Dan searched the ransacked office of the bank manager, looking for something to write with. Eventually he found a sheaf of paper – thick and soft, embossed with the insignia of the Banque du Congo Belge. A silver-plated fountain pen was located at the back of a drawer. Pulling up a padded leather chair, Dan sat down to write.
He pushed his pen along the page, forming words that seemed too bland for what they meant. Casualty. Deceased. Enemy combatants. After only a few lines he dropped the pen and sat back in the chair, stretching out his legs and letting his arms hang at his sides. He felt restless, sitting here at a desk. He wished he could have been out in the streets with the other men; they were touring the town, sector by sector, double-checking there were no remaining enclaves of rebels.
Glancing back over what he’d written, he sighed with impatience. Blair had asked for the report to be sent to him, stressing that it was to be Dan’s top priority, even though there were much more important matters calling for his attention. Dan wasn’t sure who it was for, but presumed someone at a higher level was demanding information – perhaps they wanted to know exactly how their money had been spent.
Dan had already debriefed with the Major by radio. He’d confirmed that Force Denby had taken control of Uvira. Only three days after their arrival in the town, elements of normal life were beginning to return to the community.
The task of defeating the Simbas had not been as difficult as Dan had expected. Earlier this morning, he’d learned the reason for this. He and Becker had interviewed the local police chief, Inspector Tabati. He was a Congolese man, only recently promoted to replace his Belgian predecessor. They’d sat in here together, their conversation punctuated by birdsong coming from the tree outside.
Inspector Tabati had given an account of what it had been like for the townspeople, living under Simba occupation. Early on, it was not too bad. Property was stolen; people were subject to ritual humiliation and beatings. Over time, though, the situation had deteriorated. There were reports of executions, rape and torture. The Congolese bore the worst of it, but there were European victims as well. Tabati had spent lots of time in the company of the Simbas, playing a tense game of cat-and-mouse with them, trying to appeal to the officers who disapproved of the behaviour of some of their colleagues. He had been able to negotiate the release of captive nuns, and the wife of one of the missionaries. But in many cases, there had been nothing he could do.
It was during one of his endless meetings at the Simba headquarters that Tabati had heard soldiers discussing radio reports that had come in from an outlying command post. They talked about the White Giants who were able to communicate with one another without needing to use words, and about their witchdoctor with a red beard who had the power to call down fire from the sky. The men were very afraid of having to fight the foreigners. When Air Support began bombing Uvira the Simbas started to talk of retreating before they arrived. A mutiny broke out. For a time, the Simbas had been shooting at one another. In the ensuing disorder four policemen were executed. One of them, Tabati explained, was his brother; the others were close friends.
He’d sat in silence for a time. He appeared to be still in shock. His voice was flat, his eyes dead.
A grim smile had appeared on Becker’s face. ‘A mutiny . . . Animals turning on animals.’
Tabati continued his account. ‘The next morning, I saw trucks and jeeps loaded with Simbas, driving out of town. That was two days before you arrived.’
Becker had leaned towards Tabati, looking him in the eye. ‘Filthy cowards. We’ll get after them, don’t you worry.’
Dan had made no comment on this promise. Force Denby’s task was to stay and hold Uvira until the government forces arrived. The latest reports from headquarters said the Simbas were gaining momentum in some other areas of the Congo. There was plenty more work to be done. But Dan had not yet received word from Blair on what the next commando mission might be. He hadn’t begun the task of deciding which men should be recommended for a new contract, or ascertaining who would be likely to accept. He didn’t even know what he intended for himself. He just felt drained and hollow inside. This was quite normal at the end of a deployment, he knew – even a successful one. The action was over. The goal had been reached. But behind the relief and euphoria, a soldier soon began to count the cost. What had been gained, and at what price? Did the ends justify the means? They had to spend time looking back, before they thought about what might come next.
Dan rubbed his hand over his face, wiping away sweat. There was a ceiling fan but the electricity had failed again. Looking around the room, he took in the mess of papers, manila folders and stationery supplies that had been pushed into a pile in the corner. The wastepaper bins were overflowing with empty beer bottles, banana peels and pineapple husks: the aftermath of a Simba supper party. With Billy’s help, Dan had collected up the rubbish, and someone now needed to remove it. But none of the men wanted to be stuck inside, doing mundane jobs, any more than Dan did. Billy – standing on guard duty on the front steps – had a sullen look on his face. Dan knew the young man wanted to be out parading the streets looking for girls to impress – which was exactly why Dan had kept him here.
It had not taken long for the Congolese prostitutes – elegant, long-limbed women with faces like ebony sculptures – to seek out the commandos. While the men were still erecting their tents on the cricket pitch, the ladies had appeared, dressed for the evening, their faces painted, though it was still mid-afternoon. No doubt they’d entertained the Simbas when they were in town; now they were eager to provide their services to these foreign soldiers. A couple of European women had turned up as well: Dan suspected they had the same agenda but they took a more subtle approach. A teenager like Billy would be easy prey to anyone who set her sights on him. Before the lad was let loose in town Dan wanted to make sure Doc Malone had a chat with him about the dangers of venereal disease, and handed over some French letters.
As the Commanding Officer, Dan was the big prize as far as prostitutes were concerned. They assumed he had higher pay to go with his status. The women targeted him any chance they got; one had even turned up here at the bank. Dan made it clear he wasn’t interested. In the past, he’d sometimes paid for sex. Since he was always on the move, as a hunter, he wasn’t in a position to offer anyone a long-term relationship. A business arrangement seemed the fairest option. But right now, when he thought of being with a woman, what came to mind was not a seductive vision of a firm body enfolding his. Or the weight of a breast, cradled in his hand. Instead he saw, in harsh clarity, a sheet marked with bloodstained semen; a body that was too still, the skin too pallid. And a bullet hole in a young nun’s chest – a savage wound in perfect flesh.
Cutting off his thoughts, Dan looked up at a framed photograph above the door. It was of Monsieur La Plante, the bank manager. Someone had thrown a wad of chewed khat at his face – remnants still clung to his cheek. Dan wondered where the man was now. The process of accounting for all the residents of Uvira had only just begun, and La Plante had not yet come forward. It was quite possible that he was dead. On the other hand, he might be about to walk in the door at any moment. If he did, he would be dismayed. The rebels had used explosives to blow open the door of the safe. Whatever cash and valuables had been in there were gone. The whole place was a mess. But the building itself had not been damaged. The sturdy doors still hung in their frames. Window glass was broken but the bars remained a barrier. This was why Dan had chosen the premises for his command post. Security was vital. There was still the possibility that, hidden among the civilians of Uvira, there were Simbas in disguise.
Dan looked out through the open door of the office, towards the public area of the bank. When he’d walked in here two days ago he’d recognised the distinctive walls made of pressed tin decorated with leaves and flowers, painted green, and the terrazzo floor with the inset slabs of marble. He’d been in this bank once before, many years ago, when he was on a prospecting trip. He was newly married at that time – keen to finish his work and get back to his wife and his half-built home. He’d had to brush off his clothes and stamp the mud from his boots before entering. The tellers were hard at work handing over bundles of money to well-dressed customers. Expensive perfume mingled with the smell of beeswax polish. People spoke in muted tones. High heels tapped over the spotless floor. But the ambience of wealth and sophistication was jarred by the stark presence of wire mesh and bars. The tellers sat in caged enclosures – but whether they were being kept in or the customers were being kept out wasn’t obvious. The scene could be read both ways. Dan had felt uncomfortable in the place, and as soon as he’d taken his turn at the counter, depositing a small amount of cash, he’d escaped outside.
Looking back to that time now, Dan wondered what he would have thought if he’d known that one day he would be sitting in the manager’s office. Not a client doing business, but a mercenary soldier. A gun for hire. He would have been shocked to the core. But then, what would he have thought if he’d known he was going to be swept up in a world war? That he would learn to become a fighter, and find he was good at what he did? That he would leave his family as a husband and a father, and come back home to find he was nothing at all . . .
Dan looked up at the sound of footsteps, his hand moving automatically to his pistol. It would be easy to feel safe, enclosed in a building like this one – but he knew better than to relax. Maintaining vigilance when the crisis was over was not easy. It was for this reason that he’d ordered the men to set up a camp, even though they were keen to take rooms in one of the hotels. Dan wanted them to remain battle-ready. Once the sense of discipline and focus had dissipated, it was hard to rebuild.
As the footsteps came closer Dan recognised the brisk gait of the Signaller, Girard. The Frenchman walked up to the desk and saluted. A bystander would never guess the volunteer was still living under canvas; he looked as neat and tidy as a soldier in a garrison with a laundry at his disposal. His fastidious ways matched his work: he was very accurate. If he sent a message, he got it right. No detail was lost in transmission.
‘At ease, Signaller.’ Dan motioned him to approach the desk.
Girard handed over a written message, while also giving his verbal report.
‘The arrival of the government forces has been delayed,’ he said. ‘They are in transit from Albertville. However, they are confronting rebel activity.’
‘In the south?’ Dan frowned. ‘That could be the soldiers who retreated from here. But you’d think they would have run north, into Simba territory.’
‘The road north from Uvira has been cut off.’
‘What do you mean?’ Dan asked impatiently. He could see the Signaller was savouring his role as the one who knew all the answers. He was keen to share his information, but liked to control the flow.
‘A commando unit of twenty-five men is positioned about 60 miles from here. Paratroopers. Dropped in four days ago.’
Dan’s jaw fell open in surprise. ‘Paratroopers? Why didn’t we know about this?’
Girard’s face gave no response; it was not his job to speculate on the motives of his superiors. Dan guessed Blair had his reasons for keeping his secret, but he couldn’t think what they might be.
After a short silence, the Signaller continued dealing out his information. ‘The paratroopers are coming here to Uvira.’
‘How are they travelling?’
‘I have no information on that, sir.’
Dan answered his question for himself. They’d be commandeering vehicles from the Simbas, and maybe from civilians as well. He looked out of the window, the patch of blue sky fractured by wire mesh. He wondered what kind of outfit they were. It could be just a bunch of ordinary volunteers who’d been taught to jump out of aeroplanes. On the other hand, it could be a proper Special Forces unit. He turned back to Girard, his eyes adjusting to the shift from harsh to muted light. ‘Are you in radio contact with them?’
Girard shook his head. ‘Force Villeroy are not responding.’
‘Villeroy?’ Dan raised his eyebrows. ‘Where did Blair get that from?’
A gleam of enthusiasm broke through Girard’s impassive mask. ‘My mother used to collect porcelain plates. One of her favourites was made by a German company called Villeroy & Boch. When Major Blair gave me the name, that’s what I thought of . . .’
Dan nodded, a smile touching his lips. ‘So he’s picked up another piece of crockery.’ It seemed a whole lifetime ago that Blair had found the name Denby on the bottom of a jug.
‘That’s all I have, sir,’ Girard said.
‘Thank you.’ Dan dismissed the Signaller with a wave, his thoughts already turning to the meaning of what he’d just learned. He was soon to be joined by another unit. With more men to manage security, the soldiers could turn to helping with some of the other issues the town faced. On the other hand, the arrival of newcomers would upset the dynamics of his own force. And he didn’t like the feeling that Blair had sprung this on him, perhaps deliberately. He could see the reasoning in forcing retreating Simbas towards the south, into the arms of the government forces. Cut off from the Simba heartland they’d be vulnerable. And they wouldn’t be adding to the strength of the northern frontier. It made sense. Except for one problem. Dan didn’t like to think what was going to happen, down south, to the civilians caught in the middle. Gangs of Simbas on the run, driven by fear and heady with the freedom of being mutineers, would be more dangerous than ever.
Dan began to think of all the people he’d known, in and around Banya. His daughter came to mind first, of course – but he felt sure that as she grew up she’d have moved away. She’d have completed her education in Europe, and was now probably living somewhere like Paris or Brussels. He couldn’t imagine Marilyn and Karl were still at Leopard Hall either. After Independence, as the supply chains broke down and infrastructure began to fail, their luxurious lifestyle would have become impossible to sustain. They would have felt insecure in such an isolated spot. No doubt they’d moved to one of the cities, or left the Congo altogether. Maybe they were in South Africa – it was a popular refuge for Europeans wanting to escape from countries that had gained their Independence; down there, the whites were still firmly in charge. Dan’s reasoning only went so far, though. The fact was that he couldn’t be certain Anna was not still at Leopard Hall, or living somewhere else in the Congo. He regretted his longstanding policy of avoiding any circumstance where he might hear news – even by accident – of the Emerson family. But there was nothing he could do about that now. He just had to believe his assumptions were correct: Anna was safe and happy in another part of the world.
Dan turned his mind to other people. The Bonhoeffers at the Lutheran mission. The Carters, who ran the general store in Banya. Bill McFarlane, who was the supervisor of the mine. The Makandas, who had taken over Dan’s farm. All the other African neighbours. A dozen names and faces came to him. He’d left the country nearly twenty years ago. Many of the people he’d known could have moved away, or even died of sickness or old age. But some would still be there. They might already be caught up in the conflict. Or still be going about their normal activities, unaware that the decisions of a man called Blair, far away from where they were, had suddenly changed their fortunes.
As he thought, Dan’s gaze ranged aimlessly over his desk. Then something caught his eye: a rubber stamp lying on its side. The raised letters stained with red ink spelled the word URGENT. His stomach tensed. He felt he was being called to take some action. But there was nothing he could do, beyond raising his concerns with Blair during the next scheduled radio communication. He was not in charge. He was just a pawn playing his part in a game being run by someone else. An image of the American Captain came to his mind: the tall figure with white skin and hair, who looked smart even in his fatigues. What had he said about the mercenaries? We’re sending our own animals in. The words of ownership had stuck in Dan’s mind. And then, Blair had hinted that the CIA was paying the mercenaries’ bills. The fact was, Dan didn’t even know what game he was caught up in. Now, the surprise appearance of Force Villeroy added to his unease. He could feel the ground under his feet shifting, his balance threatened.
He reminded himself of the expressions on the faces of the people of Uvira as they cheered the arrival of their liberators. Whatever else was going on, the relief and joy of these civilians was something real and true that he could hold onto. There had been that little girl, with the big dark eyes. The mother holding a tiny baby wrapped in a bloodstained towel, sitting on the pavement as if too exhausted to stand – but smiling . . .
Another image came to Dan, then. A glimpse of a face, seen through a shattered window. Wide eyes. A piercing look. He saw the bullet-riddled Jaguar speeding away. Since his arrival in Uvira, Dan had seen no sign of the distinctive car. But he hadn’t been able to forget the encounter in the side street – the driver’s face was fixed in his head. He had looked out for her at the meeting of European residents held at the Uvira Club. He’d toured the dining room, searching the crowd. Several beautiful women took the chance to meet his gaze. But he knew none of them was her.
Retreating to the bar, he’d asked the African cocktail waiter if he was aware of anyone who drove a Jaguar and had long red hair; in a place like Uvira the staff of the club were the richest mine of local knowledge. Kefa had shaken his head. He claimed he had a good memory and knew all the Europeans in the town – therefore the woman must be a stranger, newly arrived, or just passing through. But that made no sense, Dan had argued. Uvira had been occupied by the rebels for weeks, and under threat for much longer. It was hardly a popular destination for tourists.
The waiter had agreed. ‘Perhaps you dreamed of her,’ he suggested. ‘You should have a drink, and forget about her.’
‘You are right,’ Dan had responded. ‘I should.’ But as he looked back towards the dining room, he had felt an odd sense of loss, as if he were giving up something precious. It was completely irrational. Even assuming the woman was real – and there was some reason why Kefa didn’t know of her – there was nothing to say Dan would like her if they got the chance to meet. She was quite likely the spoiled wife of a rich plantation owner – the kind of person Dan had to tolerate in his safari work, but whom he would never want to know as a friend. It made sense to put her out of his mind.
‘You look sad,’ Kefa had said. ‘Let me help you.’
He had prepared a cocktail that he called an Uvira Sunset. When he offered it on a silver tray, Dan had eyed the drink doubtfully; shots of green, red and yellow liqueur had blended to form a muddy brown brew that looked like river water. It tasted mainly of sugar, but the fire on Dan’s tongue promised to dull the edges of the emptiness he felt. He had swallowed it in two gulps, and ordered another.
The hospital corridor smelled of stale vomit and urine, only faintly tinged with disinfectant. The walls were stained and the floors muddy with footprints left by army boots. Dan passed an African man in an orderly’s uniform wielding a mop, working ineffectually to combat the chaos.
‘Habari ya kazi?’ How is your work?
‘Nzuri sana, Bwana.’ Very good. The words were delivered with a bright smile.
Dan smiled back, struck by the optimism he so often encountered in Africa. He wondered if there were any level of disorder that would have forced the man to admit that circumstances were bad.
‘You are here to see your friends?’ the orderly asked.
‘Yes, I am.’
The response came easily to Dan, yet it took him by surprise. At the beginning of Operation Nightflower he’d had no intention of making any of the soldiers into his friends. But now he felt a real bond with several of them, including Fuller. The unit had almost become like his family – or, at least, the closest thing to a family that he was ever going to have. The feeling was reciprocal, Dan knew. Lots of the men had been solitary figures, like him, when they’d signed up. That was why they were here. They might have taken on the idea of fighting against the Communists, to protect the free world – but really, they were just fighting their own isolation and loneliness.
Reaching the entrance to the European men’s ward, Dan squeezed past a stretcher that had been abandoned in the doorway. A middle-aged nurse was bending over a bed, lifting the end of a mattress and folding the sheet into a hospital corner. As Dan walked towards her, she looked up.
‘Good morning, Lieutenant,’ she said, smiling brightly. One lens of her spectacles had been cracked and she had a bandage on her arm, but her uniform was neatly pressed, her shoes gleaming. She might have been on duty in an ordinary hospital, where everything was clean and functional – not one that had been overtaken by war.
Dan smiled back at her. ‘How are my men getting along?’
‘The Norwegian is full of complaints, except he’s sedated at the moment. The Welshman is bored. I’m thinking of giving him the same medicine.’
‘Sounds like they’re doing well.’
Dan walked on towards the far end of the ward. He passed half-a-dozen empty beds, then came to an old man with grey hair who appeared to be unconscious. Dan couldn’t help pausing, waiting to see the man’s chest, shrouded in a white sheet, rise and fall before he moved on. Next he saw a young boy, curled up on his side. Wisps of blond hair protruded from a bandage that covered his head like a turban. Apart from Nilsen and Fuller, there were only six more patients in the room.
It had been a very different scene in here on the first morning after the commandos arrived. When Dan came to check that his men had been admitted, he found the place packed with Europeans. Some were sick, others were suffering from injuries. Many were traumatised; quite a few were just hungry. They flowed into the ward from the outpatients section. The Matron had only allowed the most serious cases to be admitted. Everyone else was sent over to the Catholic church where the nuns had set up a clinic for bandaging and basic medical care. Matron had to keep all the resources she could to manage the load on the main wards, which catered for the Congolese.
In these wards, every bed was occupied, with extra bodies placed on mattresses on the floor. A large number of the patients were rebel soldiers – in some cases lying right next to civilian victims of Simba torture. Now that the commandos were no longer on the move and had the backup of police officers, Dan had issued orders that any rebel who surrendered must be given care and protection. If they needed medical attention, they were to be brought to the hospital.
So far, Dupont was the only one of the commandos who’d been caught violating the new code. He’d been seen turning his back on an injured rebel who was begging for help, intending to leave him to die. Henning had been outraged by his actions, to a degree that had surprised Dan at first; then he realised the Legionnaire simply couldn’t tolerate orders being ignored. As far as he was concerned, rules were rules: a firearm is never abandoned in the field; a song is never left half sung or a ration box only partially consumed; and an order to care for prisoners must be followed. Henning had threatened to break several of Dupont’s bones. If Dan hadn’t intervened, there could easily have been another patient in the European men’s ward.
Dan had posted McAdam to guard the Simba prisoners. He was armed with his bagpipes as well as a banana gun. Even if the men had been capable of moving from their beds, Dan doubted they’d risk a confrontation with the White Giants’ witchdoctor. He’d seen their faces when McAdam played his first tune, wanting to impress a Scottish nurse.
Dressed in hospital gowns, the Simbas didn’t look like soldiers any more. They seemed lonely and confused, as if they weren’t sure how they came to be here, so far away from their homes. And behind these emotions was fear. They were well aware that they were prisoners not of these Europeans but of the Congolese National Army. Allegiances in this conflict were strongly influenced by tribal loyalties. When the government troops turned up, the prisoners would find themselves in the hands of men who were not just military foes, but traditional enemies. They were being treated well for now, but their future was not bright.
As Dan approached the two beds occupied by his own soldiers, he saw Nilsen asleep, propped on one side to keep pressure off his wounded thigh. Fuller was reading his letter. Luckily the Welshman knew the words by heart: much of the writing had been obliterated by a dark patch of dried blood. As Dan stood by the bed, Fuller raised his hand in a salute.
‘Good morning, sir.’
Dan pulled over a chair and sat down. ‘I’ve got some good news. I received clearance for a medical evacuation. You and Nilsen will be taking a trip to Jo’burg. You’re going home.’
Fuller smiled. ‘Home . . .’ He repeated the word, savouring its feel on his tongue.
Dan smiled back. ‘Lucky you.’
‘I’ve made a decision,’ Fuller said. ‘I’m going to take Nicholas away from that boarding school. He means the world to me and I want to see him every day. When Bronwyn died, people told me I couldn’t look after him. They said a little boy needs a mother. And without a woman in the house he was better off in boarding school. But he doesn’t like it there. He gets bullied because he’s Welsh. He’s homesick. So when I go back, I’m going to stand up to them. I don’t care what anyone says.’ Fuller’s hands clenched as he spoke. ‘I’ll fight and I’ll win. I’ll have him home. What do you think, sir?’
It was a few moments before Dan could speak. When he did, his voice was husky. ‘I think you are right. A man and his child can be a family.’ He took a breath. ‘I wish I’d known that a long time ago.’
Fuller met his gaze. Dan waved one hand. ‘But the past is the past. You don’t get a second chance.’ He looked down at the floor. ‘Just . . . don’t change your mind. Stick to the plan.’
‘I will,’ Fuller said.
Dan stood up to go. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, out at the air strip.’
As he walked away, he felt a lightness in his step. Fuller’s boy was coming home. No more lonely dormitory, no more bullying. Tea every night with his dad. Football games in the local park. Dan thought of all the suffering that had filled the last weeks – the half-grown bodies of the Jeunesse sprawled in the tall grasses; the murdered nun; Hardy bleeding on the floor of the armoured jeep; all the dead Simbas with their useless charms hanging around their necks, blood pooling in their veins. Something good was going to happen now. It felt like one small, clear victory, the meaning of which would survive the test of time.
Dan stood at the edge of the cricket grounds looking across the rows of tents. Here and there a soldier had hung up some laundry to dry; there were a few civilian garments, the colours and patterns seeming frivolous beside the even tones of the uniforms. Otherwise the camp was neat and tidy. The unit vehicles were parked a little distance from the tents. One of the volunteers, trained by Fuller to be Second Mechanic, had made sure they were all cleaned, repaired and refuelled. The man had now turned his attention to a motley collection of jeeps and trucks that had belonged to the Simbas. These vehicles would be handed over to the government forces in due course, along with the cache of rebel weaponry that was stored in a locked room at the bank, but for now the items didn’t really belong to anyone. Dan had already given a Land Rover and two jeeps away to a group of missionaries who ran an orphanage and a school. He recalled the gratitude on their faces at the prospect of becoming mobile again; their vehicles had been seized by the rebels and never returned. Lots of other residents of Uvira had approached Dan with various requests for help too. He had a long list in the notebook tucked in his pocket.
As he gazed across to the central pitch with its rectangle of smoother green, he tried to decide which issue to address next. His mind wouldn’t settle, though. His thoughts kept drifting back to Fuller, lying in his hospital bed. When Dan had endorsed the decision to bring Nicholas home, and hinted that he had a personal connection to the issues Fuller had faced, a look had passed between the two men. Dan had almost opened up and told his own story. He imagined the relief of laying it all out, to someone who might truly be able to understand the agony of the decision he had made, all those years ago. But there was no point in doing that now. History could not be rewritten. You could go back through events again and again. You could examine the facts over and over, looking at them from every angle. But you couldn’t create a different ending.
He took out his notebook and flicked through the pages. But the words were meaningless. The ink blurred in front of his eyes. When he lifted his gaze he didn’t see the camp, or the wide swathe of patchy grass. His thoughts carried him back nineteen long years. He was a young man again, dressed in a war-worn uniform, the smell of motorbike oil on his hands, the taste of dust in his mouth.
The garden at Leopard Hall was a mosaic of colour. The roses were in full bloom, their vibrant tones upstaged only by the iridescent turquoise of the peacocks that trailed their feathers over the lush lawns. Dan climbed off the old motorbike he’d borrowed to come out here, lifting it onto its stand. During the ride, he had begun to calm down. He’d told himself there might be some mistake. Marilyn and Anna had left their home – that was obvious. But exactly why and how this had happened was not certain. Musa, the African who had usurped the cottage, was not necessarily the most reliable source of information. As he’d turned over all the possible scenarios in his mind, Dan had given up planning ways to deal with Emerson; his focus had shifted to Marilyn. He clung to the hope that – assuming she was, in fact, living at Leopard Hall – she would be able to say something or do something that would mean the situation was not as he’d been led to believe.
The sight of the grand house, though, aroused his emotions again – his disappointment and shock; the sense of betrayal. On the front doorstep, he ignored the heavy knocker, formed in the shape of a leopard’s head, and pounded on the wood with his fist. The door was opened by an African butler dressed in a long white tunic, with a leopardskin cap on his head. Dan didn’t wait to be invited inside; he pushed past the servant, striding into the foyer. The air was unnaturally cold and faintly perfumed. Vases full of flowers coloured the edges of his vision.
‘Where are they?’ he demanded.
‘The Bwana is not here,’ the butler said. ‘You must not enter.’ He eyed the intruder nervously, no doubt guessing the soldier might be armed.
‘I want to see Marilyn.’ Dan walked from room to room, the butler hurrying after him. He checked a library, with walls full of leatherbound books. He scanned a huge dining room, where silver gleamed on the sideboard. Then he opened a third door, entering a sunny space decorated in pastel tones.
Marilyn was sitting at a desk, her head bent over a pile of white cards.
‘Is that you, Karl?’ As she turned around, shock flashed across her face. She jumped up, dropping a gold pen. It rolled across the parquet floor until it met Dan’s boot.
For a long moment, the two just stared at one another. Dan hardly recognised his wife. The long wispy hair was gone; so was the pink flush to her cheeks. Her skin was matte, smooth, with no hint of sunburn. Her eyes were lined with black, the lids a powdery green. Her mouth looked bigger, painted red. She wore high-heeled shoes and a silky dress. She was like someone from a magazine. A film star. Or royalty. The Queen of Leopard Hall.
Dan took a breath, trying to keep control of his reactions. ‘I heard you were here. I went to the house.’
Marilyn nodded slowly. She gestured for the butler to depart. When they were alone, she covered her face with her hands. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry . . .’
As she repeated the words, Dan looked at her in silence. He understood exactly what they meant. Musa had not misled him. He felt harsh accusations coming to his lips. He wanted to tell Marilyn that she was a shameless adulterer. She was greedy and weak. She’d ditched her husband for a rich man, while Dan was doing his duty as a soldier. But when he thought of the rough cottage on the hillside, and compared it with this place where Marilyn was now, he couldn’t blame her for what she’d done. He knew her too well. She had always been attracted to wealth. That was why she’d chosen to become a governess, so that at least she could stand on the fringes of a world that was glamorous and sophisticated. When she’d married Dan she’d been content with a simple life for a while, because she loved him. But then he’d gone away. She’d spent too much time left on her own with Anna. No wonder she’d been tempted by a man like Emerson.
He gave her a steady look. ‘I understand how difficult it must have been for you.’ That was all he said.
Marilyn’s eyes filled with tears. ‘It was too hard. I couldn’t manage.’ She pressed her lips together, shaking her head helplessly.
Dan took a step towards her. The tears stirred up a thread of hope that finding her here, in another man’s house, was just a nightmare that could be brought to an end. ‘Marilyn, we can change all this. You can leave Karl. Come back to me.’
‘I can’t.’ The tears spilled over, carrying a streak of mascara down Marilyn’s cheek.
Dan wanted to put his arms around her, to comfort her. He searched her face for some hint of the love they’d shared. ‘Yes, you can,’ he insisted. ‘We can get away from here. We could move back to Kenya. Start again.’
Marilyn shook her head. Her gaze travelled around the room. Dan saw her eyes resting on the pretty cushions and drapes, the porcelain ornaments, the fine silk rug. This was Marilyn’s study, he guessed. She may have decorated it herself.
‘I’m happy here,’ she said.
Dan watched her resolve harden, the softness evaporate.
‘I want a divorce,’ she added. ‘I’m going to marry Karl.’
Dan’s lips moved as he struggled to take in the meaning of her words. ‘I thought he already had a wife.’ His tone was sarcastic and bitter.
‘She went away. They are divorced now.’ Marilyn looked down at the floor. After a short silence she continued. ‘They didn’t love each other any more.’
A sound came from Dan’s mouth – a gasping laugh that was a cry as well. ‘And now you don’t love me any more.’
Marilyn lifted her gaze. ‘I love Karl.’
Dan looked into her eyes again, wanting to know if she was speaking the truth – or if she was really just attracted by the man’s wealth. But she was a stranger to Dan now; he could not tell. Jumbled thoughts flooded his head. He kept coming back to the cold hard truth: Marilyn was going to remain here with Emerson. His marriage was over.
‘What about Anna?’ he asked. He couldn’t imagine how he could be a father to her, when she lived in a place like Leopard Hall.
Marilyn didn’t answer; she just bit her lip, white teeth pressing into the red lipstick.
Dan felt a rush of fear. ‘Where is she? Is she all right?’
‘Yes, she’s fine. She’s . . . well. She’s happy here, too.’
‘Where is she?’ Dan repeated.
‘She’s not at home.’ Marilyn spoke quickly, then paused for a second before continuing. ‘Her governess has taken her to Banya for a riding lesson. We’re getting her a pony of her own. She loves horses. And dogs, too.’ She was almost gabbling now, as if mundane talk could hold back what was coming. Dan noticed that her voice had changed, along with her face – the English accent she’d adopted in Kenya was now overlaid with a touch of something European.
‘When will she be back?’ he asked. ‘I need to see her.’
‘Dan . . .’
He flinched at the sound of his name on her lips.
‘Anna doesn’t remember you. She was so little when you left. And we’ve been here three years, now. She thinks Karl is her father.’
Dan stared at Marilyn, his blood turning cold. ‘Didn’t you talk to her about me?’ He thought of the scenes he’d imagined taking place over the years: Marilyn showing Anna photographs of her father, adding new information, bit by bit, as the little girl became old enough to understand why her daddy had gone away.
‘I didn’t know if you were ever coming home,’ Marilyn responded. ‘We came here to live with Karl. She needed a father.’
She made it all sound like a simple equation, the ending obvious.
Dan was struck silent. He felt as if he’d fallen into a dark pit of pain, jealousy, despair. When he finally spoke his voice was thin and hoarse. ‘So . . . what’s going to happen now?’
‘If you love her, you’ll do what’s best for her,’ Marilyn said. ‘You will let her be who she thinks she is. An Emerson.’
Dan’s shock turned to fury. He grabbed a flimsy chair and sent it smashing into the wall. A picture fell, glass breaking. Marilyn recoiled from him, her eyes wide with fear. Dan could see that she was about to scream for help. He forced himself to stand still, to bring his hands to his sides.
In the tense stillness a clock ticked loudly. Suddenly Dan couldn’t bear to be in Marilyn’s presence any longer. He spun round and half-ran from the room. As he crossed the foyer his boots echoed on the tiles. The black-and-white squares passed beneath his feet in a blur.
Outside, he took a deep breath, but he still felt as if he were struggling for air. Though the sun warmed his skin, he was cold inside. He walked towards the motorbike in a haze of confusion. He was about to throw his leg over the seat when movement in the shrubbery caught his eye. The leafy branches shook; then they parted. A small face peered out. Dan froze, his fingers gripping the handlebars. At first glance the little girl was a stranger. But then a shiver ran through him as he recognised vestiges of the baby face he knew so well. He murmured her name. ‘Anna . . .’
‘Hello,’ she called across to him. She waved her hand. Dan felt his heart leap as he searched the open face and the dark, bright eyes.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ The words were fluent, with no hint of a baby lisp.
Dan’s heart throbbed as he shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Please,’ she insisted. ‘I’m having a picnic.’ She pointed back through the bushes.
Dan looked away towards the house. He felt a surge of anger that Marilyn had lied to him about Anna being in Banya. He wondered if she’d watched his departure through a window and was now about to run out and send him away. It wasn’t a scene he’d want a child to witness. He let a few seconds pass. The door remained shut.
‘Come on,’ Anna pleaded, her head tilted to the side. ‘It won’t take long.’
Dan shook his head again. But he couldn’t make himself walk away. Why should he? Anna showed no sign that she knew who he was. He wouldn’t betray his identity – he wasn’t going to reach into his daughter’s life, on impulse, and turn it upside down. But he could sit with her, talk to her, just for a little while. What harm could that do? He pushed his way through a gap between two hibiscus plants, the red flowers brushing his face.
A blue-and-white checked cloth was spread over the freshly mown grass. A child’s plastic tea set had been laid out. There were miniature pink-and-white plates and matching cups and saucers. In the middle of the cloth were some lids that belonged to jars. They were piled with flower buds and torn leaves. There was a tiny bowl of gravel. A milk jug full of water.
‘You can sit beside Koala.’ Anna pointed towards the toy, which had been placed opposite her. The animal leaned to one side, tilted by the grass beneath it.
Dan was swept by a wave of recognition. He knew the contours of that furry head and body so well. He remembered the rounded ears, the quirky black line of the mouth. Hiding his emotions, he made himself take his assigned place, crossing his legs.
‘He’s lost an eye, poor thing,’ Dan commented. He was amazed that he sounded so normal – inside, he felt as if his heart were being torn into pieces.
‘It came loose,’ Anna explained. ‘My ayah sewed it back on, but she didn’t do it very well.’ She glanced around her. ‘She’ll be back in a minute. She’s gone to get my sunhat. You have to tell her that I’m not bothering you. I’m not, am I?’
Dan shook his head. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She looked less like Marilyn than she had as a toddler. Did that mean she was more like him? Or just more her own self . . .
Anna leaned forward, looked at him intently. ‘Why are you staring at me?’
‘Because . . . you remind me of someone. But she was younger than you. Not even two . . .’ Dan’s voice faded to a whisper. He wondered if at some deep level – beyond memory – the cells of his daughter’s body, mirroring his genes, might speak to her.
Anna cocked her head, curiously. ‘Where is she now?’
‘I haven’t seen her for a long time,’ he said. ‘I went away to fight in the war. I didn’t want to, but I had no choice. I only just got back.’ If some part of Anna knew who Dan was, he wanted to explain the reason why he’d abandoned her for all these years.
‘My daddy didn’t go to the war,’ Anna said. ‘He was too busy.’
Dan caught his breath. My daddy. The phrase had dropped casually from the child’s lips. Marilyn may have lied just now about Anna being in Banya, but she’d been telling the truth when she said Anna believed she was Emerson’s child.
‘Would you like some peanuts?’ Anna offered the bowl of gravel.
With clumsy fingers, Dan filled his plate.
Anna lifted a teapot next, raising her eyebrows and nodding towards her visitor’s cup. Dan couldn’t help remembering all the times – hundreds, maybe thousands – that he’d seen Marilyn enact this exact sequence of gestures.
Anna filled Dan’s cup with water. She poured too much, and it overflowed onto his hand.
‘Sorry.’ She giggled. Her parted lips showed half-grown front teeth, their edges still ridged. Baby teeth clustered behind.
‘I got money from the tooth fairy,’ Anna said, as if reading his mind. ‘I don’t know how she got in. Mummy wouldn’t leave the window open because of the air-conditioning.’
‘Fairies are clever, and very small,’ Dan said.
‘I suppose so.’
There was a brief quiet as Anna served rosebuds to the koala. Dan stared into his cup, where strands of what looked like water weed floated in green swirls. He guessed there was probably an ornamental pond in the grounds, perhaps even a lake. He wanted to ask Anna where she’d collected the water. Had there been an adult around in case she fell in? Could she swim? Could she read? Did she still love nursery rhymes . . .
Using his thumb and one finger, he lifted the cup and pretended to drink. ‘Very nice.’
Anna sighed. ‘It’s tepid, I’m afraid.’
Dan smiled, the cup poised against his lips. She sounded so grown-up, mimicking her mother again. But her rounded face, her milk-soft hands, still held echoes of her younger self. He longed to pull her to him and bury his face in her hair, breathing her smell.
‘Are you going to come back another day?’ she asked.
He couldn’t answer. He felt tears burning his eyes. When she looked at him quizzically he just shook his head. ‘I have to go now.’ He placed his cup back on its saucer and got to his feet. ‘Goodbye.’
Anna held up the koala, jiggling it in the air. ‘Goodbye! Goodbye!’ She threw him a smile, innocent and sunny.
Dan turned and walked away, pushing back through the hibiscus. He tried to fix the image of her in his mind so that it would always be there for him to see. But as he stepped onto the driveway and headed for the bike, he could feel it fading already.
He kicked the motor into life, then let out the clutch. Gunning the accelerator, he roared away from Leopard Hall. As he sped through the parkland, he lifted his face into the wind, the air blasting his skin. In his chest, his heart hammered with pain so deep that it felt like fear. In the plantation the rubber trees flashed past him, a grey blur behind his tears.
There had been another meeting with Marilyn a few days later, conducted in a private room in the Banya Hotel. Emerson had been at her side, his arm hovering protectively around her shoulders. He did most of the talking – adopting the assured tone of a rich and influential man who knew he would get what he wanted.
Dan had to listen to him laying out the facts of the situation. It was not complicated, Emerson explained. The returned soldier had no job, no house, no extended family. He had no home to offer a child. Whereas Emerson was in a position to offer Anna everything she might need or want, both now and in the future. There was a description of some of the luxuries Anna currently enjoyed. The governess. The ayah. The toys and clothes. She was six years old, Emerson reminded Dan. And she knew no other way of living.
She knew no other father.
Dan struggled to remain calm, to think clearly. It was like holding firm under gunfire, only there was nothing he could do to protect himself. While he let Emerson speak he watched Marilyn’s face. When she’d walked in, he’d barely recognised her. She was wearing even more make-up than when he’d last seen her, as if she wanted to hide behind a mask. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking or feeling. Dan was torn between wishing he could be alone with her, and fearing it would be too much for him to bear.
When it was his turn, finally, to express his views, he made sure his tone was firm. He said that money was not everything. He didn’t want his daughter to grow up in a place like Leopard Hall, surrounded by wealthy people, most of whom probably didn’t even work hard for their living. He stated that he intended to fight for his daughter – he wanted to have shared custody. But Emerson pointed out that Dan had no money to pay a lawyer. And even if he did, the legal bid would fail. What judge would order a child who was used to living in a place like Leopard Hall to spend time with a man she didn’t even know, who lived in an ex-army tent? How would she come to terms with the idea that Dan Miller was her father, when she believed that title belonged to someone else?
Everyone Dan spoke to – friends in Banya who were sympathetic to his predicament – endorsed Emerson’s argument. And the truth was, Dan couldn’t disagree with it himself. He spent long sleepless nights making up different future scenarios, but in the morning none of them looked sound.
In the end he accepted the proposal put forward by Emerson’s lawyer. Dan would divorce his wife on the grounds of her infidelity. And he would permit her new husband-to-be to adopt his daughter. This legal framework would ensure the security and stability that a child needed to have. The documents were drawn up in Albertville and brought to Banya for Dan to sign.
When the day came for the transaction to take place, Dan had taken time off from the job he’d managed to get as a farmhand. He’d scrubbed the soil from his hands and changed into clean clothes. Arriving early at the hotel, he’d waited outside in the shade. As he watched the people who passed by, he wondered if any of them could imagine how he felt – a man who was about to sign away his fatherhood; a soldier who had found out there was no way for him to fight. The law was not on his side. Neither was popular opinion. And the most powerful weapon in his possession – his love for his child – was working against him. He remembered how Anna had looked when he’d seen her in the garden at Leopard Hall. Happy. Well fed. Healthy. Innocent and carefree. He knew he couldn’t jeopardise all that. He loved her too much to dismantle her world when he wasn’t sure what he could offer in its place.
Emerson’s lawyer had greeted him on the landing – alone, as had been agreed. The man was dressed in a jacket and tie in spite of the heat.
‘Monsieur Leclair,’ he introduced himself, holding out a hand.
Dan gripped it briefly, then he was ushered into the meeting room.
‘Let us get straight to work,’ Leclair suggested. He spoke slowly, as if to make sure Dan could follow his accented English. ‘You know the intent of the documents. They are all standard.’ He gave Dan a steady look. ‘I am led to believe you have made a number of verbal commitments to your wife as well. You have agreed not to make any contact with your daughter. You are going to leave the area. And so on.’
‘That’s right.’ Dan’s voice was barely audible.
‘It is the best thing in a situation like this. It is kinder to everyone.’
Dan’s gaze narrowed. He got the feeling the lawyer was speaking from experience. Was this something that had happened to other men? Other soldiers who had come home to their families, full of hope for the future, and just longing to be held, comforted, healed . . .
A waiter appeared at the door. ‘Can I bring you some refreshments?’
Leclair waved him away. ‘Monsieur Miller is not staying.’ He gave Dan a sympathetic look. ‘It is best to get this over with as quickly as possible.’
‘In case I change my mind,’ Dan suggested. He could feel his swallowed anger like a lump in his guts.
‘I am sure you have thought this through very carefully. And you have come to the right decision.’ The phrases fell easily from the man’s tongue as if he’d said them many times before.
Dan ignored the chair that was pulled out for him, preferring to stand. The lawyer handed him a fountain pen, then turned the pages for him, pointing with his finger, the nails neatly trimmed.
‘Sign here. And here. And here again . . .’ Leclair said. ‘I will be the witness. I can deal with all that later. Your . . . wife . . . has already signed, as you can see.’
Dan’s gaze lingered on Marilyn’s name. Even her handwriting had changed. He remembered how, in the days after their wedding, she’d practised her new signature – Mrs Marilyn Miller. She’d looked so proud and happy . . . Dan brought his hand to his mouth as pain sliced through him. He felt the devastation that lay behind his outrage at her betrayal. On top of the agony of losing his child, these other emotions were too much to bear. He stuffed them down inside him, like clothes into a kitbag – love and hurt bundled together, buried deep.
When the last dotted line had been filled, Dan stood still, staring down at the ink, the shiny black turning dull as it dried on the paper. The lawyer gathered up the pages, slipping them into his briefcase without delay, snapping the clasp shut. He held out his hand, but Dan just walked away.
In the lobby downstairs there was a stuffed leopard on display beside an ornate hat stand. Dan stopped to look at it, his mind searching for a new place to rest. He wondered if the trophy was a cast-off from Leopard Hall – the ears looked chewed, the coat patchy. There was a cowed look in its glassy eyes. The animal was like a vision of how Dan felt. All the power was gone from its once-lethal body. There was now wire in place of bones, straw standing in for muscle, and just a hollow space where its warm heart had once been.