A Dream of Lights (22 page)

I turned my head away from the car window, let my hair fall over my face. Let my hair fall over my baby.

I made my feet move, waiting for the car to stop, expecting someone to get out, to hit me, grab me, shoot me, or pull me into the car and take me away again. I wouldn’t let myself look or turn. I wouldn’t let them see my face or know without any doubt that it was me.

A side street was coming up on the right, and I slowed slightly, letting the person behind me pass, and my feet turned me right as the car continued forward, following the other person instead.

Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe they weren’t looking for me. Maybe I was nothing to them. Nobody.

I exhaled and felt my body relax a little and my shoulders droop. I lifted my head up, focusing somewhere into the distance, watching a man as he moved towards me, his eyes vacant and hollow, blinking and tired. For a second he looked my way, but he didn’t see me, didn’t focus on me. Yet in that second I knew who he was.

He took my breath away. He made my stomach flip and my head spin. My legs slowed and I watched him cross the road before he got too close. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, and I stared at his face, his eyes, his hair, the way he walked.

It was all him. But how could it be?

I turned and crossed the road, watching him. He was taller and thinner, but it was still him, I felt sure.

I followed, getting closer. A block away. A couple of metres. A few steps. Struggling to believe that it could really be him.

I could hear his breathing. I could see his fingers curled into his palm, his black hair touching the neck of his shirt, his jawline.

Him.

The boy I had loved, who was now a man.

Sook.

Sook was ahead of me on the street. I couldn’t believe it. I remembered that feeling of warmth in my chest as I walked to meet him, his silhouette in the darkness, remembered the smile on his face he always had for me, remembered that last night we were together, my hand in his, his warmth as he held me. How happy I had felt.

I loved him.

But I remembered too that feeling of terror running through my body as I watched the car heading towards us in the village, the look of panic on my parents’, my grandparents’ faces, the shots that killed my father ringing out across the countryside, the weight of my grandmother’s body as we carried her up the mountain, the look of sadness in my grandfather’s eyes as I said goodbye.

Tears ran down my face and my breath sucked in and out as anger and hatred grew and swelled in me, as I watched him take step after step, still alive, still breathing, still living.

I hated him. With every part of me, every muscle and fibre and bone and breath of me, I hated him. For the treachery, the deceit, the lies, the fool he had made of me, the pain he had caused my family. The pain I would cause him. Now.

So I followed. Down streets, across roads, through alleyways. He walked and I followed. At a safe distance, so as not to be seen. As my anger drove me onwards, I thought of killing him. I wanted to make things even. For him to understand pain and to know how it felt to be the victim. Then things would be settled, and I would leave this country with my guilt somewhat assuaged and my redemption somehow earned. I could do it. Was sure I could. I had motivation and good cause. And the knife from the camp still in my pocket. I followed him. At a block of flats he slowed down, ignoring the front door, sliding round to the side.

I took a long, slow breath, pulled my arms round my baby, and stepped forward, peering round the corner, watching him pull open the door to a shack and disappear inside.

How long I stood there, waiting to make my mind up what to do, watching for that door to open again, I have no idea. Was I mistaken – was it someone else? No, it was Sook. I wanted to be mistaken, but I knew I wasn’t.

I had decided as I left the camp, as I headed here to this town and not to my village, that my past with Sook, and everything that had happened, was over. But. There was always a but.

That was him.

That
was
him.

Everything, all the pain, the suffering, the death and loss in my family could be traced back to that night: my naivety and his treachery. My anger swelled in me, burned in my chest, pounded through my veins and drove down to my fingertips. Didn’t I owe it to my family to make things right?

I ran my hand along the outline of my baby, down towards my pocket, the knife still there. Too many months the idea of this had been in my head. Festering. Often I’d change my mind, forget about things, stop thinking it important, then back it would come. Over and over. And now I could do it. I could do it, then tonight I could find my way to the river, cross it and be out of the country before anyone found his body.

But then I wouldn’t be able to stay and look for Mother. Yet was I really going to be able to find her anyway? My thoughts ran in spirals and out of control, faster and faster, losing logic on the way and coming up only with answers I wanted to hear.

Think of the future
, I decided
, but first, rectify the past.

I took a step and edged forward, my heart thumping in my chest, my baby murmuring next to me. I was so close now, close enough to reach out a hand and touch the wood of the shack, splinters like needles sticking out, warning me off.

Through the gaps in the planks I peered at him, as daylight strained through and flashed on his face. It was him. I was certain. I stepped around to the door, glancing through gaps as I went. At the door I pulled out the knife. Sickness washed over me and through me, nerves shaking my hands, my head thick with hatred. Through the gaps I watched him moving inside the shack.

I waited. And when, at the other side of the shack, he turned his back, I eased open the door and stepped inside.

For a second light flashed across the shack from the open door and he spun round. For a second I saw his face in that light, his surprise and shock and confusion as the door swung closed behind me and we were lost to the half-light.

He wasn’t the Sook I had loved, he was the Sook who had betrayed me and my family, and for that he would suffer. I charged at him, grabbing him by his collar, pulling him upright, slamming him against the wall, his face caught in a beam of light, mine hidden in shadows of darkness.

“Wh— who are you?” he stammered. “What do you want?”

My chest swelled. I felt powerful and in control for the first time ever. I drew my right hand up, easing the knife through the shafts of light and towards his throat. I watched horror dawn on his face and fear grow in his eyes, and inside I laughed.

“Who do you think it is? Who do you think would want to kill you?”

“I don’t… I don’t… I don’t know. Please… please don’t.”

“I would’ve begged them not to kill my father. I would’ve got down on my knees and
begged
. I would’ve begged them to release me and my grandparents from that camp, begged them for food, begged the guard to leave me alone. But it wouldn’t have made any difference. And it won’t make any difference if you beg now.
You
may as well have killed them yourself.” I touched the blade to his throat.

He was shaking his head. “No.” His voice was a whisper.

“I trusted you.” I wanted to be strong, wanted to slice that knife across his throat, thrust it into his stomach, watch his pain, but my hands were shaking and my voice starting to break, and tears welled in my eyes and blurred his face in front of me. I sucked in breath, steadying myself. “I loved you,” I whispered.

“Yoora?” he breathed. “Yoora?”

I stared at him, stared into his eyes in that half-light, and I could’ve been back there, in my village, walking through fields and down empty roads, under trees with moonlight flickering through leaves and branches and on to his face. Looking at mine with what I’d thought was at least friendship, what I’d hoped was love.

How stupid.

I gripped the knife tighter, sucked in a jagged breath, felt my anger and frustration grow again in my chest, looked into those eyes that had betrayed me and killed my family. But I paused. And behind me something rustled, someone groaned.

I leant towards Sook, my face looming into the shaft of light, letting him see me, what I had become.

I nodded slowly, deliberately.

“Yoora,” he said. “I didn’t… I didn’t… honestly… I wouldn’t have done that. Not to you. I swear.”

“I saw your face at my father’s execution. Saw your sneer. How happy you looked. How pleased with yourself. And your mother.”

“No. It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t sneering. I was… I was… trying not to cry.”

Why was I waiting? Listening to his excuses. Why didn’t I do it? Push that knife into him? His face contorted in sobs, tears streaming down his face.

Don’t listen
, I told myself.
Don’t feel sorry for him.

“Please, Yoora, please, let me explain…”

“No!” I shouted.

Again behind me there was movement, of blankets perhaps, someone moving, a croak of hard-drawn breath, from someone weak and struggling, like those last words spoken by my grandmother.

“Yoora?” the voice creaked.

It was like a slap in the face, a splash of cold water, being shaken awake from the deepest of sleeps.

I hesitated. Loosened my grip on the knife. Turned my head instinctively towards the sound hidden in the dark. A shape on the floor, stretching and moving.

No
, I thought.

“Yoora?” came the voice again. I dropped the knife.

How can that be?

I felt Sook take hold of my other hand, releasing himself from my grip.

It can’t be.

I stepped away from him, a few paces across to the other side of the room with the wooden floor creaking and groaning with every step, and my head spinning and pounding with confusion and disbelief. And hope.

There was a mattress on the floor and on it a pile of rags. As I watched, the pile of rags moved. A pair of eyes opened. Eyes I knew so well, staring up at me.

My mother’s.

I sobbed silent tears into hands clasped round my mouth. It was too much; it was all too much to hear, to see, or to believe. It couldn’t be true. Not possibly. I was dead and being led to my heaven or my hell; I was dreaming and would wake again in that camp, or worse, on the morning it all began, with no way of changing anything.

It was ridiculous. It was a trick. I was being watched for my reaction. To be caught. To be killed. My head, my imagination, was cruel, conjuring something that could not possibly be true.

I heard the strike of a match and the crackle of flame as Sook brought a candle to me, glued with wax on to an old tin plate. The light flickered and danced in the darkness and across my mother’s face, thin and hollow, skin tight across bones, blue veins bloated like swollen rivers. Her eyes deep and sunken. Her hair clumped and matted.

I watched her struggle to draw in breath, saw her relief when she again exhaled. My mother, whom I’d not seen for more than two years, who had every right to blame me for everything. What would she say to me? What could I say to her but sorry?

Her face was filled with sadness and her body was so frail. I held my hand over my mouth while tears streamed down my face, and my body shook with every sob I tried to stifle.

The boy behind me was forgotten and the outside world was left behind.

The air was stagnant, the only sounds the rasping of her breath, the nervous juddering of mine and the snuffle of the baby. I watched her face; her eyes peered into mine, her expression changing, softening and smiling, and I leant forward, my hair dropping on to her, and I kissed her cheek.

Her mouth eased open, her lips split and cracked. “Yoora?” she whispered. Her head shook, almost imperceptibly. “No,” she breathed. “It can’t be. It can’t be you.”

I took hold of her hand, so much smaller and thinner than I remembered, and I nodded to her. “It is.” I smiled.

And maybe it was the smile because then she seemed to recognise me, and I realised I must look as different to her as she did to me. Gently I placed her hand back down and carefully I pulled my top clothes to one side, and slowly I took the baby from his sling, still wrapped in the clothes that were his blankets, and turned him round for her to see.

“Your grandson,” I whispered.

I had never thought that far ahead, never dared to dream it. I had hoped I would see her again, but never truly believed I would ever find her. I hadn’t thought how to tell her about this baby, or what she would think.

“He’s so small,” she said, her shaking hand resting on his body. “But…” She looked up at me, those eyes that for sixteen years had chastised me, cared for me, disciplined me and loved me. Was I still
her
baby?

I looked away. “There was a guard.” The words were difficult. “In the camp. He… he… I couldn’t…”

Her hand held mine as if I was ten years old again and she was comforting me after a bad dream. I didn’t need to say any more.

“He’s beautiful,” she whispered.

And I knew it didn’t matter. I watched her eyes flick over his face, her fingers touch his hands, so small and delicate, and I saw the smile stretch across her face. She turned to me with the light of the world in her eyes. “He looks like you, when you were a baby.”

For seconds that stretched into minutes that could’ve gone on for hours, we sat without a word shared. There was so much to say, to ask and to explain, but nothing mattered more, in that space, in that time, than being together. But when the silence that had been so complete between us for those moments began to fade, and pauses and hesitation came back, it was my guilt that made me speak first.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “For everything.”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t your fault. None of it.”

“But it was. I told Sook what father said about leaving…” I remembered the knife, what I was going to do.

She was shaking her head as much as she could. “No, you—”

“He must’ve told his mother. Grandmother warned me not to get involved, said no good would come of it, and I didn’t listen. I was so stupid and thoughtless, and I’m so sorry. For everything. For Father and—”

“Yoora, is that what you’ve been thinking all this time?” Her voice was so quiet now, so strained and difficult, and she looked so weak and tired, her eyes dull, her breath rasping in and out, her skin like old paper that would flake into nothing if touched. “It was his mother, Min-Jee. She saw the two of you together that night, but she didn’t hear anything you said and he didn’t tell her.”

“You can’t know that,” I said.

She sighed. “I do.” She paused for a moment, her eyes closing, heavy and tired. “Min-Jee knew you two were seeing each other, had known for a long time, and she was desperate to stop you. That night, seeing the two of you together, must’ve been the final straw for her. What better way to stop it than to get rid of us all? She reported us on the off chance they could find something to blame us for.” Her eyes peeled open, staring at me. “They did.”

“But…” All I could think of was how she didn’t understand, how it was still my fault. I shouldn’t have spoken to him that first day, I shouldn’t have met him again afterwards, I should have listened to Grandmother, I shouldn’t have opened my mouth and told him about my dream or repeated what Father had told me.

“You can blame yourself, or Sook, for your relationship, or blame me and your father and your grandparents because we were sending letters out of the country, or because we wanted a better life for us all. Blame Min-Jee for reporting us because she was worried for her son. Blame everybody. They all did their part.” Her shoulders gave the smallest of shrugs. “Or nobody. It happened. It’s gone. Leave it be.”

The candlelight flickered on her skin and she closed her eyes again. “He’s looked after me well,” she said.

I turned then and looked at Sook. He was standing there meekly, his hands clasped together, as if he didn’t want to interfere in our reunion. Could it be true? Could it be that he wasn’t a monster?

I turned away from him, back to my mother. I watched as her breathing slowed and deepened. “Grandfather helped me escape,” I whispered and I thought I saw the edges of her mouth lift. “We buried Grandmother when she died,” I breathed and her head gave the smallest nod.

I lay on the floor next to her with the baby on the mattress between us, and I lifted the postcard from my pocket and showed it to Mother.

“You still have it. After all this time.” She smiled. “You can do it, Yoora, you can get there.” But her smile drifted away. “I don’t have the letters. I’m sorry. They found them. Took them from me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I whispered. How could I be disappointed with her, or angry?

Behind me Sook cleared his throat softly. “You should stay,” he said.

I gazed at him, remembering what I’d thought of him, what I’d planned to do, and I felt ashamed. I nodded. So much I wanted to say, to ask. But I sensed that my mother didn’t have much time, and he seemed to know it too.

“Here.” He came forward and held out a blanket.

“Thank you.” I draped the blanket over myself and Mother, stretched out an arm and rested my hand on hers. Closing my eyes I imagined I was back home, lying next to my mother in the darkness was my father, and quietly sleeping in the next room were my grandparents.

And I drifted away into a blissful sleep.