The Waiting Rooms

by Eve Smith

  I picture myself unscrewing the tube. The capsules dropping like petals into my palm.

  Down the hatch!

  A beeping noise rips through the room. It’s Graham. My fingers scrabble with the stylus.

  ‘My. You are the night owl.’

  His voice creeps over my skin like a spider. Thank God it’s only on audio. Although, with him, I can’t entirely be sure. I clear my throat. ‘I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.’

  I hear a suck of breath. ‘Been offline for a couple of days. Little procedure. You know how it is.’

  Not for much longer, I think. Even though he must be pushing eighty, I’ll bet Graham still gets all the procedures he needs.

  ‘So, anything to report?’ he asks, as if I’m about to reel off the latest set of figures.

  I drag my nail along the quilt; it makes a ripping sound. I don’t tell him about my abortive research efforts. Or that I only have twenty-three days until cut-off. I don’t tell him how close I am to other escapes. How very close.

  ‘I was rather hoping you might be the one reporting,’ I say, eventually.

  ‘Well, as it happens, I have managed to do a little digging.’ He pauses for effect. It works. The dread in my gut uncoils. Lifts its head.

  ‘You definitely don’t need to worry about Piet Bekker.’

  I sense the flicker of a tongue.

  ‘His ashes were taken back to South Africa. By his daughter. There’s a discreet memorial on the family’s estate.’

  I hold on to his words like the gospel. I want to believe, but I don’t. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I checked the crematorium, customs, the whole works. It’s all legit.’ He takes a breath. ‘His wife’s ashes were interred next to his.’

  His wife’s?

  ‘Suicide. Her family hushed it up, of course,’ he adds, casually. ‘Kept it out of the papers. They made it look like an accident.’

  I splay my fingers over the wallpaper and press down hard. He just had to throw that in. Graham has no shame. No shame at all.

  I swallow. ‘So, what about the postcard?’ My voice is tinny, echoing in his mic. ‘That information was never released.’

  ‘Someone on the team must have blabbed. Tongues tend to loosen when people get scared.’

  I carve my nail across a rose. And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?

  ‘Anyway,’ he continues, ‘I ran a little check on your housemates. It’s as I thought: you should be looking closer to home.’

  Fear slides its cool scales deeper. I think of my list. So: it is a resident, after all.

  ‘Do you know a woman called Margaret Benn?’

  A memory glimmers as my brain fires off searches: Margaret Jenning, Maggie Tatum, Meg, Meg, wasn’t there a Meg? ‘It rings a bell, but I can’t quite place it,’ I say, bringing up the spreadsheet.

  ‘Same age as you.’ I hear a slight wheeze. ‘Came to the home about a year ago.’

  I scroll down. ‘Hang on a minute…’ My heart thuds. Betjeman, typical. I hadn’t got to her yet. ‘She’s in one of the other dorms. Why, what have you found?’

  ‘She had a daughter, called Emily. Her only child.’ He pauses and I know what’s coming. ‘Emily moved to South Africa. Just before the Crisis.’

  My eyes squeeze shut.

  For your hands are defiled with blood, and your fingers with iniquity; your lips have spoken lies, your tongue hath muttered perverseness…

  ‘How old?’ I whisper.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘How old was she?’

  He hesitates. ‘Twenty-six.’

  I do the maths. I can’t stop myself doing it, even if I wanted to. Forty-three years less than me.

  Graham sighs. ‘How many times did we go over this? She’d have died anyway. They all would.’

  It rears up inside me: ‘Just because you never gave a shit, Graham, doesn’t mean the rest of us shouldn’t.’

  Silence. He won’t even acknowledge it. As if it’s some infant’s outburst.

  He gives a little cough. ‘As you might imagine, her mother didn’t take it too well. Kicked up one hell of a fuss. Went after the directors, led campaigns for compensation, that sort of thing. Frankly, it’s just as well you disappeared.’

  And there it is, the return smash, just to remind me how grateful I should be. I hate having to rely on him. I hate being put in this position, all over again.

  I swallow. ‘How did she trace me here?’ There’s a faint rustling. I have a sudden image of Graham propped up in bed, his bony body languishing beneath the sheets.

  ‘As I said, technology’s moved on. Lots of attempts have been made to find you over the years. None have been successful. Possibly until now.’

  I laugh: a short, sharp bark. ‘Is that supposed to reassure me?’ I’ll bet he’s loving this, being back in the saddle.

  ‘We’ve no actual proof that she’s the one who sent your little missives. But the history fits. I think the best thing is for us to keep an eye on her. Wait and see what she does next.’

  Is that the royal we, I wonder, or is he going to put some muscle behind it?

  ‘What exactly are you proposing?’

  ‘Don’t worry about the details. Leave that with me. But don’t confront her. Not until we’re sure.’ There’s an intake of breath which sounds like a poorly disguised yawn. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to try and get some sleep. I suggest you do the same. I’ll be back in touch when I have news.’

  The first tentative notes of birdsong trill outside, as if it’s just another day. I stare at the name on my screen and try to picture this mother who has sought me out. But it’s not Margaret Benn’s face I see. It’s my mother’s.

  Her mouth looms over me, spittle flying from her lips.

  There is no peace, saith my God, to the wicked.

  CHAPTER 17

  Twenty-six years pre-Crisis

  MARY

  We lean over the railing, spotting tracks in the river bed, the metal clanking as the bridge heats up. A pied kingfisher perches a little further along, beak poised for the strike. Piet’s elbow stretches towards mine, not quite touching, but I can sense his warmth. I plot the slow trudge of elephant feet: circular wells in the silt. The hooves of kudu, or some other antelope, that look like mangos cut in half. And the long, sandy furrows that criss-cross down to the water like a giant game of snakes and ladders. I grip the rail a little tighter and nudge Piet.

  ‘Check those out.’ Either side of the furrows are the twisted imprints of heavy toes splayed wide, deep points at the end where the claws have sunk in.

  Piet grins. The sun is making him squint; his eyes are slits of cobalt blue. ‘Wouldn’t fancy getting stuck on a sandbank with him.’

  A cloud of swallows swoops up over our heads and back under the bridge. ‘How big, d’you reckon?’

  Piet shrugs; his shirtsleeve pulls tight around his arm. ‘Five metres?’

  My neck prickles. Those furrows weren’t made by snakes, they were made by tails. The tails of one of Africa’s most patient predators: the Nile crocodile.

  I swipe at a fly and scan the cluster of trees on the river bank; it’s habit now, whether I’m working or not. Ebony jackalberry, tamboti, sycamore fig. The glossy green leaves of a Natal mahogany. I’ve harvested practically every part of that tree; we’ve got a dozen saplings in the nursery. I recognise the distinctive red flowers of a weeping boer bean: another one that’s showing promise. Its bark is rich in tannins, although they haven’t isolated any activity yet.

  Piet lifts his binoculars. ‘Have you seen your saddle-billed?’

  My head swivels round. ‘Where?’ Of all the storks, this is my favourite; I always try to spot them first.

  ‘Handsome fellow. On that rock, by the left bank.’

  I clamp the binoculars to my eyes and adjust the focus. A large wader with magnificent black-and-white plumage is staccato-stepping over a boulder. It always amazes me how their legs bend the other
way, like arms. It dips its red bill in the water, showing off the yellow saddle-shaped shield that gives it its name.

  ‘You know those dangly yellow lobes, either side of the bill?’ I say. ‘Is it just the males that have them?’

  He lowers his binoculars. ‘The wattles, you mean? Yes. Just the males.’

  ‘“Wattles”?’ I laugh and take a step closer. I draw one finger slowly across his cheek. ‘So, where do you keep your wattles?’

  His mouth curls into a smile. I slide my arms around his waist and pull his body into mine.

  His eyes dart behind. ‘Not here…’ he murmurs. I sink my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging the roots. His stubble grazes my chin. I press my lips hard against his as a delicious heat swells through me.

  After a few seconds I pull away. I note the flush in his face, the pant in his breath. I have power. Albeit temporary. But I’ve learned how to use it.

  He runs his thumb along the curve of my jaw. ‘You’re trouble, Mary Sommers. You know that?’

  ‘It’s you they call the honey badger.’

  Piet’s company nickname. Which he loves. Honey badgers are renowned for having no fear. If hungry or provoked, they’ll attack anything, from big cats to venomous snakes. Their unrelenting grip deters would-be predators twice their size.

  ‘Honey badgers have a soft side, you know,’ he says. I arch an eyebrow. ‘So what do they call you, then?’

  ‘Mary.’

  He smiles. ‘And what does Mary mean?’

  I take his hand and press it to my breast. ‘Beloved…’ I slide it up, over my throat to my lips. ‘Wished for…’ My eyes do not waver. ‘And rebellious.’ I slip his thumb into my mouth and gently squeeze my teeth, resisting the urge to bite down harder.

  ‘Better be careful, then.’ I hear a push of breath as I release him. ‘I don’t know how much rebellion a honey badger can take.’

  We swing ourselves into the jeep and take off. I feel light, almost dizzy. The cool wind is a welcome relief after the sultry heat on the bridge. The road stretches ahead of us, shimmering; white pillows of cloud drape across a vast blue canvas. There’s a pungent odour of animals and fresh branches tossed in the road. Piet slows, and, sure enough, the bulbous heads of four young bull elephants materialise between the trees, slow-fanning themselves with their ears. They deftly curl their trunks around the thorny branches and strip leaves as if they’re shucking corn.

  Piet steers the jeep over to the other side of the road. The constant rustling is punctuated with occasional snaps. One of the males eyes us warily, pulverising his leafy debris in slow chomps. He turns his head, displaying his tusks, and flaps his ears. We crawl forward. The bull raises his trunk and takes a purposeful step towards us.

  ‘What is it with you and animals?’ says Piet, eyes fixed on the approaching elephant.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ My fingers tighten around the grab handle. ‘But I’m beginning to think they don’t like me.’

  As if in response, the elephant ups his pace to a trot, trunk swinging like a rope that’s come loose.

  ‘Hold on.’ Piet shoves his foot down. As we accelerate past, the young bull gives a thunderous trumpet that makes my heart leap, before wheeling back into the bush.

  Piet grins at me, his cheeks streaked with dirt that the tyres kicked up. ‘You see?’ He wags his finger. ‘He knows you’re trouble, too.’

  I burst out laughing as the rush of adrenaline subsides. So this is it then: happiness. I shuffle across and run my tongue over the lobe of his ear. It tastes of salt. ‘Nice wattle.’

  The wind barrels into my face, sending my hair streaming out behind. Piet veers sharp left onto a gravel road and I have to clutch my seat. I try to remember the last time I felt so alive. When I was eighteen, maybe: after I slammed the front door for the last time. Finally able to leave.

  I sneak glances at Piet, studying each detail, as I would with one of my specimens, to get me through until our next time. His arm, hanging effortlessly across the wheel. The jut of bone in his cheek. The fold of muscle in his thigh when he changes gear. It pulls at me, this incessant longing, even during the little time he’s with me.

  ‘Piet?’ I have to shout over the drone of tyres.

  ‘Yeah?’

  I touch his arm. ‘You know, tonight…?’

  He keeps his eyes on the road. His face stiffens. ‘Please, Mary. Don’t ask.’

  The same old battle commences inside me: a clash of want and judgement.

  ‘But, why?’ I sound like some whiny child. ‘It’s not as if you go home.’

  He always leaves early, just as the first streaks of gold colour the sky. That’s when the guilt comes knocking, but it’s his betrayal, not mine. When I feel the sleep pulling at me, I wrap myself into him, curl my arms and legs tight around his, as if my body can somehow confine him. He always escapes. Each morning, I roll over into a cold, empty space, red dust on the pillow.

  Piet takes a breath. ‘You know why. We’ve been over it a hundred times.’ He presses his lips together as if that’s it, he’s shutting up shop: no more kisses for me. ‘I always call her, first thing. Before she goes to school. Sometimes Cara calls me. I have to get back to the flat.’

  I dig my nails into the seat and mutter under my breath: ‘Well, it still sounds like bullshit to me.’

  He slips his hand onto my knee. The sun reflects off the golden band around his finger, just to spite me. ‘Hey, come on. Don’t spoil it.’

  You’re the one who’s spoiling it, I think. I should slip that damned ring off when he’s asleep; drop it down a ravine. I’ll bet he’d stay a bit longer then.

  Even as I think the words I regret them. That’s exactly the kind of thing Mother would say. And I recall the other meaning of my name: the one I didn’t tell Piet. In Hebrew, Mary means: ‘sea of bitterness’. No wonder my mother chose it.

  I clasp Piet’s arm and resolve to be nice.

  He smiles at me. ‘I have high hopes, you know.’ My heart flutters. ‘Dodonaea viscosa. I really think we could be onto something.’ The flutter hardens into something still and unyielding. Like a fossilised insect. ‘What do you reckon?’

  Not only do I have to compete with his family, I have to compete with his work, too. It’s exhausting. I focus on the hills in the distance and imagine a lone leopardess stalking those rocks, sun gleaming on golden fur. ‘Maybe.’

  He tuts. ‘More than “maybe”.’ His hand slides up to my thigh. ‘You did a great job, bringing that one back to the lab.’

  I shift my leg. His hand slips off. ‘I can hardly claim any credit there. Communities have been using those leaves for decades.’ I’m not that desperate for his praise. ‘Their medicinal use was documented back in the sixties.’

  A frown clouds his face. His grip tightens around the wheel. ‘Yes, but they didn’t understand why it worked. They didn’t isolate the flavonoids.’ It was a mistake to contradict him. ‘That plant is inhibiting the growth of some TB strains. Which is a lot more than can be said for any other drugs out there. Hardly surprising, given the big firms aren’t even bothering to look.’

  Piet’s ambition never wavers. Part of me is impressed by such determination, but I hope he’s not another Captain Ahab, pursuing his whale at any expense. Me included.

  Piet scowls at the road. ‘I mean, it’s criminal.’ Great. Now he’s working himself up into one. ‘All those billions of dollars they’re making, flogging the same old antibiotics, which don’t even work anymore. Well, most of them. Millions are dying and there’s still no investment in TB. When untapped sources like this are just sitting there.’ He shakes his head. ‘And where has it got us? MDR-TB, that’s where.’ He swallows. ‘Well, now their chickens are coming home to roost.’

  The wind whips into my eyes. He’s driving a little faster than he should, no doubt anxious to get back.

  ‘While the pharma boys merrily blast more and more drugs at them, those bacteria are busy cooperating. Transferring resist
ant DNA between strains.’

  We round a corner, startling a herd of impalas. They scatter, their hooves kicking up the dust. I try to think of something to say before what little time we have left is ruined. I wonder if he’ll ever have this much passion for me.

  ‘Those Joburg outbreaks … be glad you never saw them. Whole hospital wards going down.’ A dung beetle makes a sharp crack as it bounces off the windscreen. ‘I tell you, for all our superior intelligence, there’s only one winner in this war right now, and that’s Myobacterium tuberculosis.’ He swipes his sleeve across his forehead. ‘A single-celled microbe four millionths of a metre long that takes nearly a day to divide.’

  I slide my hand across to his seat. ‘Well, to be fair, those snaking little rods have had time on their side.’ I edge a little closer. ‘Let’s face it, anything that can flourish for three million years must be pretty adept at survival.’

  He snorts. ‘True. When it comes to evolution, they’ve certainly seized the advantage.’

  I dance my fingers over his thigh and risk a smile. ‘I think part of you secretly admires them.’

  His eyes narrow. ‘Who? The bacteria?’ He shakes his head. ‘I don’t admire them. I want to conquer them.’

  I cast him a sideways glance. His choice of words is unexpected. ‘Well, as you say, the Americans need help with this one too. And you’ve already felt the depth of their pockets.’

  I lean back in my seat and wait.

  Piet bares his teeth in a slow smile.

  CHAPTER 18

  KATE

  The lights lower and the screens go blank. A hush settles across the cavernous space. I can feel the heat steaming from all those bodies as tension builds. There’s a crash of drums and everyone’s wristbands start to flash. Lucy squeals. Her face is flushed, blonde strands of hair stuck to her forehead. Mascara creeps down from her eyes like black tears.