by Gerda Pearce
Gabe, thought Gin, would have laughed aloud.
The drone had stopped, the service started.
Gin turned her back on the church. She wished to walk away. The hands that seconds before would not move had now formed themselves into fists. She stared across towards the coastal road, to where it disappeared beyond the sand-hills, back to the Cape. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to the strong breeze. This paltry little church was not worthy of her brother. Gabe’s spirit could not be communicated through, should not be represented by, this blandness. Only the wildness of the wind did him justice that day. Not even the sky could capture the colour of his eyes. The sun could summon not the brightness of his smile. For the first time in her life, she was without him, her twin. The soul that had met this life together with hers had gone. Gone on, alone. And she had failed him on their journey.
Simon reached his arms around her from behind, his cheek rested against her hair, his lips brushed her ear, and she felt his breath on her face. He held her to him tightly, as if by gathering her up to him he might prevent her falling apart. Her limbs that moments before were rigid were threatening to collapse, so loose and unconnected did they feel. Wordlessly, he took her hand, as so many years later, he would again.
Late, they squeezed into the back pew. The minister blinked his disapproval. Slowly, theatrically, his sermon started. In a high indignant monotone, he urged them all to pray for the dear departed soul of Gabriel Alexander McMann. In the manner of his death, in riotous self-annihilation, her brother, it seemed, had denied himself the comfort of eternity and a place at the side of God.
Gin sat, appalled. Her angel Gabriel, fallen. She would never forgive her mother. This was her doing, her religious fervour. Where were the hyped and overblown tenets of forgiveness? Why did they all sit there so silently? In that moment she learned to hate the Church. She wanted to stand and shout, tell them of the man that none defended. He whom they had come to honour, they instead defiled. Where was Viv, whom he would marry? And Hannah, whom he loved? Michael, his best friend? Rage quivered through her system, made her physically shake. She felt Simon’s restraining arm, saw his warning glance. Only that kept her from shouting, screaming, leaving. He had heard it too, the slur, the stain on Gabe’s eternal soul. But it was not his brother, his church, his faith, nor his turn to talk.
After the unforgiving fire of the sermon, dull dirges followed. They filed out. Her mother stood outside, greeting all, the actress still on stage. Gin could not look at her. Her father was shaking hands, intent on thanking those who had come to pay some sort of homage to his son.
Later, at the incongruous party that came with the service of death, she stood dazed amidst them all. Her mother was holding court with the minister, one thin bejewelled hand grasping Viv’s arm.
Viv, suddenly skeletal in a week; her pregnancy accentuated by her thinness. Michael stood to one side, alone, red-eyed, worn. He looked frequently across to Viv, who seemed to avoid his eyes.
Isaac stood with his brother Jacob, Hannah’s father. Gin’s father joined them. No doubt they spoke of patients, golf. A group of women, Jacob’s wife Shirley amongst them, stood nearby. With a start, Gin saw that Hannah was with them. She seemed eerily, icily distant. It was Hannah Gin sorrowed for most. Perhaps Viv deserved it more, who bore Gabe’s child, holding the obvious part of his heart, wearing his ring. Or Michael.
So many people. Everyone had loved Gabe. Teachers, pupils, friends. But Hannah, especially Hannah. Gabe had been one of the boys, cheerful, popular. She, Gin, quieter, plainer. People had mused on how unlike they were for twins. And some had thought Hannah his twin, both with their dark hair, white smiles, and so often together. Hannah had seemed special to him. Even when they were younger, with Hannah always lagging behind, it was Gabe who would stop them to wait for her, help her lug her bike over fences, put plasters on her knee, haul her up with a hand, check she was okay, see her home.
Gin was about to move towards Hannah when the minister approached, blocking her path. Unconsciously, Gin felt herself stiffen, her eyes searched the room. Simon stood, head bent low over Issy in the far corner, but as Gin’s gaze reached him, he turned and looked across at her.
“My dear,” crooned the minister, “your mother tells me you need comfort.”
Numbness was replaced by a slow burning sensation to her skin that later she would recognise as rage. Reptile, serpent of lies, she thought.
“Leave me alone,” she whispered hoarsely, words catching in the dryness of her throat. “You dishonoured my brother. My brother. He was a fine man. You. You stay away from me, and go back to your shitty… petty… angry… little… God.”
She spat each word like venom at him, lucid then.
The two girls who had been outside the church were standing nearby with a former teacher; she recognised him as Gabriel’s school athletics coach. They stopped talking, looked at her. Gin’s hands were shaking, her teacup rattling, china roses wobbling dangerously on the bone saucer. It was Simon who took it from her, who had come up to her again. Whatever would pass between them afterwards, for that moment, she would always be grateful.
The minister had recovered, he seemed to bristle, opened his mouth. Simon raised his hand. The minister looked affronted. Gin turned her back on her mother’s man of God. Perhaps, later, in that moment, she would find something with which to forgive herself for her silence in the church. Perhaps she redeemed herself, she thought. Perhaps after all, Gabe, I did not fail you in the end.
She hated them all, felt a baseline anger. Hated her mother for betraying her own son. Her father for standing by, knowingly, wittingly, letting her mother hold sway. She hated Hannah for rejecting Gabe, Viv for not making him leave the country. Hated the Church for denying him salvation; the Army, for all of it, for driving him to run away. And prison, for driving him to hang himself. And she hated Simon, for the past year. But most of all, Gin realised, she hated herself.
She left, walked out of the church hall. She craved the fresh air, the sanity of aloneness. She needed time to think. She suddenly longed to talk to Jonnie, longed for her own life, the life she had made away from her family, these families, this incestuous town. Cape Town, her home there, seemed clean and far-removed from the weight of it all, the complications.
“Ginny, wait.” It was Simon’s voice. Plea, not command.
She turned. He stood frowning at the door.
“Wait,” he said again, gently.
She watched him turn back inside, through the open door, saw him say something to her father. Her dad turned to look at her, raised his hand in a slight wave, a half-hearted gesture of greeting. But Gin felt her face set, unsmiling, unforgiving. She turned away.
They took her father’s car; he had given Simon the keys. It was sleek and smooth, her otherwise-spartan father’s only indulgence. It could get her back to Cape Town by the morrow, she thought. But Simon had headed inland, cutting through the mountains of the Fish River valley. She said nothing, tilted her head away from him. Aloes lined the road, flame-haired soldiers, standing to attention as she passed. He drove fast, enjoying the strength of the car, its speed. Cold air cleared the cigarette smoke of the church hall from her lungs, her hair. The sun was setting ahead of them, the shine off the windscreen blinding. The screen was thick with dust and the blood of small insects that had foolishly strayed into its path.
She knew where Simon was going, and felt furious. She hated him for anticipating her need. Like a wounded animal, she needed refuge. So he headed for all that was left of their home together, her home with Simon. It would not be there anymore, she knew, but she had to see that for herself, stand outside, and watch the shadows of others as they passed behind lit and curtained windows. Accept its loss, and move on. She would have to do the same with Gabe, but too soon then, she thought. Too much was tearing at her heart to think of Gabe. One loss at a time, and slowly.
Three roads led into the hollow of Grahamstown. The east was the least attractiv
e. This was the way he approached, the day’s heat rising off the tarmac. The land stretched thirsty all around, shrubby bush alternating with plastic packets, pollution of a world too worn to care. Simon pulled the car over, in a haze of dust and gravel, at the turnoff to the farm, the commune Michael, Viv, and Gabe had shared. Gabe’s home.
They sat awhile, engine running, darkness silting up the horizon, as if the sun had sunk into the town itself, and the night was burying it. Black soil on a coffin. She stared down the gravel road, perilous to suspensions, down towards the farm with its crude plumbing and cranky lights. Shook her head. No, she had no need to see it again. Her brother was not there.
Slowly they rode instead the winding Raglan Road into the town. She saw it all with new eyes, hating the Casspirs, the army tanks, which sat there – still, ominous, silent. Hated them for what and whom they represented. Especially then. Since Gabe. They passed the long stretch of tin huts that at some point melded seamlessly with the poorer parts of town, differences that at night would be hidden, if not for the lighting. The shantytown had candles, the town electricity. They could have turned right at the first traffic lights, taken the dip and up again that would have led them to the Grand Hotel, but she wanted to see the length of High Street, and that tall cathedral spire hold sway above the trees and lights. When he reached the square, he turned left, then left again. The corner-shop was lit. It was early still, barely seven.
Then, the little road so easily missed, and turning right into a courtyard of cobbles, he stopped. She wanted to weep.
They sat in silence.
The sky was fully black with night when Simon drove her up and out the town again, through the campus still busy and bright, up the steep incline past the residences, the lesser-travelled road up to the Motel. Nothing had changed in this town at all. It was to Gin both a solace and a curse. In that moment, she realised that she was where she was meant to be. For whatever reasons her brother had so brutally taken himself from a life he found too painful to endure, she knew that. Knew it as Simon checked them in to the Motel, as he put his arm around her shoulders, leading her, tired and stumbling, down the long and low-slung corridor, with its faded red carpet and gold patterned wallpaper; knew that everything was as it should be. Knew it as he unlocked the door to their room, as they stood together at the window, watched the simmering lights of the town below. As so many years before.
They would make love again. And there was not enough each of the other to satiate. They would sleep till sunlight reached them through the open window. The morning still crisp with dew, breakfast over, the revival of coffee and sleep complete. This then, thought Gin, was her brother’s final gift to her. He who could no longer live, his death had brought Simon back to her.
Just then, with hope replacing pain, he took her hands in his.
“Gin,” he said, “you know this – we – can’t be. Nothing’s changed.”
She stared at him, uncomprehendingly. Gabe was dead. Everything had changed.
Why, she wanted to ask. Did it matter so much to him what people thought? What religion she was? Would people stare at her, point at her, note her Christian name?
“Gin,” he said again, and she thought she heard a sound inside her own chest.
He was silent for a long while, and she also, not wanting to hear it, knowing she could not stand it.
“I’m engaged to be married. She’s… Jewish. My parents are very happy.”
And you, Simon? Are you happy?
That sound again. Her heart, she realised. Breaking.
50. GIN
Coffee grains litter the counter.
“What do you mean?” asks Gin, her voice a whisper. She swallows hard.
They all stare at Michael. He moves across the kitchen floor, takes the spoon from Viv, pulls out a kitchen chair and makes her sit at the table with Abbie and Gin. He switches off the kettle and pours water into the cafetière, stirs it, puts the lid on. He takes four mugs from the cupboard behind them, puts them on the table. Then he scoops the spilled grains off the marbled surface, dusts them into the bin. He sits down in the chair across from Gin.
Gin looks at him. “What do you mean? Didn’t Gabe write it?” she asks again. She remembers the letter, its distinctive backward slant of words to her. She shakes her head in confusion.
Michael puts his hand over hers. “No, no, I’m sorry Gin. I didn’t mean he didn’t write it. I meant he didn’t write it just before he died. I meant it wasn’t – it couldn’t have been – his suicide note.”
He pushes the plunger down.
Gin watches the grains compress against the side of the hot glass. She shakes her head again, trying to clear her head. “I still don’t understand.”
Michael pours steaming coffee into a mug painted with pink roses and passes it to her. Then he pours one for Viv, one for Abbie, in white mugs edged with gold. Finally, one for himself, spoons two sugars into the black heat of it. He sips at it gingerly. “Gin, Gabe wrote this – he showed it to me – he wrote this on the farm, the day before he left, to say goodbye, before he went AWOL.”
The kitchen window, open to the day’s oppressive heat, bangs shut suddenly. They all jump. Viv exhales. Abbie giggles nervously.
Michael rises to shut it, hooking its silvered catch to the white wooden frame.
AWOL. Absent without leave. Gin remembers how the expression had reverberated around her brain. Gabe had fled the Army, left before his stint was up. And the innocuous-sounding phrase had taken on a meaning that was both sinister and frightening in its consequences. It had meant her brother was a hunted man.
A bright flash illuminates the room. Gin starts in her chair. Viv gives a small cry, puts her hand to her throat. The heat has brought an evening thunderstorm. Rain starts to pelt down, its drops hard on the jutting kitchen roof. Viv takes a gulp of coffee. A snarl of thunder makes Gin jump again.
“He meant you to have the letter, to explain why he had left,” continues Michael.
Three months, almost four, after his death, had come the note. Gabriel’s note. To her, to Gin. He had left no other. Initially she was tempted to throw it away or to burn it. Angry with him. Angry at her dead twin. Why me, Gabe? Why try to explain to me, and not to Mom, to Dad, to their sister Issy? Not Vivienne, his girlfriend, nor Michael, his best friend. Not Hannah even, Hannah, the love of his life. She, Gin, left to stare at the grubby envelope, re-sealed after the police had taken their notes, had read, re-read, and analysed her brother’s final precious words to her, his twin. His final, private thoughts. She stared at it, put it on the mantelpiece, lit the fire, ready to burn it unopened, unread. But then she hesitated, went outside and got into the little yellow Renault, churned her gears and raced up to the off-licence on Main Road. She bought three bottles of expensive Shiraz and one of cheap brown sherry. Back at the flat, she had poured the sherry over ice. Glass after glass, staring at the letter. Glass after glass, swirling the pungent liquid in her mouth, sucking at the ice cubes. Eventually, drunk and numbed, Gin had opened it, summoned the courage to read the backward slant of her brother’s last words. To her.
She had not been able to drink sherry since.
“He gave it to me, to give to you,” Michael is saying, “only…”
“But…” Gin stammers, interrupting, “but then I still don’t understand. Why did I only get it after… after…?” She looks at him helplessly.
“I meant to give it to you. Gabe put it in his rucksack, his army togs, left them with me. And then, you know, he left that evening. And the next morning, it was barely dawn… they came.”
Michael stops, looks at Viv, who sits hunched, her arms drawn across her chest. She and Abbie have stayed silent, listening, absorbing. Abbie puts an arm around her mother. Viv does not move.
“And they took it, they took the bag and all his stuff at the farm, and they left, and then, of course, when I remembered the letter afterward, it was too late. And they got him so soon after that, I never thought to ask a
bout it. You know, by then, he was in prison, and a goodbye letter didn’t seem to matter anymore.” Michael’s words stumble over themselves and his voice is high with emotion, guilt.
“It’s okay, Mikey,” says Gin, and her voice is calm. Thoughts whir in her brain. The tone of the letter, the words, had never seemed right to her. The promises he’d asked of her. The promise he had made: Bye, Gin. I’ll see you again. She’d thought it cruel, ironic. Now it made sense; he had written it earlier. Then it strikes her.
“But Michael, if they had it, if the military police had it from the farm already, why on earth, how on earth… did I get this letter as a suicide note?”
Michael is nodding at her words. They stare at each other, a grim realisation forming simultaneously.
Michael is the one to try to form the words. “Do you think this means that… that maybe Gabe didn’t –”.
The storm is almost directly overhead now.
Gin shivers violently.
“Dear God.” It is Viv’s voice that rings out clearly above the storm, “They killed him.”
51. NICK
The man’s bitter tone bites through the night air. “Ja, I’ll tell you about Simon Gold.”
Nick sits back in the wooden chair and waits. The verandah is dark, illuminated only by a window of the house. The lights of Cape Town shine beyond the wide curve of black that is the bay. He knows the mountain rises above that, but it is invisible, inked into oneness with the night. The man’s features are blurred in dimness, but Nick can still make out a brow that has known difficulties, irises like wet soil that have known hopelessness, a face that has been pitted with despair.
“At first, man, you know, when he first came along to our meetings…” The man pauses, his forehead furrowing. He draws on a self-rolled cigarette, inhales, and then lets out a long greyed exhalation. The smoke shrinks and recoils, as if burned by the night.
Nick nods encouragement.