"Every last person we kill is for family. If we do not kill them, they kill us. It's the way of the world. It is self-defense."
— J.J. McAvoy, Ruthless People
Sometimes, I sleepwalk.
Sometimes, I dream in motion and end up gliding around my house at night, usually with no memory afterwards.
From the different bedrooms to the living rooms, the kitchen, and even the servants' quarters, I have been sighted in various parts of my house at odd hours of the night.
Sometimes, when the person who finds me is kind-hearted, I am led back to my bedroom, and I'm none the wiser about it when I wake up the following morning.
But if I am left unhindered, I usually awake in the same place; in my garden, sleeping on a bed of flowers.
It's as if, even in my sub-consciousness, I crave the peace and tranquility I get from the place I consider my safest haven in this prison that is my home.
As the sun rays hit my face, I realise it has happened again, and my nocturnal stroll has led me back to my garden.
The familiar fragrances envelope me, and I open my eyes to behold the symphony of colours in the 300 square feet of land I converted from dry grassland. Ruby reds, blush pinks, neon oranges, canary yellows, jewel greens, and snow whites are only a few of the hues of my prized collection of roses, tulips, lilies, orchids, daffodils, dahlias, daisies, marigolds, and chrysanthemums I have cultivated over the years. And my favourite carnations.
It truly never gets old. It is all my sweat and blood, so if my spirit chooses this to be the first place I start my day most mornings, then so be it.
I close my eyes to savour my small piece of paradise, to forget about all my worries, and pretend that life is truly, and literally, the bed of roses on which I lie.
But just as I am about to drift off to sleep again, my ears pick up uncharacteristic noises, not only for this time of morning but uncharacteristic period. I sit up and realize that I am not imagining things.
There really is screaming and crying coming from the house.
I rise to my feet and start briskly walking towards it, not even conscious of my flimsy nightwear.
My panic escalates as I notice the security guards, Abel and Ahmed, rushing into the house, just as Alexia, one of the junior maids, rushes out, her face alabaster white.
"He is dead," she is muttering under her breath, again and again, her hand clasped so tight around the doorpost, I fear all her veins will burst through it.
"Who died?" I demand as I get to her. "Who is dead?"
She just stares back at me with flat eyes, and I move past her into the house.
I recognise the persistent screaming as kamir's, and I shove past more of the confused domestic staff in my desperation to get to the root of this bewildering matter. Sometimes I wonder if he was meant to be a girl but came out as a man.
This has got to be some sort of tasteless joke.
"he died!" Madam Maria, the longtime housekeeper, is wailing as she sits - no, sprawls ungainly - on the stairway.
I waste no time asking her questions and instead run up the stairs, taking them two at a time, almost stumbling over her hefty body in the process.
My stomach drops when I see the room in front of which everyone is clustered and from where kamir's screams are coming from. From the looks on the faces of the people standing around, I no longer need to fear the worst. I can see it.
My pace slows as I approach the room, even though my heart is beating so fast, it is almost jumping right out of my chest.
"Ma'am, you shouldn't see this," Ahmed says, as he tries to restrain me from entering the room.
I push past him, and I let out a gasp as my eyes behold the body of the elderly man lying on the floor.
His head is bloodied, and there is a broken chair only a few feet away. His white t-shirt is stained with blood and vomit, and he is foaming at the mouth.
There is no doubt about it. He is dead.
My eyes meet kamir's as he was holding the lifeless body, and he lets out an even more guttural scream. "You killed him! Zeynep, you finally killed him!"
I stare back at him, speechless and confused. I notice Yusuf , his brother, making a phone call on the other side of the room.
When he sees me, he shakes his head. I cannot even decipher the message in that. Is he trying to console me? Is he asking me not to pay his brother any mind? Or is he sending some other subliminal message I can't understand?
"Look at them, look at them!" Kamir exclaims, rising to his feet and pointing an accusatory finger at Yusuf and I. "Even here, you are exchanging secret messages. You and your lover killed him. You killed him!"
"kamir, you better watch your tongue!" Yusuf warns. "This is no time for this, your childishness. We should all be putting heads together to find out what happened here, instead of throwing baseless accusations around."
My head starts to spin, and I walk over to the king-sized bed to sit, my eyes never leaving the body on the floor. How could a man so full of life only a few hours before be lying stone cold dead on the floor? Who could have done this? I notice three wine glasses and two empty bottles of the same on the coffee table, and I realise he had late company. But who?
"You people have killed him," Kamir shouted, his tears running freely down her face. His hair is disheveled, and from the vomit also on his nightwear, I can see that he must have also held the body in his agony. I cast another look at the body and have no desire at all to do the same.
"Where have you been all this while?" Kamir demands, glaring at me. "How come it took you so long to even get here? Didn't you hear the noise?"
Abel says in my defence. "She slept outside. We saw her as we were coming here."
But this explanation goes right over kamir's head.
"I hope you're happy now," he continues, his blood-shot eyes continuing their indictment. "You and your lover killed him."
"Which lover?" comes Ibrahim's voice, as he walks into the room. "You know she has many."
I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise, as they typically do in his presence, and feel even more conscious of my scanty attire. I immediately want to be anywhere but there. I want to be far, far away from there. But I know I have no choice but to stay.
"Have you called the police?" Ibrahim asks his younger brother, yusuf. "They need to get here quickly, so we can move the body to the mortuary or something. This visual is upsetting the women."
My own stomach drops at the reference to the man lying on the floor as a 'body'. Minister omar kamir now a body? It feels like I am in the middle of a very bad dream.
Yusuf tries to cover the body with the bed sheet, but Kamir snatches it from him.
"Leave him like that!" he snaps. "Let the police find him just the way you people left him!"
Yusuf throws his hands up and sits beside me on the bed, clearly frustrated. One part of me wants to move far from him, to prevent any more assumptions about our involvement in this mess. But another part of me is consoled by his proximity.
"Who was the last person with him last night?" I ask, finally finding my voice. "Those are used wine glasses, meaning he had company."
Ibrahim and Yusuf exchange a glance.
"We were here with him," Yusuf admits. "He was perfectly fine."
"Obviously, he must have been," Kamir snaps. "He clearly didn't do this to himself."
"And I left you two, remember?" Ibrahim says, sitting beside me on the bed. "So technically, you were the last person to see him alive."
"So, what are you implying?" Yusuf demands, looking over at his brother with his fists clenched, and I regret my position of sitting between the brothers. "You want me to tell everyone the reason you left me alone with him? You want me to tell them of the heated argument you had with him that would have degenerated into another fistfight if I hadn't intervened? Who's to say you didn't come back after I'd left, to finish what you almost started?"
Rather than get defensive, Ibrahim chuckles, and a chill runs through my body. I have been afraid of him for as long as I can remember, more so this fateful morning. I notice what looks like fresh cuts on his hands, and I look again at the smashed chair on the floor. I feel goose bumps all over my body as my brain starts to connect the dots, painting a clearer picture of what probably happened last night. A vivid picture that could very likely involve none other than the man's first son, Ibrahim.
"You think you're the only one with secrets?"