Cape Town, South Africa
1998
Tara sat at her desk at the Cape Argus. Her head throbbed as it always did lately, despite the larger number of codeine-based pills she had been told to take. Only today it was worse. Someone inside had a ten-pound hammer and was trying to break out the front of her forehead. The tablets she had taken for the pain had done nothing. She had never been one to have headaches, so the multiple and constant occurrence of them was a worry.
She looked at the clock. Her appointment with Mr Brits, the neurologist, was in an hour, and she was dreading it. She had been referred to him by her regular GP when conventional remedies and medications had not eased her headaches. Mr Brits had examined her and sent her for an MRI.
Today she was getting the results.
Acid burnt in her stomach. Something was wrong in her head, and it couldn’t be good news.
She was scared. Her hands shook. She spent moments flexing them every time she saw her unsteadiness, trying to calm herself, but panic balled like a fist in her throat. She silently thanked her lucky stars that she was kept busy at work, because she knew that if she was sitting at home, stewing, her stress level would rise like a tick on a giraffe’s head that climbed on at waterhole level, and suddenly found itself in the tree tops. She swallowed and made a determined effort to shut her mind off to all the scenarios of what could be wrong.
‘Hey, Tara, quick word,’ Gabe said as he walked into her office.
‘Sure. I have twenty minutes and I’m counting them down.’
‘You sure you don’t want me to come and hold your hand?’
‘I’m twenty-nine years old. You would think that by now I could manage to go to a doctor’s appointment alone without relying on you as always, Gabe.’
‘Neurologist, not doctor,’ Gabe said. ‘A little different to a simple snotty nose.’
‘I know. Now, what’s up? What interesting thing have you brought to me today?’
Gabe put a folder in front of her. ‘These abductions. I think there is a pattern … Look, at first, we had one girl go missing in 1982. Then in 1983, two girls, same age, same build, same MO. The girls were taken from the beach while on holidays. Cape Town and Durban. Both big cities, both small-town girls, not really savvy with strangers.
‘Then we have a break. In 1992 it jumps to six girls, the next cluster spaced over a short few months. Six white children, all blue eyes, blonde hair, all just becoming adolescents, hitting puberty. Then it returns to just one at a time again. I think we either have a single serial killer, or a collector. Perhaps it’s a paedophile like the police think, but I’m not so sure. I think it’s someone else. I think it’s something to do with the black tribal muti trade.’
‘Gabe—’
‘No, wait. Hear me out. They are specific, if you take these girls out of all the kids who go missing and look at them as a group. Their ages, they don’t change, the physical characteristics, they are the same. It’s just the demographics from around South Africa that vary. Interestingly enough, none of these girls are from a farming community, and other than the first two, all were taken from public places in northern cities, Pretoria, Johannesburg, Upington, Pietersburg, Kimberly and Bloemfontein. Always the girls were alone, except in this last case. The girl was abducted as they returned to their car after they had walked their dog and the father was left for dead in the parking lot of the shopping centre. And the father’s ear was cut off. He lived, but has no recollection of even being hit on the head and knocked out.
‘Which to me means that wherever this killer is from, he’s shopping in a different territory. He’s not from a city, he’s in the country and doesn’t want to draw attention to his area, so he is spreading the net outwards. And he is now collecting souvenirs, a change in behaviour—’
‘Clever theory. Really clever, grouping those girls. But what is the significance of them, the police have never found any bodies?’
‘That’s why I think it’s the muti trade, and I think that if they look in the right place, they will find pieces, but not whole bodies. There are too many girls now not too. I think we are about to have more abductions soon. Look at this line when I group them.
‘One, then two, then six and then the rest are all singles, as if he’s just ticking over. That, or we have a second case in here messing with my data. I think we are about to have more girls in serious trouble.’
‘Good theory. But you need evidence, not just a hunch,’ Tara reminded Gabe as she massaged her forehead.
‘I know, and I was kind of hoping that you were feeling well enough to do me a profile. The type of person who would target just one type of victim.’
‘You want a profile, just off the top of my head? You do know that my head isn’t really well at the moment, Gabe,’ she said and smiled at him.
‘I know, and no pressure on this. I just saw the trend and thought I’d share. We have been working on this for so long.’ He smiled at her and her heart melted.
He was always her rock. The cousin she treated like a brother. She was so lucky to work with him now, share his world. She knew that even if she was so busy that she had not a moment to spare, she would make time to compile his profile for him.
She would do anything for Gabe.
‘Thanks. I know what you meant. So, right off the cuff? Number one scenario: a psychopath and there is no pattern and you are seeing one where there is just random chaos. Or the second scenario: someone focused who becomes manic. If it’s the second, then we are in more trouble than you think, because he would be meticulous, planning everything, even the unexpected. But he has a trigger, something that sets him off on another spree, if you want to call it that. Something that accelerates his manic behaviour.’
‘Alright. Psychopath is too random, going with the second there. A manic, like how? A trigger like what?’ Gabe frowned. ‘Talk English, not psycho-babble.’
‘Like someone who has undiagnosed PTSD. You know post-traumatic-stress—’
‘I know what that is, smarty-pants,’ he interrupted her.
Tara stuck her tongue out at him. ‘Or, someone who has been diagnosed PTSD and goes off their meds. Like someone who’s seriously mentally ill, someone who is totally past reality enough to not recognise those children as humans, but as something else. Gabe, the big question I want to know here is why is it only girls? What about the boys? Where do they fit into your theory? Are there no boys with the same characteristics that are going missing?’
‘I don’t know why there are no boys. I have searched the missing children’s reports but didn’t find clusters of blue-eyed, blond-haired boys.’
Tara held her head in her hands. ‘Gabe, have you considered that maybe you are searching those exact criteria, because you have a beautiful blond-haired, blue-eyed boy at home?’
‘Maybe subconsciously. He’s coming up to that age when these girls disappear, but it’s more than that. It’s a feeling I have. I can’t explain it. But these feelings have kept me alive in war zones before, so I’m not ready to dismiss it just yet.’
‘I’ll go along with that. No scientific proof, but if that’s what you feel. What’s your next move?’ She looked at him, her eyebrows raised.
‘Reinterview the parents of these missing girls. There has to be something that links all these kids together, we just have to find it.’
Tara nodded, then held her head to try and keep it still. ‘Okay. I’ll work on a proper profile for you, when I get back. Right now I need to get out of here and to my appointment.’
She closed the file and handed it back to Gabe, then she gathered her bag up out of the drawer and walked to the door. She hesitated, and then turned back.
‘You know what, Gabe? I think I will have that hand to hold onto. Come with me?’
She held Gabe’s hand firmly in hers. Terrified of the results, she walked with him into the neurosurgeon’s office.
Mr Brits sat on his side of the consulting desk. He was approximately forty years old, and had a killer smile. But he also wore a wedding band almost ten millimetres thick. Tall and slim, he spoke with a slight Afrikaans accent.
She made the introductions. ‘Mr Brits, my cousin Gabe. Gabe, my neurosurgeon, Mr Brits.’
‘Emile, please, good to meet you, Gabe.’
The men shook hands and Emile motioned for them to take a seat. She sat on the edge of her chair as Gabe moved his chair closer as if knowing that she needed him close, and he took her hand in his again.
‘How have you been feeling, Tara?’ Emile asked.
‘My head still hurts, I still can’t get rid of the headache. Those pills you prescribed to trial didn’t help at all, so I only took the initial two, like you suggested.’
‘That’s understandable,’ Emile said, as he leant forward and opened a file on his desk. He laid out two different films on the table in front of her, black and white images. ‘Take a look here. I want to show you something. Do you see this area on this picture? You are looking at the pituitary gland.’ He pointed to a place in the brain scan. ‘Now look at this picture. Can you see the difference?’
He pointed again to a part in the picture, on one it was clear, on the next it had a small white mass showing.
‘Which one is mine?’ Tara asked.
He pointed to the one of the left. ‘Tara, you have a tumour, what we call a pituitary adenoma. There is a mass growing near your pituitary gland. That is the “master gland” that controls all the hormones in the circulatory system.’
She felt Gabe squeeze her hand and she was so thankful that she had decided to bring him with her.
‘Usually it presents with headaches, galactorrhea, where your breasts can suddenly excrete milk, and temporal hemianopia, like double vision, or partial vision loss. There are other symptoms too, but you appear to be lucky, as other than the headaches you are not displaying any of them, and from your blood test, it doesn’t seem to be affecting your hormone levels so far. Most often, tumours found here are benign. But at this stage I can’t tell if that is the case or not.’
Tara sat still. She had a thing growing in her head. She had a tumour.
She began to shake. Her breathing became restricted in her throat. She felt faint, as if someone was pulling a dark sheet over her head.
‘It’s a lot to take in, Tara. It’s a shock. Hearing news like this is never easy.’
Emile put a small bottle of opened fruit juice on the desk in font of her. ‘Drink, it will help the shock.’
She tried to drink the juice but after a sip or two she gave up, her throat was still feeling as if someone was trying to push two ping pong balls down it, and nothing could pass.
She could feel Gabe as he patted her back and rubbed it. Still holding her hand, he murmured to her. That she would be okay, that the doctor would look after her. That they would get through it, like always.
So lost.
‘Am I going to die?’ she asked.
‘Not if I can help it. Our best bet is to go in and remove it. The operation is called transsphenoidal surgery, basically we drill a little hole into your brain and remove the tumour through your nose. When we do that we will be able to tell if it’s cancerous or not. As I said, most of these types of tumours are benign, so hopefully you won’t have to worry about radiation or chemotherapy treatments. But I can only confirm that after we have it all out.’
She nodded. ‘So what happens if I don’t want to have the operation?’
‘The tumour will grow. You could lose your sight, you could experience numbness or pain in your face. You will start feeling dizzy and you will have a loss of consciousness. From the tests that we’ve done so far you are clear in the secretion of hormones, but if it gets any larger, it will interfere with the production of those. If we leave it to develop further, you could get a condition called acromegaly, like gigantism in children. Your could develop growth in your skull, hands, and feet, you voice can go deeper, because of the facial bones growing again, your jaw can begin to protrude. You could have increased body hair growth. And you could be more susceptible to both heart and kidney diseases.’
‘That’s a grim picture,’ Gabe said. ‘So surgery is the only option here?’
‘I believe so.’ Emile looked at Tara to ensure she was still listening. ‘Tara, you need to know that you won’t just wake up one day being a giant, these changes can happen slowly. If we don’t get in there to see if it’s malignant and it is, the cancer could spread to the rest of your brain and you could potentially die.’
Tara sat in silence.
A brain tumour.
She could die.
Suddenly the tears began to flow uncontrollably down her cheeks, and they dripped off the bottom of her jaw and on to the white linen pencil skirt she wore. In all her daydreaming since she was a child, she had never envisaged herself dying young. No one did. Now she was glaring death in the face.
Tara wiped her tears with the back of her hand, and Emile leant over from sitting on the corner of his desk, and reached for a tissue box, which he put in front of her.
‘How long do I have before I have to make a decision on the surgery?’ she asked.
‘No decision, Tara,’ Gabe said. ‘You are having the surgery.’
‘Obviously the sooner the better, but I wouldn’t leave it longer than a month at most. We don’t know how aggressive your tumour is, it’s no use taking chances with your life when you don’t have to.’
She smiled weakly at Gabe through her tears. Then she turned to Emile.
‘So is there anything else we can do while we wait for the surgery, to reduce the headaches?’
‘Injections. We can begin to schedule drug dosages, morphine. But I would caution against any long-term use of those drugs. The chance of addiction is extremely high.’
‘How soon can you book her in?’ Gabe asked.
She looked at Gabe. He was everything that she should have in a man, caring, loving, and her best friend. She relied on him for everything, and she always had, but Gabe was not hers. Suddenly the realization hit. If she died, she would have such regrets in her life. Because she had such a rock in Gabe, she had been able to shut out the one person she still loved above anyone else in the world, Wayne.
Josha. If she died, Josha would be alone without anyone related to him by blood.
‘If I die—’ she croaked out.
Emile looked at her. ‘Tara, let’s talk about living, not dying. With the location of this tumour, we go in through the nose. I need to caution you that there are always risks, as with any operation. General complications like bleeding, blood clots, infection and even reactions to the anaesthesia. But I’m confident that I can get your tumour out, and you can continue to live a normal life again.’
‘What type of risks are related directly to going in through her nose?’ Gabe asked.
‘Commonly, cerebrospinal fluid leak, when the fluid that surrounds your brain leaks through a hole in the lining of the skull. You could experience a watery discharge from your nose, or feel a postnasal drip. Sometimes, there is major swelling, and that could mean more surgery to patch the leak. And strokes sometimes occur.’
‘I could end up a vegetable?’ Tara said.
‘We don’t use that term professionally, but no, if a stroke happens while you are on the table, we can try to restore blood to that part of the brain that is starved of it, or at least minimise the damage.’ He said, ‘I know it’s a lot to take, but getting it out is your best option.’
‘Can I asked you something?’ Tara said. ‘If this was you, what would you do?’
‘Hypothetically speaking, if it were me, I would find the best neurological surgeon to remove the tumour, and I would take all the chances of everything going well.’
‘And if it didn’t? If you had to plan to maybe die?’
Dr Brits smiled and shifted in his chair before answering. ‘Then I would take my time before my surgery and live life to the fullest. Go watch that sunrise at the beach, make peace with everyone around me, and ensure that my wife and kids were provided for in my will, with the least amount of paperwork afterwards for them to worry about. Make my passing as complication free as it could be.’
‘So get my house in order just in case, and celebrate being alive at the same time?’ Tara said.
‘Basically, yes. Don’t go mortgage your house and sell your soul, because if you do live, you will need to pay it back. But have a holiday with your son, give him memories to hold onto in case he needs to. Make sure that he is provided for and that you know what will happen to him if you go. Make sure the people around you know you love them.’
‘Right,’ she said, and blew her nose.
Gabe still held his hand around her shoulder. ‘Do you want to fly your mother down to be with you?’
‘No, she has enough on her hands with my gran and her dementia. If she was here, Dela won’t cope with gran alone.’ She reached up and squeezed his hand.
Emile looked at his file. ‘Statistically, you have a good chance of being one hundred percent afterwards, and I firmly believe that you will be.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I bet you say that to all your patients.’
‘No, just a few lucky ones who I know will be alright. Sometimes the news I have to deliver isn’t the best. There is no easy way to tell someone they are terminal,’ Emile said.
Tara smiled weakly.
‘So surgery it is then,’ Tara said.
‘Right. Now we can go through to see my secretary, make a date, and you can call your medical aid company, and discuss this with them. Know what costs you are looking at.’
She heard what he was saying but she felt numb. As if someone else listened into his conversation. All she could think of was all the years she had wasted in her life and how she wished, if she could have a do over, how much more she would have fought for the things she wanted.
Like Wayne.