The Waiting Rooms

by Eve Smith

  It takes him less than a second. ‘Blimey. Is that her?’

  Even amongst all those women, Mary stands out. Her hair is curled into a bun, her body sheathed in a simple blue gown. An ironic smile plays on her lips, Mona Lisa style. But she’s not smiling at whoever’s taking the photograph. Her gaze is directed at a man in the front row with blond hair and piercing blue eyes who’s holding some kind of certificate.

  ‘Harry found it in the news archives. Some trade conference in South Africa.’

  Mark edges closer. ‘Well, it’s easy to see where you get your looks. How long ago was that taken?’

  I keep my voice steady. ‘Forty-six years.’

  Mark’s face drops. He lifts a finger and points at the man in the front. ‘Hang on, is that…? That’s not Piet Bekker?’

  The churning in my gut intensifies. ‘The one and only.’

  Mark lets out a whistle. ‘I didn’t know they went back that far.’

  ‘Me neither. It was just after Pharmaplanta was born. Check these out.’

  I open another document and scroll down:

  ‘Local Plant Provides Hope for AIDS Patients…’

  ‘Dodonaea viscosa: Could This Be the Answer to TB…?’

  ‘A couple of these went on to become successful drug brands. Turns out Pharmaplanta weren’t always the pariahs they’re made out to be.’

  Mark frowns. ‘I don’t get it. How could someone who worked so hard to combat disease end up using it like that, as a weapon?’

  ‘Beats me.’ I rub my eyes. ‘Sometimes it feels like I’m stuck in one of those computer games. Every time I think I’m getting somewhere, a door opens onto another world – one that I didn’t even know exists.’

  Mark glances at the door. ‘Have you said anything to Sasha yet?’

  I shake my head. ‘Before I put her through that, I need to know where this is going. It’s a lot for her to cope with, particularly so soon after Pen.’ I think of our conversation. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure how she’ll take it.’

  ‘Oh, you never know.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘I reckon she’s tougher than you or I give her credit for.’ He squeezes my shoulder. ‘Come on. It’s time you called it a day. Let’s cheer ourselves up with some Nordic noir.’

  I close the files, one by one, until all that’s left is the conference picture. I stare at Mary’s face until it dissolves in a blur of pixels.

  Was there something going on between the two of them? Or am I reading too much into that smile?

  I think of the empty box on my birth certificate.

  That photo was taken eighteen months before I was born.

  CHAPTER 25

  LILY

  Neither of us speaks.

  Margaret glances behind her as though she’s considering walking back out. She’s taller than I thought, in much better shape than her years suggest. Perhaps I should have left things to Graham after all.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Her question fractures the silence.

  I cannot answer, fearful of lying and of telling the truth. I clench my frame, as if it can help me. As if it can whisk me away to safety, like Dorothy’s shoes.

  Tap three times.

  Her eyes move behind me, over the furniture and the photos. A slight frown wrinkles her forehead. ‘This is my room.’ Her words are hesitant, as though they’re in doubt. Then her face stiffens. She points her finger at me. ‘You.’

  I slide my hand into my pocket and feel the icy touch of the scissors. If only those blades weren’t quite so blunt.

  ‘You’re the one who kept staring. In the crafts room.’

  I remember to breathe. ‘That’s right.’ I force myself to meet her gaze. ‘I believe you know who I am.’

  Her mouth twitches. ‘Do I?’ She gives a slight shake of her bob. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’

  Either she’s really good, or Graham’s got this wrong.

  I swallow. ‘She’s very beautiful.’ I nod at the gold-framed photo. ‘Your daughter.’

  Margaret steps closer. She stares at the picture with such tenderness that I have to look away. Strange, how guilt can even trump fear.

  ‘I’m ver—’ My voice fails. ‘I’m sorry. About what happened.’ I squeeze my fingers against the blade, ashamed of the inadequacy of words. ‘I don’t … blame you. For being angry.’

  Her face screws up. ‘I’m not angry. Why are you saying I’m angry?’

  The blood pounds in my ears. ‘Margaret, I have to ask: was it you that sent me the postcard?’ She stares at me blankly. I take a breath. ‘Did you … push me? In the bath?’

  She frowns and shakes her head. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘I won’t press charges or anything. God knows, you had cause.’ My limbs feel weak and jittery, as if they might give way at any moment. ‘I just want to know.’

  Her eyes flit around the room like a frightened bird. She starts rubbing her left arm; her hand massages the same spot over and over. ‘Are you making fun of me? Is this some kind of joke?’

  I step back. ‘No! I’m sorry, I just…’ I sink my teeth into my lip. ‘I thought you might have been sending me things. Because of … what happened. In South Africa. To your daughter.’

  She stops fidgeting. ‘You mean Jodie?’ She gives a nervous giggle, like a young girl’s. ‘So that’s what all this is about.’ Her face relaxes. She picks up one of the photo frames and smooths her thumb over the glass. ‘She’s having a whale of a time over there. Look.’ She shows me her daughter’s picture, in South Africa. ‘She’s really taken to it. I think it’s the climate.’ Margaret smiles and for a fleeting moment I see the resemblance with her daughter. My throat constricts. ‘That’s her latest fellow: Jack, I think. Or is it James?’ She cocks her head. ‘It won’t last, of course; they never do.’ She laughs. ‘She’s always got them queuing up.’

  Margaret gazes at the photo and in that look I recognise the fulcrum of her campaigns: a mother’s love that burns so fiercely, anything that obstructs it – drug companies, lawyers, even reason – is incinerated.

  ‘Yes.’ I clear my throat. ‘Yes, I imagine so. A good-looking girl like that. She must have the pick of the crop.’

  Margaret’s eyes remain fixed on the photo. I stretch out my hand to touch her but, at the last moment, I pull it away.

  ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you.’ I stagger to the door, desperate to get back to my room. I raise my wrist, then I remember. ‘Sorry, Margaret. Would you mind?’

  She peers round, surprised, as if she’s forgotten I’m here. She lifts her arm and the door opens. Before it closes, I catch a last glimpse of her, photo frame in hand. Still smiling.

  I shove my frame along the carpet, dragging my heels behind. Tears roll down my face, unstoppable. Like Pandora, she has unlocked them. Those memories I have kept buried for so long.

  And now they’re coming for me.

  Flying up out of the depths.

  CHAPTER 26

  Twenty-six years pre-Crisis

  MARY

  ‘Oh, one last thing—’

  ‘Quick, Piet. I’m nearly out of credit.’ A fawn dog with floppy ears sniffs my bag for food then trots off to the next phone kiosk.

  There’s a suck of air. ‘I’ve made arrangements. For Friday.’

  I loop the silver cord tight around my fingers. I imagine his mouth against the handset. His breath vibrating along the wires, all the way to me.

  ‘You mean—?’

  ‘In the morning. I don’t have to leave.’

  My thumbnail grates over the metal ridges of the cord.

  ‘Did you hear me, Mary?’ The display panel flashes zeros. ‘I said I can st—’

  I clasp the phone to my chest. Squeeze it tight. And breathe.

  He always leaves early, just as the first streaks of gold colour the sky. That’s when the guilt comes knocking. But not tonight.

  Tonight, when the heat fades a little, we’ll take a stroll down to the waterhole and see what comes to drink. We’ll tumble
into that rickety old bed and stay there until the hornbills chatter us awake.

  We won’t get dressed, won’t go anywhere.

  Tonight, he is all mine.

  ‘I have something for you,’ he says, the grease shining on his lips. The last couple of sosaties sizzle on the fire. Somewhere close by a hyena calls, its lonesome notes rising and falling. He delves into his pack and pulls out a small white box.

  I raise an eyebrow, try to smother my delight. ‘Didn’t we just do my birthday?’

  Fire-shadows jump over his face, accentuating the whites of his eyes. My heart is thumping.

  It feels like Christmas at Grandma’s.

  Like I’m four years old and I’m opening my very first present.

  Inside the box is a purple velvet pouch. I tug the cord loose and a golden bracelet tips into my palm.

  ‘It’s not one of your fancy Western designers,’ he says, watching me. ‘But it’s hand-crafted and each piece is unique.’

  I twist it round in my fingers. Spirals of foliage clamber across the gold; each leaf and petal has been meticulously engraved. ‘Those were my idea,’ he adds, almost bashful. ‘Indigenous species only, of course.’

  I slip it over my wrist; the cool metal slides against my skin. ‘I love it,’ I say, eyes stinging. ‘It’s the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever had.’

  I load the track on my Walkman and we dance barefoot beneath the mopane tree, our headphones connected, as the fire fizzes and spits. When the song ends we keep turning together, in slow circles. Amidst the chorus of crickets and frogs come other cries. The wail of a jackal. The screech of an eagle owl. The whoop of a hyena as it rallies its clan.

  The wind picks up, spraying us with dust, and we run inside. We pull off our clothes, laughing at the dirt that falls from our hair. As we move together, the bed creaks and the bushwillows rattle outside. Piet’s back arches against my fingers as I probe his neck with my tongue, the charcoal taste of him in my mouth. I lower my hand, circling the vertebrae at the base of his spine. His breathing slows, deepens. The radio crackles; faint voices cut in and out, brusque clips of Afrikaans. I slip my hand into the hollow under his ribs. His caresses become more urgent, pulling me closer, kneading my skin. The receiver splutters: a fuzz of static in the wind. My fingers stretch across his stomach, as light as a butterfly’s tongue.

  Piet, is jy daar?

  He freezes. I feel the ebb and flow of breath against my cheek.

  Piet?

  He pulls away from me and lifts himself up on one elbow. My heart plunges.

  He leans across and switches the radio off.

  The first thing I hear is the hammering on the door. It steals into my dream: the two of us, caught in a cyclone, trees slamming against the hut as we’re tossed around like corks. Then comes the shout:

  ‘Piet? Piet, man! Open the bladdy door!’

  I open my eyes. Piet sits bolt upright. It sounds like Dani: one of the rangers he trained with. Piet leaps out of bed and grabs his shorts, stepping into them as he runs. I just manage to get my shirt on before the door hurls open.

  Dirt spirals across the floor. ‘Ag, man, where you been?’ cries Dani, his eyes screwed tight. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you. Why didn’t you pick up?’

  I give my jeans a desperate yank. There’s a raw thump in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘Sorry, I … I didn’t hear…’ Piet’s voice trails off as Dani brushes past him and stops.

  Dani glares at me. ‘Yussus.’ He twists his lips as if he’s about to spit.

  This is the threat that has lurked behind every touch, every kiss. Ready to fall on our love like a guillotine.

  Dani makes a noise like a growl. ‘Soos die vader, so die seun.’

  Piet balls his hands into fists. The colour rises from the base of his neck all the way up to his cheeks. And I work it out: like father, like son.

  ‘What’s happened?’ His voice is like sandpaper. Dani doesn’t answer. ‘For Christ’s sake, man, just spit it out!’

  Dani’s gaze lingers on me a moment longer before he turns to Piet. ‘Fokken stropers. They got one: a female. Could be more. Bastards started a fire, down by the western perimeter. We thought it was more refugees.’ Dani shakes his head. ‘I sent everyone down there. Left them free rein in the rest of the park.’

  Stropers, Afrikaans for poachers. Piet’s told me all about them, how more and more are crossing the border. With rhino horn worth as much as gold and Mozambique still in the grip of a bloody civil war, it doesn’t matter what defences the parks put in, how closely the game guards patrol their sections. Desperate people will risk everything.

  Piet snatches the radio off the table.

  ‘The dogs have picked up the trail,’ says Dani. ‘I hope the hounds have a bloody good go at them first.’

  ‘What about the rhino?’ asks Piet. ‘Is she still alive?’

  ‘For now. But it’s not looking good.’ Dani heaves a sigh. ‘She’s down on her side, in a gully. She took two darts, we can’t move her.’ Dani’s face stiffens. ‘They made a fucking mess of it, Piet.’

  Piet strides to the cupboard and pulls out his rifle. Cold flutters of panic race round my belly. I try to catch his eye but I can feel it already, like a wall coming down.

  ‘And now this bloody wind keeps changing,’ continues Dani. ‘They’ve set a backburn but the flames are jumping right over it. It’s already crossed two firebreaks. We need all the beaters we can get.’

  Piet grabs his jacket and the two of them march to the door.

  ‘I can help.’ I try to keep the desperation out of my voice.

  Piet doesn’t look at me, just shakes his head. ‘It’s too danger—’

  ‘Please, Dani.’ Dani looks round. I steel every part of me to meet his gaze. ‘Let me come.’

  Dani shrugs his shoulders. His lip curls. ‘If you think you can make yourself useful.’

  I tug on my boots and run after them. The jeep’s headlights cast two tunnels of light into the scrub. Spiky clusters of leaves and thorns tumble past my ankles; the wind’s high-pitched whine sounds like hunted prey. I cup my hands over my eyes. Through the swirls of dust, I see Piet, locked in conversation with Dani, his hands slicing the air. As I approach, the two men swing into the front and Dani fires up the engine.

  We tear through the bush, bouncing over ridges, snapping branches on both sides. I see Piet’s profile in silhouette: his jaw is rigid, the anger pulsing off him. He doesn’t look round. A speckled bird darts in front of the jeep. It swoops left and right, blinded by the glare, its frenzied wings a blur of motion. Normally Dani would slow down, flick the lights off and on, but not tonight. The small, feathered body smacks into the bumper and bounces off.

  ‘Where did they get in?’ Piet has to shout over the engine’s roar.

  ‘Not sure yet,’ says Dani. ‘But they won’t get back over the border tonight.’

  The jeep twists round another corner and I duck down as more debris flies past. As I clutch the back of Piet’s seat my fingers brush his shoulder. He flinches. Just minutes ago I was lying in his arms. I want to scream at him, beat my fists against his back. Anything, to make him look.

  The radio sparks. Dani clamps it to one ear. All I can make out are muffled crackles.

  ‘They found a hole in the fence,’ he shouts, gripping the steering wheel tight in one hand. ‘About forty kilometres north. Looks like they made it out of the park.’

  Piet swears and Dani presses his foot down harder. The jeep pitches and rocks until eventually it skids to a stop by a huge termite mound. Two vehicles are already there: one is a park truck, the other doesn’t have any markings and looks military. Dani radios ahead to warn them we’re coming.

  ‘Only a few minutes,’ he says to Piet. ‘We’re needed elsewhere.’ I follow his gaze and am shocked to see a flickering orange tear across the horizon that seems to grow by the second. Even from this distance I can smell it: the acrid stench of torched vegetation. I glance at Piet and see th
e flames reflected in his eyes.

  ‘Slowly now, no sudden movements,’ says Dani. ‘She’s still heavily sedated, but we don’t want to cause her any more trauma.’

  As we approach the gully, I see two men bent over a huge grey hulk. It looks more like a carcass. The rhino’s head is stained black with blood; a continual stream bubbles out of the gashes in her face where her horns used to be.

  ‘Jesus.’ Piet’s voice is a whisper.

  ‘They used a panga. Cut right into her sinuses,’ says one of the men, a ranger. ‘She’s struggling to breathe.’ The guard beside him gently wipes her mouth. ‘The vet’s on his way, but I don’t know how long she’ll last.’

  There’s a pitiful gurgling noise as the rhino tries to take a breath. The bile rises to my throat. I swallow. ‘What’s a panga?’

  It’s the ranger who answers. ‘African knife. Bit like a machete. Not a precise instrument.’

  Dani’s eyes gleam at me. ‘Every gram of horn counts. So they slash as close to the base as possible.’

  I’ve heard the horror stories, but nothing has prepared me for this: a living animal with half its face gouged out. Suffocating in its own blood.

  ‘They must have given her a huge dose,’ says Piet as he lowers himself down. ‘How far off is the vet? D’you reckon he’s got enough antidote?’

  ‘I don’t know. At least an hour.’ The ranger sighs. ‘But if we don’t get her up soon, it’ll start affecting her circulation. There’s a risk she could end up being crushed by her own bodyweight.’

  Piet drops to his knees beside her. ‘What about this wound? Have you put anything on it?’

  The ranger shakes his head. ‘I’ve cleaned it up as best I can, but we need to seal it. She’s losing a lot of blood. I need antibiotics, proper dressings. Deep cuts like this turn septic fast.’

  ‘How about a temporary barrier?’ Piet nods at the guard. ‘Isn’t there a local infusion we can use?’