People of Heaven

by Beverley Harper

  She glanced at her gold Cartier watch, one of many presents given to her by clients. Still a few minutes early. Slowing her pace, she picked her way around something recently deposited by a dog, left the square and began to walk along Thurloe Place. As she walked she turned over in her mind the options. Try for a normal life? Give it a chance to work? She could always go back to Judith if it didn’t. What held her back? It always came down to the same answer. Dyson. If she went into the world, Dyson was there waiting. Is that so terrible? She conceded that it wasn’t. Then what is? The prospect of commitment or the chance she’d hurt him? If she could reach a decision on that then her direction was a foregone conclusion.

  Dyson’s face swam before her. Such a dear, familiar face. Could she leave Judith and Dyson at the same time, start again somewhere else? No! A life without Dyson was unthinkable. He was her closest friend. Do I love him? Yes . . . yes of course I do. But do I love him that way? Think about it. He’s never laid so much as a finger on you. Tessa began to tremble. Her steps faltered. It came to her in such a rush that she could scarcely think straight. How she loved his smile. The feel of his hand under her elbow. The deep rumble of his voice. In her mind and heart it was as though a star had burst, radiating warmth and light throughout her body.

  Tessa turned and walked quickly back the way she’d come. Meeting Kerry Glasshouse was out of the question. She would move out of Judith’s house, get a flat and a job. As for Dyson? Finally, she believed she was ready to try.

  Jackson had no idea who the documents were destined for, or why, or even what was in the envelope. Nor did he care. Right now he was more interested in making the delivery and finding somewhere cheap to stay. A hotel or his brother, either would do. South Kensington was obviously way out of his price range. His suitcase grew heavier by the minute. London. Since he was here, it would be a waste not to see something of it. Being careful, his money should just about see him through, especially if he could stay with Dyson. In the event that his brother couldn’t, or wouldn’t, put him up, he’d have to think again. Dyson lived in Soho but maybe he should call him at work? No point in trekking to Soho if he couldn’t stay there.

  As far as his brother was concerned, if Jackson hadn’t been in such dire financial straits he probably wouldn’t even have tried to contact him. When they were growing up, Dyson always appeared to be the favourite son and Jackson had come to resent him. Frankly, if he never saw Dyson again it wouldn’t bother him. So what if they were blood brothers? The bottom line was he had hardly given Dyson a moment’s consideration in all these years.

  Jackson was so busy with his thoughts that he nearly walked past the house. Maybe they’d offer to put him up. After all, he’d come a very long way on their behalf. Jackson rang the doorbell. There was movement inside but it seemed to take ages for the door to be opened. He hadn’t known what to expect but he certainly hadn’t anticipated Comrade Yelena.

  She recognised him immediately, or perhaps she had known in advance who was delivering the documents.’ So, Comrade Jackson, we meet again.’ Gold teeth flashed as she smiled with no warmth. ‘You have something for me I believe.’

  Opening his shoulder bag to remove the envelope, Jackson reflected that the recurring intestinal malaria which caused her to leave Zambia had taken its toll. She had aged considerably. ‘I have to find somewhere to stay. My brother is in London. Would you mind if I used your phone to call him?’

  She led him through to the kitchen, making no offer to put him up. Jackson would have said no, having no desire to spend two weeks in her company, but some show of hospitality or gratitude on her part would have been appreciated. He waited until she’d left the kitchen before dialling his brother’s work number.

  Dyson put down the receiver with mixed emotions. He had not seen any member of his family for nearly nine years. Jackson’s treatment of Tessa King had been brutally callous. But she had survived and was now fully recovered. Suspicions aside, Dyson had no actual proof that it had been Jackson who laid the mine that killed Michael’s wife, son and unborn child. He was making excuses, he knew that. The bare truth of it was he was aching to connect, no matter how briefly, with his own kin.

  The ANC and SWAPO were barely on speaking terms, and if it came out that his brother was with SWAPO there’d be hell to pay. Dyson didn’t care. When Jackson asked if he could stay with him for a couple of weeks, as much as he knew he should probably say no, Dyson said yes.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘One of my brothers.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Mapitha.’

  ‘You’re getting a lot of personal calls these days.’

  It would be reported. Dyson accepted that. If their roles were reversed, he would do the same thing. They had to be careful. By giving Jackson’s birth name he hoped that inquiries would not uncover his SWAPO connections.

  He left the office just after five and caught a bus to Soho. He called at a supermarket to pick up some extra supplies: milk, a loaf of bread, and, because it was a special occasion, a couple of T-bone steaks. On impulse, he also stopped at an off licence to buy two bottles of cheap red wine and six quart bottles of beer. Luckily, he didn’t have far to carry them.

  Jackson was already there, hanging around in front of the building. They greeted each other with much hearty laughter, banging of each other’s arms and shouting insults in Zulu, supposedly demonstrating how delighted they were to see each other. To both men’s ears, it rang a little hollow.

  Jackson followed his brother up two flights of stairs and into the tiny flat. ‘Home sweet home,’ Dyson said. ‘You’ll have to sleep on the couch.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ A couch, after the tent in Zambia, would be luxury.

  Dyson dumped his purchases on the sink. ‘Like a beer?’

  ‘Love one. What have you got to go with it?’

  ‘Spirits you mean? Brandy or gin?’

  ‘Both.’ Back in Zambia, because no-one got the chance very often, when they drank the objective was to get as drunk as possible as quickly as possible.

  Dyson raised his eyebrows but poured two small glasses of gin. Jackson tossed his back and then pulled long on his bottle of warm beer.

  Grinning, Dyson asked, ‘Where did you learn to drink like that?’

  ‘It’s how everyone drinks.’

  ‘Not over here.’ But Dyson followed his brother’s example and swallowed the neat gin, pulling a face as it burnt his throat.

  They talked in fits and starts, both hesitant, both holding back. It became easier as the alcohol slipped down. By his third bottle of beer Dyson was a little unsteady on his feet and attempting to cook their dinner. ‘No more beer,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ve got some red wine if you like.’

  Jackson didn’t much like the sourness of wine but, since there was nothing else, said that would be fine.

  Dyson opened a bottle and poured two tumblers full to the brim, handing one to his brother. ‘So what brings you to London?’

  ‘You know what I do,’ he stated flatly. ‘It’s business.’

  Dyson shrugged, indicating that it didn’t matter to him one way or the other.

  But Jackson could see he was insulted. ‘Tell me about our parents.’

  ‘Why do you never contact them?’ Dyson’s voice was sharp. Jackson’s refusal to explain his visit to London had hurt. It meant that his brother didn’t trust him.

  ‘It is safer this way. I didn’t want them to know where I was.’ It was Jackson’s turn to shrug. ‘Anyway, I’ve left it too long. It’s probably for the best that I stay out of touch.’

  ‘Our mother longs to hear from you. She fears for your safety. The least you could do is reassure her.’

  ‘Then tell her you’ve seen me. Say that I am well. Send her my love and send our father my respectful best wishes.’

  ‘I will,’ Dyson responded severely. ‘But I think they would prefer to hear it from you.’

  Don’t get him angry, or he may not let me stay. Ja
ckson smiled wolfishly at his brother. ‘I hear you. I will write when I get back.’

  Dyson was relentless. ‘Why don’t you do it from here? That would be safer for them.’

  ‘You have a point, big brother. Perhaps tomorrow.’

  It seemed to appease him. Dyson half opened then closed a drawer in the table. ‘You’ll find everything you need in here. My address book’s there too. Our parents no longer live at UBejane. Their new address is in the book.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Jackson was genuinely surprised by the news. ‘Where are they now?’

  Both wanted to turn the conversation away from contentious issues. Dyson told Jackson about the sale of UBejane, and how their parents had moved to Kwa-Mashu, just outside Durban. ‘I know you think it’s a waste of time but there is a strong feeling at home that Inkatha should be revived. There is much speculation that Buthelezi is the man to do it.’

  ‘And how is our father involved?’

  ‘There is much to be done. Too many people have turned away from Inkatha. They say that if the ANC is supposed to represent all tribes why revive something which is for the Zulus alone. But they are wrong. Our father and others like him know that for as long as the ANC is a banned organisation, the people will not be heard. Something is needed inside the country. They believe this is our chance to become the black voice of South Africa.’

  ‘I do not understand. You speak as though you agree and yet work for the ANC.’

  ‘Given a choice, I would rather be at home working alongside our father.’

  As the night wore on, the red wine loosened the tongues of both brothers. Jackson opened up a little when he discovered that Dyson was well aware of SWAPO activity in the Caprivi Strip and, in the early hours of the next day, even boasted to Dyson that he was the one who laid the mine which killed a white woman and her child. ‘Perhaps you read about it. There was much publicity in newspapers all around the world.’

  Dyson felt a sudden surge of drunken anger which he was helpless to hold back. Before he could stop himself he’d blurted, ‘That white woman was Michael King’s wife.’

  ‘Michael King! From UBejane?’

  ‘True. That Michael King. The one who was always so good to our family. My friend.’

  Jackson was genuinely shaken. ‘Honest to God, I didn’t know.’

  ‘Would it have made any difference if you had?’ Dyson’s voice was hard.

  Jackson shook his head slowly. The alcohol had fuddled his brain but he knew instinctively that lying would only anger Dyson further. ‘No. I had my orders. It’s war. I had to follow orders.’ Jesus! If Michael King ever finds out he’ll kill me.

  Dyson’s voice dropped and, when he spoke again, it was with resigned sadness. ‘First Tessa, now this. I understand the rules of war as much as you but don’t tell me that the unforgivable way you treated Michael’s sister was following orders. Leave that family alone, Jackson.’

  Jackson rose from the couch unsteadily. ‘Got to piss.’ In the bathroom, he tried to regulate his breathing. Dyson’s revelation had unnerved him. A white woman and her child had been nicely impersonal. Michael King’s wife and son were not. He had never liked Michael, especially after being caught in Tessa’s bed, but he would not have deliberately singled out the man’s wife and child. Jackson doubted, however, that he would ever convince Michael otherwise. He squared up to himself in the mirror. ‘Keep cool. Nobody knows it was you.’ Dyson! Is he in touch with Michael? What if he tells him? So what if he does? King can’t get me in Zambia.

  Calmer now, he returned to the lounge. Dyson’s head was nodding. Jackson shook him awake. ‘Go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Still half-asleep, Dyson stumbled to his room. Jackson remembered that his brother had never been able to hold his liquor. It was just possible that, when he woke, Dyson would not remember their conversation.

  By the time Jackson stirred, Dyson had already left for work. A note was propped up on the sink, saying to make himself at home. Anything you can’t find just hunt for it. See you this evening. Jackson showered, dressed in clean if somewhat crumpled clothes from his suitcase, made himself coffee and toast for breakfast, watched television for a while and then, restless, decided to take Dyson’s advice and write to his parents. A quick rummage in the drawer yielded a writing pad, biro and the address book. He sat at the table and began to write.

  Half-an-hour later, Jackson was still staring at Dear Mother and Father. Sighing, he picked up the address book and flipped idly through it. He wondered if Michael King’s contact details might be in it. No harm in finding out where the man lived. A name jumped off the page at him. King, Tessa. The address was here in London. He couldn’t believe it. Tessa here!

  Jackson stared unseeing through the small window, thinking. The past seemed to be crowding in on him. It was all because of Dyson. His brother was the linchpin, around which a number of dangers suddenly circled. How had Dyson known that the woman and child were Michael King’s family? From Tessa? He looked back at the address book but found no other King. Tessa must have told Dyson. Could he trust Dyson with his indiscretion of the night before? What if Dyson tells Tessa? Would she . . .

  Think!

  What exactly does Dyson know? He knows I’m with SWAPO; he knows I killed Michael’s wife and son; he knows Tessa and he knows where I am right now. That’s four things too many. What about Tessa? If Dyson does tell her she hates me enough to let her brother know. So where is Michael King? He must have been with the rhino research team but they packed up and left the Caprivi months ago. UBejane has been sold so he can’t have gone there. What if he’s come to England?

  Jackson rechecked the page but there was no Michael King. To be sure, he looked under M. Again, nothing. Surely Dyson would know if he were in England. Closing the address book he noticed a loose piece of paper tucked under the front cover. He pulled it out. Michael King. There was a telephone number, no address. Was it a UK number? Only one way to find out. Jackson dialled the number. It rang half-a-dozen times before a woman answered. ‘Claire Dawson, hello.’

  He hung up. The voice was unmistakeably Michael’s mother. What did she say her name was? Dawson, that was it. Jackson flicked feverishly through the address book. Dawson, Claire and Peter. Got it. In Hertford. He went to his A to Z but that didn’t help. Searching through Dyson’s books, he found a New Motorists Atlas of Britain. There it was. His skin had gone suddenly cold. Dyson could have phoned Michael who might already be on his way.

  The phone rang, startling him. Should he pick it up? What if it’s Dyson? Reaching a decision, he snatched the receiver up. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Just seeing if you’re awake yet.’

  ‘I’ve been up for a couple of hours.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Trying to write that letter.’

  ‘What letter?’

  Jackson relaxed. If Dyson had forgotten their conversation about writing home there was a chance he might not remember that stupid boasting about the landmine. He decided to find out. ‘Look, we got a little drunk last night. I said some things I probably shouldn’t have. It was just the booze talking.’

  There was the barest hesitation at the other end of the line before Dyson laughed. ‘I don’t remember anything after the second drink. Sorry, got to go. See you tonight.’

  Jackson hung up, frowning. Alcohol could do funny things to one’s memory but there was something in Dyson’s voice which warned him that his brother was not being completely honest. Jesus! Now what do I do?

  In fact, Dyson remembered their conversation in every minute detail. It was as he suspected. Jackson had indeed been responsible for Michael’s tragic loss. To have it confirmed did not change anything. The question now was what to do with the information? Whichever way he acted, whether he spoke out or not, he would be disloyal to someone. Who was more important? His oldest friend or his brother? Reluctantly, he reached a decision, acknowledging as he did that he really had no option. In Dyson’s mind, despi
te his long friendship with Michael, Jackson was blood. That’s where his loyalty had to be even if the truth shocked and disgusted him.

  Jackson was working himself up into a panic, convinced that Michael King was in England and, by now, looking for him. Tessa was the link. Obviously Dyson had contact with her otherwise she would not have been in his address book. He reached a decision. She had to be silenced.

  It was easy enough to work out how to reach the address in Dyson’s book. He caught the underground to Notting Hill Gate, then changed to the district line for Wimbledon with no difficulty. The A to Z showed him how to get to her house from there. It started to rain and he pulled the hood of his cheap plastic waterproof over his head. Arriving at the address, he then tried to decide what to do next. He’d expected a flat, not a three-storeyed house. She couldn’t possibly live there alone.

  Standing across the street trying to make up his mind whether he should ring the doorbell or not, Jackson caught his breath when Tessa unexpectedly emerged. She really was beautiful. There was no place for him to hide but he needn’t have worried. She opened her umbrella and without even glancing across the street set off at a leisurely pace. He followed.

  Tessa, on the spur of the moment, had decided to go away for a few days. She had her own key to Kerry Glasshouse’s flat and, when he telephoned to find out why she had not kept their appointment and she’d told him she would not be seeing him again, he’d begged her to take a few days to think it over. ‘Use the flat. I’ll be in the States on business. And, Tessa, whatever you decide, I wish you well.’

  She wanted time on her own. She wanted to be absolutely certain that she was doing the right thing. More than anything, her resolve had to be rock solid before she said anything to Dyson. Judith too had encouraged her to be very sure in her own mind. So when Tessa mentioned going to Kerry’s flat for a few days, Judith thought it a good idea.