by Tony Salter
And then, miraculously, God had saved him; the shrinking circle of light started to grow and shine brighter and his small life was lifted back to the surface and given meaning again. It wasn’t rational, and it didn’t need explaining. It simply was.
So many years of paying lip service to his faith had left Hassan with a huge deficit. Even though he offered extra prayers as often as possible, he would never be able to make up for those years in the wasteland.
He smiled as he looked around at the trees and the shapes of people scurrying by, busying themselves in their daily lives. We could only do what it was in us to do. There was nothing more.
Hassan washed his hands in bottled water, knelt down on the mat and emptied his mind.
Shuna
‘Ah, Shuna. Come in.’ Jonny Burbridge stood and kissed Shuna on both cheeks. ‘It was lovely to see you last week. Thanks again for the invitation.’
‘Not a problem,’ said Shuna. ‘We had fun, didn’t we?’ She sat down heavily in one of the soft chairs in front of the desk. ‘You should have seen the number of bottles that went into the recycling though. Absolutely disgusting.’
‘I blame Giles,’ said Jonny. ‘He seems to breathe wine.’ He walked over to Zoe and Anna. ‘Hello girls. Welcome to Evolution Travel. You get bigger and more beautiful every time I see you.’
‘Hello, Mr Burbridge,’ the girls mumbled in unison, both looking down at their shoes.
Jonny took a pile of brochures from his desk and put them on the small, round coffee table in the corner. ‘Have a look through these while I chat to your mum,’ he said. ‘These are some of the places you might be going to.’
The two girls sat down on the carpet by the coffee table and started leafing through the brochures. Jonny walked back to his chair and Shuna was reminded of the close bond between her two daughters. A wave of happiness and pride ran through her as she looked at them squashed together, their heads touching and their quiet murmuring occasionally interrupted by soft squeals of excitement. Would her life have been different if she hadn’t been an only child?
‘How’s it all looking?’ she said to Jonny, smoothing her skirt down.
‘Pretty good,’ he replied. ‘I’ve got provisional bookings for flights, accommodation and transfers. All I need now is to confirm that you’re happy with the overall plan and then we can look at a few details.’
He handed Shuna a dark-blue folder and leant back in his chair while she leafed through the thick sheets of creamy paper. She was grateful that he gave her enough time to read though the overview a couple of times without feeling the need to distract her with additional information or small talk. That was another thing you paid extra for.
She’d made notes in her diary and, once she was sure everything matched, she put the folder back on the table.
‘That looks perfect,’ she said. ‘Just as we discussed.’
‘I’m pleased,’ said Jonny. ‘It’s looking like a fabulous trip. I’m deeply jealous.’
‘And the extras and options?’ Shuna continued, lifting up the folder with one hand. ‘Is everything in here?’
‘Yes. I’ve put in a range of diving packages, a balloon trip over the Serengeti and a slavery tour in Zanzibar. I know it’s not totally relevant, but I thought Simon would be interested, anyway.’
‘I’m sure he will be,’ said Shuna. ‘But I’m planning on making the whole thing as a surprise, so I’ll have to decide for him.’
‘Don’t worry about that. We can change most things on short notice while you’re out there, anyway.’
‘Excellent,’ said Shuna, standing and picking up her bag. ‘You do look after us, Jonny.’
‘All part of the service,’ said Jonny, standing and moving round the desk.
‘… And reflected in the bill.’ Shuna laughed as she leant forward to kiss him goodbye. ‘Can you confirm all the flights and accommodation please?’ she said. ‘I’ll get back to you about the bits and pieces next week.’
‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Phone or email. Whatever works.’
‘Come on girls,’ said Shuna. ‘Time to go.’
As she shepherded her small flock out onto the street, her mind was filled with memories of South Africa: that unique light filtering through wooden slats, the sound of the Southern ocean pounding the rocks at Cape Point; the multi-coloured scent of a thousand different fynbos herbs crushed under foot or hoof; her father’s crooked smile wrinkling his eggshell eyes, and the touch of his gentle fingers resting on her cheek.
She and Simon had already been together for a year and a half before she’d plucked up the courage to take him home. The decision about who to visit first hadn’t been difficult. Simon had read all of her father’s novels years before he’d met Shuna and she knew the two of them would hit it off.
Her mother would be a different story. She’d done her best to warn Simon, but he was such an incorrigible optimist that he refused to listen. By the time they left, he’d almost managed to convince her she was just being paranoid.
Those days in Knysna were frozen in her thoughts like a recurring dream. It had been wonderful to be home and the hope that Simon’s optimism would triumph was contagious. Everything had changed in South Africa. It was a new world.
Would it have been the same if she’d known then it would be the last time she’d see her father? Surely not?
It was late March. The worst of the tourist rush was over and the weather was showing its best face. Each morning, the sea mist filled the lagoon with unearthly, ground-hugging clouds – almost like an overfilled dry ice machine at a school disco – which then rolled out with the tide and vanished without trace.
Perfect, sharp African sunshine every day and even the notorious “Cape Doctor” wind stayed in hiding.
One cherished moment stood out in her dreams and made her smile every time.
The water was slipping discretely out through the Heads, leaving acres of yellow sand in its wake, drying pale in the morning sun. Shuna stood on the terrace, leaning against the wooden balcony as she watched the seagulls dip and dive for clams and crabs.
Simon had grabbed her hand and pulled her down the stone steps to the beach. ‘Come on,’ he said, unusually fired up for eight o’clock in the morning. On a normal work day, he would be out of the house by six-thirty, but he had an uncanny ability to flip his body clock the moment he was on holiday. For the past few days, he hadn’t reached the breakfast table until after nine and Shuna remembered wondering what had got into him that morning.
‘I spoke to your father this morning,’ said Simon, as they reached the water’s edge.
‘So did I,’ said Shuna. ‘What did you guys talk about?’
‘I had something that I wanted to ask him …’ Simon’s voice trailed off and he looked out to sea as though searching for a lost boat. Shuna had already been up for hours but her brain was clearly lagging behind and it was only after several seconds that she started to piece things together.
Before the butterflies had reached her stomach and well before she’d convinced her mouth not to smile prematurely, Simon had turned and dropped to one knee on the damp sand.
‘Well?’ Shuna looked at Zoe and Anna as they stepped out into the sunshine.
‘It sounds amazing,’ said Zoe. ‘I can’t believe we’re really going to Africa at last. After years of you going on and on about how incredible it is.’
‘… They had photos of the balloon trips,’ said Anna, hopping from one foot to the other. ‘There are like millions of huge wildebeest stomping across the desert, but they can’t hear you because the balloon makes no noise, and you can drop down until you’re almost touching them and they still don’t know you’re there.’ She stopped talking to draw breath.
‘Will Dad like it?’ said Shuna. ‘It’s his birthday treat, after all.’ She was still thinking about that magical moment in Knysna when Simon had proposed. With everything that had happened after Sydney, they’d lost a lot of that magic. Hopefully this trip would
be the catalyst which brought it back.
‘Of course he will,’ said Zoe. ‘What’s not to like?’ She grabbed Shuna’s arm and looked up at her. ‘… And Mum …?’
‘Yes,’ said Shuna.
‘Will I be allowed to have cocktails? Real ones, not virgin ones like Anna.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Shuna. ‘I’m not making that decision without discussing it with your father. But maybe.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’ Zoe appeared to have taken that as a ‘yes’. ‘I won’t have too many though.’
‘I said “maybe”,’ said Shuna, shaking her head. ‘Anyway, we need to get a move on. I don’t want to rush through the exhibition and Dad’s only got an hour for lunch.’
‘I think it’s going to be even better than Sydney,’ said Anna as they started walking. ‘And that was the best ever.’
Shuna stopped and opened her bag. ‘Hang on a sec,’ she said, taking out the blue folder and scribbling in the margin. ‘Talking of the Australia trip reminds me. I need to remember to get Jonny to arrange an airport pick-up this time.’
She couldn’t help noticing the way her girls looked at each other when she mentioned the airport transfer. That was when it had all started, after all.
Dan
‘Hi, Dan.’
‘Oh. Hello, Ramona. You’re back already.’ The image of that far-off August morning was still floating at the back of Dan’s eyes as he looked up and saw Ramona’s smiling face. ‘That didn’t take long.’
‘Will’s working, and his boss will be round soon, so he can’t chat. I just wanted to check that I was still seeing him tonight,’ said Ramona. She looked down at the floor. ‘And I am.’
‘Good for you,’ said Dan. ‘But you should take care with that young man. I’m guessing he’s a little too big for his boots.’
‘You’re very sweet,’ said Ramona. ‘But I’m twenty-five and quite capable of looking after myself.’
‘Of course you are.’ Dan realised that he was making a fool of himself. ‘I’m sorry. It’s got nothing to do with me, anyway.’
‘You’re still very kind,’ she said. ‘I appreciate it.’
Ramona stood up and leant over to give Dan a soft kiss on the cheek. ‘I have to run,’ she said. ‘It was lovely to meet you, Dan. I hope you enjoy the rest of the book.’
‘You too. Good luck.’
Ramona didn’t look much like Rosa but there was something in the way she moved. He watched her until she was out of sight and then settled his skinny butt back onto the unforgiving mahogany.
Once again, he was alone with his thoughts.
Dan didn’t think he would be able to cope with waiting another half-hour for Rachel. He would call her in ten minutes or so and ask her to come straight away. They could go for lunch a little earlier than planned and then he would try to sleep for a few hours before the theatre.
Over lunch, he would talk to Rachel. It was time. He needed to tell her.
He swallowed a couple more Vicodin – it couldn’t matter so much if he took a few more than he was supposed to – and reached for his book.
After the welcome interlude with Ramona, Dan had no problem focusing on the text, but it was then his mind’s turn to betray him; he couldn’t concentrate for long enough to keep up with the pace of the quick-fire revelations and to tie each new piece of information together with the others.
That was the problem with this kind of book. It was well written – or at least well translated – and the whole thing was carefully constructed, but modern readers seemed to demand an ever-increasing number of twists and turns. There was a point where it became absurd.
There was no doubt that the book would be an exciting read if he were able to completely immerse himself in the roller-coaster plot, and there were some very clever and imaginative surprises. But the moment he lost concentration and stepped back, the sheer volume of contrived coincidences stood out in sharp relief and it all seemed a little silly.
Dan couldn’t fully immerse himself in anything any more; the pain never left his side and a growing need to reflect on, and review, his life was filling his thoughts. It was like a nagging wife who wouldn’t leave him be.
Thank God, Rachel had never been a nag. He had watched a few couples he knew sink into the roles of “nag” and “nagee” and it was an ugly path to follow. In the early years, a gloss of humour would cloak most exchanges and the repartee could appear charming and affectionate. As the years wore on, however, each guilty party grew inexorably into the roles which came to define, not only their relationship as a couple but, in Dan’s experience, who they actually were as individuals.
He could say what he wanted about contrived coincidences, but, if it hadn’t been for a simple twist of fate, he would never have met Rosa in the first place. He’d always believed in the hand of Man, not the hand of Destiny, but the events of that distant April morning left Dan with many more questions than answers.
Much as he’d tried, and despite everything that happened, Dan could never bring himself to wish the day had turned out differently and that they’d never met. If the stars hadn’t chosen that particular moment to line up so perfectly, he would have been spared a lifetime of pain, but …
And there was always that ‘but’.
He had lived a full life afterwards. He hoped a good life, whatever that was … but … would he exchange a single hour of his time with Rosa for a year of that other life?
He doubted it.
He’d been working on his doctorate for three years. The Devil Inside: Dostoevsky and Modern Terrorism was almost finished, and he already knew it would be much more than a PhD thesis for him.
Dan had found his purpose and seventy-five thousand words was barely enough to scratch the surface of the project which would grow to become the backbone of his life. Many people thought of terrorism as a new, post-war phenomenon, but fiction writers like Dostoevsky had been exploring the ideas and motivations behind terrorism before the end of the nineteenth century. It had been a terrorist act which sparked the beginning of the Great War, after all.
In those days terrorism may have appeared different, but the fundamental moral dilemma remained the same as that explored by Dostoevsky; could great evil ever be justified in the name of a worthy cause? Or was it simply evil?
Two world wars hadn’t improved matters and, as colonial empires started to implode, the tensions across arbitrary national borders were everywhere. His thesis – which had later become a well-respected book – had predicted the global increase in terrorism and guerrilla warfare with unfortunate accuracy.
By the time his paper was nearing completion, he already had a provisional job offer from his professor. If all went to plan, he would take up a fellowship in his department and start work in the coming September.
The darling buds of May were already blossoming and Dan was well aware that academia was strewn with the white-boned carcasses of PhD theses which had been “almost there” for decades. He had no intention of joining their ranks.
Strict discipline was the answer and, as the child of a banker and a schoolteacher, Dan understood structure. He’d established a tight routine – in the library by eight-thirty, a maximum of four fifteen-minute coffee breaks and half an hour for lunch. He didn’t allow himself to leave the library until seven at the earliest and was usually in bed by nine.
At twenty-five, with a few exceptions, Dan was immune to the undergraduate seductions of impromptu all-night parties followed by days spent pretending to study under the dappled shade of the huge Monterey oaks. He wasn’t too old to let his hair down but could resist until he’d handed in his thesis.
That morning was like any other; his briefcase was packed, and he was halfway out of the door when the phone rang.
Nadia
The car – a seemingly innocuous black Audi saloon – was waiting for them on Thorney Street. There was nothing innocuous about what was under the bonnet, however, and Nadia was slammed back in her seat the moment they wer
e inside.
‘Should have you in South Ken in twelve minutes,’ said the security guard in the passenger seat. ‘I’ll need you to sign this, please.’ He handed Nadia a clipboard holding a blue form.
Nadia scanned the document briefly before signing the form, handing it back and taking the offered leather shoulder holster. Although intelligence officers almost never carried guns, Nadia had still been expected to train regularly and there were always times when calling in SCO19 wasn’t an option. She took out the Glock 19, checked it carefully and strapped the holster under her jacket. She wasn’t expecting to need it.
Nadia didn’t see herself as aggressive, but she couldn’t ignore the buzz she got from holding a pistol – the weight, the balance, the cold metal, the engineered precision, they all combined to feel natural and right in her hand. It was no wonder that her name stood unchallenged at the top of the Service’s firing range hall of fame.
She didn’t really understand what was behind it. It wasn’t the power – OK, maybe it was partly the power – but there was something like a craftsman’s pleasure, the comfort of handling a familiar tool. It was ironic that, having discovered this talent, she almost never had a reason to use it. Unfortunately, the only time she’d needed to fire a weapon in anger, things hadn’t ended well.
She and Ed hadn’t spoken as they’d rushed out to the car and Nadia turned to look at him. His face was a pallid grey-white and he was staring straight ahead as though bolted in position.
‘You OK?’ she said, reaching over to touch his arm.
A slight nod was all the response she got. Ed’s eyes remained locked on the headrest in front of him.
‘You don’t look OK,’ she said.
‘I’m bloody terrified,’ he said, turning to Nadia and showing the whites of his eyes. ‘No-one said anything about guns and car chases.’