by Mandy Hager
But at least this old rooster's sense of timing was intact. Right on cue the dawn penetrated the thick layers of white phosphate dust that coated the windowpane, infusing the room with a soft silver light.
Maryam was now able to explore the piles of stores around her. Stacked one on top of the other in overflowing heaps were countless large boxes made from some kind of husk-brown toughened paper that reminded her of the pliable bark of the raba tree. She opened the flaps on the closest box to find it was filled with papers—records of some kind, beginning with detailed notes of names, points of departure, dates of birth…the very things Sergeant Littlejohn had asked the three of them when they had first arrived. She rifled through the rest of the box. Yes, each sheet was headed with a different name, and all of them signed off at the bottom by the man himself. But what really caught her eye was the identical check-list at the bottom of each sheet: detained, deported or deceased.
Most were marked “detained” or “deported” in the same colour as the other information entered on the sheet, but many bore a tell-tale addition marked in red: deceased. Sheet after sheet revealed the damning little red mark, until the murderous colour swam before her eyes. Were they marked with blood?
She looked inside another box, and then another, struggling to take in the horrifying implications as each revealed more of the same story of detention, deportation and unexplained death. She scanned the room. There had to be twenty or so of the boxes, each containing perhaps four or five hundred of the sheets…literally thousands of lives reduced to this.
She was interrupted by the crash of an opening door and the brisk clattering of footsteps on the wooden floor. She dropped her handful of papers into the closest box and quickly grabbed her pills and water bottle before clambering into the dusty space beneath the bed. There was just enough headroom to roll over and prop herself against the wall, taking care to ensure her arm was free of any pressure and she could still observe the cleared floor space beyond the bed. But what she hadn't factored in was the layer of choking dust which swirled around as her retreat under the bed disturbed the air. She could feel a sneeze building, and pressed her thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose, but all she did was stifle the explosions as she sneezed not once, but five times in a row—leaving her light-headed and watery-eyed.
She strained to hear what was happening beyond the room. Running water…more footsteps…and then a chair scraping across the floor. In her mind's eye she could picture Sergeant Littlejohn at his desk, marking off the deadly head-count of those who'd had the misfortune to wash up here when all they'd sought was the opportunity for a better life. Like Saint Peter doing the Lord's reckoning at Heaven's gate, this man had the power to damn them straight to Hell. And damn them he did, judging by the overflow of papers secreted away inside this dusty room.
There was no flow of fresh air beneath the bed and Maryam succumbed to the stifling heat. She dozed; had no idea how long she drifted in this limbo state, only startling back to consciousness with the clamour of heavy footsteps in the corridor beyond. As she tried to refocus her brain, she heard the steadily increasing eruption of Sergeant Littlejohn's voice.
“…that righteous little bastard. I swear to God I'll never let that treasonous bitch set foot ashore here ever again.”
Rage seemed to have lifted his voice from its usual monotonous drawl to something sharp and way more belligerent, closer in pitch to the snarling of a rabid dog. Now Maryam heard another male voice, very like Charlie's, his words indecipherable but the tone definitely intended to soothe. But something—or, rather, someone—had clearly provoked Sergeant Littlejohn, and he was not about to be appeased.
“I don't care if she's got the bloody President himself onside. I'll not be dictated to by that bleeding heart liberal one more—”
Again the other man cut in, more dogmatic this time. His voice rumbled on and on, its timbre rising and falling like the dying rolls of thunder in a passing storm.
“All right. All right,” Littlejohn spluttered. “I agree it's probably better to let the slimy little boonga-lover leave. But this's the last time she interferes, comprendo?” A thud rattled the building as though he'd struck the wall. “Now get the ragheads rounded up, and if any of them try to resist don't piss around. Use force.”
There was a stampede of fleeing footsteps, followed by another series of bangs and crashes most likely caused by Sergeant Littlejohn further taking out his frustrations on the fittings in his room. Blowing out a long shaky breath, Maryam realised that whatever new outrage had just been hatched, it was now well and truly being set in motion. She heard trucks lumber past outside and, less distinctly, a chorus of distant shouting rode the sticky air. She lay under the bed with her heart thumping, hating that she didn't know exactly what was happening. What if Ruth and Lazarus were caught up in the growing furore? With Littlejohn in such a mood, no one was safe.
It was well and truly daylight now, and she wondered if it was all right to take the antibiotic, though she hadn't eaten since the night before her surgery. Just the thought of food set her stomach grumbling, so she sipped a little more of the water, hoping it would trick her stomach into thinking it was full. She took the antibiotic anyway, daring not risk further infection, holding onto the hope that Charlie would soon arrive.
But there was so much activity in and around the building, it seemed likely Charlie would not be able to sneak in to spirit her back out. Or what if he'd been ordered elsewhere? Fallen ill? Changed his mind? Or, worst of all, been caught? All the terrible possibilities and faults with this stupid plan began to blossom in her head, and she cast around for something other than her growing nerves to lock her focus on. Lazarus's disconcertingly familiar face took shape in her mind, so much like his cousin Joseph that recently she'd sometimes found herself confused—thinking of the two as one.
When they'd first set off from Onewēre, Lazarus had forced himself upon them, holding a knife to Ruth's throat until they had no choice but to agree that he could come. How Maryam had hated him, and feared him, having already fallen victim to his arrogant and violent ways. But Joseph's death had changed him—or so he said—and, then, when it looked as though he would succumb to Te Matee Iai just like poor Joseph, Maryam found she couldn't, in all conscience, leave him to die. Her discovery that there was, indeed, a cure for the killer plague had sent her on the reckless quest to seek it out and, with the help of Charlie and his wife, she'd found the drugs to save his life, watching in wonder as Lazarus slowly returned back to health. Now, two weeks on from his brush with death, he'd shed every sign of his former self. The Holy Father Joshua would hardly recognise his son, now so changed it was almost as if Joseph's spirit had entered Lazarus's heart and transformed all his intentions from bad to good.
In fact, the only thing about him that still made Maryam uncomfortable was his newly-ignited admiration of her—something she did not want or seek. Her heart would be forever Joseph's, and no one could ever take his place. She missed him so: every time she thought of him, the sense of loss prompted the prickly harbinger of tears.
Footsteps thundered down the corridor toward her and she pressed back against the wall as the door to the room burst open.
“Maryam?” Charlie's voice was tense. “Come out. We have very little time.”
She wriggled from her hiding place and scrambled to her feet, her brain swimming as it adjusted to the sudden rise. “Is everything all right?”
Charlie nodded, but his face was grim. “I forgot it's deportation day.” He stood with his arms folded across his chest, foot tapping as she tucked the pills into her sling. Then he took her firmly by the other elbow and started towing her from the room. “Sorry about this, kid, but it's gotta look as though you're under guard.”
As they hurried down the corridor, he quickly filled her in on what was going on. “There's a large group from the northern continent who've been here over five years. They've finally given up trying to get residency and opted to go home.” T
hey passed Sergeant Littlejohn's empty office and headed for the open front door. “It's chaos out there, so hopefully we'll not be stopped. But there's something impor—” He cut off whatever he was going to say as they reached the door. “Oh shit!”
Only a short distance from the building's entrance, Sergeant Littlejohn was checking off the names of thirty or so miserable detainees who were being herded onto the back of a large flat-decked truck. Thin, blank-eyed men and women coaxed malnourished children up over the tailgate of the vehicle, their faces set as though they knew full well they'd condemned themselves and their children to death.
Charlie quickly swung Maryam around until his body blocked her from Sergeant Littlejohn's view, and led her down the steps toward the camp's heavily guarded central gate. Beyond the mesh of the second fence a hostile crowd—mostly swarthy bearded men and ragged youths—pressed toward the gateway and jeered, prompting the heavily armed guards onto high alert.
“Hurry!” Charlie urged Maryam as they approached the gate. It was standing open for the last of the deportees, and Charlie guided her into the seething fray, holding his stocky arm out in front of him to clear a path. He leaned over and muttered in her ear. “Listen, there's something I have to tell you—”
Again he was cut off, this time by Maryam herself. “Lazarus!” She had nearly bumped straight into him; was shocked by the dismay that flooded his pale face.
Lazarus opened his mouth to speak, but a gun-toting guard closed in behind him and prodded the butt of the weapon into Lazarus's back, forcing him forward toward the truck.
“No!” Maryam cried, turning to Charlie. “They can't deport him too.”
Charlie shifted his hand from her elbow to her shoulder and squeezed as though to ground her. “It's not what you think. He's—”
“You can't let them do this, Charlie. If they send him back, his father could well order his death.”
She twisted from his clasp and spun around to follow in Lazarus's wake, protecting her sling with her good arm and pressing through the throng to reach him. But she was thwarted by another of the guards, who shook his gun and motioned angrily for her to step back inside the fence. She took one conciliatory step backward before shouting out for all she was worth. “Lazarus! Wait!”
He turned at the sound of her voice and looked as though he was going to push back through the crowd when the guard seized him roughly by the arm and hauled him over to the truck. Maryam could only watch in icy shock as Lazarus was hoisted up into the mob of deportees, crushed into the back like panicked shoaling fish. His straggly blond hair and pale skin stood out as he worked his way to the side, the whites of his eyes bright in the sun as he sought her out and locked his gaze on hers.
“I'm sorry,” he mouthed.
She was stunned by how resigned he seemed, sure they must have threatened him with force if he tried to resist. There was nothing else in her mind now but to stop the Territorials from taking him away. She ducked around the distracted guard, ignoring Charlie's warning call, and rushed toward the truck.
Maryam reached out her hand, but already the truck was revving as the last of the deportees were crammed aboard. Lazarus stretched his arm toward her, and his fingers just brushed hers before someone grabbed Maryam roughly by the shoulder and pulled her away.
“He couldn't give a stuff about you,” Sergeant Littlejohn hissed at her. “Best you find a boyfriend among your own kind.” His fingers dug into the tender shoulder muscles of her bandaged arm as he pushed her, none too gently, back toward the gates. “Get this bloody girl away.”
Two armed guards lunged forward to grab her, but it was Charlie who stepped in and tucked her arm firmly through his. “For God's sake,” he snarled. “Are you trying to get us all sprung?” He hauled her back inside the gates as she craned her neck around to stay connected to Lazarus's mournful eyes. But the guards were already locking in the restless crowd. Undeterred, they surged up against the netting to call out their last farewells as the truck rolled forward and juddered off in a swirl of reeking phosphate dust.
“Maryam!” Lazarus shrieked above the din. “It's not—” The rest of his sentence was swallowed by the roar of the truck's motor as it gained speed and drove off through the outer gate.
Maryam rounded on Charlie. “How can they do that? Don't they know his father is insane?”
“Whoa! Hold on a minute.” Charlie pulled her off to the side of the milling crowd. “I've been trying to tell you. The word came through from the mainland this morning…Jo managed to convince the authorities to let him in.”
“Let him in? To where?”
“To the mainland of the Confederated Territories. To settle there.” Charlie shrugged. “It seems all her lobbying on his behalf's paid off.”
“What?” Maryam felt as if all the bones inside her melted to nothing. Her knees gave way, and she had to reach out to steady herself on Charlie's arm. As she struggled to take in what he had said, Sergeant Littlejohn's angry outburst that morning flooded back into her mind. Righteous little bastard…better to let the slimy little boonga-lover leave…It all made sense now. Awful, hurtful, back-stabbing sense.
“Does Ruth know?” she asked.
“They brought him straight from the men's quarters, so probably not.”
Oh great. Now she'd have to break the news to Ruth. Rage as deadly as a water-spout spiralled up inside her now. How could they have been so trusting, believing all Lazarus's grand claims of friendship and remorse, when all the time he'd been plotting to desert both her and Ruth? To think that she had saved him—risked her life to bring him the life-saving drugs—when all the time he couldn't wait to abandon them and leave.
“The order only came through this morning. I'm sure he would've told you both if he'd had the chance.” Charlie studied her through narrowed eyes. “You look done in, kiddo. Go back to your hut now and get some rest. I'll be by later to check on how you are.” He patted her shoulder before giving her a gentle push to set her on her way.
Maryam stumbled off down the walkway that led to the cramped hut she shared with Ruth. Around her, the other detainees seemed more subdued than usual, no doubt reacting to the deportations with the same sick sense of disbelief and hopelessness as Maryam felt. The reasoning of the leaders of the Confederated Territories—that none bar those who had the fortune to be born within their boundaries had any right to live there—was beyond comprehension, when so many others suffered and were in need of help.
What was it the guard aboard the ship had told them—that the Confederated Territories would only ever shelter Christian Territorials? Cee Tees for Cee Tees, he'd said, when what he should've said, Maryam fumed, was that only white-skinned people, like the double-crossing Lazarus, would ever be permitted to settle on their shores. It was so unfair. Especially when the Territorials claimed to love the Lord, yet practised none of His calls for generosity and love.
She found Ruth lying on her sleeping mat, her long-limbed body curled up in a ball of misery. One glance at her and Maryam guessed that somehow she'd already been told.
“Ruthie, I'm back.” Maryam knelt down, and stroked the hair away from Ruth's saturated face.
Ruth looked up, her chin wobbling as she took in the line of Maryam's arm inside the sling. “They saved it?” She smiled a little as Maryam nodded to assure her all was well. Then her features collapsed back into utter grief. “I have to tell you something—”
“About Lazarus? I already know.” Maryam let her own furious tears flow now. “I just saw him leaving with the other deportees. So much for sticking together, eh? He couldn't wait to get away from us and join the Territorials in their precious home.”
“He's gone?” Ruth sounded shocked. She pushed herself up and leaned against the corroded metal wall, resting her chin on her knees as she reached across and claimed Maryam's free hand. “But he didn't even say goodbye.”
Maryam choked on her disgust. “Can you believe he'd just desert us, after everything we've done? I thought
Jo was on our side as well.”
“I can't believe it. I truly thought he'd changed,” said Ruth. She sniffed, rubbing her face to wipe away the residue of tears as though ashamed of them. “I didn't expect you back so soon.” Now she fingered the sling that supported Maryam's arm. “Tell me all about the operation. Is your arm really saved?”
Maryam described the night she'd spent inside Sergeant Littlejohn's domain, choosing to leave out the damning contents of the boxes for now, then reassured Ruth her arm was on the mend.
“The Lord be praised for that at least.” Ruth released a shuddery sigh, then bent forward to brush a kiss onto Maryam's cheek. “Who cares about Lazarus? At least there's still you and me. That's all we need.”
Maryam didn't bother answering, just wrapped her arm around her best friend's neck and hugged her close, sinking her nose into Ruth's lush black hair. They'd shared their lives for over twelve years now, as close as real sisters after everything they had endured. She didn't need Lazarus and his lies to help make real her plan. In fact, she was better off without him. All he'd ever done was try to take control. Who needs him and his arrogant ways?
Still, there was no denying that his betrayal hurt. She'd come to think of him as a friend. He was all she had left of Joseph, and now he'd gone as well.
While Maryam rested, Ruth went in search of leftovers from breakfast, returning with two small portions of cold rice that Maryam wolfed down after her long-enforced fast. But the food sank to the bottom of her gut, churning with the stony disillusionment that Lazarus's desertion had formed inside. She felt so powerless and cheated. As if Lazarus's betrayal were not enough, Maryam now had to question everything the woman Jo had said. Was she still to be trusted? She'd appeared so genuine, so outraged by the degradation of the detainees inside the camp, so convincing in assuring Maryam she would help. But now Maryam had to wonder if it was all some kind of cynical act? She'd placed her faith in Jo's support, never for a moment suspecting the woman might be scheming with Lazarus behind her back. Once again, it seemed, her faith had been ill-founded. When would she ever learn? She'd counted on Lazarus and Jo's support to help her return home, not wanting to burden Charlie and Veramina further when they'd already risked so much to save her arm. What now? There was so much she had to plan, so many details she must think through, yet she knew she had to rest before she could put any plans in place.
