People of Heaven

by Beverley Harper

  ‘Roger that.’ The tinny voice of the radio operator sounded shockingly loud. ‘We’ll get help to you immediately. Don’t leave until it shows up. And watch out for predators.’

  The two officers waited in their vehicle, lights off, smoking, not talking, each busy with his own thoughts, coming to terms with the terrible carnage only metres away. They both heard it at the same time, a thin wailing sound. It appeared to be coming from somewhere off to their left.

  ‘Pass me a torch and hit the headlights,’ one whispered. Older and more experienced he might have been but the noise had made his scalp creep. He shone the powerful beam into the bush while lights flooded the track in front of them. The wailing stopped. ‘What the hell was that?’

  ‘Bushbaby?’ the other suggested, referring to the tiny squirrel-like creature who had fooled more than one into thinking there was a baby out there somewhere.

  ‘No way, man. Bushbabies don’t sound like that.’

  ‘Wild cat?’

  The wailing started up again.

  ‘That’s human. Jesus Christ! It’s the other kid.’

  Andrew toddled out of the bush and onto the road. He stood blinking in the headlights. There was a cut on his forehead and blood trickled down one cheek. Otherwise, he appeared to be unhurt.

  ‘I’ll go,’ the younger policeman said, dipping the lights and opening the driver’s door. He moved away from the car, talking quietly and carefully avoiding the headlights which would make him appear as a frightening silhouette. ‘Hello son, are you all right?’ he said softly, cursing to himself that he couldn’t recall the boy’s name. ‘I’m a friend of your daddy.’

  Andrew didn’t react.

  The policeman advanced slowly. As anxious as he was to reach the boy before he turned and saw the wreck or the body of his brother, he knew any sudden movement might panic the child. ‘I’m a policeman. I won’t hurt you. Come here, son, it’s okay.’

  Andrew stayed where he was.

  He reached the boy and dropped to one knee. ‘Would you like to ride in a police car?’

  No reaction. The silence was unnerving.

  ‘We’ll take you home if you like.’

  Nothing.

  Reaching out he gently touched the child’s shoulder. Andrew went rigid. The policeman wondered if he was old enough to have learned never to speak to strangers. He dropped his hand. ‘It’s all right, son. You’re safe. It’s all right.’

  Still nothing.

  He heard his partner get out of the car.

  ‘Stop buggerising around, man. The lad’s in shock. He needs to be told what to do, not asked.’ He walked straight up to Andrew and held out a hand. After a moment’s hesitation, the boy took it trustingly and walked with him back to the police vehicle.

  Andrew was gently placed onto the back seat where he sat, staring at the two officers with large, solemn eyes.

  ‘How old would you say he was?’ the younger man asked.

  ‘Dunno. He’s still a baby. Maybe two.’

  ‘Poor little bugger.’

  Andrew yawned, then lay down on the seat and put a thumb in his mouth. Within a minute, he was sound asleep. Although it was a hot night, they covered him with a jacket.

  ‘Do you think he’s all right?’

  ‘Looks okay but he doesn’t seem to hear anything.’

  ‘Jesus Christ! I wish those okes would hurry up.’

  Michael was getting worried. Jennifer was never this late. ‘Probably car trouble,’ Emil said soothingly, although he too was concerned.

  ‘Listen,’ Michael turned his head slightly. ‘It’s the Land Rover. Here she comes.’

  Relief gave way to an ice-cold premonition when he saw it was the South African police. ‘Mr King,’ one of the officers spoke to him. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.’

  There was no mistake and no escape. Reality held him in a vice and would not let go. Michael did not want to open his eyes. Out there, in the world of tomorrow, a terrible hurt waited for him. He lay on his back in the dim light of dawn, still sluggish and confused from the hefty dose of Valium prescribed by Emil, vainly hoping that if he went back to sleep the truth might go away. But, oh God, here it came again. It started in the pit of his stomach, rising in choking waves of memory until salt-laden tears erupted from tightly shut eyes, their trails drying like chalk against his sun-bronzed skin. Shuddering sobs racked his body and, in trying to keep them quiet, Michael snuffled and gasped, rolling over into the pillow, keening in utter anguish and despair.

  Emil heard his grief. It was hard enough for the rest of them to accept. Jennifer, lovely and vibrant, intelligent and funny, warm and kind, pregnant. And suddenly, gone. Jeremy, inquiring and serious, outspoken and intelligent, his life only just begun. Gone. Andrew, eighteen months old and probably deafened by the blast. ‘Dear God,’ Emil thought, struggling out of his chair by the smouldering campfire, ‘What a terrible world this is.’ He turned back the flap to Michael’s tent and went in. Standing helplessly beside the bed, he looked down at his friend’s shuddering, aching pain. Tears filled Emil’s eyes. In an instinctive gesture of comfort, he sat on the side of the bed and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  Michael stirred, turned on his side, wrapped both arms around Emil’s waist and clung to him for dear life. Very quickly, his tears soaked through Emil’s trousers as Michael cried out his terrible heartbreak.

  They had to get Andrew to a hospital quickly.

  The combined police and army had taken over. They did not consult anyone, simply informed Emil of what was expected. They were good at this. This work was not new to them. On the surface, they kept a tight lid on any emotion, moved quickly, spoke normally, even joked about other things. But somehow this incident was different. Their own dead were an occupational hazard. This woman, this child, got to them, crept through the barriers that went up. It showed in little ways. Small huddles of men, suddenly pensive and silent, chain-smoking till their throats ached. Forced laughter. Tempers flaring at nothing. No-one voiced it, no-one. But the thought was in all their minds. This is the beginning of the end. It made them afraid but, much more than fear, in each and every man’s heart and soul burned a terrible rage for revenge. And even beyond their instinctive craving to hit back lay a deeper and more consuming emotion. Sorrow. Not so much for the woman and child but for something that was changing forever, the white man’s paradise of South Africa. The beginning of the end.

  Yet they did what they had to. The bodies of Jennifer and Jeremy were wrapped in bags and driven to the airfield at Katima Mulilo. From there they were flown to South Africa. The wrecked Land Rover could not be towed away so a hole was dug and they buried it. There was no need to examine the damage, it was typical of what could happen to an unprotected vehicle.

  Long before it was light the army had swept all routes leading to and from the camp. They found four more mines, one on each track, and all within ten kilometres. Even before Michael awoke to his pain, the army was aware that the name of the game had changed. SWAPO was targeting civilians.

  At eight-thirty an army helicopter, at some risk to the pilot, landed in the dry river bed. Michael barely paid it any mind. He was sitting on a chair outside Jennifer’s laboratory tent, unable to bring himself to face the memories within. Andrew was in his arms.

  A policeman found Emil to let him know what arrangements had been made.

  ‘You’ll land at Lanceria,’ he said, naming the small airport just outside Johannesburg. ‘There’s an ambulance waiting and an ear, nose and throat man on standby at Sandton Clinic. We’ve also asked for a psychiatrist.’

  Michael, pale and withdrawn, holding Andrew as though he could not bear to let him out of his sight, made no comment when Emil said he would go with them. It was Emil who packed a bag for Michael and his son. ‘Come on,’ he urged his friend who appeared distant and strangely reluctant to board the helicopter.

  Michael frowned. ‘There’s something . . . I keep trying to remember. Somet
hing significant.’

  ‘What sort of something?’ Emil asked gently.

  ‘About yesterday.’ Michael’s face was screwed up with concentration. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Try to work it out on the way,’ Emil suggested, anxious to get going. Although he kept his concern to himself, he was desperately worried about Andrew. Apart from the loss of hearing, he seemed fine. But Emil would not rest until a thorough medical examination had been undertaken. The cut on his head was superficial but a child’s skull is soft. He could have concussion, could be haemorrhaging – anything.

  ‘Jennifer . . . Jeremy . . .’ Michael’s voice broke and he could not bring himself to ask.

  Emil understood. ‘They were flown to Johannesburg earlier this morning.’

  It seemed to give him the impetus he needed. Michael handed Andrew to Emil, climbed into the helicopter, then reached out to take his son.

  ‘Let him sit up front,’ Emil said. ‘He might enjoy it.’

  But Michael shook his head. ‘He’ll sit on my lap.’

  Emil left it. Michael didn’t have much to cling to but, if by holding his son he found some comfort, it was a small beginning.

  The pilot wasted no time. They were airborne within minutes. Half-an-hour later, Emil heard a small gasp of shock. He turned in his seat and saw that Michael’s face had gone white under a mask of perspiration.

  ‘I’ve remembered what it was. Last night. There were men on the road.’

  The army helicopter pilot had his earphones off and heard. ‘We know that, sir. They were tracked into Zambia. Don’t you worry about it. We’ll get them. There’s nowhere they can hide.’

  Michael went to say more, then stopped. His mind replayed the face he’d seen briefly in the headlights, one vaguely familiar, a face he could now see with startling clarity. Jackson Mpande. Matured but unmistakeable. A face he already hated. But now! Oh sweet Jesus! Now!

  Realisation hit him hard. His mind suddenly clear and focused.

  For as long as it takes, you bastard. You’re mine.

  Something cold closed around his heart. Vulnerability over Jennifer and Jeremy retreated to be dealt with later. If it took him the rest of his life, if he had to die in the attempt, there was now only one thought in Michael’s head.

  Jackson Mpande was a dead man.

  SIXTEEN

  If it had been left up to Michael he’d have taken his son straight to England for medical treatment. Not because he didn’t trust the facilities in South Africa, he did. Some of the finest practitioners in the world were there. It was just that all Michael’s instincts told him to get away from Africa for a while.

  The decision was made easier by the fact that Jennifer’s mother in Zululand, who might have reasonably been expected to want a hand in helping, had herself died of cancer the previous year. Jennifer’s father, while mourning the loss of his wife and then his daughter and grandson, was in no shape to take on Michael and Andrew.

  Besides, Michael wanted Andrew in England, removed from the increasing unrest that surrounded them. He yearned to be in the calm and loving company of Claire, to give his jarred and twitching nerves a break. Above all, Michael needed time to think.

  The cold rage that had closed around his heart was not only a welcome diversion, it was essential to his sanity. He knew he wasn’t thinking clearly so, while allowing it to prop him up, he was honest enough with himself to put his desire for revenge into some kind of perspective. Jackson Mpande would die, that issue wasn’t in question. Michael had to be patient, to control his blinding rage. When Jackson died it would be the single most satisfying thing that Michael had ever done.

  Only time would enable him to reach that stage. Getting away from Africa might help too. But when the helicopter landed at Lanceria an ambulance was waiting, competent people were on stand-by to assist and so, at Emil’s urging, Michael accepted that his son’s welfare had to come first.

  Two months, and exhaustive tests later, the specialist informed Michael that, as far as he could tell, no permanent damage had been done to Andrew’s hearing. ‘It’s shock. Give him time.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Michael had snapped at the doctor. ‘Try making a noise behind him or offering him some chocolate. He simply cannot hear it.’

  As well as the ENT specialist, and once again at Emil’s insistence, Michael, and to a lesser extent Andrew, had been seeing a psychiatrist. At first Michael had been convinced he could handle his grief without the interference of a stranger. The thought of lying on a couch and pouring out his heart to someone who would listen with clinical detachment was totally alien to his nature. What he didn’t realise was that Emil, sensitive to Michael’s intentions, worried about Andrew. While he sympathised with Michael’s need for revenge he wanted to be certain that Andrew wasn’t neglected because of it. In fact, Emil secretly hoped that the psychiatrist would remove Michael’s rage and ease away his dreadful plans.

  It was Emil who made the appointment and insisted Michael keep it. Michael went reluctantly, hoping that this Dr Devilliers was nothing like the psychiatrist they took Tessa to all those years ago. ‘One visit,’ he agreed.

  Emil nodded, relieved. He’d had some grief counselling himself when his wife died and hoped, if Dr Devilliers was any good, that Michael would not stop at one visit. Once the ice was broken, in Emil’s case anyway, each subsequent visit led him further along the road to confronting reality. Although this inevitably caused terrible anguish, it was a journey he took with increasing urgency, anxious to reach the end.

  Michael arrived three minutes early for his appointment. The waiting room offered the usual out-of-date magazines and several pamphlets on mental health. The receptionist was African, something of a novelty in a white-dominated workplace except for the most menial of positions. Two other patients flicked disinterestedly through the reading material. Michael sat down, anticipating the usual long wait associated with the medical profession. A buzzer sounded. The receptionist spoke into the telephone then looked across at Michael. ‘Dr Devilliers will see you now.’ She led him down a passage, knocked on a door at the end, opened it and indicated he should enter. Michael went in and the receptionist shut the door.

  He didn’t see the doctor immediately, there was no-one behind the large mahogany desk.

  ‘Over here.’

  He turned. She was seated in an easy chair behind a coffee table. ‘You!’

  A chuckle. ‘I wondered if it was the same Michael King.’ She patted the empty chair next to her. ‘Come and sit down.’

  Michael stayed where he was. ‘Is this such a good idea? You weren’t much help last time.’

  ‘I didn’t get a bloody chance. How is your sister anyway?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said shortly.

  ‘I know why you’re here, Michael.’ Her voice was soft but businesslike. ‘Take your time. We can talk about Tessa if you like.’

  Her wildly curly blonde hair was scraped straight back into a knot but stray strands had sprung back, framing her face. Jennifer’s features swam before him and he found he was incredibly angry. How dare she! This calm and clinically detached woman, how dare she think I will discuss my love, my grief, my rage. Who the hell does she think she is? He was unaware of it but, as he stood indecisively, his fists were clenching and unclenching.

  ‘I see your anger, Michael. Most of it should be directed outside this room. I’m sorry we fell out over Tessa but you didn’t exactly give me a chance. I hope you’re not going to make the same mistake this time. You do need help whether you like it or not. If it makes you more comfortable I can refer you to one of my partners.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was you. Last time you were Dr Lewis. You’ve changed your name.’

  ‘Women do that when they get married.’

  ‘What makes you think you can help me? I don’t even like you.’

  She smiled slightly at his bluntness. ‘I hope you don’t mean that. It was what I was saying about your sister you didn’t like, I sus
pect.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Michael conceded.

  ‘Would you prefer to see someone else?’

  ‘To hell with it,’ Michael said suddenly. ‘Let’s get this over with.’ He folded his arms and stared at her. ‘Where do I lie down?’

  She laughed outright at that. ‘If you insist I suppose I could clear my desk.’ She leaned forward and picked up cigarettes and a lighter from the coffee table, lit one and blew smoke towards the ceiling. ‘I think I’d prefer it if you came over here and joined me.’

  Michael crossed the room. ‘You shouldn’t smoke.’

  ‘I know. Does the smell bother you?’

  Before he knew it he was telling her how he’d once tried smoking while still at school but it made him dizzy and sick, and then somehow that led him to talk about UBejane and random boyhood memories and, because she questioned the name of the farm, he jumped to the problems of rhino in captivity and then somehow went back to sugar farming. He was surprised when she glanced at her watch and announced that the session was over.

  ‘Next week. Same time.’

  He heard himself agree. ‘I was only going to see you once but, seeing as we didn’t discuss anything . . . my so-called problems, I suppose one more visit . . .’

  ‘Fine.’ She smiled.

  The following week he told her about Claire, the difficulties she’d faced most of her life and how glad he was that she’d finally found peace and happiness with Peter Dawson.

  ‘Next week. Same time.’

  ‘Okay.’

  It took seven weeks for him to touch on Jennifer and Jeremy. As soon as he did the floodgates opened and he found it terribly easy to pour out his rage. To his absolute surprise, when he dried up and had no more to say, Annie Devilliers had tears coursing down her cheeks.

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .’

  She dabbed at her eyes. ‘Do my tears make you uncomfortable?’

  ‘No.’ It was true enough, they didn’t. ‘It’s just that . . .’ Dammit! It was happening to him too. He’d been able to tell it with anger, holding his sorrow together, but now his own tears blinded him and a great sob welled up and, before he could stop himself, he was telling it again. This time nothing held him together and when at last his grief subsided and he was able to think straight, he found an inner peace that hadn’t been there since . . . But no. He’d come a long way but not that far.