Follow Thy Desire

by Anne Mather

  ‘Do you remember the day you came here?’

  ‘Do I not?’ Helen’s tone was dry.

  ‘Yes, well…’ Andrea coloured, remembering her part in it, ‘do you remember the woman who was here? The woman with the baby who was constipated?’

  ‘Of course,’ Helen nodded. ‘Morgan said she was Bosumi’s woman.’

  ‘That’s right, she was. Is! And maybe Bosumi’s found out she spent three days here. Perhaps he’s come to get even with Kori.’

  ‘To get even with Kori?’ Helen felt she was being particularly dense, but she couldn’t understand this. ‘Why would Bosumi want to get even with Kori?’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Andrea gave her a wry look. ‘Don’t you really know?’

  ‘Oh!’ Now it was Helen’s turn to look discomfited. ‘I see. You mean Kori—Kori and the woman—’

  ‘—slept together, yes.’ Andrea agreed impatiently. ‘People do, don’t they?’ She tipped her head on one side, holding Helen’s eyes with her own. ‘All the time.’ She paused, as if waiting for Helen to say something, and when she didn’t, went on: ‘Anyway, that’s my theory. The baby was Bosumi’s son, after all. Pushing all that witch doctor stuff up inside it can’t have done any good, and three days…’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Helen remembered the bloodstained floor of the surgery. ‘You mean—’

  Andrea nodded. ‘You see, Kori’s apparently got this irresistible charm for women, and working at the house of the Massa doctor gives him a sort of—status.’

  ‘I see.’ Helen shook her head. ‘But that’s it, isn’t it? Living here, working here, he must have known what she was doing was wrong!’

  ‘He wouldn’t care,’ replied Andrea airily. ‘So long as he was getting what he wanted. Men! Honestly, they’re so selfish!’

  ‘Your father’s not selfish,’ pointed out Helen quietly, and Andrea made a rueful grimace.

  ‘I know.’ She paused. ‘You care about Daddy, too, don’t you? I guessed you did yesterday, when we were talking, and then—this morning…’

  ‘What about this morning?’ asked Helen anxiously, but Andrea only moved her shoulders in a reluctant gesture.

  ‘I saw you,’ she said softly. ‘I think you must have wakened me when you went out of the bedroom. Anyway, I lay for a while, then I got up, too. You’d gone into the sea by that time, but I saw Daddy standing there, watching you. I was going to go and join him, but something, I don’t know what, held me back. Then you came out of the water, and I could tell by the way you talked together that you were not talking about me.’

  ‘Oh, Andrea!’

  The girl smiled. ‘Don’t look so worried. Oh, I don’t deny I was envious at first, but then I thought—why shouldn’t Daddy have a chance for happiness, too, and I know you’re not like my mother.’

  ‘Andrea…’

  Helen didn’t know what to say, but Andrea was looking towards the house again, her eyes dark and anxious. ‘I’ve just remembered something else,’ she exclaimed worriedly. ‘Bosumi is huge, easily seven feet. If either Kori or Daddy were attacked by him, they wouldn’t stand a chance!’

  ‘Oh, God!’

  Without thinking, Helen pushed open her door and got out again, running towards the sound of the voices, uncaring that Morgan had insisted she stay in the car. She could hear Andrea coming behind her, and together they burst into the living room of the house, coming to an abrupt halt at the sight that confronted them.

  There were four men in the room, and the woman Helen vaguely recognised as having seen before. One of the men Helen guessed it must be Bosumi as Andrea had suspected, was standing near the window, one brawny arm around Kori’s neck. But it was not a friendly gesture. In his other hand he held a short-bladed knife, the kind of knife a hunter might use, and this he held menacingly close against Kori’s distended throat. Whether he had adopted this attitude at Morgan’s intervention Helen didn’t know, but the fact remained that Kori was in a very dangerous situation, and a grotesquely-scarred individual, dressed in exotically patterned robes, was obviously urging Bosumi to finish what he had started.

  ‘Elopi!’ breathed a horrified Andrea behind her, and Helen recognised the witch doctor’s name. The witch doctor who had little time for Morgan.

  Morgan himself was apparently endeavouring to persuade the woman to get Bosumi to let Kori go. The woman was crying, which accounted for the shrill cries they had heard earlier, and she persistently covered her face with her hands and shook her head, as if refusing to listen to him.

  Helen and Andrea’s eruption into the room aroused Elopi to a frenzy. He started hopping around, screaming what Helen felt sure were obscenities, gesturing at them as if they were involved with the long, pike-like spear he was carrying. It was like a scene from a nightmare, thought Helen disbelievingly, realising that Morgan looked almost as angry as the witch doctor, but much paler.

  ‘Will you get out of here?’ he snapped furiously. ‘I told you to stay in the car. This is no place for women!’

  ‘But what’s happened?’ exclaimed Andrea impulsively. ‘Why is Bosumi here? What is he going to do?’

  ‘His son’s dead!’ retorted Morgan coldly. ‘Now, will you go away and leave this to me?’

  ‘But, Daddy—’

  ‘Andrea!’

  Morgan glared at them, and Helen realised he was more concerned for their safety than his own. There was no guarantee that after killing Kori, Bosumi might not turn his anger on the other witnesses to his crime, and years of working with psychologically-scarred people had shown Helen how easily a disturbed mind could be persuaded. If nothing else, Elopi was obviously a convincing advocate, and he had his own reasons for wanting to get even with the white doctor.

  Yet how could they depart, leaving Morgan to handle this alone? The odds were high, three against one, for Kori looked terrified out of his wits and incapable of helping himself. If only James was here, Helen found herself thinking, realising he was the only person they could turn to. But he was far away in Charlottesville, and no miraculous rescue bid was about to be mounted.

  ‘Morgan, is there anything I can do?’ Helen risked his anger yet again. ‘Could I talk to—to her? With Andrea as interpreter.’

  Morgan sighed. ‘Helen, can’t you see how explosive this situation is?’ he demanded in a low voice. ‘Don’t you think I have enough to do trying to persuade them to release Kori, without you and Andrea getting involved?’

  Helen hesitated, then she said: ‘I think we are involved, don’t you?’ She made a covert gesture towards Elopi. ‘If we leave now, he’ll think we’re afraid of him. Just imagine how that will sound to Bosumi.’

  ‘Oh, Helen…’ Morgan pushed back his hair with a weary hand. ‘What a homecoming!’ Suddenly, a wry smile touched his lips. ‘I think if Bosumi doesn’t kill Kori, I will.’

  It was a relief to see him smile, and Helen responded, refusing to give Elopi the satisfaction of seeing exactly how anxious she really was. She was anxious for Kori, of course. He was cheeky at times, and arrogant, but there was no real harm in him and he didn’t deserve to die for taking what the woman had obviously been prepared to give. And she was anxious for herself and for Andrea, most particularly for the girl, who was just beginning to gain a little confidence. But most of all, she was anxious for Morgan. She could see certain familiar signs about him—the line of sweat on his forehead, the deepening lines beside his mouth, and the intense weariness that was draining every scrap of colour from his face. They were signs of the headaches that plagued him with such disturbing regularity, and she longed to break up this crazy fiasco so that he could get some rest.

  Yet something told her that they were nearing crisis point. The woman was still shaking her head, crying hysterically, and Helen realised that her tears were more for herself than the baby. If Bosumi could be persuaded to let Kori go, he might begin to doubt her part in the affair, and unfaithful wives could still be beaten. Kori himself seemed frozen with terror, making no attempt to defend himself, his
lips moving in a silent prayer. Bosumi’s broad face bore an expression compounded of anger and uncertainty. Although he was such a big man, he was not naturally aggressive, but like all ponderous people, his anger, once aroused, was slow to diminish.

  Maybe without Elopi’s constant tirade, he would have accepted Morgan’s explanation of the woman’s shared guilt and left without violence. If he could have been persuaded that Elopi’s medicine was what had killed the child, his anger might even have taken a different course. But the old witch doctor was enjoying his brief resurgence of power, and abandoning his attempts to make the woman see sense, Morgan approached Bosumi himself.

  ‘Daddy!’

  Andrea’s cry was involuntary, but Helen silenced her with a frowning shake of her head. Instead, the girl gripped her arm tightly, and together they watched as Morgan held out his hand, apparently appealing for the knife.

  Elopi screamed, Bosumi reacted automatically, and the knife, jerking against Kori’s throat, sent a stream of blood running down his neck. But as if the sight of blood revolted Bosumi, he dropped the offending instrument, and Kori slumped against the window, clutching his throat and uttering incoherent whimpering sounds.

  ‘It’s all right, Kori,’ said Morgan, in a strangely strangled voice. ‘It’s only a pinprick. You’ll survive.’

  Then he bent to pick up the knife, but instead of doing so, he slumped full length on the floor and was still.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE South London Hospital was in Chelsea. It stood on the Embankment overlooking the grey waters of the Thames, rain-dark now as the gales of November drove relentlessly across the country. But inside the hospital there was light and efficiency, a professional team of people moving competently about their duties, doing the jobs for which they were so well qualified. There was a convincing sureness about the way they performed those duties, a reassuring ability of purpose that was only shattered when something went terribly wrong. The hours Helen had spent in the waiting room at the hospital had taught her to recognise that break in composure, the compassionate turn of phrase that prefaced news of a distressing kind, and she had turned her eyes aside from other people’s grief and prayed for the strength to accept whatever was to happen with fortitude.

  It was strange waking in the mornings and finding herself in a hotel bedroom in Kensington. It was strange hearing the muted roar of London’s traffic outside her windows, instead of the protesting squeal of the goats being driven down to the village, and even stranger having to wear warm pants and sweaters and a leather coat to face the weather, and not the thin cottons she had worn in Nrubi.

  And yet, in other ways, it was not strange at all. On the contrary, at times she felt it was so much longer than a week since they had left Osweba, and it was as if her whole life had been flowing towards this point since the day she first met Morgan.

  Recalling their departure from Charlottesville was like turning a knife in an open wound. The pain of those hours after Morgan had collapsed was still too sharp to contemplate without agony, and there were times when she wondered how she had succeeded in driving the sixty-three miles from Nrubi to James Oneba’s house.

  It had been a terrible experience. Her father’s apparent seizure had sent Andrea into hysterics, and even Kori had started moaning and rolling his eyes and entreating all the ancient spirits for help. It had been Bosumi who had helped her, surprisingly enough. Morgan’s unconscious state had stricken his woman dumb, and ignoring Elopi’s disgusted admonishments, he had knelt down beside Helen and showed that he wanted to help her.

  After a swift examination, Helen had realised that this was no ordinary faint. She was no doctor, but she suspected his condition was more that of a coma, and no amount of hand-chafing or face-slapping was going to bring him out of it. She felt so helpless at that moment. Andrea was no use, and besides, she was too young to know what to do. There was no one in Nrubi she could turn to except perhaps the Asian doctor, and she doubted his ability to cope with something so serious. There seemed only one solution. She would have to drive Morgan to Charlottesville—to James. He would know what to do.

  With Bosumi’s help, she got Morgan into the back of the station wagon, and bringing Andrea to her senses with a sharp word about her selfishness, she got her into the seat beside her. It was only as they drove away that she realised she was leaving Kori to face his fate alone, but somehow she sensed Bosumi’s anger was all done.

  The journey to Charlottesville seemed endless. She didn’t know the road, and in the dark her headlights seemed totally inadequate for the conditions. Andrea sniffled into her handkerchief beside her, occasionally, on Helen’s instructions, making sure her father was still unconscious. Once a huge elephant reared up in the headlights ahead of them, and only then did Andrea seem to recover her composure.

  ‘Stop!’ she ordered hurriedly, and stepping on her brakes Helen wondered why the sight of that great mammal no longer had the power to terrify her. It was curious, she thought, waiting for the rest of the herd to cross the road. All things were relative. Compared to her fears for Morgan, the dangers eloquent in meeting an elephant head-on were minimised.

  After that, the two girls spoke together in low voices. Suppressing her tears, Andrea wanted to know what Helen thought was wrong with her father, while Helen acknowledged with cold realism that her emotions were frozen, numbed from the moment Morgan collapsed before her. She had reassured Andrea with platitudes, quoting all the possible causes of unconsciousness, avoiding the most serious probabilities never once mentioning her own fears of a coma. It was possible she was wrong, and there was no point in frightening the girl unnecessarily. Nevertheless, it was a heavy burden for her to carry, and when the lights of the capital appeared ahead of them, her strength almost gave out on her.

  Andrea directed her to James’s house, although Helen suspected she could have found her way there unaided. It was strange how necessity sharpened the senses, and she turned into the gates of the Oneba house without hesitation.

  It was only then she realised how late it was. The floodlights had been extinguished, and only a small light glowing over the entry signified that anyone was still up. And even then, she might be wrong. That light could stay on all night.

  ‘It’s one o’clock!’ exclaimed Andrea, as if reading her thoughts. ‘What if Uncle James is in bed?’

  ‘Then he’ll have to get up, won’t he?’ retorted Helen, with just a trace of hysteria in her voice, and pushing open her door, she got out.

  In the light from the opening door, she looked into the back of the station wagon. Morgan lay motionless, and her heart wrenched with sudden pain. He looked dead, and clenching her fists, she opened the rear door and laid trembling fingers over his lips. A faint warmth stirred against her hand and without another word, she closed the door again and turned towards the house.

  A servant answered her repeated pressure on the bell, but he fell back aghast as she brushed past him and entered the hall with Andrea close behind her. She felt a moment’s impatience with the girl that she had not stayed with her father, but then compassion stirred within in. Morgan was like a corpse, and Andrea was only fifteen.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she asked the girl, indicating the anxious servant. ‘Does he speak English?’ but before Andrea could answer, footsteps sounded on the marble stairs, and James’s irritated voice could be heard, obviously demanding to know what was going on.

  ‘Uncle James!’ It was Andrea who attracted his attention first, but when he saw Helen his face changed, and an awful greyness crept over it. It was then she knew that he suspected what had happened. That he knew what was wrong with Morgan.

  ‘James, Morgan’s sick!’ she got out chokingly. ‘He—he’s in the car outside. I—we—we came to you. We didn’t know who else to turn to.’

  James came the rest of the way down the stairs, fastening an embroidered dressing robe about him. Judging by his bare feet, Helen guessed it was all he was wearing, but that didn’t prevent him fro
m striding swiftly across the floor to the door, issuing curt orders to the startled servant, and stepping outside to see his friend for himself.

  Bidding Andrea to wait, Helen hurried after him. He went straight to the station wagon and swung open the door, staring grim-faced at the man lying on the rear seat. He said something in his own tongue, a bitterly vehement imprecation, and then he turned to Helen.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, and in as brief a few words as possible she outlined the events following their return to Nrubi.

  ‘You know what’s wrong with him, don’t you?’ she exclaimed at last, half afraid that Andrea might come to join them and thus prevent her from asking him outright. A dozen half-remembered incidents—glances exchanged; words spoken, as she thought, without meaning, were coming back to her, and it was no indiscriminate judgment she was making, but an intelligent assessment of circumstances which hitherto had seemed unconnected.

  ‘Yes. I know,’ agreed James quietly, his voice heavy with emotion. His arms went about her, and for the first time she made no resistance. ‘I promised I would never betray his confidence, and I never have. But I always thought he was wrong, and now it seems it’s out of his hands.’

  Helen shifted restively. ‘What’s out of his hands? James, please! Don’t waste time. Tell me what’s wrong. I have to know.’

  James’s hands gripped her shoulders firmly, and the faint light from the car showed the lines of strain around his mouth. ‘Morgan—Morgan has a—growth. Here.’ He touched his head lightly. ‘What you call a—tumour, yes?’

  Helen’s knees trembled. Her palms felt damp, but her body felt cold, and an awful ache was beginning to make itself felt just behind her temples. She swallowed, but there was little saliva to lubricate the parched dryness of her throat, and her lips parted as if to suck what little moisture there was from the air.

  ‘You—you mean—a brain—tumour,’ she got out at last, and James inclined his head. ‘But—but why wasn’t he in hospital? Why hasn’t he been operated on before this? How long has he known about it?’