by Eve Smith
‘No,’ I say, softening my voice, ‘they can’t.’
I think of the newsfeeds. Rows of beds all squished together, people hunched over bowls, slumped on floors. Bandaged stumps of limbs…
‘The doctors don’t have any medicine that works. And they already have more patients than they can cope with. Your mum’s much better off here, in the fresh air, away from—’
‘Why?’ He thumps his hand against the metal bar. The force of it makes me start. ‘Why can’t they make her better?’ Now the tears come. He cuffs them back. ‘That’s what doctors are supposed to do, isn’t it? Make people better?’
My heart burns. ‘I’m so sorry. Right now, the best thing for her is rest.’ He glowers at me. ‘You know, people do recover.’ My platitude sticks in my throat. The survival rate for this TB is forty percent at best. And that’s assuming nothing else takes hold.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask gently.
‘Peter.’
‘How old are you, Peter?’
He juts out his chin. ‘Nearly eleven.’
‘Is it just you and your mum at the farm?’ He hesitates and nods.
The boy looks as skinny as hell, but there are no other indications that the disease is active.
‘Do you know how to use the Gateway?’
He frowns. ‘Of course.’
‘So you understand who to contact if … if you need help.’
His eyes drop to the ground. He gives the post a violent kick; the gate hurtles back.
‘Where’s your mask, Peter?’ He doesn’t answer. ‘It’s important to wear one. To stop you getting sick.’
He grinds his tooth over his lip. ‘Didn’t stop her, did it?’
Part of me, the selfish part, wants to hit the accelerator. But I can’t just knock this child off the gate and abandon him.
I swallow. ‘Maybe not. But if you’re going to look after your mum you need to try and stay strong.’
I sneak a quick glance at the farmhouse. All is quiet. I check my mask, take a deep breath and open my door. Peter eyes me warily. I walk round to the boot, the back of my neck tingling. When I flip the lid his eyes widen. But he doesn’t let go of the gate.
‘It’s OK. I’m just getting something.’ I haul the deer leg out of the boot, brandishing it with both hands. ‘Take this.’ He scowls. ‘It’s venison: deer meat. Very nutritious: packed with protein and iron. That’ll help your mum. It’s tasty too. But don’t overcook it.’
He doesn’t budge. ‘You’re just trying to get me off this gate.’
I can’t help but smile. This boy’s smart as well as brave. ‘Maybe I am. But everything I’ve told you is true. And when I come again I’ll bring you more.’
His head tilts. ‘How do I know you’ll come back?’
‘Because it’s a promise.’
He blinks. ‘People break promises. All the time.’
It kills me. He’s only a child and he’s all grown up.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘I’m not one of those people.’
I see the conflict in his freckled brown eyes, the lack of trust. God knows what he’s been through. He slides off the gate. His feet scuff towards me, pushing up the dirt. As he gets closer I realise just how scrawny he is; his clothes look as though they belong to an older brother. My heart twists. Maybe they did.
I hand him the dark-red stump of flesh. ‘Can you manage?’ He staggers a little and nods. I ferret in my bag for a card. ‘Any problems, you call this number. There’s an email too, in case the lines go down.’
We stand there a moment, unwilling to move. My arms reach out and pull him close. It’s a clumsy gesture but the boy doesn’t flinch. I can feel his back rising and falling as he gulps soft, quick breaths. The hunk of deer presses into my ribs, a fleshy bulk between us.
I let him go. I slam the boot and heave myself back into the car. ‘Keep your doors locked. Don’t hang around outside. Anyone comes apart from me or the food truck, don’t answer, OK?’
‘OK.’
My window slides up; the purifier whirs discreetly. As the car rattles over the cattle grid, I watch the boy totter back to the farmhouse, clutching the leg.
And, just like that, another slice of my humanity withers.
CHAPTER 40
KATE
‘Come on, Mum!’
‘Coming, coming.’
I risk another quick scan of the carpark and scurry after her. Sasha strides towards the arched glass doors as if she is leading an invasion. Three teenagers dawdle along behind, heads buried in their phones. A woman in a green headscarf and sunglasses climbs out of a car. My eye lingers on a man in a track jacket and trainers who seems in no hurry to go anywhere. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, his forehead gleams with sweat. He catches me looking and stares right back. I force myself to turn away. It doesn’t stop that slow tingle up my spine.
It only takes one.
‘Everything OK?’ says Sasha, as I glance over my shoulder. The man follows us through the doors and swaggers left down a corridor, his soles squeaking on the tiles.
‘Yup.’ I clamp my mouth shut before the question makes it onto my tongue. This letting-go business is hard. A few weeks ago this mall was in total lock-down.
Sasha narrows her eyes. ‘You were about to ask, weren’t you?’
I raise my hands in surrender. ‘I didn’t, though, did I?’
‘Honestly, Mum…’
‘I know, I know. It’s just … I’m programmed.’ She rolls her eyes but there’s a glimpse of a smile. I sigh. ‘You wait until you’re a mother.’
Her face tightens for a second, and she buries her head in her bag. ‘Actually, I ordered myself a new one.’ She holds aloft a purple polypropylene mask with the words KISS MY MASK in jagged yellow capitals. ‘Like it?’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Very droll.’ I manage not to ask if it’s been produced to a sufficient spec, but make a mental note to check later. I slip my arm into hers. ‘Come on, then. Let’s hit the shops.’
This trip was my idea. I used to love shopping. I remember going with Pen when I was Sasha’s age, trailing round the precinct with a clutch of bags, scooping up bargains. Now it’s just another exercise in risk management. But Sasha’s always game for a spree, so this is my way of thanking her. And finding out what she really thinks. I still can’t believe how good she was with Lily. But something’s bothering her, I know it is.
A sudden memory of Lily surfaces, clinging to me. I remember that initial emptiness when I saw her. The hurt in her eyes. And yet, the longer I spent in that room, the more familiar she became. We have no shared history, no binding memories. But, by the end, there was a visceral connection I never expected. Her blood to my blood. Her bones to mine.
Sasha ambles into a shoe boutique. The air sticks to my throat, hot and clammy; the purifier can’t be working properly, I ought to report it. She brandishes a brown ankle boot with a platform heel. ‘What d’you reckon, Mum? A bit retro?’
‘Maybe.’ I clear my throat. It really is stuffy in here. ‘Isn’t there that other shop, Sasha, a bit further down? They normally have a better selection.’
Sasha waves at an assistant. ‘I think I’ll try them on.’
I sneak a quick peek at the monitor. No alerts. I survey the racks of monoped merchandise and try to drum up some enthusiasm. I inspect a black shoe with a flamboyant gold buckle and kitten heel. As I apply disinfectant gel from the dispenser I notice a woman, about my age, peering through the shop window. She’s not looking at shoes, though. Her gaze is fixed on Sasha, her lips drawn tight. It’s the lady from the carpark. She looks as if she’s just seen a ghost.
‘Do you know that woman, Sasha?’
‘What woman?’ Sasha’s head remains bent over her trainers.
‘The one at the window. With the headscarf.’ By the time Sasha looks up the woman is already walking away. ‘She was staring at you. Like she knew you from somewhere.’
Sasha frowns and heaves on a boot. ‘She was probabl
y just looking at the display, Mum. This is a shoe shop. You should try it.’
I follow the green headscarf until it disappears into another boutique. I watch for a few seconds, but she doesn’t come out. When I turn round, Sasha is wandering around in her socks, picking up one boot after another. Even she seems a bit lacklustre about it all.
‘I thought we might try that new brasserie for lunch,’ I say. ‘It’s supposed to be very good. You know, the one Jenny was talking about? It has excellent ratings.’
Sasha gives me a look. ‘For food or hygiene?’
I smile. ‘Both.’
The assistant arrives with another red box. A pair of faux-fur boots lie nestled in tissue paper like guinea pigs off to be buried.
‘I checked out their menu: they do that pasta dish you like. Made with real eggs.’ Sasha tugs on a guinea pig and zips it up. ‘We probably shouldn’t leave it too late, though. Jenny says they get really busy.’
‘OK. Sure.’
Two pairs of boots and three boutiques later we finally make it to Keelie’s Brasserie. The place is packed. Exhausted mothers shovel spoons into toddlers, their pushchairs waiting patiently by their sides; coiffured ladies huddle over tables, swapping the latest travesties of marriage. With a little negotiation, I score a table by the window. There’s a reassuring echo of conversation and tinkling of cutlery against plates. Sasha stares at the menu board, tapping her fingers. She’s let her nails go: they’re all ragged and chipped. That’s not like her.
‘Linguine it is.’ She exhales. ‘So, then.’ She lifts her eyes to mine. ‘What’s the news?’
I smooth the napkin over my knees. ‘What do you mean?’
Sasha raises her eyebrows. ‘Come on, Mum. You hate shopping.’
‘Well, maybe it’s my way of saying thanks.’ I smile. ‘Talking of which, Liscombe House messaged me earlier. We’re all set for Sunday.’
‘Oh, good. Dad’ll be pleased.’
I peer at her over my coffee. ‘And you?’
She frowns and takes a couple of noisy sucks on her straw. ‘Of course.’
The waitress arrives to take our food order. I scamper through our choices and wait for Sasha to say something. She doesn’t.
‘So…’ I exhale. ‘These past few weeks have been a bit of a rollercoaster. How are you feeling about things?’
She inclines her head. ‘“Things”?’
I lick some froth off my lips. ‘You know: me. Lily. The birth-mother business.’
‘Ah. I thought that might be it.’ She pushes her glass away. ‘Can we not have this conversation now? We’re supposed to be doing the mum-daughter thing.’
‘That’s what the mum-daughter thing is, honey. Having conversations. Particularly the tricky ones.’
She makes a snorting sound.
‘What does that mean?’
She shakes her head. ‘Nothing. Forget it.’ She keeps her eyes on the table.
I touch her hand. ‘Please, Sasha. I promise I won’t jump down your throat.’
She scoffs. ‘Well, that’ll be a first.’ I manage to smile through it. Just.
She looks at me and sighs. ‘You really want to know?’
My stomach tightens. She sounds like a doctor from the old days, just before they gave a terminal prognosis. I nod.
‘And you won’t get upset?’
‘No, I won’t.’ I offer her my little finger, the way she used to, when she was little. ‘Pinky promise.’
She reaches over and curls her little finger around mine. ‘Pinky promise it is.’
She takes a breath. ‘I know this sounds … It’s not going to sound right, but…’ Her eyes dart from her hands to me and back again. ‘This thing with your birth mother. I get it’s important, of course I do. But it’s like it’s taken over. You said it wouldn’t change anything, but it already has.’
I clasp my hands around my cup and squeeze my lips together. In case any words try to fly out.
‘I mean, you’re always squirrelling yourself away. You don’t talk. Not to me, at any rate.’ She jabs a finger in her chest. ‘I’m the teenager here. I thought that was my gig, not yours.’ I attempt a smile. ‘And even when you are around, you’re so … uptight.’ A flush of red creeps into her cheeks. ‘We don’t even mention Pen anymore. It feels like, I don’t know, like I’m supposed to forget about my real gran, while you scurry round trying to find me a new one.’
Hot shards prick behind my eyes. I blink them back.
She bites her lip. ‘You see, this is exactly why I didn’t want to do this.’ Someone on the table next to us bursts out laughing.
‘It’s OK, Sasha. Really.’ I reach for her hand. ‘It’s me that should be apologising. I know I haven’t…’ The words get stuck and I try again. ‘When I discovered who my mother actually was … well, I had some doubts of my own. I suppose I wanted to protect you.’ I swallow. ‘It became a kind of compulsion. To keep trawling. As if all that information might …’ I hunch my shoulders ‘…I don’t know, prepare me somehow. Explain why she did what she did.’ I sigh. ‘I haven’t forgotten about Pen, though. I promise. Not for one moment. Whatever happens with Lily, she’ll never replace your gran.’
I feel the familiar ache, but it’s not as raw; it doesn’t suck the air out of me as it did those first few weeks.
‘I read up about it, you know,’ Sasha says quietly. ‘About what happened.’
I knew this was coming. I’m surprised it hasn’t already.
‘She was the one who originally discovered it, wasn’t she? That plant.’ She grimaces. ‘I don’t want to sound mean, but this Mary, Lily … I mean, she seems nice. I actually felt sorry for her when we were there. But what kind of person is she, really?’
Now it’s my turn to look down. How much do I say when I don’t even know myself?
‘I know it’s difficult, Sasha, but we can’t really make judgements until we hear her side of the story. As far as I understand, it wasn’t Lily’s job to run those drug trials. It was Bekker’s.’
Sasha sucks in her cheeks. ‘I know, but she worked right alongside him. She had access to the information.’ She frowns. ‘People died from that drug, before it was even sent to South Africa. They already knew how toxic it was and they still experimented on them like rats. What kind of people would do that?’
My chest tightens. How long must I wait before Lily gives me some answers?
Sasha lifts her eyes. ‘Do you think she had anything to do with the other stuff?’ She swallows. ‘You know. With EAA?’
So now we’re on to the conspiracy theories. Although I can’t say the same question hasn’t occurred to me. ‘I doubt it. After all, she did testify against him. And, as far as I’m aware, there was never any case against her.’
Sasha’s mouth slides into a half-smile. ‘Yeah, but that was a long time after the attacks. If she suspected, why didn’t she come forward earlier?’
I have no answer. I’ve been around these questions so many times, I’m worn out. And Sasha doesn’t know the half of it. I think of that photo of the two of them at the conference and feel the same nagging twist inside. But who am I to criticise? How will history judge what I do for a living?
We’re both relieved when the waitress arrives with our order. She deposits our dishes with professional cheer. A tantalising aroma of lemon and garlic wafts up from my plate.
‘They never actually convicted him, you know,’ I say. ‘Bekker died in prison, during the trial. He always swore he was innocent.’
Sasha stabs three ribbons of pasta and lifts them to her lips. ‘Yeah, well, from what I’ve read, the evidence was pretty clear.’ I watch Sasha’s mouth moving in slow circles.
I pick up my fork and put it back down. ‘Look, Sasha, I’m under no illusions. I know she’s no angel. Come to that, nor am I.’ I sigh. ‘This is your choice. You don’t have to see her; you don’t have to have anything to do with her, if you don’t want to. But I do. Because whatever she may or may not have done, she is my
mother. Are you OK with that?’
Sasha brushes her lips with a napkin. There it is again, that tightness in her face. She keeps her eyes on her bowl and nods.
I lift her chin. ‘Sasha?’ My heart thuds. Her beautiful blue eyes have misted over. ‘Oh, love. Look, I’ll cancel the visit, make our excuses, we can just—’
‘No, Mum, it’s not that, it’s…’ Her gaze wanders desperately around the room.
I knew it. That idiot boy. I say the words as gently as I can: ‘Is it Jake?’
She doesn’t answer. One solitary tear carves a line down her cheek. I clench the table. You want to take the pain for them, but you can’t.
I fold my hands over hers. ‘You’re a beautiful girl, Sasha. And smart. Never be afraid to walk away from something, if it’s making you unhappy.’
A strangled noise comes out of her throat. My worry distils into fear.
‘Sasha, what is it?’
She shakes her head. ‘Not that smart.’ She gulps back a sob. ‘I’m two weeks late. God, Mum. What am I going to do?’
CHAPTER 41
LILY
The lights go off, and the fidgeting and murmurs gradually cease. Everyone turns to the doorway, which is festooned with slightly tired bunting and pink balloons. Tongues slide over lips, smudges of lipstick plastering the cracks. Anne processes in as if she’s walking down the aisle, and a sickly smell of baking permeates the room. The residents have the same expression I remember seeing on some children’s faces at their parties: a heady mixture of excitement and dread.
‘Happy Birthday, Lily!’
An enormous Victoria sponge slides perilously close to the edge of her tray. As the cake lands on the table a cloud of icing sugar puffs into the air. All eyes are drawn to the glimmering seven and zero.
Anne turns off the candles and picks up a knife; its steely glint draws me in like a promise. ‘Make a wish.’
I think of Kate, her hand tucked into mine, and something wrenches inside. My daughter. My only daughter. There are still so many things I need to tell her. But even as the thought takes shape, I see the envelope floating to the floor. I’ve searched everywhere for her letter. Maybe I put it down somewhere, somewhere so secret that I’ve forgotten. Mother used to do things like that all the time. Could this be the start of my own unravelling?