She turned on the shower, tossed her clothes at a chair, then climbed over the rim of the tub. The water smelled funny, but beggars couldn't be choosers.
She shampooed her hair then spread the foam down her soft skin; the water threatened to lose its heat. She rinsed herself quickly in case the flow died altogether, then huddled under the spray to savour the last of its warmth. Crossing her arms over her breasts, her fingers felt the nipples grow and harden.
It was a while since she'd been with a man. Only once since leaving Rees, a divorcee she'd met at a party. Not a night to remember. He'd had the hands of a butcher.
Mex's hands had been something else.
Damn! She hated the guy, remember? He'd screwed up her life. She recited the litany in her mind.
After buying off the IRA, her father had forced her into hiding, to take a job with a law firm he knew in an out-of-the-way New England artists' colony.
All because you betrayed me, Alex!
There, after years of frustration at her exile, she'd bedded some careless pot-thrower she didn't even like, who had gotten her pregnant. Her contract with the law firm precluded motherhood for seven years, so she'd had to leave her job.
Your fault, Alex.
Two choices had faced her. To become a single parent and depend on her father for an income, or find someone to marry.
No choice, Alex.
The potter was out of the question, but there was someone else. A partner in the firm called Rees Sorenson. So keen was he to make her Mrs Sorensen, that this deeply Christian man overlooked the fact she was already pregnant.
After what you'd put me through, Alex, maybe I deserved such a saint.
The baby was born. They'd called her Julie.
After a few months they'd realized something was wrong. Autism, the doctors called it. The child couldn't communicate.
For twelve years Lorna had cared for Julie, battling to break through to her, but when the girl reached puberty things had gotten out of control.
Rees put Julie in a home for the mentally disturbed, Lorna had a breakdown, and their marriage disintegrated.
All your fault, Alex! Every little part of it!
Suddenly the bathroom went black.
'Oh, hell!' she screamed. 'Damn! Damn!'
She groped to turn off the taps, then felt for the rim of the tub. Where was the frigging towel? She banged her toe on the door-frame and cursed again.
Somewhere she had a flashlight. She felt her way into the pitch-dark room. The power failure was total; no light spilled in from the window.
She stooped forward and felt the edge of the bed, her heart pounding.
Suppose Josip had gotten in while she was in the shower ...
She held her breath. All she could hear was the pumping of her own blood.
What if he was there, holding his breath too?
Silently she felt along the bed. Please, God, let the flashlight be on the bedside table.
It was. She fumbled with the switch.
'Thank you Lord,' she breathed, waving the pale, orange beam round the room. It needed new batteries.
Back in the bathroom, she rested the torch on the shelf so she could dry herself quickly before it died altogether.
A quick teeth brushing before the water gave out, then her nightdress on and into bed.
She bit her lip. What the hell was she doing in this crazy place?
'I hate you Alex! I hate you,' she moaned.
Twelve
Monday 28th March, 9.15 a.m.
Vitez
The roadway between Dragana's house and the UN camp opposite was lined with heavy vehicles, engines rumbling like ruminating beasts. Exhausts steamed like cattle-breath in the crisp morning air.
A convoy of empty supply trucks was forming for the long drive to Split and a pair of Warriors twisted on their tracks, to bracket three white, armoured Land Rovers with 'TV marked on their sides in black tape. The journalists were being taken on patrol along the ceasefire lines. In public they expressed hope that peace would last, but privately they knew that only fresh violence would guarantee them a place on the evening news.
Alex coaxed the Bedford out of the drive and turned left onto the road. He was glad of his boots and Barbour and had pulled on a tweed cap to keep his head warm.
This was the first full day of his mission. With a little luck by the end of it fie would have picked up the trail of at least one of the people he was looking for.
As they headed northwest he looked across flat meadows glinting silver in the watery sunlight. Beyond, rose a snow-capped mountain range, a ski-centre in happier times. It reminded him of frosty mornings in the Highlands, out on the moors before dawn, waiting for the deer to leave their valley feeding grounds for the safety of the hills.
'It's beautiful here!' he murmured.
'Yes. Took me by surprise,' McFee concurred. 'You don't expect it somehow, after all the butchery you see on TV. You think the place'll be one big shit heap.'
The road wound through hamlets, scarred by the occasional burned-out shop or house.
'And then you see that sort of thing,' Alex commented.
'Beauty and the beast ... eh?'
Grey-faced young men, wearing the drab camouflage of the HVO, ambled wearily home, eyeing the truck for a lift.
Swerving to avoid a mortar crater, they reached a road juntion and a chicane made of rusting tank-traps and a burned-out bus. To the left the UN's Route Triangle led to the mountains and the coast. Straight on was to Travnik.
'It's eerie,' Alex breathed. 'Not a soul in sight. You feel you're being watched.'
'Aye. We've just crossed the front line. There's probably a dozen rifle sights looking at us, so keep smiling.'
'Bit dodgy on our own, isn't it?' Alex snapped, not wanting a repeat of yesterday's nightmare. 'Shouldn't we have a UN escort?'
McFee bristled.
'Look, when I left you at P.Info last night I dropped into the officers' mess,' he blustered expansively. 'They said Travnik's wide open. No probs.'
Officers' Mess? Sounded like bullshit. But McFee had been out somewhere last night. Hadn't got back to the house until after Alex was asleep.
And another thing, he thought. They had no translator. How the hell was he going to ask questions about Milan Pravic if he couldn't communicate.
'Wouldn't it be handy to have a local with us,' he needled, 'someone who speaks the language?'
McFee pursed his lips.
'Which local, that's the problem. A Croat couldn't come in here with us. And a Muslim couldn't come back with us to Vitez.'
'How do the UN manage?'
'Ooh, well, they pay them good wages, stick 'em in a uniform and give 'ern a nice wee plastic UN pass. But Bosnia Emergency hasn't t ' he money.'
He ruminated for a moment.
'But it's something to work on. If we found a volunteer, maybe the UN could get her a pass.' The thought that it could be a woman set McFee brooding.
An ancient hilltop castle towered over the approach to Travnik. Beyond were minarets. Old shell cases littered the roadway.
'This place has taken a pasting,' McFee remarked, guiding Alex through the shrapnel-scarred streets of the old Muslim town. At a small park, dug up for fresh graves, women laid flowers. The road was full of men in uniform.
'The bearded ones are Mujahedin,'McFee mentioned under his breath.
'Iranians, Palestinians, you name it.' He shot a glance at Alex. 'With that fungus on your own face, you'd better watch out they don't recruit ye!'
Alex manoeuvred the truck over a narrow river bridge and into a school yard, then swung down onto the tarmac. From behind barred windows faces peered, most of them blank with despair. Parked closer to the school entrance, its rear towards the door, was another white-painted truck.
'Looks like Feed the Children have beaten us to it,' Alex remarked, spotting the line of refugees passing aid boxes into the building.
'Oh, hello, there.'
It w
as the Englishman who'd shared their table in the cookhouse last night.
'They've plenty of supplies here just now. But have a word with the director. She knows some other places.'
'Thanks.'
Inside, class-rooms were stuffed with beds, mats and the meagre belongings of families. Weaving through the crush, Alex bit his lip. It was the first time he'd touched and smelled the human tragedy of Bosnia.
They entered an office. Desks stacked with paperwork, half a dozen women struggling to make sense of it. Clucking about them like a mother hen was a matron in fawn cardigan and what looked like a Hermes scarf.
She smiled and affected to recognize McFee when he introduced himself Tull. No more room,' she explained, brown eyes wide with astonishment.
'Enough food for a week, maybe.'
'You know somewhere else we could take our stuff?' McFee asked.
'Yes, yes!' Her eyes lit up. 'Some people came last week but no space. They go to village near Guca Gora.'
'Maybe you could send someone with us as a guide,' Alex chipped in.
'Someone who speaks English.'
'Maybe. Perhaps...' She looked at her watch. 'Moment.'
She bustled from the room shouting a name. Two minutes later she returned, leading a fair-haired youth with eyes of bright blue.
'This is Ivan. He is refugee. He learn English at school. You bring him back?'
'Of course,' Alex assured her.
They walked out to the truck, Ivan shooing away children unpicking the tailgate tarpaulin.
They drove slowly through the town using the same road they'd come in on.
'How old are you, Ivan?' Alex asked. Squeezed between him and McFee, the boy's diffidence reminded him so painfully of Jodie.
'Seventeen. But if someone ask, I am sixteen, okay?' There was fear in his eyes.
'Okay,' Alex frowned. 'But why?'
'Huh. If seventeen, they put me in army! Then I dead like my father.'
He drew a finger across his own throat.
Back past the castle and out onto the Vitez road again, Ivan directed him up a lane that climbed through bare woods of birch and chestnut. They reached a muddy village, slowing for a pony-cart piled with silage.
Then, round a bend, the Bosnian Army flag drooped above a Café. Bearded soldiers lounging on chairs followed the truck's passing with suspicious, unwavering eyes.
'No stop! No stop!' Ivan gibbered. 'Mujahedin. .
Alex put his foot down. Out of the village, the ground fell away steeply to the right.
'I thought the Mujahedin were on your side,' he checked. The boy was pale with fear.
'Crazy peoples. Arabs. Not Bosnians. .
A little later, Alex asked how much further it was. Ivan counted on his fingers.
'Three more village, I think.'
It took twenty minutes to reach the scruffy hamlet of Duba. Ivan leaned from the window and asked an old man directions.
'He say the refugees are in the school. I show you.'
Always the schools, Alex thought. War had wrecked so many aspects of life here. Outside a dismal pre-fab a crowd milled, elderly men in caps and women in shawls, but young families too, some decanting from a mudspattered bus, hugging the few belongings they'd seized in their moment of flight.
As the Bedford pulled up, faces turned as one, and the mob descended on them like gulls on a rubbish tip.
'Christ!' Alex yelled. 'They'll take the truck apartP
'Ivan!' McFee growled. 'Find the person who's in charge of this place.'
Alex switched offthe engine and pocketed the key.
'Come on, Moray,' he barked. 'Let's see if we can hold them off.'
The truck was surrounded.
Alex squeezed to the ground, pressed to the side of the vehicle by the throng. Some youths had already undone the tarpaulin at the back.
'Now, hang on a minute,' McFee's bellow rose up from the midst of the crowd. 'Ooot!'
Hell! Someone's thumped him, Alex thought.
He elbowed his way to the tailgate. McFee leaned against the rear wheel-arch nursing his chin. A scuffle had broken out. Whoever had hit McFee was being restrained, and punched in return.
Boxes poured out of the back of the truck. Some in the crowd ripped them open where they stood. Others clutched them in their arms like trophies and elbowed their way back to the school.
Suddenly a shot rang out. Alex dropped to the ground. Then came the rattling crack of automatic fire. Women screamed. The crowd melted away at a crouch.
A middle-aged man in Armija uniform strutted towards the truck, blasting Kalashnikov rounds into the sky. Close behind were two other soldiers, and Ivan.
'Good Jad,' Alex breathed, clutching the boy by the arm.
'Your friend. He is hurt?'
'You all right, Moray?' Alex asked.
'Oh, aye.'
The middle-aged soldier helped McFee to his feet and dusted him down. He babbled away in SerboCroat.
'He says "sorry for what happened",' Ivan translated. 'These people have no food for three days.'
'Tell him we understand,' Alex soothed. 'I'd have done the same.'
'He say the people of this village not want refugees,' Ivan continued.
'They tell them "go away". Give nothing to eat. Only for themselves.'
'Well, tell them they're welcome to all the stuff we've brought,' Alex replied. 'There's food and warm clothing. But ask him to make sure it's shared out fairly.'
Ivan turned to the officer to translate.
'Da. Da.' He nodded, gesticulating at his juniors. They scurried off to muster a gang of box-handlers.
Alex began collecting the broken boxes into a sack, vaguely aware that another vehicle, a white jeep of some sort had pulled up outside the school.
'I'll gi' ye a hand in a minute, Alex,' McFee called. just get my breath back.'
From some of the boxes the contents had already been looted. Alex bent to gather up the torn cardboard.
Suddenly in front of him he saw a pair of green Goretex boots. Small feet - belonging to a woman ...
Slowly, very slowly, he straightened himself up.
Lorna Donohue.
The passage of time had scored lines in her face, but to him it still radiated magic.
Her mouth dropped open.
'Alex?' she gasped.
His chest felt as if it was about to explode.
'Lorna,' he gulped. 'It's you.'
'And it is you?' Her voice rose an octave. She pointed at his face. 'The beard. I didn't ... I don't believe this . . .'
She felt she was going into shock. He reached an arm out to her, but it didn't quite connect.
'I thought I saw you the other day,' Alex spluttered. 'Coming off the ferry at Split. But this is amazing!'
He wanted to grab her, hug her, kiss her. But he didn't dare.
'Twenty goddarn years!' she mouthed, her face a mask. There was no invitation there.
Didn't dare show him her feelings. Didn't even know what they were. She spun away from him and ran her hands through her hair.
'My God!' she mummerd. 'This isn't happening.'
'It's amazing,' Alex repeated, his hands flapping. He felt like a kid on his first date, weak at the knees with wondering what to say.
He became conscious of McFee watching them.
'This is Loma,' he gestured. 'The one on the ferry...'
McFee leered, as if to say, 'not bad'.
Unsmiling, Lorna turned to face the man who'd once meant everything to her. She felt sandbagged. Had to play for time.
'What are you doing here, for heaven's sake?' she asked, looking at him opaquely.
He waved his hand towards the Bedford.
'Endeavouring to be useful, I suppose. You too?'
She nodded, eyes hard, trying to show that whatever she felt about meeting him again, it wasn't necessarily pleasure.
He told himself to get a grip and moved a little closer.
'You look fantastic, Lorna. Haven't ch
anged at all. Astonishing. . .'
'Older,' she replied. 'And wiser. . .' She raised one eyebrow.
'Aren't we all.' He could see she intended to give him a hard time. 'We ... we've got a lot to talk about, I guess.' He reached out to touch her, but she backed off.
'We certainly do.' He saw the hurt in her eyes. She let out a long, deep breath. 'We sure do, Alex!'
She felt she was clinging on by her finger tips. Time for a smile, she thought. Mustn't let him see she was floundering.
'Well! Well, well ... So this is your truck? What have you got there, food and clothes?'
'Yep. Bosnia Emergency is the name of the charity. Oh, and this is Moray McFee. Moray? This is Lorna ... Donohue?' he checked.
'Donohue will do. Nice to meet you, Moray.'
'This chap Crawford tells me you go back thirty years. . .' McFee ventured. Lorna darted Alex a suspicious glance - his name had been Janis when she'd last seen him. Her name change had a simple reason - but his?
'Thirty years! You'd have been in nappies when you met, surely?' McFee grinned.
'If only,' she laughed, thawing a little. 'But thanks for the compliment.'
McFee spotted the Nikon on a strap round her neck.
'Here, gi' me that camera! It's a moment of history, this.'
She faltered but handed it over.
'Stand together, now. Alex, put your arm around her for God's sake!'
McFee's request brooked no refusal. For a moment Lorna leant uneasily against Alex.
She forced a thin smile. McFee snapped off a couple of pictures, before handing back the camera. Lorna was grateful to break off the unsettling contact.
'I'll leave you to reminisce for a moment,' he offered, backing away.
'Don't worry, Alex. I'll do the boxes.'
'So ... What's all this Crawford stuff?' she snapped, businesslike again, as McFee went over to the Bedford.
He took her arm and led her out of earshot.
'I've been using the name since Belfast. I've had to hide. The Provos wanted to kill me, you know.'
'You and me both, kiddo.' She pulled her arm from his grip. Why was he standing here like this, bold as brass? He should be on his knees begging for forgiveness.
'Look, I got work to do,' she said brusquely. 'I guess this isn't the place to talk. Where are you staying?'
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