The Shadow Behind Her Smile

by Janene Wood

  When Ryan didn’t answer – he was probably too deeply asleep to hear the phone – she reluctantly decided to try Fitz. Retrieving her address book from her handbag, she dialed a second time.

  Again, it rang out. Frustrated, but not overly concerned, she resolved to try again later.

  As soon as she put the phone down, it rang, making her jump. “Yes?”

  “Kate, I've got a Douglas Pritchard on the line,” said Lorna. “He says he's a reporter and wants to arrange an interview with you.”

  Not him again, sighed Kate dolefully, disappointed Jaamir hadn't scared him off for good. “Put him through, thanks Lorna. I'll get rid of him.” A moment later the call was transferred. “This is Kate McDermott.”

  “Ms McDermott, this is Doug Pritchard from Behind the News,” said a man's deep voice. “I'm putting together a story on alternative therapies and your name keeps cropping up. I'm hoping you'll agree to a short interview to answer a few questions.”

  “I'm afraid not, Mr Pritchard, I don't give interviews.”

  “My investigation has revealed some startling information, Ms McDermott. I would think you'd appreciate the opportunity to set the record straight.”

  “I don't know what you think you've found, Mr Pritchard, but I assure you, there's no story here,” insisted Kate.

  “I disagree,” retorted the reporter. “I think this might be the story of the year. I've been investigating your practice for some time, and I'm impressed by your success rate. In fact, every one of your patients, most of whom were deemed untreatable by their original physicians, seem to have been miraculously cured after consulting you. And not through the use of any recognised therapy...not that any of them are willing to say so on camera,” he added in a bitter undertone, “but their friends and family aren't so reticent. The proof is there, Ms McDermott. I think the public has a right to know what's going on.”

  “I think the public should mind their own business. And that goes double for you, Mr Pritchard.” Kate hung up without another word and leaned back in her chair, her mind awhirl. She had to squeeze her hands to stop them trembling. After all the care she’d taken to avoid attention! This was the very last thing she needed right now.

  Kate squeezed her eyes shut, trying to calm herself and block out the incessant whispering inside her head, which was getting louder every day and harder to ignore. Sometimes, like now, it sounded less like a generic whispering and more like a constant stream of unintelligible words. It was only by keeping her mind fully occupied that she could turn it down to a distant hum. It reminded her of those few weeks after her mother died when she'd had to drown out the sound of George's crying by turning up the radio. Of course, she knew now that “George” never really existed; the voice in her head had simply been a figment of her overactive imagination. Her overwhelming grief finally forced her to put aside her childish fantasies and face the harsh reality of life, which is why “George” hadn’t made an appearance since.

  Kate glanced at her watch and realised it was time for her first patient. After throwing down a couple of paracetamol, she headed to the waiting room.

  Kate's patient was taller and more immediately striking than any man she had ever met before. His skin was the deep, burnished mahogany of an African native, but what caught her eye – what must catch everyone’s eye – were the raised, symmetrical scars that highlighted the regal contours of his cheeks and forehead.

  Kate couldn’t take her eyes off them. They were beautiful, despite the barbarity of the practice that inflicted them.

  “Gosh, that must have hurt!” she blurted.

  The big African gave her a brief, intense appraisal, then smiled broadly, revealing two rows of dazzling white teeth. “It did indeed, but it was so long ago I scarcely remember.” He extended a hand which Kate took automatically. “Ms McDermott, I presume? I am Makamu Zende.”

  “Please, call me Kate,” she said automatically, trying not to gape, but truly, the man was full of surprises. How did a man of his apparent background – think: primitive African tribesman living a thousand miles from “civilization” – come to have the immaculate speech of an upper-class English gentleman? True, he was well-dressed in a smartly conservative Savile Row suit that must have cost a thousand pounds or more, but his palms were dotted with the hard calluses of a man used to working with his hands. He was certainly full of contradictions.

  Kate felt herself blushing and took refuge in professional civility. “I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Zende. If you would follow me...”

  Leading the way into her office, she indicated the comfortable leather couch against the wall, saying, “Please take a seat.” Kate took the chair facing him and crossed her legs, her usual calm composure now restored. “Before we begin, may I ask who referred you to me? I hope you don't mind; it's a personal idiosyncrasy.”

  Makamu answered without hesitation. “Not at all. It was a dear friend, Catherine D'Raegan.”

  Kate frowned, not recognising the name.

  “Perhaps you know her as Lady Emberley.”

  “Ah! I see.” That was the last name she had been expecting to hear.

  “I take it you are acquainted with her?”

  “Er, yes, I suppose I am. We met briefly yesterday.”

  “When I spoke to her this morning, she suggested you might be able to help me. Fortunately, you had a cancellation, and here I am.”

  Wow! Kate had expected Catherine to forget her name the minute she walked away. Instead, she must have made enquiries about Kate and her practice. That was quick work. “I'll do my best to help you, Mr Zende,” she promised. “What's the problem?”

  “Please call me Makamu,” said the African in his deeply resonating, perfect English. “I suffer from chronic headaches. I’ve had them most of my adult life, but in the last few years they have become steadily worse. Over the counter pain medication has no effect, and I have no wish to become dependent on anything stronger.”

  Kate nodded. “Tell me about the pain. Is it sharp... dull... throbbing…? Is it widespread or localized? How often does it recur?”

  Makamu closed his eyes so he could concentrate on his reply. “It starts as a dull ache behind my right temple, but intensifies and spreads as the day goes by. It used to be intermittent, only a few days here and there, which I could tolerate, but now it is every day, nearly all day. There is a brief, pain-free window when I first awake, but it doesn’t last.”

  Makamu opened his eyes and stared at Kate with the same intensity he had shown when they first met in the waiting room. “I can’t sleep, I can’t concentrate. It is slowly sending me mad.” His lips were raised in a hint of a smile, but Kate could tell he was deadly serious. “I’ll try anything, Ms McDermott, just tell me what to do.”

  “Well, I can’t promise anything, Makamu, but I have had some success at relieving chronic pain in the past. We can get started now if you like, but I must warn you, this treatment won’t be like anything you’ve experienced before. It is rather… unconventional. You will have to trust me and hang in there if things get a little uncomfortable.”

  “Very well,” agreed Makamu thoughtfully, still staring deeply into Kate’s eyes in a most disconcertingly frank manner. “I believe I can trust you. Just please remember, my sanity is in your hands.”

  Kate nodded seriously, sealing their agreement. “Very well; let's get started. Now, I know this might seem unprofessional, but I need you to lie down with your head on my lap.” Kate stood up and took a seat on the opposite end of the couch to where Makamu was seated. “I need to be able to place my hands around your head, and I find this is the most comfortable position for both of us.”

  Makamu nodded and complied without argument. He had already assured her he would trust her and it seemed he meant it. Once he was comfortable, or as comfortable as such a tall man could be with his long legs hanging over the end of the couch, Kate positioned her hands over his right temple and eye.

  “Close your eyes and try to relax,” she i
nstructed him as she prepared to do likewise.

  They stayed that way for nearly twenty minutes, with no outward sign of any further interaction between them. The only sound was the constant tick, tick, tick of the railway clock on the wall. To anyone entering the room it would appear they were both sound asleep. At long last, Kate’s respiration and pulse quickened, resuming their normal steady rate as she slowly emerged from her self-induced trance.

  “Makamu,” Kate murmured softly, not wishing to alarm him. She suspected he had actually fallen asleep.

  Makamu was instantly alert. He opened his eyes, cognizance returning immediately. He slowly lifted his head from Kate’s lap and swiveled his legs around so he was sitting upright, his feet on the floor. He raised one hand to his head and held it there with a far-away look in his eye. The tension in his face was gone, replaced by an expression close to rapture. The pain was gone.

  “I found evidence of severe past trauma at the location you indicated, Makamu,” confirmed Kate matter-of-factly. “Not only was your skull fractured at the time of the injury, but tiny fragments of bone had infiltrated the meninges and embedded themselves in your brain. These fragments, together with the scar tissue I found, were undoubtedly the source of the pain. I’m amazed you survived the injury, let alone been able to function as well as you obviously have.”

  Kate paused to give Makamu a moment to digest this information. He nodded his understanding but she could see he was struggling to find words to express himself. Kate smiled sympathetically. Most of the people who came to see her had heard stories of her miraculous cures, but she sounded much too good to be true, so they had no real expectation of significant improvement. They were desperate and she was simply their only remaining option. When their hopes were realised and their expectations surpassed so dramatically, it took some getting used to. Makamu’s reaction was not at all unusual.

  “I…er, repaired things as best I could, but I’d like to have another look in a few days, to make sure I didn’t miss anything,” summarised Kate.

  Makamu nodded again, staring at Kate in wonder, as if she was some kind of magical fairy creature. He finally found his voice. “I… It was during battle, many years ago. I lost my helm during a protracted skirmish and had no opportunity to retrieve it, which left me completely vulnerable. I was cut down from behind and left for dead. I was unconscious for many days afterward.”

  Kate frowned at such brutality, despite having spent the best part of a year treating casualties of the Ethiopian civil war and seeing all manner of bloody, incapacitating battle wounds. “What sort of weapon could inflict such a terrible injury?”

  “A broadsword wielded from horseback is a devastatingly effective weapon,” he told her grimly. “I was lucky the bastard – excuse my language – didn’t cut me in half.”

  Kate was thoughtful as she weighed Makamu’s words. “That’s very illuminating.” And uniquely fascinating. The nature of Makamu’s long-healed injury went a long way toward explaining the contradiction she had found between his weathered appearance and his more youthful internal physiology. He had the craggy features and leathery skin of a hard-living man in his sixties, but beneath the surface, his body told a different story. There was no arthritis in his joints, no thickening of his artery walls, no heart disease, no wasting of the musculature, no loss of liver or kidney function; even his eyesight had not deteriorated over time.

  Makamu’s eyes crinkled with unexpected amusement as he waited for Kate to tell him what he already knew.

  “You're in remarkable health for a man your age, Makamu. From my examination of you just now, I would have estimated your age at perhaps thirty years old. But clearly you’re much older than that.”

  Makamu made no comment. Kate looked at him quizzically. “Purely out of morbid curiosity...exactly how old are you?”

  Makamu smiled grimly. “Now there's a question. In light of what I just told you, how old do you think I am?”

  Kate opened her mouth to reply and then abruptly closed it again, reconsidering for a moment before finally speaking. “Well, thinking about it logically…the cavalry was more or less defunct by the end of the First World War, and broadswords were rendered fairly ineffective once the musket came into widespread use, long before that... By my reckoning – and this is an extremely conservative estimate – you must be more than a hundred years old.”

  “They don't call me the Old Man for nothing,” he said dryly.

  Kate stared at him in shock. “Seriously?” She knew her reasoning was correct, but still it came as a shock to have her theory confirmed.

  “Never to my face, only behind my back,” chuckled Makamu, deliberately misunderstanding her.

  “That's not what I meant...”

  “I know what you meant, Kate,” he said gently, his eyes crinkling again. Again, she was struck by the contradictions making up this man. He had the face and, Kate suspected, the lion-heart of a fierce, battle-hardened warrior, and yet his manner was as gentle as any of her peace-loving contemporaries.

  “I’ve been around for a very long time, Kate, but I try not to think too often or too deeply about the whys and wherefores. I've mourned more comrades and lovers than any man should, but I try to keep a positive outlook and do what I can for those I love. I count myself a lucky man.”

  “So you don’t know the cause of your...longevity? What about your family? Are they like you?”

  Instead of replying, Makamu gazed deeply into her eyes and smiled. “May I ask you a question, Kate?”

  “Of course,” she agreed without hesitation.

  “How is it that you can do what you do?”

  Kate shrugged. “It's just who I am,” she said simply, returning his frank appraisal. Kate had known for a while what she was, but still didn't know why. Why she was different. There was nothing more she could tell him.

  “There’s your answer,” he told her. “Nature is full of bizarre mutations; it's the basis of evolution after all. Sometimes the changes stick, sometimes they don’t. Who can say how or why it happens.”

  It wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but she couldn’t say she was particularly surprised. Makamu smiled kindly at her. “You were hoping I had some miraculous insight for you. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  Unexpectedly teary-eyed, Kate nodded a reluctant admission and decided there had been enough talking. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she stood, signaling the end of the consultation. The sudden movement made her head spin, forcing her to hold onto the armrest for support. Fortunately, the dizziness resolved itself after a few seconds. Kate gave the big man a wan smile and took a step toward the door. “Thank you any way, Makamu. It’s nice to know I’m not the only mutant out there.”

  Makamu towered over her, making her feel small and child-like. “It was my great honour to make your acquaintance, Kate McDermott,” he said, bowing his head formally. “And I thank you most sincerely for the gift you have given me today.”

  “Will I see you again? For a follow-up?”

  The big African smiled serenely. “I don't believe that will be necessary.” The look of disappointment on Kate's face was fleeting but Makamu must have seen it. As he walked toward the door, he added, “Though I have a feeling our paths will cross again.”

  Kate had no intention of repeating yesterday's mistake and ignoring the demands of her body, so with half an hour until her next patient, she decided to put the time to good use by taking a hot shower and filling her empty belly. However, just as she was about to go in search of sustenance, Jason poked his head into her office, forestalling her.

  “Got a minute, Kate?”

  “Sure, Jase, come on in.”

  Stepping over the threshold, he perched himself on the arm of the leather couch adjacent to the door. “I just wanted to check we were still on for tonight.”

  “Of course. Unless you’re bailing on me so you and Buxom Bianca can get together for an encore performance,” grinned Kate.

  Jason a
ffected an expression of deep indignation. “I'm insulted you think I would break a long-standing engagement just so I can get my rocks off, Kate. What sort of a friend do you think I am?”

  “It’s okay, Jase,” she told him with an indulgent smile. “We can cancel if you want to.”

  “No, seriously, I’m offended you would think that of me. That’s not why I was asking. I thought you might have something more important to do tonight.”

  Kate had no idea what he was referring to. “Like what?”

  For the first time, he didn't look quite so sure of himself. “Well...it's just that I spoke to Jules this morning...”

  Kate’s heart sank. “Oh,” she sighed, crossing her arms. “Please don’t lecture me, Jase. I didn’t mean for things to get so crazy. I’d had a really shitty day and... You know what? It doesn't matter; that's no excuse.” Inhaling deeply, she asked tentatively, “What did she tell you?”

  “Just that you had a huge fight, which ended in you storming out of her flat.”

  Kate slowly exhaled, silently blessing Jules for her discretion, particularly in light of the awful way she had treated her. She didn’t deserve such a good friend. God, she wished she could talk to her and apologise, but the way things stood with Marc, it would only dig everything up again. Jules would insist on knowing the truth and Kate couldn’t risk confiding in her, knowing that her loyalties lay with her brother. And rightly so; he was family. “She didn’t tell you what the fight was about?”

  “No, and it’s none of my business,” he said firmly.

  “I wish I could make things right, but I just don’t see how that’s ever going to happen,” she said wistfully.

  “It sounds serious,” said Jason sympathetically, “but I’m not going to get in the middle of it. Not yet anyway.”

  “Thanks for not taking sides. You're a good bloke, Jason Dean. For a Kiwi.” Grinning, she walked into his outstretched arms and hugged him, laying her head against his shoulder.