by Lesley Lokko
He slid the hammer back into his tool belt and crossed the yard, rubbing the sweat and grime from his face. It was five o’clock and the shadows were already lengthening their way out of shape. In another hour, the sky would throw up a spectacular display of colour and hue and darkness would quickly descend. He looked back across the line of temporary shelters they’d been constructing for the past month. With any luck, they’d be finished by the end of the week. Another thirty homes; another couple of hundred desperate people in temporary shelter. He shook his head in angry disbelief, fishing in his pocket for a cigarette. He cupped his hand around it and lit up, drawing the smoke down deep into his lungs. A couple of hundred people? Who were they kidding? If the war didn’t ease up soon, they’d soon be taking in a thousand a day. He’d seen it all before. The trickle that turned into a flood. They would pack ten, fifteen, twenty people into one of those houses – sod the recommendations from HQ. It was always the same. Some junior intern in an office in New York typed up official-looking ‘recommendations and guidelines’ and sent them off from his computer to base stations around the world. Neat, three- or four-page documents with a variety of headings in a variety of fonts, which found their way to the camps and clearings where he and his men worked. Words like ‘maximum occupancy’ and ‘minimum living standards’ would jump out at him from the noticeboards. Refugees should … [wherever possible] … be decently housed. The people Josh worked with had walked six hundred kilometres to reach a camp with the tattered remains of their families and their possessions stuffed in plastic bags. What on earth could the words ‘maximum occupancy’ or ‘decently housed’ mean to them? He was well aware that his disdain for the commands sent down to them from head office was dangerous. He’d wound up in one fight too many in most of the places where he’d worked. Yemen, Congo, Cote d’Ivoire, the Balkans and now Djibouti. It always started the same way. A visit from top brass to the delegation. A tour of the camp. A comment, a gesture, a rebuke. The argument would begin, voices would be raised, things got out of hand … and then the aftermath. It was invariably a matter of perspective as to whether he’d walked or been fired. He snorted. Even the word ‘delegation’ made it sound far less brutal, less confrontational. The truth of the matter was that they worked in conditions that few people could tolerate. Forget the heat, the dust, the snakes, the insects, the diseases … all of the stuff that HQ routinely described as ‘challenging’. That wasn’t the challenge. Josh worked with people who had, in their own words, gone to hell and back. People who’d lost everything – homes, loved ones, land, possessions … and then the other stuff, harder to bear. Dignity and hope. How did you work with them? That was the real challenge, not the heat. The people they were sent out to help were not the passive, helplessly grateful refugees of the TV and newspaper ads. More often than not they were aggressive, erratic, irrational – anything but passive and most of the time not even remotely grateful. The bureaucrats in Geneva talked of alleviating their pain and sorrow. Josh wondered if they’d lost their minds. How did you alleviate the pain of someone who’d watched his child die in front of him? By erecting a tent? And telling him to limit the number of people who slept in it?
‘Josh!’ Someone called out to him. He turned. It was Bo Johanssen. His boss. He stopped and waited as Bo walked up to him as quickly as the heat would allow. ‘Hey, how’s it going, man?’ Bo had an easy, affable air about him that hid a ferocious temper and an almost messianic devotion to the task at hand.
Josh shrugged. ‘OK. We’ll have the second row finished by the end of the week.’
‘Good, good,’ Bo said hurriedly with the distracted air of someone who had something else to say. He hesitated. ‘Look, Josh … I’m not going to beat around the bush. Meissler’s just rung from Geneva. They … well, let’s just say they didn’t appreciate what went down last week. The guy filed an official complaint. I know, I know … you were provoked.’ He raised his hands in admission. ‘But Jesus, Josh … he was the head of the fucking delegation! The order’s come through. You’re to take a fortnight’s leave. Go home. Go to London. Chill out for a couple of weeks and then come back. Oh, by the way, the ICR’s found an interpreter for you … a Somali woman. She’s very good, apparently. She’ll be here a couple of days after you get back.’
Josh made a small, dismissive movement with his hand and tossed his cigarette to the ground. ‘No way. No fucking way. I’m not going anywhere. There’s work to be done here.’
‘Josh … be reasonable. You punched the guy in the face – what did you expect? I’m not asking you to go and sit at home for six months. Hell, I don’t care where you go. But you’ve got to get out of here. You need a break.’
‘I don’t want a break. I’m fine. I’ll go when we finish the first phase.’
‘I’m not asking you, Josh. This isn’t a request.’
32
DIANA
London, November 1996
Diana Pryce pulled smartly into the driveway and brought her little sports car to a halt. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard – it was just after five. Her perfectly shaped eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been home before six. She picked up the grocery bag from the passenger seat, locked the car and pushed open the garden gate. Harvey, her husband, wasn’t yet home. Some complication in his last case of the day – his secretary had rung just before she left the office to tell her he’d be late. She opened the front door, slung her briefcase and jacket on the table in the hallway and plucked out the letter that was sticking out of her handbag. She walked downstairs to the kitchen. The housekeeper had gone home already, but a beautifully rich, fragrant fish stew was simmering in the oven and the table had already been set. Rafe was coming for dinner. There was something he wanted to tell her, he’d said when he phoned her in chambers. He’d just come back from New York. From the excitement in his voice, Diana guessed there was more to share than his holiday snaps. A strange tremor ran through her as she put the letter she’d been carrying around all day on the table and walked across the kitchen to the sink. She filled the kettle, looking out through the enormous sliding doors to the garden beyond. The lawn, a brilliant green sweep of carefully cut grass, fell away down to the oak trees at the bottom of the garden, now turning pale gold and red in preparation for winter. She loved the garden. It amused Harvey greatly – she who couldn’t tell one end of a bulb from the other! Where had it come from, this sudden love of plants?
The cold water suddenly spilled over her hand, bringing her back to her task. She turned off the tap and plugged the kettle in. Her movements were slow and thoughtful, though her state of mind was anything but. She eyed the letter on the table as she waited for the kettle to boil. Five minutes later, she sat down at the table, a cup of tea at her side, and picked it up. She slid a finger underneath the sealed flap and pulled the wafer-thin pages out. Josh’s handwriting leapt at her. Sometimes at night you can hear the shells landing across the mountains, so close you think they’re landing here, in the camp. In the morning, the refugees walk across the desert, some of them carrying their dead. The stench is unbelievable. London seems very far away. She put the letter down again and looked out across the garden. Josh was in Djibouti, somewhere close to the Horn of Africa. She’d had to look it up when he told her where he was going. She’d long since lost track of the places he’d been. Gaza. Goma. Srebrenica. Sarajevo – a list of the world’s most troubled spots. Wars, famines, conflicts, camps … wherever there was trouble. Neither she nor Harvey understood it. Josh was a brilliant architect; everyone said so. His tutors, fellow students, strangers … everyone. He could have worked anywhere, done anything. After graduation he’d turned down every single one of the jobs he’d been offered at some of London’s top firms and had gone to work for the Red Cross instead. Diana was baffled. After five years’ worth of training he’d gone off to be little more than a volunteer? He didn’t need a degree in architecture for that. It wasn’t so much that she thought
the work he did was valueless; on the contrary, when he’d signed up to work in Bosnia that first summer, she’d been proud of him. It was something to drop into a dinner party conversation – yes, their youngest had gone out to Bosnia for the summer. Quite courageous of him, really. Of course, he’s always had a social conscience, even as a little boy. Always sticking up for the underdog. But after Bosnia he didn’t come back. After Bosnia he went to Myanmar, and to some godforsaken camp on the edge of nowhere. He sent pictures of fluttering sheets of plastic, tin roofs held down by stones and old car tyres. This was where he lived? In bed at night she passed the pictures silently to Harvey. He put them down without comment. She put a hand over her mouth to stop herself from crying out loud. This was what they’d brought him up to do? She had never understood what propelled her youngest child – and, though she would never dare say it out loud, her brightest – to leave the comforts they’d provided (the beautiful home, the private schools, the hobbies, sports, holidays at the farmhouse in Mougins and elsewhere, the promise of a glittering career that both hers and Harvey’s contacts would surely have secured even if his talents alone couldn’t) and head out to places that weren’t to be found on any map save those that chronicled tragedy. ‘You’re an architect, not a fucking saint!’ she’d hurled at him in the middle of an argument on one of the rare occasions he’d come home. Harvey had stepped in that time and pulled her away.
‘You’re his mother,’ he told her, gripping her upper arm. ‘You can’t allow yourself to talk to him like that.’ He was right. She let him lead her away, in tears. Josh frightened her, that was the truth. There was something in him that she feared, because she feared it also in herself.
The front door slammed shut suddenly, bringing her back to the present. Harvey was home. She folded the letter quickly and stowed it away in her bag. She would show it to him later. For now, Rafe was coming over and it wouldn’t do to spoil Harvey’s pleasure in that. He was immensely proud of Rafe, as was she … but there were times when she wondered about the eldest two. Rafe, desperate to prove himself every bit as brilliant a surgeon as his father, and Aaron, the solicitor-turning-barrister, struggling to fill her shoes. Only last week she’d had to put in a call to Gerald Starkey, one of the senior partners at Bernard, Bennison & Partners and an old university friend of hers … Aaron wanted to do his second six with them … wasn’t there something Gerald could do? Of course there was. ‘Leave it to me, Diana. Only too happy to help.’ Easy as that. Aaron would start with them after Christmas. She’d never had to so much as lift a finger for Josh, ever. As much as she worried about the choices he’d made, there was respect for them too. Josh would never have accepted help – from her, from Harvey, from anyone. His fierce determination to do things his way and no one else’s caused them pain … but there was no denying, it also made her proud.
‘Darling … you’re home already?’ Harvey appeared in the doorway. She looked up, a smile on her face.
‘I know … couldn’t believe it myself.’ She got up and walked towards him, turning her face up towards him to be kissed. She leaned into his reassuringly solid frame, allowing herself the momentary pleasure of being held. His arms went around her; the faint chemical smell of the operating theatre still clung to his clothes, a scent that was at once foreign and yet familiar to her.
‘When’s Rafe coming?’ he asked against her hair.
‘At eight. Everything’s ready.’
‘Any idea what he wants to talk to us about?’
Diana sighed. ‘No, he didn’t say. But I think I can guess.’
Harvey gave a chuckle. She felt the vibrations deep in his chest. ‘Ah. A woman. Someone he’s met recently.’
‘Mmm. In New York, I think.’
‘Well … at least he tells us, I suppose. We always know what’s going on with those two.’
Diana nodded. It was true. Rafe and Aaron were both open books. It was Josh who was closed, and secret. She knew nothing about his relationships, nothing at all. It was Aaron who’d told her that Josh had been living with someone in Amman. A Jordanian girl – Randa, Rania … something along those lines. She wasn’t even sure how Aaron had found out. Whatever the source, she’d asked Josh about it once and had had her head bitten off as a result. She’d never dared ask again. ‘I just hope it’s not another Cecily,’ she murmured. Rafe fell easily; he was the sort to whom trust came naturally. He didn’t suspect deviousness in others because he was incapable of it himself. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d picked him up, dusted him down, consoled him and sent him on his way … only to see the whole thing repeat itself again and again. It didn’t help that her sons were beautiful. Rafe and Aaron were carbon copies of Harvey – tall, blond, athletic … strong, splendidly healthy-looking young men who would age well, just as Harvey had. Josh was different, of course, dark-haired, olive-skinned, more like herself, but no less striking. Girls and women of all ages practically threw themselves at her sons; Christ, she could remember a time or two when her own friends had started behaving like teenagers in their presence! She pulled away from Harvey gently. ‘I’d better go upstairs and take a bath,’ she said, straightening the lapel of his jacket. ‘Will you bring me up a glass of wine?’
‘Good idea,’ Harvey said. ‘Go ahead and run your bath. I’ll be up in a minute.’
Diana picked up her handbag. ‘Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. I got a letter from Josh. He’s coming home too.’
‘Josh? Josh is coming home?’
She watched his face light up and a sharp stab of pain went through her. ‘Mmm,’ she murmured, turning away. ‘Said something about a fortnight’s leave. He should be here next week. Friday or so.’
‘That’s wonderful.’ The pleasure in Harvey’s voice was genuine. Diana couldn’t bring herself to turn back round again. She made a small, incoherent sound and walked quickly out of the room.
33
JOSH
London, December 1996
Heathrow was crowded, even at dawn. He pushed his way past the crowds standing indecisively in front of screens and signs and made his way towards Immigration. He slid his passport across the desk, ignoring the officer’s quick questioning glance – stamps of entrance and exit from Bogotá to Baghdad – and returned it to the back pocket of his jeans. He carried no luggage other than a battered dark green backpack that had clearly seen better days. He bought a ticket and boarded the train, tossing his backpack on to the seat opposite him. He was tired. He hadn’t slept properly in a couple of days. He ran a hand over his stubble and smiled faintly. Diana would be horrified. Hopefully there would be no one at home; he needed a few hours to readjust. Coming back to England was never easy. The train shot out of the tunnel and into daylight. As they sped past the industrial sheds and yards, their corrugated steel sides dissolving in the weak early morning winter light, his feeling of dislocation intensified. By the time they pulled into Paddington, a curious sensation of distress was prickling over his skin. He was coming home. And yet he was not.
The house was empty. He slid his key into the lock and pushed open the front door. He stood in the hallway, breathing deeply. The smell of childhood washed over him, the very particular combination of furniture polish and cigar smoke from the thin cigarillos Harvey liked to smoke after dinner. There were fresh flowers on the antique side table in the hall. A rich, densely patterned Persian rug drew his eye lengthways down the corridor to the partially open door of Diana’s study, which overlooked the garden. The rug was new. He didn’t remember it from his last visit. They’d changed a few things, he noticed. The walls of Diana’s study were now a rich buttery yellow instead of white; her desk, which sat directly in front of the window, was the same, but the high-backed leather chair he remembered had been replaced by a modern-looking one of leather and chrome. He set his backpack down on one of the hallway chairs and walked into the living room. Light flooded in from both sides. After months spent living and working in the most crudely put-together shelters imaginable
, there was something disconcerting about the comfort in front of his eyes. The sofa – an enormous burnished leather chesterfield that sat five people – cost more than the row of ten prefabricated huts he’d just finished constructing. He shook his head. It was always the same. The luxury, even modestly displayed, was faintly obscene. He closed the door behind him and walked upstairs.
His old room was exactly as he’d left it. The few boxes of possessions that he’d cleared out of the flat on Marchmont Street were stacked up in the corner – mostly books and records. Nothing much else. The girl he’d been living with at the time had taken the rest. He tossed his jacket on to the bed and sat down to unlace his boots. The reddish dust of the camp still clung to the soles. He needed a hot shower, a coffee and a cigarette, in that order. He peeled off the rest of his clothing and walked naked into the bathroom. There were fresh towels on the radiator, soap, shaving foam and shampoo on the shelf beside the sink. He opened the shower door, turned on the taps and stepped in. The scalding water ran down his hair and plastered it flat against his head. He let the full stream of it run down his belly as he turned his face up towards it, giving himself over finally to the comfort of his family’s home. He stepped out of the hot, steamy fug of the bathroom into the cooler air of his bedroom. He pulled on a pair of torn jeans and rummaged around in the chest of drawers until he found an old woollen jumper. He towelled his hair dry, pulled on a pair of socks and padded his way downstairs, tiredness already beginning to sweep over him in waves.
The kitchen was spotless, the only sound the faint hum of the giant stainless-steel American-style fridge. He pulled open the door and stood in bemused silence for a minute or two, surveying the contents. After the past few months of eating nothing but canned food and camel meat, the sheer magnitude of everything that was available was overwhelming. Yoghurts, fruit, fresh vegetables, wine, cheese, chocolate … he grabbed a pint of milk and shut the door, slightly nauseated by the surfeit of choice. He found a packet of cornflakes in the pantry and carried it to the table. He finished off two bowls, made himself a cup of coffee and lit a cigarette. He opened one of the sliding doors to let the air in and shivered in the unaccustomed cold. For almost a year he’d felt nothing but heat. He finished his cigarette and shut the door. It was time for a nap.
