by Jemma Wayne
Then darkness. The men had fallen back and from the outside they heard the doors being locked. They were trapped, but at least the men were gone. Resting her eyes on her mother, Emily gave thanks. Now however, the screaming began in earnest. In the absence of light it resounded deeper than before, as though the pain was collective and had ripped through skin to the soul. It came in gush after agonising gush, fuelled not only by the freshness of terror but the stale, lingering devastation of loss: loved ones dead or soon to be, outside in the hands of killers; limbs missing; holes gaping through flaccid flesh; shredded skin spattering a bloodied, holy floor; skulls cracked like watermelons; humanity lost, vanished into a dark, domed void.
Outside, the men camped. They drank beer. Sporadically they took turns with Tutsi girls who no longer screamed, by now half-dead anyway, either from fast wounds or from the slow, deliberate end that in rhythm with the men above them pumped three toxic letters through their veins. H. I. V. H. I. V. A weapon of war more durable than gunshots. Inside, those alive cowered, locked in by keys safe in the pockets of priests. Some searched frantically for family. Some who’d escaped death by hiding under the bodies of those already struck down, dared not move nor answer even familiar calls. Above them the bodies turned cold.
During the night, the surviving adults spoke in hushed tones. They talked politics – the plane crash of the President, the broadcasts of Radio Mille Collines, the organisation and arming of the local Hutu Power gangs – whispered words that at the time meant little to Emily, only that this was why she was there, resting her head on Cassien’s shoulder, clutching the hand of her mother who sang gently into her ear and smoothed her hair with shaking fingers. Few people slept. By dawn, the room stank. Children moaned for water. Adults gave up answering. Everyone waited.
It was many hours before the drunk hunters raised themselves, but when they did, the morning air seemed to fill them with a new bloodlust. Through the windows those inside watched as the priests obligingly unlocked the doors once more and the Interahamwe were upon them again. To her horror, Emily recognised some of them. In the frenzy of the day before she had noticed only their weapons and not their faces, but now she saw that they were local people, and she couldn’t look away. A number of the boys were young and had been at school with Gahiji, some even with Simeon and Rukundo. She knew their names. “Inyenzi,” the men and boys taunted, waving their weapons like trophies, or school badges. “Dirty cockroaches. Now we will cut you down to size.”
Blurry but not enough.
A routine developed. Not even the children were spared. “They want to wipe us out altogether,” Emily heard a friend of her father’s whisper. “All Tutsis. They cannot risk leaving the children.” Emily clutched Mary tighter. From behind the altar, she and her family stayed silent as hour by hour the men returned. It felt complicit to do nothing, to say nothing, not even to scream. But what could they do? By evening, as many had been killed as remained.
Words echoed around the hall and inside her head. As transient as lasting. Departed yet enduring.
“We have to do something,” Emily’s father implored them through the darkness. “We have to fight.”
“With what?” came the whispered responses. “Bare hands against machete and rifle and spear? Our small number against all of them? We will all die.”
“We will die anyway,” Emily heard her father reply, to which she covered her ears and pinched Cassien so he would pinch her back and allow her to feel a pain with which she could cope.
Then suddenly, there was no argument left to be had. The Interahamwe had a new idea and all at once through the windows came hurtling balls of fire. There was no more time. They would die now.
“Fire!” shrieked everyone. “They’re burning us alive!” Terrified people jumped up, abandoning their hiding places, pushing off the weight of dead bodies. Emily’s father caught her hand and motioned for them all to stay down, but crazed and already coughing from the smoke, whole groups began to storm the front of the church, shoulders dropped ready to pummel against the bolted doors. Emily peeked out from behind the altar and willed them on, but her prayers were unnecessary. As soon as their shoulders hit the doors, they flew easily open. Emily turned to her father, puzzled, but the eyes of the stampeding crowd were glazed with triumph, euphoria, and hope. Hope’s clarity blinding them. Propelling them forwards. They ran gasping into the fresh air, straight onto the sharp edges of waiting machetes.
The laughter outside was nearly as loud as the crying within. But the flames were the loudest of all. They crackled and roared and shrieked around the church while Emily and her family crouched closer to the floor behind the altar and coughed.
“We must escape,” her father shouted to them, his voice muted by the screams and the smoke that made him splutter. “Not through the front door. We’re going out the back.”
“There is no door at the back,” Mama yelled, spluttering too, her face frantic and unlike herself. “There’s nowhere to go.”
“We’ll make a door,” said Papa.
Quickly, he, Simeon and Rukundo crawled to the back wall and began hammering at it with the single club they had between them, with a candlestick found overturned on the floor, with their hands. Their gestures became weaker and more desperate as they gasped for air, but finally, slowly, bricks began to budge. Cassien added his bare foot to the effort. Again and again Mama threw the whole force of her body against the loosening wall. Finally, they broke through. The hole was small but large enough for them to squeeze into. Mama went first, then Emily who jumped easily into the grass like she was dismounting from a tree and to whom Mary was hurriedly passed. The boys followed one by one and finally Papa appeared. They crouched in the grass, dotted with yellow flowers. The sounds of desolation hit them through thuds and screams and the exhilarated whoops of those inflicting it. Behind them, the church continued to burn. The smell of charred human flesh pervaded the air and Emily had the sensation of being in biblical times, the church some kind of living, animal organ being offered as a sacrifice to a vengeful god. She stared up at the building. The huge dome was lit by the glittering light of the fire within. Smoke-swaddled.
Cassien grabbed her hand. They ran in a zigzag close to the ground. Her heart pounded harder and harder until it felt as though it had risen through her body and into her head, where it was determined to drown out the terrible noises with its own thumping, vital presence. When they paused before dashing through an open clearing, her father turned and whispered something to her, stretching out his arms, but through the beat of her heart Emily could not hear him. Instead, she followed him into the clearing, fixed her eyes on Cassien’s heels, clutched Mary tighter and kept running. The world dashed by, muted, until eventually they stopped in a thick area of bush where the trees provided temporary sanctuary and now her father spoke again, his face livid with anxiety. Still she couldn’t hear him and so didn’t answer. The world thumped. He spoke again, more urgently. Her heart pounded. Her ears buzzed. Slowly he came towards her. He reached for her face, stroking her cheek gently, brushing her hair out of her eye, saying something else, but everything seemed jumbled. His words reached her only as an incomprehensible hum and now she noticed that the others were turned towards her too. She sensed that she knew why but couldn’t place it. They were looking and she was crying. She felt the tears streaming down her face. She saw her mother cover her eyes and Simeon’s face fall. But it was only when Cassien lifted Mary from her arms, that she knew or could acknowledge that the baby, who had been quiet throughout the screams of the fire, and silent as she ran through the undergrowth, was no longer sucking on the finger she’d placed out of habit into her soft, still-warm mouth, and was not breathing, and didn’t have a racing heart of her own.
Emily clutched her hands to her chest. The warmth of her woollen jumper alerted her to the burning iciness of her hands, but inside she felt hot, as though her insides had been shaken. She rubbed her face against the cold post of the swing set, the ropes
clattering against it in the wind. Somewhere nearby, a small group of teenagers kicked their way past tombstones through the fallen leaves, brown and red layers over the soil, a protective mantle, a barrier to soften the way between life and death. Suddenly their flippancy maddened her, their disregard for nature’s helpful tempers that she had never had. No cushions. No graves. No stones to carry some of the burden of memory. She scowled and they stared at her as they passed, but didn’t understand. Not that she could either. The whole thing lay beyond the scope of her imagination, beyond humanity. Still pounding, she rested her head against the earth and dug her hands into the hard ground until the soil had worked its way deep beneath her fingernails and her knuckles had begun to bleed. The pain made her feel better; it rooted her to a time more manageable than the one in her mind and she scraped her hands harder against the dirt, contemplating how deeply she would have to cut herself before the bleeding would be unstoppable and complete. She pressed down harder, harder, deeper.
A hand that felt like Cassien’s crept onto her shoulder. “She’s dead,” Emily mumbled, disoriented, still pushing into the hard earth. Until all at once she noticed that Lynn’s navy shoes were in front of her. And it was Lynn’s hand on her shoulder. Steady. Steadying.
“Emily,” the woman soothed. Behind her was a young man she had recruited to carry the shopping, staring inquisitively. “Stand up slowly Emily. Careful.”
Emily stood up, snapping back into focus and attempting to hide her reddened hands. “I’m fine,” she whispered. “I’m fine.”
The man looked sceptical, and too curious.
“Well I know that,” said Lynn loudly, for his benefit. “Of course you’re fine. Good gracious girl. But I’m quite tired of waiting for you. You’ll arrive at nine tomorrow,” she told her. “I think five mornings a week will do better. I’ll call your supervisor. Now, see me to the road.”
Lynn held out her arm, and Emily took it, both of them ever so slightly leaning inwards as they inched out of the park. Lynn nodded sharply to the man behind them, who with a look of confusion, but obediently, followed the strange pairing with the eggless shopping.
Hours later, Emily climbed the foul smelling stairs to her fifth floor flat. Her hands were sore and stiff from the cold. Blood had dried in raised clots over her knuckles and cracked painfully as she dug into her bag for her keys. On an ordinary day she would have been holding them at the ready, but she seemed to be running in slow motion. As she fumbled, the door next to hers opened and a man stepped out. Without meaning to, Emily glanced up at him, and as she did so she couldn’t help but notice that the dark-skinned man was excessively handsome, his face angular and puerile, angelic, his frame slight but coated in black, masculine, wiry hair. He wore white trainers that poked out from beneath a pair of navy jeans, and a grey hooded sweatshirt that framed a head of dark hair far sleeker than her own. Embarrassed, Emily looked quickly away but the man had already caught her eye and smiled warmly.
“Sister,” he said, extending his hand. “So you’re my quiet neighbour. Hello.”
Hesitantly, Emily took the man’s hand, his fingers thin and delicate, easily broken, and briefly she allowed herself to look again at his striking face before turning back towards the door. She hated her meekness. It was not who she was, or who she used to be, Before. But it was better to be quiet and unnoticed. She turned the key.
“Sister, you’re bleeding,” the man said, pointing to her hands.
“It’s just a scratch,” muttered Emily, pushing unsuccessfully against her stiff door.
“I’m Omar,” the man persisted. “It’s good to meet you.”
Emily nodded. The door jerked open and she started to step inside but Omar stuck his hand in front of her.
“What’s your name?” he grinned, leaning in to her flat and glancing quickly around.
“Um, Emily.”
“I like to know my neighbours, you know?”
Neighbour. The word made her shudder.
Omar shifted his body so that all of his weight rested on his forearm, which had now taken the place of his hand on her door frame. “Hey, you should stop having fights with brick walls you know.” He grinned again, his teeth shining like those in the pages of magazines or on billboards, his smile lingering and then raising into an amused question mark as she silently looked on. “You take care Emily,” he laughed and was about to leave when suddenly, Emily felt an urge to correct him.
“It’s Emilienne.”
“Sister. Nice to know you.”
Omar removed his arm and stepped backwards. For as long as she could Emily returned his smile, but then abruptly she bent her head, closed her door and sank onto the floor in front of it. Reaching up, she locked the latch from the inside and slipped the key into her pocket where it would remain, safe, in her possession, until she was ready to face the world again. On the other side she heard Omar moving, his footsteps retreating, slowly at first, then faster, skipping down the stairs two at a time.
That night, Emily’s dreams were vivid. They were filled with faces she knew: kindly, smiling, doting, laughing, friends, neighbours, teachers, priests. Then she saw the same faces again, distorted and strange, frightening in their mystifying mix of familiarity and evil. They floated above her dark and heavy, like shape-shifting rain clouds, then descended slowly until they surrounded her in a dense, disorientating fog that began to choke her. In her dream, she swiped at the smoky air, she gasped and fought and clung to life; but this was the easiest part of survival. These instinctual acts, this brawl over basic necessities, like air, these impulses that enabled her to subsist, this was not really living. It was existing. What came next was far harder, and a battle that began afresh every time she woke up.
She woke up.
The phone rang. The phone was ringing.
Few people had her number so Emily wasn’t used to the sound and it jolted her from sleep with a start. Was she supposed to be somewhere? She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep. One night? Two? Her body ached and her head throbbed. She lay back onto her pillow and closed her eyes. Without conjuring him, Omar’s face drifted inquisitively in front of her. Then Lynn’s, perplexed as she ran away.
The phone rang again.
She opened her eyes and strained to keep them that way. The animated buzzing seemed incongruous in the drab flat, lit by a lacklustre daylight that barely pushed through the paltry window.
The phone rang again.
With great effort, Emily pulled herself up to sitting and perched on the side of the bed staring at the ringing instrument, just out of her reach on the other side of the room.
Chapter
Sixteen
Charlie has been calling constantly. In the years they were together, and not together, and together again, he was never an advocate of phone calls. He said he preferred the romanticism of bygone eras, like in the movies they watched, where people just turned up at the designated time and place, and might not find each other, and could be missed, and plotlines could twist and turn powered by such serendipity, or lack of it. The mobile phone made for a boring life, he used to tell her. Nevertheless he always had his with him, simply screening the calls, and probably gave the same explanation to all his girlfriends.
Vera is screening her calls now. It will not be her parents, it is rarely work, and if it is Luke he will leave a message. Luke has been leaving Vera a lot of messages. As October freshness gave way to November chill, there have been more and more of them. About flower arrangements and which hymn will play first in the wedding service, and what canapés they will serve at the reception. The wedding has been moved up to January, for Lynn, to give her the best chance of being there. The day hangs like a beacon in front of Vera, still, promising her Luke, and happiness, which for so long have been the same thing. She cannot however seem to concentrate on the details. Or on him. Or on them.
It is a strange sensation, as though all that she thought was, wasn’t, and the impossible is flickering into existenc
e right before her eyes. Just weeks ago she would have given anything for mindless details to occupy her. Particulars of the now to distract her from what came before now, and to hide the fact that she was unable to imagine anything coming next. But suddenly, she is racing ahead. The nursery rhymes have stopped, the noise in her head has quietened. And she feels stronger, clearer. Guiltier and sadder too, more culpable; but more responsible, less evil, less alone. Not alone at all actually. That is the crux of it. There is still a cynical part of her that wants to laugh when she thinks it, but she knows now, knows, that she is not alone - she has Jesus. And from Him, present, future, past, she doesn’t want distraction. With Him, she has confronted what she did. With Him, she has told Charlie. And with Him, as much as with Luke, she wants to move on.
But of course she is fooling herself. Because memories tend to drag and tie and weigh down and push backwards. And now that she has allowed them, they slip between her daydreams and hit her even more often, vivid and insistent. She may not be alone while remembering them, but they still require strength. Details she didn’t know she’d even noticed swim before her eyes: the colour of little Charlie’s hospital tag, the tiny fingers shaped like her own, the pudgy middle toe on his left foot ever so slightly raised above the rest.
And so it is clear. Whatever it is she needs to do to accept what happened, to accept what she did – tell Luke, tell her parents, tell the police? – she hasn’t done. She is going every week to Alpha but cannot find the answers fast enough. She needs help. She needs Luke. She does not need distracting details. And she does not need Charlie’s persistent phone calls, reminding her, reminding her, reminding her, ring, ring, ring…
The wedding invitations go out. Luke has selected them. He has chosen the wording and is the one to have called Vera’s parents to ask them if they would like to be mentioned. Luke is paying for the small reception himself so there is no requirement to name them as hosts, but he feels that consulting them is ‘the right thing to do’. He tells Vera this with an arched eyebrow.