Mystery Tour

by Martin Edwards

  ‘I remember this,’ Gillian said suddenly. ‘I do remember it. The way that cliff curves into the bay. Like a hand grasping it.’

  ‘Was there anyone with you?’

  Too eager, Tom thought. I should just let her talk.

  She frowned and shook her head. ‘I remember I wanted … something … and I said to Claire…’ She paused, then grabbed his shoulder, her plain face suddenly lively. ‘So she was with me!’

  ‘That’s good. Good.’ So a day into the hike, the two girls had still been together. Claire had been here, had probably rested right here, watching the sea. Tom’s heart ached.

  Gillian was concentrating, the frown back again. ‘I don’t remember anything else. I remember that curve of the cliffs. And that it’s still quite far to where we camped.’

  Tom nodded. The Tsitsikamma Trail was five days of tough hiking, and this was only their first day. They’d better get moving.

  ‘Thanks for bringing me with you,’ Gillian said as he helped her into her backpack. ‘All those people asking me questions, interrogating me. It was horrible. And the more they pushed, the less my mind would focus, and the harder it was to remember anything. But out here it’s different. I sort of get snatches. Like that bay.’

  Tom settled his own pack on his shoulders. ‘Don’t force it. Just wait for something to trigger a memory. Then tell me about it when you feel like it.’

  They were making their way along the top of the cliff now, at least fifty metres above the sea. Sometimes the path had stunning views of the coast. Other times it wound through the indigenous forest, where monkey ropes hung from the white stinkwoods and yellowwoods that crowded in on them.

  ‘Oh, look!’ Gillian pointed as they emerged over the sea again. Beyond the breakers, a school of dolphins was arching through the swells. Tom was struck by how gorgeous the hike was, how much he would have enjoyed it with Claire. She’d asked him to come, but he couldn’t get away. So it was only Claire and Gillian who’d gone.

  And only Gillian who had returned from it.

  You were only allowed to camp at a few marked places along the route, and it was dusk by the time they found their site. It hadn’t rained for weeks – the drought across southern Africa was hitting the Tsitsikamma too – and Tom easily found dry wood. He settled to making a fire and dealing with the steaks and freeze-dried vegetables, while Gillian put up the small two-man tent. She said it was easier to do on her own. They had a litre pack of red wine with them, and when the tent was done and Gillian joined him by the fire, they sipped it from plastic mugs.

  ‘Why did you let me come, in the end?’ she asked.

  ‘You really wanted to. And you said maybe you could help.’

  ‘I thought you’d want to do it alone. To be here just with Claire…’

  Tom took several moments to answer while the fire spat and smoked. ‘I spoke to Dr Harcourt. She said it was OK.’

  In fact, the psychologist hadn’t been keen at all. She’d said she had no idea how Gillian would react to retracing the trail from which she’d previously emerged babbling, a week after she and Claire should have returned. She’d staggered towards a group of searchers, with no memory of what had happened. The National Parks people and the police had searched for weeks and found no trace of Claire. So even though the psychologist had advised against it, Tom had let Gillian come with him; awakening her memory seemed his only hope of discovering anything.

  ‘I have to know what happened, Gill. She could still be alive.’

  ‘I need to know as much as you do. She was your sister, but she was my very, very best friend. And I left her out here somewhere.’ Gillian lowered her head and silent tears started down her cheeks.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Tom reached out but didn’t touch her. He poked the fire. ‘Hey, how do you want your steak?’

  ‘Rare.’

  ‘Just as well. I think the fire’s dying. Maybe the wood wasn’t as dry as I thought.’ He faked a laugh, but she didn’t respond.

  They were both hungry and wolfed down the steaks, which were on the raw side of rare. Gillian played with her reconstituted vegetables and potatoes, and handed her plate to Tom at once when he asked if he could finish what she didn’t want. As they drank their wine, they kept their conversation to politics and religion – safe topics, Tom thought wryly – until they were both ready to turn in. It had been a tough day, and Tom fell asleep almost at once, the first time that had happened since the news about Claire had reached him.

  He woke in the middle of the night to Gillian talking in her sleep. At first, he couldn’t make out the words, but she seemed to be arguing with someone. Suddenly she said ‘Claire’ in a husky voice. Then ‘let me go’ in a different voice. Claire’s? Then she rolled over, her breathing became regular and sleep reclaimed her.

  Tom lay awake. For the hundredth time he thought about the possibilities. An accident? Had Claire fallen from the cliffs, been swept out to sea? But what reason was there for Gillian’s amnesia? She loved Claire – more like a sister than simply a friend – but surely an accident wouldn’t have produced this bitter trauma? Why did she cry out ‘let me go’ in her sleep?

  Tom twisted in his sleeping bag, trying not to disturb her. Someone else must have been there. Someone who’d done something so horrible that Gillian couldn’t tolerate the memory. He thought of the sangomas who wanted body parts from young women for their black-magic potions. Had Gillian somehow escaped, but Claire…? He didn’t want to think about it. Instead he thought about the razor-sharp hunting knife he’d brought with him. He knew how to use it. He wanted to.

  The next day there was heavy cloud, and the humidity was oppressive. Tom guessed a thunderstorm was brewing. He lit their camping stove and put the water pot on to boil while he dug in the packs for their ponchos. If there was a storm, all they could do about it was keep as much water off them as possible.

  Gillian emerged from the path leading to the long drop nearby.

  ‘Looks like the drought is about to break – on us.’

  Tom smiled. ‘You sound cheerful this morning.’

  She nodded and accepted a mug of hot tea.

  Once they’d had their tea and energy bars they set off. They were heading back to the sea, down a steep, rocky path that took them to the mouth of a river that had carved an impassable gorge through the hills ahead of them. Tom was grateful the rain held off – the rocks were rounded and loose, and smoothed by aeons of being tossed in the sea. They would be dangerous wet.

  They rested at the bottom before they forded the river.

  ‘Claire was scared,’ Gillian said suddenly. ‘She had a phobia. But you know that. She was always terrified of drowning.’

  Was that what happened? Tom asked himself. Did she drown? Was that where her fear came from? Did she have a premonition that somehow the sea would claim her?

  ‘So you recall being here with her?’

  Gillian nodded. ‘We’d better go. I think the tide’s coming in. That’s what she was scared of.’

  ‘Gillian – nothing happened? Nothing happened here?’

  She shook her head, her face closed.

  They waded across easily, but then the storm hit, leaving them stranded on the beach. The downpour was torrential, while lightning flashed over the hills above them. They had no option but to wait it out – the path climbed up the cliffs again; impossible to negotiate in the drumming rain. They huddled together under their ponchos, but with no cover they were soon wet through and chilled by the wind.

  The storm didn’t last long. After there was just the sound of the drops cascading off the broad-leafed shrubs and trees above them. The sun came out, and the temperature started to rise rapidly.

  ‘Let’s go swimming!’ Gillian laughed. ‘We’re so wet anyway. Why not?’

  Without waiting for a reply, she stripped down to her underwear and ran for the breakers. Tom shrugged, pulled off his sopping shirt and jeans and followed. Nice figure, he thought. Probably has plenty of guys afte
r her. Funny, I’ve never thought about her that way. She was always with Claire, almost part of the family. Maybe after all this … But he couldn’t think about it.

  Afterwards they sat on the rocks until they were more or less dry. Then they pulled on their jeans and boots and started up the cliff path. Now the sun was hot, and they were happy not to be wearing their tops.

  ‘You’ll burn,’ Tom said. But Gillian shook her head. ‘The sun’s too low.’

  She was right, Tom thought, realising they’d be hard-pressed to make the next camp in daylight. He was leading and stepped up the pace, but Gillian had no trouble keeping up with him, right on his tail.

  It was dark by the time they found the next campsite, and this time it took two of them to deal with the tent in the sputtering light of their gas stove.

  ‘Is there any more of that steak?’ Gillian asked. ‘It was great.’

  ‘Sorry. It’s finished, and I can’t make a fire anyway. Everything’s wet. So it’s freeze-dried Texan steak – whatever that is. There’s wine left, though.’

  They set about the preparations, and soon they had a meal.

  ‘It tastes OK,’ Gillian said. ‘Spicy. But it’s mushy. Somehow doesn’t feel real. Funny – at home I really like vegetables and pasta and stuff, but out here I’m craving meat. The protein for energy, I suppose.’

  Tom nodded and washed the last of his food down with wine. He wasn’t full, and guiltily hoped that Gillian might leave some of hers. But this time he was disappointed.

  When she’d finished, he said, ‘You said something in your sleep last night. I was wondering about it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said “Claire”. And then “let me go”. It sounded like an argument.’

  ‘I did? I don’t know. Unless…’ She shook her head.

  ‘Please, Gill, if you think of anything, tell me. It could be important.’

  She frowned. ‘For a moment there was something, but now it’s gone again. I’m tired, Tom. Let’s turn in.’ She started collecting the dishes.

  They climbed into their sleeping bags, but Tom decided to stay awake. He’d wait for Gillian to fall into a deep sleep, hoping she’d say something more. Tomorrow was their third day. So far, all he’d discovered was that Claire and Gillian had crossed the river together, and maybe one of them had said ‘let me go’. Not much. He closed his eyes, pretending to sleep.

  When he woke, the sun was already up and he was alone in the tent. He checked his watch: six-thirty. If Gillian had said anything, he’d slept through it. An opportunity missed. He pulled on a t-shirt and worked his way out of the tent.

  ‘Morning, Tom.’ Gillian was cooking up a yellowish concoction. ‘Maybe I talk in my sleep, but you snore!’

  ‘Ja, maybe.’ He laughed.

  ‘I’m making scrambled eggs – at least that’s what it says on the packet. I’m hungry this morning. That stuff last night wasn’t … real. Anyway, it’s a change from energy bars, and it’s still early.’

  Tom headed for the long drop and by the time he was back the breakfast was ready.

  This time there was plenty – Gillian had used two packets of dried egg – and it was good. The lumpy, rehydrated food actually tasted like scrambled eggs, and the consistency was not too far off either.

  They were dry, fed, and the day looked promising as they set off.

  This time the path went deeper into the forest – a tunnel through the thick vegetation. They’d been walking for about an hour when Gillian, who was leading, stopped so suddenly that Tom nearly bumped into her.

  ‘We turned off here,’ she said, looking to the right, away from the sea. ‘Right here we went into the forest.’ There was a narrow path snaking up the hill, maybe made by bushbuck or duikers. There was nothing to show where it went or that humans ever used it.

  ‘You turned off here? Why? This doesn’t go anywhere.’

  ‘You can get back to the road from here.’

  There were a few exit routes that could be taken back to the main coastal road if you needed to leave the trail to get help, or if you’d just had enough. There was one on this day’s hike, but it should be clearly marked. Tom was sure this wasn’t it.

  ‘But why did you want to get off the trail?’

  Gillian looked puzzled. ‘We needed water and there’s a spring up there. I think that was it.’

  ‘But surely you brought plenty of water?’

  ‘I don’t know, Tom. But I’m sure we turned off here.’

  Tom bent down to look at the path. ‘No tracks at all.’

  ‘After that rain yesterday? And it was weeks ago now.’

  ‘OK. Let’s see where it goes.’

  Suddenly Gillian seemed reticent. ‘We’re going to follow that path?’

  ‘If that’s the way you went, we have to.’

  ‘Are you sure? Maybe it’s not such a good idea. We have to reach the next campsite by tonight.’

  ‘We must. That’s why we came.’

  Once they got going, Gillian seemed to be quite sure of the way. The track followed a creek, which she crossed, back and forth, picking up the path when it disappeared into the rocks. They climbed steeply and for quite a way. The creek was flowing strongly after the storm, and small waterfalls emptied into clumps of sword ferns.

  They came to a mass of rocks flung down the hillside. ‘We have to go over these,’ Gillian said. ‘Careful. Some of them are loose.’

  Once they’d clambered up, they paused to catch their breath.

  Gillian turned to go on, but Tom asked, ‘But how did you know where to go? There aren’t any signs or paint splashes on the rocks.’

  ‘Oh, she showed us.’ Gillian started walking.

  Tom grabbed her arm to stop her. ‘Wait. She? You mean Claire?’

  ‘No, not Claire. The other woman. She must’ve been here before.’

  ‘Shit! What other woman, Gill?’

  ‘Gill, Claire…’ Gillian was frowning, as though counting to three was a problem for her. ‘Just the two of us?’

  Tom clenched his teeth. What on earth was going on?

  ‘You’re hurting me, Tom.’

  He let go of her arm.

  ‘Look, I can’t answer your questions. I know this path leads up to a saddle in the hills, and the road is somewhere on the other side. But I don’t know why we came, or who was with us, or even if anyone was with us. Maybe someone told us? Back on the main trail. That must be it.’

  Tom said nothing, possibilities churning in his mind.

  ‘Look, let’s go back to the trail. Please, Tom. I’m getting hungry.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, we go on. We can stop here and eat.’

  They dug out energy bars and other snacks, and drank from their water bottles. Neither of them said a word. When they were finished, Tom packed up.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I’m still really hungry. I need…’ She seemed to lose the thought and jumped up to go on. She started to lead the way again, but now she was much slower and sometimes had to search for the right route. Once she seemed lost and had to backtrack.

  ‘I can’t remember anything from here, Tom. I remember running through here, down the hill. And I was alone. I think I was alone. But I can’t remember going up.’

  ‘Maybe through here?’ Tom pointed to a gap between the shrubs. You couldn’t call it a path.

  Gillian shook her head. ‘No, that’s not the way. We mustn’t go that way. I think we should go down now, Tom. Really. I’m tired. I don’t want to go further. We need to get to the campsite.’

  ‘I’m going on.’

  Tom started off, pushing between the bushes. He was sure they were close to the place where something traumatic had occurred. Perhaps if they reached it, Gillian would finally be forced to face what had happened. But he couldn’t force her. If she wouldn’t come, he’d have to go back. He couldn’t leave her alone in the forest, not after what she’d been through there.

  Aft
er a few minutes, he heard her behind him. Then she brushed past and started to lead again.

  With the saddle of the hills in sight, they came to a dead end. In front of them was a mass of huge boulders, dumped at crazy angles on top of each other. On the left the boulders cascaded steeply down the way they’d come. On the right was sheer rock face. There seemed no way to go further, but Gillian stared at the boulders in front of them.

  ‘I’m not going in there. I’m not. I’m going back. We shouldn’t be here.’ Tom saw that she was looking at a narrow crack between two massive boulders.

  ‘Why did we come here, Gill? What’s in there?’

  She just shook her head. ‘Nothing. There’s nothing in there. I want to go back, Tom. There’s nothing here. I’m not going in there. I’m not!’ She sounded almost hysterical, but then suddenly she seemed to calm down and in a quite different tone of voice said, ‘I’m very hungry, Tom.’

  Tom took no notice. He’d caught sight of something between the rocks further down the slope. He clambered closer and found a backpack, its contents spilled out, rummaged through by something – perhaps a jackal or a Cape wildcat in search of food. The backpack was khaki with a maroon trim; Claire had owned one just like it. And it hadn’t simply been left here; it had been discarded, tossed down the hill. So robbery hadn’t been the motive, then. Whatever the reason had been, he was absolutely sure that this was the place where the women had been attacked.

  Tom reached for the backpack, but then pulled back. He shouldn’t touch anything. They would need to bring the police here. Instead he returned to Gillian. She stared at him, her face unreadable.

  ‘Gill, it’s Claire’s backpack down there. I know it is.’

  She said nothing. He turned to the crevice between the rocks.

  ‘I have to see what’s through there. It’s all right – you can wait for me here. Then we’ll go back. OK?’

  She nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on him.