“Letters?” breathed Tim, “Who would go to so much trouble for letters?”
“Someone named Catherine.” Jason was examining an inscription on the top envelope. “It says here: ‘To my dearest Catherine. Forever yours, Stanton.’”
“There’s got to be something better than that.” Romance was another of Shane’s less-evident qualities. “Open the other one.”
Jason reached over and tore the paper from the slimmer, but larger, parcel. It was a portrait. The frame was an opulent concoction of bronze and gold swirls. The picture itself was an artistic rendition of what seemed to be a woman and a little girl. Jason’s eyes slid over the picture.
The woman’s black hair was cut in a smooth bob that framed her delicate features. A playful half-smile rested on her lips, as if the artist had caught her in the middle of a particularly delicious thought. Raven eyebrows, one raised ever so slightly, topped eyes the color of liquid chocolate, completing the picture. She was stunning. The little girl—her daughter, Jason assumed—rested back against her. At first glance, she was the splitting image of her mom. Raven eyebrows and hair, which she wore shoulder length with a fringe caught back in a pink ribbon. Then her eyes caught his. Eyes of limpid ice blue, framed by impossibly long lashes gazed at him… and through him… and into his soul.
___________________________________________________
“No, young Baas1, I’ve searched everywhere. She’s not in the house.” Hazel’s round African face was fraught with concern.
“This farm is in the middle of nowhere and she can’t drive. I’m sure she wouldn’t have gone anywhere on foot. She must be here somewhere.” His face paled. “Dad is not going to be charmed.” Kenneth’s eyes echoed Hazel’s concern.
Hazel patted his cheek gently. “I don’t think it’s your dad that you are worried about. I’ve seen how you look at her.”
Red coloured Kenneth’s pale cheeks, “Rebecca is Dad’s cook. I can’t get involved with staff. You know that.”
Hazel shook her head, a knowing smile on her lips, “Try telling your heart that, Baas, try telling your heart.”
Kenneth’s retort was cut short as the kitchen’s back door flew open with a bang. Claude Rochester staggered in, his eyes underlined by rings of sleep deprivation. “Where’s that waste of a cook? I want my breakfast.”
“We can’t seem to find her anywhere,” Kenneth said, “Did you see her outside at all?”
Claude flew into a rage: “What do you mean, have I seen her? Would I be asking you if I knew? Why should I know where she is?”
“Calm down. She isn’t in the house, you’ve just come in from outside. I thought maybe you’d seen her somewhere out there.”
“Well I haven’t, okay? You—” he pointed roughly at Hazel, “I want breakfast in my room, pronto.” With that, he turned on his heel and stormed out.
“I can’t believe that we come from the same father. Are you sure he wasn’t adopted?”
Hazel shook her head with a short, mirthless laugh. “I was with Medem2 when both of you were born, in this very house. Unfortunately, he’s your brother whether you like it or not.”
Kenneth sighed, “I wish she were here. Mom, I mean. She would know what to do.”
Reaching for a pan and some eggs, Hazel spoke again, “Some things cannot be changed. Now let me do breakfast. You’d better go break the news to big Baas.”
___________________________________________________
Pete and Doreen looked up when they heard the brisk tap-tap of the doctor approaching across the bleached white hospital tiles. As they stood, their hands met and clasped. They braced themselves for bad news, as if the young stranger they’d brought in was their own flesh and blood.
“Mr. and Mrs. Goodwood? Hi, I’m Dr. Metcalfe. Your daughter is in a stable condition.” Doreen opened her mouth to correct him, but Pete grabbed her hand with a little squeeze and shook his head. Frowning at Pete, Doreen shifted her attention to the man in white, who continued speaking – oblivious to the undercurrents.
“She’s severely concussed and hasn’t yet regained consciousness. Despite this, I’m happy with her other vitals. There’s just one thing I don’t understand. Her injuries from the accident are all on the left side of her face and body, yet her right shoulder is damaged in a way that is inconsistent with the trauma suffered from the accident you described. Was she involved in two separate incidents perhaps?”
Pete and Doreen exchanged a blank look and shook their heads. Pete spoke for them both, “I’m afraid we have no idea what might have happened, Doctor. Will she be okay?”
The doctor looked troubled. “The physical injuries she sustained should heal completely given time. The unknown element here is the coma. There is no way of judging when she will come out of it, or what state she will be in when she does. We will obviously have to keep her here until then.” He paused as if looking for words. “It’s been a long night for you both. I suggest you try to get some rest. We can look at further options in the morning.” A brief smile touched his lips. Giving Pete a consoling squeeze on the shoulder, he turned and left.
Pete put his arm around his wife and hugged her close. “I think that’s good advice, love. Things will seem clearer in the morning.” Doreen tucked herself closer in his embrace and looked up at him with troubled eyes. “I hope you’re right, dearest.” Slowly the old couple made their way across the cold tiles and out into the night.
___________________________________________________
2 September 1978
My Dearest Catherine,
As you are reading this, you’re on a bus headed somewhere beyond my reach. I can’t believe they are taking you away from me. I think about you all the time. Your love is like life coursing through my veins. We will be together again, Catherine. Hold on to that hope – it’s what I’m clinging to.
How do you feel about what happened between us last night? I want you to know that I have no regrets. You must know that nothing would have pleased me more than to keep that precious gift to one another for our wedding night. But they would never let us wed, would they? What choice did we have, my love? I beg you to let nothing mar the memories of that exquisite hour of tenderness that we shared.
My heart is heavy not knowing what you are feeling… thinking.
Please share your heart with me.
I need to know.
I don’t know where you are going, but you can write to me at P.O. Box 36578, Tecoma, 5214, East London, S.A. Writing to my home address will be no good, but the above address is safe. Please write.
Forever Yours,
Stanton
Jason put the letter down and let out a low whistle. Tim joined him on the balcony of their flat, mug of coffee in hand. “What’s up?” Jason pushed the letter across to him.
“Read this. If that’s true love – I’ve never been there.” He added a foul word for emphasis.
Tim unfolded his thin frame onto an empty recliner. Squinting in the pale morning sunshine, he pored over the delicate page. A warm blush crept into his cheeks, and he swallowed hard. “Hard core. Actually – downright embarrassing.” He gave the sheet back with a vague shudder.
Jason laughed, “My poor naïve friend. How are you ever going to get a girlfriend – let alone a wife – if you can’t even face the birds and bees in someone else’s letter?”
“It’s not that. Even I’m not that green. It just feels like tapping a newly wed’s phone line and listening in on the post-honeymoon calls.” His face pulled skew in disgust. “It’s just not right.”
“Oh, come on you old prude. I don’t even know if any of these people are still alive. What harm can it possibly do?”
“If I’d written those and found you reading them, I’d deck you. But I suppose that’s just me. Anyway, what are you going to do?”
Jason shrugged, “I’m intrigued. I’ll do some sleuthing in my spare time and see what I can unearth. Fortunately, I’m not saddled with a conscience as acute a
s yours. This PO Box number looks like a good place to start. Maybe someone at the Post Office can help.”
Deliberately ignoring the dig at his ethics, Tim argued, “Don’t count on it. These things are hugely confidential. They’re not going to be sharing info with some Joe Soap off the street.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I can’t just do nothing though. For some reason, this is important.” With a wan smile, he glanced at the letter. His eyes lost focus as his mind framed a picture of eyes of the coolest blue.
Draining the last bit of coffee from his mug, Tim shook his head. “Good luck to you. What you need, my friend, is a miracle.”
___________________________________________________
That very night the dream came to Jason.
He was sitting on a rock in the desert. The heat from the sun overhead sizzled in its intensity, casting heat waves in every direction. Before him lay a level desert plain, stretching as far as the eye could see. Far off to the right, the earth had ripped open to form a giant chasm, vomiting green and yellow flames that spewed from the abyss and cast about hungrily, like a blind octopus seeking prey.
Thousands upon thousands of lines of people appeared on the horizon. Their arms and legs were bound in metal cuffs, securely fastened with padlocks. Long lengths of heavy chain linked the cuffs to those in front and behind them. No one spoke as they shuffled along without resistance, without hope. Jason watched in horror as they came closer and closer to him, closer to the abyss. He could see more detail now as they approached, some were young, others, old. Some well dressed and beautifully groomed; others wore rags and had long since seen soap and water. They all wore the same death mask though, born of hope deceased.
Jason’s heart broke in helplessness, watching the lines march closer and closer to the gaping abyss. Then he saw an old man shuffling along in the line closest to him. In his hand, he held something that sparked hope in Jason’s heart. A key! Running to reach him, he hit an invisible barrier and bounced back so hard that he landed on his backside in the hot sand. Those at the front of the lines were getting desperately close to the abyss now, and Jason pounded at the barrier in frustration, trying to get the old man’s attention. Screaming louder than he had at any rugby game, Jason bellowed, “Use the key! Unlock yourself! Old man, you’re going to die! USE THE KEY!”
It was no use; the man couldn’t hear him. Trapped in some horrible apathetic trance, the lines of humanity headed for the abyss. Then Jason saw that some of the people had their hands pressed to their ears. Some covered their eyes as they shuffled along and, to his horror; he saw more keys in the hands of others. They held keys in their hands and wouldn’t use them to get free. Jason’s stomach turned at the bizarre scene he was witnessing. With every step, they drew closer to the flames, closer to damnation.
Jason woke up panting.
It’s only a dream, Halloway. Stop being an idiot and go back to sleep. Intent on taking his own advice, he rolled over, punched his pillow and eventually drifted off.
But the dream repeated itself and again he woke in a cold sweat.
Tired and frustrated, he went through to the bathroom, splashed cold water over his face; and drank some before climbing back into bed. Surely this dream nonsense wouldn’t recur a third time.
The moment he slipped from consciousness, he could feel the blazing sun on his back. The entire scene replayed in his mind, but this time he didn’t wake up, and the dream continued.
A cold sweat broke out on his forehead as the first line reached the edge. He couldn’t look away. As the front line stepped off the edge, the scene froze, leaving them suspended in mid-air.
A blinding light drew his attention upwards. Enormous weighing scales appeared in the sky overhead, suspended off a sparkling key. The weighing cups appeared to hold mathematical calculations and the two sides were in complete balance. As he watched, the equations grew and became clearer, more distinct.
Jason woke drenched. Switching on his bedside lamp, he quickly retraced the image in his head onto a bit of scrap paper. It had seemed so important while in the dream. Now it looked every inch like the load of trash it probably was. Weird.
It was absolute garbage thrown at him by his subconscious. And yet, sleep eluded him. Whichever way he turned, eyes open or closed, the scales burned in his mind.
Chapter 3 - Awakening
She drifted beneath a dome of indigo, stretched out on a chubby white cloud. The faintest breeze threaded through her black locks, making them dance as if they had a life of their own. Warmed by sparkling sunshine, contentment saturated every fiber of her being.
Then the wind picked up – gusting this-way-and-that, weaving her hair into a tangled mess. Angry storm clouds blacked out the sun, cutting off warmth and light. Torn apart by the savage wind, her cloud dissipated. Tumbling earthward, she screamed… and screamed… and screamed…
Closer and closer the ground spiraled toward her. Blinding pain exploded in her left temple. Right shoulder ablaze in agony, she squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself for the impact—
— that never came. A single beep-beep-beep accompanied by a gentle hum filled her head. The pain in her temple throbbed in unison with her shoulder. Dazed, confused thoughts followed in quick succession, “Maybe I’m dead.” Her practical side spoke up, “No silly. If I was dead, I wouldn’t be in pain.” Not to be outdone, histrionics chipped in, “Maybe I’m in Hell.” Logic countered, “I’m sure the pain in Hell would be a whole lot worse.” Too tired to argue, Rebecca decided the only answer was to open her eyes and have a look.
Forcing her leaden eyelids open took all her effort. Peeping though long lashes, she saw an unfamiliar ceiling and muted lighting. Slightly to her left stood a metal drip stand. A transparent bag filled with clear liquid hung on it, with a narrow plastic tube running from the bag. She followed the line of the tube from the bag down to where it ended – in her arm. Swallowing hard, she closed her eyes and groaned softly, “I hate needles.”
“You’re awake! Welcome back, dear.” Rebecca opened her eyes gingerly and peeped at a friendly round face topped by a nurse’s hat. Bustling with professional efficiency, the rotund woman took Rebecca’s pulse, scrutinized her eyes and made notes on the clipboard attached to the end of the bed.
“Where am I?” Rebecca’s voice came out as a gravelly croak.
“In hospital, dear. You had a little accident. Now don’t you worry about a thing. I’m going to contact your mom and dad with the good news. Try and rest. You’ve been through quite an ordeal.” With a friendly smile, the large woman turned and left.
Brow furrowed in concentration, Rebecca desperately tried to remember –anything. Mom? Dad? Accident? Every thought felt like a boulder crashing inside her head. Pain wracked her body inside and out. With a hopeless sigh, Rebecca closed her eyes and gave in to the blackness.
___________________________________________________
Kenneth took a moment to breathe before knocking on the door of his dad’s study. The door was a masterpiece of carved mahogany.
“Enter.”
Muffled by the door and the lush carpeting, Kenneth had to strain to hear the summons. Bracing himself for the worst, he entered the room to face his father.
“What do you want?” Edward Rochester sat behind his enormous desk examining a document. Two piles of paperwork lay before him, one on his left and one his right. With a pen in hand, he seemed to be working his way through each one, making changes. He hated being interrupted in the middle of this aspect of his work..
When Kenneth was little, his dad had seemed invincible. A powerful man, full of energy; who tackled life head-on with passion. A man who worked hard, played hard and loved much. His family formed the core around which the wheel of his life revolved. But like a wheel with a broken spoke, their lives had been rudely thrown off course when Mom left. The love and life were sapped out of Edward; until only hardness remained. Kenneth faced him now; the stern, thin shell of the man he used to
be.
“So sorry to bother you. How are you? You look tired. How can I help? Can I bring you some tea?”
“You can help me by not interrupting. Spit it out – what are you here for?”
Kenneth had expected the sour reaction, but it hurt anyway.
“Rebecca has gone missing. We haven’t seen her all morning. We’ve searched everywhere, inside and out. What should we do?”
Rochester took the news with the calm that usually precedes an eruption. A slight flaring of his nostrils was the only sign that he’d even heard what Kenneth said.
His answer was clipped, “Nothing. You do nothing.”
“But Dad, she may be hurt or in trouble.” Kenneth’s concern for Rebecca provoked a boldness that he didn’t know he possessed.
“She’s an ungrateful, lazy staff member, who didn’t want to work to my standards. She’ll come back when she finds that no one else wants her. If she’s not back within two weeks, she can forget coming back at all.” Rochester turned his attention back to his work.
“But Rebecca wouldn’t just take off, your understanding of her is wrong. She’s the most diligent staff member you have.”
Fury flamed in Rochester’s eyes, “Are you questioning my judgment?”
Having already stepped off the cliff, Kenneth had nothing to lose. “You just don’t care, do you? It was the same when Mom left. You did nothing. Why, Dad?”
Rochester stood to his feet, “You speak of things you know nothing about. Get out.”
“Dad—”
“NOW.”
Kenneth left the office feeling gutted. Since Mom left, he’d felt Dad slowly leaving too. His body was still around, but the father Kenneth had all but worshipped had been steadily slipping away. Today Kenneth had made a final grasp to reach him, and his hand had closed on nothing. Dad was as gone as Mom.
Shackles: The truth will set you free Page 2