Deadline

by Zaheera Walker

  My name is not Indira and I am not a prostitute. I am a reporter who wanted to find the man who was raping and strangling women.

  I’m sorry to break it to you this way. When you opened up to me, it all changed. I wanted to help you, but I didn’t know how. Please find it in your heart to forgive me. Search deep and you will find your heart is still beating.

  Shane and I married in December and I am going to be a mother soon. If only you had the same, life would have had a beautiful ending.

  You’re a good man and I know it was never your intention to hurt me or the other women. I forgive you and will continue to pray for a miracle. Be kind to yourself. Open yourself to receive all that is destined to come your way. Learn to love yourself. First you and then God. That is all you need to get through life.

  My best wishes,

  Feriyal

  The letter was posted to Westville Prison, but the authorities intercepted it. Three weeks later, she received a call at work.

  “Feriyal speaking. How may I help you?”

  “We received your letter addressed to prisoner Maharaj a while ago.”

  Her blood ran cold. She had never told a soul about it. They wouldn’t understand, but it was something she had to do. “Who did you say you were?”

  “Steve Johnson. I’m a counsellor working with those who are serving lengthy sentences. All letters are screened before they are given to the prisoners.”

  “Well, I think that’s invasive, but I can also understand the reason behind it. What did he say about my letter?”

  “He never read it. I know you meant well, but giving him such a letter will only raise his hopes. It may even lead him to believe he could leave this place one day. That you’d be there for him. It’s not fair.”

  “That was not my intention. I am about to give birth to my first child and wanted to put this episode behind me. Writing to him was a way of repairing the emotional hurt I was feeling.”

  “Enjoy your baby and live your life. Prisoner Maharaj has accepted his fate. Let us not hamper the progress he has made. Please don’t try to make contact with him again.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Invitations for The Quill awards were sent out countrywide. The event was set to take place in Sun City during September.

  PRESS RELEASE

  ‘The Quill’ sponsors fired up by massive response to national competition.

  Guttenburg Incorporated (GI), the official sponsor of The Quill, isproud to announce that more than eight hundred entries were receivedfor the annual national awards for 1997/1998.

  The awards will be presented at a gala dinner in Sun City on Friday, 25 September 1998.

  GI head of communications, Charles Moore, said, “The Quill awards recognise journalists who show drive and determination in their work. We are encouraged by the positive response this year and it gives us immense pleasure to announce the bar has been raised considerably over the last ten years.”

  A credible panel of experts who followed a rigorous process to identify the best entries said it was a tough choice.

  New categories were added to both print and broadcast sections, but all eyes will be on the one who walks away with The Quill, a coveted prize.

  ~ Monday, 31 August 1998

  Anne was over the moon. “What are you wearing? Ooh, this is going to be so exciting. Everyone tries to outsmart the other.”

  Feriyal placed the heat pack on her lower back. That was where it hurt the most. “Right now, I don’t care. I look and feel like a beached whale.”

  “Oh, honey bunch. It’s all in your head. You’ll find something suitable. You always do. Let’s just go and have a ball. It we win great. If we don’t, there’s always the next time.” Anne was chasing the big prize. She was going to retire in a few months and this was the only year to grab the title.

  “I’m just going for the experience. The thrill of this award is not high on my agenda anymore. With less than a month left, I don’t know where I’m going to find an outfit.” She detested the shape of her body. It reminded her of Plasticine. Pinched and prodded. “Two weeks later, I’m due to give birth. There’s too much happening right now.”

  “Go run yourself a nice bath. Relax. Everything will fall into place.”

  ***

  “What a beautiful evening! So glad I decided to attend.” She marvelled at the stars dotted across the night sky.

  “It’s going to be a night to remember.” Shane fished out the olive and drained the last drop of martini. “Look. It’s Anne. I’m gonna ask her to join us.” He waved her over.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the moment has arrived. Please take your seats. We are about to begin.”

  “Guess we’d better grab our seats. I checked and we’re seated at the same table. Shall we head inside?”

  “Everyone looks stunning. I can’t wait to see what happens next.”

  The master of ceremonies just finished his introduction when the three took their seats at a round table.

  Someone dimmed the lights. Moving scenes of human trafficking in a red light district flashed across a wide screen. The picture froze and a voice continued.

  “For Best Video Journalism, judges searched for content, the thinking and story behind it, overall production and editing standards.”

  There was a deafening drum beat. “The winner in this category goes to

  Paarl News Bulletin.”

  The most outstanding photography award went to Steven Naidoo from the Cape Chronicles for his innovative and dynamic approach.

  “The best Human Interest award goes to Anne Jones from the Daily Voice.”

  “Oh my God. Oh my God. That’s me. I don’t believe it.” She squeezed Feriyal and raced to collect her certificate and trophy.

  “At the last minute, we decided to add the Editor of the Year award. The winner was chosen by our judges, who looked for the one person who demonstrated outstanding leadership and journalistic skills that helped to achieve specific results.”

  Everyone held their breaths and looked at editors from newspapers, magazines, TV and radio. Who was it going to be?

  “Shane Black, editor of the Morning Chimes. Our judges described him as a man who has left an indelible imprint in the world of journalism and advertising. Ladies and gentleman, let’s give him a round of applause.”

  “What? There has to be a mistake. I’m just me.” He turned beet-red.

  “I’m so proud of you. You deserve this award. Go on.” Feriyal pushed him forward and continued cheering him on.

  Various awards were handed out that evening. Individuals and teams walked off with trophies, badges, certificates of excellence and cash prizes.

  “We’re almost done. There are just two categories left. The Writer of the Year award looked at individuals who did the most to increase and appreciate the value of news. The ones who used their creativity and innovation to bring readers to the edge of their seats. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.”

  Everyone waited.

  “This person impressed the judges with a fresh style of writing and an ability to do the story behind the story, going where nobody dared to thread before. It was not an easy choice, but the judges think this winner is suitable for The

  Quill award as well.”

  “That sounds like me. My dream come true. I win it the same year I retire.” Anne took in a deep breath and rose from her chair.

  “Honoured guests, you will agree these awards should go to Feriyal Black.” The spotlight zeroed in on her. “Our brave reporter from the Morning Chimes. The one who will be remembered for her role in the Phoenix serial killer matter. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for our brave scribe.”

  Anne’s face flushed with embarrassment. She sat down immediately.

  “Is this really happening?” Feriyal was cold with fear and excitement. Too afraid to cry. Too afraid to stop moving. She made her way to the stage.

  “Mrs Black. Would you like to say a few words? You have scooped our prized
award this evening. Married your sweetheart and looking forward to the birth of your baby. What does the future hold?”

  “I don’t know what to say.” Ma, I’ve done it. For you. Can you see me tonight? She locked gazes with Shane before reaching for the microphone.

  “Thank you for believing in me.” A wave of panic consumed her. A flood of water washed down her legs. She turned to face the master of ceremonies. “I’m sorry, but I have to leave. Now. My water just broke. I’m about to have my baby.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Words could soothe a troubled soul, whether you spoke them, wrote them or thought them. They healed.

  Feriyal closed a few chapters in her book of life. She was ready to turn onto a new page. A top job; a husband good enough to eat. Now her beautiful baby girl.

  “Will you watch Imaan for a while? There’s something I need to do. Been putting it off for some time now.” She handed her precious bundle to Shane.

  “What’s going on, babe? If it’s work, can’t it wait? This is our time to be with the princess.” Shane loved his daughter. A ‘mini me’ of her mother.

  “Not work as such. I have to write letters. To put an end to some things. I shouldn’t be too long.” She did that thing with her eyes; the thing where she batted her eyelids. The thing that made him fall in love with her all over again.

  “Oh, go on. You’re such a tease. Get out of here before I take you to bed. Tear into you like thunder and lightning.”

  “Ooh yum, yum. Keep that thought. We’ll negotiate bedroom terms a bit later.” Feriyal blew a kiss to the only man she loved before stepping out of the door.

  ***

  Her eyes were shielded behind Versace shades. It hid her true expressions from people. She sat behind the wheel of her black buffed and polished Jaguar. Where could she go?

  A trip down memory lane took her back to the day she had eaten icecream and crumpets with her now husband. Botanical Gardens. Yes, it was the perfect spot to paint her words onto paper. Two letters. She wanted to write to Aneel. To thank him for playing a role in her rise to the top; for letting her go and breaking her spirit. To her late mother.

  To the woman who reminded her that nothing lasted forever. Even the thunderstorms had to make way for the sunshine. Finally, her dreams were complete. Everything she desired, she had achieved.

  Just write. Meet your deadline. What she was going to do with them was another thing.

  The End

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing DEADLINE was like breathing life into something my heart desired for a very long time. So many people became the wind beneath my wings. They inspired me, encouraged me and invested so much in me. I am grateful to each of them.

  My faith in this book was restored when Ashleigh Giannoccaro advised me on the cover. As you know, a book cover is a marketing tool and thanks to her, I am so proud of what we have now.

  For reading my story and saying it is my best yet, I am grateful to you Deborah Du Plooy. So many times, I've wanted to give up but then I remember you asking 'when can I have your next book?'. Darling, beautiful stories are coming.

  And finally, to my late husband Mikhail Walker. For believing in me and pushing me to get this done, I am sad that you were reclaimed into the heavenly flock before this book was published. This is all for you, my sweetest love.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Zaheera Walker was born in Durban, South Africa. She started her journalism career at a daily newspaper and now works in Corporate Communications. Her passion for crime and court reporting planted the seeds for her debut novel DEADLINE. When she is not writing, she is out taking photographs, socialising or searching for next next adrenalin rush experience.

  Follow her here ~

  www.embracingthechanges.wordpress.com

  zaheera.zn@gmail.co.za

  ***

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