Page 7 of A Wish For Wilma
From playing a detective in the crime seriesChasing Shadows, Harvey had moved on to comedy drama.Dad To Mefeatured Harvey as a struggling first-time father in his forties with an absent wife and a demanding toddler.
‘And Harvey’s nearly finished writing his first screenplay,’ added Jo. ‘He won’t let me read it, the meanie.’
Jinnie laughed. ‘Sam never lets me read his work in progress. I’ve devoured his entire back catalogue, though, and he’s not too shabby a writer.’
Two hours later, an exhausted Jinnie sprawled on their super king-size bed and let out an enormous groan. ‘Two helpings of apple pie and I swear my stomach has expanded by several inches.’
‘Aww, you look perfect from where I’m standing.’ Sam grinned from the foot of the bed, content to observe his beautiful fiancée in all her blossoming glory.
‘Do you think they’ll get married?’ Jinnie rolled on her side and gestured for Sam to join her on the bed. ‘They’re so good together. He’s the cream to Jo’s jam on one of her yummy scones.’
Sam perched on the edge of the bed and took Jinnie’s left hand. After much debate, he’d bought her a simple silver ring. She insisted she didn’t want anything flashy. Not after her first disastrous engagement.
‘Maybe,’ Sam replied. ‘Do you thinkwe’llever get married?’
The words slipped out before he could stop them. He never wanted to pressure Jinnie. Tying the knot was no guarantee of happy ever after, something he knew from bitter experience.
‘My darling Sam, you know I’m crazy about you. Well, possibly just crazy full stop, but—’
Sam held a finger to her lips. ‘Sorry I mentioned it. Our relationship’s been one insane journey, and when our bundle of joy arrives, we’ll be starting a whole new one.’
‘A genie-free one, I hope,’ said Jinnie. ‘I don’t think I’d trust either of them with babysitting. Sam, do you think we should get rid of the lamps? Maybe take them to a car boot sale or donate them to a charity shop? Perhaps then your Djinn duties will be finished for good.’
The thought had crossed Sam’s mind, but — and he hadn’t shared this with Jinnie — he felt a jolt of something whenever he passed by the cupboard. Like touching a dodgy power socket, or the shock of static electricity. Dhassim and Aaliyah weren’t ready to leave. Sam knew it, and it scared him. His failure to tell Jinnie about Wilma’s discovery only added to his sins.
It was approaching midnight, and Sam couldn’t sleep. Jinnie had remained curled up in bed, drifting in and out of dreamland. He’d ignored her insistence on helping to clean up, needing the headspace afforded by mindless dish-soaking and surface-wiping.
Wringing out a damp cloth, Sam tossed it in the sink and wandered into the hallway. He wanted nothing more than to lie down with Jinnie, cradle her bump, and drift off on a cloud of contentment. But the contents of the cupboard called to him, sirens luring a sailor to his doom.
‘What do you want from me?’ Sam huffed out his frustration as he opened the door. ‘Can’t you just vanish into the night and let this all be over?’
The lamps remained silent and immobile. Apart from the wheezing splutter of a radiator cooling, all was quiet. Sam glanced upwards, fearful that Jinnie might pad down the stairs, drowsiness blurring her face, puzzlement lifting the mist of slumber.
Every instinct shouted at him to leave well alone. Go to bed, stupid man. Do what Jinnie said and rehouse the lamps. Let them be someone else’s problem. But…
We need to talk.
A voice. Two voices harmonising like Sonny and Cher, the ABBA singers, some other random duos, ringing in his ears. He knew the voices. One was overly excited, the other sardonic and snarky. The world around him shifted, his vision lightening, then darkening. He’d never had a migraine, but the sensation ticked all the boxes he’d read about. Except…
The floor moved, a conveyor belt propelling him forwards (or backwards) to a place where he didn’t want to be.
As his grip on reality nose-dived, Sam realised that resistance was futile. This story had a long way to go. Much, much longer than he cared to imagine…
CHAPTER7
Sam blinked.Heat scorched his skin and strange sounds filled his ears. Voices chattering excitedly, and something else. Animal noises: snorting, grunting, neighing and mooing. Where was he? An exotic zoo, perhaps, about to be eaten by a ravenous beast intent on devouring him limb by limb.
‘Where am I?’ The words barely made it past his parched lips.
Sam shuffled a little, realising he was sitting on the ground, which was gravelly and abrasive beneath his… He rubbed his hands along his legs. No jeans. He squirmed, aware that his legs were bare. He raised his hands to his upper body, feeling for his polo shirt. Instead, he encountered something loose, rough, distinctly hessian-like and a million miles from his usual attire.
‘Hey, mister! Mister, they are waiting for you.’ A man standing before him spoke in a language Sam didn’t recognise, but something in his brain auto-translated them. Shame that had never happened on his trips to France or Spain. He still cringed at the memory of asking for an arsehole instead of duck in a French restaurant.
‘Who’s waiting for me?’ He hoped the auto-translate worked both ways.
Luckily, the man seemed to understand. He rubbed his straggly beard and held out his hand to Sam. ‘Your servants, of course.’ He cocked a bushy eyebrow, as if Sam was a halfwit. Sam accepted his help, groaning as he was hauled upright.
Without further explanation, the man hurried ahead, dodging scuttling chickens and bleating goats. A wizened woman gestured to baskets of spices at her bare feet. Sam fumbled in the robe, or whatever he was wearing, for money. Nothing there, apart from grains of sand and an unidentifiable wodge of something sticky.
