“Because it wouldn’t have made any difference. If they’d wanted to kill me they’d have killed me.”
“Then, yes,” he said with sudden impatience. “I’m suggesting you make something up. You know the deal. It’s all about column inches, so give them the best story you can.”
I dug my hands into my pockets. “Otherwise what?”
“They’ll compare you with Adelina, Connie, and look for bruises. They’ll ask for the doctor’s report-clean bill of health, with minor bruising on your wrists and some redness round your mouth and eyes from the duct tape-and they’ll want to know why you got off so lightly. What are you going to tell them?”
I ran my tongue across my lips. “That I don’t know.”
“And when they ask what you were wearing-which they certainly will-how are you going to answer that?”
I pulled the jacket tighter around my waist and hips. “What I’ve got on.”
“Then stick to the story we gave the police…that I had your clothes laundered because you had nothing else to wear. I’ll take the flak again,” he finished rather grimly, “even though it makes me look like a bloody idiot.”
He’d been given a rough time by Chas for allowing me to clean myself and my clothes before going to the police station. It was bad enough that he’d kept my release secret for three hours, worse that he hadn’t considered the implications of destroying evidence. There was some excuse for my behaviour because I was traumatized, but none for Dan. He should have known better. How were the authorities expected to secure convictions without forensic corroboration?
Dan had stood by me-in so far as he took the criticism on the chin and kept it to himself that he’d tried to stop me-but he made no secret of his suspicions now. “Why did you need to wash those clothes, anyway?”
“They were dirty.”
But we both knew they weren’t. They hadn’t even smelt dirty, which was why I’d washed them. I’d toyed with saying I’d been given an orange jumpsuit, similar to the one Adelina wore on her video, but I was afraid of provoking further questions. Why were there no orange fibres on my skin or in my hair? Why bother to dress me as a prisoner if no video was made? It was less traumatic to be accused of destroying evidence than admit to wearing nothing.
I wondered if Dan had guessed the truth because he didn’t pursue the issue. Instead, he told me what he planned to say when he announced my release to the press corps in Baghdad. There was heavy emphasis on my cooperation with the police, my refusal to say too much for fear of jeopardizing Adelina’s chances, and my undoubted “courage and professionalism.” It was a clear instruction to stay “on message” in London so that Reuters in Baghdad wasn’t ambushed out of left field.
I sent surreptitious glances towards the clock on the far wall, ticking off the seconds before I could reasonably head for the departure gate. The only luggage I had was a fabric bumbag (borrowed from Dan) which held my ticket stub, boarding-pass and emergency passport (paid for by Reuters), and £25 in precious English fivers from the Baghdad bureau coffers.
“Are you listening to me, Connie?”
I gave another nod. But as I had no intention of performing for the press, it was irrelevant whether I listened or not. If I failed to appear, the only source of information would be Dan’s press conference and, with no photographs, the coverage would be limited to a box somewhere. There might be speculation about why and where I’d gone into hiding, but it wouldn’t amount to much. Stories without legs and pictures died on the editor’s floor.
I’d made the decision to bolt when I phoned my parents from Dan’s apartment to tell them I was safe. My mother answered in Swahili. Literally. As a child, she’d learnt the language from Adia, her Kenyan nanny, and had passed on what she remembered to me. She spoke before I could say anything. “Jambo. Si tayari kuzungumza na mtu mie.” Hello. I can’t talk to anyone at the moment.
It was a device we’d used when things became difficult at the farm. My father was convinced there were physical and wire-tap eavesdroppers. Swahili isn’t commonly understood in Zimbabwe, where English is the official language and Shona and Ndebele the native ones. In this case, I guessed my mother was expecting a call from my father, and was warning him there was somone in the room with her.
I answered: “Jambo, mamangu. Mambo poa na mimi. Sema polepole!” Hello, my mother. Everything’s fine with me. Be careful what you say!
There was a brief pause. “Bwana asifiwe. Nakupenda, mtoto wangu.” Thank God. I love you, my child. There was a catch of emotion in her voice which she quelled immediately. “Sema fi kimombo.” You can speak in English.
In the weeks after my release, that was the closest I came to breaking down. Had she been in the room, I would have become her “mtoto” again, stolen into her warm embrace and told her everything. By the time I saw her in London, that opportunity was gone. I took a breath. “Who’s with you?”
“Msimulizi.” A newspaper reporter.
“Oh, Christ! Don’t let on it’s me!” I could hear the tremors in my voice. “No one knows I’ve been released yet…except Dan…I’m in his flat. I need time to…Do you understand?”
“Ni sawasawa.” It’s OK. She sounded so reassuring that I think she must have been smiling at whoever was in the room. “Nasikia vema.” I understand perfectly.
“I’m flying out this evening via Amman, and should be in London early tomorrow morning.” I glanced towards the door of the room, wondering if Dan was listening. “Is this reporter a one-off or are they plaguing you?”
Another pause while she worked out a strategy. “Yes, indeed, it would be much easier in English. I’m very touched that you’re calling from Connie’s newspaper in Kenya. We’ve had interest from all over the world. As I speak, there are journalists and photographers in the road outside…all of whom are publicizing Connie’s plight. We’re deeply grateful for everyone’s support and assistance.”
My heart sank. “Are they making life hell for you?”
“Yes.”
“How’s Dad bearing up?” I amended that immediately because I knew she wouldn’t be able to answer it. “Don’t worry. I can guess.” After the events at the farm, my father had developed a short fuse when it came to intrusion. He particularly hated being questioned about what had happened, as if other people had a right to pry into his humiliation. “Is he losing his temper with them?”
“Yes. In fact my husband is at the Zimbabwean High Commission today. The British government refuses to talk to hostage-takers, but there’s a possibility Robert Mugabe might intervene because Connie has dual nationality. Andrew is trying all avenues.”
“Oh, God!” My father would cut off his arm rather than ask Mugabe for help. He hated the thieving little dictator more than any man on earth. “I’m so sorry! What a bloody awful mess!”
“Haidhuru. Kwa kupenda kwako.” It doesn’t matter. He’s doing it because he loves you. Another pause. “I wonder if it would be better if you spoke to Andrew? He can tell you far more than I can. Do you have a number that he can call when he returns? Perhaps a mobile?”
“No…it was stolen…and I don’t know where I’ll be in the next few hours. Can you wait till I land in London?” I looked at the door again. “Dan’s organizing a press conference at Heathrow-” I broke off, praying she’d follow up on why.
“Will that be difficult for you?”
“Yes.”
“Is your colleague with you now?”
“I’m not sure. Possibly.” I paused. “Reuters are holding back the news of my release until the press conference…which means I need you to keep pretending you haven’t heard from me. It’s important, Mum. I don’t want cameras filming me as I come into the arrivals hall. Will you promise not to say anything till you hear from me?”
“Of course. All either of us wants is Connie’s safe return.”
I wished I could tell her that I couldn’t go to the flat while photographers were in the street, but I didn’t know if Dan was listening or how
good his Swahili was. Instead, I hoped she would pick up a hint. I gave a shaky laugh. “I’m beginning to understand how Dad felt when you left the farm. Do you remember what he said the worst thing was?” (“Talking about it. What am I supposed to say? Does it make people feel better when I admit to being scared?”)
My mother hesitated for a moment before she repeated: “Nasikia vema.” I understand perfectly. “You’d like a private interview…in a hotel perhaps…bila wasimulizi na maswala (without reporters and questions). Is that right? Have I understood your wishes correctly?”
“Yes.”
“My husband will be waiting for your call. I guarantee he’ll help in any way he can. Our daughter needs all the support she can get.”
I took another breath to stop the tremors. “I really am fine, you know…so don’t start imagining things…all that happened was that I was blindfolded for three days. Give Dad a hug from me, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tutaonana baadaye, mtoto wangu. Nakupenda.” We’ll see each other soon, my child. I love you.
It’s fairly devastating at thirty-six to recognize that you have a greater empathy with your mother than with the man you’ve been giving your body to for the last fifteen years. I wondered what would have happened if the roles had been reversed, and it had been Dan on the other end of the phone. Could he have matched my mother’s subtlety or understanding? Or would he have waded in blindly with hobnailed boots, as he was doing now?
“I know you’re not going to like this, Con, but a few tears wouldn’t go amiss. There’s been a lot of sympathy shown you over the last three days and it’ll ebb away PDQ if you refuse to play along for the cameras. No one’s going to believe you’ve been gagged and blindfolded for the last three days if you don’t show a little frailty.”
I dragged my attention back to him. “Don’t worry. I’ll do it when the time comes. I’m good at play-acting.”
He frowned. “Am I supposed to know what that means?”
I shrugged. “I do a good impersonation of a mistress, Dan. No demands. No expectations. No drain on the wallet. No interference in the love life when I’m not around. No cause for concern.” I smiled at him. “You should trust me to put on a good show. I’ve seen more bloody victims than you ever have.”
He made a ham-fisted attempt to put his arms around me, but I stepped out of reach. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” he demanded. “I’ve done everything you asked…and I get treated like something the cat’s brought in. What’s up? Is there something you haven’t told me?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Nothing,” I said carelessly. “I’m a recovering hostage.”
He sighed. “Then talk to me about it. You know I’ll listen.”
We’d been through this in the flat. He’d fussed all over me, encouraging me to voice my fears, telling me he’d ask London to organize counselling, running through his own feelings of guilt after his friend died in front of him. Even if I’d been tempted to tell him the truth-which I hadn’t-his swamping insistence would have stopped me. What would I have had left once he-once anyone-had dragged every last secret out of me?
“There’s nothing else to tell. It was frightening while it lasted, but I was luckier than Adelina.” I managed another smile. “Which is why I might not be able to produce crocodile tears for the cameras, Dan. I’m alive…I’m in one piece…and nothing much happened to me. It would be shabby to pretend otherwise, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” he agreed slowly. “I guess it would.”
And that’s how we left it, with fifteen years of sporadic intimacy dead on the floor of a war-torn airport. Dan went through with his press conference in Baghdad, and I dodged mine by slipping past Harry Smith in a group of tourists from another flight. The interest died very quickly. Apart from the announcement of my release, there was very little else other than speculation in some of the Iraqi newspapers that I’d faked my abduction. I didn’t mind. I discovered very quickly that it was easier to live with myself when everyone thought I was lucky…or a fraud.
The trouble was I couldn’t live with anyone who believed it. It’s a form of betrayal when people close to you accept what you tell them at face value.
Shouldn’t they know you better than that…?
Extracts from notes, filed as “CB16-19/05/04”
…I never realized how fragile trust is. Can a single person really destroy another’s faith in everyone and everything?
…When I dream of revenge it’s always in retribution for my stolen relationships. What gives anyone the right to make me suspicious of people I’ve liked and loved? Or them of me?
…I can rationalize as much as I like but I know that nothing will ever be the same again. Whatever happens, I am not the person I was…
12
PETER MADE NO comment when I finally entered the kitchen, but he resumed his own seat before I sat down. He shifted it back immediately, as if aware that proximity might worry me. I don’t recall in any great detail what I said that morning, although I do remember telling them that my name was Connie Burns and that I’d been held prisoner for three days by a man called Keith MacKenzie whose story I’d investigated. I said he was a serial murderer who’d threatened to come looking for me if I ever spoke about what had happened.
Peter, who had a surgery he couldn’t miss, urged me to talk to the local police but I refused, saying it would only confuse the issue as there was a detective inspector in Manchester who was already working on the case. Jess took a more practical approach. She agreed to stay with me until lunchtime, when Peter promised to come back and talk to me at more length. Meanwhile her dogs would patrol the garden.
I was asked afterwards by a Dorset policeman what Jess and I had discussed during the five hours she spent with me, and I said I couldn’t remember because it wouldn’t have been anything important. Jess wasn’t the type to ask questions, and I had already said more than I wanted to. Jess wouldn’t have remembered either…
***
I REMEMBER the conversation I had with Peter later. He had no such inhibitions about asking questions, particularly when Jess wasn’t present. He’d already filled in most of the gaps from what he’d read about my abduction, and reached a number of valid conclusions from my behaviour since.
He told me that my fear of him had been very pronounced from the beginning, although I didn’t seem to realize I was showing it. It was an involuntary withdrawal-holding myself in a rigid posture, always maintaining a healthy distance, crossing my arms as soon as I saw him, never sitting down when he was standing-yet I showed none of the same aversion towards Jess.
At times I even allowed her to sit beside me, although never close enough for accidental touching. According to Peter, an immature woman, who had difficulty expressing emotion, was my perfect companion. I might have longed for someone with more sensitivity and insight, but I couldn’t have coped with the threat they posed. “If that had been the case you’d have stayed with your mother,” he pointed out. “She’d have put her arms around you and coaxed out the truth…but that’s not what you wanted.”
“Sometimes I think Jess is the most perceptive person I’ve ever met. She always knows when not to be curious.”
“But she’s still a virtual stranger to you, Connie…and you’re not worried what strangers think. Few of us are. Self-image is about how the people we know and love perceive us, not the passing acquaintance whom we’re never going to meet again. For most of us the universe is very small.”
I thought how wrong he was. “Until your life is deconstructed across the pages of a newspaper.”
“Is that what you’re worried about?”
I didn’t answer immediately. His questions reminded me of Chas and Dan in Baghdad-“But you seem distressed, Connie”-“Talk to me”-and I understood why my father lost his temper when well-meaning people poked him with well-meaning sticks. There’s so much arrogance in curiosity. It suggests tha
t nothing can surprise the listener, yet how would Peter have reacted if I’d let out the scream that had been in my head for weeks? How would Dan have reacted?
I hunkered down in my chair. “I keep thinking of all the proverbs to do with retribution. Reap what you sow…live by the sword…an eye for an eye. I wake up in the middle of the night with them churning round and round in my head. It seems so inevitable.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve made a career out of exploiting other people’s anguish. I keep remembering a Sierra Leonean woman who’d watched her family being slaughtered by rebels. By the time I met her she was so disturbed she was raving, but I didn’t think twice about using her for a story.” I paused. “It’ll be an apt punishment if the same thing happens to me.”
“I can’t agree with you.”
“You should. Everyone gets what they deserve in the end. It’ll happen to you, too, Peter. We all get paid in our own coin.”
“What’s yours?”
“Death. Disaster. Other people’s misery. I’m a war correspondent, for Christ’s sake.” I dug my fingers into my eyes. “Not that it makes much difference. It would be the same whatever kind of correspondent I was. There’s no such thing as a ‘good news’ story. Who gives a damn about happiness? It makes readers jealous to learn that someone’s better off than they are. Build ’em up ’n’ cut ’em down…that’s all your average Joe wants. If he can’t make it, why should anyone else?”
“That’s very cynical.”
“But I am cynical. I’ve seen too many innocent people die for nothing. Every tinpot dictator knows that the quickest way to control a country is to whip up hatred and fear of a bogeyman…and how does he do that without using the press? Journalists are for hire, just like anyone else.”
He watched me for a moment. “Obviously you know your own trade better than I do,” he said carefully, “but you seem to be taking the most pessimistic view of how you’re going be treated.”
The Devil's Feather Page 15