At the mention of his name, John Devereaux turned his head.
Lana stared at him. The handsome face was thinner than she remembered with features that had grown chiselled and lean. Lines at the corner of his eyes crinkled upwards. Happy lines but deeply etched. His brow was furrowed. Hair, overlong, had streaks of grey and hung in unkempt waves, covering his ears. He smiled suddenly, his teeth startling white in the heavily tanned face.
A myriad emotions surged through Lana. The smile was the one she remembered. A beautiful smile. Full of humour and intelligence, mischief and concern, a smile which held love and understanding.
Dad! It nearly burst from her in an explosion of happiness. Nearly. Then she saw his eyes. All those things she remembered about his smile should have been mirrored in his eyes. They used to be. Brown, fine eyes, sparkling with life and laughter. Lana looked into her father’s eyes and saw . . . nothing.
‘Angello,’ John Devereaux said in wonder, inclining his head to one side.
‘What did he say?’ Lana whispered to the Chief. Why am I whispering?
The Chief looked surprised by the word. ‘He called you an angel.’
John Devereaux rose and approached Lana slowly. He was watching her intently, a curious mixture of fear and pleasure on his face. ‘Angello,’ he said again.
The walk was awkward, stiff and jerky. Not the one she remembered. He appeared to have difficulty in speaking. Not the voice of her father. A curious thing happened inside her. All her life, since his disappearance, she had remembered him as he was, imagining she would fling herself into his arms if, by some miracle, he ever reappeared. Now she didn’t want to. This man was a stranger.
The Chief spoke to the woman. ‘Go. Bring the others.’ He turned to Lana. ‘It is as you have been told. I am sorry.’
John Devereaux stood in front of his daughter, slowly shaking his head. ‘Angello, angello, angello,’ he said, again and again.
‘Why is he calling me an angel?’
‘I do not know,’ the Chief said. ‘Perhaps it is the priest’s clothing. I have never heard him use the word before.’
Lana did not know this man. She searched his face for her father but could only find someone who looked like him. Did he recognise her? Was there anything, anything at all of his past inside him? ‘Lana,’ she said slowly.
There was no reaction. John Devereaux simply repeated that one word.
‘Can he speak English?’ This is my father! Stop treating him like a stranger. He’s my father! Nothing. There was nothing. Not a damned thing.
‘He speaks no English.’
Lana didn’t hear the Chief’s reply. Now she knew why she and her mother hadn’t been told, why her father’s presence on Likoma had been kept a secret. The Chief was aware of what she now knew. Fear of reprisal for not reporting his sudden appearance aside, it was very evident that returning this man to his loved ones would have been pointless. There was a roaring sound in her head and a great pain in her chest. All the pent-up grief of fifteen years, all her determination to find out what happened to him, carrying a picture of him in her head, a love for him in her heart, her father now stood before her and she felt nothing. This was not her father and, as the final realisation hit her, Lana’s grief burst from her in heartbroken sobs.
Mpasa stared at the sobbing angel. She was the face under the water, the one who led him away from the terror of his nightmares. He did not know why she was crying. Worried, in case she was angry with him for some reason, he backed away and, picking up an ivory penny whistle, took it to her. He had to prod her twice before she put out a trembling hand and took it from him. Satisfied, he returned to his carving, not looking at her, wishing she would stop crying and go away. Her tears distressed him.
Tim found Lana sitting on the ground, her head on her knees, shaken by sobs which shuddered out of control through her body. In her hand she held her father’s gift. She held it as though her very life depended on it. John Devereaux, his back to everyone, was carving another ivory penny whistle. Chief Mbeya stood helpless, a look of deep compassion on his face. Tim helped Lana to stand and, with one arm around her, moved slowly towards the beach. She went with him as though she had no will of her own. ‘He’s all yours,’ Tim said tersely to the doctor. ‘Just try and give her some answers.’
An hour later, Lana, composed and pale, listened as Dr Dalberg explained.
‘The bullet has severely damaged the fronto parietal and a portion of the frontal lobe. The reason he walks stiffly is that fragments of the bullet also hit the pyramidal tract at the centre of the brain. You see, Lana, when a projectile enters the skull it doesn’t go straight through. It begins to yaw and break up and this determines the extent of the damage. In your father’s case, you can see from the external evidence that the damage was massive.
There would have been soft tissue injury and major vascular lesions causing haemorrhaging and, ultimately, a huge build up of pressure. Normally this would have killed him – the brain has no way of dealing with that kind of tension.’
‘Can the damage be surgically reversed?’ She sounded calm, almost detached.
‘I’m afraid not.’ The doctor’s eyes searched her face, looking for signs of hysteria or shock.
‘But if the fragments are removed . . .’
She was, he decided, holding up remarkably well. She might as well know it all. ‘Lana, the brain learns to live with bullet fragments. Taking them out would achieve nothing. After fifteen years, if they haven’t killed him by now they’re never going to. The damage to your father can never be reversed.’
‘What saved him?’
Dr Dalberg sighed. ‘From what I can gather, a witchdoctor’s intervention is what saved him. There’s a second wound not made by the bullet. When I asked the Chief about it he told me that the witchdoctor had to let out the evil spirits. In other words, using God knows what methods, a hole was drilled into your father’s head. It relieved the pressure but it’s too late now to say whether your father would have sustained such extensive brain damage if they’d left it alone. On the other hand, if they had left it there is no doubt in my mind that he would have died. I’m sorry, Lana. We could move him to hospital to run X-rays and CAT scans. They would show us exactly what damage was done but that’s all it would do. We can’t help him.’
Lana remained silent.
‘There is one more thing I can try.’
‘What?’
‘It won’t help him. I’ll do it so that you can see for yourself that your father’s memory is completely eradicated.’
‘What?’ she asked again, a little scared, a little angry.
‘Hypnosis. It should tell us how far back his memory goes.’
‘You can do that?’
Dr Dalberg nodded. ‘If the Chief will translate on my behalf.’
‘I don’t want to distress him.’
‘If he gets upset I’ll stop immediately.’
Lana looked at Tim. ‘It can’t hurt him. It might help you,’ he said gently.
John Devereaux was falling, tumbling through water. The little girl was there and he tried to reach her. Falling and spinning, the evil behind him. He was in the greatest of fear. Speaking in Chichewa, he told of the angel who saved him. He kept trying to get to her but she remained out of reach and led him to the island. This was his nightmare. This was his memory. This was it. Lana realised listening to his words being translated that before it, there was nothing.
‘Stop,’ she said. ‘He’s getting too scared.’
‘Wait,’ Dr Dalberg said. ‘I think I can take the fear from him.’
Chief Mbeya repeated his words exactly. ‘There is no evil, Mpasa, there is nothing to fear any more. When you wake up you will remember nothing. The nightmares have gone, they will never come back. You are going to sleep now. Sleep in peace. You are safe.’
John Devereaux’s face relaxed and he slipped from his hypnotic state into a deep sleep.
Dr Dalberg appeared drained of ene
rgy. ‘He should rest easily from now on. That nightmare was the reason for his fear and the mood swings the Chief mentioned. It should not come back.’
‘The little girl, the angel as he calls her, that was me.’
The doctor nodded. ‘One tiny piece of memory.’
‘And now that’s gone too?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Perhaps,’ Lana said, in a small voice, ‘it is for the best.’
Moffat glanced at the clock on the dining room wall. ‘She’s been gone fifteen minutes.’
Tim nodded. Wireless came and cleared the table. ‘The young lady has gone for a walk,’ he volunteered. ‘She went up past the cathedral.’
‘I think we should go after her,’ Tim said, rising.
Moffat shook his head. ‘No. I think it’s best if you go.’
Walking up towards the cathedral, Tim could only imagine the turmoil inside Lana. She had been quiet for the rest of the day. When Tim asked if she wanted to stay with her father she had said, ‘No.’
As they made their way back to the airstrip with Dr Dalberg, Tim said in an undertone, ‘She’s too quiet.’
The doctor disagreed. ‘There’s no evidence of shock. She’s had a lot to contend with in the past few hours. She’s just digesting it. She’s very strong. Let her come through in her own way.’
There was a loose end and Tim wasn’t sure how the doctor would take it. ‘He’s been declared legally dead. Her mother has remarried.’
Dr Dalberg cut straight to the point. ‘Nothing can be gained by announcing this to the world. If she wants to keep this to herself she’ll get no argument from me.’
‘Thank you.’
As they stood watching the small plane banking left to find Malawi air space before turning due south over the lake, all Lana had said was, ‘What a nice man.’
She had remained detached and silent for the rest of the day. Wireless apologised that her clothes were not yet dry and all she said was, ‘This gown is quite comfortable thank you.’ Neither Tim nor Moffat could break through the barrier of politeness she had erected. She had barely touched her dinner. Beside her plate lay the ivory penny whistle. Moffat picked it up and ran his fingers along the smooth whiteness. ‘It’s good.’
‘Yes.’ It was all she said.
‘May I?’ He put the instrument to his lips.
She nodded.
Moffat blew some notes. The tone was pure. ‘And music of the spirits will be heard.’ He handed the instrument to Lana.
It put a small crack in her armour. ‘The elephant’s spirits?’
‘That is what the Nganga meant.’ Moffat watched her face carefully.
‘Yes.’ Her face contorted. She was about to cry. With an effort she gained control of herself. ‘One will speak yet say not a word.’ She blew the first few notes of ‘Amazing Grace’, and stopped. ‘The head injuries? They speak for themselves. Is that what it means?’ She blew a few more notes. ‘And he can’t communicate in anything but Chichewa and even that’s difficult for him.’ She lay the penny whistle down and rose from the table. ‘Excuse me. Little girls’ room.’ Lana turned and strode from the dining room.
And now she’d gone for a walk.
Tim took the track past the cathedral. He thought he knew where Lana would be heading. Night was coming in fast. The cliff top, he was positive that was where he’d find her. But there was nobody. Then he saw her. She had taken a winding path down to the small beach at the bottom. Should he wait here? Should he go to her?
‘She can only tell me to get lost.’ His mind made up, he followed her. By the time he reached the bottom it was almost dark. He could just make her out – sitting back from the water’s edge, knees drawn up, staring across the lake. She heard him approach and looked in his direction.
‘Want some company?’ He sat beside her.
She turned back to face the water, achingly beautiful and so very vulnerable. ‘What do I tell my mother?’ she asked huskily.
He had no answer for her – she hadn’t expected one.
‘Do I lie? Is that the best thing?’
Tim put an arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him. She felt tight, like a coiled spring.
‘What good would the truth do?’ She turned her face to his. ‘It’s such a big thing to lie about.’ Her breath was sweet.
Tim didn’t mean to. Her lips were so close to his. It was supposed to be a reassuring thing, a trouble shared. He brushed her lips with his, felt the pressure of her response and, before he knew it, she was in his arms and he was kissing her and she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him down with her and she was kissing him back with an urgency that surprised him. But even as he responded, he knew it was comfort she desperately sought and so, clamping down on the desire which suddenly flooded through him, he tightened his arms around her and kissed her deeply on the mouth.
It was not a passionate kiss. He kissed her with an overwhelming desire to help. He wanted her to know he was with her, on her side. The tension rolled away slowly as she relaxed, giving herself up to the gentle caring of his hands and lips. He kissed the line of her perfect jaw and felt her tremble. He ran his lips lightly down her long and graceful neck to where the soft swell of her breasts began, then back again to linger on her lips. The arousal which had flared briefly on the cliff top that morning returned, and she responded eagerly. The tempo shifted and he kissed her with a growing urgency until they were both breathless.
‘Lana,’ he groaned, his own arousal, so hot inside him that he throbbed with it.
‘Make love to me, Tim,’ she whispered, and her breath in his ear sent a shudder right through him.
She sat up and he drew the silky white surplice over her head. Under it, she was naked. His hands and lips explored her body and she moaned a low growl of absolute need, her skin on fire where he touched her. ‘Take off your clothes,’ she pleaded, trembling, committed and eager.
Naked, they knelt facing each other. He kissed the hollows in her shoulders, her belly button, nipples, ears and she responded, feeling the hard muscles on his arms and chest quiver under her lips. At last, when Tim believed he could no longer wait, she drew back. ‘Now,’ she said shakily.
She cried out when he entered her. Then they were moving together, and all the pain and fear of the past few days departed as the only thing on their minds was the floodgate opening in their bodies and the exquisite pulsating climax, to which they drew inexorably closer, which picked them up and bore them away with such intensity that nothing else on this earth mattered.
Together, they reached an uncontrollable pinnacle of searing passion. Together, their bodies arched and shook with release. Together, they floated down again, holding each other tight, joined, panting with the pure strength of their emotions as the last, sweet, pulsing sensations shook them, leaving them languid and quiet while their breathing returned to normal and they were left with the wonder, safe in the certain knowledge that what had taken place between them had been perfect.
Neither of them wanted to break the spell. ‘Lana,’ he whispered finally, against her hair.
She moved her head and found his lips with her own. ‘Ssshhh,’ she sighed.
He held her tightly and, as his head cleared, Tim realised that he would like to hold her like this forever.
Much later, she stirred in his arms and asked softly, ‘You’re not married, are you?’
‘Never come close.’ He kissed the end of her nose. ‘Bit late to ask isn’t it?’
He heard the smile in her voice. ‘Just checking.’
He rolled onto his back and she gave a soft cry of protest as he withdrew from her. With an arm under her head they lay in silence, relaxed in the aftermath of their lovemaking, looking up at the stars. Fifteen minutes later he realised that she had fallen asleep. He covered her with the surplice, pulled on his clothes, and curled protectively around her. Together, like children, they slept sound and secure, the fine white sand a mattress under them, the soft Malawi n
ight a gentle balm to ease tired minds and soothe aching bodies, the faintest of breezes a gossamer eiderdown on their skin, and, in the star-studded wide, wide sky a thousand peaceful spirits watching over them.
He woke to the sharp sting of dawn and found her missing. But she hadn’t gone far. Still naked, she emerged dripping from the lake, picked up the surplice, raised both arms and let it slide easily over her head. Tim rued the covering of such a perfect body. She came up the beach towards him. The deep pain of yesterday had gone from her eyes. In its place, serenity. The strained smile had become natural. The demons banished. ‘It’s going to be a beautiful day.’ She hitched up the surplice and dropped to her knees in front of where he sat. ‘I want to ask you something.’ Her blue eyes watched his face carefully. ‘In the cold light of day, was last night special for you too?’
He liked her straightforwardness. ‘Very.’ Tim realised there would never be any half measures with Lana. What she gave she expected to receive. It was a simple enough philosophy and one he respected.
Her reaction was so endearingly childlike he wanted to pick her up and cradle her in his arms. She gave a small delighted laugh and clapped her hands together, holding them under her chin. Then, completely unexpectedly, she hit him with what he would come to call ‘a Lanaism’. ‘You’re MI6, aren’t you?’
He was too surprised to fob her off. ‘Yes.’
Her eyes regarded him seriously, their questioning depths inviting elaboration.
So he told her of his doubts and of his plans for the future. She heard him out in complete silence.
‘And now that time has come. Enough is enough,’ he concluded. ‘I am leaving the service. The decision is not about you, it’s about me.’
She nodded. ‘I’ve done a bit of thinking too.’
He smiled at her understatement. In the soft dawn light Lana’s face was relaxed and lovely. As she turned it up towards the sky and stretched her neck, he wanted to kiss the small ticking pulse just under her jaw. ‘And what have you decided?’
Echo of an Angry God Page 38