. A small pine tree stood in the corner of the room, sparsely decorated with handmade ornaments suspended from silk ribbons. She spotted a collection of garden tools: a tiny wooden fork, a bucket and spade brimming with fake snow. A miniature abacus – she suspected that was new this year – hung alongside a delicate brass globe, while a replica of a vintage school bell caught the morning light.
The brightness of the decorations contrasted with the grim reality of Omar’s position. After all he’d been through, he deserved to stop running and settle down somewhere, raise a family. Live.
She chewed her lip. There must be a way to sort this. ‘We could tell Robby the truth,’ she suggested.
‘No,’ spat Omar, who evidently was listening. ‘I won’t risk my sister’s life.’ His voice softened, sounding weary. ‘Anyway, this isn’t just about getting Robby to stop chasing me. It’s about stopping whatever’s going on at FF. I know you mean well, but you won’t fix that with a cosy chat with Robby. I don’t think he knows what’s going on.’
‘Well, he’s not asking the right questions,’ Ivy shot back. ‘He’s the CEO. It’s his job to know everything.’ She looked to Fred for support, but he remained mute, his expression unreadable.
‘I think Robby is being used by the Taliban,’ Omar said quietly, his eyes flashing with an anger Ivy wished she could harness to better use. ‘I can’t risk telling him why I won’t go back. I have to hope he doesn’t know the real reason I can’t.’
Ivy pressed on. ‘Maybe Robby would talk to me, I might be able to convince him to dig into—’
Fred’s eyes widened with alarm, and he interjected sharply, ‘No, Ivy. We’re not talking about a light-fingered villager stealing from a collection box. The Taliban are not people you want to mess with.’
A sense of panic rose in her throat. ‘There must be something we can do,’ she said, her voice wavering between pleading and frustration.
Omar said something which Ivy didn’t understand, his voice laced with warning.
‘Which means?’ asked Ivy.
‘It’s a saying the village elders often used:Do not stir the ashes again, for fire may rise from beneath them.’ He sighed, ‘Trust me, leave this alone.’
‘This isn’t Afghanistan. We have systems, the courts ...’ Ivy insisted.
‘I’m telling you, leave it alone,’ Omar snapped. ‘I’m notfighting this because I know I can’t. I won’t risk putting people I love in danger.’
The room fell quiet, the hiss and pop of the fire the only sound. Ivy’s mind raced, her thoughts spinning. But deep down, she feared the truth of Omar’s words.
‘Let me try,’ she said, almost pleading.
Omar slammed his palm on the table, rattling the festive centrepiece. ‘Enough!’ His voice cracked with intensity. Startled, Ivy sat back in her chair.
Fred favoured Omar with the sort of disappointed look Ivy suspected he had often used with unruly children in the classroom and muttered, ‘I think what Omar means is that good intentions don’t always translate into good outcomes. You can’t force someone to accept help they don’t want.’
