by Eve Smith
The ranger speaks quickly to the guard in Zulu. The guard says something, nods and picks up his rifle. He scrambles out of the gully and marches off into the dark.
‘About two kilometres west of here, there’s a sandy area where a creeper grows,’ says the ranger. ‘He says they use the pulp from its leaves to treat skin infections.’ His gaze returns to the rhino. ‘I’ve no idea if it’ll work on her. But it’s worth a try.’
‘What’s it called?’ I say. All three men turn to me and my cheeks burn. I catch Piet’s eye for a second. He immediately looks away.
The ranger frowns. ‘Ikhambi-ekhohlisayo. I’m not familiar with its English name.’
An unearthly roar blasts from Dani’s radio. It sounds like a jet engine flying directly overhead. He listens intently, trying to decipher words amidst all the snarls and snaps. I can taste the smoke in the back of my throat. The fire has ripped open the sky: no more stars tonight. I wonder how many creatures have already perished in its jaws.
Dani looks at Piet. ‘We have to go.’
Piet strokes the animal’s back, as gentle as a lover, and climbs out of the gully.
‘Good luck,’ he says to the ranger. ‘I really hope she makes it.’ He keeps his eyes fixed on the rhino. ‘You should stay.’
It takes me a second to realise it’s me Piet’s speaking to. My heart thuds. ‘Piet, please. I can help.’ I rub the bracelet on my wrist like a talisman, as if it can transport us back to the tender world of constellations and kisses, back before any of this happened.
‘It’s too dangerous.’
I turn to Dani, my breath erupting in tight little bursts. ‘You said you needed more beaters.’ His eyes narrow. He doesn’t answer.
Finally, Piet looks at me. ‘I’m sorry, Mary. It’s decided.’ His eyes are black coals in the darkness. ‘You’re better off here.’
It’s as if he’s just gouged a hole in my body. As though my organs are spilling out onto the red earth and seeping down to the molten core below.
I don’t hear from Piet for another three weeks. Not that I need to.
That one look tells me it’s over.
CHAPTER 27
LOOK. THINK. TELL.
Have you, or a relative, been offered illegal medication? Have you noticed any odd behaviour where you live or work? Do you think your medi-profile might have been hacked?
Drug resistance is only a few mutations away. If you see ANYTHING suspicious, report it immediately. Be vigilant. Trust your instincts. Our lives depend on it.
COUNTER INFECTION POLICING.
KATE
‘Hi, Mrs Connelly. It’s Harry.’ His breath gushes down the phone. ‘I’ve got news.’ I stiffen. ‘It’s been a toughie. In fact, one of my toughest. But, as my boss always says, “persistence pays off”.’
My pulse goes into overdrive: all gallops and hops, like a child learning to skip.
‘We’ve found her.’
I reach for some words, but they’ve abandoned me. I grind my nail into the counter and stare at the canvas print of the four of us. Our last holiday with Pen, although we didn’t know it. Bright smiles and blue sky, hair blowing wild around our heads.
‘Mrs Connelly, are you there?’
‘Yes, sorry, I…’ I lick my lips. ‘Are you certain?’
‘One hundred percent. We’ve tracked down the deed poll.’
Fear scuttles round my belly. I should be jubilant.
‘I can tell you, your average person doesn’t cover their tracks like that. But then, she wasn’t your average person, was she?’
My eyes are still glued to the print. But instead of my family, it’s her face I see. Her smile.
‘Congratulations, Harry. I know how much work you’ve put in.’ It sounds lame, even to me. And another thought hits: what the hell am I going to tell Sasha?
Harry sweeps on, undeterred. ‘So, are you ready?’ I close my eyes. I’m about as far from ready as it’s possible to be. ‘Your birth mother changed her name to Lily Taylor. Turns out Lily was her grandmother’s middle name.’
Lily.
Lily Taylor.
If I say it enough times, it might begin to seem real.
‘I used to have a great aunt Lily,’ Harry continues. ‘Sweet old lady. Until she got Alzheimer’s.’
Mary Sommers. Lily Taylor. They’re just names.
‘I’ve got all the documents; I’ll send them over now. Have a look through, and then we can chat about next steps.’
Next steps? Jesus.
‘I’ve traced her to a residential home. Some really high-end joint.’
‘What?’ It’s as if Harry’s just pushed me out of my front door and slammed it.
‘Don’t worry, those places don’t take just anyone. She’ll be getting top-notch care. Not like the fleapits most of us are destined for.’
‘But I…’ The words lodge in my throat. ‘I didn’t realise you had an address already…’
‘Oh, yeah. Piece of cake now we’ve got the name. Actually, it’s not that far from you—’
‘Harry, I’ll call you straight back.’
I press both hands against the wood and breathe. I remember having the same feeling when I discovered I was pregnant. I’d wanted a baby so much, for so long. But, after my initial elation, all the dangers that I’d so convincingly played down reared their ugly heads.
I can kill it right here, if I want to.
I gaze out of the window. An enormous bumblebee crawls out of a purple allium, black legs furred with pollen. Its ponderous body lurches from one sagging flower to the next.
I thought I wanted it, I really did. But now I realise that, deep down, part of me never believed we’d find her.
I remember what the South African in the dispensary told me. He’d actually worked in one of those hospitals they used. When he saw the data in Brotanol’s pharmacy file, he tried to object. He couldn’t understand how those trials had ever been approved.
I stare at Pen’s face, at the laughter lines mapping out from her eyes, and my whole body aches.
You should look…
Did you have any idea what you were starting, Pen?
If you were here, what would you say to me now?
Stick to the facts. Remember why you started this.
Why it’s important to carry on.
I drag my eyes away, take a deep breath and pick up the phone.
‘Sorry about that, Harry. Someone at the door. You were saying … my mother’s in a care home.’
‘That’s right, Mrs Connelly. Osteoarthritis. I suppose in your line of work you come across it quite a lot.’ He coughs. ‘Other than that, though, for a lady her age, she’s in pretty good shape, according to her profile. No signs of dementia. No cancer or UTIs. None of the usual suspects.’
I wonder what qualify as the usual suspects in Harry’s mind.
‘If you like, we could send her a mess—’
‘No.’ I swallow. ‘What I mean is, I’d like to think about it.’ Ridiculous, really. I’ve been thinking about nothing else for weeks.
There’s a slight hesitation. ‘Of course. No rush, no rush,’ he says, amenable as ever. ‘Just let us know when you’re ready.’ They must be used to people baulking at the finishing line. ‘Or, if you prefer, we can organise an intermediary. To, you know, facilitate things.’
‘An intermediary?’ That sounds even more formidable. Like some kind of peace treaty negotiation.
‘Some families use them. Particularly when circumstances aren’t so…’ I brace myself for Harry’s choice of word. ‘Straightforward.’
‘Hmm. I’ll give it some thought,’ I say, trying to rally some enthusiasm. ‘Thanks again, Harry. You did a great job.’
I lean back and massage my temples. My head feels as if it’s been submerged in a pressure chamber and come up too fast.
I glance at the clock. One hour before Sasha’s home.
As I pad into the study, a curious calm settles over me. But when I open my laptop, I
see my hand is shaking. Harry’s email is already there, loaded with attachments: medical records, deed poll, details about the residential home. God only knows how he got them. I smooth my hair back behind my ears and open a new document. My fingers hover over the keys.
It feels like vertigo. Like my first sponsored abseil. Hands gripping rope, toes clamped to the edge. About to step off.
Honi soit qui mal y pense…
If I’m going to do this, then I’m going to do it myself. The old-fashioned way.
Dear Lily,
Too informal? I press delete. The cursor flashes.
Dear Ms Taylor,
No. That won’t do either.
Dear Mother,
Just typing the letters makes my fingers tingle.
Well, that’ll certainly get her attention.
Then again, it could frighten her off for good.
CHAPTER 28
Twenty-six years pre-Crisis
MARY
I look at his face, and it still burns, this unbearable longing. I’m frightened to say it, but I must.
‘Piet. I’m pregnant.’
There’s a huff of breath, as if I’ve just slugged him. His eyes pinch shut.
I stared at that little white square while the toilet dripped behind me, the stench of bleach making me want to gag. I counted the seconds in my head as my lips murmured a prayer. But no prayer could stop those two red lines from materialising.
He swallows. ‘I thought you were on the pill.’ Each word spits out, staccato.
‘I was.’ My voice is thin and reedy; I’m trying so hard not to cry. I tell myself that everything will be OK. That somehow, I’ll get through this. But I am two months pregnant. And completely alone.
‘Maybe it was that time I got sick. Remember?’ I touch his arm.
He snatches it away as if I am contaminated. ‘Don’t.’
The words roar out before I can stop them. ‘You never minded before.’
I hate how I sound. I’m not one of those women, all bitter and needy.
‘Look,’ I say. ‘It’s not my fault. I didn’t plan for this to happen. Please, Piet. I don’t know what to do.’
Piet scrapes his fingers through his hair. He can’t even bring himself to look at me. I wonder if things might have been different. Or whether he would always have left me, and I was just too stupid to see.
‘OK, OK. Sorry. Let’s think about this.’ His legs start to jiggle, as if they’re itching to run. I want to press my hands on them, make them still.
All of a sudden they stop. His tongue slides over his teeth. ‘I can put you in touch with someone,’ he says, softly. ‘Someone discreet.’
It feels like an icy draft, blowing through me. ‘What do you mean?’
His beautiful blue eyes turn to me. There’s fire there, but it’s not passion. ‘Don’t play games, Mary. Come on. You know you’ll have to get rid of it.’
I am standing at a metal gate flanked by two white pillars. An ornate trellised veranda nestles behind a cluster of palms, just visible above the security wall. The grounds are clearly extensive. This house was built with old money. For the ‘right’ kind of people. This house says: we have what you want.
I sense movement at one of the upstairs windows. Black shutters have been pinned back either side, like dead butterflies’ wings. I see a girl peering out; she has dark-blonde pigtails and is wearing a red spotted dress with puffed sleeves. For some reason I lift my arm and wave. She doesn’t wave back. Just stands there, still, like a photograph. Her head swivels round as a woman appears behind her, with a tight face and short brown hair.
My hand moves over my belly. I turn and walk away.
I have come to Piet’s house, to see the lives he favours over this one. The family he’s so desperate to protect.
So when it comes to it, I do not waver.
He killed our love. He will not kill our child.
CHAPTER 29
LILY
‘There we are, Mrs Taylor. All finished.’
Hailey wraps a fluffy white robe around my shoulders and helps me off the table. ‘You sit down there,’ she says. ‘You’ve earned a rest.’
She’s given my joints the full workout; every part of me is throbbing or on fire. But there’s magic in those hands of hers. And it’s nice to be touched.
‘You did well this morning,’ she says, as if I’ve actually achieved something. ‘I should think you’re feeling a bit tired.’
I’m exhausted. But that’s not the physio. Even if I do manage to drop off at night, I keep starting awake. I’m convinced someone’s there, in the room. Like a child, I’ve taken to keeping a light on.
Hailey squirts the table with disinfectant and gives it a vigorous wipe. As she busies herself dispatching my germs, my eyelids begin to droop. Vivid patterns spiral behind my eyes. It feels safe in this room, in Hailey’s capable hands, with her soothing music and exotic oils. No one will come for me here.
‘Same time next week, Mrs Taylor?’
Her way of moving me along. I pretend I’m asleep. Through the slits of my eyes I watch her scrubbing her fingers, removing any parts of me that might have seeped in through the gloves.
‘Oh, bless! You’re dropping off.’ She blots her hands on a paper towel. The snap of the bin jolts me back.
‘Shall we get you back to your room?’
I do not answer but she helps me up anyway and manoeuvres me into the wheelchair. They’re fond of rhetorical questions, the staff here.
Hailey opens the door and a blast of cold air hits my face. As she wheels me down the corridor my eyes move over the walls, darting from one flowery print to the next. I’ve taken to doing this, scanning each room repeatedly, though what exactly I’m looking for, I’m not sure.
Hailey transfers me into my chair and tucks a blanket over my knees. ‘There we are: nice and comfy.’ They’re fond of first-person plural pronouns, too. ‘Warm enough?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Now, don’t forget your exercises, will you? Keep those joints nice and active. I’ll see you next week.’
Let’s hope so. The door swings shut behind her. I resume my search of the bedroom. I check the windows, my dressing table, the credenza. All seem to be in order. And then I see it. Leaning against the clock on my bedside table. An envelope, written by hand. My heart thuds. It takes three attempts to lever myself up. I shuffle closer.
Mrs Lily Taylor
Liscombe House
Oxford postmark. Neat, disciplined letters.
The thumping in my chest accelerates. It’s only a few days until my birthday, but still … I scan the bushes outside. They might be there, in the garden, watching. Seeing how I react.
Come on, Lily. Just open the damned thing.
I grasp the envelope: it’s light – too light for a card. I tug at the corner and slip one finger underneath.
It rips.
Inside is one sheet of paper, typed. I read the first two words.
Everything goes black.
Nearly fifty years and the grief still burns, sears right to the bone.
Dear Mother
So many memories. Like paper cuts. Cradling her against me, her tiny body all red and wizened from my womb. Eyes dark as coal, blinking back their first light. Golden hair slicked to her scalp with blood and vernix, those delicate fingers reaching out to the world, conducting an orchestra I cannot see.
You’ll have to get rid of it.
The anger has dulled with the years. The love for him, gone, congealed into something hard and raw. But not for her. Even now, it still blazes. I was a fool to believe it could ever fade.
She was still in my arms when the nurse told me to get her ready. Because the lady from the agency had arrived. I lifted her up, breathed in her sweet, sweet fragrance, still amazed that something so pure could ever have come from me. I remember uncurling each tiny pink finger, which gripped mine as if her life depended on it. I could still feel the weight of her in my arms afte
r she’d gone. Then came those long, dark days, when the milk swelled in my breasts until they hurt, as if my body was punishing me for what I’d done. I remember pumping it into cold plastic bottles. Sobbing as I tipped it down the sink.
I shuffle my frame over to the wardrobe, bend my head into my clothes and grope around for the box. I balance it on the metal bar, catching my breath, and stagger back to the dressing table. I ease the key into the lock.
It finds me straight away, as if it knows. A small brown packet. I lift the flap and give it a shake.
A lock of the finest baby-blonde hair floats into my palm. The room dissolves in a blur.
‘Lily, what is it? Whatever’s the matter?’
My hand curls shut. Anne is staring at me, aghast. I slip Kate’s letter into my pocket.
‘I … it’s nothing.’ I cuff my eyes.
‘Here, let me get you a tissue.’ Anne dives into the bathroom. I feel the itch of hair in my palm and clench my fist tighter. Anne hunkers down beside me and hands me a wad of tissues. ‘Oh, Lily. Would it help to talk about it?’
I stare at her broad, kind face and it pulls at me, the temptation to tell. About the letter. About Kate. About everything I’ve done. These lies, they have a weight to them, that doesn’t diminish with time. I imagine opening my mouth and letting the truth fly out, like an exotic caged bird.
Anne pats my arm. ‘I’m always here for you. You do know that, don’t you?’
Her kindness melts me. She has been good to me, Anne. But this isn’t just my decision to make.
I take a breath. ‘I do. And I’m grateful.’ I sigh. ‘It’s … I had a letter. About an old friend. She passed away. Her daughter wrote to let me know.’
‘Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. Were you close?’
I have to look away. ‘At one time, yes. Although we hadn’t seen each other in a long while.’ I swallow. ‘If you don’t mind, I … I think I just need to be alone for a bit.’