Secrets From the Past (11 page)

I shook my head. ‘Let me correct myself, most of us can’t cope. Not in the end. Because we’ve witnessed too much horrific stuff. And you know that a lot of troops return home suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, as well as some combat journalists.’

‘I don’t have PTSD.’ He looked at me intently.

‘But you are shattered, Zac. You will get better, though.’

‘I hope to God I will.’ He glanced around Florian’s, almost as if to reassure himself where he was. ‘We get hooked on war, don’t we?’

‘We do. All of us. That adrenaline rush is very addictive. But the smart ones get out. Eventually. And stay out, if they know what’s good for them – lead safer lives.’

He was silent for a moment or two, then he leaned closer, said quietly, ‘I can’t go back, Serena. Whatever you might think, I just can’t hack it any more.’

A surge of relief ran through me. I was convinced he meant every word and that he would not change his mind.

We had been sitting in Florian’s for hours, and when we finally left it was early evening. We walked back to the bolthole in silence. But that had never been a problem for us; our silences were companionable.

I glanced around, feeling relaxed. Venice had that effect on me. The piazza was much less crowded because of the hour; the wind had dropped and it was a pleasant evening.

I looked up. The sky had changed, had deepened to a soft pavonine blue, and the fading light bathed everything in a hazy softness, as if a gauze veil had been draped over the ancient buildings.

Venice was calm, seemed otherworldly in the twilight. I had always loved this place from my childhood, and it held happy memories for me. I realized it was a good place for Zac to recover, and I was happy Harry had thought of putting him in the bolthole.

At one moment, Zac took hold of my hand when we were in the middle of the square, swung me around to face him.

‘What is it?’

‘What happened to me? To you? To us, Serena?’

I was silent for a second, then I said, ‘Life.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Life got in the way. It changed you, it changed me.’

‘Do you mean it also split us up?’

‘Sort of, yes. We’re victims of Life, and all the nasty tricks it plays on people. Life frequently comes up to hit you in the face.’

‘Can it be repaired?’ he asked quietly.

‘What?’

‘Our relationship?’

I stiffened involuntarily, and did not answer at first. Finally, I said in a low, noncommittal voice, ‘I don’t know … I’m not really sure, Zac.’

He nodded.

We started to walk across the square again. As we approached the street where the bolthole was located, he said in a soft, loving voice, ‘I still have feelings for you.’

When I did not respond, he asked, ‘Do you?’

‘Certain feelings, yes. However, the most important thing is for you to get better, Zac. Only then can we think about our past relationship.’ I was careful not to mention the future.

‘Understood,’ he muttered.

We went on up the street in silence.

W
hen the noise first started and I woke up with a start, I thought, for a split second, that someone was banging a nail into a wall to hang a picture. Then, as it grew louder, and more intense, I decided it must be filtering in from outside. But no, it wasn’t.

The noise was actually coming from the living room, just beyond my bedroom door. When I realized this, I leapt out of bed, snapped on the light, struggled into my robe and slippers and ran to the door. I yanked it open to find myself facing a room full of blazing lights. Every lamp was turned on.

Much to my shock and horror, Zac was standing in the centre of the room in his pyjamas, looking demented, angrily bashing the television set to pieces with a kind of manic concentration. And what was that he had in his hands? A frying pan? I was astonished. I didn’t even know we had one. Pushing this irrelevant thought to one side, I rushed toward him, exclaiming, ‘Zac! Zac! Stop it! Stop doing that! At once! You’ll wake Claudia. She’ll be up here any minute wanting to know what’s going on.’

I took hold of him firmly, put my arms around his rigid body. He stared at me blankly. I saw how glazed his eyes were, and his face was wet with tears.

‘Oh, Zac,’ I whispered against his shoulder. ‘You’re suffering so much, I’m so sorry. I’ll try to help you in any way I can. Come on, give me the pan.’

He pulled away from me, gaped at me once more, almost angrily now, and then, with something of a grand flourish, threw the copper pan onto the floor and made to walk away from me.

Before he could take one step I shrieked, ‘Stop! Don’t move!’ I had just noticed he was in his bare feet. ‘You’ll cut your feet on that mess,’ I warned him.

The floor where he stood was strewn with twisted metal, broken glass, wires; all the innards of the television set. I had an unexpected flash of Richard Burton as Shannon, the defrocked priest, in the movie
The Night of the Iguana
, cutting his feet to shreds when he stepped on broken wine bottles near his bed.

‘I’ll get your shoes,’ I said, hurrying into Zac’s room, shouting over my shoulder, ‘Just stay there. Don’t take a step.’

He didn’t.

When I came back he was still standing in the same spot. He did not say anything to me, nor did he look at me; his gaze was directed at the floor and the detritus surrounding him, as if he was surprised to see it scattered there.

Walking carefully, I pushed bits and pieces of glass and metal to one side with my feet, until I’d made a small space in front of him, where I placed his loafers. ‘Slip your feet into them,’ I instructed.

Once he had done so, I guided him over to the sofa, forced him down onto it and took the seat next to him. He appeared to be in a weakened state; he fell back against the cushions and closed his eyes.

I sat holding his hand, not sure what to do to help him, other than to keep him calm. I had no idea what had brought this on. Had he been watching the news? Following reports of the Arab Spring, the various uprisings spreading through the Middle East after a young Tunisian man, Mohamed Bouazizi, had set himself on fire last December, dying in hospital in January?

I knew from Geoff that Zac had watched the unrest and violence developing, was aware of the troubles infecting other countries. But he’d promised me he would not watch any more coverage. Had he had a nightmare again? Or one of those horrific flashbacks, when a bad experience replays itself, and is just as engulfing as the real event? I just didn’t know what had affected him. How could I?

Certainly something had set him off, made him genuinely angry. But that was easy to do. Anger lurked beneath the surface these days; he was angry at tyrants and dictators, politicians and governments, terrorists and insurgents. Overall, he was stricken by the horrors of the world that we, as photojournalists, lived in day and night on a constant basis.

Zac had covered too many wars in too many countries in the past sixteen years. It was no wonder he was full of rage and sadness and despair. We all suffered from a kind of numbed exhaustion when we finally came out, stunned by war.

He had taken his all-seeing camera to Sierra Leone, Somalia, Ivory Coast, Israel, Palestine, Lebanon, Kuwait, Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq and Afghanistan, among other places. The thought of what he must have witnessed boggled the mind. I had seen a lot myself, but I hadn’t been with him until Afghanistan and Iraq. He had seen much more over many more years – double the time I’d been a war photographer, in fact.

I had a tissue in my pocket, and I pulled it out, patted his cheeks, which were still damp with tears.

Instantly, he opened his eyes, looked at me with a degree of intensity. ‘Serena?’

‘Yes, Zac?’

‘What happened?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m not sure why you were doing it, but you were beating the television to death, and the noise woke me up. You were hellbent on destroying it, and there’s the mess you made. Over there. I just guided you out of it.’

He followed the direction of my gaze, then looked at me, bit his lip, as if he were baffled at himself. Worry was suddenly reflected in his eyes; he was chagrined.

I said, ‘Were you watching the news? Did you get hooked on the coverage of the Arab Spring? What’s been happening in Egypt? And the Mubarak regime? Or were you focused on Afghanistan?’

‘No, none of that. I told you I wouldn’t focus on war or the uprisings, or the Middle East. In fact, I
promised
, actually. And I kept my promise to you, Serena.’

I nodded my understanding. ‘But were you watching TV?’ I fastened my eyes on his.

‘I was, yes, but nothing to do with news. I was zapping around, flicking different shows on and off, not really paying attention to anything in particular. I just couldn’t sleep. That’s why I got up, came in here, watched for a while, had a glass of milk. I never went near a news show.’

‘So what made you smash the TV?’ I wondered out loud.

He was silent, sat staring at me, and then finally he said, in a low voice, ‘I had a flashback. A bad one. I guess I just went berserk. I became angry. It got the better of me … I suppose I was in a rage.’

Before I could say anything his face crumpled, and tears welled in his eyes, slid down his cheeks. He brought his hands to his face, endeavoured to control himself, to choke back the sobs. But he couldn’t manage that. And so, embarrassed I think, he turned away from me, rested his head on the wide arm of the sofa and wept.

I moved closer to him, put my hand on his back, stroked it for a while.

Eventually, I said quietly, ‘Don’t try to control yourself because of me, Zac, or hold the tears back. Cry everything out, and as much as you can. It really is the only way to deal with grief. And I know you’re grieving. You’re full of sorrow and heartache.’

He mumbled something I couldn’t quite catch, and then he began to sob as if his heart was broken. And I think it was. I knew the flashback had been powerful and that it was tearing him apart. He was awash with pain.

I also understood that I must leave him here alone, give him his privacy, not encroach on him. And so I slipped away, went into my bedroom until he needed me.

As I walked into the room I noticed the clock on the bedside table. It was two in the morning. I was about to call Harry in New York and then I changed my mind. I didn’t need to report in. I was a big girl. I could handle this situation on my own without any advice.

I knew Zachary North inside out and upside down. Nobody knew him better than I did. And that was why he had wanted me to come here … to help him assuage his grief and to cope with his mental state. He understood himself well enough to know he needed to heal and that I was the one to lead him in the right direction.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but images of the front line in Afghanistan filled my mind. The sound of gunfire, shells bursting, roadside bombs exploding, the rumbling sound of the helicopters hovering overhead. The noise was incessant, barely letting up until it was dark. But even then there were noises – sounds of firing, explosions, as snipers roamed around; an insurgent accidentally stepping on one of his own bombs and being blown to bits. The stink of sweat and gunpowder and blood. The dead and the wounded. These images rolled in my head, and I wondered how I had managed to live through these nightmarish years, dodging bullets and bombs, rushing in, camera poised, to get the ghastly shots, to show the world what was happening. There was always fear, because of the ever-present danger, but I had pushed it aside to do the work. Yet sometimes the fear was crippling. Somehow I overcame it.

‘
I
insist on buying a new television set, to replace the one I smashed,’ Zac said. ‘I spoke to Claudia on the phone, when you were in the shower, and she’s given me the name of the best shop; it’s not far from here.’

I simply nodded in agreement and picked up my bag from the coffee table. ‘Come on, then, let’s go,’ I murmured, walking across the room towards the front door. I had seen that obdurate look on his face many times before, and I knew not to argue. The best thing was to agree to do what he wanted.

He gave me one of his lopsided smiles, rare at the moment, and we left the apartment together. When we stepped outside into the street, I was surprised how warm it was, quite balmy, with no breeze, for once. The sun was shining, and it felt good to be out of the bolthole, mingling with people, seeing the world.

We walked along, side by side, in silence as usual, lost in our own thoughts. I was relieved he had finally made reference to the TV set he had destroyed, and hoped that once the new one was installed he would tell me more about the awful flashback that had set him off five nights ago.

So far he had been reluctant to discuss it. I had asked him about it only once; when he had shaken his head, looking grim, I had instantly let the matter drop. He would tell me when he was able to do so, in his own time, of that I was certain.

After I had filled Harry in the following day, his instructions had been to leave it alone, and I had.

‘So Geoff’s coming back tonight,’ Zac suddenly said, turning to look at me, as we walked through the Piazza San Marco, which was busier than ever today; but not as busy as it would be at the end of April, full of tourists for Easter.

‘That’s what I told you earlier this morning,’ I answered. ‘What I didn’t say was that he wants us to have dinner with him. Tonight. At Harry’s Bar. He’s not staying long, just a few days and then he’s off to LA.’

‘Did you accept?’

‘More or less. I said I’d be there, but I had to check with you. I added that I was sure it would be all right. He said to tell you he’s not taking no for an answer, and that he’s already made the reservation at Harry’s Bar. From London.’

Zac laughed. ‘Just like Geoff. And of course I’ll go with you. Did he confide in you? About his decision?’

‘No, he didn’t. I’m well aware Harry’s eager for him to take over Global’s London office, and if Geoff’s as smart as I think he is, then he will.’