BLACK AND WHITE BLOOD

BLACK AND WHITE BLOOD

There is a lovely road that runs from the airport to the hills. It passes through the sparsely populated rural uplands on its way to the capital, built during the colonial era on a high plateau. The countryside surrounding the city for hundreds of miles in all directions is designated rural and farming. Almost all of the land is owned by farmers.

Only the capital and its slums are considered urban. This is where most of the population lives.

The scenery is spectacular, the climate serene and the living conditions despicable.

*

The boy in charge of the cattle saw the dust in the distance thrown up by the vehicle. He left his herd and ran down the hillside towards a group of ramshackle dwellings shouting. ‘Wake up! Wake up! The farmer again. He’s coming!’

Two men came out of one of the ramshackle huts. They stared at the approaching vehicle and then walked quickly into the bush.

The boy’s name was Jabulani. The farmer’s name was Kruger. He was looking for Jabulani’s father, whose name was Paul Delani.

The huts were on Kruger’s land. Land his forefathers had found empty before they settled on it. That’s what they said, anyway.

Paul was in one of the crude buildings. He did not know yet what the farmer wanted. So he was only mildly apprehensive about the Kruger’s sudden appearance. Paul thought it was probably to do with the men who had just left. And he’d had nothing to do with them. He’d ignored them when they were there.

As he watched the approaching truck, he formulated what he’d say. He thought that, if asked, he’d simply tell Kruger that he did not know the men. So he felt that if this was what the farmer wanted, information about the strangers, he would be reasonably safe.

But that wasn’t the case.

Although Paul was not aware of it, Kruger was on his way to get Paul because Paul had killed Kruger’s wife’s pet dog.

Since her baby had died, the dog had been the light of her life. She’d carried it round with her everywhere. A beautiful looking, but snappy and thoroughly spoilt fox terrier called, of all things, Nipper. It was white with a brown head, and she’d named it after the dog listening to a phonograph on her mother’s collection of old black-with-red-labels seventy eight His Master’s Voice records.

Kruger didn’t like the dog much and often referred to it as Shit Head. Of course he said this mainly when his wife was not around.

But now the light had gone out of her life again. A dead baby and a dead dog. Both in the space of a year. What had she done to deserve this? ‘Die Here, please give me back my dog,’ she pleaded in prayer.

And all because Kruger had asked Paul to set a trap for the small buck that were eating the vegetables in his wife’s garden. But the wire snare had trapped Nipper instead of the thieving dik dik or duiker. So Shit Head, or Nipper, if you like, had died an agonizing death meant for a dwarf deer.

*

When Kruger had found his wife’s pet, the dog had been dead for some time. The sick smell of death filled the air.  Bloat was forcing fluids to escape from its bulging eyes, mouth, nose and anus. Flies were buzzing and fighting to get at the putrefying orifices.  When he picked it up, the stench was revolting and maggots covered the underside that had been in contact with the soil.

So much for his wife wondering around the property for several days and nights calling it’s stupid name.

‘Nip! Nip! Nippy, where are you? Nipper, mummy’s waiting. Come on, Nippy, come home to me my baby.’

He put the dog’s body in the back of his truck and drove home to confront his wife with the news. He was anticipating a crisis.

And he got one.

*

Kruger’s wife was in the kitchen. ‘Bad news about the dog, I’m afraid. Caught in a trap.’

They went out to the truck. He pointed at the dog lying in the back, flies swooping and swarming across the lifeless body.

She stared at her darling in disbelief. Then she started to hit Kruger. She struck him on the face and chest with balled fists. ‘You… you…’ She was lost for words. ‘You bastard. You fucking bastard,’ she shouted as she let fly at him.

‘What are we doing here? Why did you bring me to this godforsaken place?’

Why indeed? He had no answer. What were they doing there?

*

Kruger looked at the huts in disgust. ‘These people,’ he thought. ‘No self-respect. Just look at the fucking mess.’

He called out for Paul who had once been one of his farm labourers until he got too old for regular daylong work. But he had to earn his living in order to remain on the farmer’s land. So he looked after the farmer’s wife’s extensive vegetable patch.

Kruger saw an old man come shuffling towards him from one of the shacks. Paul took off his battered hat.

Kruger immediately detected a sullen look. He knew how to read these people. He’d been amongst them all his life. And he was sure that Paul looked both truculent and guilty. He’d done it deliberately. That was obvious from his surly manner.

Times were changing. Things were different now that times had changed. But the changes were not for the better in Kruger’s opinion. Some of his neighbours, and worse still, even some of his relatives, allowed these people to ride in the cab with the owner of the vehicle. But Kruger prided himself on one of the old guard. ‘Get in the back!’ he told Paul. The old man climbed up onto the bakkie and sat on the metal seat over the rear wheel.   

*

When he got back through the automated gates in the perimeter fence, Kruger told Paul to go to the machine shed. Then he went to fetch his wife. He told her to stand by the door. He told Paul to take off his shirt and lean across one of the tractor wheels. He took a sjambok off a hook on the wall.

He had a few practice swings. The animal hide whip made a swishing sound as it cut through the air.

Kruger’s wife stood with her legs slightly apart, watching. He began his work. 

Paul made no sound. The only thing that could be heard was the sjambok in the air as it arched towards the cuts it made in the flesh on the labourer’s back.

After a few minutes, Kruger’s wife shouted, ‘Stop. Stop Jannie. Stop now. That’s enough.’

Kruger stopped. He told Paul to get into the back of the truck. He drove the man back to his hut.

*

Jabulani was staring at Kruger from where he lay on the earth floor of his father’s hut. He was looking under the gap in the door. He saw Kruger grab Paul and pull him off the back of the truck. The old man’s shirt was covered in blood. When Kruger had driven off, the old man put his hat back on his head.

*

Kruger’s sister-in-law lived with them. She was a widow. His brother had been killed when he was still a young man and she’d moved in with Kruger and his new wife.

Kruger found her in the middle of the milking shed one day. She was dressed in denim shorts bleached almost white with a ragged hem. Her blouse was not buttoned, but tied in a knot that showed her underwear. And she was wearing cheap canvas Dunlop tackies.

The milkers stopped smiling as soon has he came back to the shed. He told her to get out of the building. ‘The only females allowed in here are the cows,’ he said.

When she’d gone, he walked up and down the rows of heifers dodging the dung and piss and wagging his finger menacingly at the milkers. He shook his fist at some. They felt his ugly mood and concentrated on squeezing teats and expressing milk into silver pails.

*

Kruger didn’t really like his sister in law. She had the wrong attitude. He thought she was far too familiar with the servants. And the farm labourers. He told her to stop speaking to them when she walked around the farmyard.

‘You never know what they’re thinking. And you know by just looking at them that they have evil things on their minds. I don’t trust them. Any of them. Because they hate us. You can see that written all over their faces. So you don’t have to be Einstein to work that out.’

*

Kruger had once propositioned his sister in law.

It happened only once.

It was as if he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t like the woman, he didn’t respect her, but she had an effect on him. So he wanted to show off to her. His male prowess. He wanted to establish a relationship. Where he could show her what he was made of.

‘Shall we… Well… I was thinking… do you feel like…? Well… You know what I mean, don’t you? A bit of fun, perhaps. You can’t had any for quite a while.’ He laughed. ‘I hope not anyway.’ He laughed again.

He stepped right up next to her. He could see the faint moustache on her lip and a few minute cracks where her makeup was leeching into the surrounding epidermis.

He put his hand around her waste. He pushed his pelvis up against hers so that there was no mistake about what he had in mind.

‘Fok, Jannie,’ she said as she pushed him away. ‘Your brother’s not dead a year and you try to sleep with me? No way man. What do you think I am?’

As the unexpected rebuttal sunk in Kruger felt crushed. Demeaned and affronted. Humiliated, in fact.

‘You ungrateful bitch,’ he muttered as he left the room.

*

A few years before Jabulani would automatically have entered the labour force on Kruger’s farm, he was playing outside the milk shed waiting for one of his brothers to finish milking. But Kruger gave orders to one of the younger milkers, Dixon, to go and look for a missing heifer before he could go home.

Jabulani went with Dixon who was in his late teens. As they walked they chatted and Jabulani was fascinated at the older boy’s attitude. He didn’t like the farmer or anyone in his family. He didn’t like farmers, period. He didn’t like the conditions he lived under, but he had no other options. He didn’t like the government. It had changed little in fifteen years. The signs on the toilets had changed. And on the railway stations platforms. And on the front of the busses. And everyone was allowed to sit on the same benches in the park. But very little else had changed. Very little indeed.

A prominent priest had said the gravy train stopped just long enough for one set of politicians to get off while the others - the new lot - got on.

Well, perhaps some people’s attitudes had changed, but there were not many of them. Most simply masked their innermost thoughts and feelings because they had not changed at all.

Dixon talked about some people that had plans to change things at a faster rate. They would be visiting all the labourers on Kruger’s farm over the next few weeks, he told Jabulani.

*

They found the missing heifer in a field of maze and chased it back onto the dirt road leading to the farmstead. It knew the way and walked in front of them.

They saw a white Japanese car parked just off the track. They both knew it belonged to Kruger’s sister in law. Dixon ran up to the car, gesticulating frantically. He was pointing to the fact that it was unlocked. A very unusual situation. A ladies handbag lay on the front seat. They both looked around. A path led through the reeds down to a dam surrounded by willows.

Jabulani was apprehensive. He beckoned to Dixon to get back to the cow and their mission. Dixon started down the path. Jabulani hesitated for a moment then followed him.

Smith’s sister in law was lying on a blanket. Most of her clothing lay in a neat pile next to her. She was in her underwear.

She was with a man the boys both knew. He was from the work force on the next-door farm. He was completely naked. And it was obvious that he was ready to make love.

Jabulani was terrified. He pulled at Dixon’s shirt and motioned him to leave. Dixon shook his head.

Jabulani crouched down and walked quickly back along the path back towards the car. He looked back once. He saw that Dixon had taken out his penis and was started to masturbate while staring at the couple involved in this frightening situation.

Miscegenation had, until recently, been a serious crime. Jabulani probably didn’t know what that meant, but knew that there would be serious consequences emanating from what they had just seen. Love played no part in the equation. Because he knew intuitively that the social convention was as powerful as ever. The consequences were inevitable, and that the couple they were spying on were fucking across the so-called colour bar. A very dangerous thing to do in this area.

*

Dixon came to see Jabulani the next day. He showed Jabulani a brilliant gold lipstick. He took the cap off and, by twisting the shaft, Dixon made the bright red make-up protrude from the top of the container. Then, by reversing the action, he made it retract. Just like a shiny wet glans moving in and out of a golden prepuce.

Dixon made a mark on his skin with the crimson colouring. Jabulani thought it looked as if Dixon had slashed his skin with a blade revealing the bright flesh beneath. He looked away.

Dixon took Jabulani to a rocky outcrop. He moved some large stones from the front of a small cavity to show Jabulani where he had hidden Kruger’s sister in law’s handbag in amongst the dassie shit.

*

The boy in charge of the cattle saw the dust in the distance. He knew it was Kruger’s vehicle. He ran down the hillside towards the huts shouting. ‘Wake up! Wake up! It’s the farmer. He’s coming!’

*

Kruger stopped his truck and got out. ‘Where’s Jabulani?’ he asked.

Paul took off his hat and went across to speak to the farmer.

He came back and told Jabulani to get into the back of the bakkie.

‘Where’s Dixon?’ Kruger asked the Jabulani.

They drove to a nearby group of crude dwellings and asked for Dixon. Dixon’s parents sent him out to the farmer.

‘Where’s the handbag?’ he asked the boys.

They looked at him blankly and shook their heads. But Kruger knew they were lying. He could see it written all over their faces. He’d lived amongst these people all his life. He could read any one of them like he could read a magazine.

*

When they had driven through the automated gates, Kruger told the boys to wait in the machine shed. He told Dixon to take off his shirt and his trousers and to lean across one of the tractor wheels. He tied the naked boy’s wrists and ankles to the machine’s axles. He told Jabulani to stand next to Dixon.

‘Take your pants off. You’re next,’ he told Jabulani.

‘No. Not there. Closer to him. I want you to feel this too,’ he instructed.

Kruger took a sjambok off its hook. He touched the tip of Jabulani’s foreskin with the whip.

Then he struck Dixon viciously across the buttocks. Once. Twice. And again. And again and again.

Jabulani wet himself.

Dixon was bleeding and screaming. The farmer’s wife came to the door of the shed. She stood there with her legs apart.

‘Fok, Jannie. Be careful. You don’t want to kill him.’

Jabulani told the farmer he would show him where his sister in law’s handbag was hidden.

*

Dixon shot the farmer through his bathroom window. Then they drove the tractor through the front door. Jabulani found the farmer’s wife in the kithen. She was crying without making any noise. He stabbed her in the throat. She slid down onto the floor.

There was no sign of Kruger’s sister in law.

When they left the farm, they each took half the money.

Dixon held a shotgun over his shoulder. Jabulani had a revolver in one hand.

With their free hands, they lifted a large television between them and started walking. Dixon helped Jabualani to carry it away from the burning buildings and up into the hills. 

It was old, very heavy and cumbersome to carry with one hand. They plodded on holding onto the TV and their guns.

After a few miles, Dixon said he was tired, and that they should abandon the trophy.

Jabulani said he would handle it alone. Dixon went off without further comment.

Jabulani managed to manhandle the set down the rocky hillside to a dirt road where he sat on it and waited.

It would have been a long walk home, but a priest gave him a lift in a bakkie. Jabulani loaded the television set into the back and sat alongside the driver who wore a dirty black suit with a soiled white dog collar. He said nothing to Jabulani about the TV.

Jabulani tried to engage the priest in conversation, but he could see that the old man was afraid. He replied in monosyllables.

Eventually Jabulani asked him to turn off the road they were on.

‘To where I live,’ he told the priest. ‘I want

you to take me to my house.’

‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t do that I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘I’m on the way to a meeting. And I can’t be late.’

Jabulani stuck the muzzle of his gun into the priest’s neck. ‘Jou fok! Just do what I tell you.’

*

Jabulani dragged the large lump of old-fashioned electrical equipment into his hut. He placed it on the earth floor in the corner. He stood a wooden chair in the centre of the room and sat down.

He looked at the TV, but there was no picture or sound because there was no power. Nor was there any for miles around. The nearest available electricity would have been the farmhouse he’d just left. Which used, or had used until recently, a diesel generator, and was not connected to an electrical grid anyway.

So the stolen television set would never work.

Jabulani sat in the near dark and stared at his distorted reflection on the screen.

He waited for the police to arrive.

*****

FOOTNOTE

Although he is long dead, and my thanks are therefore futile, I would just the same like to thank Dr Alan Paton, albeit posthumously, for starting a process that eventually completely changed my political perspective.

Anyone who has read his book Cry the Beloved Country will recognize that it is his road to Ixopo in disguise at the beginning of this short story.

*

SHORT STORIES BY RAY JOHNSTONE

WARNING - READER BEWARE

This is the cover for a collection of my short stories, and the above copy says it all. What you see on the cover is what you get inside.
Many people will dislike - even detest - my style and what I write about.
So, if your taste in fiction leans towards Agatha Christie, it may be wise to read no further because these stories are far from feel-good fiction.
But if you like what I believe to be hard edge, gritty, contemporary writing, please click on the list on the right to read on.
And if you find any glaring errors, or would like to let me know about anything I've written that you like or dislike, I'd be delighted to hear from you.
If you would like to contact me, please click on this sentence to send an email.

WHO'S NEXT PLEASE?

A short story about love and death.


WHO'S NEXT PLEASE

The cancer arrived with Christmas. Just when the whole world, it seemed to Peter, was making plans for cocktails and elaborate festive season meals. And everyone was talking about extravagant presents.
Someone at the golf club was taking his wife to New York. Just to see a play.
And there, on the twenty fourth of December, pulsating amongst the daily dose of cards, was a plain brown envelope.
They both knew what it was.
‘Well, I suppose I should open it shouldn’t I?’ Molly said.
Peter looked at Molly. He knew it wasn’t really a question, but he didn’t know what to say.
So he said to himself: ‘Thirty eight years, and I don’t know to say’.

A friend gave Molly a book. It was all about Cancer. Peter thought it was simply about death and dying. ‘Well, the more you know about it, the less there is to be afraid of, I suppose,’ she said. Peter didn’t agree. But he didn’t say so. Because he was afraid.

Molly told Peter she’d heard this program on the radio. She always listened to Woman’s’ Hour. It had become a ritual. ‘A panel of experts. Really interesting and informative, it was. Discussing oncology. You know, cancer,’ she told him
He did know. Everyone knew that word these days. But he didn’t want to know.
‘Their conclusion,’ she said, ‘their overall advice, to help you cope, was to get your house in order. And you do this by writing things down. Getting ready, I suppose.’
Peter thought it was a funny conclusion for experts to come to.
‘In a letter preferably,’ Molly went on. ‘They called it a letter of wishes. Who to contact? And who does the contacting. What music do you want? What flowers? Cremation or burial? What kind of coffin? How you’d like to be dressed.’
Peter thought the question about what clothes you’d like to wear when you were dead quite bizarre. Then he upset Molly by saying, ‘My car fixing overalls will do me. Or my old gardening outfit. You know my tatty rugby jumper with all the holes and the jeans with all the stains.’ He’d meant it as a kind of comic relief. But Molly glared at him. She obviously didn’t see it that way. Not in the least.
Then she went on. ‘A really good, pragmatic way to do things, I thought. There’s even a chapter on what to do with the pets.’
‘We don’t have any pets.’
‘Peter! Stop it! Don’t take everything I say so literally.’
Peter shrugged. She saw that he didn’t like the subject, but she was determined to go on. She adopted a softer tone. ‘Look darling, their checklist is supposed to help you. Well, to help those who remain behind.’ She started to get flustered. ‘You know, darling, after I’m gone you won’t know where anything is. Our will. My list of telephone contacts. All the bank details. You know you don’t know any of these details, and you’ll find it useful if we get all these things together.’
But Peter didn’t want to go on. To discuss it any further. So they didn’t..

Cakes started arriving. With women attached. Others invariably arrived to eat the cake. Peter thought they seemed to be trying to turn cancer into a birthday party.

He eavesdropped at the door one day. He heard them discussing miracle cures based on weird and wonderful concoctions. The kernel in apricot pips. Shark cartilage. Various teas brewed from strange sounding leaves. And how meditation and mind over matter had cured even the worst cancers. He was somewhat relieved when Molly rejected all these ideas. He hoped it was because he’d always called this kind of thing harebrained. But he was exasperated with her fatalism. ‘Well there’s an end to the road for everyone, I suppose.’ He hated hearing that. And he hated the frame of mind she was slipping into.

Penny phoned to tell them she was planning a trip. But it was difficult. School terms had to be respected. And Brian couldn’t get away. The oil crisis had him in its coils. He spent more time at t he office than at home. Even weekends. Strapped to his desk. Or in constant meetings. Or on conference phone hook ups at ridiculous hours. Or traveling somewhere. So she might come on her own, she said.
Typical, thought Peter when Molly told him. He had to bite his tongue to stop himself saying it out aloud.

Peter ducked into a bar near the hospital one day while he was waiting for Molly. All he wanted was a quick drink, but he met Donald and Ralph. They were from the club. They were embarrassed and so was he. Then they asked him about Molly. He saw that they were trying to be kind - not intrusive.
‘Oh, OK, she’s OK, I suppose. She’s with the doctor right now. You know, her weekly checkup.’
There was a long pause. Silence. He tried to think of something to say. Then he remembered a joke about medical tests.
‘Reminds me about that one where the guy goes to a doctor,’ he started telling them. ‘We’ll have to do some tests, the doctor says. I’ll need samples of your blood, your semen, your urine and a stool sample. So I suggested that I just leave my underpants at reception.’ His friends just stared at him. Neither of them laughed.

‘I met Donald and Ralph earlier,’ he told Molly later. ‘I told them that joke about the doctor who wants to do more tests. You know, the one with the underpants. Talk about a lead balloon.’
Molly smiled. ‘I do love you darling, but you’ve never been able to tell a joke,’ she said. ‘They probably weren’t sure if you were telling a true story or not. So there was a time lag until they realized it was supposed to be funny. And by then it was too late. To laugh, I mean. Could that have been it, do you think?’

Peter hid from the vicar. ‘Platitudes and religious mumbo jumbo is not what I’m in need of now,’ he told himself. Then he slipped out of the back door and went on a long walk. It was cold and wet, and Molly laughed at him when he got back. The vicar had gone, and they made fun of what he’d said. ‘Just keeping in touch with his flock, he told me,’ she said. ‘His wayward flock is what he meant. But it’s his job, I suppose.’

January was insufferable. As usual, Peter thought. Such a long haul to the spring. And three long months until the clocks changed. The weather was appalling. Snow and ice with a vengeance. Even driving was dangerous. Or so they said on the television.

Molly was involved in a further series of tests. Presumably they would lead to a further series of treatments. It was a long drive to he hospital. And parking was always difficult. But it was the waiting that got to Peter. He’d go shopping, but that didn’t take long. He avoided the pubs. Driving was difficult enough without the problem of drowsiness. A second hand bookshop became his salvation. He spent hours there while he waited. And he always found several books he wanted to read. He was reading the dust cover of one when he got to the crossing. As he stepped onto the road, he heard the car. It was probably going too fast. He thought he was safe on the zebra’s stripes. He heard a loud crack as his leg broke. He wondered why the bonnet was so slippery. When his skull crashed through the windscreen the light went out in his head.

Ten years went by. Slowly at first, but more and pleasantly as the months slipped past and memories faded. Then Molly moved in with a friend. It wasn’t a sexual relationship, and she often thought of Peter.
They went on several pleasant holidays, Molly and her new partner who wasn’t her sexual partner. Sometimes by bus and once on a cruise. But Molly didn’t like the sea, although she liked the ship. It was expensive, but she had realized that she was a wealthy woman and could do as she pleased. Within reason.

Molly didn’t see the grand children as often as she would have liked to. The tyranny of distance and the rigour of travel were a heavy price to pay. And the boys’ own growing up commitments always manage to get in the way. Cricket tours, school camps, holidays with their friends. And Brian was always so, so busy. ‘Peter had the measure of Brian, I suppose,’ she admitted to herself one day.

But it was a very enjoyable and easy life. Molly read. They played golf, and they ate out a lot. ‘Probably too often, Molly thought, but then, what the hell? I’m not looking for another partner. That would be much too hard at my age.’

One night Molly woke up suddenly. She did not know why. It had never happened before. At first she was a little alarmed. Mainly because she felt slightly short of breath. But only slightly. And then gradually her breathing seemed to return to normal. But her arms were tingling. Or was it only one? Or was it only her hand?

Eventually she relaxed and thought about reading. She put the bedside lamp on and looked around for her book. But then she noticed that the globe seemed to be pulsating. The filament, that’s what it’s called isn’t it? It was glowing brightly. Then it appeared to grow smaller. She watched in fascination as the light moved away from her. Into the distance. Further and further, becoming smaller and smaller. Until it was just a pinprick of brightness in the blackness of her mind.

Then the light went out. Forever.

*****

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THE BULLETS IN THE BAR

Author’s note: Anton Checkov is said to have said, “If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired. Otherwise don't put it there." Although this is a short, short story, and not a play divided into three acts, I’ve tried to stick to his advice.

THE BULLETS IN THE BAR

‘My dad gave it to me just before he died.’
Donald was telling a story he’d told many times before. They were in the bar in a small room just off the lounge. He went on, ‘We never knew what it was for. This little space, I mean. But it makes an excellent watering hole.’
‘And Donald did everything himself,’ Jane said. She didn’t know why, but she was showing her husband off to her new friend, Brian. ‘The shelves, the mirrors, the bar counter. And we got the stools at IKEA. Good Swedish bar stools they are. Or is it Norwegian? IKEA, I mean.’ She gave a nervous laugh, ‘Scandinavian anyway. Let’s just say Scandinavian.’
Brian was from their church. Not Donald’s church, her church and Brian’s church. Because Donald didn’t have a church. The idea had never appealed to him.
‘I remember it from when I was a kid,’ Donald went on.
Brian was on edge. It was the first time he’d met Donald, and he was having difficulty following the conversation which seemed to be jumping about from one subject to another.
‘He told me he’d killed dozens of Germans to get it.’
Brian, as he’d been invited to do, was staring at what looked like a rather battle worn antique automatic. It was in it’s own purpose made, glass fronted display case which was set on a wall above the bar. It was definitely the hero of the room.
‘But, if truth be told, I think he bought it. My father never saw action. I was rather disappointed when I found that out. I’d rather have had a hero as a father. What son wouldn’t? He was in Italy though, and later in Germany. During the war, I mean. But he was an army accountant. Never anywhere near the front line.’
‘Interesting. Very interesting.’ Brian realized that this sounded rather lame, so he went on, ‘Does it work?’
‘Yes, I it does actually. Tried it out a few years ago. At Christmas. Hoped the neighbors would think it was a firecracker going off. Not allowed to discharge firearms in an urban area, you see.’
‘Yes. Well, no, I didn’t really. But it’s a good idea. A good law, I mean. But, anyway, it worked OK? The gun, I mean.’
Donald looked at him closely. ‘Yes, it certainly did. As I’ve just said. But I’ve only got two bullets left now. And they’re rather hard to get hold of.’
Donald reached up and pulled a wad of paper out from behind the bottles on the top shelf.
‘Yes. Here they are. The last two. One for Jane and one for her lover.’
For a moment Brian looked quite startled.
‘I’m away on business quite a bit you see,’ Donald explained. ‘And I wouldn’t want any funny business going on behind my back.’
Brian was relieved when Jane walked back into the bar just then. In fact he was very relieved.
Jane could feel the strained atmosphere as soon as she sat down on the IKEA barstool.
Donald was unwrapping the bullets. He handed them to Brian. Brian looked dubiously at the brass and lead items in his palm. Jane tried to break the tension. ‘He’s been regaling you with his tired old joke, I take it? The one about who the two bullets are for?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Brian. ‘I wasn’t sure what he was getting at, but I see the joke now.’
‘It’s no joke,’ said Donald. ‘When she finds a new man, one’s marked for him and the other’s for her.’
‘Oh stop it darling. It’s not even funny. Not any more.’
Brian offered the bullets back.
Donald took them and started wrapping them up again. He reached up and put them on the top shelf.
‘As I said. It’s an unusual caliber, and there are only two left. Did I say that? I think I did. Anyway, you can’t even get them on the Internet. So many rules and regulations. To import ammunition, I mean. And even gun’s illegal anyway, you see. No papers or anything like that. Dad just brought it back home in his kitbag, I suppose. Very lax they were in those days.’
Jane picked up a bowl of olives and offered them to Brian. ‘Donald’s so boring about his dad’s gun, isn’t he?’
Brian looked embarrassed.
‘No, no. He’s not boring me. It’s very interesting really.’
‘Well, let’s get him off the subject, otherwise he’ll go on about guns all night.’
But Donald was not deterred that easily. ‘Ever tried to kill yourself, Brian?’
Brian said nothing. Jane shook her head in disbelief. ‘Please stop this nonsense, Donald.’
‘Well, in case you ever try, the only other thing I know about a gun is to do with suicide. We had a friend who was a neurosurgeon. Before he died. Of AIDS. Poor bugger. No pun intended. Anyway he told me that if you ever wanted to commit suicide, be sure not to do it like this.’ Donald made his hand into the shape of a pistol and placed his index finger against his temple. ‘This way is only for the movies, apparently. The bullet goes straight through both eyes and completely misses your brain. Which is what you want to hit if you want to kill yourself. My friend said he often got attempted suicides who had failed because they’d fired the gun into the wrong part of their heads. They wound up completely blind, but not dead. So don’t forget. Put the gun in your mouth. Don’t fire it at your temple.’
*

‘Who the hell’s he?’ Donald asked bluntly when Brian had gone.
He’s just a friend. He goes to my church. I’ve never said anything about him because of your attitude. But we see a lot of each other on the church charity committee. We get on well together. As colleagues, I mean. Kindred spirits, I suppose.’
‘Oh, I see. Just a Holy Joe? Just a platonic relationship. Nothing compromising? Well, as long as it stays that way.’
‘Donald! Don’t be so disparaging. If he’s Holy Joe, then so am I.’
‘I know what you are. We’ve been married for thirty years. If I didn’t know what mumbo jumbo you believed there would be something wrong, wouldn’t there?’
Jane tossed her head in anger and walked away.
‘What did you bring him around here for?’ he called after. ‘And what do you mean, a lot of each other?’
‘Oh, Donald, why are you being so difficult? I’m not having an affair with him. Or anything like that.’
‘I’m very pleased to hear that, darling. Let’s hope that doesn’t change. Remember the preacher in The Grapes of Wrath. He always wound up screwing one of the congregation in a ditch outside the church. Just after he’d finished preaching to them.’ But Jane was too far away to hear what Donald was saying.

*

Six months later, Donald came back early from a business trip. He parked the car a block away from the house. He walked home in the warm summer night. It was after midnight. He saw a shiny black car parked outside the house. But it could have been anybodies.
Their old dog came out to meet him. She knew who it was and didn’t make a sound. He pointed at her kennel and she obediently slunk off. He heard her settling down again. He smiled.

Donald unlocked the back door and went inside. He didn’t put the light on. He went to the bar and opened the display case that showed off the gun. He felt behind the bottles for the bullets.

Donald poured himself a stiff scotch. He drank it neat, enjoying the taste as the fumes filled his mouth and nostrils.
Donald went quietly to the main bedroom. It was empty.
‘Well at least they had the good grace to use another bed,’ he said to himself.
He went upstairs. That’s where the guest’s bedroom was.
Donald stopped and listened at the door. He heard the sound of the mattress moving. He heard Jane making muffled cries in her throat. He’d heard these many times before. Whenever they’d made love. He knew she was enjoying the sex.

Donald put on the light and walked into the bedroom. Brian was on top of Jane. He stopped moving, but stayed where he was. He didn’t look round. Jane moved her head away from under Brian’s shoulder and stared at Donald.


Donald walked over to the bed. The bedclothes had been pushed onto the floor. Brian had rolled off Jane. Donald was startled by their middle-aged nakedness. He found it confronting in the bright overhead light. Donald had always thought nudity should be banned for people over twenty-five or so.
He looked down at them. Brian was trying to hide his glistening erection with his hands. Jane just lay there staring back at him. He saw that her pubic hair had recently been trimmed. He saw, as he had so many times before that some of the hairs were starting to lighten. Jane had a hard to define expression on her face. But it soon contorted into fear.
Donald took the German gun out of his pocket.
‘Donald, look, I’m sorry,’ Brian was having difficulty talking. ‘Donald, take it easy. Please. Let’s talk about this.’
Jane added, ‘Please darling, don’t do anything silly.’
Donald had the bullets in his hand. He pulled out the gun’s magazine and inserted the bullets. He pushed it back into the handle.

‘You cunt,’ he said. Jane wasn’t sure whether he meant her or Brian.
Brian started to get up.
‘Hold on mate. Don’t do anything rash. Please. I promise you it won’t happen again. I swear. I’ll make it up to you. Somehow.’

Donald looked down at them. Then he put the barrel of the gun in his mouth. He felt the front sight dig into his soft palette. Then he pulled the trigger.

*****

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THE MAN IN THE YELLOW SUIT

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Stress, fear and phobia even when on holiday in an exotic location.

THE MAN IN THE YELLOW SUIT

AIRPORT, said the sign.
The passengers on the bus grew restless.
Some fidgeted.
Some got up out of their seats.
They touched their bags.
Then they sat down again.
The bus slowed down.
Peter: Fuck, just look at this.
Wendy: What? What?
Are we there already?
Peter: No.
But it’s a mess.
Just look at the traffic.
Gridlock.
We’ll miss our fucking plane at this rate.
Wendy. Shhh.
Stop that Peter.
Most of these people speak English you know.


They could see the gray mass of concrete ahead.
As the bus got closer, the jumble of buildings turned into an airport.
Peter: Fuck.
It’s about time.
Wendy: Please don’t swear darling.
It’s so ugly.
The man behind them got up.
He was dark skinned and sweating.
He wore a YELLOW SUIT.
He reached up for his backpack.
It was red and bulky.
But it was obviously not heavy.
As he got it down, his arm brushed against Wendy.
She put her hand up.
Peter: Watch what you’re fucking doing!
Wendy. Peter!
Don’t talk like that.
He didn’t mean it.
Peter: No fucking manners, these people.
The dark man scowled at them.
He said something under his breath
He moved down the aisle.
He joined the end of the queue waiting to get off the bus.


But most passengers simply sat in their seats.
They waited.
They knew it would be some time before they were off the bus.
Peter and Wendy were amongst them.
They’d missed their plane already.
There was no longer any hurry.
They knew they were in a mess.
And it would take hours to unravel.
Queues.
Waiting.
Papers. Questions.
Passports.
More queuing.
Longer queues

Peter saw the dark man get off.
He had his backpack on his back.
The red material contrasted strikingly with his YELLOW SUIT.
Peter thought it looked bulky but not heavy.
He wondered what was inside.
Peter: He’ll never get that through security.
Wendy: What?
What are you talking about darling?
Peter: That prick who was sitting behind us.
You know YELLOW SUIT.
The one with the red backpack.
The guy who bashed you on the head.
I wonder what’s inside?
He seems to be taking great care with it.

There were soldiers everywhere.
The bus drove off in a cloud of fumes.
Peter: Thank fuck that’s over.
Wendy: Peter!
That’s enough.
Peter: Problem is, our problem’s not over yet.
Wendy: Don’t be such a pessimist.
I’m sure we’ll get another flight.
Peter: I’m sure we will.
Eventually.
But who knows when the fuck that will be?
They walked past a pile of sandbags.
Several soldiers were sitting around.
They were all smoking.
The man in the YELLOW SUIT was just ahead of them.
The red backpack was on his back.
He was talking on a mobile phone as he walked towards the DEPARTURES HALL.
One of the soldiers looked at him intently.
The soldier got up.
He took a few paces after the man in the YELLOW SUIT.
Then he changed his mind.
He went back to his friends.
He put down his gun.
He lit a cigarette.
The man with the backpack disappeared into the airport ahead of them.

The DEPARTURES HALL was bedlam.
Long lines of passengers were queuing at the ENQUIRIES DESK.
There was only one official dealing with the queue.
Children were running about.
Their parents were shouting after them.
Women in drab, dirty uniforms were sweeping the floor.
But it was a loosing battle.
Litter was dropped as quickly as they cleaned it up.
All the seats and benches were occupied.
Most by animated groups of dark skinned people.
The noise was immense.
Despite the NO SMOKING signs, smokers were lighting up with impunity.
No one stopped them.
Even airport officials were puffing away.
Peter: Fuck.
What a mess.
Regular announcements were broadcast over the PA system.
It was a loud noise, but Peter couldn’t catch a word of what was being said.

They found the airline desk.
It was deserted.
Posters showed happy, smiling people going on business trips or holidays.
Airline staff were on hand to assist thenm.
No one in the advertising bore no resemblance to anyone in the DEPARTURES HALL.
Passengers were milling about with worried looks.
A sign read OPEN SOON.
Peter: Fuck.
That’s all we need.
Wendy: I’m sure it’s right darling.
I’m sure they’ll be back soon.
Just a little patience.
That’s all you need.
Peter: I wish I had your confidence.

Peter: I need the toilet.
Wendy. Good luck.
I’m glad I don’t.
I can wait.
Until we get on the plane, I hope.
Peter found the TOILET MEN.
But it was locked.
He asked a man sweeping the floor.
The man shrugged.
Peter shouted: Lavatories.
Where the fuck are the lavatories?
A passing passenger said: Toilets?
They’re down in the basement.
And they’re horrible.
Good luck.
And if you find them you’ll need even more luck.

Peter went down a flight of stairs.
The smell was overpowering.
It stank.
He saw why.
The floor tiles were cracked and wet.
There was paper everywhere.
The urinal was blocked.
On a shelf in the corner was a bulky red rucksack.
It belonged to the man who was on the bus.
A man came out of one of the cubicles.
It was the only one that had a door.
It was YELLOW SUIT.
He scowled at Peter.
He fastened the belt on his yellow trousers.
He went to the wash basin.
There was no water in the tap.
He picked up the backpack.
He walked back back up the stairs to the DEPARTURES HALL.

Peter found Wendy sitting on a broken bench.
There were passengers waiting everywhere.
Peter: Whose idea was this?
Wendy looked at him.
Peter: I’d never come back here again.
What a fucking dump.
Wendy: Well, it was your idea darling.
Remember?
You said, EXOTIC HOLIDAY.
That’s what you said.
Your words exactly.
Peter sat down next to her.
He saw the man in the YELLOW SUIT.
He was sitting opposite them.
About fifty meters away.
The red backpack was at his feet.
He was still talking on his mobile phone.
His free had moved wildly about as he talked.
He was obviously agitated.

A message came over the public address system.
It was in several languages.
All of them were difficult to hear.
Peter listened intently.
Wendy: What’s it say, darling?
Is it our flight?
Is it time to board?
Peter: Fuck no.
No such luck.
Just some crap about unattended baggage.
He looked up and saw a paper notice stuck on the wall.
It was also in several languages.
Peter read the English caption: POLICE TO DESTROY ANY UNATTENDED BAGGAGES AND SUITCASE.
Peter: Can’t even fucking spell.

The man in the YELLOW SUIT got up.
He looked around.
He was still talking on his phone.
He moved his back pack under the seat.
He walked off into the crowd.
The bright red colour of the left behind item burned into Peter’s brain.
Peter: Fuck!
I wonder what’s inside.
And why the fuck has he left it behind?
Wendy: What’s wrong darling.
Need the toilet again?
Can’t you wait until we’re on the plane?

Peter got up.
He went across to the back pack.
It was large and bulky.
He looked around.
There was no sign of YELLOW SUIT.
Peter’s heart picked up a pace.
He started to feel agitated.
He looked about in desperation.
Peter: What the fuck do I do now?
He saw Wendy looking at him.
She smiled.
She waved.
She put her hands over her swollen stomach.
She patted it.
Peter knew she thought the baby would feel reassured by her touch.

Peter walked across to a group of soldiers.
They looked at him.
Peter: Suspicious package.
The soldiers stared.
Peter pointed.
They shrugged their soldiers.
One of them offered him a cigarette.
Peter: For Christ’s sake, I don’t smoke.
The man looked disappointed.
Peter: Left baggage.
Back pack.
Passenger gone.
Peter grabbed his arm.
He tried to lead him to the problem.
The soldier pushed Peter away.
He started to shout.
He pointed his gun at Peter.
Peter couldn’t follow what was being said.
A man with some badges came up to Peter.
He said something Peter couldn’t understand.
Peter: Danger.
You fucking idiot.
Can’t you read your own signs?
The man with the badges started shouting at Peter.
Everyone nearby stopped doing what they were doing.
They stared.
Sensing trouble, some people moved away.
The man with the badges signaled to his men.
Two of them came forward.
Peter tried to shrug them off.
But they took him by the arms.
Peter: It could be a fucking bomb.
The man with the badges slapped Peter across the mouth.
They led him away.
Peter was shouting and struggling.
Peter: Leave me alone!
I’ve got a plane to catch.
And I must help my wife.
She’s pregnant.
But the noise of the altercation was lost in the general hubbub of the DEPARTURES HALL.

Wendy was getting upset.
Peter had been gone for quite a while.
Every now and again she got up.
From time to time she patted her stomach.
Wendy: Calm down darling.
We’ll be out of here soon.
Your dad must have an upset tummy.
She saw a man in a YELLOW SUIT walking towards her.
He walked straight on past.
He was no longer talking on the phone.
He was leading a young girl by the hand.
They went over to a bright red back pack.
He pulled it out from under the seat.
He opened the zip.
He took out a large, stuffed black and white panda bear.
He gave it to the girl.
She gave a shout of joy and kissed YELLOW SUIT on the lips.

***

FEAR OF FLYING

Author's Note.
Fear if Flying is about phobias, infidelity and crash statistics.

FEAR OF FLYING

Lawrence Brice liked this aphorism. He used it regularly. He also liked what he often said about air travel: 'Flying means dying.'

***

‘Flying means dying. Well, to me it does anyway, and I really hate flying’, he said, ‘I always have done. All my life. As long as I can remember that is. I’m constantly terrified in the air, despite the fact that flying is part of my job.
'And I must admit it's worse after that Concorde business. And then that Air France plane with fallopian tube problems.' Lawrence smiled at his joke.
‘But it just has to be done I suppose, when you’re an integral part of a petroleum multinational. A key member of and international team. Like we both are now. Since I took you on, that is. Because now you’re an important member of a worldwide business group too. We’re VIP personnel. Both of us. As you’ll find out on our trip’.

Lawrence Brice liked the idea of being an important person. And he liked the idea of going on a business trip with his new secretary. But most of all he liked talking about how he coped with his paranoia.
‘Fear of flying’s proper name is aerophobia,’ he went on. ‘That’s its medical label, anyway. It’s an anxiety disorder. And believe me, I’ve got it big time. I’m a nervous wreck the whole time I’m in the air. Even though I’ve flown almost every month for the last twenty years.’ He used this rare self-deprecating weakness as a foil to everything else that he was so good at. He thought people would think more of him because of this common human foible. Especially if he laid it on a bit.
‘I have this recurring dream, you see. Well, there are two versions of it really. One is that I’m watching this huge passenger plane crashing. And it’s taking a long time to do so. Excruciatingly long, you know how it is with nightmares. And small, anonymous, black figures are jumping out as it gets lower. Without parachutes of course. Just like nine-eleven.’
He paused and turned towards her. She was sitting up next to him in the enormous double bed.
‘The other version is even more frightening. This is the one where I’m actually on the plane that’s about to crash. And everyone’s pushing and fighting to get to the door. Even though no one’s got a parachute in this account either. And even if they did, they wouldn’t have a chance. Because, although the odds against dying in an air disaster are slight, when your plane actually does crash, the odds against surviving are huge.’
Lawrence was talking to his secretary Laura. His relatively new secretary.
‘She’s been with me now for…let’s see, mmm…how long is it?’ he thought to himself. ‘About four months, I suppose, probably. And she’s really good. In every sense of the word. In the office and here as well. I definitely hope she lasts.’

In the office, Lawrence's affair with Laura was an open secret.

His last secretary had left him in the lurch. Well, that’s what he told everyone. But she did leave rather suddenly, and he’d convinced himself that she’d let him down.
‘Perhaps I’d become too dependent on her’, he’d often thought since she left. Well, he knew there had been difficulties. With their relationship. But he never told anyone about that aspect. In fact he tried to avoid thinking about it himself.

Suddenly Lawrence realised that the pause in conversation had been quite protracted, and he brought his thoughts back to the business trip they were planning. And his well thought out plan to take Laura with him.
‘OK Laura, so what flight have you got us on?’ he asked.
‘Well, I’m not sure that I can make it yet,’ she said hesitantly, and then with more conviction. ‘But you said you like the one that gets in early. It’s a DC10, as I think you know. But I thought you might like to consider travelling on a 747 with Air Pacific. It leaves much later, but it gets in at a more civilised time.’ She turned to the elaborate bedside table and consulted a sheet of paper. ‘Let’s see, yes, the AP arrives mid morning local time just as I said. And it’s much more convenient for me. That’s if I do come. You know, with all the arrangements I’ll have to make. But, as I’ve told you, Peter is being more than a little difficult about it.’

Laura knew that, because of Lawrence’s phobia, she had to give him all the technical details possible about the flights. He’d done an enormous amount of research into the safety issues of air travel and he knew exactly how many incidents and emergencies there’d been for the various makes of aircraft and the airlines that ran them. And she knew that although he was well aware that, statistically anyway, air crashes were usually due to pilot error, he had memorised the safety records of all the better-known international carriers. He was always consulting airline alert Web Pages on the Internet, and he knew what seats the experts indicated were the safest in case of an emergency.
He also knew that the statistics for the ten major world airlines indicated that there was only one fatal accident per two million flights.
‘Which is fine,’ he’d told her, ‘providing you’re not on the one that’s next in line just after aircraft number one million nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine has just taken off. Because that would be a nerve-racking flight, wouldn’t it? No matter how relaxed you are when flying.’
Laura looked at Lawrence to make sure he had finished, and then she went on. ‘So its either the 747 or the DC10 to choose from. Which one would you like me to book us on?’
‘Laura, that’s your department. You make the decision. I can take any flight. Jane never argues with me about that. We argue about almost everything these days. But never about what flight I take. So book the 747 if it suits you better.’
Suddenly Laura decided to show what an efficient secretary she was. Acutely conscious that he was watching her intently, she got out of bed, plugged her laptop into the phone jack and within a few minutes she’d booked two first class seats on the Jumbo.

But very soon after she had made the booking, Laura ran into difficulties with her husband.
‘He’s being very difficult darling’, she told Lawrence. ‘And he’s very suspicious. He keeps asking questions about the rooms we’ve booked, what kind of business we’ll do, and he can’t help making crude comments about why you want me with you. Now he’s started calling it my “monkey business” trip. “You know what monkeys are always doing”, he says.
‘I really don’t think I’m going to be able to make it.’
‘Mmm. Well, if you can’t you can’t. But it might be worth it if you keep on trying. On the other hand, it could be your lucky day. I had my recurring dream again last night. It was terrifying. The cabin filled with smoke. The smell was nauseating and I was so terrified that I couldn’t move. And you got up to go somewhere, so I couldn’t find you to talk to about the crash landing procedures. Even though I knew that there was no point. No one survives air crashes. Not when that monster falls out of the sky from twelve thousand metres. And when I woke up, I was sure someone in my dream had said we were on BA 101. Which is the flight you booked us on wasn’t it? Yes, I thought so’.
Laura wondered for a moment whether he made these dreams up. But she could see how stressed he became when he was thinking about flying.
‘Do you know’, he’d said to her one day, ‘ that they use the most amazing euphemisms for death. The airlines, and their regulators, I mean. There’s this site I found that talks about air turbulence. Well, anyway, in 1981 an aircraft over Holland experienced what they call a “catastrophic structural failure”. Apparently as it came out of some clouds, eyewitnesses saw one of its wings break off. Naturally everyone on board was killed. Some turbulence, I’d call it!
‘And do you know what they call crashing into a mountain? “Controlled flight into terrain”. That’s what happened to that pop star, what was his name? You know the one. Jim or Jimmy somebody or other. You remember the joke. What sings and flies into mountains? Answer, Jimmy Whatever. I know it’s an old one, but they’re usually the good ones. Anyway, he died because the pilot controlled his flight into terrain.’
Laura knew that Lawrence knew the statistical likelihood of all kinds of other euphemisms occurring. He knew that based on the two million figure, problem take offs were the cause of 16% of fatal incidents, whereas 84% were as a result of difficulties when landing.
‘Taking off’s the easy part, you see. It’s getting back to terra firma that’s difficult. Especially when there’s a problem. Like an engine on fire or a hole in the fuselage,’ he added with a diffident laugh.
He’d also told her in great detail about websites offering help for passengers with a fear of flying. ‘But most of them are just money grabbing schemes, he said. ‘Almost everything they say, other than “send lots of money for our CD’s or tapes”, is to do with statistics.
‘According to life insurance figures, the chances of dying in a car are one in five thousand, whereas achieving the same end in a plane the odds are one in eleven million.
‘They all quote the tired old fact that you’re at greater risk driving to the airport than you are in air.
‘And that’s without any knowledge of the danger our petrol tanker drivers face. Because we go to great lengths to hide the facts. Despite all the safety devices, they’re actually sitting in front of a very large bomb as they go hurtling along the roads at break neck speed.
‘But, when you have aerophobia, like I do, you’re twenty nine times more frightened of getting in a plane than you are of getting into a car.
‘By the way Laura, that thing about the petrol trucks, it’s highly confidential, so please forget I said it. Don’t repeat it to anyone. Do you understand? We have enough PR problems without the media getting hold of that one.’

As the day of departure approached, Laura’s problems increased. Her teenage son Sam was in some difficulty at school. And Laura’s husband was deliberately being more and more difficult. He’d told her in no uncertain terms that if she went away on a business junket with her boss, she’d be looking after Sam on her own when she got back.

‘Well, keep on trying,’ was all Lawrence said when she brought him up to date with her problems. She could tell how irritable he was. But she was reluctant to admit it was anything to do with her indecision about going abroad with him.
‘Poor darling, he really is troubled by these dreams’, she thought. ‘It’s probably wiser not to discuss it though. The less said about it the better, I suppose. Otherwise he’ll have me dreaming that the 747 I’ve booked him on is going to crash in flames.’
It was about then that Laura realised she’d already decided Lawrence would have to go on his trip alone. But she chose not to tell him until it suited her. She’d bide her time, she thought, and pick her moment with care.

But when she finally broached the subject, Lawrence appeared less disappointed than she’d expected. When she eventually told him that it would be impossible to go on the trip, all he said was, ‘That’s OK. Only one of us will die in that plane crash then.’
She thought he was making a joke of it.
‘I’ll tell you what though,’ he continued, ‘let’s book this room again on the day I leave. So that we can say goodbye. Properly, like. Well, you know what I mean.’
And she’d agreed.

Outside the hotel, after they’d said goodbye ‘properly like’, as Lawrence had described it, the atmosphere had been a little strained. Was it his fear of flying or was he going to miss her, Laura wondered? She thought she detected a change in his demeanour, and the session in the hotel room had certainly not worked as well as it usually did. He’d not ordered Champaign this time, and even when she was on top of him, he seemed less interested than usual. Or did he simply have his mind on business matters?

Eventually when the time came to part, they went down to the grandiose foyer and went through the huge and imposing entrance. She asked for a cab, and when it arrived it all ended rather quickly. With an uncharacteristically quick peck on the cheek, the door slammed and the taxi pulled out of the bay on its way to the airport.
‘I just wish he’d stop thinking about those awful statistics,’ she mused. But then her mind turned back to office matters and the long list of tasks Lawrence had left her to remember him by.

The next day Laura was up early. Well before six in fact. There was always a lot to do on a Friday. Her husband’s breakfast. Sam’s sandwiches that he was always complaining about. The grocery shopping list. And she usually spoke to her mother for about fifteen minutes on Friday mornings.

In the background Laura was vaguely conscious of the pips on the radio. The 7 o’clock breakfast news was about to come on in her kitchen.

A few seconds after the hour on the other side of the world, the 747 that Lawrence was booked on touched down at its destination. It was almost an hour late due to strong headwinds over the Gulf, as the pilot had explained to the passengers just before landing. But Lawrence was not one of them. Because he was not on the plane.

Laura only started to pay attention to the regional news when she heard the announcer say that a taxi driver and his passenger had been immolated in a horrifying accident involving a petrol tanker on the airport freeway. Their names were being withheld until their relatives had been notified.

Just then her phone began to ring.

***

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PROMISED LAND

Author's Note: Changing countries. Perceptions of security. Difficult times.
Is the grass really greener on the other side? 'Promised Land' is about the search for a better life.

PROMISED LAND

‘Promised Land… The Promised Land…everyone’s … looking for… The Promised Land…’

‘What? What was that you said, Peter?’ Sandra asked, staring at him with a puzzled expression.

‘Oh nothing, darling. Nothing at all, really,’ he replied sleepily.

‘Yes you did. You should be careful what you say in your sleep, Peter. All those secret things in your murky past. It could get you into lots of trouble.’ Sandra was feigning anger. ‘Now tell me what you said, Peter! It was something about a promise. I want to know what you were talking about in your sleep.’

Peter knew where this kind of conversation invariably lead to, so he tried to change the subject. ‘Well, I think I’m probably in all kinds of trouble already. Doing what we’re doing here today. If any one finds out what we’re up to we’ll both be in deep doo doos. And if Janet ever finds out, the Terrorism Act will seem like… well, like a kid reciting nursery rhymes.’

‘I’ve asked you before, darling, please don’t talk about your wife when I’m with you. Or I’ll get really annoyed.’

Peter groaned inwardly, regretting his mistake. As he’d anticipated, Sandra went on with mounting irritation.

‘And I’m getting cross right now, Peter. So please tell me what you said. I mean it. Tell me what you were dreaming about!’

‘Calm down darling. It was nothing really. Just a poem’.

‘A poem? What do you mean a poem? I’ve never heard you talk about poetry before, Peter. Are you kidding me? Is this some creative part of you I’ve never discovered? A secret literary dimension?’

‘No darling, it’s not that at all. It’s just something that pops into my head every now and again. And when it’s there, it keeps going round and round for a while. Sometimes for days, and I can’t get rid of it.’

‘Recite it for me, please Peter. You know I like poetry.’

‘I’m not sure I can, darling. I can’t really remember it.’

‘Can’t or won’t? Why don’t you try, anyway? Come on, I won’t laugh. Promise.’

‘Look, it’s only a few lines from a poem I once knew. A long time ago. My grandfather used to recite it often. He taught it to me when I was a kid. But I’ve forgotten most of it. Except bits and pieces that pop into my head now and then. It’s something about a band of people looking for paradise. Paradise on earth, that is. Like we all are, I suppose. You know, peace and security and a good life. And happiness.’

‘Well, I’d like to hear it. You’d better recite it for me. If we’re going to stay friends, that is.’

Eventually Peter relented. ‘Well, it goes something like this. I think it does anyway. “Onward goes the pilgrim band… marching…” Well, marching somewhere. “To the Promised Land!”, I suppose.
‘You see my grandfather thought this country was the Promised Land. Given to them by God. They’d just claimed it as theirs. Because their forefathers had settled on it. And fought for it, I suppose. You know, just came along and took it. From the real owners, I mean. Someone else’s land. And they said it was theirs. Their Promised Land.’

‘What?’ He heard the irritation in her voice. He’d fallen into this trap before. ‘What do you mean, “someone else’s land “? You make it sound like it was stolen from somebody. And you know no one was living here then. What a crazy idea, anyway. A promised land? In this place? This god-forsaken country? Peter, you must be mad.’

‘You’re wrong there, Sandra. You know I don’t agree with you. Things are much better now. For us as well as for them. I really do believe that. Otherwise I’d have left long ago. I’d have gone overseas too. Probably when Tony Stein left. You didn’t really know Tony, but like everyone else, he was frightened when the trouble started. So they left. He and his wife and their young daughter, Rachel, who was a real darling. Yes, they just packed up and took off. Within a few weeks they were gone. In fact I seriously thought about going with him at the time. You see I was very close to Tony. And his family. In fact, his wife Ruth and their daughter stayed with me when Tony was picked up by the Special Branch.’

‘What?’ Sandra looked alarmed. ‘You never told me you associated with people like that. Your friend Tony was arrested?’

‘Yes, but he was released after a few days. He said they slapped him around a bit, but nothing serious. It was then that Ruth and Rachel both came to stay in my flat. When he was inside.’

‘How long did they keep him?’

‘I don’t remember really. It was a long time ago. A few days, I suppose.
But when he came out, it wasn’t long before all three of them just up and left. Some people said it was because of the riots. Others said he was scared of the security police.’
Peter was not sure that he was making any headway, but he went on. ‘That’s when I thought about leaving too. Because they left quite a gap in my life. But when I thought it through, I felt things would get better here. And I think they have.’
He paused for a moment dredging up old memories.
‘And I’ve heard that Tony has his regrets. I’ve all but lost contact with him, but he’s apparently done well and they’ve settled in now. But there were all kinds of problems to start off with. Anyway they’ve made it now, and that’s what counts.
Peter looked at Sandra sitting on the edge of the double bed. Then he added, ‘But, when he went, there was a real chance that I would have left as well.’

‘Now you’re romancing Peter,’ Sandra said with an edge of malice. ‘In fact, I think you’re deceiving yourself. Even lying perhaps. We both know why you didn’t leave. And there are thousands of people like you. Because you couldn’t that’s why. Because there’s nowhere to go. Because no country would have you. And because there were all kinds of emotional factors to keep you here.
‘So, I for one am not so sure that you could have just packed up and left. Not a chance. It’s not like catching a bus you know.
‘Like the rest of us, you just had to stay. And face the music. There wasn’t any alternative. And you know it.’

Peter interrupted. ‘I don’t know why you work yourself up like this, Sandra.’

‘Because I don’t like self-deception, that’s why. So, just to be sure about it, the two reasons you stayed were, one: because you had nowhere to go, and two: because there were too many factors, either real or imagined, to keep you here.’

Peter decided it was time to go. In any case the conversation was going nowhere. ‘This is getting out of hand darling, and I don’t think we should pursue it. Because we always end up having the same argument.
‘And anyway, we have to get up now. Let’s get dressed and get going.
‘If we check out any later, they’ll want to charge us for a full day instead of just for the afternoon.’

§

Mavis padded into the dining room as silently as a ghost.

‘Thank you Mavis, just put the potatoes down there next to the meat.’

‘Yes, madam. And can I go now madam?’

Janet couldn’t help showing her annoyance. ‘Yes, Mavis. Go if you must. I suppose I can do the washing up.’

Mavis was hardly out of the room when Betty asked, ‘Why does she have to go NOW, before we’ve even finished lunch? Why do you give her so much time off, Janet?’

‘Well, you know what they’re like. She says she’s going to a funeral. A cousin or a brother or something. I don’t know really. But what can you do? They’re all the same.’

Peter put down the Sunday paper. ‘Let’s not start this again you two. Let’s just try to have our lunch without an argument. Both of you know full well how long she’s worked for us. And you know what I think. So let’s not get into it again. I couldn’t stand it.’

Betty didn’t like being reprimanded, especially by her son. ‘OK darling. But it’s Janet who bears the brunt of it. She’s the one who has to clear up and do all the work.’ She paused, but then added, ‘Well, I’ll be here to help her of course, depending on when you’re going to give me a lift home. If you can call it home that is.’

There was a long silence. Peter was folding the paper, and Janet started serving the lunch. Betty fiddled with her serviette.

‘Well, who is going to say grace?’ she asked when Janet passed her a plate. ‘I hope we can have grace today.’

Peter sighed softly. ‘All right Ma, I’ll say it. Here goes. “One word is as good as ten. Amen”. That OK? Can we start eating now?’

‘Oh Peter! You know I don’t like that kind of joke. Why can’t you say a proper…?’

Janet cut in, hoping to change the subject. ‘You still haven’t settled in at Sunny Ridge then Betty? What’s the problem? I’ve been told that most people take a few weeks to settle down, but then they love it. There’s always company. Always lots to do. Plenty of entertainment. Good rooms. Medical staff at your elbow if needed. Nice food, or so I’ve heard. Apparently their chef used to be at the Mount Drake. And the food there was very swish.’

‘Yes, I know all that, Janet. But I really can’t get used to the communal living thing. There’s no privacy. And just when I want to watch the telly, the maids are at the door wanting to clean up. And they never do it quietly. Jabbering away to each other. I’m always terrified they’re going to break something. They just don’t seem to care.’

‘Well, Ma, I’m sorry it’s taking time to get used to the place. But we did take you to see quite a few. And it was you that said you’d like to try ‘Sunny Ridge’. You thought it the best of those we saw. Within your budget of course.
‘And why don’t you ask if the maids if they can come at another time. You could even put some of your ornaments away. Then there would be no risk of breakage.’

Betty shrugged in exasperation. ‘You just don’t understand dear. Whatever time they came would be a disruption. And I like my things on display. They remind me of the good old days. When we were all together. And when we were all happy. Before all this nonsense started.’

‘Look, Ma, I don’t know what to say. If you can think of somewhere else, we’ll take you there to give it the once over. And if you want to come and stay here,’ he glanced at Janet, ‘you only have to say the word.’

‘No Peter, thank you very much. But I don’t think a mother in law’s intrusion is a very good idea.’

‘We could always give it a try, Betty,’ Janet replied, but without much conviction.

‘Well, yes, perhaps we could give it a try as you say. Then I could help out around the place. And then maybe you could let Mavis go. She doesn’t seem to do much around here anymore anyway.’

‘Ma, please don’t start on that again,’ Peter said, no longer hiding his exasperation. ‘Why do you have to bring Mavis up again anyway?’

‘Well Peter, it’s just that I think I’ve got a better work ethic than Mavis. I’d get things done. Properly and on time.’

Peter no longer bothered to hide his irritation. ‘Ma, I know you were born here and you think you know the country well, but it’s people with ideas like you that are part of our problem. Times have changed. Even the twentieth century’s behind us now. You have to try to catch up with reality.’

But Betty refused to be cowed. ‘Well, in seventy-five years I’ve learned a lot about these people. I’ve had to handle many servants in my lifetime you know Peter. Quite often they need to be treated like children. But firmly just the same. Otherwise they start taking advantage of you.’

‘What you’ve just said is exactly what I mean Ma. That’s the trouble. You think you know them as you put it, because all you’ve ever done is give them instructions. But if truth be told, we don’t understand very much about them at all.’

Janet couldn’t help coming to her mother in law’s defence. ‘Peter, now you’re just being rude…’

‘No Janet, let him say his piece.’

‘Yes I think I should. But not in a way you’d expect. I’d like to give you an illustration of what I mean.
‘Let me tell you about a time when I was a kid and I went shooting with dad and his gang of mates. To old man Kruger’s farm. I used to love going with him.’

‘Yes, Peter, the Krugers were quite good friends of ours. I hope you keep that in mind, because I don’t think Janet ever met them. Now you won’t start saying unkind things about Frikkie Kruger, I hope.’

Peter ignored his mother. He went on. ‘You see Janet, on a hunting trip, we would camp in a clearing several miles from the farmhouse. One morning when I woke up, everyone was already out hunting. They’d gone off and left me asleep in the tent. But then I heard a few shots in the distance, and I set off to join them. On the way I passed three young boys herding a few cattle through the bush. Two would have been about my age I suppose, thirteen or fourteen. But it’s sometimes hard to tell exactly. Let’s just say two were teenagers and the third was younger. I said hello to them and they replied politely. And that was all. Or I thought it was all. But later on when we got back to the camp, Dad and his friends noticed that someone had been into the campsite. There was cattle spoor everywhere, and, at first they thought that some cows had simply wandered in amongst the tents. Then all hell broke loose. Some of their ammunition was missing.
I felt obliged to tell them about meeting the herd boys that morning, and we immediately jumped into the cars and drove off to the farmhouse to tell Kruger.’

‘You’ll get to the point soon, Peter, I hope. You’re always so long winded,’ said Betty.

‘I remember that Kruger went grey with anger. He was so embarrassed that something like this could happen on his farm. Because this was Kruger’s Promised Land. His ancestors thought they’d discovered the source of the Nile. The river that Moses had been put into when he was a baby. And they claimed the whole district as theirs. As far as the eye could see. Right here in someone else’s country.’
Peter hoped he was not being too melodramatic. And kids do not steal ammunition in the Promised Land. So Kruger donned the mantle of an Old Testament patriarch and set about putting things right. There were children to be punished for their waywardness.’

‘This is all very well, Peter,’ said his mother. ‘And very colourfully told. But what are you getting at?’

‘You’ll see, Ma. Just wait. Or I hope you’ll see.
‘Anyway, Kruger got out his truck, and we followed him in a convoy of cars to several shacks where his labourers lived. He asked the adults for the names of the kids who were herding the cattle that morning. An old man gave up their names quite readily, even though he must have known there was trouble brewing. It was easy to find the boys. They were all at a nearby hovel and Kruger told them to get into the back of his pickup.
A knot started to develop in my stomach, because although I did not know what was going to happen, I felt implicated and somehow responsible for events.’

‘Still, Peter, if they were the only ones around…’ Janet started to say.

‘Hang on darling. Don’t jump the gun. I’m getting to that.
‘So, when we got back to the homestead, Frikkie took the three kids to an open shed. He bound the two older boys’ wrists together with some wire flex, and tied them to a tractor. But he did nothing to the younger boy, the kid of about eight or nine, who just stood there passively watching.
‘Then Kruger spoke to the boys in their own language. I could understand most of what he said. He told them that my father was a good friend of his. He’d been coming to the farm to hunt for many years. He said the boys’ fathers and grandfathers would remember him well, and what they had done was a terrible insult. He asked them where they’d hidden the missing boxes of shotgun cartridges.
‘But they swore that they had not taken them.’

‘Little buggers.’ Betty couldn’t help interjecting, but Peter ignored her.

‘Then Kruger produced a long sjambok. A rawhide whip. When I saw this I asked my father to intervene. I said although I had passed the boys near to our camp, I had not actually seen them do anything.
But he told me to be quiet. “Frikkie understands these people,” he said.

‘Well it must have been obvious that the boys had taken the bullets, wasn’t it?’ asked Betty.

‘I don’t understand how you can say that Ma. It could have been anyone. There were lots of other labourers on the farm. But, anyway, let me go on.
‘Kruger went over to the boys and gave them each a gentle flick with the whip.
‘The youngest boy began to cry, but he made no attempt to run away.
‘Suddenly Kruger went into a frenzy of whipping. The sound of the sjambok cutting through the air was terrifying. But he did nothing to the kids. He was flaying into a bag of maize. Sweat poured from his head as the sack was torn to shreds. A choking cloud of dust rose up and kernels of corn went everywhere.
‘Then Kruger threw down the sjambok and motioned us to follow him. He told the kids he’d be back soon, because it was the their turn next.
‘We all followed him back to the farmhouse for coffee and biscuits. I remember that my father and his friends were kidding him about having a heart attack.’

‘Yes Jack was like that,’ smiled Betty. He loved to tease people.

‘But what happened next?’ asked Janet. ‘Get to the point. If here is one. What was the outcome?’

‘Well, nothing really,’ Peter was beginning to think he was handling this story badly, but he went on explaining. ‘After an hour or so, we all traipsed back to the shed. The youngest kid was sitting on his haunches. One of the boys had wet himself, but they immediately told us they had taken the ammunition, and then they showed us where they’d buried the bullets in the middle of a field.’

‘And nothing else happened?’ asked Janet. ‘He didn’t do anything to the boys?’

‘No, nothing at all.’ Peter realised that the anticlimax had left the wrong impression. Except for a few cuffs behind the ears when he let them go.’

‘Well, there you are then,’ said Betty. ‘All’s well that ends well you see. And Frikkie knew how to handle the situation. He understood these people. He knew them well. Very well I’d say. Just like I do. It’s all a matter of experience and understanding. And judgement, if you like.’

Peter shook his head. ‘But can’t you see how wrong you are Ma? This is typical and everyday example of the worst kind of intimidation.’

‘But it worked, Peter, the boys were guilty, and the farmer knew it,’ said Janet. ‘He knew it instinctively, if you like.’

§

The eerie glow of the screen reflected on Peter’s face as he picked out the letters with one finger. ‘Jesus! That was quick. Well, well, well. So, he also wrote “Onward Christian Soldiers” according to this. That certainly positions him, I suppose. Completed it in only forty-five minutes, apparently. A fast worker then.
‘And here it is, Grandpa’s poem. Yes, this is it:

“Through the night of doubt and sorrow
Onward goes the pilgrim band,
Singing songs of expectation,
Marching to the Promised Land.”

‘No wonder he liked it.’
Peter paused, deep in thought.
‘Because he thought this country was the Promised Land. And he’d obviously convinced himself that he’d arrived in Paradise.’

While Peter was copying out the verse, the telephone started ringing. It had an irritating tone and Peter waited for Janet to answer it.
‘It’ll be her bloody mother again, for sure.’

But no one answered the phone. Janet played this game from time to time, knowing that Peter would eventually cave in and pick it up.

‘Hello. Peter Lawson…’

A vaguely familiar voice cut in. ‘Peter, it’s Tony.’
There was a pause.

‘Good God, Tony! Tony Stein! How great to hear from you! We were talking about you only couple of days ago. How are things my friend? How is it going over there? And Ruth and Rachel, how are they? The two females in your life as well as mine? On top of the world I hope. Tell me how you all are.’

‘ Well, not so good really, Peter. That’s why I’m calling…’

‘What do you mean, “not so good”? Come on Tony, why such pessimism? You’re living the high life from what I hear. And in the Promised Land, literally, from what you yourself have told me before. On the few occasions we’ve spoken, admittedly. But it’s easy to lose contact isn’t it? And it certainly was before the Internet and SMS messages and so on. Do you understand all this modern keep-in-touch stuff the kids use these days, Tony? Because I don’t. But I suppose Rachel’s still young enough to know what’s going on with technology. And she probably helps you out when you’re stuck, I suppose.
‘But it really is fantastic to hear from you Tony.’

‘Yes, well,’ the voice faltered and then went on, ‘I should have phoned you before…’

Peter cut in. ‘Hey, Tony, the good news is that we’re hoping to pay you a visit sometime. Just Janet and me. Perhaps in a year or two. So you’d better start preparing for it now. Saving up. It’ll be just like the old days. When we were all young, slim, healthy and good looking. I’m dying to see you lot again.
‘How’s Rachel liking university?
‘Hello Tony? I’ll bet she’s having a great time… Hello! Hello?’
There was silence on the other end of the line.
‘Tony? Tony, are you there? What’s wrong Tony? Tell me what’s up?
‘Has something happened? Tell me what it is Tony!’
He held the handset away from his ear and shouted. ‘Janet, come quickly. It’s Tony Stein calling from overseas. But something’s wrong. I think something must have happened.’
And then back into the mouthpiece Peter said, ‘What’s going on Tony? For fuck sake get to the point.’

‘Well, yes, Peter, unfortunately something really bad has happened.
It must have been on your news. Surely you saw it?’

‘Janet for fuck sake hurry up.
‘What are you trying to say to me Tony? Hold on a moment, Janet’s here now. I’ll just pop you onto speaker so that we can both hear you. Speak up please. OK, OK, you’re coming through loud and clear.’

Tony’s distinctive accent filled the room. ‘I’m afraid it’s the worst kind of news. I should have phoned before, Peter. But I couldn’t bring myself to do anything when it happened. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. And Ruth was in a mess. She still is. And so am I.
‘You see, Rachel was in a supermarket one evening a few weeks ago. She just popped in to pick up a few things on her way to see us.’
There was a long pause. Then Tony added, ‘Well she was badly wounded when a suicide bomber blew herself up in one of the aisles.

Peter started shouting. ‘Stop it Tony! Fuck off man. Don’t tell me this! What are you saying?’

‘Rachel suffered appalling wounds, Peter.’

Janet started making soft whimpering sounds. ‘For fuck sake shut up! No not you Tony, Janet. She’s started making stupid fucking noises and I can hardly hear you. Hello Tony are you still there?’

‘Yes Peter, I am. And I could cut my tongue out for admitting it out loud, but fortunately Rachel died a few days ago.’

Peter started crying. ‘Tony! Stop it. Don’t say things like this!’

‘Ruth’s distraught, as you can imagine. We’re both gutted. Our lives will never be the same again. It’s been much more difficult than we expected over here. Although we never admitted it. And now this.
‘Anyway, after Rachel died, Ruth and I have talked a lot about what to do about the future. In the time we’ve got left, that is. Because everything comes to an end, doesn’t it Peter?’

Peter started shouting into the phone. ‘Jesus Christ Tony, what can I say? You’ve been out of Africa for … what is it…Ten? Twelve…? Yes, it must be twelve years now.’

‘That’s right Peter. It’s been twelve years. But perhaps we should never have left. Then perhaps this wouldn’t have happened.
‘We thought we’d found paradise. Like our forefathers, when they came out of Egypt. We thought of this country as the Promised Land. The land of Canaan we’d been promised in the Old Testament. We thought it would be heaven on earth. We thought it would be safe, and we thought that we’d be happy here. But it didn’t work out like that.’

There was another short lapse in conversation. Peter didn’t know what to say, or how to react.

Then Tony went on. ‘Well the problem over here is that other people think of it as theirs just as much as we do. It’s their Promised Land as well. And we don’t want to acknowledge that you see.
‘Giving us a country in someone else’s country was an act of gross political stupidity. And there’s always a price to pay, isn’t there, Peter? So the bill has been presented. And now we’ve paid our share. With Rachel’s life.’

Peter had stopped crying, but he was still shouting. ‘What are you saying Tony? What the fuck are you telling me?’

‘Well, Peter, what I’m telling you is this. There’s another reason for my phone call. In fact it’s the main reason. You see, I’ve finally realised that we’ve been out of Africa for far too long.’
And then, rather hesitantly, Tony added, ‘So now we’re coming home.’

*****

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