by Suzanne Leal
The tribunal member thinks the ACC is a political party.
Rebecca shakes her head. Not a political party, an association: the Association for Constitutional Change.
‘Then what happened?’
She hesitates. ‘Then I was released.’
‘Just like that?’
She swallows but says nothing.
The tribunal member thumbs through the papers in front of her. ‘In your interview with the department, you told the delegate you were so frightened you made arrangements to leave the country as soon as you could.’
‘Yes,’ Rebecca says.
‘Even though you were simply questioned and released?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You weren’t kept there overnight?’
She shakes her head.
‘You weren’t questioned any further about your involvement with Grace and Johnson?’
‘No.’
‘You weren’t asked any more questions about the ACC?’
‘No.’
‘You were simply released without charge?’
She bites on her lip to stop herself from crying. ‘That’s right.’
‘Then why are you seeking protection?’ For the first time, there is an impatience in the woman’s voice. ‘From your evidence, it seems that you aren’t of interest to the police, you weren’t able to give them information, you weren’t kept in custody, you weren’t threatened with arrest, you were simply released. How, then, are you in need of protection?’
Rebecca lowers her head so she no longer has to meet the woman’s eyes. She tries to swallow so that she might then be able to speak, but she can only cry, and although she tries to stop herself, she cannot. The tears slide down her face and drip onto the table. ‘I’m sorry,’ she tries to whisper, but still no words come.
‘Mrs Chuma,’ the tribunal member asks her softly, ‘do you have something more to tell me?’
Slowly, Rebecca looks up.
The woman’s eyes are more compassionate now, and her voice is gentle as she says, ‘Tell me.’
‘I recognised him,’ Rebecca says quietly, her head lowered. ‘This is why I knew his name. Because we had been at school together. And because, even then, he was well known. His father had been a long-time supporter of the party, even before they came to power. For this loyalty, he had been rewarded with land. It was from this land the family became wealthy.’
‘Your family, were they also wealthy?’
The question makes her bristle. ‘My family were hard workers. They made their own wealth.’
‘So they were wealthy?’
‘To attend the school I went to, there had to be some wealth. My parents bought a business, which became successful. This is how they made their money.’
The tribunal member nods. ‘Tell me what happened at the police station,’ she says.
And so Rebecca does. Finally, she tells it all. And how it frightens her to tell it. Even though she is here, even though she is no longer there, still, how it frightens her.
It has been a long time since I last saw you, Rebecca Vera. His first words to her, lilting, unhurried, amused even.
Joey—Joey Muponda, she had replied, for this was what he had always been called.
He tut-tutted her, as though she were a child. Joseph, not Joey. Then he laughed. I would not have taken you for a political agitator, Rebecca Vera.
And when she said no, that she had never been a political agitator, this, too, had made him laugh. He had always found politics a worthwhile endeavour, he told her. A helpful one, too. One, he suggested, that might also be helpful for her.
The suggestion had made her laugh in turn. Now, she is hard pressed to explain why; why, in the circumstances, she should have laughed. Better to have screamed or cried or wept.
Because it was Joey Muponda, this was why she had laughed. It is the only answer she has. Because it was Joey Muponda, pretending to be important.
Her laughing had upset him. You might be well known in this country, he told her, but here, you are nobody, and here, I am to be shown respect.
Had she been wiser, she would have apologised. Instead, she’d said nothing.
In retrospect, she could claim it as an act of bravery. Sometimes she can still convince herself that this was what it was: an act of brave defiance. In fact, it had been nothing of the kind. She had simply stayed silent.
Just as she had continued to stay silent when, from one of the drawers, he took out a gun and laid it on the desk.
A curious thing, thinking back on it now, to see it there, lying right beside his pen holder, his writing pad, his teacup.
The tribunal member wants to know more about it, about the gun.
But Rebecca knows little of guns.
It was small. She can tell her that much. Small enough, in any case, for him to pick it up and twirl it around in his hands, around and around as though it were nothing more than a plaything.
‘Is that all he did? Picked up the gun and played with it?’
Rebecca’s eyes flick up before settling on the tabletop in front of her. ‘No,’ she says, trying to sound casual, trying to curb the fear spreading through her, ‘that is not all he did.’ And Rebecca describes how, for a time, Joseph Muponda had continued to play with it, running a fingertip along it, up and down it. How, then, with the gun in his hand, he stood up and walked around the desk until he was standing close to her. Too close. So close she would have stepped back had she been standing. But she had not been standing, she was still seated, so she couldn’t move away.
‘And then?’
‘And then,’ Rebecca says, ‘he began to stroke my cheek with his finger. At first, he stroked me softly, but as he continued, the pressure increased until soon he was stroking so hard, I suspected it would leave a mark on my face.’
Now, too, she feels his hand on her face again; now, too, she feels his breath as he leans down to whisper that she would do well to answer when she was spoken to.
It had been a stupid thing to spit at him.
She keeps her eyes averted from the woman. ‘After that, he told me to stand. When I was not quick enough, he pulled me up. Roughly. By the arm. He pushed me against the wall. Then he . . . then he violated me.’
She has said it.
After all this time, she has said it. Aloud.
And to a stranger.
She has told a stranger what she has told no one else. Not even Emmanuel. And the shame of it is so sharp it makes her want to retch. Now again, she feels it; she feels every second of it, as the shocking realisation returns to her: that rather than speeding time up, terror should instead slow it right down. Right, right down: his face so close it grazes her cheek, his breath warm and meaty, his hands grasping. Even now the fear of it makes her shake and weep—loud, heaving sobs—sounds she has only ever allowed herself when alone.
The tribunal member suggests a break. But Rebecca doesn’t want a break. She just wants to be finished.
So they continue.
‘And afterwards?’
‘Afterwards, I was allowed to leave.’
‘Just like that?’
She gives the woman the smallest of smiles. ‘Just like that. He even walked me out. No one stopped him. No one stopped me. Because he was a man of power, that was clear. As we walked out, he spoke as he would to an acquaintance, his manner straightforward, friendly even, as though he was suddenly a completely different person. Only once we were out of the building and on the street did he grab my arm and pull me close to him, close enough so he could whisper to me.’
‘What did he say?’
Again she feels her composure slipping, and again she struggles to push the words out of her mouth. ‘He told me he’d see me soon, very soon. He told me he’d had so much fun, he was looking forward to spending more time with me. Very, very soon. And that I should tell him—I must tell him—anything I found out about Grace and Johnson. He’d be interested in that, he told me, very interested.’
‘And then he just left me there in the street. I didn’t know what to do. I had nothing with me: not my phone, not my handbag, no money; nothing at all. I knew only that I needed to get away from this place, as quickly as I could. So I started to walk. I walked until I came to a main road and I found a taxicab. I told the driver I had no money with me, but that I had money in my house. This is how I managed to get home.’
‘And when did you decide to leave the country?’
‘That day. That day, I decided we would leave. Earlier than planned. I needed only to change the tickets.’
The tribunal member nods. ‘Thank you,’ she says.
And then it is over: there are no more questions. The tribunal member leaves the bench and Rebecca finds herself being ushered back into the foyer, blinking hard, as though emerging from the cinema.
Emmanuel is there waiting for her. He smiles to see her. She has no smile in return—not here, not yet—but how she is comforted when he reaches for her hand.
Nina
The weeks are passing quickly. So quickly it’s making Nina nervous. Only three weeks until the show and there’s still such a lot to be done. Tickets are on sale in the office from Thursday, but to make sure no one misses out, Nina wants to give the class a couple of days’ head start.
To get an idea of numbers, she needs a show of hands: one hand up for one guest; both hands up for two.
Straightaway, Kurt shoots both his hands up. They’ll both be there, he tells her, his mum and his dad.
Ethan looks doubtful. ‘You reckon your dad’ll come back from overseas?’
For Kurt, it’s a no-brainer. ‘He’ll be there all right. Definitely.’
‘But he didn’t even come back for your birthday,’ Cody reminds him. ‘Remember? You said he would and then he didn’t.’
Slowly Kurt puts his hands down. ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘but that was because of his business and everything. He was going to fly over but he had to stay because there was a problem with the builders and that.’ Nina is curious. ‘The builders?’
Kurt becomes businesslike. ‘Yep, miss, my dad, he’s building all these huts like a resort sort of thing to rent out to tourists and that. And when they’re all finished, when we go over—Jordan and me—we’ll get one for ourselves. Not sharing with Dad and Sari or anything, just us.’
Nina is impressed. ‘Sounds good.’
‘I’ll show you all the pictures, miss, when he comes back for the show.’
‘But what happens if he doesn’t come?’ Despite the softness of her voice, Bridie’s question rings out.
Kurt frowns. ‘He’ll be there. I’ve been telling him about it on Skype. He’s stoked I’m the wolf so he’ll definitely be there.’
When Bridie still doesn’t sound convinced, Kurt has his own question for her. There is the hint of a smirk as he asks it. ‘How about your dad, is he coming? Or will it be just your nan—again?’
‘My dad’s coming too,’ she tells him. ‘He’ll be there.’
Kurt widens his eyes like he can’t believe it, then gives Cody a dig with his elbow. ‘But we’ve never even seen your dad. How come he never comes to school, like, ever?’
‘He works away a lot.’
‘A lot? You mean all the time? You mean every day of the year? Because I’ve never seen him. Never ever.’
‘That’s because his work is really important and he can’t leave.’ Her voice is raised now, high and shrill.
‘But he’s coming to see you in the show, isn’t he, sweetheart?’ To calm things down, Nina keeps her own voice very steady.
The little girl gives her a searching look, a confused searching look, as though she herself is surprised by the question. ‘Have you talked to my nan about it?’ she asks, her voice hopeful.
This time it’s Nina’s turn to feel confused. ‘Do you want me to talk to her about it? Is that what you’d like?’
‘Mr P,’ she says, ‘he’d talk to my nan sometimes.’
Kurt joins in now. ‘Because her mum’s dead. That’s why Mr P used to talk to her nan. Because her mum’s dead and her dad doesn’t come to the school or nothing. Just her nan.’
The little girl looks harder at Nina, as though waiting for her to step in. But Nina doesn’t know what she can do, or even what Bridie is expecting of her. ‘Well, it’ll be nice to have your dad come this time then, won’t it?’ It’s all she can think of to say.
This time, Bridie’s eyes light up. ‘Do you know that my dad’s coming to the play?’
Nina gives her an uncertain smile. ‘If that’s what he told you, sweetheart.’
But it’s as though the girl hasn’t heard her. ‘And that will be okay, miss, that he comes and everything?’
Now Nina is completely perplexed. ‘I can’t see why not.’
‘Well, I bet he won’t come,’ Kurt pipes up again, ‘because he never does.’
After lunch, once the kids are back in the classroom, Bridie’s seat is empty. This is unusual: Bridie isn’t a dawdler. In fact, she’s always one of the first back to class.
‘Has anyone seen Bridie?’ Nina asks the other students.
No one has. She sends Jade to check the toilets, but Bridie’s not there either. Nina begins to worry.
‘Who played with Bridie over lunch?’ she asks.
No answer.
‘Anyone?’ she asks, her voice rising. There’s still no answer.
In her top drawer, Nina keeps a list of phone contacts for the children. There’s no mobile number beside Bridie’s name, just a landline. When she rings the number, there’s no answer and no answering machine. When she tries a second time, again the number rings out.
Slipping her phone back into her pocket, she turns to the class. ‘Does anyone know where Bridie could be?’ She tries not to sound panicked.
No answer.
‘This is very important,’ she says. ‘No one will be getting into trouble; I just want to know where she is. I just need to know that she’s safe. Does anyone have any idea where she could have gone?’
Kurt shrugs his shoulders. ‘No idea, miss. Except maybe she went home or something.’
Elsie raises her hand. ‘Sometimes she goes to see Mr P.’
Nina is gobsmacked. ‘She does what?’ She’s almost yelling now.
Elsie doesn’t answer her. Instead, her mouth gapes and her eyes fill with tears.
Nina tries hard to lower her voice. ‘When you say she goes to see Mr P,’ she says, ‘what do you mean?’
Elsie has started to sniffle. ‘In his shop, miss,’ she says. ‘She goes to visit him in his shop. Quite a lot.’
More than ever, it’s an effort for Nina to contain herself. ‘Elsie,’ she says, keeping her voice as steady as she can, ‘can you tell me where the shop is?’
This time, it’s Kurt who answers. ‘It’s the hardware shop, miss. It’s pretty close, even. You can just walk there. Me and Ethan and Cody, we’ve all walked there, no problem.’
Her voice rises again. ‘What do you mean, you’ve all walked there? Did Mr Pritchard ask you to go there? Did he tell you to come and see him there?’
Kurt becomes defensive. ‘He never told us to come. Elsie told us she seen him there. She said he was working there. But we didn’t believe her. We said, what would he be doing working at a hardware shop when he’s a teacher and that? So we went to the shop to see if he was really there. We couldn’t find him but Cody spoke to one of the shop ladies and she said Mr P was working there but not that day, because it was his day off, so we just went home.’
Just listening to him makes Nina feel sick.
She hurries next door to see Tania. She doesn’t have time to tell her everything—just that she needs her to keep an eye on the class while she tries to find Bridie.
She goes to Bridie’s house first, just in case, but there’s no one there, so she heads to the hardware shop.
There’s a woman at the entrance of the shop, sitting at the cash register.
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Nina tries to keep her voice calm. ‘Does Terry Pritchard work here?’ she asks.
The woman nods. ‘But he’s just gone on his break,’ she says.
‘I need to speak to him, urgently,’ Nina says. ‘Can you tell me where I might find him?’
The woman scratches the side of her face. ‘He might be in the tearoom. That’s mostly where he goes. It’s at the back of the shop. But you can’t go in!’ she calls after her as Nina heads off. ‘It’s staff only.’
Without knocking, Nina nudges the door open a fraction. She can’t see much but what she does see is enough to make her cry out. It’s a piece of uniform—Brindle Public uniform—partly covered by a man’s hand.
Panicked, she pushes at the door so hard it swings open. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she cries out. ‘What the hell are you doing with her?’
Startled eyes turn towards her. Two pairs of startled eyes.
‘Bridie,’ she says to the girl. ‘Bridie.’ The little girl is sitting on a man’s lap. So this is him, Nina thinks. This is Terry Pritchard. The sight of him disgusts her.
When neither the child nor the man moves, Nina screams at Bridie to get off him.
The girl, clearly frightened now, doesn’t budge. The man pats her leg—his hand still too high, too large, too awful—then gives Bridie a gentle push that forces her forward and onto her feet. ‘Off you get, darling,’ he whispers.
Rushing to the girl, Nina pulls her close and holds her tight, one arm wrapped around her narrow shoulders, the other stroking her back.
‘I’m here,’ she says. ‘It’s all right, I’m here.’ And when Bridie tries to pull away, Nina tightens her grip on the girl, pulling her even closer until, finally, Bridie relents and goes limp against her.
Nina’s voice, when she turns to him, is clipped and icy. ‘I’m Nina Foreman, her teacher,’ she tells him. ‘You know I’m going to call the police, don’t you?’
She watches him tap a finger against the side of his face. ‘That’ll only make things worse,’ he says softly. His voice, rich and gentle, comes as a surprise.
She can’t believe his gall. ‘Worse for you, you mean?’