by Lesley Lokko
‘Mrs Logan, what are you talking about?’
Mrs Logan gripped her mug with both hands. She was trembling. ‘Do ye no remember?’ she began, her lip quivering. ‘Those nights when he used to visit the both of ye in yer room? I tried to stop him. Told him he’d go to hell if he ivver touched her, but it was nae use. He couldnae help himself. She reminded him of her, ye see . . . his sister.’ She stopped suddenly. She pointed at Jen’s face. ‘Yer face, Jen. Ye’re bleedin’ again. Just like ye used to.’
Jen put up a hand. Her lips were sticky with blood from her nose. It all came flooding back. Those nights when she’d seen her father at the end of Kemi’s bed, staring at her. He’d never touched her. She knew that, but she knew too that there was something wrong with the way he looked at her. Now, for the first time, it began to make sense. In some strange, deeply buried way that she had never properly understood, he confused the two girls, and his desire to be closer to Kemi was part of a long-buried desire to be closer to her . . . to the girl everyone thought of as a servant . . . but who, in reality, was his blood. Her head started to spin. The whole room began to crowd in on her. Mrs Logan’s voice seemed to come from a very great distance. She felt her legs give way and she pitched forwards, striking her head on the side of the table as she fell.
89
The house was quiet. The funeral had taken place two days earlier. Solam left the following morning. Kemi and her father were leaving early the next morning. They were staying at the Waldorf Caledonian in the centre of town. Jen needed a day or two on her own. She had two stitches above her left eyebrow, and a dull pain in her temples that the doctors said would disappear in a few days. Solam had arrived with François, to her surprise. He’d insisted on leaving François with her and travelling back alone. ‘It’ll only be for a couple of days,’ he said, seemingly in a hurry to get away. It crossed Jen’s mind to wonder why he’d rather be without his bodyguard but she was too drained to enquire or wonder further. She was numb.
It was nearly nine o’clock. Alice was fast asleep, knocked out by her cocktail of sleeping pills, antidepressants and whatever else she took. Jen walked downstairs in her nightgown and bare feet, forgetting for a moment that François was in the house. He was so quiet and unobtrusive at the funeral that she’d barely registered his presence.
She went into the kitchen and then into the pantry. Mrs Smith usually kept a few bottles of wine in there. She pulled out a rather dusty bottle and went back in search of a glass and an opener. She poured herself a glass and lit the single cigarette she’d been saving all day. A sudden noise came from outside. She cocked her head. It was the sound of a chair scraping against the stone-flagged floor. She got up and pushed open the kitchen door. A cigarette glowed in the dark. ‘Is anyone there?’
The chair landed back on the ground with a thud. It was François. ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he apologized immediately, quickly stubbing out the cigarette. ‘I saw the light come on but thought you’d go back upstairs. Sorry to disturb.’
‘But it’s cold outside. Why don’t you come in?’
He looked down at the still-smouldering cigarette. ‘A rare luxury,’ he said sheepishly.
‘No, it’s fine. Mrs Smith smokes up a storm in here. I was just having one myself. You’re off duty.’
He hesitated. ‘Well, thank you, ma’am, but please don’t let me keep you up.’
‘You’re not keeping me up,’ she said, standing back to let him pass. She was suddenly aware of her attire. ‘Just wait here a second,’ she said, locking the door behind her. ‘I won’t be a moment.’
She left him standing there and ran upstairs to get a dressing gown and a pair of slippers. She caught sight of herself in the mirror in the hallway. She looked like a waif.
When she came back down, he was sitting at the kitchen table with his back to her, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, finishing his cigarette. She stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him. There was a stillness about him that had nothing to do with the professional wariness that all the bodyguards displayed. She walked over to join him and pulled out a chair. For a few moments, neither spoke. There was a packet of cigarettes beside him. He tapped it open and drew one out. He handed it over without a word. ‘Here,’ he said, offering a light. She reached behind her for a second wine glass and pushed the bottle over.
‘Just one. To keep me company.’
He smiled faintly. ‘Sláinte,’ he said, lifting the glass.
She blinked. ‘How d’you know about “sláinte”?’ she asked.
He took a small sip. ‘Just one of those things you pick up,’ he said with a shrug.
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ He gave another faint smile. ‘My CO was Irish.’
‘Your CO?’
‘Commanding Officer. In the army.’
‘You were in the army?’
He nodded. ‘I was called up in ’87. I was eighteen. We had three months of basic training, then we were shipped out to Angola.’
Jen didn’t know what to say. ‘So, what made you get into this line of work?’ she asked finally.
He took a moment to reply. ‘Put it this way. There aren’t too many jobs out there for someone with my specific skill set,’ he said delicately.
‘What’s your specific skill set?’
He shrugged. ‘Shoot to kill. Sounds dramatic, but it’s true. By the time the war ended, there just didn’t seem much point in doing what everyone else was doing. South Africa back then was a very different place. It was chaos. It’s hard to remember it now,’ he added, almost as an after-thought.
‘I suppose it could all have turned out so differently,’ she said quietly. ‘Everyone was predicting civil war.’
He nodded. ‘It was hard to know what to believe. That’s why this job is so simple.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s pretty straightforward. Whoever hires me pays for protection. That’s it. I don’t ask questions; I don’t pass judgement. You pay me to be your eyes and ears, not your conscience.’
There was a sudden shift in the conversation, as palpable as a drop in temperature. ‘Are you married?’ she asked, her eyes going surreptitiously to his left hand. There was no ring.
He shook his head and took another sip of wine. ‘Nope. Never.’
‘There must have been someone once?’ She was prying, but a sudden and unexpected intimacy had surfaced between them that made it suddenly possible for her to ask.
He shrugged and raised his glass again, subconsciously shielding his face, perhaps. His eyes were an unusual colour, she noticed. Greyish green, with flecks of brown, like splinters. They were very still, she’d noticed, lids closing slowly when he blinked, but still somehow giving the impression of intense concentration. His hair was dark blond, greying at the temples, cut very short. At this late hour, the beard growing impatiently beneath the sun-grained surface of his cheeks and neck was visible only as a shadow. But it was his mouth that held her attention. It was full, the lower lip covering the slight misalignment of his lower teeth, and yet tight at the same time, as though he were perpetually holding himself in check. It hinted at a sensuality that his grave, quiet manner forbade. It was strange, she thought, frowning. Despite his formidable physical presence, he was someone you might miss in a crowd . . . as though he’d trained himself to be so still as to disappear. And yet once you were aware of him, as she was now, he was impossible to ignore. She supposed it was a particular feature of his job, but it wasn’t present in the other bodyguards, except perhaps for Sbu. Perhaps that was why Solam consistently chose him over the others.
‘Funeral must have been hard for you,’ he said suddenly, breaking the silence. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
She blinked slowly, as if coming out of darkness. ‘It was.’ She fingered the stem of her glass.
‘And your mother? How’s she taking it?’
The tenderness in his voice hit her like a blow. It was his job, she tried to remind herself. Nothing go
t past him. ‘You’ve probably noticed,’ she said slowly, ‘that we’re hardly your typical family.’
‘Few families are.’
‘I suppose so. But these days I find myself wondering if all families treat the past this way.’ She lifted her gaze.
‘What way is that?’
‘With silence. Nothing ever gets said. No one says anything.’
He was quiet for a moment. ‘It’s also a form of self-protection,’ he said slowly. ‘In some cases, silence is the last form of protection, the only form there is.’
‘What d’you mean?’ she said, struggling to keep her tears in check. It wasn’t just his words. There was an aching sadness in his voice that cut straight through her. He knew exactly how she felt.
‘Well, take the situation back home. Those of us who fought apartheid’s dirty war in Angola, after it was over, we said nothing. Partly to protect those who didn’t see it – women and children and so on – but also to protect ourselves. If you didn’t talk about it, write about it, speak about it . . . well, it didn’t happen.’ He gave a slow, ironic chuckle. ‘Of course, it doesn’t quite work like that. But it’s useful.’
She stared at him. No ordinary bodyguard. ‘So how do you break the circle?’ she asked. ‘When does it ever end?’
He pulled a face. ‘You’re asking the wrong person,’ he said. ‘I don’t go in for all that unburdening. Oh, we had the whole truth-and-reconciliation thing.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘The state turned confessional. Ironic, if you think about it. Anglicans and Lutherans turning to a Catholic ritual for absolution. What did it actually resolve?’
She took hold of the bottle and poured herself another glass. She thought back to the commission that had been set up in South Africa after the end of apartheid. She remembered watching some of the harrowing testimony on television with Kemi, victims and perpetrators coming face to face in front of a barrage of reporters. Kemi thought it was a necessary process but for Jen, it was hard to hear the stories of state-sanctioned killings and torture. Scotland, with its buttoned-up respectability and centuries-old tradition of civility and good neighbourliness, might as well have been another planet. Nothing like that could ever happen here. That was what she’d felt, viewing the scenes from the comfort of her couch, munching her way distractedly through a packet of biscuits as though methodical chewing might keep the revulsion at bay.
Now she was not so sure. Revulsion, it seemed, could happen anywhere. She only had to think of the past week to understand that. Suddenly, she began to talk.
She had no idea how long she spoke for. She talked quietly, letting it all tumble out. The nosebleeds, the fear outside her father’s study, the strange dream she’d had just before he died. It all came out.
When she stopped, so drained she couldn’t even think straight, she got up and walked to the window. She lit a third cigarette, blowing the smoke carefully to one side. She wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging herself tightly. It was still dark outside, but it was the porous, tinged-with-light darkness of late summer. It could have been any time, any hour between sunset and sunrise, not registered on any watch or clock.
‘What would you do if something like that had happened to someone you love?’ she asked, not turning round and not really expecting an answer, either. Perhaps there were no answers. Perhaps that was the point? She heard his chair scrape against the floor as he got up. He said nothing but walked over to stand beside her. She was still holding her cigarette in one hand. Very, very gently, he turned her around to face him. He took the cigarette away from her and stubbed it out on the windowpane behind her. He said nothing. His arms went around her shoulders, pulling her towards him. She gave herself up almost luxuriously to it, laying her cheek against the starched blue shirt, feeling the terrible tension in her slip away, bit by bit. He was warm; she could feel his strong, steady heartbeat through the padded muscle against her cheek. They stood there for a minute . . . two? Three? Time seemed to slow to a halt. Then her own hands went round him, slowly sliding up his back. He bent his head at the same time she raised hers. They looked at each other. Then he dipped his head and kissed her, solemnly, but with great passion. There was absolutely no sound in the room except their own breathing. He turned her round very carefully so that the kitchen table was behind her. She was moved by him in a way she’d all but forgotten, her own exquisite pleasure mounting until she clawed at him, drawing him inside her with an urgency that took her breath away. He yielded entirely, collapsing at the end with an inarticulate, strangled cry, as if he’d allowed her into that part of himself that he kept hidden, locked away.
They lay in each other’s arms, clothing half shed, half unbuttoned, the space behind them cleared suddenly, violently, so that the half-empty bottle of wine had spilled onto the surface and now pooled, like blood. His heart was thudding in his chest. Jen closed her eyes against his probing grey-green gaze. She wanted nothing more than the feel of his arms around hers. Nothing else mattered. For now.
PART THIRTEEN
2010
Two years later
• • •
This is the strange thing about South Africa – for all its corruption and crime, it seems to offer a stimulating sense that anything is possible.
JUSTIN CARTWRIGHT
90
The stylist ran a brush through her hair for the final time. ‘Ready, ma’am?’ Jen nodded. ‘I’ll just fix this,’ the girl murmured, spraying the sweep of hair that fell over her right eye. After the accident, she’d had to change the direction of the cut. You could barely see it. A small, thin red line that disappeared into her fringe. ‘There. All done.’ She stepped back, allowing Jen to get up from her seat.
‘Thank you,’ Jen murmured, making a mental note to send the stylists – hair and make-up – a bouquet and an envelope of cash as soon as the swearing-in ceremony was over. She walked across the bedroom a little unsteadily in her exceedingly high heels and opened the door. They were all waiting downstairs for her. Solam, Hélène, their advisors and press officers, the whole damn shebang. They would drive to Pretoria in convoy. The swearing-in of the new President was expected to take an hour, but the after-party and the festivities would probably go on all night. Both Solam’s parents and Kemi’s were already in Pretoria with the children. She would meet Kemi after the last official reception and together they would pick them up. She took one last look at herself in the mirror, reached for her clutch bag and made her way slowly down the circular staircase.
Solam looked up briefly as she reached the bottom, but it was Hélène who came over and complimented her.
‘You look beautiful,’ she said warmly. ‘I must say, you’re one of the few white women who can pull it off.’ Hélène was openly admiring. It was one of the things Jen had come to like about her. For all her political manoeuvring, she was that rare person who spoke her mind.
Jen looked down at her elaborate dress a little self-consciously. It had been made for her by one of Iketleng’s Congolese dressmakers. It was modelled on a Fendi cocktail dress pattern, with a wide neckline and tight sleeves to the elbow, opening out into an elaborate flounce. The skirt was tight-fitting, skimming over her waist and hips, then opening into a dramatic fishtail. It was made of brightly patterned West African cloth, a riotous swirl of deep aubergine, dark green and black, with highlights of coppery gold. When she’d seen the fabric, she’d nearly baulked. But with her alabaster skin, short red hair and crimson nails, it worked. She wore very little jewellery – her wedding ring, a thin gold bracelet and a pair of discreet gold-and-diamond stud earrings were all that was needed. ‘Thank you, Hélène,’ she said, meaning it. ‘I guess we’re ready to go.’
Solam overheard her and nodded. ‘Yep, let’s hit the road.’ He had never looked better, Jen thought as she followed the group out of the house. He was wearing a suit by one of his favourite designers, Ermenegildo Zegna: a charcoal-grey jacket and trousers of pure jacquard silk, so dark it appeared black until the light caug
ht it, giving it a discreet sparkle that drew the eye. It fitted him to perfection. He looked the epitome of a suave, urbane leader, a man at the height of his power, both physical and intellectual. He was forty-five years old, the youngest President in the country’s history, but in the run-up to the World Cup, everyone agreed there was no better image to project. His wife and children were equally photogenic. She, a cool, slender redhead with impeccable family connections and an heiress in her own right; the children were carbon copies of their parents, perfectly well behaved and pleasingly cherubic. A rainbow family for a rainbow nation. The press was having a field day.
They walked out into a barrage of cameras, shutters going off like gunshots. The bodyguards kept a tight cordon around them as they made their way to the waiting cars. ‘Jen, you go with François and the press officer!’ Solam shouted over his shoulder. She nodded and turned around. François was standing behind her, already in position. Their eyes met and she followed him to the car. She got into the back, carefully lifting the train of her dress and making sure it didn’t get caught in the door. He shut it behind her and got into the front. The press officer sat up front, next to him. François expertly manoeuvred the Mercedes out of the tight forecourt and turned into the street. Her heart was beating fast. There were six official cars, all carrying one high-ranking official or another. Ten security vehicles, a dozen outriders, sirens blaring. The noise, as they progressed onto the highway, was deafening. Every so often, his eyes met hers in the rear-view mirror. Grey green, the irises flecked with brown, long lashes. She knew what he was thinking.
The stately Union Buildings slowly loomed into view, the sounds of the motorcade filtering through the windows. The gardens below were packed to capacity, a crowd of twenty, thirty, forty thousand; the figures were mere guesses. In place of the gold, green and black bunting and flags that the ruling party had trotted out on every state occasion since ’94, the bright blue and white colours of the Democratic Party held sway. As the cars glided onto the forecourt high above the capital, the taut flags of almost every nation blew stiffly in the wind. There were television crews from all over the world camped out; everyone wanted a glimpse of this special first family unlike any other. François brought the car to a gentle stop behind the car carrying the President and his deputy. He waited until the guards in front were in position, and then he opened the door. Jen got out of the car and straightened up. She stood for a moment next to him, conscious that all the cameras were pointing at Solam, and drew a deep breath to steady herself. It was noon and the overhead sun was already fierce. As she prepared to step forward, she felt a light pressure at her elbow. To anyone looking on, the gesture was simple professional protection, appropriate for the wife of the President-elect. But there was a message in its grip that was for her alone. She was too experienced to return it, but her eyes met his for a brief second. No ordinary bodyguard. And she was no trophy wife.
