People of Heaven

by Beverley Harper

  Joe responded to his daughter’s obvious devotion. A bond formed between them. Not that he loved her. He didn’t. But in a household where no-one bothered to hide their disgust for him, Tessa’s total acceptance, irrespective of his actions, was a balm on his severely bruised ego. It also gave Joe something to bargain with. He could reach Claire through their daughter. Not that he used this for any good purpose. Joe knew that Claire worried about his influence over Tessa and actively encouraged her to be disruptive and disobedient.

  Tessa thought she was being singled out as special. She proudly boasted to Sally that she was the only one who could control Joe. She was too young to see that he was deliberately using her to hurt Claire. As far as Joe was concerned the children were Claire’s only Achilles heel. Nothing else touched her.

  Over the years, Joe King had not bothered to hide the fact that he was bedding any woman who was willing. At first it had been to hurt his wife but he quickly realised that she couldn’t have cared less. Now he was hooked. He wasn’t fussy. Black, white, old, young, married, single, pretty, ugly, Joe’s libido was in overdrive and he accepted whatever was on offer.

  And that, as Michael discovered three years ago, included Tessa.

  The memory of that day would stay with Michael forever. Sometimes he wondered why he hadn’t seen it coming. The wildness in Tessa could not be contained. She challenged and disrupted everything, argued all the time and refused to do anything for anybody except Joe. Her puberty was a nightmare of mood swings spaced with screaming matches with Claire. Michael was glad he mainly experienced them through his mother’s letters. At twelve, she had wanted to wear high heels and lipstick. At thirteen, she threw a tantrum when Claire refused to buy her a revealing black sheath dress. More and more, Tessa seemed to be rushing into situations far above her physical and emotional years. It had been going on since she was eleven.

  Michael was only nineteen when his life, which had been only loosely stitched together ever since his father’s return from the war, burst at the seams. He’d heard of incest. For some reason he thought it only happened in the backwoods of America. Not in Africa. Not in Zululand. Not here at home. Not with an eleven-year-old sister.

  It was like a recurring nightmare, it would not go away. And while other memories blurred around the edges, this one remained sharp and clear.

  Claire had gone into town and expected to be away for most of the morning. Michael, out on a cane burn since before dawn, saw her car leave at around nine o’clock. The twins and Gregor had left the house much earlier to catch the school bus. Joe King was, presumably, sleeping off last night’s whisky, that is if he bothered to return to the house at all. Michael didn’t know.

  Tired, dirty, it was ten-thirty when he went back to the house for a shower and late breakfast. He was free for the rest of the day and planned to meet a group of friends at the beach.

  As usual, Michael entered the house via the kitchen and was surprised to find the servants – gardeners, housegirls and Bessie – clustered together in a huddle, their expressions ranging from fear to disgust. ‘What’s this?’ he teased. ‘Are you lot on strike?’

  Bessie had shaken her head. ‘No, Nkosaan.’ She appeared unwilling to look at him.

  Michael glanced at her sharply. ‘What’s the matter, Bessie? Has someone been hurt?’

  She shook her head again. ‘No, Nkosaan,’ and glanced fearfully beyond Michael to where the verandah led to Joe’s room.

  Michael heard a giggle. It was a childish sound and seemed uncoordinated, out of control somehow. ‘Who’s in there with him?’

  Bessie had a dishcloth in her hands and was wringing it with jerky, nervous movements. ‘Tessa,’ she whispered, tears sliding down her cheeks.

  ‘Why would Tessa . . . she’s at school . . .’ A warning screamed in his head as Michael looked wildly at Bessie. The realisation had nowhere to go and burst from him in a cry of anguish. ‘Christ! The bastard! Not Tessa!’

  Bessie stared at the ground, sobs shaking her ample frame.

  Michael spun on his heel and ran from the kitchen, along the verandah. He flung open the door to Joe’s room. They were on the bed. Joe had his arm around Tessa who was leaning against him. In her hand was a bottle of scotch. Both Joe and Tessa stared at Michael defiantly and, as he stood in the doorway immobilised by the scene, Tessa slowly raised the bottle to her lips. It wasn’t the drinking, though God knows, that in itself was shocking enough. It was the fact that Joe wore no shirt. It was the absence of Tessa’s shoes and socks. There was an intimacy in the way they sat together that said there was more here than met the eye.

  ‘Go to your room,’ Michael snapped at Tessa.

  She giggled, and he could see from her glazed expression that she was drunk.

  ‘Bessie,’ Michael bellowed. He needn’t have shouted. Bessie was already halfway along the verandah. ‘Take Tessa away.’

  Joe struggled off the bed. He was equally as inebriated. ‘Get out of here. Go on . . . the lot of you. Get out. This is my room.’

  Bessie ignored him, grabbed Tessa’s arm and pulled her, none too gently, off the bed. Joe staggered forward to stop her and Michael stepped between them. Joe swung at Michael and connected with his ear. Considering his condition, it was a surprisingly powerful blow. Michael pushed and Joe fell backwards onto the bed. Following Bessie and a wildly struggling Tessa, Michael did not see the bottle coming. Fortunately, Joe’s aim was off. The missile went wide, smashing against the wall. ‘Have another drink,’ Michael gritted, before slamming the door.

  They propelled Tessa to the bathroom. ‘Stick her under the shower, a cold one. Keep her there until she sobers up. I’ll send one of the girls to help.’

  Bessie nodded grimly and turned on the cold tap. Tessa, still clothed, slid down the shower wall and sat, almost trancelike, under the cascade of cold water. The fight had gone out of her. ‘I feel sick,’ she mumbled, before her system rejected the alcohol and she vomited.

  Michael returned to the kitchen and told one of the housegirls to help Bessie. He was too upset to eat. He went back outside, uncertain what to do next. Was it only the whisky or had something much more sinister taken place in Joe’s room? What should he do?

  Joe King appeared on the verandah suddenly, belt in hand, eyes glittering with the staring intensity of madness. ‘You’re going to get a lesson you won’t forget,’ he snarled at Michael. ‘You’ve had this coming for a very long time.’

  It had been years since his father last threatened him with a belt. Something snapped in Michael as he looked at the man, at his red-veined face, bloodshot eyes, alcohol-wasted body. Michael curled his hands, beckoning. ‘Come on then,’ he said softly. ‘Come and get me, you sick bastard.’

  Belt raised, buckle ready to strike, Joe King lunged towards his son. ‘You little bastard. You prudish little prick.’ Joe swung the belt at Michael’s head.

  Michael rocked backwards, turning sideways, but the buckle just made contact, drawing blood from his cheek. It was a vicious blow and could have inflicted serious damage. Joe’s eyes were wild and Michael realised suddenly that he was in a fight for his life, that Joe was beyond reason. If he could, Joe King would kill him. The belt swung again and Michael shot out his right hand, grabbing the hard leather and jerking his father towards him. Joe had wrapped the belt around his left hand to swing it since he still had very little use of his right. When Michael pulled him forward he was effectively trapped. He tried to protect himself but Michael delivered a rapid succession of punches, straight into his father’s face, only stopping when Joe sagged and fell, his face a bloody pulp. Disgusted, Michael stepped back from his father’s fallen body. He was panting from exertion and rage. He wanted to lash out and kick the breath from Joe’s body. He wanted to pummel that chest until the black heart stopped beating. When Joe moaned then rolled to a sitting position, it took every ounce of willpower for Michael to walk away. Before he did, however, he had one last message for Joe. ‘If you ever go near Tessa again
, I’ll kill you.’

  Michael went back inside. He could not bear to be under the same sky as his father. Bessie was just coming from Tessa’s room. ‘She’s nearly asleep, Nkosi.’

  Michael noticed that Bessie had called him Lord, rather than the diminutive, Nkosaan. ‘Did she say anything?’

  ‘No, Nkosi. Only that she felt sick.’

  After Bessie had gone to the kitchen Michael paced in the lounge. ‘Now what?’ He needed to get away and think. But he couldn’t focus, his mind was a scrambled mess of uninvited images and questions. ‘What do I tell Mother?’ Claire, he knew, was not blind to Tessa’s faults but if she ever found out what happened here today it would ruin her life forever. ‘Would Tessa say anything? What about the servants? How do I keep this quiet?’

  Michael knew he couldn’t. By evening every person on UBejane would know, there was nothing he could do about it. He could go to the police, have his father arrested. But then the entire area would hear of it. The situation had to be contained. But how?

  He ran trembling hands through his hair, ignoring the pain of raw and bleeding knuckles. ‘Think! For Chrissakes, think!’

  Bessie came back into the lounge. ‘Mr King has gone.’

  ‘Good riddance. I hope he stays gone.’

  She nodded, went to say more but thought better of it and turned away.

  Michael stopped her. ‘Bessie, what do I do?’

  ‘I do not know,’ she said softly. ‘I have never seen anything like this.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed savagely. ‘Neither have I. Has this happened before?’

  ‘Two times before.’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’

  Bessie hung her head. ‘What could we do? When I try to talk to Miss Tessa she tell me to mind my own business. She say where is proof.’ Bessie looked up at Michael. ‘There is evil inside that one, Nkosi. She is bad, just like her father.’

  Michael could not have agreed more. ‘I’ll talk to my mother, Bessie. Tessa must go away.’

  ‘Yes. That would be best. But what will you say to Mrs King?’

  Michael closed his eyes. Yes, what can I say?

  Bessie went back to the kitchen, Michael, deep in thought, looked up some minutes later to see Tessa standing in the entrance to the lounge. ‘Please don’t let Mother send me away,’ she sobbed. ‘Please, Michael. I couldn’t stand being sent to a convent. It won’t happen again. He made me do it. It wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘God!’ Michael thought watching her. ‘She’s only a child.’ Tessa was rubbing her eyes, crying and hiccupping.

  ‘Please help me,’ she begged. ‘I know it was wrong. I’ll never drink that stuff again.’

  Michael’s heart softened slightly. Is that all? Joe is more than capable of getting Tessa drunk for his own insatiable craving for revenge. Oh, God, I hope that is all.

  But Tessa’s next words confirmed the worst of his fears. ‘I didn’t want to do those things. He made me do them.’

  A rush of pure rage and hatred swept over Michael. His voice shook with the effort of trying to keep it normal. ‘What things, Tessa?’

  However, his sister had said all she was going to say. Her face closed and she shrugged. ‘Silly things. Nothing really.’

  Michael knew he’d get no more from her. ‘You must never, ever go to his room again. Do you understand?’

  She nodded. ‘Don’t send me away. Please, Michael.’

  After she had gone, Michael rubbed a hand over his eyes. Had he done the right thing? He was very conscious of being totally unqualified to deal with such a situation. Had he just swept it under the carpet? Tessa seemed genuinely upset but Michael suspected that was more to do with the threat of being sent away. Could he trust her?

  Did she really understand the enormity of her actions? Tessa had always done everything to excess, anything she liked was taken to the limit and beyond. Michael had seen her eat chocolate until she was sick. Her body was maturing. Could this be another example? Was she really incapable of seeing how wrong it was?

  He desperately wanted to talk to his mother but she would be in town for hours. He peeped in on Tessa. She was sound asleep, curled into a ball, a picture of childish innocence. Suddenly, he had to get away from the house. Telling Bessie to keep an eye on Tessa, Michael drove to the beach. He needed to be in carefree, normal company, the kind that had no dark and dreadful secrets. He wanted the warm Indian Ocean to wash the filth of his father away. He didn’t wish to speculate on the unthinkable any more. He was only nineteen – he wanted to feel nineteen.

  The long sweep of beach was empty, save for his friends, a few of their dogs and two horses tethered on the grass. Michael parked the Land Rover, took off his shoes and shirt and, throwing a towel over his shoulders, made his way down to where everyone was gathered around a fire. People greeted him but he barely heard them. One girl, Jennifer Bailey, who had been occupying his thoughts rather a lot lately, saw him coming. She smiled and waved. Normally he’d have gone directly to her. She was leaving for university soon and he cherished their time together. Now he felt too unclean to sully her with his company.

  ‘Hey, man. What kept you?’

  ‘We’re cooking up some sausages. Plenty to go round.’

  ‘Hi, Michael.’

  Michael greeted them absently, tossed his towel on the sand and ran down to the water. He plunged into the waves and struck out strongly, swimming beyond the breakers. Treading water, alone in the ocean, Michael gave way to the tears of shock and disgust which had been building up for the past half-hour. His sister and father shamed him beyond belief. He felt dirty, as though their actions had somehow rubbed off on him. The way they’d been sitting together, behind a closed door, drinking. It had been too cosy, too intimate, too secretive to be innocent. Oh, God, I want it to be innocent. But he knew it hadn’t been.

  On the beach they were waving him in, holding sausages up to entice him back. And Michael was out in the sea, on his own, blubbering like a kid.

  He returned to the beach twenty minutes later, composed, clean again, red eyes the only telltale sign that anything was amiss. No-one took any notice. Most of them had red eyes from the salt water. Jennifer Bailey handed him a fork with a sausage impaled on it.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘We thought you were never coming in.’

  Michael looked up at the wide blue sky. ‘It’s a beautiful day. I was hot.’

  Someone handed him a bottle of soft drink.

  Jennifer drew him aside. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Something’s wrong.’

  He looked at her fresh-faced innocence. Blonde ponytail, clear hazel eyes shining with wholesome pleasure at being alive. What would she think of him if he told her? ‘I said nothing’s wrong. Just leave it will you.’

  He moved away but she followed. ‘You’re upset about something, I can tell.’

  Oh, Jesus! If only I could tell you.

  ‘Come on, Michael. We’re friends.’

  He turned on her then. ‘Can you drop it? It’s none of your bloody business.’

  Her face showed hurt. ‘Fine.’ She tossed her head and left him standing alone.

  He was in no mood for company but no shape to be on his own. He checked his watch a little later and decided that his mother must be home by now. Saying a curt goodbye to everyone, he left the beach. As he trudged up the sand to where his vehicle was parked, he heard one of the girls asking Jennifer what was wrong with Michael.

  ‘How should I know,’ Jennifer had snapped back. ‘Maybe he got out of bed on the wrong side.’

  Claire had just arrived back. Michael walked into the kitchen just as Bessie was telling her that Tessa had come home because she wasn’t feeling well and was in bed, asleep.

  ‘Mother, I need to talk to you.’

  ‘In a minute, darling. I want to check on Tessa.’

  ‘Tessa’s fine. Now, Mother.’

  Claire glanced at him, surprised. ‘Come
into the office then.’

  ‘No. Nandi is still there. Outside.’

  Michael waited until they were well away from the house. Claire held her silence. Whatever was bothering her son, she knew he’d tell her in his own time.

  ‘I came back to the house this morning and found Tessa in Joe’s room. They were both drunk.’

  ‘What! How could he? She’s only eleven.’

  ‘That’s not all.’

  Claire’s trembling fingers found her lips. ‘What?’ she whispered.

  ‘I think something else is going on between them.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Claire snapped. ‘What a terrible thing to say.’

  Michael put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her face. ‘I have no proof,’ he said quietly. ‘It was the way they were sitting. If it hasn’t happened already then it will happen soon. You’ve got to keep her away from him.’

  Claire pulled back from him angrily. ‘I will not listen to this disgusting filth. How could you even suggest it, Michael? Tessa’s only a child.’

  ‘She’s maturing. You know what she’s like.’

  His mother put her hands over her ears. ‘Stop it. Stop it at once. Your father is a drunk, not a child molester. Joe would never stoop to such a thing. Never.’

  Michael pulled his mother’s hands away. ‘For God’s sake, Mother, listen to me. You can’t ignore this. Anything’s likely to happen when they’re both drunk. You’ve got to take action now, before it goes any further. Tessa should be sent to a convent.’

  ‘I will not send my daughter away,’ Claire said stiffly. ‘I suggest you listen to yourself. These things . . . these terrible accusations . . . how could you, Michael? I know you hate Joe but this is beyond the beyond.’

  Michael knew then that he had to get away from UBejane for a while before he went mad. The responsibility of the farm and now this. He wanted the freedom to be young. He could just about cope if his mother was on his side, but now? ‘Pull your head out of the sand, Mother.’ He was angry with her. ‘I don’t like it any more than you.’