Long Lies the Shadow (26 page)
Read Long Lies the Shadow Online
Authors: Gerda Pearce
Every night, eyelids sinking into sleep, it has been Simon’s eyes that flashed before her, like a northern aurora across the darkening horizon of night. But it was not Simon she dreamed of last night. Instead she glimpsed her brother’s shadowed form slipping away from her through distant trees.
Gin ran after him but wood had suddenly grown thick and dense around her. She cried his name soundlessly into the approaching night. She knew they hunted him, she knew he was hurt. She saw the blood on the forest floor, mingling with dying leaves. Her damaged, bleeding brother was lost, lost in the wood. Then she heard him calling to her from across a river that led to the sea. She walked towards him, but he was gone.
She knew she must cross the river, but she was afraid of its
slow-flowing
murkiness, almost stagnant with weeds. Sticks lined the surface, clotted with brown foam. She waded in and suddenly then it was wide, deep, with a strong undertow pulling at her legs. The far bank became a cement wall. Clambering to reach it, she was struck by an overwhelming thirst but heard Gabe’s disembodied voice telling her not to drink the river’s water. Desperately thirsty, she trailed her tongue along its surface. It was clear, sweet and cold.
Gabe knelt on the cement bank opposite, still imploring her not to drink. Eventually she reached the edge, but he was gone. Instead before her was a steep mountain and he sat at its summit, on a white horse; in his hands he held a cup of water for her. But her way up the hill was barred by an iron gate and fence so that she had to hike around. When
she finally found herself standing on the mountain, she could no longer see her twin, but she heard him call to her again. She knew he was then far down below on the other side of the mountain, on the beach. At the river’s mouth. She started to run. Then she was there, standing on a black salted rock, staring across the thrashing waves. She called for Gabe, but he did not answer. A wave washed up to the rock and the cup he had been holding was drifting on its swell. Reaching down, Gin picked it up. It was full of seawater but her thirst was such that she drank from it.
Then she shouted into an empty sky, in a voice that exited her lungs only as an undertone: The sea is my blood, these rocks are my bones.
She brakes sharply at a stop sign that looms at her without warning. Cape Town’s roads have become unfamiliar to her.
Isaac is staying with a friend. The flat in Vredehoek is large, plush. The hall opens up to the left, two broad steps take her down to a rectangular lounge, doors leading to a flat patio with a plunge pool. The mountain dips below, riddled with other plush houses, patios, and pools that glimmer in the sun. To the right, a dining room, the table already set for dinner. On top of it, a menorah. Friday night Shabbes. Prayers, gefilte fish, and chollah. She feels the old stab of exclusion in her chest.
Isaac shuffles off to make tea, buying them both time, their roles reversed since their last meeting. When Ellie met her grandfather, without either of them knowing it.
Ellie. My little Ellie
.
Gin sits on the edge of a white leather-effect couch, trying not to sink into its softness. The carpet is Persian, red and blue dyes woven into intricate shapes. It is worn slightly in one corner beneath the step. At the end of the lounge is a stone fireplace, filled with a vase of dried proteas instead of a grate. On the wall above it hangs an oblong watercolour. A seascape, with a mottled headland falling into
a stormy ocean. It reminds her of the one she had seen at Michael’s. She had felt drawn to it, its isolated feel.
She waits for Isaac to bring her tea she will not drink. She sits, twisting the ring on her finger. And while he talks, the painting will ingrain itself into her soul, the rocks cutting into her as if at her flesh, the sea that batters the headland battering also her bones, and the mist that rises into the overcast sky is the same colour of the cloud that Isaac’s words will cast over her life.
She stares at the painting while he talks, while he tells her the truth of her life.
He stops, his tale finally told.
She looks at him with sudden comprehension.
The old man nods. “Your mother and Jacob came to me when she found out she was pregnant.”
His rheumy eyes stare into space, and Gin imagines he sees in front of him her mother, the fragile Rachel, beautiful and weak.
“Simon and you,” he continues, and his voice cracks with grief. “Simon and you. We thought it wouldn’t last. We thought it best to take its course. You were both so young. It was Gabe and Hannah who worried us all more.”
Gin feels fire in her chest. Of course. Hannah. Gabe’s sister.
Her
sister.
“Jacob managed that one. Not well, but he managed it
nonetheless
. Then when Simon came to me, that last year you were together, said he wanted to marry you at the end of university, I had to tell him.”
She stares at him. “Simon
knew
?”
Isaac nods then sniffs, reaches into his pocket, bringing out a white linen handkerchief to wipe his nose. He puts it back in his pocket. “Simon wouldn’t tell you. He said it wasn’t fair. He knew your relationship with your dad.”
Dad. The man who had raised her
.
“Did my father know?” she can barely bring herself to ask.
The old man shakes his head. “I honestly don’t know. Does it make a difference to you? All I can say is, Virginia, knowing your father as I did, I don’t think it would have made any difference to him.”
Dad. Not my real dad
.
There is little comfort in the old man’s words. I have done the same, she thinks. Secrets. So many secrets. Secrets and lies. How could I have stopped this man from knowing Ellie? It had been his only chance of knowing Simon’s daughter, his granddaughter. Too late. I am as bad as my mother. My mother kept her secrets, and so have I.
Tears start to course down Isaac’s hollowed cheeks. “Simon thought you would move on, forget him, marry someone else. It almost broke him, Virginia. You didn’t have to watch him as I did. And then, to see you, and know what you thought of him, what he did, what he was, to think perhaps it was because you weren’t Jewish, or good enough for him, in some way.” The handkerchief emerges again. “God knows, I blame myself. You would have all led happier lives. But it was not my secret to tell.”
Isaac’s words come out in short exhalations. “My son,” he says, “my son, he loved you.”
He loved her
. Simon had loved her enough not to tell her. He kept the secrets, told the lies. And I have done the same. For I, I am Jacob’s daughter. I am Simon’s cousin.
In these moments, clarity. The dream, a portent. Ellie’s death was no coincidence of random genes. She and Simon shared blood, enough to kill a child.
Simon’s face, serious and sad. I’ve something to tell you, Ginny, something I should have told you years ago
.
She looks out at the mountain while she dials, pressing each number with deliberation. It is one of those distinctly African days, an uncompromising blue sky, the lightest touch of breeze to lift air that lies as thick as velvet on one’s skin. Only the mountain gullies hide green and dark from the searching Midas rays.
He answers on the third ring and he must have recognised her number on his display, because he speaks before she can. She can hear his hopeful urgency.
“Vivienne, I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I know.” She paces the floor of her lounge, worry skimming over any other emotion. “Nick –”
“Vivienne, I have to tell you something. It’s about Gabriel. He –”
She interrupts, “Nick, I think I know what you’re going to tell me.” A slight hesitation. “But that’s not important right now. It’s Gin.” Viv checks her handbag again as she talks.
“Gin? Why, what’s wrong?” Detective, now.
“You see, I told her about the files I saw in your office.” Viv swallows. The silence is uncomfortable.
Gin had returned from seeing Isaac. Viv had made tea, waited for her friend to talk.
Instead Gin had asked if Viv had called Nick yet. “It’s important, Viv.”
Sensing that maybe Gin needed time to assimilate the morning, Viv had tried to explain, had told her about the folders, names typed neatly
onto white labels. Told her about them, falling. Told her about the one with the curled tag: Gold/McMann.
Inside, a statement signed by Gin. A statement from the hotel manager, two accounts of the accident from witnesses. Simon had swerved violently, the full force hitting him. A note in Nick’s handwriting. Was Gold trying to protect McMann? A photograph of the crumpled BMW, the driver’s side crushed, paint peeling from fire. A photograph of the interior, cream leather dark with blood. An autopsy report with a photograph of Simon’s dead face pinned to the top.
That was when she had pulled her eyes away.
That was when the other folder had fallen out.
Weetman/Kassan.
The shock of it remained.
It was all in there. Everything about her, about Jonnie, the girls, copies of her marriage certificate, the restraining order, her divorce. Matters of public record, she had reminded herself, but there was even a copy of her reclassification as Indian, all those years ago. A letter from the university, detailing Jonnie’s years there, his exam results, first class; his prison record, exemplary, and a copy of his sentence: four years for political activism. There were also files on him from before she knew him. She read about his activities as a student, his political affiliations. She stopped at one. It had a list of his known associates and fellow students. She scanned the list. Leila’s name was there. No surprise. Jonnie had known Leila from way back. The surprise was that Leila had been studying medicine with him. She must have given up, or failed, and gone into nursing instead. But then, the other name.
Simon Gold.
Statements from a man whose name she did not recognise. She had not known Simon and Jonnie had studied together, or of Simon’s political leanings. She had no idea they even knew each other. The very realisation had brought a chill.
And then Nick had entered the office.
“And something happened to her. I mean, when I mentioned Leila, she kind of blanched, went really white, and really quiet. And then one of my patients rang, and I’ve been on the phone, and when I’d finished talking, she was gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes. Nick, she’s taken my car keys. And my address book. I don’t know why, or what’s going on, but I think Gin’s gone to see Leila. And Nick, I’m really worried. I’ve just got this horrible feeling that something’s wrong.”
Gin drives along the tarred strip of road edged with fynbos. She does not know Steenberg. She slows Viv’s car, checking house numbers. The mountain silhouettes against the Cape sky, stands steadfast and watchful above her.
Help me
, she begs silently,
help me
. One last secret to be revealed today.
What would Gabe have made of Isaac’s tale? What would he have said? Would he have made peace with it, or, like her, feel instead rage roar into her being? She wonders what it will bring for her. Will it take its toll in more tortured dreams, when she claws at her mother’s beautiful face in unspent anger? Will she look for her father and, like the unceasing dreams of Gabe, never find him now? And what of Jacob, still alive somewhere? Her biological father. And Hannah? What about Hannah? Did she know? Should she be told?
A car hoots angrily, and passes her. Gin, alarmed, pulls off onto the hard shoulder. Her hands grip the wheel.
What am I doing?
Maybe she should turn around, go back to Viv. Ask Viv to come with her. Maybe they should call Retief, although the thought unnerves her. And say what?
“Leila.” Like a message
.
A message. He
had
been trying to tell her something. Gin spins the wheel, ready to turn back. And there, in front of her, with its gravel drive, its stone-walled garden, is number eighteen. At the end of the driveway, under the roof of a lean-to garage, a white car. It is an old Mercedes, winged bumpers and a rounded bonnet, one of the older, shorter Cape Town numberplates, CA 6861.
A white car, heading directly at them
.
She gets out of the car, compelled now to walk up the path,
scanning
the house as she does. Her shoe catches on the gravel, her leg crumples, and she is down, feeling the grit press into her bare arm. The driveway’s surface is rounded, the edges forming a gutter for drainage in the heavy Cape rain, and Gin cannot stop herself from rolling into it. She lands on her back, staring up into the cloudless heaven. She lies still for a moment, stunned, checking herself
mentally
for injury. A sound behind her. Her eyes flick up. She sees no one, but in her upside-down line of vision, the white car, and its numberplate, 1989.
Simon’s face, bleeding upwards
.
1989
.
Gin reaches out her hand, raises herself to a sitting position and struggles to her feet, brushing dust and gravel off her clothes, her skin. There is another sound. Gin looks up.
A woman is standing to one side of the porch step. She is petite, with coffee skin and almond eyes, lips tinged with lilac.
Her voice reaches across to Gin. “I know who you are. You had better come inside.”
Light slats through blinds. A radiant day, the Cape headed for autumn. In England, thinks Gin, spring will be emerging from its long hibernation. Magnolia will be insolent with upturned
optimism
, marshmallow-pink cherries cheerfully shedding blossoms like snow, forsythia will be graphic yellow, and everywhere, she thinks, everywhere, will be rich, resplendent green.
The green flecks in Simon’s eyes.
She looks across the kitchen at Leila. They stand facing each other. Leila’s eyes have a haunted look. She speaks in a low husk. It might sound honeyed, thinks Gin, but for its absence of feeling.
Leila’s words are simple “You know.”
Gin wants to tell this woman she understands, that Jonnie had told her what Simon did to her; that although she, Gin, cannot imagine what horrors must visit Leila in the night, she knows
something
of what it is like to feel pain and loss, and how it is to live scarred.
Leila carries on, as if oblivious to Gin’s presence. “I saw you,” she says, pronouncing each word, one at a time. “I. Saw. You. Together. I. Had. Not. Seen. Him. In. All. These. Years. Saw. You. He. Looked. So. Happy.”
She looks up at Gin now, aware of her. “I followed you. I watched you. I hated him.”
What words have I for this woman, wonders Gin. Leila holds her hand to her mouth, turns her back on Gin and bending over the kitchen sink, she retches into it. Her back heaves with spasms. Gin goes over to her, puts her hand on the woman’s back.
Leila leaps away from her, mucus flying from her mouth. She puts a hand out towards her, her palm raised to keep her away. Gin stands still. Leila wipes her mouth, staring at her with wild, unfocused eyes.
“I hated him,” repeats Leila. “And I hated you.” Leila’s hand reaches behind her back. Gin is almost curious to see what the woman grabs. She steps back, afraid of this woman for the first time.
It is her leg that fails her again, giving way as she retreats. The knife is so sharp she does not feel at first the slide of it between her ribs. Only a short ache, like the beginnings of a stitch, a sudden difficulty breathing. She looks, not at Leila, as the blade goes in again, and again, and again, but at the warmth of blood spilling out of her chest.
A hot Friday night, late January. He was standing near the entrance.
Illumination, a light switching on inside.
“Oh,” he said, “Is Hannah not here?” No disappointment in his voice. He looked at her with something like recognition, something like expectation. “You must be Virginia.”
She might have been surprised, but wasn’t. It seemed right that this man whom she had known before, a thousand lifetimes, knew her also. It seemed right that his voice knew its way around her name.
She nodded, continuing to stare.
A sound like rain on a roof, but it was her heart, thrumming against her ribs. A drop of water in a pool, forever rippling outward. Her breath.
A still, small voice inside her that whispered, simply, “Yes.”
Gin gasps for breath and opens her eyes. The kitchen looms huge above her but she cannot see Leila. There is an abundant agony when she inhales. She lifts a hand to her side where it is wet and warm.
“I’m Simon,” he said.
The connection was made. Simon, Hannah’s cousin.
“I’ll tell Hannah you came by.” She could think of nothing else to hold
him there, to keep him talking in those resonant tones, to keep looking into the pools of black, his eyes that flashed with an odd green brilliance as he spoke.
She opens her eyes again. There is a man kneeling over her. For a moment she thinks it is that policeman, Nick Retief. Viv’s man. He looks, thinks Gin, a lot like Gabe. An older, wiser, blonder Gabe, eyes grown greyer. Gabe. She tries to smile. He is saying something to her. As always in her dreams, she cannot hear Gabe’s words. His hands are pressing on her ribs, her chest.
Simon will go down those steps, she thought, and she will have to watch him walk away from her, but she knew she would stand there afterwards, forever somehow changed. Yet he stood there still, as if loath to go. She must appear strange, she thought.
Simon started to say something, checked himself. “Thanks.”
Then he walked down the steps, and she watched him walk away, and she stood there afterwards for a long time, forever somehow changed.
She must warn Gabe, tell him about Leila, she thinks, focusing
suddenly
. She opens her mouth, but can only feel froth bubble in her lungs. No words form. She wants to tell him she understands now. She wants to tell him she knows. She wants to explain to Gabe that Leila rammed their car, that it was Leila who wanted to hurt them, hurt Simon. That Leila herself was hurting, hurt.
“Simon,” she says.
Like a lover
.
She wishes Gabe wouldn’t press so hard on her chest. It’s painful. So much pain. It is hard to breathe. She must warn Gabe.
Dad
. She can hear her father’s voice through the white mist that is starting to enshroud her vision, like the mist of Isaac’s words, like the seaspray in Michael’s painting. Michael. Michael would tell her to breathe. But it hurts to breathe, Michael. It hurts, so very much.
Dad’s here
. I must tell Gabe.
She opens her eyes. Leila stands behind Gabe, her arm raised. She holds the knife.
“Gabe,” shouts Gin, “Leila!”
Like a message
.
In the end, realises Gin, it prevails.
Love
. It is all we have, and do not lose. And all we take. There is only an orange twilight, fading fast, to darkness. And then to dawn. She hears her father’s voice, her daughter’s happy gurgle.
Through the mountain’s mist, someone is walking towards her, and her heart will know him before she can glimpse the emerald promise of his eyes
.
