“It didn’t stop her sleeping with you.”
“Mmm…except some sins are smaller than others”—he grinned—“and my charm might have had something to do with it. It’s worked out for the best in the end. Fee’s a grand kid. It would have been a crime to abort her.”
“If you feel like that why don’t you make more of an effort to see her?”
He shrugged. “It causes too many problems. The only time the family argues is when I’m there. They all approve of the monthly cheque but not the lodger.”
“Does she live with her parents?”
“Not quite. Three houses down. They’re a close-knit bunch. She has three brothers within a two-mile radius who turn up in force every time I visit to make sure I’m not going to renege on my responsibilities. I feel a bit like Daniel entering the lions’ den whenever I go there.”
It all seemed very peculiar to me. And rather sad. “Do you still sleep with Ailish?”
His eyes crinkled at the edges. “She lets me stay in the spare room, but that’s about as far as her hospitality goes…apart from keeping her lover at arm’s length for the duration.”
“You’re crazy,” I said in disbelief. “Why don’t you get a divorce?”
“What for? There’s no one else to marry…except you…and you won’t have me.”
“You can’t cook.”
“Neither can you.”
“Precisely, which is why we’d make a lousy couple. We’d starve.” I bared my teeth at him. “Are you sure it’s not a scam to avoid paying income tax? Everyone knows writers and artists are zero-rated in Ireland.”
“Only creative writers…and you have to spend six months a year in the country to qualify. Journalists are excluded.”
I couldn’t see that stopping him. He’d worked on a Reuters financial desk at one stage in his career and claimed to know every tax-dodge going. “Are you planning to live there when you write the great novel?”
“It’s crossed my mind.”
“With Ailish?”
Dan shook his head. “I’d rather have a cottage in Kerry, overlooking Dingle Bay. I took Fee there the last time I was over, and it was beautiful. We walked along the beach.” He paused. “By the time I take the plunge—if I take the plunge—she’ll be a grown woman. What do you think she’ll make of her father then? Will she still want to walk in the sand with me?”
It was said in the same amused tone that he’d used throughout, but the words suggested something else. A feeling for his child that he wanted reciprocated. It surprised me. I thought he was like me, determinedly unwilling to commit as the only way to stay sane in a life that was nomadic. Perhaps his daughter had given him roots. I envied him suddenly.
And I envied Fee. Did she know how Dan felt about her? Did she know who he was? What he’d done? What he’d written? How he was viewed outside the narrow confines of her mother’s family?
“She’ll be a strange woman, if she doesn’t,” I said. “It’s feminine nature to be curious…comes from centuries of having nothing to do except analyse male behaviour. As to what she’ll make of you”—I paused—“I hope you’ll always be a mystery to her, Dan. That way, she’ll keep coming back for more.”
He made a passing reference to that conversation as he waited with me at Baghdad airport. “How am I going to get in touch with you? The only contact number I have is your mobile…and that’s gone. I’m beginning to realize how little I actually know about you, Connie. I need your parents’ details.”
I forced a smile. “I wrote their address and number on the pad in your flat when I called home,” I lied, “but you can always find them in the personnel files under next of kin.” In fact I hadn’t updated the details since my parents left Zimbabwe, so the only address on record was Japera Farm, and I couldn’t see Mugabe’s crony forwarding correspondence.
Dan nodded. “OK. And you’re happy with the arrangements? Harry Smith will meet you at Heathrow and steer you through the press conference. After that, he’ll ask for you to be left alone…although you’ll certainly be chased for quotes if and when Adelina Bianca’s released.” He reached for my hand. “Can you cope with all of that?”
I tried not to show how much I hated being touched. “Yes.”
“You’ll be asked about the length of time you were held. That’s the issue that’s going to interest them. Why only three days? Were you given the reason for your release? Who negotiated it? Was any money paid?” He gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. “It might be worth thinking it through on the plane. You can legitimately plead ignorance on most things, but they’ll want to know what you said to your kidnappers and whether you think that influenced your treatment.”
Twenty feet away, a woman smacked a toddler on the back of his head. I couldn’t see what his offence was, but the heavy-handed blow seemed disproportionate to any crime a two-year-old could have committed. I felt a rush of sadness in my throat—the precursor to tears—but I’d lost the ability to cry and gazed dry-eyed at Dan as I slipped my hand from his and hunched inside my borrowed jacket. Underneath, I was still wearing my “abduction” clothes, a cotton skirt and shirt, which I’d washed before Dan took me to the police station. I’d accepted the jacket from a female colleague in case it was cold in London.
“Are you asking me to make something up?”
He looked away. “I’m suggesting you get your story straight, Connie. You told the police you couldn’t speak because of the duct tape over your mouth…but in the next breath said you were given water regularly. That can only have happened if the tape was removed, so why didn’t you speak then?”
“Because it wouldn’t have made any difference. If they’d wanted to kill me they’d have killed me.”
“Then, yes,” he said with sudden impatience. “I’m suggesting you make something up. You know the deal. It’s all about column inches, so give them the best story you can.”
I dug my hands into my pockets. “Otherwise what?”
“They’ll compare you with Adelina, Connie, and look for bruises. They’ll ask for the doctor’s report—clean bill of health, with minor bruising on your wrists and some redness round your mouth and eyes from the duct tape—and they’ll want to know why you got off so lightly. What are you going to tell them?”
I ran my tongue across my lips. “That I don’t know.”
“And when they ask what you were wearing—which they certainly will—how are you going to answer that?”
I pulled the jacket tighter around my waist and hips. “What I’ve got on.”
“Then stick to the story we gave the police…that I had your clothes laundered because you had nothing else to wear. I’ll take the flak again,” he finished rather grimly, “even though it makes me look like a bloody idiot.”
He’d been given a rough time by Chas for allowing me to clean myself and my clothes before going to the police station. It was bad enough that he’d kept my release secret for three hours, worse that he hadn’t considered the implications of destroying evidence. There was some excuse for my behaviour because I was traumatized, but none for Dan. He should have known better. How were the authorities expected to secure convictions without forensic corroboration?
Dan had stood by me—in so far as he took the criticism on the chin and kept it to himself that he’d tried to stop me—but he made no secret of his suspicions now. “Why did you need to wash those clothes, anyway?”
“They were dirty.”
But we both knew they weren’t. They hadn’t even smelt dirty, which was why I’d washed them. I’d toyed with saying I’d been given an orange jumpsuit, similar to the one Adelina wore on her video, but I was afraid of provoking further questions. Why were there no orange fibres on my skin or in my hair? Why bother to dress me as a prisoner if no video was made? It was less traumatic to be accused of destroying evidence than admit to wearing nothing.
I wondered if Dan had guessed the truth because he didn’t pursue the issue. Instead, he told me what he planned to say when he announ
ced my release to the press corps in Baghdad. There was heavy emphasis on my cooperation with the police, my refusal to say too much for fear of jeopardizing Adelina’s chances, and my undoubted “courage and professionalism.” It was a clear instruction to stay “on message” in London so that Reuters in Baghdad wasn’t ambushed out of left field.
I sent surreptitious glances towards the clock on the far wall, ticking off the seconds before I could reasonably head for the departure gate. The only luggage I had was a fabric bumbag (borrowed from Dan) which held my ticket stub, boarding-pass and emergency passport (paid for by Reuters), and £25 in precious English fivers from the Baghdad bureau coffers.
“Are you listening to me, Connie?”
I gave another nod. But as I had no intention of performing for the press, it was irrelevant whether I listened or not. If I failed to appear, the only source of information would be Dan’s press conference and, with no photographs, the coverage would be limited to a box somewhere. There might be speculation about why and where I’d gone into hiding, but it wouldn’t amount to much. Stories without legs and pictures died on the editor’s floor.
I’d made the decision to bolt when I phoned my parents from Dan’s apartment to tell them I was safe. My mother answered in Swahili. Literally. As a child, she’d learnt the language from Adia, her Kenyan nanny, and had passed on what she remembered to me. She spoke before I could say anything. “Jambo. Si tayari kuzungumza na mtu mie.” Hello. I can’t talk to anyone at the moment.
It was a device we’d used when things became difficult at the farm. My father was convinced there were physical and wire-tap eavesdroppers. Swahili isn’t commonly understood in Zimbabwe, where English is the official language and Shona and Ndebele the native ones. In this case, I guessed my mother was expecting a call from my father, and was warning him there was somone in the room with her.
I answered: “Jambo, mamangu. Mambo poa na mimi. Sema polepole!” Hello, my mother. Everything’s fine with me. Be careful what you say!
There was a brief pause. “Bwana asifiwe. Nakupenda, mtoto wangu.” Thank God. I love you, my child. There was a catch of emotion in her voice which she quelled immediately. “Sema fi kimombo.” You can speak in English.
In the weeks after my release, that was the closest I came to breaking down. Had she been in the room, I would have become her “mtoto” again, stolen into her warm embrace and told her everything. By the time I saw her in London, that opportunity was gone. I took a breath. “Who’s with you?”
“Msimulizi.” A newspaper reporter.
“Oh, Christ! Don’t let on it’s me!” I could hear the tremors in my voice. “No one knows I’ve been released yet…except Dan…I’m in his flat. I need time to…Do you understand?”
“Ni sawasawa.” It’s OK. She sounded so reassuring that I think she must have been smiling at whoever was in the room. “Nasikia vema.” I understand perfectly.
“I’m flying out this evening via Amman, and should be in London early tomorrow morning.” I glanced towards the door of the room, wondering if Dan was listening. “Is this reporter a one-off or are they plaguing you?”
Another pause while she worked out a strategy. “Yes, indeed, it would be much easier in English. I’m very touched that you’re calling from Connie’s newspaper in Kenya. We’ve had interest from all over the world. As I speak, there are journalists and photographers in the road outside…all of whom are publicizing Connie’s plight. We’re deeply grateful for everyone’s support and assistance.”
My heart sank. “Are they making life hell for you?”
“Yes.”
“How’s Dad bearing up?” I amended that immediately because I knew she wouldn’t be able to answer it. “Don’t worry. I can guess.” After the events at the farm, my father had developed a short fuse when it came to intrusion. He particularly hated being questioned about what had happened, as if other people had a right to pry into his humiliation. “Is he losing his temper with them?”
“Yes. In fact my husband is at the Zimbabwean High Commission today. The British government refuses to talk to hostage-takers, but there’s a possibility Robert Mugabe might intervene because Connie has dual nationality. Andrew is trying all avenues.”
“Oh, God!” My father would cut off his arm rather than ask Mugabe for help. He hated the thieving little dictator more than any man on earth. “I’m so sorry! What a bloody awful mess!”
“Haidhuru. Kwa kupenda kwako.” It doesn’t matter. He’s doing it because he loves you. Another pause. “I wonder if it would be better if you spoke to Andrew? He can tell you far more than I can. Do you have a number that he can call when he returns? Perhaps a mobile?”
“No…it was stolen…and I don’t know where I’ll be in the next few hours. Can you wait till I land in London?” I looked at the door again. “Dan’s organizing a press conference at Heathrow—” I broke off, praying she’d follow up on why.
“Will that be difficult for you?”
“Yes.”
“Is your colleague with you now?”
“I’m not sure. Possibly.” I paused. “Reuters are holding back the news of my release until the press conference…which means I need you to keep pretending you haven’t heard from me. It’s important, Mum. I don’t want cameras filming me as I come into the arrivals hall. Will you promise not to say anything till you hear from me?”
“Of course. All either of us wants is Connie’s safe return.”
I wished I could tell her that I couldn’t go to the flat while photographers were in the street, but I didn’t know if Dan was listening or how good his Swahili was. Instead, I hoped she would pick up a hint. I gave a shaky laugh. “I’m beginning to understand how Dad felt when you left the farm. Do you remember what he said the worst thing was?” (“Talking about it. What am I supposed to say? Does it make people feel better when I admit to being scared?”)
My mother hesitated for a moment before she repeated: “Nasikia vema.” I understand perfectly. “You’d like a private interview…in a hotel perhaps…bila wasimulizi na maswala (without reporters and questions). Is that right? Have I understood your wishes correctly?”
“Yes.”
“My husband will be waiting for your call. I guarantee he’ll help in any way he can. Our daughter needs all the support she can get.”
I took another breath to stop the tremors. “I really am fine, you know…so don’t start imagining things…all that happened was that I was blindfolded for three days. Give Dad a hug from me, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tutaonana baadaye, mtoto wangu. Nakupenda.” We’ll see each other soon, my child. I love you.
It’s fairly devastating at thirty-six to recognize that you have a greater empathy with your mother than with the man you’ve been giving your body to for the last fifteen years. I wondered what would have happened if the roles had been reversed, and it had been Dan on the other end of the phone. Could he have matched my mother’s subtlety or understanding? Or would he have waded in blindly with hobnailed boots, as he was doing now?
“I know you’re not going to like this, Con, but a few tears wouldn’t go amiss. There’s been a lot of sympathy shown you over the last three days and it’ll ebb away PDQ if you refuse to play along for the cameras. No one’s going to believe you’ve been gagged and blindfolded for the last three days if you don’t show a little frailty.”
I dragged my attention back to him. “Don’t worry. I’ll do it when the time comes. I’m good at play-acting.”
He frowned. “Am I supposed to know what that means?”
I shrugged. “I do a good impersonation of a mistress, Dan. No demands. No expectations. No drain on the wallet. No interference in the love life when I’m not around. No cause for concern.” I smiled at him. “You should trust me to put on a good show. I’ve seen more bloody victims than you ever have.”
He made a ham-fisted attempt to put his arms around me, but I stepped out of reach. “Are you going to tell me what’s
going on?” he demanded. “I’ve done everything you asked…and I get treated like something the cat’s brought in. What’s up? Is there something you haven’t told me?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Nothing,” I said carelessly. “I’m a recovering hostage.”
He sighed. “Then talk to me about it. You know I’ll listen.”
We’d been through this in the flat. He’d fussed all over me, encouraging me to voice my fears, telling me he’d ask London to organize counselling, running through his own feelings of guilt after his friend died in front of him. Even if I’d been tempted to tell him the truth—which I hadn’t—his swamping insistence would have stopped me. What would I have had left once he—once anyone—had dragged every last secret out of me?
“There’s nothing else to tell. It was frightening while it lasted, but I was luckier than Adelina.” I managed another smile. “Which is why I might not be able to produce crocodile tears for the cameras, Dan. I’m alive…I’m in one piece…and nothing much happened to me. It would be shabby to pretend otherwise, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” he agreed slowly. “I guess it would.”
And that’s how we left it, with fifteen years of sporadic intimacy dead on the floor of a war-torn airport. Dan went through with his press conference in Baghdad, and I dodged mine by slipping past Harry Smith in a group of tourists from another flight. The interest died very quickly. Apart from the announcement of my release, there was very little else other than speculation in some of the Iraqi newspapers that I’d faked my abduction. I didn’t mind. I discovered very quickly that it was easier to live with myself when everyone thought I was lucky…or a fraud.
The trouble was I couldn’t live with anyone who believed it. It’s a form of betrayal when people close to you accept what you tell them at face value.
Shouldn’t they know you better than that…?
Extracts from notes, filed as “CB16–19/05/04”
…I never realized how fragile trust is. Can a single person really destroy another’s faith in everyone and everything?
The Devil`s Feather Page 15
