Ghosts of the Past

by Tony Park

  To hell with it, Susan thought.

  She came to him again and kissed him. After a while she threw back her head and he kissed her neck and undid the tie holding her dress together.

  Since the breakup of her marriage she had been engrossed in her work. In fact, her work had been part of the reason she had split up from Ian, her ex-husband. Susan had been travelling for a good part of the last twelve months and Ian had got sick of it. She had been able to claim the moral high ground when she found out he had been having an affair, but then so had she, with Scott Dillon, her real-estate magnate public relations client.

  Scott was handsome, but she had eventually learned he was a pig as far as relationships were concerned. He had been happy to see her marriage fail, but had then started sleeping with his accountant. She needed the kind of attention that Nick was lavishing on her now, and it had been too long since either Ian or Scott had desired her like this.

  Susan realised something else, as she ran her fingers through Nick’s hair and savoured the feeling of his tongue and lips on the nipple he had freed from her bra. She needed to escape from her work as well, for good. She had a desire to tell Nick everything, but to do so would spoil the moment. I will when it’s all over, she told herself, making her mind up.

  Her dress hung open at the front and she shrugged out of it. In front of her the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera House were lit up and reflected lights sparkled on the water. Susan lifted Nick’s head and kissed him on the mouth again.

  She moved around him and walked to the window, which was almost floor to ceiling.

  Nick trailed after her and as she glanced over her shoulder she saw him frantically unbuttoning his shirt, then unzipping and stepping out of his trousers and underwear.

  He paused, then bent down and retrieved his trousers, took out his wallet and slid out the foil-wrapped packet.

  She smiled and beckoned with a finger as he rolled on the protection. ‘Come here.’

  ‘You don’t need to ask twice.’

  She looked out at the view as his fingers hooked the elastic of her pants and slid them down. Susan wriggled a little, to help him get them off, and to tease him. She lifted one foot and rested it on the ledge that ran along the bottom of the window.

  Nick rubbed himself against her and she ground back onto him. Palms flat on the glass she threw back her head again as he entered her. She wondered if the late-night jogger below, running along the Cahill Expressway walkway, might look up and see her, half naked, pressed against the window.

  The thought excited her, as much as the feelings that flooded through her body as Nick gripped her hips. He felt the same way she did, it was obvious. This was a chance for both of them to flee the world they had found themselves in.

  For those precious minutes, however long they were, Susan was someone else, someone good.

  Chapter 15

  Windhoek, Namibia, the present day

  Oom Otto had a tour that was leaving very early the morning after he collected Anja from Windhoek airport and he had to meet up with his guests the night before they left, for a get-to-know-you dinner.

  He was meeting them at Joe’s Beerhouse, the capital’s number one tourist bar, which was also popular with locals. Anja accepted Otto’s invitation to come for a drink, but not for dinner.

  Otto dropped her at a guesthouse she had booked in Nelson Mandela Avenue and she forced herself to stay awake during the afternoon. As usual, Otto had loaned her his spare vehicle, a Land Rover Defender kitted out for camping with a roof tent and all the gear she would need for her stay in the desert, most importantly a fridge. One of Otto’s friends had dropped the vehicle at the guesthouse. Anja took her copies of Claire Martin’s reports outside into the fresh air and found a vacant sunbed by the swimming pool in the walled garden.

  The report continued with Claire’s tale of life in the Boer concentration camp.

  The eastern Transvaal, South Africa, 1902

  In the dark, the camp was a different place.

  Claire found the foul smell that permeated the place less noticeable now that the sun had set. The fact that she had also washed herself with strong lye soap probably helped. She had been acutely aware of her own body odour all day. Her underthings and riding clothes were still damp, though, so she continued to wear just the cotton dress and her boots. Her own state and that of the camp reminded her that she needed to escape, not just to complete her personal mission, but to survive. To stay in this filthy place would be to die.

  ‘You look so nice now,’ Magrietta said, pulling back the flap of the tent and striding in.

  Claire placed a finger to her lips and pointed to Kobie who, along with her baby, was fast asleep. ‘She’s just gone down.’

  Magrietta lowered her voice and went to her mattress, reaching underneath. She pulled out her calico bag and from it took a knitting needle, which she handed to Claire. ‘Use this to put your hair up, you’ll look much nicer.’

  Claire did as she suggested and they left the tent. The night air bore a welcome chill, the clear sky studded with glittering pinpricks of light. Magrietta reached into her bag again, then nudged Claire and passed a bottle into her hands.

  Claire took a sniff of the open bottle. ‘Mampoer! Moonshine, they call this rotgut in America. You are a very bad girl, Magrietta.’

  ‘This is a very bad place.’

  Claire had to agree with her, and took a generous sip of the liquor, home brewed from the fruit of a marula tree. ‘Good,’ she croaked, handing the bottle back.

  ‘This way, let’s go,’ Magrietta said, pointing to the fence ahead. ‘Look, there’s Hettie. She’s here almost every night!’

  A tall raven-haired girl stood on their side of the fence talking to three uniformed British Tommies on the other. The girl laughed coquettishly and fanned her face with a straw hat.

  ‘A little further along, in that dark patch. That’s where the gap in the wire is,’ Magrietta explained.

  Claire nodded and brushed a lock of hair from her face. ‘How does it work?’

  ‘We talk a while. The men bring things to trade. Drink, food, cloth, valuables, medical supplies. We talk some more, then . . .’

  Claire could guess the rest. ‘Is there a particular place you go?’

  Magrietta turned her head, so Claire wouldn’t see her face. ‘There is a small stream, not far. It has a nice grassy bank. We go there to talk, but that is all.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Look, here come some Tommies now.’

  Claire saw them. As they came closer to the ambient lights cast by the tents she inspected their uniforms and regimental badges. They were young men, probably only just out of their teens, with bad haircuts. Infantry, by the look of them. She noticed the Lancashire regiment badge. Not only infantry, but also probably poor working-class boys from the north of England.

  ‘Let’s keep walking,’ Claire said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m looking for an officer, cavalry, preferably.’

  ‘You do put on airs and graces, don’t you,’ Magrietta chided.

  ‘What I want will cost a pretty penny.’

  ‘I’ve a feeling you’ll get what you want.’

  ‘I usually do, Magrietta.’ Claire smiled.

  ‘What about those two?’

  The pair of British officers were strolling along the fence line, smoking and chatting, trying to act relaxed. Claire noticed how every few paces one or the other stole a quick glance through the wire at the women who followed their progress with their eyes. Some of the women wore looks of unconcealed hatred. Others, and not only the young ones, smiled or nodded a mute greeting.

  ‘Good evening, ladies,’ the one closest to the fence said as they drew abreast of Claire and Magrietta.

  Claire looked him up and down, before he had the chance to do the same to h
er. He was a young lieutenant, with wavy blond hair and blue eyes, his otherwise pretty face spoiled by a weak chin. His uniform, however, was nicely tailored and his cavalry boots buffed to a high sheen. He was a Hussar. Perfect, she thought. Money.

  ‘It is indeed,’ Claire replied.

  ‘A clear night, the sky fairly ablaze with stars. A perfect evening for a –’

  ‘Stroll?’ Claire said.

  The officer, who was a good three or four years younger than Claire, seemed taken aback and she knew then this pup would be easy to manipulate. He started to speak, but had to clear his throat when only a squeak emerged. ‘Indeed, indeed. A stroll would be . . . very pleasing.’

  Magrietta was wide-eyed at Claire’s fast work. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ Claire mouthed silently to Magrietta.

  ‘You’ll find a gap in the fence twenty yards or so further on, Miss . . .’ the lieutenant said.

  ‘Smith. Jane Smith. So you’ve come here before?’

  The officer’s face reddened. Claire walked in the direction he had pointed and he hurried to keep pace with her. Once at the broken section of fence he held two strands of wire to one side and offered his hand as she stepped through. His palm was sweaty and his handshake as limp as an ill-disciplined child’s. Claire shuddered and steeled herself for the rest of her performance. ‘Thank you . . .’

  ‘Roderick,’ he said, the ‘R’ coming out as a ‘W’.

  ‘What a lovely name. I’m told it’s nice to take a stroll along the river in the evenings.’

  The officer offered his elbow. ‘Then I’d be delighted to show you.’

  I bet you would, Claire thought as she linked her hand in the crook of the stranger’s arm.

  They left Roderick’s companion to fend for himself and walked until they came to the stream, where they took a seat side by side on the grassy bank. Frogs croaked and somewhere nearby another couple were holding a murmured conversation.

  Roderick leaned over, his shyness gone, and kissed her, his tongue darting in and out of her mouth like a viper’s. For all his refinement and the fine cut of his uniform, he still stank like a soldier, of sweat and horse. His hand was on her right breast now.

  She felt nothing for him. Claire put a hand on him and found he was hard, bulging against his tightly tailored riding breeches. She cupped it and traced its outline with her thumb. Roderick bit his lower lip and closed his eyes. She fought back a smile and stopped moving.

  He opened his eyes. ‘What is it?’

  She removed her hand completely and leaned out of his embrace. ‘I need something, Roderick.’

  ‘Anything. Money?’

  ‘Roderick, how could you?’

  ‘Sorry . . . awfully sorry. I didn’t mean to imply –’

  ‘A horse.’

  ‘A horse?’

  ‘Yes, one thing I really miss being in this wretched camp is riding. I long to be out on the veld, feeling the wind in my hair. It’s so . . . invigorating.’ She had undone two of the buttons on the bodice of the dress and the swell of her breasts and the outline of her nipples were clearly visible to him as they strained against the fine material.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I really can’t help you with a horse.’ He reached into a satchel slung around his neck. ‘Some nice bully beef, perhaps?’

  Claire shook her head and leaned forward and grabbed the hem of her skirt with her right hand. Slowly she raised it, letting her fingers slide the length of her long brown riding boot until her knee was showing.

  ‘Oh, Jane.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘A horse? Really?’

  ‘You have to help me, Roderick. I’m going mad being locked up here. I just want to remember what it’s like to be free again. I’ll repay you, I promise. In any way I possibly can.’ She brushed a lock of hair from her face and smiled at him.

  ‘No, I can’t. I’m sure if the camp commandant found out I’d be charged,’ he said, yet he leaned closer to her.

  Claire continued raising her skirt, until she was sure he could see the shadowed cleft between her legs and the fact that she was bare. Then she stopped. ‘If you can’t help me, Roderick, then . . .’

  She left her leg uncovered and moved her hand to her bodice. She toyed with the third button and pouted. Despite his words she could hear his resolve weakening. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to ride . . . with me?’

  He exhaled, long and hard. ‘All right. Let’s go, but quickly.’

  Roderick jumped to his feet and held out a hand. Claire grasped it and he pulled her up. He dropped a hand to his crotch to cover his bulging erection and Claire had to turn away to keep from laughing.

  ‘Stop!’

  Claire and Roderick both turned and looked up the path that led back to the camp. There were two British officers on horses. One of them held a miner’s light up in front of his face so his features were obscured. The other’s hand was coming up. Claire saw the pistol.

  ‘Claire Martin! Don’t move. You are under arrest.’ She saw that it was Captain Walters, the officer from the farmhouse.

  Claire pushed past Roderick and ran for the trees.

  Walters raised his pistol and took careful aim at her.

  ‘No!’ Roderick cried.

  Walters fired.

  The bullet plucked at her billowing dress as Claire ran, but missed her body. The trees gave way to a ploughed field, which presumably was meant to supply the concentration camp with its meagre fresh rations. Claire hitched up her skirt so she could run faster and the night air was cool on her bare calves and thighs.

  The soft ground might slow Walters’ horse, but Claire had no chance of outrunning it and she was tiring. Her lungs were on fire and her feet felt like lead as she tried to run across the loose topsoil of the open field. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw that she had not lost the Englishman. She was in the open and every second expected to hear the crack of the pistol once again.

  The farmer had ploughed one row deeper than the others – perhaps as a drainage ditch. Claire was still looking backwards when her foot dropped the extra few inches. She lost her balance and crashed into the freshly turned sod.

  Walters put the spurs to his mount and as Claire rolled over she saw him looming over her.

  ‘Stay still, you little minx.’ Walters dismounted and fell on her before she could get up.

  ‘You’re mine now. And you will talk to me.’

  Claire spat in his face.

  Walters released one of her hands and struck her, back-handed, across her jaw. She gasped in shock. Walters raised his hand again for another blow.

  ‘No, stop! Please, I beg of you,’ she cried.

  Walters checked the blow and wiped his face with the back of his tunic sleeve instead. He stared down at her unbuttoned dress, as did she, and saw her half-exposed breasts rising and falling with every breath. She looked past him and saw that his horse, which he had not bothered to tie, was wandering off.

  ‘Like what you see?’ she said.

  He ignored the mocking tone. ‘What were you doing with that officer down at the river?’

  She relaxed a little under him, and felt his grip on her wrist ease slightly in response. Good, she thought. ‘What do you think?’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you a spy or a whore, or both?’

  ‘Neither. I’m a businesswoman and I know how to negotiate for what I want; in this case it was medicines and food for the poor women and children in the camp. You Brits should be ashamed of yourselves.’

  ‘Pah! If you want to negotiate with me, Miss Martin, it would seem I have the upper hand.’

  Claire rocked her head from side to side. ‘I’m here for the same thing you are, Captain Walters.’

  He stared at her. ‘You have one thing with which to negotiate. Tell me where it is and I’ll spare your life.’

  ‘You won’t kill me; i
f you do you’ll never get what you want. Work with me, Captain, and I’ll make it worth your while. I can take a little cut, and I’ll give you a little something in return.’

  She could see he was surprised, having expected more defiance. ‘A little what?’

  ‘I’m naked under this dress, Captain. I haven’t a penny on me, so there’s only one thing I’ve got to convince you I want to work with you, not against you, and if you hadn’t come galloping in on that great charger of yours I would have been putting it to good use right now, as we speak, so I would.’

  His top lip curled into a sneer.

  ‘Tell me what you have.’ He held the pistol up near her face and cocked the hammer. He relaxed his grip on her wrist with his other hand and ran his fingers down over her breasts to her belly. ‘It’s a map, yes?’

  ‘Allow me,’ she whispered. She opened her legs a little and moved one hand down to the hem of her dress. Walters’ eyes were fixed on her breasts again as her other hand went up to her hair.

  Walters reached down and fumbled with the fly buttons of his breeches. Claire smiled again as she drew the knitting needle from her bun. Keeping it hidden in the palm of her hand and pressed against the underside of her wrist, she shook her hair free.

  ‘Tell me where it is and I’ll go easy on you, girl,’ he said.

  ‘Who said anything about going easy?’ she asked.

  He grinned lasciviously and his warm breath washed over her. He holstered his pistol.

  Claire’s arm flashed up and she plunged the point of the knitting needle into Walters’ neck.

  Walters screamed and clutched at the protruding needle. His cries turned to a tortured gurgle as he rolled off her into the soil. Claire jumped to her feet and kicked the writhing Englishman as hard as she could in the groin. He curled into the foetal position to ward off the blows, at the same time as he tried to pull the steel needle free.

  Claire looked around for Walters’ horse, but she saw it had wandered off even further away. She raised her skirts again and ran as fast as she could in the soft earth. She was breathing hard and heard the crack and the whine of a bullet as it passed within a few feet of her head. Her heart was racing; she had never killed, nor attempted to kill anyone in the past. A kind of lust had temporarily overtaken her as she forced the needle into his skin, but now that madness was replaced with pure fear that Walters would catch her. She looked over her shoulder.