The blades of the ceiling fan made a humming sound as they spun above Rachel’s bed, wafting cool air down onto Nick’s body. The noise was comforting. It locked them into a cocoon of privacy, muffling the occasional sounds outside as the gate rolled open and closed again to admit visitors entering or leaving the guesthouse in the early hours.
Lying next to him, her head nestled in the angle of his neck, Rachel stirred and murmured words he couldn’t make out. She blinked and then opened her eyes. Her fingers smoothed his chest and when she saw he was watching her in the artificial glow that filtered through the window from the security light outside, she smiled.
‘What time is it?’ she asked sleepily.
Nick reached for his cellphone, an awkward manoeuvre since his left arm was wrapped around the warm curve of her waist, and checked the screen.
‘Four a.m.’
‘Mmm.’ She sighed contentedly as if it couldn’t have been a better time in the world, and continued stroking him softly. Her fingers stopped when they reached the ugly, puckered scar below his ribcage. She touched it gently.
‘This scar,’ she said. ‘I wanted to ask you. Is it …?’
He nodded, feeling her hair tickle his face.
‘A gunshot wound,’ he said, completing her question for her. ‘Yes, it is.’
She made another little noise. He couldn’t interpret the emotion behind it.
‘How did it happen?’
‘Someone shot me with a gun.’
Her laughter was warm against his chest.
‘No, seriously.’
‘It happened in Sierra Leone. A rebel got lucky with an AK-47 rifle. That’s where the bullet exited. There’s a smaller scar here,’ he guided her fingers round his side, ‘where it entered.’
Her breath hissed in through her teeth. ‘Did it do much damage?’
‘No. It would have done if it had been a fragmenting round, but it was a copper-jacket, and had travelled quite a distance by the time it reached me. It pierced my gut. I got peritonitis, which wasn’t fun. I was out of action for a couple of weeks, then back on the job.’
For a while, the whirring of the fan was the only sound. Then Rachel asked another question, the one he knew she would.
‘What were you doing in Sierra Leone?’
‘Working for a private military company.’ A nice euphemism for the words ‘mercenary army’.
He remembered those months of jungle warfare in a country being torn apart by murderous rebel forces. The long lines of skinny, ragged civilians that queued up outside his medical tent who’d had limbs hacked off by machetes, leaving dreadful suppurating stumps and splintered bones. And the way it rained there – a solid and suffocating wall of water that more or less put a stop to all fighting and all movement, that drenched even the most waterproof of garments and penetrated the thickest cover.
‘What, like a mercenary army?’ Rachel asked.
So much for the euphemism.
‘Yes.’
She paused. Her fingers stopped moving.
‘Oh. Wow. I thought … I don’t know much about it, but for some reason I’ve always thought of them as being bad guys.’
He was in bed with a married woman. Nick guessed that also made him a bad guy. He took a deep breath. Tried to justify his actions, in the mercenary field at least.
‘I was an ops medic in the South African Defence Force for years,’ he said. ‘I worked with the Special Forces soldiers, the 32 Battalion. Then they were disbanded, and a few of the guys joined this private military company. One of them told me there was a job going as a medic, so I joined too. I didn’t think much about the rights and wrongs of it all. We fought in Angola, Sierra Leone, Papua New Guinea. I was with them till they disbanded in 1998. We did some bad things, I guess. Some good things, too. Depends whose side you were on.’
She was quiet for a moment.
Then her fingers started stroking him again, her touch light and warm.
‘You’re right, I suppose. War’s an ugly business, whether you fight for money or ideals.’
He nodded.
‘What’s the worst thing you ever saw?’ Rachel asked. Then, immediately, she added, ‘I’m sorry. I can’t believe I asked you that. Please, ignore what I’ve just said.’
Nick covered her hand with his.
‘I don’t mind talking to you about it. But the worst thing I ever saw in my job wasn’t while I was in the army. It was here in Jo’burg, a few years ago.’
‘What was it?’ He could hear the trepidation in her voice.
‘I was called out to a cash-in-transit heist south of the city. The robbers did what they usually do. They rammed the van on the highway, driving stolen cars. They used Mercs, not just because they’re big and heavy, but because they’re also stable on the road and give good crash protection to the passengers. The van overturned. But then things went wrong. The back doors had jammed shut in the crash and the robbers couldn’t get them open.’ He took a deep, shuddering breath, and felt her arms tighten around him. ‘So they threw petrol onto the van and lit it. The van went up like a torch, and the guards inside were trapped.’
He felt Rachel’s indrawn breath.
‘Oh, no.’
‘When we got there, the robbers had fled and the van was enveloped in flames three metres high. The heat was unbearable. We couldn’t get into it.’ He swallowed. ‘But I could hear the men inside. I could hear them flinging themselves against the doors and screaming for help. I tried to help, but I couldn’t do a thing. I had to step back and wait for the fire brigade. They took another ten minutes to get there. It was the longest ten minutes of my life.’
‘I can imagine.’ Her words were muffled against his skin. Her hand felt cold in his.
‘Rachel, I’ve worked in war zones. I’ve treated prisoners after they’ve been tortured. I’ve seen people torn to pieces by mines, ripped apart in car accidents. But that burning van, that was the worst thing I’ve ever had to deal with. The most evil act I’ve ever witnessed.’
‘Did any of them survive?’ she asked in a small voice.
‘Three were dead by the time they put the fire out. One guard was still alive. He survived long enough to reach the hospital.’ He stroked her hair. ‘I still wish he hadn’t.’
Nick got home at six a.m. Rachel had asked him if he would go with her to the funeral that morning, but he’d reluctantly refused. He was on shift for the next twelve hours.
He’d kissed her goodbye one final time, and said he’d call to make sure she was OK. Promised he’d come round in the evening, as soon as work was over.
‘Be safe,’ he told her as he left. The last time he’d said that to anyone had been to Tayla, back in the days when they were first married. He was thinking of Rachel as he drove into the parking bay outside his building and ran up the five stairs to his front door.
He was thinking of her as he put his key in the lock.
Then Nick stopped thinking about Rachel because he realised something was wrong.
The front door of his house was closed and locked as it should be. But the security gate that protected it was not. It swung ajar as he nudged it with the key.
Had he locked it when he left the day before? Yes, he had. There was no way Nick would leave his home without securing everything. Now it was open, but it hadn’t been forced.
His hand moved automatically to his belt, even though he knew his gun wasn’t there. He’d locked it in his safe yesterday evening before he’d gone to fetch Rachel. No point trying to carry a firearm into a nightclub. That was just asking for trouble.
He checked behind him. Nobody suspicious in sight.
The lady who lived opposite backed her car out onto the driveway, waved at him, and departed for work.
All around him the birds were singing. His shadow was fuzzy on the bricks in the light of the rising sun.
He stood stock still, listening for any sounds inside, but the house was quiet.
Nick inserted his doorkey into the Yale lock and pushed the front door open. He stepped inside.
The little hallway was filled with sunlight. Dust motes danced in the rays shining through the narrow window. The lounge was as he’d left it. Nothing missing. Nothing moved.
He walked through to his bedroom, but stopped at the door. He’d definitely left that open. Now it was closed. Standing still, he sniffed the air. He could sense the presence of another person – a faint odour of musk and cigarettes hung in the corridor.
Nick grabbed the door handle and wrenched it open. The tall man who had been asleep on his bed sat up, blinking and glowering, reaching for the firearm that lay on Nick’s bedside table.
‘Where the hell have you been, bro?’ he said.
His brother, Paul …
Nick took a cautious step forward. His heart was hammering harder than before. He hadn’t seen Paul for years and had hoped he’d never see him again.
‘I thought you were in prison,’ he said. Trying to keep the movement unobtrusive, he glanced around the room for a weapon, for something to use if he needed to.
Paul noticed and let out a laugh. His handsome face creased as he gave a wide, cold grin.
‘Little brother, you think I’m here to kill you? If I’d wanted to I’d have done it by now. And you wouldn’t have seen it coming.’
He fell back onto the pillow, chuckling. Then he sat up again and pushed his honey-blonde hair, which was longer than the last time Nick had seen it, off his face. The humour vanished in an instant from his dark blue eyes, but Nick noticed a flicker of uncertainty there. Paul wasn’t entirely convinced by his own words.
In looks and colouring the two brothers were almost identical. Paul was a little taller than Nick. Stronger. More solid. And Paul had inherited their father’s streak of ruthless cruelty. Inherited it in spades, as if he’d stolen Nick’s share too.
‘You thought I’d be inside for longer, didn’t you?’ He pointed his index finger directly at Nick’s face. ‘You need to keep up with the news. I was released three months ago. Sweet of you to be there to congratulate me on my short walk to freedom.’
‘I was probably working at the time. Saving lives. Helping people. That kind of thing.’
‘Yeah, if that’s what you call it. I know the kind of work you do. Hired for millions to murder the natives up in West Africa.’ He glanced around. ‘Nice place you’ve got here. Nice little bachelor pad. Good neighbourhood. Did they pay you in dollars or diamonds?’
Nick didn’t rise to the taunt. He turned and walked out of the bedroom and into the kitchen where he turned on the kettle.
Paul had been dishonourably discharged from the army a couple of years before Nick had joined up. Nick didn’t know the exact circumstances. He’d heard rumours that Paul had assaulted a superior officer, causing severe and lasting damage, and subsequently deserted. He’d also heard rumours that the superior officer was a woman.
Nick thought both were probably true.
Since then, Paul had been in prison twice. The first time for selling drugs. The second time after Nick had helped to put him there by testifying against him in court.
‘Coffee?’ he asked Paul, who’d climbed off the bed and followed him into the small kitchen. His presence was intimidating. Standing deliberately close to Nick, he lit a cigarette. Nick could smell its harsh, unfiltered tobacco and, underlying it, the musky scent of whatever the hell deodorant his brother used.
‘Whisky.’ Paul exhaled and a thick grey cloud of smoke drifted up towards the ceiling.
Shrugging, Nick retrieved a bottle of Bell’s from the kitchen cupboard. He poured a double shot into a glass and handed it to Paul. Then he made himself a coffee and stood with his back to the kitchen counter, holding the mug in his hands. He could fling the steaming brew into Paul’s face if he needed to.
‘What do you want?’ he said. ‘I’m on my way to work.’
‘But you just got in.’ Paul raised his eyebrows in mock amazement. ‘You get lucky last night, bro?’
Nick didn’t answer. Just held his cup and swallowed his coffee and watched his brother.
He looked rougher than when Nick had last seen him. Older. His skin was dull, and dark shadows underscored his cold eyes. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt the colour of dried blood, and faded grey jeans. Nick couldn’t think what he’d been up to. Where he was working, if he was working at all. Had he come to borrow money? He’d cheerfully pay Paul Kenyon a few grand if it meant he’d walk out of his life again and never come back. But he was worried that walking out again wasn’t on his big brother’s agenda.
‘I’ll destroy you. I’ll come back one day and ruin your life.’
Those were the last words Paul had spoken to him, spluttered through broken teeth and bloodied lips. Had he decided that now was the time to make good on his promise?
‘Just passing through.’
Paul stubbed out his cigarette in the sink. The butt hissed as it touched the cool metal. He drained his whisky. As he did so, his shirtsleeve rode up and Nick noticed a stamp on his wrist. A matt black Chinese symbol. The ink had blurred and run in places, but it was identical to the nightclub stamp he’d scrubbed off his own wrist earlier that morning as he’d stood in the shower with Rachel.
Nick thought back to the gleaming glass bottle, somersaulting and spinning on its downward flight, aimed directly at Rachel’s dark, innocent head.
Paul, who’d always had a supernatural ability to shoot straight, throw straight, hit his target.
He lunged at his brother, grabbed his shirt by the collar and yanked him forward. Coffee slopped in a scalding tide over his other hand. The glass slipped from Paul’s grasp and shattered on the floor.
‘You were peddling drugs there, weren’t you?’ he shouted, bunching the rust-red fabric in his clenched hand, watching his brother’s head whip back and forth as he shook it. ‘Don’t you dare hurt her. Don’t you touch a hair on her head or I’ll kill you, I swear I will.’
Paul didn’t retaliate, didn’t try to break free. He simply stared at Nick with a cold, satisfied gaze, a small smile curving the corners of his mouth.