by Gerda Pearce
56. VIVIENNE
She looks out at the mountain while she dials, pressing each number with deliberation. It is one of those distinctly African days, an uncompromising blue sky, the lightest touch of breeze to lift air that lies as thick as velvet on one’s skin. Only the mountain gullies hide green and dark from the searching Midas rays.
He answers on the third ring and he must have recognised her number on his display, because he speaks before she can. She can hear his hopeful urgency.
“Vivienne, I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I know.” She paces the floor of her lounge, worry skimming over any other emotion. “Nick –”
“Vivienne, I have to tell you something. It’s about Gabriel. He –”
She interrupts, “Nick, I think I know what you’re going to tell me.” A slight hesitation. “But that’s not important right now. It’s Gin.” Viv checks her handbag again as she talks.
“Gin? Why, what’s wrong?” Detective, now.
“You see, I told her about the files I saw in your office.” Viv swallows. The silence is uncomfortable.
Gin had returned from seeing Isaac. Viv had made tea, waited for her friend to talk.
Instead Gin had asked if Viv had called Nick yet. “It’s important, Viv.”
Sensing that maybe Gin needed time to assimilate the morning, Viv had tried to explain, had told her about the folders, names typed neatly onto white labels. Told her about them, falling. Told her about the one with the curled tag: Gold/McMann.
Inside, a statement signed by Gin. A statement from the hotel manager, two accounts of the accident from witnesses. Simon had swerved violently, the full force hitting him. A note in Nick’s handwriting. Was Gold trying to protect McMann? A photograph of the crumpled BMW, the driver’s side crushed, paint peeling from fire. A photograph of the interior, cream leather dark with blood. An autopsy report with a photograph of Simon’s dead face pinned to the top.
That was when she had pulled her eyes away.
That was when the other folder had fallen out.
Weetman/Kassan.
The shock of it remained.
It was all in there. Everything about her, about Jonnie, the girls, copies of her marriage certificate, the restraining order, her divorce. Matters of public record, she had reminded herself, but there was even a copy of her reclassification as Indian, all those years ago. A letter from the university, detailing Jonnie’s years there, his exam results, first class; his prison record, exemplary, and a copy of his sentence: four years for political activism. There were also files on him from before she knew him. She read about his activities as a student, his political affiliations. She stopped at one. It had a list of his known associates and fellow students. She scanned the list. Leila’s name was there. No surprise. Jonnie had known Leila from way back. The surprise was that Leila had been studying medicine with him. She must have given up, or failed, and gone into nursing instead. But then, the other name.
Simon Gold.
Statements from a man whose name she did not recognise. She had not known Simon and Jonnie had studied together, or of Simon’s political leanings. She had no idea they even knew each other. The very realisation had brought a chill.
And then Nick had entered the office.
“And something happened to her. I mean, when I mentioned Leila, she kind of blanched, went really white, and really quiet. And then one of my patients rang, and I’ve been on the phone, and when I’d finished talking, she was gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes. Nick, she’s taken my car keys. And my address book. I don’t know why, or what’s going on, but I think Gin’s gone to see Leila. And Nick, I’m really worried. I’ve just got this horrible feeling that something’s wrong.”
57. GIN
Gin drives along the tarred strip of road edged with fynbos. She does not know Steenberg. She slows Viv’s car, checking house numbers. The mountain silhouettes against the Cape sky, stands steadfast and watchful above her. Help me, she begs silently, help me. One last secret to be revealed today.
What would Gabe have made of Isaac’s tale? What would he have said? Would he have made peace with it, or, like her, feel instead rage roar into her being? She wonders what it will bring for her. Will it take its toll in more tortured dreams, when she claws at her mother’s beautiful face in unspent anger? Will she look for her father and, like the unceasing dreams of Gabe, never find him now? And what of Jacob, still alive somewhere? Her biological father. And Hannah? What about Hannah? Did she know? Should she be told?
A car hoots angrily, and passes her. Gin, alarmed, pulls off onto the hard shoulder. Her hands grip the wheel. What am I doing? Maybe she should turn around, go back to Viv. Ask Viv to come with her. Maybe they should call Retief, although the thought unnerves her. And say what?
“Leila.” Like a message.
A message. He had been trying to tell her something. Gin spins the wheel, ready to turn back. And there, in front of her, with its gravel drive, its stone-walled garden, is number eighteen. At the end of the driveway, under the roof of a lean-to garage, a white car. It is an old Mercedes, winged bumpers and a rounded bonnet, one of the older, shorter Cape Town numberplates, CA 6861.
A white car, heading directly at them.
She gets out of the car, compelled now to walk up the path, scanning the house as she does. Her shoe catches on the gravel, her leg crumples, and she is down, feeling the grit press into her bare arm. The driveway’s surface is rounded, the edges forming a gutter for drainage in the heavy Cape rain, and Gin cannot stop herself from rolling into it. She lands on her back, staring up into the cloudless heaven. She lies still for a moment, stunned, checking herself mentally for injury. A sound behind her. Her eyes flick up. She sees no one, but in her upside-down line of vision, the white car, and its numberplate, 1989.
Simon’s face, bleeding upwards.
1989.
Gin reaches out her hand, raises herself to a sitting position and struggles to her feet, brushing dust and gravel off her clothes, her skin. There is another sound. Gin looks up.
A woman is standing to one side of the porch step. She is petite, with coffee skin and almond eyes, lips tinged with lilac.
Her voice reaches across to Gin. “I know who you are. You had better come inside.”
58. GIN
Light slats through blinds. A radiant day, the Cape headed for autumn. In England, thinks Gin, spring will be emerging from its long hibernation. Magnolia will be insolent with upturned optimism, marshmallow-pink cherries cheerfully shedding blossoms like snow, forsythia will be graphic yellow, and everywhere, she thinks, everywhere, will be rich, resplendent green.
The green flecks in Simon’s eyes.
She looks across the kitchen at Leila. They stand facing each other. Leila’s eyes have a haunted look. She speaks in a low husk. It might sound honeyed, thinks Gin, but for its absence of feeling.
Leila’s words are simple “You know.”
Gin wants to tell this woman she understands, that Jonnie had told her what Simon did to her; that although she, Gin, cannot imagine what horrors must visit Leila in the night, she knows something of what it is like to feel pain and loss, and how it is to live scarred.
Leila carries on, as if oblivious to Gin’s presence. “I saw you,” she says, pronouncing each word, one at a time. “I. Saw. You. Together. I. Had. Not. Seen. Him. In. All. These. Years. Saw. You. He. Looked. So. Happy.”
She looks up at Gin now, aware of her. “I followed you. I watched you. I hated him.”
What words have I for this woman, wonders Gin. Leila holds her hand to her mouth, turns her back on Gin and bending over the kitchen sink, she retches into it. Her back heaves with spasms. Gin goes over to her, puts her hand on the woman’s back.
Leila leaps away from her, mucus flying from her mouth. She puts a hand out towards her, her palm raised to keep her away. Gin stands still. Leila wipes her mouth, staring at her with wild, unfocused eyes.
“I hated him,” repeats Leila. “And I hated you.” Leila’s hand reaches behind her back. Gin is almost curious to see what the woman grabs. She steps back, afraid of this woman for the first time.
It is her leg that fails her again, giving way as she retreats. The knife is so sharp she does not feel at first the slide of it between her ribs. Only a short ache, like the beginnings of a stitch, a sudden difficulty breathing. She looks, not at Leila, as the blade goes in again, and again, and again, but at the warmth of blood spilling out of her chest.
A hot Friday night, late January. He was standing near the entrance.
Illumination, a light switching on inside.
“Oh,” he said, “Is Hannah not here?” No disappointment in his voice. He looked at her with something like recognition, something like expectation. “You must be Virginia.”
She might have been surprised, but wasn’t. It seemed right that this man whom she had known before, a thousand lifetimes, knew her also. It seemed right that his voice knew its way around her name.
She nodded, continuing to stare.
A sound like rain on a roof, but it was her heart, thrumming against her ribs. A drop of water in a pool, forever rippling outward. Her breath.
A still, small voice inside her that whispered, simply, “Yes.”
Gin gasps for breath and opens her eyes. The kitchen looms huge above her but she cannot see Leila. There is an abundant agony when she inhales. She lifts a hand to her side where it is wet and warm.
“I’m Simon,” he said.
The connection was made. Simon, Hannah’s cousin.
“I’ll tell Hannah you came by.” She could think of nothing else to hold him there, to keep him talking in those resonant tones, to keep looking into the pools of black, his eyes that flashed with an odd green brilliance as he spoke.
She opens her eyes again. There is a man kneeling over her. For a moment she thinks it is that policeman, Nick Retief. Viv’s man. He looks, thinks Gin, a lot like Gabe. An older, wiser, blonder Gabe, eyes grown greyer. Gabe. She tries to smile. He is saying something to her. As always in her dreams, she cannot hear Gabe’s words. His hands are pressing on her ribs, her chest.
Simon will go down those steps, she thought, and she will have to watch him walk away from her, but she knew she would stand there afterwards, forever somehow changed. Yet he stood there still, as if loath to go. She must appear strange, she thought.
Simon started to say something, checked himself. “Thanks.”
Then he walked down the steps, and she watched him walk away, and she stood there afterwards for a long time, forever somehow changed.
She must warn Gabe, tell him about Leila, she thinks, focusing suddenly. She opens her mouth, but can only feel froth bubble in her lungs. No words form. She wants to tell him she understands now. She wants to tell him she knows. She wants to explain to Gabe that Leila rammed their car, that it was Leila who wanted to hurt them, hurt Simon. That Leila herself was hurting, hurt.
“Simon,” she says. Like a lover.
She wishes Gabe wouldn’t press so hard on her chest. It’s painful. So much pain. It is hard to breathe. She must warn Gabe.
Dad. She can hear her father’s voice through the white mist that is starting to enshroud her vision, like the mist of Isaac’s words, like the seaspray in Michael’s painting. Michael. Michael would tell her to breathe. But it hurts to breathe, Michael. It hurts, so very much.
Dad’s here. I must tell Gabe.
She opens her eyes. Leila stands behind Gabe, her arm raised. She holds the knife.
“Gabe,” shouts Gin, “Leila!”
Like a message.
In the end, realises Gin, it prevails. Love. It is all we have, and do not lose. And all we take. There is only an orange twilight, fading fast, to darkness. And then to dawn. She hears her father’s voice, her daughter’s happy gurgle.
Through the mountain’s mist, someone is walking towards her, and her heart will know him before she can glimpse the emerald promise of his eyes.
59. NICK
He crouches over her, trying to stem the bleeding.
“Gabe,” says Gin, and her lips, dry with effort, form a faint smile. Her breath comes in short gasps. Then her eyes widen and leaning in close, Nick can hear her whisper, “Leila.”
Like a message.
He turns swiftly, sees the woman behind him. His left arm is raised against her as he tries to stand. The knife slices across the back of his forearm, and he stumbles back, losing his balance on the slippery floor. Leila’s scream is a lost wail. His elbow smashes down on the tiled kitchen floor, pain shoots into his right shoulder, his right clavicle.
Afterwards he will wonder why Manyanga disobeyed his order to sit, to stay. He will never know what made his dog leave her post outside, what made her race through the open back door, attacking his attacker.
Down on the floor, he watches Manyanga leap, teeth bared in a snarl, for Leila’s right arm. She turns as the dog jumps, the knife held straight in front of her, stiffly, and Nick hears his own shout as the blade slices across his dog’s chest, the fur splitting in a thin red line. Manyanga’s snarl becomes a howl, yet her trajectory is such that her open jaws clamp down, not on Leila’s arm now, but her throat.
Woman and dog fall together to the floor and he cannot distinguish one’s rasping breath from the other.
He tries to rise, his shoulder searing in agony, but his feet slip again on the pink foam that has spewed from Gin’s lung and he lands on his side, beside her. Gin’s eyes are closed now. She looks asleep, he thinks distractedly.
He manages to get to his knees. Holding his right arm with his left hand, bleeding copiously from the flesh wound on his forearm, he shuffles over to where Leila and Manyanga lie entangled on the floor.
Leila is dead. He can see the woman’s vacant eyes fixed on a point beyond the room.
Manyanga whimpers as he reaches her, she pants rapidly.
He sits on the kitchen floor. On tiles stained red with blood. He sits on the floor and cradles his dying dog in his arms. Manyanga. Manyanga, my beautiful girl.
Sunlight slices through slatted blinds.
60. VIVIENNE
Kneeling on the cold grass, Viv tips the box of ashes onto the ground. She stares at them for a moment, watches the breeze start to touch them, lift them. Suddenly she wants to sob, to lay her cheek against the hard soil and feel the bristle of grass scrape against her face. Instead she sinks her hands into the ash, expecting it to feel grittier than it does. She feels only the soft disintegration beneath her fingers as she mixes it into the dusty earth, as she rubs the blood and bone of her friend back into the land.
You’re safe now Gin, the mountain will hold you. I have put you safely here in its arms and it will watch over you forever.
Hot tears drop onto her hands as she works. Finally, she sits back, looks at her dirtied hands, wipes them on the moist grass, the brown rock. You’re home now, Gin.
She takes out her cigarettes and lights one. She looks out across to Robben Island, watches a yacht on the horizon, white sails flung to the wind.
Later, she thinks, she will drive past vibrant Greenpoint, into Seapoint, through its somewhat dishevelled façade, its high European buildings, its necessarily narrow lanes, hugging the rugged coast, until the bay opens up before her, palm trees lining the promenade, until the road swings up and out towards his house. She will drive towards his house on the steep cliffs above the African ocean.
I will go and see Nick, Gin, and whatever happens, I promise you I will not wonder what might have been.
The end of her cigarette glows the same colour as the sunset. The peach sky has ruddied to a bruised and bloodied crimson, sedimenting slowly to the sea.
Viv draws on her cigarette. She tucks her jersey around her shoulders, sits back cross-legged on the mountain.
Watching the sun ebb away.
Waiting for the long shadows to journey into night.
Ackno
wledgements
Sincerest thanks to the following people:
• Maggie Hamand and Shaun Levin at the Complete Creative Writing Course
• Gary Pulsifer, Daniela de Groote, James Nunn, Angeline Rothermundt, and all at Arcadia Books
• Atalanta Miller, Julia Weetman, Rosie Rowell, Tree Garnett, Rochelle Gosling, Laurika Bretherton, Alison Nagle, Jennifer Nadel, Elspeth Morrison, Sarah Sotheron, Ruth Hibbert, Donna Collier, Filipa Komuro, and Rosemary Furber
• Kerry Barrett and Tarja Moles
• Jo Humm, Jean Macpherson, Kelli Kalb, Fauziah Hashmi, and Lisa King
• Sean Sweetman and Karen Baxter and colleagues
• Elizabeth Haylett-Clark and The Society of Authors
• Jenny Lalau-Keraly, Susan Turner, and all at Leinster Square
• Joy Goodwin, Jenny Ewing, Mandy Jevon, Arthur Crage, Bruno Bucher, and Peter Wood
• Yula Viedge, Katherine Hill, Debbie Kowarski, and Nicola Meyer
• Lorraine Mann, and the Lansdowne ladies
• Ion Loader, with love
This novel was written over a number of years while attending the Complete Creative Writing Course in London. The insight, inspiration, enthusiasm, guidance, feedback, and faith of the tutors and fellow students proved invaluable.
About the Author
GERDA PEARCE was born in Mthatha, South Africa, at the edge of the Drakensberg mountains. Much of her childhood was spent on the Transkei’s Wild Coast. She was educated in the Eastern Cape, and at Rhodes University, Grahamstown, graduating in Pharmacy. Work at a children’s hospital in Cape Town was followed by time at mission hospitals in Rundu and elsewhere along the Caprivi in the Okavango, Namibia. Not wishing to live under the apartheid regime, she emigrated to Britain. She studied and then practised as an osteopath in London before becoming a writer and editor. She lives in Notting Hill with an Englishman and two cats. Long Lies the Shadow is her first novel.