by Ann Massey
“I wrote her a poem. Can I say that instead?”
“Of course, darling” I said, taking her hand and moving closer to the grave.
“We can’t start without Daddy,” she said pulling away. “Daddy come on ... I’m going to recite a poem for Mummy.”
Dad stood next to me fiddling with his ginger moustache, and I took his other hand. As Annie began to speak his fingers squeezed mine. “Mummy, Mummy, you’re the best, better by far than all the rest. The love we shared can’t be replaced. Nor will your memory be erased.”
* * *
It was only five o’clock when we left the cemetery, much too early to go to a swanky restaurant, and as Annie was itching to demonstrate her tricks on the trampoline; I suggested we pick up her favourite takeaway from KFC and eat at my place.
During the meal, Dad and I were polite to each other but conversation between us was forced. It could have been uncomfortable but awkward silences were instantly filled by Freda. She talked non-stop, maybe because she was nervous, but I rather suspected she was one of those women who have never learnt that conversation is supposed to be a dialogue.
As soon as Annie had gobbled down her chicken nuggets, she dragged Dad off to watch her on the trampoline. He got eagerly to his feet and I wondered how he’d handle a relentless commentary from Freda on the minutiae of her life in its trivial entirety for the next three months. There’d be no escaping to the paddocks or the barn on the QE2
“What do you like to do when you’re not at work?”
“Huh!” I blinked up at the chubby-faced woman.
“Do you have any hobbies?”
“I don’t have a lot of spare time, but I like to read and I’m writing a novel.”
“I’ve always wanted to be a writer, but I’ve never had the time. What are you writing? Is it a romance?”
“No actually I’m writing a thriller about US scientists who are operating a secret BW lab in an underground bunker in Arizona.”
“What’s BW?”
“Bacteriological Warfare”
She gave me a blank look.
Never one to pass up a chance to make a new convert, I launched into the plot.
* * *
“You two seem to be getting along. You’ve been chatting non-stop,” said my father rejoining us twenty minutes later.
“Yes, Beth’s been telling me all about the book she’s writing. It sounds ... fascinating.”
I said, “How about some coffee and cake and I’ll fill you in on chapter five ... that’s where the real action begins.”
“Thank you, but we should be going,” she said, rather hastily. “We haven’t booked into our hotel yet ... and we have to get the birthday girl back to school.”
Eleven
The jug clicked off. I poured boiling water into my Gran’s old brown teapot. Usually, I make a mug of tea, but tonight I needed a potful. As I sipped the comforting brew, I was reminded of family evenings sitting round the table in our cosy farmhouse kitchen playing Monopoly or Trivial Pursuit. In my family, tea is the panacea for all evils, but tonight the sweet, milky liquid wasn’t working its soothing magic. Things will look better in the morning I told myself, and then flinched as I remembered the numerous times Mum had said those self-same words to me.
Two hours later, I let out a sigh of frustration and slid out of bed. Too wired to sleep, I decided to check if Eli had replied to my last post. I pressed the power switch and plonked myself down. While I waited for my computer to boot, I began tomorrow’s to do list. I was underlining call service provider when the desktop background, a group pic of the Kenyan aid team appeared with me standing next to Karim looking relaxed and carefree. I sighed and clicked Google. After an even longer wait, the search engine’s logo materialised. I typed in my blog address. When my blog finally opened, I scrolled to comments. To my dismay, I discovered that Eli had responded to my post five days ago. I usually check for comments and hits daily, but organizing Annie’s birthday had pushed blogging onto the back burner.
* * *
Eli Malouf June 4, at: 2:32 PM
Hi Elizabeth
I can’t believe we have so much in common ... I’m a teacher too! I teach Aviation Studies at the Washington School of Science and Technology. OMG! Am I a genius or what? I don’t usually toot my horn but this brainwave is betterfect!! You said you’re finding it hard to get a dialogue going with like-minded folk. How’d it be if I interviewed you and include a link to your blog?
I publish a post each month on the twelfth. Let me know if you’re interested and I’ll send through some interview questions. Give me a shout if you have any queries. Talk to you soon.
Eli
Ps Send me a recent headshot for the article.
Reply
* * *
“Thank you, thank you,” I shouted at the screen, rather inconsiderately given the lateness of the hour and the thinness of my apartment’s walls. But who could blame me? This was the breakthrough I’d been waiting for. My face fell. Today’s date was the ninth of June.
Eli would be pushing it to get an article ready by the twelfth. Please God don’t let me blow this. I clicked reply and began typing.
* * *
Elizabeth Bennet June 9, at: 11:58 PM
Hi Eli
Please forgive my tardy reply—it’s been one of those weeks!!! This is the first time I’ve had a chance to look at my blog for days, and I was astonished — in the best possible way — by your generous offer of support. My answer is a big fat YES. I’ll start working on my replies as soon
Reply
* * *
I broke off typing mid-sentence as the gravity of what I was about to do hit me. The penalty for breaking the Official Secrets Act was two years imprisonment. Some culprits got off with a fine. Others disappeared — like Dr. David Kelly, an authority on biological warfare, employed by the British Ministry of Defence. Two days after he conducted an off the record interview with BBC journalist Andrew Gilligan alleging the Government had exaggerated intelligence evidence on Saddam Hussein’s weapons of mass destruction, he was found dead. Though the official view was that he committed suicide, many including me, believe he was murdered by the British Intelligence Service.
I stared at the screen for some time. My only reason for writing the blog was to put germ warfare on the public agenda. I didn’t want to make a name for myself. Quite the opposite. I’d purposely concealed my identity for what I knew would put thirteen governments to shame. Moreover, if spooks could bump off an influential scientist, they wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of a nobody. My hand shook as I tapped delete.
As I couldn’t think of any polite way to decline Eli’s offer, I closed my blog. The sensible choice was to go to bed but I’d never get to sleep. I loathe bullies and my temper was rising with every passing minute. I needed to do something or I’d explode. The choice was between alcohol or a jog around the block. But just as I was about to head off into my bedroom to change out of my PJs, I remembered I had a strategy to circumvent the Official Secrets Act.
Feeling calmer after downing a chilled vodka and orange, I read through my novel’s planning notes. I paused at note-to-self, highlighted in red and followed by three exclamation marks. After a moment’s thought, I typed into Google’s browser: How do you make a homemade bomb? And then I headed downstairs for a refill.
Twelve
“Bourbon,” I shouted, waving a twenty dollar bill at the barman. At twenty-two hundred hours, the bar, on a busy block only a few feet from the waterfront, was humming. I was taking a breather from dancing and flirting. I’d arrived three hours earlier with Caden, my oppo on NEWZ, the acronym for the New Zealand surveillance program. Aggressively hip, the classy watering hole was the best place to hunt city foxes. A sophisticated woman I’d eyed up when she’d arrived — now minus her jacket, and with her hair falling around her unbuttoned shirt — had morphed into a sexy badass secretary. I was about to ask if I could buy her a drink when my cell phone vibrate
d in my pocket. Ignoring the invitation in her roguish eyes, I downed my drink and pushed my way past gyrating bodies to the booth where I’d last seen Caden.
Still wrapped around a slinky blonde, he screwed up his face when he saw the phone in my hand. “No rest for the wicked, eh mate?”
“Yeah no matter how much you give, the bastards still want more.”
“Ours not to reason why,” he said with a sympathetic grin and pulled the blonde closer.
* * *
Kramer wasn’t at his post. I hammered on the general’s door. “Come in,” he bellowed. The steel doors of his suite were so thick that if he hadn’t roared, I wouldn’t have heard him. As I entered, he stabbed out his cigar in the crystal ashtray on his desk. He returned my salute with a smile that held no mirth, and gestured at the visitor chair.
My butt hadn’t made contact with the cowhide when he barked, “As we speak, Bennet is learning how to make a bomb.”
“What?”
General Lee ignored my shocked response. “Where are you with the investigation? Have you identified her yet?”
I shook my head. “I’m trying to get a conversation going, but she’s not shown any interest. I don’t understand why. In her last post, she complained that her blog had no hits. I offered to interview her. I thought she’d jump at the chance.”
“Did you repeat the offer?”
“I intend to tomorrow.”
“We can’t afford to pussyfoot around,” he said gloomily.
“I didn’t want to seem too eager, in case she smelt a rat.”
“The G20 opens in three weeks. I’m bringing Carter back.”
My jaw clenched. Wing Commander Lewis Carter was my predecessor. Bringing him back was a kick in the teeth. “Am I being relieved of my position, Sir?” The control I’d learnt as a fighter pilot stood me in good stead; my voice was steady, and my expression neutral.”
“Carter is coming back in an advisory capacity. You will be working together on this ... for the time being.”
From the general’s reply, anyone not versed in military protocol might think we’d be working together as equals, but the air force doesn’t operate like that. There’s a chain of command and Carter was the senior officer. The NSA wasn’t a military unit but that was irrelevant; for though I was on secondment, I was RAAF personnel, as was he. Even worse, my team was hand-picked by Carter. It wasn’t hard to work out where their loyalties would lie.
Without consciously thinking, I found myself saying, “I’d like to request a transfer, Sir. I think it’s best for all concerned if I return to Australia.”
He shook his head. “I’m not concerned with what’s best for you, Carter or the whole damn team. My priority is the safety of the delegates.
“Of course, Sir. Is there anything else, Sir?”
“No, go home ... get a good night’s rest.”
It’s hard to tell with General Lee but I think he meant it kindly, but kindly or not it was obvious he had no confidence in my ability to do the job.
Thirteen
I was teaching when Annie and Megan collided at hockey practice. When Miss Clare came into my class, I thought she was there to observe me teaching. Supervising new teachers was something the Headmistress did on a weekly basis. Instead, she’d come to take over my class so that I could go to the hospital. Her kindness worried me. What wasn’t she telling me?
To my relief, Annie was sitting up in bed watching television when I entered the ward. She said, “Why do I have to stay here. There’s nothing wrong with me. Megan’s the one with the broken leg.” For an active youngster getting out of school for an afternoon didn’t compensate for enforced bed rest. She finally stopped complaining when she saw a carry bag with an Olde Worlde Toffee Shop logo.
“What have you got me?”
“Your favorites.” I took out a packet of Jelly Snakes.
A nurse entered the ward with a wheelchair as Annie was attempting to rip open the plastic with her teeth. She gave me a reproving look. “Processed sugar is bad for patients with concussion.”
“Concussion!” I gave the nurse a worried look. In a low voice, I said, “Will she be all right?”
“Head injuries in children are always a cause for concern ... that’s why I’m taking her for a CT scan.”
I didn’t know what a CT scan was, but it sounded serious to me and from the look on Annie’s face, it did to her too. Making a gallant effort to hide her trepidation, the brave little tyke fumbled with the wheelchair’s seat belt. The nurse pushed her hand away and snapped the buckle in place.
I said, “Don’t worry, Annie. I’ll be here when you get back.”
“It would be better for this young lady to get some sleep. She released the brake with her foot and headed off. “You can phone the ward for an update around seven, after the doctors have done their rounds.”
I fumed as I made my way to the exit. That po-faced nurse shouldn’t be working with sick children. I thought she’d make an ideal prison guard. Feeling too steamed to drive home; I stopped for a cup of peppermint tea. Actually, I’m not a big fan of herbal teas but I’d read somewhere that peppermint has a calming effect.
The packed cafeteria was a magnet for hospital staff as well as visitors. I carried the tea in a takeaway polystyrene cup to a vacant table, next to a boisterous party of medical staff. It wasn’t the perfect location for someone already experiencing the onset signs of a stress headache. I’d have moved somewhere quieter but every table was occupied. As I was dawdling over the tea, a male voice said, “Would you mind if I shared your table?”
I was dumb struck. If I hadn’t been seated, I would have collapsed on the floor. Although I hadn’t heard Karim’s voice for two years, I knew it was him. My head shot up. His man-bun was gone, and he’d grown a short, stylish beard but it was definitely Karim.
“Pardon me, Miss, aren’t you feeling well?” He hesitated for a moment and then put his hand to my forehead.
I jerked away.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he said in his best bedside manner, “I’m a doctor.” He removed an ID badge from his medical coat and handed it to me. Below the hospital logo and adjacent to his photo, I saw his name and title: Dr. Farouk, Director Refugee Trauma Unit.
I gave him a dirty look. “You’ve gone up in the world, Karim.”
“Do I know you?” he asked with a puzzled expression.
Did he know me? On sleepless nights, reunion fantasies got me through many wakeful hours. There were a variety of scenarios. In none of them did the love of my life fail to recognise me!
My hand tightened around my takeaway cup. I was tempted to throw the contents fair in his face. He was spared a drenching as the confused computer in my head finally rebooted. No wonder he hadn’t recognised me. The freckle-faced carrot-top with the mismatched eyes bustling about the camp in hospital scrubs, bore no resemblance to me as I was now — an impeccably made-up blonde with two identical sky-blue eyes.
I’d reverted to the plain unembellished me when I worked for Médecins sans Frontières[16]. I didn’t have much choice. I couldn’t get my hands on the products I needed to look this good in the Kenyan refugee camp, plus the hydrogen oxygen solution I used to clean my contact lenses wasn’t available from the hospital’s pharmacy.
“Bear with me,” I said with slightly less venom as I rummaged through my shoulder bag, for a mirror. Then with the efficiency that comes from years of practice, I whipped out the coloured lenses.
Recognition dawned on his face. I got to my feet. Explanations could wait. But instead of taking me in his arms, he said, “How did you find me?” His voice wasn’t the voice of a man who was overjoyed to be reunited with his soul mate.
My anger had reached boiling point and I didn’t care if the whole hospital knew! “If you think I came here for the express purpose of tracking you down,” I yelled at the top of my voice, “think again...”
“Calm down, Beth.” He gave a nervous glance at a surgeon and his pride of nurs
es seated at an adjacent table. “We can’t talk here. Let’s go to my office.”
* * *
I declined his offer of a chair on the patient-side of his desk. I’d come for an explanation. He owed me that. And then I’d be off. He wouldn’t ever see me again. He had no need to worry on that score. “How long have you been working here?”
“Since January.”
“You’ve been here for five months. Why didn’t you let me know?”
His face turned a ruddy shade of brown. “It’s a long story ... won’t you sit down?”
This time I nodded stiffly and sat bolt upright on the edge of the chair furthest from his desk. I kept my eyes down. I couldn’t bear to look at him.
“Where should I start?” he said in a hollow voice.
“At the beginning.”
He said nothing for almost a minute. He’s probably trying to come up with a convincing lie, I though sourly. But I didn’t leave; for though I was put out and massively hurt, I felt compelled to listen to what he had to say for himself. Who wouldn’t in my place?
I said, “Now would be a good time to start.”
Once I’d made it clear I was running out of patience he began speaking in a stiff unnatural voice. “Eighteen months ago, I was posted to Turkey...”
I cut him off. “Jeez, Karim, I know that ... if my mother hadn’t been dying, I’d have been by your side.”
He clasped his hands together as if in prayer, “Thanks be to Allah you were spared that ordeal.”
I was surprised. Actually I was staggered. Unlike most men who talk about cars, sports, sports cars and the Sports Illustrated centrefold, our conversations had roamed over every subject imaginable. But not once had we ever discussed our religious beliefs. I knew Karim was a Muslim but I’d never heard him pray or quote the Koran. I’d assumed he was Muslim for the same reason I was Christian ... because our families were. While I was processing this insight into an unexplored side of a guy I believed I knew inside out, he continued with a rather colourless account of what had happened to him.
