He felt her hand on his arm. She said nothing, just gripped his arm with long, strong fingers. Michael was powerless to prevent what happened next. Looking back he supposed he’d been desperate for human contact. He had unloaded everything on to Annie Devilliers and he needed, no matter how fleeting, to be physically close to someone. He rose and pulled her up with him and drew her into his arms. She offered no resistance. Michael wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck. He felt her arms slide up his back and she hugged him tightly. How long they stood together like that he had no idea. He was the one to break away. ‘Sorry.’
She grinned. ‘Bullshit! You loved it.’
Michael blinked. Her language had a habit of taking him unawares. ‘Er . . . yes . . . well . . .’ He was actually blushing.
‘You needed a hug,’ she said lightly. ‘Simple as that.’
Michael paced in front of her.
‘You weren’t being disloyal to Jennifer, if that’s what you’re thinking. Do sit down, Michael, you’re making me dizzy.’
‘It’s not that. It’s, damn it, Annie, I owe you an apology.’
‘You can be pretty rude sometimes.’
He shook his head impatiently. ‘For Tessa. I can see now that . . . that the things you do take time. I was wrong back then and I apologise.’
‘Sit down,’ she said gently. When he did she went on. ‘There are times, many of them, when my work makes it necessary to bludgeon my way beyond acceptable levels of other people’s privacy. I could see how troubled Tessa was and, from what she was saying about you, it was pretty evident that most of her anger was directed your way. I see some fairly base things in my line of work, Michael. Before I went any further with Tessa I had to rule you out as . . . as the root cause of her problems.’
‘Are you saying what I think you are? That you actually thought I might be abusing my own sister?’
‘It happens. More often than anyone realises. I had to be sure.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t blame you for being angry. I could have handled it better. I was reasonably inexperienced back then.’
‘Could you have helped her?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Why?’
‘She didn’t want to be helped.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Okay, that’s it. Next week. Same time.’
‘One last visit. After that I’m on my own.’
She lit a cigarette. ‘You’re never on your own,’ she said around the smoke. ‘Don’t ever forget that.’
And now, on this his final visit, he was telling her how the stupid specialist said there was nothing wrong with Andrew’s hearing.
‘Shock works in many different ways,’ she said gently. ‘Andrew’s body and mind underwent a massive upheaval.’ For once they were either side of her desk and she was scribbling on a pad as she spoke. Ripping the page off, she handed it to Michael. ‘This is the name and address of one of the finest specialists in Europe. If you want to put your mind at rest, take your son to him. He’s done brilliant work with shock victims.’
Michael glanced at the paper, distracted, running a hand through his hair. ‘Europe!’
She smiled slightly. ‘That’s where you’re going isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know.’
She leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. ‘Michael, I’ve been listening to you for nine weeks. I know what you’re planning.’
‘Oh yes. And what might that be?’ Michael asked belligerently. All week something had been building up inside him. Impatience, yes. Perhaps a need to move on. But there was no rage, that had subsided.
She ignored his tone. ‘Unfinished business.’
Michael stuffed the piece of paper into his shirt pocket.
‘Am I right?’ she pressed.
He stared her straight in the eyes, saying nothing.
‘Yessss! I believe I am.’
‘And it’s none of your business,’ he said bluntly.
She blinked and shook back her hair. Today it flowed free, a waterfall of tumbling blonde curls, a frame for the violet colour of her eyes.
‘I really haven’t made up my mind,’ he lied, though in a gentler tone. His emotions were on a seesaw and he never knew, from one moment to the next, whether he’d be angry or calm. It was unsettling to say the least but he was powerless to prevent his mood swings.
‘Tessa. Jennifer. Jeremy.’ She ticked them off on long, tapering fingers. ‘Three powerful reasons for not turning the other cheek.’
Anger surfaced. ‘Not to mention South Africa. People like him don’t deserve to live.’ His voice hardened again. ‘He’s got to pay.’
She nodded. ‘And you feel it’s your responsibility to collect the debt?’
‘Isn’t it? I seem to be the one selling the goods.’
She ignored that too. ‘And you can’t do anything with Andrew in tow, which brings us back to Europe. You’re taking him to your mother aren’t you?’
‘Best place for him, I reckon.’
‘Stay with him. If only for a little while.’
Suddenly he knew what it was, this build-up. True, he was impatient but he was also thinking clearly. He was ready and itching to go. And she was asking him to wait. ‘I love my son very much,’ he said, more harshly than intended. ‘I owe it to him as much as to myself.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ she replied, surprising him. ‘Only I’d like to see you spend a bit of time with Andrew first. You’re all he’s got. He needs that contact, Michael.’
‘He’s a baby. What can he remember?’
Anger passed over her face briefly. ‘I’d like to see you ask that question in twenty years. The human mind is a miraculous thing, Michael. What happened to Andrew will surface one day, believe me. What you do now is critical to his future wellbeing. Give the little chap your time, for heaven’s sake. It’s not asking a lot. Unlike you, he can’t analyse his experience. He has no outlet. Comfort him. Be there for him.’
‘Sure,’ Michael said bitterly. ‘And while I’m doing that, the man who killed my wife, my other son and our unborn child melts away. How much time do you suggest?’
She looked at him, pity in her eyes. ‘The rest of your life would be good. If you can’t manage that, at least allow your son the security of transferring his affections to someone else.’ She was trying not to be cross with him but not making a very good job of it. ‘If you leave him now you’ll regret it. You can’t waltz in and out of his life at will. Make up your bloody mind. You have obligations to your living son. I can’t put it plainer than that.’
‘Fine.’ He was anxious to get out of her office, away from her words. He knew she was right. ‘Don’t worry. Andrew will be well looked after. My mother . . .’
She stood up suddenly, very angry. ‘Don’t fuck with him, Michael King. He needs you now more than ever. You don’t have to screw that up. Is that clear enough?’
Michael dropped his head, mainly to hide the beginnings of a grin. She looked so ridiculous, leaning over her desk, hands on hips, swearing at him. He realised suddenly that it was the first time he’d found anything amusing since . . . Steady. Can’t think of that. He glanced up at her. ‘That’s perfectly clear.’ He rose as well. ‘I hear you. I’ll give Andrew time. I promise. May I be excused now, ma’am?’ He turned to go.
‘Michael.’
He turned back. ‘Yes.’
She was grinning at him. ‘I just wanted you to know I don’t usually speak to my patients like that.’
Michael managed half a smile.
She was nodding. ‘Good, the next smile will be easier.’
He inclined his head, doubting it.
Annie Devilliers was writing something else on the notepad and did not look up. ‘When you get back, go and see this man. If anyone can assist, he can.’ She passed the sheet of paper to him.
Michael glanced at it. It was a name and a telephone number. ‘I take it Sacha Devilliers is your husband?’
She nodded.
‘No address?’
‘He moves around. Phone that number and leave a message.’
‘What’s his story?’ Michael had some misgivings. Her answer had been evasive. Was he some kind of mercenary? Or somehow connected with the Bureau of State Security? Either way, how would he feel about his wife handing out his telephone number to a total stranger? ‘I mean, exactly what does he do?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘Bit of both really.’
‘Then tell me this. Is he army, government or private?’
She seemed to be considering the question but, in the end, all she said was, ‘All I can tell you is that he will, most likely, know where your man is.’
Michael folded the paper. ‘Thank you.’
‘Tell him I gave you the number.’ Her mouth twisted slightly. ‘Not that it’ll make a difference,’ she added in a strangely wistful tone.
They said goodbye, shaking hands. Michael was sorry in a way. He had developed a great respect for this young woman. In her quiet, non-pushy way, she had prompted him to talk about everything under the sun, feeling his way towards the moment when he could speak about Jennifer and Jeremy. She had made no judgments until this last visit and even now her words were more to do with Andrew than his intentions regarding Jackson. She had developed a complete package for listening, from the expression in her eyes, to a breeziness and sometimes earthiness. Even her body language invited confidences. Michael felt he could tell her anything and everything. ‘Face it,’ he thought wryly, stepping into the lift. ‘You bloody-well did.’
Returning to the hotel where Emil was caring for Andrew, Michael’s impatience returned. On impulse, he found a travel agency and bought tickets for himself and Andrew to London. Andrew’s was one way. Just in case.
Emil was sad they were going. Being there for Michael and Andrew had gone some way towards relieving an unspoken sense of responsibility that had never quite left him. ‘Perhaps we meet again one day.’
Michael thought it unlikely but agreed, ‘Perhaps.’ To see Emil again would bring everything back. He had to look ahead, not behind. There was just one task to be completed first.
On the flight to England, the quiet, solemn little boy with large dark eyes captivated one air hostess to such an extent that she asked if she could take him up to see the cockpit. When he was returned, half-an-hour later, Michael sensed a change in his son. His eyes were bright with interest as he wriggled out of the hostess’s arms and clambered over Michael’s lap to reach the window seat. ‘Steady on, old chap.’
Andrew immediately picked up the drawing pad and pencil that the air hostess had given him earlier in the flight. Frowning with concentration he began to draw a picture of the flight deck. It was a typical child’s scrawl, uncoordinated and simplistic. Satisfied with his efforts, he tugged at Michael’s sleeve and pointed at the drawing.
‘Very good.’ Michael leaned over to give the picture his full attention. ‘It’s the cockpit where the pilot sits,’ he added.
‘Yes,’ lisped Michael’s son absently, adding a few more touches to the page.
Totally absorbed Andrew did not see the sudden wetness in his father’s eyes, or hear the whispered, ‘Thank you, God.’
Although he spoke not another word during the flight, Michael was elated. Annie had tried to explain that Andrew’s brain, protected by some kind of defence mechanism of its own, was entirely capable of shutting down the boy’s hearing or blocking his speech. ‘It will come back when it’s ready,’ she’d said. ‘The more secure he is, the sooner that will be.’
‘But he knew nothing,’ Michael had protested. ‘He falls asleep as soon as the car starts, always has.’
‘Even if Andrew had dozed off,’ she said, ‘subconsciously he knows something has changed. The poor little bugger wakes up in the pitch dark in the bush, not knowing how he got there, and hasn’t seen his mother or brother since.’
‘Are you telling me he’s grieving?’
She had thought that one over for a few seconds. ‘Not in the accepted sense, no. It’s more like a refusal to focus. But because he’s so young it’s hard to tell. Does he seem different to you?’
‘Yes, but only because he’s so quiet. He plays with toys, looks at picture books, draws. He’s always been pretty creative. Of course, he spent most of his time with Jeremy . . .’ Michael’s voice became strained, ‘so it’s difficult to judge.’
She had nodded sympathetically and dropped the subject.
Well, the medical profession appeared to have got it right. Andrew could hear. He was just unable or unwilling to talk. Now that he knew that, Michael was content to allow his son all the time it needed. Watching Andrew draw another cockpit, Michael suddenly realised that not once in over two months had he drawn one of his many pictures of Jennifer or Jeremy. The refrigerators and shelves in the laboratory, the kitchen walls and even the sides of their tent had been literally papered with them, mostly of Jennifer. Annie Devilliers had helped him to think clearly but, for Andrew, it was as if the past did not exist. His heart went out to the boy.
Claire met them at Heathrow. Michael had refused her earlier offer to fly out but he could see how much the tragedy had aged his mother. She hugged Michael, then bent and picked up Andrew. ‘Hi, big boy,’ she said huskily. ‘We’re going to be special friends.’
Andrew stared at her, his eyes unreadable and serious. Michael explained. ‘He can hear you. He just doesn’t talk.’
‘Then we’ll get some help,’ Claire said firmly.
‘I’ve got one name in London. A chap who specialises in shock victims.’
Claire eyed their luggage. ‘Is that all?’
‘It’s mainly Andrew’s. The rest is in storage.’
‘Because you’re going back?’
‘Yes.’
She regarded him closely. He’d lost weight, fine lines of pain and determination etched his drawn skin. Six months earlier, when she and Peter made one of their regular visits to South Africa, Michael’s face had been smooth, healthily tanned and happy. She could only imagine what he’d been through. ‘What good will going back do?’
‘It won’t do Jackson Mpande a hell of a lot of good,’ Michael said grimly.
‘Jackson? Dyson’s brother?’ Claire was shocked. ‘Why?’
‘Because he was responsible. I saw him that night, Mother. Jackson Mpande laid that bloody mine.’
‘But why?’ she whispered with an anxious glance towards Andrew. ‘It must have been a mistake.’
Michael seemed unaware of a need for caution in front of his son. ‘This was no mistake. The army found four more mines around our camp.’ He took a deep breath and went on. ‘Things have changed. Civilians have become targets. We knew it would come to this, but not so quickly. There’s no stopping it, Mother.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘When is Pretoria going to wake up? If only they would listen. But no. The Nats still believe that God is on their side. I tell you, Mother, it’s going to be a bloodbath.’ He was unaware of it but tears glistened in his eyes and his voice rose.
‘As for the cowards who laid the mine, all they care about is world attention. They probably regard Jen and Jeremy . . . as . . . as a triumph.’
He could not go on. Claire, aware that people were staring, realised how close to the edge Michael still was. ‘Come on, darling. Let’s go home.’
Michael ran a hand through his hair. ‘Sorry.’ He held out his arms for Andrew. ‘Here. Give him to me. He weighs a ton.’
On the way to the car, Claire mentioned Dyson. ‘How do you feel about seeing him? I know he’d love it if you made contact.’
‘I don’t know,’ Michael admitted. ‘It might not be a good idea if he knows I’m going back to find his brother.’
Claire stopped. ‘Michael, what exactly will you do if you find Jackson?’
‘Oh, I’ll find him all right, Mother. You can be sure of that.’
The soft flatness in his voice answered the quest
ion. Claire shivered with fear for this son of hers who had come to hate so very, very much.
Claire and Peter Dawson lived on the outskirts of the quaint old farming town of Hertford. Claire loved the cobbled streets and ramshackle meander of the town. To Michael, after a couple of weeks, and in spite of its soft beauty, Hertford and its surrounds became claustrophobic. ‘You can’t get away from people,’ he complained more than once to his mother.
‘But they are very nice people,’ she would reply calmly.
That was true enough. Friendly, neighbourly people, always ready for a chat about the weather. Not a Zulu in sight. No lingering smell of wood smoke or roasting mealies. Here, they didn’t even call them mealies, they were corn on the cob. Here, they used medicine, not muthi. Here, they spoke of villages, not kraals. England was lovely, no doubt about it, but it was so bland. Walk in the woods and all you had to worry about was stepping in a rabbit burrow and breaking an ankle, not the possibility of running into a protective lioness with cubs. Telephones worked all the time, potholes in the road were repaired immediately, water did not need to be boiled or conserved, ill health generally meant influenza, not malaria, tick fever or bilharzia, shops sold everything under the sun, life was cocooned by safety, comfort and predictability.
‘So what’s wrong with that?’ Michael asked himself. The answer, whether it made sense or not, was always, ‘It’s boring, and it’s so bloody cold.’
Still, he made no move towards leaving.
His mother and Peter’s house was large, set on nearly two acres of landscaped garden overlooking a much frequented duck pond that separated their property from the open common beyond. Peter had a thing about geese and collected original Peter Scott paintings. He would spend hours with his binoculars, becoming quite excited when some new or migrant bird appeared beside the ice-covered water.
People of Heaven Page 38