She opened her handbag and extracted a small fold-up tote.
‘Good.’ A pause. ‘So you’ll be leaving the country right away, then.’
She nodded wordlessly. He bit his lip and it looked as though he were about to say something.
But then he gave an odd half-shrug and the next moment he had plunged into the rain, walking away from her with long strides. His shoulders were set, his hair plastered wet against his head. He did not look back.
TWENTY-FIVE
‘LOOK.’
Mark lifted his head and his eyes followed to where Adam was pointing. An oryx antelope. It stood completely motionless. One moment the horizon was empty and the next minute the oryx had appeared like a mirage. The sweeping horns etched like pencil strokes against the trembling sky. The head and body so still the animal seemed like a posed prop, lifeless, something merely conjured up by his brain to fill the emptiness.
He looked back at Adam. Adam was still staring at the antelope, his eyes creased against the glare of the sun. Adam was fascinated by oryx. The ‘ultimate survivors’ he called these mammals, whose unique cooling systems enabled them to survive body temperatures of more than 45°C as they wandered deep, deep into the sea of sand.
‘Miraculous,’ Adam murmured, his eyes still fixed on the distant shape.
Mark nodded. ‘It is that.’
‘By all the laws of nature, it’s not supposed to work, you know. That animal is cheating its way through life. Cheating death.’
‘Hmm.’ Mark stooped and picked up his diving kit and dropped it into the rear of the Land Rover. ‘We should get going. Why don’t you drive?’
‘Sure.’ Adam caught the keys Mark tossed at him.
On their way to the boat, Mark watched Adam out of the corner of his eye. Adam’s body seemed relaxed, his hands clasping the wheel lightly, one elbow resting on the open window ledge. But his mouth was taut and the expression on his face seemed remote. The shutters were back in place. Every day Adam seemed more like the man he had met all those years ago, the man who had shut out the world.
It started on the day they discovered the dead cubs in the cave. It was a memory that would stay with Mark for a long time.
The parents had deserted the den. Inside were only three tiny bodies covered with buzzing flies, the lips of one cub drawn away from its teeth in a petrified smile.
There were boot prints in the dust. The perpetrator hadn’t even bothered to try and cover his tracks. Mark knew Adam suspected Grachikov, but he was not so sure himself. Certainly he hated Grachikov, but he also believed that Grachikov was a practical man and not someone who would engage in a sick little orgy simply for the hell of it. If there was profit involved—yes, the man would be capable of anything. But Mark thought it more likely that this was the handiwork of an illegal hunter, a member of the fraternity of poachers who sometimes moved through the wilderness like lethal vandals, shooting and maiming anything that moved.
Adam had wept that day in the cave. And as they walked away from the place of death, Mark looked into Adam’s eyes to find a stranger staring out at him. His voice was still friendly, his manner easy. But the walls were up.
It wasn’t only the cubs. There was another reason for the change in his friend. And it was time the whole thing was brought out into the open.
‘Adam…’
Adam flicked a glance across at him.
‘We should talk.’
‘About?’
‘About her. We should talk about her. About the two of you.’
Mark held his breath. He knew he was trespassing. Adam had made it clear on the previous occasions he had tried that he did not wish to discuss Justine Callaway. He was on dangerous ground.
But to his utter surprise, Adam nodded. ‘You’re right. We should.’ He paused. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. But let’s do the dive first. I don’t want us distracted while we’re down there.’
‘Of course.’ Mark gave a sigh of relief. ‘After the dive, then. We’ll talk after.’
• • •
THE DIVE went well. They were only searching for spiny rock lobsters today and the dive was unexacting, no dangerous depths or disorienting caves.
After the dive they dumped the lobsters in the boat, stripped off their fins, and made their way to a smooth slab of rock. Here they took off their suits and stretched themselves out in the sun, staring up at the sky with the sun-baked rock against their exposed backs.
After a while Mark said, ‘Next time, let’s head for Giant’s Castle. It’s been too long.’
Adam was silent.
‘Adam—did you hear what I said?’
‘Yes. It will have to wait.’
‘Wait? Why?’
‘Because I won’t be doing any diving for a while.’
Mark tilted his head, perplexed. ‘You have to start working shifts again in a week’s time. You told me so.’
‘I decided not to renew my contract. I told them I’ll be sitting this summer out.’
‘Why? I don’t understand.’
Adam turned his face away, his eyes fixed on a spot somewhere in the ocean.
Mark stared at him. ‘Oh, no. Tell me it’s not what I’m thinking.’
‘I have to find her, Mark. And it’s not going to happen while I’m trapped in this place.’
‘Adam… It’s too dangerous. You’re a fugitive! You can’t just go back to the UK!’ Mark stopped. His voice had become unpleasantly high-pitched. ‘They’ll catch you,’ he continued in a more moderate tone. ‘Nine years is not that long. They’ll be waiting for you.’
‘I’m leaving for Windhoek tomorrow.’ Adam continued as though Mark hadn’t spoken. ‘I have an appointment to see Van Horn. He’s helping me out again with papers and a passport. It’s costing me, but it can’t be helped.’
‘You’re crazy. It’s one thing to have papers forged for this place, but for the UK? It won’t work.’
‘It will work. It’s already done. Van Horn has a contact in the Home Office in Pretoria. And if they check, I have a life here. An employment record. A return ticket. Hide in plain sight—that’s the best way.’
Mark sat quietly. Around his chest was a steel band squeezing his heart. He suddenly realised how extremely fond he’d become of this man who was watching him with a strange, resigned little smile.
‘Don’t worry, Mark. I’ll be back.’
‘I’m afraid for you.’
‘I know.’
‘And if you find her? What then?’
‘I don’t know. It will take care of itself.’ Adam smiled again. ‘You’re the one who’s always complaining that I’m hanging around the outskirts of things. You’re always saying it’s time I committed myself to a leap of faith. Well, this is it.’
‘I’ve never advocated foolishness.’
‘Everything in life comes down to a few crucial moments, Mark. Most of the time we have no control and circumstances make the decisions for us. And these decisions ultimately determine the lives we lead. But some moves we get to make ourselves. This is one of those steps that’s up to me, not fate. The most important step of my life.’
Mark leaned forward. He spoke urgently. ‘If it really is written in the stars that the two of you are soul mates, then it is predetermined—not up to you. Have you thought of that? In this case a decision not to go would be an expression of free will, not the other way around.’
‘You should wish me luck.’
Mark sighed, defeated. ‘My friend, I wish you all the luck in the world.’
• • •
HIS TRIP was circuitous. He had flown from Windhoek to Cape Town and from there to Athens. Athens was the easiest point of entry into the European Union, Van Horn had assured him. And, as he was in transit, he wouldn’t require a Greek visa either.
Adam paged through the green-backed passport. He was now a South African citizen. Born in Johannesburg forty years ago. Employed in Namibia. The document seemed startlingly authentic. ‘It is authen
tic,’ Van Horn had assured him. ‘That’s why you pay the big bucks, hey. This isn’t some scuzzy second-rate forgery. With this baby you can travel the world with no worries.’
So far, it was working out. It wasn’t that big a risk flying into Cape Town; many Namibians worked in South Africa and vice versa and South Africans accepted the desert country on their border almost as an extension of their own. But at Athens airport he had thought the immigrations official would be sure to pick up on his thundering heartbeat and the phony smile which, try as he might, he could not remove from his face. However, after taking a look at his London-bound ticket, the man had merely riffled briefly through the pages of the passport and, without a second glance, waved him through.
But now they were about to touch down at Heathrow. For the past twenty minutes the plane had been in a holding pattern. With every minute that passed, he felt his tension increase. His head was pounding. His stomach had turned to acid. He had wondered how he would react to his first sight of home. But he was in an aisle seat and the passenger next to him was looking out the window, blocking the view. He had no sense that he was back in England.
When he finally stepped out of the plane into the walkway, he felt a brief, welcome blast of cold air. It was a tremendous relief to get out of the cabin. He hadn’t been in close proximity to so many people in many, many years. His shirt clung clammily to his back; he was perspiring heavily. He looked down at the passport clasped in his hand and was horrified to see a sweaty imprint of his five fingers on the mock leather. He rubbed the passport frantically against his jacket. He was going to be fine. But not if he started oozing sweaty guilt from every pore.
That distinctive airport smell. Disinfectant and nylon carpets. Everything decorated in grey and blue. Had it been the same when he had left here ten years ago? His blurred gaze took in the large advertisements lining the walls. The names, even the products made little sense to him. Assassins’ Creed. He had no idea what that was. Was someone watching him? He looked over his shoulder. Behind him was a gaunt-looking woman in a knitted dress. The woman’s lipstick, a bright crimson, had rubbed off on her teeth and when she smiled at Adam it looked as though she were suffering from bleeding gums.
He looked back in front of him. They were approaching the immigration hall. EU citizens were processed at the very end of the hall by a young woman sitting on a high stool behind a counter. The passengers were passing the counter, hardly breaking step. They had their passports open at the page with their photograph and the young woman would simply place her hand on the page as if bestowing a benediction.
Not for him. He had to queue in the long line of non-EU residents.
He counted the number of passengers in front of him and looked at the row of immigration officials, trying to calculate which one of the uniformed officials would be the one processing him. The elderly woman at counter six had a motherly expression, but her queue was moving the slowest. Not good. So maybe he should hope for the young man with the widow’s peak. He looked new to his job, slightly awkward.
He shuffled forward. He was second from the front. There was a woman in a white robe and then him. The objects around him were swelling in size with every thump of his heart. Number six. He was going to get number six.
The white-robed woman was gesticulating at an immigration official with a pencil-thin moustache. He looked at her impassively, then said something and turned around to wink at someone behind him. Another man in uniform walked up to the passenger and led her to a nearby desk. The immigration official looked over at Adam and signalled to him.
His eyeballs felt like stones in his head; his hand was shaking.
But as he walked forward, his mind suddenly emptied. The fear was gone. His journey could not end here, not without seeing her. Justine, Justine. They were destined to meet. He approached the desk without a tremor. Sliding the passport onto the counter, he smiled easily.
It wasn’t until forty minutes later when he slid into the seat of the cab taking him to London that the trembling returned. He looked down at his hand; it was jumping where it lay against his thigh and, try as he might, he was unable to stop it.
• • •
HIS FIRST TWO DAYS in London passed in a daze. He was in shock, his mind numb from the assault on his senses. Too many colours, too many different odours, too much noise. The air he breathed into his lungs had a taste to it. A taste of the city. It coated his mouth, the inside of his nose. His eyes felt scratchy. And there was no relief inside his room in the tiny hotel just off King’s Cross. He wasn’t used to central heating any longer and it made him feel headachy, the air unbearably thick and oxygen-deprived.
People. Too many people: he could not get away from them. No escape. Even in his hotel room with the door closed tightly, he felt jostled by bodies. He’d sit on his bed and hear the sound of bodies moving above him, in the rooms next to him, on the pavements on the other side of the glazed window. When he ventured outside, he walked gingerly, taking elaborate care not to bump into anyone. He felt clumsy, as though he took up too much room. A teenager on in-line skates whizzed past him and he drew back in alarm.
The unexpected shock of rain. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen the sky pouring rain. He should have been delighted at the feel of the wet drops on his skin but he shrank from it. It was alien, suspect.
Black rubbish bags haemorrhaging smells outside shop entrances. The odour of wet coats and unwashed bodies. Constant, constant noise. His mind becoming bruised from it; from crashing endlessly against a wall of aggressive, pounding sound. The sights around him surreal. He found himself staring at the window of a Chinese restaurant, mesmerised by the long necks of a row of dead ducks hanging from greasy butcher’s hooks.
He suddenly became aware that he wasn’t able to see a horizon. The realisation bothered him more than he would have thought possible.
He was tired but he couldn’t sleep. He lay in bed and the light from the flashing neon sign on the other side of the street pulsed through the thin curtains and painted the inside of his eyelids. Yellow, black. Yellow, black.
• • •
ON THE THIRD day he went to the house in St John’s Wood. The day before he had bought a suit, a conservative navy blue tie, half-brogues. ‘Overnight friends’—that was the word Patricia Callaway had used to describe some of her daughter’s casual acquaintances, her voice filled with contempt. So it was essential that he projected an image of staid respectability if he wanted her to open up to him. An old friend of Jonathan’s, a fellow musician. Someone who merely wanted to touch base with his former friend’s sister. A courtesy call, really. No urgency, no desperation. Just friendly interest. Nothing that could set off an alarm bell in the mother’s mind.
As he walked through the lobby of the hotel, he caught a glimpse of himself in the ceiling-to-floor mirror. Clothes maketh the man. The charcoal-grey suit and crisp blue shirt had changed a desperado into a gentleman. He would now be able to pass for an ordinary productive member of society. There was only one wrong note. His skin was very dark from the sun. It was quite startling compared to the pallor of those around him. But it couldn’t be helped.
Giving a last look at the stranger in the mirror, he walked through the sliding glass doors and into the pale sunlight.
• • •
THE HOUSE was big and detached with a front garden which was probably lovely in summer. But the neat flowerbeds were greyed by the chill of winter. The only splash of colour was a tub of blue and pink chrysanthemums at the front door.
He placed his finger on the brightly polished doorbell and heard it tone deep inside the house. The door opened so quickly and suddenly, it took him by surprise.
A young woman dressed in jeans and a smock looked at him inquiringly. She had a duster in her hand. The cleaning lady. In the hallway behind her, he could see the handle of an upright vacuum cleaner.
‘I wish to speak to Mrs Patricia Callaway, please. If you could tell her Adam Williams is here
to see her.’
‘Sorry. I can’t do that.’
He stepped back, looked again at the number of the house soldered into the wall. ‘She does live here?’
‘Yes. But she’s away. She’s in Paris.’
He felt as though a bucket of cold water had been thrown at him. ‘When do you expect her back?’
The woman was looking at him thoughtfully. Something must have shown in his face and he knew his body language probably spoke of tension. He tried to relax. The last thing he needed was to scare her and have her shut the door in his face.
He smiled. ‘I’m an old friend of the children. Jonathan and Justine.’
‘Oh.’ She looked stricken. ‘You do know that Mr Jonathan…’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Yes. Yes, of course I do, and that’s why I’m here. I wish to convey my condolences to Patricia and Justine. Is Justine around by any chance?’ He waited, hardly breathing.
But the woman shook her head. ‘No, sorry. I don’t know where she is. She doesn’t live here. But Mrs Callaway will be back on Monday. Do you want to leave a number where she can reach you?’
He hesitated. The telephone in the hallway suddenly started to ring. She looked over her shoulder and then back at him. ‘If you’ll excuse me…’
He gestured with his hand, stepped back. ‘That’s all right. I’ll stop by again on Monday.’ Before she could ask anything else, he had turned around and was walking swiftly in the direction of the front gate. He heard her close the door behind him.
Three more days. He felt paralysed. He had psyched himself up for this meeting to such an extent that the anti-climax was too much. Suddenly at a complete loss as to what to do next, he stood on the corner of the street, blinking. He realised he was shivering. An icy wind was blowing and he felt chilled to the bone.
His eye fell on a tiny café on the other side of the street. He entered and the air inside was so close and overheated that he recoiled. It was so hot in here that the plate-glass window had steamed up and he could hardly see anything in the street outside. But he sat on one of the uncomfortable steel chairs and ordered coffee from a glum-looking waitress.
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