The Blasphemer (24 page)

Emma screamed and screamed.

***

Benjy looked peaceful in his coffin—his face finely powdered, his hair slicked back, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips—when they closed and sealed the lid for the last time. Dried autumn leaves fell in shades of brown and yellow.

The pastor recited the closing verses, ‘In my Father’s house, there are many rooms. If it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you.’

Sara Chang breathed in the smell of freshly dug soil, the crisp morning breeze chilling her tear-stained cheeks. Digging her nails into her palms, she watched her big brother being lowered into the grave by creaking ropes and pulleys.

Mum sobbed quietly. Dad remained stoic, his face grey.  Benjy had been an overachiever, a businessman, a treasured first-born son. For them, it was as if they had died along with him.

There was a soft crunch.

The coffin touched bottom.

‘Thomas said to him, Lord, we do not know where you are going, so how can we know the way?’

Emma clutched her face, breaking into a long tormented wail. Sara reached out and caught her just before she collapsed.

‘Jesus answered, I am the way and the truth and the life. No one goes to the Father except through me.’

Everyone shuffled forward to drop roses, blood red roses, into the grave. It was a bitter farewell.

***

Mum was still snivelling when they pulled away from the cemetery with Dad at the wheel. In the back seat, Sara stared out at the hilly landscape with tombstones flying by.

‘You shouldn’t have caught her.’ Mum blew her nose into a tissue, the golden bracelet on her arm jiggling. ‘It was embarrassing.’

‘What?’ Sara emerged from her stupor.

‘I’m talking about Emma. You shouldn’t have caught her.’

‘But she was falling—’

‘You are being silly. She had her brothers to take care of her.’

‘But I was closest to Emma.’

‘Didn’t we already talk about throwing in the roses together? The three of us together? As a family? But look what happened. You left your Dad and me to do it by ourselves.’

‘Look, Emma was so distraught and I had to—’

‘Damn it!’ Mum slammed her hand on the dashboard, cracking one of her pink fingernails. Her mascara was smudged. Despite her recent face lift, she suddenly looked twenty years older. ‘You have no respect for your brother and no respect for your parents.’

‘Respect? Respect!’ Sara seethed, her throat burning, her jaw clenching. ‘You are obsessed about saving face. That’s all you care about, isn’t it?’

Sara stopped herself when she noticed Dad’s eyes glaring at her through the rear view mirror.

‘Sara, that’s quite enough.’ His tone was flat and matter-of-fact. ‘You need to shut up.’

***

It was an aching memory.

She was ten at the time.

Benjy was sixteen.

And it happened to be report card day.

Sara trembled as Mum scanned her grades. They were mostly B’s. The only A she received was for English.

Mum squeezed the edges of the report card until they crumpled. ‘We work day and night to put you in a private school. And you think you are being fair to us by giving us this?’

Mum pitched the report card into her face and slapped her. She fell. Her ears buzzed. Blood trickled down her lips. Terrified, she scooted backwards, the carpet searing her buttocks through her skirt.

‘I’m sorry, Mummy, I’m sorry.’

Mum grabbed a snakeskin belt from the wardrobe and closed in on her.

Sara bumped against the wall, cowering. Her throat contracted. Her heart felt like it would burst. If only she had been smarter, if only—

‘Mummy!’

‘You’re useless.’

The belt snapped again and again. Sara howled in agony, her arms turning black and blue, so swollen and numb she couldn’t feel anything anymore. She curled up into a ball, her eyes growing foggy, her head almost splitting.

Oh God, when would this end?

She became faintly aware of Benjy coming into the room, yelling, his voice clashing with Mum’s. The blows stopped. They sounded garbled, hollow, distant, like a dream. Everything was a kaleidoscope of blurs.

Sara hated herself. Hated herself so much. She deserved this, didn’t she? She needed to get away. Needed to be safe.

She crawled, struggled to stand, and lurched towards her room. She barely made it, crashing into her bed, reaching for her favourite plush toy—a cat named Fluffy. She clasped it against her chest before passing out with silent sobs.

‘Hey. Wake up. Hey.’

Sara struggled to crank open her eyes.

Her mouth felt parched, terribly parched.

It seemed like only a split-second had passed, when it had really been hours. Her skin prickled as if covered by pins and needles. She felt a straw being pressed past her shivering lips. She sucked long and hard, tasting orange juice, taking big swallows.

A face came into focus. Benjy’s smiling face. Sleek and rugged in all the right places, he reminded her of Cary Grant.

‘You’re getting too heavy.’

‘Wha—?’ her voice rasped.

‘I had to carry you to the bathroom, clean and bandage you, change the

bed sheets, and then carry you all the way back. Poor me.’ Benjy scrunched up his face and faked a pained expression. ‘You got to go on a diet, sis. Lose some weight for my sake. Please?’

Despite her soreness, she laughed, spilling drops of juice. ‘I’m not fat.’

He winked. ‘Sure.’

‘Why…why did you stand up to Mummy?’

‘Because you’re my sis, that’s why.’

‘But I’m useless.’

‘No, you’re not. I know you’re not.’

She started to cry, feeling almost sorry that he had to protect her. ‘You’re the best big brother.’ She hugged him. ‘Best big brother, ever.’

***

Sara stroked Fluffy slowly, thoughtfully.

Outside her window, nearly-bare tree branches shifted and crackled, like bony fingers silhouetted against the dimming sunlight. The skies turned steel-grey. Thunder growled.

She leaned her forehead against the glass, her breath hazing it.

Benjy was a straight-A student, an outgoing guy, Mum and Dad’s favourite, the one they always introduced to strangers first.

Why can’t you be more like your brother? Just look at how many hours ofstudy he puts in. What about you? You’re wasting your time with your silly stories and poems and sports. You think they are going to get you anywhere in life? Your father’s an engineer. I’m a lawyer. And your brother’s going to be an economist. What about you? You’re just content to continue dreaming. I’m ashamed to have you as a daughter. If I could, I would disown you. That’s right. Disown you.

Sara groaned.

Maybe it might have been better if she had died instead of Benjy. Then Mum and Dad wouldn’t be so miserable. After all, she was expendable, wasn’t she? Benjy wasn’t.

Behind her, the door opened, and the voices of family and friends drifted in from downstairs. She turned away from the window.

‘I thought I’d find you in here.’ Emma strained to smile, shutting the door behind her. ‘It’s all pretty overwhelming, huh?’

‘Yeah.’ Mrya shrugged, setting Fluffy down on the bed. ‘Overwhelming is the word.’

‘Thank you for helping me just now, back during the funeral.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ Sara gave a thumb up. ‘It’s what every wholesome

sister-in-law does, right?’

They stood in lingering silence.

Emma reached for the bedpost to support herself.

Even in grief, she looked so beautiful—almond eyes, wavy hair, and radiant skin. A striking young widow.

‘I’m pregnant,’ Emma said simply.

Sara’s world tilted. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I’m going to have a baby.’

‘Jesus.’

‘I was going to tell Benjy. But, you know, I thought—’ She bit her lip. ‘I thought of waiting until his birthday. It was supposed to be yesterday. That’s when I was going to tell him.’ She sank slowly down on the bed, shaking her head. ‘No one else knows, Sara. This whole thing is my fault. I shouldn’t have let him drive back so early in the morning. We had already checked into a motel. But he got some call on his cell and suddenly he said we had to go home right away. That’s when it happened.’

***

Sara hurried downstairs.

At the bottom, Dad froze in mid -conversation, his hand flexing around his iced lemon tea. ‘Where have you been? You’re supposed to be down here entertaining the guests.’

Sara smirked and glided past. Around her, people stole glances, murmuring in hushed tones. She snatched her coat off the rack and was already out the front door when Dad caught her by the shoulder.

‘Sara, don’t you turn your back on me. I’m talking to you. Where are you going?’

‘It’s about Benjy.’

‘What about Benjy?’

‘You know how we thought he was coming back late from that business trip because he couldn’t get a motel room? Well, turns out he did get a room.’

‘Sara—’

‘But there was this phone call.’

‘Sara—’

‘He drove back because of it.’

‘Sara.’ Dad’s grip tightened. ‘I don’t want you running off right now. Don’t you realise how much you’ve upset your mother?’

Sara gently loosened his hand and pushed it away. ‘Emma is pregnant.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You’re going to be grandparents. That’s right. Grandparents.’

She unlocked her car and got in, her fingers drumming the steering wheel. Lightning reflected off the hood.

She hesitated. ‘Daddy, tell me something. Would it have made you happy if I had died instead of Benjy?’

He half-chuckled and turned away, sauntering back into the house.

The wind grew stronger.

Droplets of rain drizzled.

And in that moment of moments, Sara felt her heart break. She had her answer. Slamming her door shut, she keyed the ignition, reversing out the driveway.

EXCERPT: The Reckoning

Author’s Note: A techno-thriller that I started but never finished. It goes like this: a group of UN diplomats have grown tired of seeing war criminals escape justice, so they take it upon themselves to form a death squad. Their target? A man known as The General, inspired by real-life despots Charles Taylor and Robert Mugabe. In the end, though, I felt the story was too cynical to ever see publication. The fact that it kicks off with an omniscient viewpoint was also an issue for me. But have a read and decide for yourself.

***

A conspiracy was in motion.

With stiff smiles and a handshake, two men met in the lobby of the General Assembly building. Hundreds of footsteps and voices echoed, the air heavy with urgency and purpose.

The older man had a sad, ancient face weathered by a lifetime of having seen it all. Bent and fragile, he walked with a cane. The younger man, sashaying with all the confidence of youth, clutched his arm, helping him along as one would do for a grandfather.

Like specks in a human ocean, they moved towards the rest area, where the smells of coffee and bread were strong. Above them, curving balconies floated, and close by, a plate glass window rose fifty feet high, dominating the scene.

This was the headquarters of the United Nations. Neutral ground. The building was swept several times a day by electronics and sniffer dogs.

Even so, the men were careful.

By choosing this spot to meet, they hoped the crowd would interfere with covert listening devices. That is, if anyone actually dared to use such things here.

They settled into adjacent cushioned chairs.

A waitress approached, but the younger man waved her away. Inching closer to his companion, he leaned over his armrest. ‘I am afraid the ICC is not keen on pushing for prosecution. They seem to think the evidence is shaky, insufficient.’

‘Insufficient evidence is not a reason.’ The older man’s nostrils flared. ‘It is an excuse. Red tape strangling justice.’

‘We could give it more time.’

‘More time? Heavens, no. That monster is about to lobby his cause on the world stage. Seeking legitimacy. Signing trade agreements. Inviting corporations to come set up shop. God knows what will happen next!’

‘Very well. Since you feel so strongly’—the younger man prodded the armrest, his finger like a scalpel—’I can have a team prepared for deployment within sixteen hours. We’ll move ahead with your green light.’

Furrowing his lips, the older man stared out the huge window.

Many flags flapped in the wind, their poles catching the sunlight, representing the member states of the United Nations. How insignificant Project Solidarity seemed to be in the grand scheme of things. Five tiny nations stepping up to the plate, trying to fill the moral void left behind by the superpowers. Admirable, noble even, if one could look past the distasteful gray areas.

‘I take no joy in this, you understand?’ His eyes grew pensive. ‘When you get to be as old as I am—closer to the end rather than the beginning—you start thinking about your legacy.’

‘Legacy?’

‘That’s right. Legacy. I used to be out there on the front lines—fighting the Cold War—while my children were still playing with their Lego. You have no idea how much they resent me for being an absent father.’ He chuckled. ‘My grandchildren, on the other hand, think of me as some sort of... hero... an old knight, perhaps.’ His chuckle became a snort. ‘I am proud of what I did during the Cold War. That was for my children and their generation. But Solidarity is like writing my last will and testament in blood. Is this what I really want to be giving my grandchildren?’

The younger man studied him, nodding. ‘Your grandchildren are starting their new school term very soon, I believe?’

‘Yes, quite so.’

‘Legacy or not’—the younger man jabbed the armrest, harder this time—’the things we do will never enter the history books they study. That shouldn’t trouble you. We do what we do because it is moral... genuine justice... something the world has forgotten. Do you remember how clear our vision was when we first started?’