Divinity Road (11 page)

I’m just trying to get home now. I’m heading for the nearest town, anywhere that’s got a telephone. He mimes holding a receiver.

And Omar, my little Omar! I’ve lost my little Omar! She looks around distractedly, as if expecting him to suddenly appear.

I’ve got a family at home. In Oxford. That’s in England.

Omar! My Omar! I’d left him on my mat. He’d been grizzly all night. Teething he was, giving me hell. I just put him down while I sorted out the fire, put a pan of water on to heat up. I left him, me his mother. How could I do that?

My wife’s called Nuala. I’ve got two kids. Just like you.

I left him. I killed him.

The boy’s called Sammy. The girl’s Bethany. I’ve got some photos in my bag. Would you like to see them?

I killed him. My own son.

She sinks down onto the ground, buries her head in her hands. He looks at her helplessly, tries to think of something useful to do, decides to fetch the food.

When he returns he finds her in the same position. His conversation has dried up. The mention of his family has rendered him silent with homesick melancholy. Her hopeless lethargy is infectious.

It’s nightfall by the time the children return. Munia appears first, a pile of sticks stacked on her head. She’s followed by Rasheed who is dragging a section of dead trunk. Greg produces his waterproof matches and they soon have a fire going where the earlier one had smouldered. They sit around it, passing around water, pieces of dried fruit, crackers. The woman and her children are initially dubious about the crackers, the cheese, but they are hungry and soon the food is gone. They sit in silence for a while. Greg is suddenly aware that the fire, though a warming comfort, is also a signal to outsiders.

Greg, he begins again. My name’s Greg. He stabs his own chest, repeating his name several times. The others look on blankly. Munia’s the first to catch on, repeats his name, then points at herself, says Munia, points at Rasheed, enunciates his name carefully. Greg repeats each name several times. For the first time, the children smile.

And you? he asks the woman. She hesitates, wonders how much she should trust this man.

I am called Asrar.

I am called Asrar, he repeats. The boy laughs, the girl stifles a giggle.

No, Asrar. Asrar. That’s my name. Asrar.

It’s his turn to catch on now. He smiles.

Asrar, he pronounces carefully. Asrar, Rasheed, Munia. He points at each of his companions as he names them.

Greg, says Rasheed, pointing.

***

It’s an interminable night for Greg. His day-time napping prevents him from sleeping now, as does his ailing body. Besides, he’s worried about their exposed position, the campfire, wonders how Pol Pot and his followers are faring. He sits away from the fire, cradling the rifle in his arms, and tunes his ears to his surroundings.

The two children are soon slumbering, the blanket he’s given them wrapped around their frail bodies. Asrar’s sleep is more broken. She groans, tosses, calls out. Once, she thrashes so violently that she wakes herself.

Greg presses the cold barrel of his gun to his forehead. His headache seems to have shifted from temple to somewhere deep inside his head. His abdominal pain, too, has spread to his lower back. What’s he got down there? he wonders. Liver? Kidneys? His knowledge of vital organs is vague, but he’s certain something fairly significant is amiss.

His train of thought moves from a focus on his injuries to their root cause. His recollection of the final moments in the aircraft is still muddled, but for the first time he wonders what happened and whether they were victims of some random mechanical failure or something more sinister. But it’s all still too foggy and his thoughts loop and fade and trail off without resolution.

He casts his mind back to the preceding weeks, tracing the events that led him to this place. He’d been busy preparing for his first major London exhibition, a showing of his latest collection of black and white oils at The Whitechapel. It’d been a real coup, his American agent, Burnley Welsh, had assured him.

And then he’d got the phone call from Farai, his old friend from his volunteering days in Zimbabwe, later the best man at his wedding, later still recipient of money transfers and care parcels as Zimbabwe’s economy had nose-dived, until a year or so ago, when Farai had finally given up on his homeland, taken his accountancy skills across the border to Durban, then Jo’burg. Once settled, he’d brought over his family, Rose and their five children, one of whom, Robbie, had suffered his entire childhood from poorly-managed, haphazardly-treated diabetes.

Twisted irony. There in South Africa, with access at last to better medical care, Robbie’s condition had suddenly worsened. Twice he’d been hospitalised, twice brought back from coma. The third time he was not so lucky. He had fallen ill in his own bed one night and was found dead by his sister the following morning. Greg had dropped everything as soon as he’d heard the news, given last-minute instructions to Burnley about the exhibition as he booked a flight, threw some clothes in a bag, said his goodbyes to Nuala and the children. He reckoned to be gone a week, enough time for the funeral and to spend a few days afterwards with his friend.

A bitter-sweet time, shouldering his burden of grief, relishing the time spent with Farai and Rose, neither of whom he’d seen for ten years, their friendship previously limited to texts, emails, the occasional phone call.

He sits by the hut and these memories roll into others, a previous life in Zimbabwe, first in a rural school, later in a township college, images of stifling classrooms, she been visits, shared buckets of chibuku beer, church services on Sunday. He remembers Farai’s wedding to Rose, the birth of their first child, now a young man.

And from there he’s back home in Britain, at the further education college in London where he and Nuala had both found teaching jobs, memories of an early London date, an Oliver Mtukudzi concert, the studio flat they’d shared before the arrival of children, Nuala’s pregnancy, their world turned upside-down by parenthood. A second child. A move to Oxford. And then the decision to try and make it as a painter,

Nuala selflessly shouldering the main financial responsibilities in the early years, shifting her part-time job teaching asylum-seekers and refugees at the college to full-time to maximise their income.

And then his first exhibition and, from there, the first sale of one of his paintings, a desert landscape bought by a Cotswold farmer for a hundred pounds. He recalls the children’s glee when he’d announced the sale, the bottle of cheap fizzy wine he’d bought with some of the proceeds, a tipsy evening of celebration with Nuala.

He wonders whether it is a life he’ll ever return to.

Eventually he dozes. He dreams of a weekend he’d spent in Brussels with Nuala before the birth of the children, the Musées Royaux Des Beaux Arts, the Christmas markets and cafés, the attic room in the bed and breakfast, the clean white sheets of the double bed, Nuala’s pale skin, her flat stomach.

At dawn, Asrar shakes him awake. The children are already up, yawning and stretching.

We will go to my uncle’s village, she says. It’s a day’s walk. He’ll help us. She thinks, but doesn’t say, if he’s still there.

He looks at her blankly and remains sitting. She mimes walking, points off towards the barren hills, gestures for him to follow. He gets up, rummages in his bag for the last bottle of water, takes a drink and passes it round. Then he repacks his bag and picks up his rifle. He looks around the remains of the village, making a move to leave, but she stops him and points at the bag on his back, gestures for him to give it to her, pointing then at her head.

My bag? You? Oh, no, I wouldn’t think of it, he says. She gestures again, this time with a trace of impatience. Reluctantly, he slips it off his shoulders. She hoists it onto her head, spends a moment redistributing the weight, finding the right balance, then says something to the children and they move off, Asrar leading, her offspring at her side, Greg bringing up the rear.

They hike the first two hours at a brisk pace set by the woman. The children are uncomplaining, Greg dizzy with weakness, with the needling abdominal pain, struggling to keep up but anxious not to show his failings. The water’s finished and his throat is parched. As if she can read his mind, Asrar calls a halt. She takes down the backpack and pulls out four of the empty bottles. She hands them to Rasheed, points off towards a ridge to their left and mutters something. He scampers off in the direction she indicated, she replaces the bag, and the three remaining figures continue on their way.

Twenty minutes later Rasheed re-appears with the bottles filled. He returns three to his mother, and on her command, passes the fourth to Greg. The liquid inside is a murky brown and he examines it suspiciously. But his thirst is commanding, so he uncaps the bottle and drinks off a quarter of its contents.

It’s rank and brackish, but welcome nevertheless. The others take it in turns to drink, the children first, then Asrar. Revived, they continue on their way.

Greg notices how Munia collects suitable sticks of wood while they walk, building up a sizeable bundle on her head as the day progresses. He soon sinks into that trance-like daze that comes so easily when trudging through such uniform surroundings. Once, as they are passing between two rocky ridges, Rasheed lets out a whistle, points frantically at Greg’s rifle and gestures towards a termite mound. Greg swivels and catches a flash of a small animal, some greyish mammal that he guesses is a type of hare. By the time he raises the rifle, the creature has long disappeared. Rasheed turns away, trying unsuccessfully to hide his disappointment.

Roused from his stupor, Greg keeps the safety catch off and tries to stay alert. An hour later, passing a clump of trees, two large birds suddenly rise up in the air, screeching out warnings in a whirl of flapping panic. Rasheed lets out an excited cry and Greg raises the rifle, aims, closes his eyes and presses the trigger. He fancies that Rasheed’s expression has moved from disappointment to mild contempt.

Asrar calls a halt as the day’s heat reaches its peak. They settle under a tree. This time, apart from the water, they have nothing with which to sustain themselves. The children whisper together. Asrar is distant, withdrawn. After ten minutes, Rasheed approaches Greg, taps the rifle, points at himself, mimes first an animal running, then him shooting and finally himself eating and smiling.

You want to take the gun? He is vaguely uneasy giving a gun to a child, uncomfortable about being left without protection. He feels robbed of his previous assertiveness and in his present state of alienation it seems no more absurd for this boy to be carrying a firearm than for himself to do so. He passes the gun over, as well as a handful of rounds. The boy checks the magazine, re-loads expertly, rests the firearm on his shoulder and leaves without a further word. Greg looks at Asrar for reassurance, but her face is expressionless.

Greg needs to defecate and searches through the bag for something to use as toilet paper. Out of desperation, he flicks through his sketch pad and tears out an empty page. He disappears behind a bush.

When he returns, he finds Munia flicking through the pad. She seems unimpressed by the sketches, giving them no more than cursory glances, but dwells with interest on the family photographs at the front. He sits down beside her, points to a picture of a tall, angular woman, a shoulder-length brunette with paper-white skin, an aquiline nose, grey-green eyes. She’s sitting, playing at a piano.

That’s Nuala. My wife.

He feels a sudden spasm of emotion, realises that he’s about to cry.

Munia looks up at him, uncomprehending. Struggling, he points at the photo, at himself. Now she understands, nods.

She’s a remarkable woman, you know. Played camogie for Wexford as a teenager, could have been an international. Works as a teacher now. All her students adore her, she’d do anything for them. Heart of gold, she has. Brilliant parent, too. God knows what I’d do without her. I just sort of muddle along, she’s the expert. I wonder what she’s doing now...

He’s rambling, he knows, but it has helped him regain his self-control. And now he’s angry at himself, aware that he’s been so wrapped up in his own pain that he’s hasn’t given a thought to what Nuala must be going through. He wonders what she knows, what she’s been told. They must have found the crash site by now, he guesses. He thinks of the scattered bodies and vultures, and shudders. He looks back down at the photo.

Look. A piano. It’s her passion. Jazz mostly. She does a cracking version of ‘God Bless The Child’. You know, Billie Holiday. Munia examines the image silently. Of course Nuala’s no stranger to Africa. She did three years in Eritrea, worked as a volunteer teacher for, what was the name... He searches his memory. It’s on the tip of his tongue. APSO, that’s it. Bit like Peace Corps, you know, but Irish. ‘Course that was years ago. Still, that’s how we met. I’d been a VSO teacher at the same time in Zimbabwe. Big conference of volunteer NGOs during the Christmas holidays in Nairobi one year. We’d both signed up for it, her for the right reasons, no doubt. Me, just an excuse for a holiday in Kenya, do the beach thing in Mombasa, the Masai Mara. We met in a doctor’s surgery, her with cystitis, though she didn’t tell me that until much later, me with a chest infection. My smoking days, you know. He smiles and she smiles back. Anyway, we got chatting, went for a drink. Don’t think she thought much of me then. I was a bit of a tit, if truth be told. I thought I was the bee’s knees. Another smile reciprocated. But God I liked her. That old cliché of an Irish beauty. Great body. And those eyes. You could lose yourself in them.