People of Heaven

by Beverley Harper

  ‘Tell the family. Report it to the police. Phone the undertaker.’ Michael’s mind was busy with practicalities. It might have been a stranger lying there.

  ‘I will arrange for the body to be taken to the sheds,’ Raj offered. ‘Do not concern yourself with that.’

  Michael stared down at the horribly burned body of his father. There was no pain in him, no grief, only pity. He had hated his father. But he wouldn’t have wished a death like this on anyone.

  Claire heard the Land Rover pull up and went outside to ask why he was back so early. She knew something was amiss when Michael put his hand on her arm and drew her back into the house. ‘There’s been an accident,’ he stated quietly. ‘Joe is dead.’

  Claire’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Dead! What happened?’

  ‘He was caught in the first fire we put in.’

  She sat down heavily. ‘Gracious! The poor man.’

  Michael poured his mother a brandy and sat next to her. ‘He was falling down drunk this afternoon. Must have been sleeping it off.’

  ‘Do you think he suffered? Oh dear! I hope he didn’t suffer.’

  Michael remembered the twisted, charred remains, the smell of burning flesh. ‘I should think the smoke got to him first. He would have passed out. Hard to tell.’

  ‘I hope he didn’t suffer,’ she repeated, sighing a little. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Raj is taking him to the sheds. The police will have to be called. I don’t think you should see the body, Mother.’

  ‘You’re probably right, darling.’ Claire rose and cleared her throat. ‘We’ve got things to do,’ she said, suddenly brisk.

  Michael nodded and stood up. ‘I’ll wake the others. They should be told immediately.’

  Claire agreed. ‘While you’re doing that, I’ll call the police.’

  Michael stepped quietly into his young brother’s room. Gregor would be the easiest to tell. He had often borne the brunt of Joe’s ire and he, like Michael, hated Joe King. Gregor woke with Michael’s light touch on his shoulder. He sat up immediately. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked sleepily.

  Michael sat on the bed. ‘Bad news I’m afraid. Joe was killed tonight. We think he was sleeping in a cane field. The fire got him.’

  ‘Oh!’ Gregor sounded more surprised than anything.

  ‘I’ve got to tell the girls. You can either join us in the lounge or go back to sleep.’

  Gregor settled back under the covers. ‘I think I’ll sleep. I’ve got an English test tomorrow.’

  Leaving the room, Michael reflected that, as grief-stricken responses went, Gregor had probably dealt with the situation as well as could be expected.

  Sally cried a little. ‘What a horrible thing to happen. How’s Mum taking it?’

  Michael put his arms around her. ‘She’s fine. It would have been quick,’ he assured her. ‘He was probably asleep.’

  ‘What’s going to happen now?’

  ‘About what? The funeral you mean?’

  ‘No, the farm. Will we have to move?’

  ‘Of course not. This is our family business. Things will go on as normal.’

  Sally absorbed his words, smiled a little, then looked serious. ‘I feel quite guilty, Michael. As if I should be more upset. After all, he was our father.’

  ‘He was indeed,’ Michael agreed. ‘But only in a biological sense.’

  Sally lay back against the pillow. ‘I’m glad we don’t have to leave UBejane. I don’t want to live anywhere else.’

  Michael squeezed her hand and sat for a few minutes with his own thoughts. ‘Can you hear them, you old bastard? One is more concerned with school and the other about where she wants to live.’

  He approached Tessa’s room with reluctance. He could never predict how she would react to anything. The door opened silently and it took Michael a moment for his eyes to readjust. The moon had risen and its light filtered through the windows, throwing a silvery candescence onto the bed. Tessa appeared to be having a dream, she was moving restlessly in her bed. Michael took a step forward and stopped in disbelief. What he’d taken as shadow lay on top of his sister, thrusting violently between her raised knees. And Tessa was rising to him just as roughly.

  Michael snapped on the light. ‘Jackson?’

  Dyson’s brother flung a look over his shoulder, fell sideways and landed on the floor, reaching frantically for his clothes. Michael lunged forward and tripped on Tessa’s school bag and Jackson, abandoning his search, in one fluid movement dashed towards the French doors, shaking them frantically until they burst open. He jumped from the verandah and was gone.

  Tessa pulled the sheet up under her chin. ‘Don’t you ever knock?’ she asked coldly.

  Michael shook his head to clear it. ‘That was Jackson Mpande! Bloody Jackson!’

  ‘So what?’ she challenged him. ‘It’s got nothing to do with you.’

  ‘You’re both under age.’ Michael knew he sounded ridiculous. In truth, he was having a hard time assembling any coherence at all.

  His sister’s eyes were darting around the room as if seeking a reason, an excuse, anything to get her off the hook. ‘It was his idea.’

  ‘No,’ Michael said stonily. ‘Not this time. This time you’ve gone too far.’

  ‘And I couldn’t care less.’ She was turning sullen. ‘You have no right to burst into my room. Who do you think you are?’

  ‘How long has this been going on? Jesus, Tessa! Right here in our own house with your sister in the next room. Is there a shred of decency in you anywhere?’

  ‘Just go,’ Tessa shouted at him. ‘Get out of my room.’

  Her temper got Michael’s thoughts back on track. ‘There’s been an accident,’ he said tightly. ‘I came to tell you Joe is dead.’

  Tessa raised a hand to her mouth, eyes suddenly wide and staring. She forgot to be defensive. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Fire,’ he said shortly.

  ‘Fire!’ She mouthed the word, then found her voice. ‘Cane burn don’t you mean? You killed him. You bastard!’

  Michael had half expected this. He ignored the outburst. ‘Joe must have been sleeping it off in the block we fired. It would have been quick.’

  For one moment he thought Tessa was going to burst into tears. She stared at him in silence and bit her lip.

  ‘Here we go,’ Michael thought. ‘She’s going to get hysterical.’

  But instead of tears, Tessa threw back her head and howled and howled with laughter.

  Most of the Zulus on UBejane Estate witnessed Jackson’s shame. In blind panic he rushed, naked, into the compound, yelling incoherently. Convinced that Michael would come after him with a gun, there was only one thought in his head. He had to get away. His hysterical shouting woke everyone and people began to appear, blinking sleepily, trying to work out who was making such a noise and why. Before Wilson could get any sense out of him, Michael’s Land Rover burst into the compound, scattering sleeping animals in all directions, stopping in a cloud of dust, headlights blazing on the open door of Wilson and Nandi’s house.

  ‘Where’s Jackson?’ Michael yelled, even before getting out of the vehicle.

  The polite greeting on Wilson’s lips died as he stared at Michael.

  ‘I said, where’s Jackson, dammit?’ Michael shouted.

  There was a rustle of movement at the door and Nandi appeared clutching a sleeping blanket around her. ‘Please, Mr Michael,’ she said fearfully. ‘What is wrong?’

  Michael strode closer. ‘Jackson, get out here,’ he ordered. Arms folded, he waited until the still naked figure of Jackson appeared reluctantly at the doorway, followed by Dyson. ‘Right out,’ Michael snapped. ‘There will be a meeting.’

  Jackson emerged, hands cupping his genitals.

  Dyson had never seen Michael so angry. ‘Please,’ he intervened, ‘allow my brother to cover himself.’

  Michael looked contemptuously at Jackson’s nakedness. ‘Quickly then,’ he said curtly. ‘Get dressed.’ Some
one threw Jackson a blanket and he wrapped himself in it.

  By now others were converging on the scene. Wilson stepped up to Michael. ‘You call a meeting,’ he said quietly. ‘It will be done.’ He clapped his hands and ordered that a fire be built up. People settled themselves around it, murmuring to each other. ‘What is happening?’ ‘What has Jackson done?’ ‘Why is the Nkosi so angry?’

  Michael pushed Jackson forward. ‘I come here tonight with the gravest of complaints,’ he said in Zulu. ‘It is not something that can wait until tomorrow, it must be dealt with now, tonight.’

  The murmuring increased. ‘I take it,’ Wilson said, standing erect and looking directly into Michael’s eyes, ‘that it has something to do with my son Jackson. What has he done, Nkosi? Was he stealing from you? Whatever his crime, he will be punished.’

  Taking in the honesty in this honourable man’s eyes Michael also saw bewilderment, fear and a genuine desire to put to rights any misdoing on his son’s behalf. The anger left him and he took a deep breath. ‘It is not as simple as that,’ Michael said. ‘Yes, he must be punished but the question is, how?’

  Jackson, reassured that Michael had no weapon with him, cut in and he spoke contemptuously. ‘Yes, white man. Do not, for one minute, think of punishing your sister. She is white.’

  ‘Be quiet, child,’ Wilson hissed at him. ‘Do not insult the Nkosi.’

  Michael closed his eyes for a moment. ‘He is right. My sister will also be punished. She will be sent away from this place.’ He took two steps forward which brought him face to face with Jackson. ‘What were you thinking?’ he asked in despair. ‘What made you do it?’

  Wilson joined them. ‘What is it that they have done? I beg you, Nkosi, tell me.’

  ‘They were together as man and wife in my sister’s bed.’

  An audible gasp went through the listening crowd.

  ‘No!’ Nandi cried. ‘No! He would not be so foolish.’

  Michael stared Jackson down. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Tell them.’

  Jackson hung his head. ‘It is true. I had my deek in her hole.’

  Michael’s fists bunched until he realised that Jackson probably got his terminology from Tessa. ‘You have to punish this one in your own way. That is only fair. Do whatever you decide, I will not interfere. Let me say only this. I know that my sister is as much to blame, if not more so, than Jackson. I am fully aware of her . . . unacceptable ways. She will be dealt with. That does not excuse your son. I expect you to consider the crime and act accordingly.’

  His eyes raked the hushed circle around the fire. ‘You have probably heard by now that Joe King was killed tonight. There has been great evil on UBejane for too long. The time has come for change. I leave Jackson in your hands.’ He turned to leave.

  ‘Wait, Nkosi.’ Wilson looked fearfully at Michael. ‘Will you tell the police of this thing?’

  Michael shook his head. ‘How can I? But if the two of them so much as talk to each other again I will throw the whole Mpande family off UBejane. That is my promise to you. I make it with a heavy heart but it is no empty threat.’

  Dyson stared in disbelief and horror after the retreating figure of his only white friend. ‘Wait.’ He ran after him. ‘You can’t mean that. You know it was more your sister’s fault.’

  Michael climbed into the vehicle and leaned his elbow through the open window, staring straight ahead. ‘I mean it, Dyson. Keep him away from her.’

  ‘Because he’s black,’ Dyson stated bitterly. ‘I expected more from you.’

  Michael did look at Dyson then. ‘No, not because he’s black. Because they’re only fourteen and it’s against the law.’

  ‘And if Jackson were white?’

  ‘My actions would be the same.’ Michael started the engine and, without another word, drove away.

  Dyson did not believe him.

  Two sets of rules, as Michael had so aptly put it not long ago. No-one was under any illusions about Tessa, not even Dyson. Jackson had been duly punished, his back lacerated by a sjambok, the heavy rhinoceros hide biting deep so that he would carry the scars forever. Wilson himself had administered the punishment while Nandi quietly wept in shame. Dyson felt no sorrow or pity for his brother. He had committed a crime and paid the penalty like a man. What hurt was Michael’s threat to throw the family off the farm. Michael knew the Zulu way as well as any but yet seemed unaware, or uncaring, that he’d dished out a double discipline.

  NINE

  Joe King died on a Monday night. Because of the unnatural nature of his death a coroner had first to establish that the fire had been the cause, and so they could not arrange the funeral before Friday. On Tuesday morning, Michael found his mother on the telephone making an appointment of some kind. She put down the receiver and said, ‘I’ve arranged for Tessa to see a doctor.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To see if there’s anything we can do.’

  ‘Are you talking about a psychiatrist?’

  Claire nodded.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Durban.’

  ‘That’s a hell of a long way.’ Michael did not have a high opinion of psychiatrists. He tended to regard them as fallout from the American fad of shrink mania. However, the set of Claire’s mouth told him she was not prepared to listen to any argument. She drove a reluctant Tessa to Durban that same morning.

  Eight hours later they returned. Tessa was red-eyed and uncommunicative and went straight to her room. Michael followed his mother into the office. ‘Well?’

  ‘She wants to see you.’

  ‘Tessa does?’ He was surprised. Tessa usually went out of her way to avoid him.

  ‘No. Dr Lewis.’

  ‘Why? There’s nothing wrong with me.’

  ‘She says it sounds as though a lot of Tessa’s problems stem from you. The doctor thinks that . . .’ Claire hesitated, then went on with a rush. ‘You’re a kind of father-figure. You set standards that Tessa doesn’t believe she can live up to.’ Claire shrugged miserably. ‘I don’t know, Michael. Anything’s worth a try.’

  He took some convincing. As far as he was concerned, Tessa’s problems were of her own making. But finally, because his mother seemed to think it was important, Michael agreed to the three-hour drive to see Dr Lewis the next morning. He kept the appointment with about as much enthusiasm as Tessa had the previous day.

  He didn’t know what to expect but he hadn’t expected a woman in jeans and T-shirt who looked to be the same age as him, who smoked incessantly, who sometimes used language that would make a trooper blush and who didn’t have a couch anywhere near her office. She had pale blonde hair, wildly curly, caught up by a rubber band and allowed to cascade every which way. She led him into her office, closed the door, crossed to her desk, picked up cigarettes and lit one. Blowing smoke lustily towards the ceiling, she said, ‘I’m Annie Lewis. Have a seat. Let’s get acquainted.’ Her voice was throaty.

  Michael scrutinised her. She wore not a scrap of make-up, her skin was flawless, eyes clear and direct. She looked absurdly young. ‘Are you fully qualified?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Michael crossed to her desk. ‘You look as though you should be at school.’

  ‘Next time I’ll wear my grey wig.’ She was smiling. ‘Come on, Michael King. Sit down and let’s get on with it. I’m too bloody expensive for us to discuss my age but, if it makes you feel any better, I’m twenty-five. Okay?’

  She was only three years older than him.

  Feeling self-conscious, Michael sat down.

  Annie Lewis got straight to the point. ‘Your sister needs help. Do you honestly believe that sending her to a convent is the answer?’

  ‘It’s the answer for the rest of us.’

  Anger flitted across her face. ‘That’s convenient.’

  ‘You haven’t had to live with her.’

  ‘She needs patience and understanding, Michael.’

  ‘At thirty Rand an hour, I’ll just bet she does.’

&n
bsp; Dr Lewis leaned forward and stubbed out her cigarette. ‘There’s a lot of anger in her. Something has affected her a great deal. It’s more than her father’s death.’

  Michael smiled grimly. ‘Nothing affects Tessa a great deal, certainly not that.’

  ‘You really don’t like her, do you?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Why?’

  Michael stared directly at her. ‘Is that any of your business?’

  She held his gaze. ‘If I’m to help her, yes.’

  Her eyes were deep blue, almost violet. ‘She’s been disruptive since the day she was born. Rude, disobedient, wilful, argumentative, sneaky and a liar.’ Damn but those eyes are beautiful. ‘I’ll bet she didn’t mention why we’re sending her to a convent.’

  ‘She was caught il flagrante delicto with an African boy.’

  Michael blinked at her bluntness.

  ‘It’s a crime on two counts. She’s under age and he’s black. Does that tell you anything?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Tessa has no morals.’

  ‘Morals!’ She dismissed the word with a wave of a hand.

  ‘I also suspect . . .’ Michael choked back his words. What happened between Tessa and Joe was none of this woman’s business.

  ‘Suspect what?’

  ‘That she’s promiscuous at school.’

  ‘Many girls are.’

  ‘Not like Tessa.’

  ‘No. I admit Tessa is different.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. It’s too early to tell. Certainly, your sister does not appear to feel any embarrassment or shame. That’s unusual in one as young as Tessa. And, from what she told me yesterday, her father’s death has left her without a friend. She feels that no-one else in her family likes her, especially you.’

  Michael sighed. ‘Look, Dr Lewis . . .’

  ‘Annie.’

  ‘Okay, Annie. All her life Tessa has had to blame someone or something else. Nothing is ever her fault. She has no . . .’ he cast around in his mind for the right word, ‘. . . self-control. If you’ve fallen for that “nobody understands me” routine then you’ve been had. She doesn’t behave the way she does because nobody in the family likes her. That’s bullshit.’