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Zamir’s nostrils flared as he expelled a breath of disapproval. He had selected this facility for its reputation of unparalleled excellence. But now? His first impression was far from favourable.
Delores was turning beetroot red in front of him, and she almost passed out with relief when footsteps approached them from behind.
“Ah, Doctor Swan,” she smiled broadly. “This is His Highness Sheikh Zamir Fayez.”
“Ra’if’s brother.” The man nodded, and Zamir was glad. Glad that someone at least knew what was going on. The doctor was older than him, perhaps in his fifties, with hair that was silvering at the temples and a middle-aged paunch at his waist. His eyes were a crisp blue and his cheeks were marbled with pink veins beneath his pale skin.
“How is he?”
“He’s only been here a week, sir, and the beginning stages of recovery are the most difficult.”
“Recovery,” Zamir couldn’t help repeating. His anger was a force that he’d grappled with for many years.
“Yes, recovery. Addiction, sir, is a disease. A disease your brother will struggle with for the rest of his life, no matter how good our outcome is here.”
Zamir tilted his head away while he worked to regain control of his mood. “And how thorough do you expect the outcome to be?” He said, when he could trust himself not to express his own thoughts on Ra’if’s addictions.
“It is too early to say. This is not his first overdose.”
Hearing Ra’if’s failures discussed in black and white terms was shocking to him. He was used to dealing with staff who employed euphemisms and deferred to the Sheikh’s loyalty to his older brother.
“No,” he agreed simply. What more could he say. “Take me to him.”
Doctor Swan nodded. “Yes.” He moved down the hallway with a shuffling gait. The windows to one side let in the soft Autumnal sunshine. Closed doors stood sentry on the other side.
Doctor Swan, Delores and Zamir came to a halt outside one such closed door. It had a small discreet number painted into the woodwork, otherwise it was indistinct from all the other cream doors.
Doctor Swan inserted a code into the electric keypad then put his hand on the door.
“All the rooms are locked?”
“Yes,” Delores answered his question. “Used to be by key but we switched to electric out of concern for patient safety.”
Zamir arched a brow, silently urging her to continue.
She glowed pink beneath his unnervingly steady watchfulness. “In the event of a fire, you know, I can release all the doors from the desk.”
“That’s right,” Doctor Swan agreed. “All of the doors are controlled by a central computer. Some of our patients are allowed more freedom, and their doors are unlocked at set times in the day.”
“And my brother?” Zamir intoned flatly.
Doctor Swan’s look was sympathetic. “Your brother is new to us. He won’t have such freedom for quite a while. Perhaps not ever. It will depend on his willingness to work with our programs.”
He was born to rule a Kingdom, Zamir thought with a dull ache in his gut. Not to be locked up like a rodent in a cage.
The door pushed inwards and it took Zamir’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dark. The curtains were drawn, and the lights off. The room itself was large, with a bed, a sofa, and a door that he could only presume led to a bathroom. The curtains were spaced frequently enough to suggest that there were nice windows beyond, though Zamir was certain they too would be faced with bars to prevent escape or the smuggling in of contraband.
In the middle of the room, lying on the bed, was the hunched figure of the once-great Ra’if. Zamir couldn’t look at him without a painful sense of despair. This man had been a hero of his all his life. Even as boys, Zamir had worshipped him. For Ra’if could make everything better.
“Brother,” he switched to their language as he moved deeper into the room. There was a displeasing odour. When he scanned the room for its source, he saw vomit on the timber floor.
“Delores, call housekeeping.”
She bustled out of the room, and Doctor Swan locked the door behind her. “Purging is not uncommon when addicts first arrive. It’s a result of the withdrawal.”
Zamir ignored the doctor. He was staring at Ra’if as though he could decipher him somehow. As though, beneath the sallow skin and thinning hair, and arms that popped with veins, a face that was pocked with scabs, he could see the man he loved.
Ra’if’s eyes were shut, but his breathing was fast. He was not sleeping.
