by Jane Shemilt
Zoë runs into our room, clambers onto the bed and rests her head against Adam’s chest. He puts an arm around her, his face relaxing. A few seconds later he’s asleep. She edges down and runs out of the room again.
No one talks at supper. Zoë yawns repeatedly, Alice leaves her food and so do I. Adam eats half a plateful of okra stew.
Once the children are settled, we continue the conversation in the sitting room.
‘What did they say about trafficking babies?’
‘You were right. It does happen,’ Adam replies.
My heart plummets. I don’t want to be right.
‘But it’s rare. Botswana is more of a staging post for children who are being taken from other countries and on through to South Africa.’
‘Why?’
Adam turns away. He goes to the sideboard, opens the cupboard and pours a drink.
‘Why are they trafficked, Adam?’
‘For illegal adoption, which may mean slavery, and that means forced labour or the sex industry, then …’ He stops talking and drinks some wine quickly.
‘Go on.’ Each of these is worse than the last.
‘Organ trading and … witchcraft,’ he finishes, very quietly.
For a while neither of us speaks. I don’t even think. In my head there is a crackling sound, like a radio that’s stopped working properly.
‘Simon’s wife is facing elections,’ I tell him, after a while. ‘Did you know politicians use medicine made from human body parts?’
‘Not Simon,’ Adam replies quickly. ‘He’s a teacher, rational, intelligent. He couldn’t believe in witchcraft.’
Reason and intellect don’t drive belief though; it comes from some deeper darker place. Kabo believes in charms. Once I believed that if I swam faster than everyone else, it would protect my father. That nothing was more important than keeping pace with my husband. Adam must have believed that if he laid his pencils in a neat line on his desk and kept his papers neatly stacked, he would be safe.
I move closer to him. ‘I read on the Internet that in Tanzania albino children are used for witchcraft. It’s thought their body parts are especially powerful, so that might mean a white baby –’
‘It’s children who are used mostly,’ he cuts in, as though he’s repeating a mantra. ‘Children. Not babies.’ He walks to the window and pushes it open, with force.
Side by side we stare out to the dim shapes of the gum trees. Perhaps the men who took Sam didn’t have a car. They could have carried him instead. I see them moving across the lawn, stepping over the fence, then walking through the bush. There was a moon that night. While I was driving to the village to find him, men with our baby might have been walking deeper and deeper through the silvery trees. Sam might have slept, lulled by the rhythm. They would have reached their destination, a hut on its own or an old cattle post. Someone, waiting, would have opened the door to them. But I can’t see inside the hut. It’s as though the door has shut in my face.
‘You’re right,’ I tell Adam. ‘Simon wouldn’t take Sam. He’s our friend.’
‘We need to let them make their enquiries all the same.’ He nods, as if to himself. ‘Simon will understand they need to be thorough.’
This must be how witch hunts started in medieval times: fear kindling suspicions that run counter to common sense. Already the image of our tutor is shadowed by his darker twin.
My mobile rings, breaking my thoughts. This could be a kidnapper, getting in touch. I’ve decided, in the seconds it takes to pull the phone out of my pocket, that I’ll agree to anything they ask, despite what Adam said, but it’s a reporter from America, careless of time zones, wanting information.
‘Washington Post. Am I speaking with Dr Jordan?’ At least he’s polite; that makes it easier. Adam is immediately by my side. I shake my head. This isn’t news. It’s not a kidnapper either.
‘I would like to extend my sympathies at this difficult time, ma’am.’
‘Thank you.’ My eyes fill with tears. Scripted compassion but still powerful.
‘Could you let me know how the case is progressing so I can share it with the millions of people who are following your story?’
Millions? I’m caught as I’m meant to be. Are millions of people following our story? I look up, half expecting to see faces pressed against the window, figures thronging the garden.
He continues, undaunted by silence. ‘There are so many people who are feeling for you right now, Dr Jordan.’
‘Everyone is doing all they can to help us. The police have been very kind.’ My answer is scripted too. ‘We’re hopeful.’
Hope is inaccurate. Dread would be nearer.
‘Any leads at present?’
‘We … I …’ They mustn’t know about Simon. Not yet. ‘Please ask the police. Thank you.’
I turn off my mobile.
A pale-winged moth flies through the window, so large it could be a bat or a small bird. It flaps silently to the ceiling then around the room, hitting the walls with a muted crashing sound, settling on an edge of a curtain. I shut the windows quickly.
Adam goes to check on the children. Zoë has left the bowl of plums on the table. I draw it towards me and take one, but even as I curl my fingers around its comforting shape and softness, I drop it back. It occurs to me it is the size and weight of a baby’s heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Botswana, March 2014
A loud knocking on the door shakes me awake. My eyes open onto the dull light of early dawn. Wrapping my dressing-gown around me, I hurry down the corridor, heart banging with hope and fear.
Elisabeth has got to the door ahead of me: the bulky figure of Goodwill stands in the dark sitting room as I enter, my hands fumbling at my dressing-gown cord. Elisabeth pulls back the curtains and disappears. I hear the clump of the kettle on the stove, followed by the rasp of a match.
Goodwill’s gaze is faintly hostile. He is immaculately dressed, despite the early hour. It flashes through my mind that I have no idea how long it takes him to bump over the rough roads to see us.
‘We have found a lead. One of your workers.’
They have discovered it was Simon, my worst nightmare coming true.
‘We will make an arrest shortly.’
‘Shortly? But …’ Simon and his wife might be on their way to another country. Shouldn’t the police have arrested them by now? Adam comes quietly into the room behind me. ‘They’re going to arrest Simon,’ I whisper.
Goodwill looks up. He has heard what I said and his eyes narrow. ‘This is not to do with Simon Katse. We located him yesterday evening along with his wife and they will be questioned later today.’ He pauses, glancing round for his usual chair, then lowers himself cautiously into it. So, is Simon a suspect? Or are they questioning him merely to exclude him? In either case, they should hurry.
‘This is about your gardener, Josiah.’
‘Josiah?’ Gentle, friendly Josiah? ‘There must be a mistake.’
‘Why do you suspect him?’ Adam asks, scratching his wrists. His nails make a loud rasping noise on the dry skin, sandpaper on wood. ‘He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
Goodwill peers down at sheets of paper on his lap, as if to remind himself why they suspect Josiah. ‘We obtained his fingerprints from the cages that we took.’
‘But he made those cages. Of course his fingerprints will be all over them.’
Goodwill’s thumbs circle each other continuously; they flicker at the edge of my vision. ‘These are recent fingerprints, very recent,’ he says.
‘He has been feeding the animals recently. I haven’t allowed the girls out on their own since Sam was taken.’
Adam’s hand drops lightly on my shoulder. ‘He will have his reasons,’ he says quietly.
Goodwill nods. His expression is benign but, from the glance he gives me, I know there is something more. He pushes himself up, heading for the door. The conversation is over. We hear him talk to Elisabeth in the kitchen; then, minutes
later, he walks past the window with Josiah at his side, Elisabeth following. As usual there are no shoes on Josiah’s feet, and without his khaki hat, his face looks defenceless. I want to run to him and explain that we know he’s innocent, but Adam holds my hand, shaking his head. ‘Anything is possible,’ he says.
Next to Goodwill’s vigorous bulk, Josiah looks as delicate as a skeleton. He might be held for hours, days even. Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and bread from the pile under muslin on the table, I hurry down the steps, but the car is beyond the gates, already disappearing into a cloud of dust. Elisabeth walks straight past me, back towards the house, her eyes unseeing.
‘I’m sorry, Elisabeth.’
She stops as if waiting for me to say more, head lowered. I want to add that this arrest is not of our doing, but of course it is. If we hadn’t come here, Josiah would be peacefully setting about his day in the garden, perhaps with his dog at his side. Though, of course, if we hadn’t come here, we would still have Sam. In the clear morning light her face seems thinner, the skin withered. She looks old.
‘I was too late to give him these.’ I hold out the bread and water, and she takes them, then climbs the steps slowly and disappears into the darkness of the house. Kopano is already in the small shed that is Josiah’s sleeping place. The white shirt of the policeman shines in the dark room as he moves, gloved hands wreaking havoc.
‘Please be careful.’
If he hears, he takes no notice. Each drawer in the small chest is hanging out. I glimpse a carefully folded shirt, a small, ragged towel.
Kopano lifts the mattress from the bedstead, then pulls it to the floor. He stands looking at what he has done but whatever he was expecting to see isn’t revealed. He shrugs and walks past me towards the door; his deep inward gaze avoids me.
Josiah didn’t look at me either: his eyes never quite met mine though they followed Sam everywhere. A pulse of uncertainty begins to beat, along with the worry about Megan. She hasn’t phoned back – it’s over twenty-four hours now. Could my suspicions about her have been right, after all?
Back in the house, there is no sign that the police have been. The girls must have breakfasted already – they’re helping Elisabeth to wash bedding in a tub on the front lawn. Alice and Zoë are squeezing water from a sheet, which they twist between them. Elisabeth takes it, pegging it into the tree, where it hangs like a sail, blindingly bright against the leaves.
In our room, Adam is buttoning his shirt, a piece of bread pushed into his mouth. He is wearing the thick shoes and close-weave trousers he packed for the safaris he’d planned. He wasn’t to know he would wear those clothes to track his baby son. Today he looks calm and moves purposefully, as though this were the start of one of those expeditions. Yesterday he drew a twenty-kilometre circumference around the house on a maps he’d printed before we came, then divided it into eight segments. He plans to walk a diagonal every day. Perhaps cutting the space into slices reduces it for him, but the lines are illusory: what have they to do with miles of untracked bush? The distance will be the same as searching Scotland single-handed. The task is impossible.
He walks past me as he swings his rucksack to his shoulder; it travels in a small arc through the air, catching the side of my head. The pain unleashes fury. ‘Do you ever ask yourself if this could all have been avoided?’
Adam stops in the act of reaching towards me, his face puzzled, then, in an instant, wary. ‘What do you mean?’ His eyes track my face for clues.
‘Has it occurred to you that if you hadn’t made me come with you on this fucking trip, we would still have our son?’ Warmth trickles down my face: the buckle must have torn the skin.
He is staring at me with no expression, as though he hasn’t even heard my words. Zoë’s voice outside the windows sounds happy. Birds are singing, the rasp of cicadas is relentless; the backdrop to normal life, though life is no longer normal at all.
Then his face darkens; his eyebrows knit together. ‘I didn’t plan to come here with a baby. You were the one who got pregnant in secret, remember?’
By the time he has finished the sentence his voice is raised, and he’s breathing quickly. We haven’t argued for months but we’re immediately at war.
‘You were the one who’s always bloody wanted another child,’ I shout.
‘You should have fucking waited until after the trip,’ he shouts back, ‘instead of going behind my back.’ He flings the rucksack roughly onto the bed; it hits the bedside lamp, which falls to the floor, the force shattering the bulb and the thin wood of the base. Footsteps come down the corridor. They stop just before our door and drawers are opened. Peo, gathering clean linen for the beds from the chest outside our room. We stare at each other, both panting. The drawers are closed and her footsteps retreat, fading to silence.
He moves towards me: close up he smells of ammonia, like a horse; he hasn’t showered for days. The stubble on his face is dark. He kicks at the door, and the violence of that movement makes my heart jump even as my fury mounts.
‘What the hell are you doing, Adam? Open the fucking door.’ I try to push past him but trip over his feet and fall onto the bed. Adam leans over me, pinning me down. I can’t move.
‘You didn’t really want another baby, did you? You’re normally so bloody careful. Am I supposed to believe it was an accident?’ He’s holding the sides of my head, speaking into my face. His eyes are red and so close I can see that the tiny blood vessels are engorged. Has he turned into someone else, or become more himself, the surface layers stripped away?
‘Somewhere along the line, you decided to use me. How do you think that felt?’
‘Don’t be stupid. It was a mistake. I told you.’ As I struggle to free my hands, I can see his thoughts play across his face, which is inches from mine. I can tell what’s coming next. We’ve fought in bed before but that was playing. This is real. What if I let it happen? Will it displace the torment for a moment? Will it burn away what I did to him? I see him registering my hesitation, deciding to read it as permission. He pulls away fractionally to unzip his trousers and in that moment Sam’s face floats between us, innocently smiling, Sam who was conceived in a moment of love and abandon, despite what Adam thinks.
I try to twist from under him but he pushes up my dressing-gown and, though I struggle, he is quickly inside me. It hurts, but after a second, I don’t care. I’m taken up in the blaze of his desire and I want this too. Everything that isn’t this becomes blotted out. For a few moments I think of nothing but the feel of Adam, pounding angrily into me; even the crushing weight of his body on mine feels right. When I open my eyes, his face looks wild: his mouth is distorted. I close them again, but in those seconds the frenzy has passed completely and my desire, if it was that, vanishes. I wait for him to finish. In a few moments, he shudders and cries out, then pulls out of me, rolls off my body and lies beside me.
Gradually the birdsong seeps back, as do the children’s chatter and the distant sounds from the kitchen. Adam’s head is turned away, his shoulders shake; he is crying. The voices get louder. The children are coming back into the house. I twist away and push myself off the bed, strip and shower, letting the water flow over my body until it runs cold and I’m shivering. By the time I come out Adam is gone.
I fetch a dustpan and broom for the shattered lamp and, as the fragments of glass and wood clatter into the pan, it’s as though I’m sweeping up the remains of a broken weighing machine, the balance mechanism smashed beyond repair.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Botswana, March 2014
The morning crawls by. It hurts to move, as though I’ve been mugged. Sam stares at me from the screen with the same hopeful solemnity; the words beneath his image are exactly the same as they were yesterday. My eyes burn so I close them. I know those words by heart.
Peo brings me tea; she places her hand on my head for a few seconds. The heat of her palm goes through to my scalp. Can she read the signs? Does she know what’s happ
ened? Do I? The violence and the tears, his and mine, echo in my mind, but exactly what took place is blurred, the events becoming black background already. The trauma of this morning expands the trauma of what was there already; the weight I am carrying is heavier and much darker.
Walking in the garden with the children before noon, I feel chilled, though my skin burns in the sun. Forgetting everything, I forgot sun block, though Peo has put some on the girls. At the gate, the crowd of waiting journalists seems to have swollen; there is the curl of smoke from a bonfire, a drifting scent of cooking. Shouts and laughter; the air of a carnival. Adam would have walked through them this morning: did they try to talk to him? What would he have said? They see me: lights flash, my name is called. I should go down to them but I have no energy to make words. We walk slowly to the back of the house and sit on a rug near the pond. Zoë’s head is in my lap; Alice lies completely still, closing her eyes.
After lunch, the children sleep on their beds; the house feels wretched. I choose the deep shade of the veranda. There are new images on the screen now, a small one of Adam, blurred as if walking fast, the backdrop the trees and our gate – taken this morning, then, and already beamed around the world. Scrolling down, it takes me a second to recognize myself addressing the television cameras yesterday; I look like my mother did in the days before she died. They missed the main story: there is nothing about Josiah. Although he was driven through their midst, the old man in ragged clothes had been invisible to them.
A lizard lies on the floor, motionless, a small splash of green paint on the wood; when my mobile rings, he vanishes without seming to move.
It’s Megan. At last; I know she has bad news from the length of the pause after she says my name. There’s a protocol for breaking bad news; it takes longer and involves warnings. In the seconds before she speaks, the thought runs through my head that she’s about to confess she has Sam, that he’s been spirited out of Africa at her bidding but that she’s changed her mind now and wants to hand him back. I’d forgive her, I’d forgive her everything if she gave Sam back to me.
