by Alex Gray
Looking up, Asa stared at the sky above her, an African sky, wider than the ocean they had crossed. And it seemed to the girl that the blue heavens were holding out their mighty hands, enfolding her in a blessing: the promise of sun, rain and starlight.
The vehicle turned at last into a flat clearing surrounded by a cluster of simple whitewashed houses, their roofs made from sheets of corrugated metal. Beyond them, past fields of tall green maize, she caught a glimpse of the thatched huts where her grandparents had been born.
A young girl, her hair braided tightly to her head, appeared from behind one of the buildings, then waved and yelled as the Land Rover came to a stop. In response to her cry, people began to emerge from the houses, until there was a small crowd of men, women and children running along the path towards them, their clothes bright splashes of colour against the dusty ground.
Asa stepped out, her legs weary after so much sitting.
Everything seemed so much smaller than she remembered. The few houses were as nothing compared to the city where she had been, the twittering weaver birds simply part of the landscape after the noises of traffic and shouting people.
‘You’re home now, Asa,’ Maggie said, and the girl turned, hearing her voice. Home, the woman had said.
Asa smiled. She had learned only a few words of English, but as she walked towards the village and the welcoming faces of her African friends, she knew that this was one word she would never forget.
EPILOGUE
Daylight dazzles in its fading
a yellow sky above dry yellow bush,
tawny, like the lions
coming to feed at the waterhole.
A tree full of twittering weavers
stands out starkly
in this African gloaming.
Then, like a gauzy veil
the blue deepens
and the first star sparks.
The horizon spreads its burning fire
Like a sudden wind – though it is windless.
Water reflects back a vision
of ink-black trees
drowned in molten lava.
Then frogs and crickets chorus
louder and persistent
as the veil thickens into darkness.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
It never fails to astonish me how willingly so many people give of their time and expertise to assist me in researching my work. Without them the novels would lack those authentic touches that I believe bring my stories to life. I have many people to acknowledge, experts in their own fields, letting me share the secrets of their professions. Several Scottish police officers must be thanked, including those in the anti terrorist squad at Stewart Street; DC Mairi Milne, whose words of wisdom keep me on the right track, and DI Bob Frew, who never minds my sporadic emails coming out of the blue; Dr Marjorie Turner, friend and consultant forensic pathologist without whose aid Rosie would be standing waving a scalpel in the air and not knowing what to do with it; Baillie Liz Cameron for introducing me to the right people; Jim Doyle of Glasgow City Council for sending me the extensive information about child trafficking; David Grevemberg’s team at the Glasgow 2014 offices, especially Janette Harkess and Matthew Williams; David Robertson for being so willing to assist me in forensic matters; my friend Kate MacDougall for pointing me in the right direction about child protection; Stuart Wrigley of Terry’s Tattoo Studio for being so willing to teach me all about the art of tattooing and even allowing himself to slip between the pages of the story as himself; Dr Fiona Wylie for the sound information about toxins and their effects; Professor Jim Fraser for his wonderful suggestions about explosive devices. And there are others whose support is invaluable to me: my great editor Jade Chandler, who is continually helpful; David Shelley (who seems happy to have me as his longest-standing author); my agent, the one and only Jenny Brown, who understands all the stresses and strains that are part of being a writer; Moira, without whom my diary would be a shambles, and the rest of the LB team, who do so much work; my family, who accept me despite the awful things I do to people between the pages of books, especially my husband, Donnie, who is the best roadie this crime-writing lady could ever wish for.
