Love in Revolution (9 page)

‘?“Caused to be published”?’ Leon muttered. Mama flinched, but no one else reacted, as if we were all hoping the sergeant hadn’t heard.

‘Well . . . if that’s all . . .’ He shut his notebook and pulled the elastic band round it with a snap. ‘Good evening, Dr Bidart, Mrs Bidart . . . I’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything . . .’

Papa moved the corners of his mouth into a smile and crossed to the door to show him out. I heard him say, ‘Thank you for coming, and do excuse my son – students, you know, he’s at a rebellious age . . .’ Then the front door opened and shut again.

Martin shook his head and hissed through his teeth, glaring at Leon, ‘Great idea, Leon! Just insult the police, why don’t you? To their faces. Why don’t you draw a bullseye on your shirt and invite yourself to the station for target practice?’

‘Be quiet, Martin,’ Mama said, her voice cracking like a whip. ‘Esteya, I cannot credit your stupidity in losing your key! I’m disgusted and disappointed in you both. And as for you, Leon –’ She stopped, catching herself, and shrugged.

Papa came back into the room. He looked round at us, dropped into the nearest chair and dabbed at his eyes as if they were hurting. After a while he said, ‘I looked after his brother’s little girl, when she was ill. Poor little thing. I tried my best, but she was too far gone . . . They had no money, they hadn’t wanted to call me in, until it was too late . . . They’ve never forgiven me.’

‘And now they have a reason to hate Leon too,’ Mama said. She sounded waspish, but her face was white and strained.

‘They don’t need
reasons
,’ Leon said. ‘They’re the self-serving skivvies of a corrupt regime, and –’

‘Be
quiet
!’ Papa said. He took a deep breath and looked at Mama. She returned his gaze, without saying anything.

The silence went on and on. In the end Martin said, ‘I’m hungry.’

‘Yes,’ Mama said, ‘I suppose you’d better wash before supper. Esteya, you’ve got ink all over your hands. I hope you haven’t left black fingerprints all over your school uniform . . . Leon, perhaps you could try to look a little more respectable . . . ? And Martin, you’ve been playing pello in your good shoes again, haven’t you? Honestly, I don’t know why I bother . . .’ Her voice sounded too thin, as if she couldn’t catch her breath. She made her way to the door, holding on to the furniture to support herself, like an old woman. ‘Go on, children. Do get a move on.’

Leon went out without a word, his hands in his pockets, and Martin followed him, more slowly. I stood up too, but the floor felt soft and wobbly, as though I was standing on a plate of jell
y
?. My stomach ached. I said, ‘Sorry, Mama.’

‘Oh, Esteya . . .’ She glanced at me, and then sat down, very suddenly, on the nearest chair. ‘If only you hadn’t been so silly . . . we probably shan’t get anything back, and that horrid policeman . . . and Leon being so –’

She broke off, and ran her forefingers delicately under her eyes. I realised, with a surge of sickness, that she was crying. I said again, pushing the words out, ‘I’m sorry . . .’

‘Run away, Esteya,’ Papa said. ‘We’re all a little overtired, with the upset. Go and wash your hands for supper.’

I swallowed, took a last look at Mama and went out into the hall. I shut the door behind me and then sat on the stairs, my head in my hands. I was too tired to wash my hands; too tired to move. I wasn’t hungry anyway. I never wanted to eat again. It was all my fault. My fault, for being so stupid, for trusting Skizi, when everyone
knew
the Zikindi were thieving bastards . . . I thought of all the spaces in the drawing room, where Mama’s little cherished things had been; and of the sergeant’s face when he called Leon a Communist, with that malicious, triumphant edge in his voice – the same tone he’d used when he’d said,
Mr Edwards is having a word with my colleagues down at the station
. . . Now the police had noticed Leon, and that was dangerous. Maybe Papa should never have called them. But if Skizi hadn’t robbed us, he wouldn’t have needed to. And if I hadn’t let her steal my key . . .

The thoughts went back and forth, like a ball smacking against a wall over and over again.

And it was only then that it occurred to me that maybe I should have told my parents about Skizi. I thought of how easy it would be, really: a few days of fury from Mama and cold disappointment from Papa, distaste from Leon, bewilderment from Martin . . . and the police would get back everything she’d taken, and beat her up a little bit to make sure she moved on, and then everything would be sorted out. That’s what Miren would do, or Ana Himyana, or . . . well, anyone else. That was how things worked.

I closed my eyes. I saw the walls of Skizi’s hut, with lopsided sunlight streaming from the hole in the roof, so the drawings were picked out in random gold: Leon’s glasses, Teddy’s camera, Angel’s beautiful face.

Distantly I could hear my parents arguing, muffled by the door: Mama raising her voice and Papa trying to calm her down. I kept my eyes shut and thought of Skizi.

Then I went upstairs to wash my hands, letting the taps run so I couldn’t hear my parents’ voices.

I woke up in the middle of the night, jolting out of sleep, and I was on my feet and at my window before I realised I was awake. I stood looking out into the street, bracing myself against the window frame, and took deep breaths of night air, feeling the sweat drying on my skin. Something had woken me. It might have been a nightmare, but somehow I was sure that it was something real: a noise, or someone calling my name, something that meant something . . . But everything was quiet.

I waited until I felt chilly. There was nothing but silence. I took a deep breath, and another, and then slowly I turned away from the window and sat down on my bed. But I wasn’t sleepy: whatever had woken me up had woken me up completely, like a bolt of electricity. I leant my head against the wall, wondering if Martin was awake, if he’d heard it too.

And then, suddenly, I realised what the noise was. The front door.

The front door, but no one had come up the stairs. So . . .

I stood up, but I couldn’t make myself open my bedroom door. I was cold, properly cold now; but I felt foolish too, half dressed, as if it made a difference that I was in my nightdress. I grabbed my cardigan and wrapped it round my shoulders, and shoved my feet into my shoes. It helped a little, not to be barefoot. Then, gritting my teeth, I went out on to the landing and looked carefully over the banisters. It was dark, and nothing moved; there was just silence.

I wished Martin had woken up. I thought about knocking on his door, but I didn’t want to make any noise. I was shaking. I went slowly down the stairs, my skin prickling as I listened; but there was still nothing, no movement or sound. There was only the moonlight, steady and silent, giving everything a faint silver edge.

And when I got to the bottom of the stairs, everything was so dark and quiet that my heart slowed a little. There was no one here. There was only a pale rectangle on the telephone table, grainy and blurry-edged in the darkness. When I picked it up there was just enough light to read
Papa
in thick black ink. Leon’s handwriting.

I fumbled, tearing at the envelope, my hands clumsy and sticking to the paper. For a moment, when I got the page out, I thought it was blank. I reached out, finding the light switch with my fingers, and then had to close my eyes as the world leapt into bright yellow, dazzling me. I waited a few seconds, squeezing my eyelids tight against the light, and then opened them. I blinked and looked down at the bit of paper in my hand. The writing on it was thin and spidery, hard to read.

Dear Papa
, it said,
By the time you read this I will be on the train to Irunja. It’s two o’clock in the morning, and I can’t sleep, so I’m leaving now and I’ll wait at the station for the early train. I want to be sure that if anyone comes looking for me, I’m not there.

The relief went to my knees and my heart and my hands all at once. I leant back against the wall, hot and trembling, and heard myself laugh in a quiet alien chuckle that went on and on. I sounded like a madwoman, even to myself, but I couldn’t stop. All of a sudden I saw how stupid I’d been, to be afraid that someone had come for Leon; because they pounded on the door, didn’t they? They didn’t care if they woke the whole household up and caused a panic, and they didn’t let people leave notes for their parents . . .

I don’t know when I’ll see you again. The Party needs me, Papa – more than you do, anyway, or my stepmother. I know you’re afraid of my getting into trouble, but don’t be. I’m working for a better world, where no one will be dragged away in the middle of the night and tortured and never seen again. You have to let me do that.

Will you tell Esteya and Martin that one of my friends has promised me tickets for the final of the King’s Cup? Maybe they can visit me in Irunja then.

With a sudden shock, I realised I was reading someone else’s letter. I imagined Mama’s face if she saw me, and put it hastily down on the telephone table.

Right now, Leon would be waiting at the station – or outside it, sitting on his suitcase, probably reading a copy of
The Communist Manifesto
by moonlight. He was safe, and we were safe, and even if the policeman came back tomorrow to arrest him, no one would get hurt. I felt the giggles of relief bubble up again. I’d been so scared . . .

I turned around to go upstairs. The little side table caught my eye, and I paused, looking at the space where the inkwell had been. The circle in the dust was blatant in the electric light. Dorotea hadn’t even bothered to wipe it away.

I thought I was feeling glad that Leon was safe; but somehow, without anything changing, I knew it wasn’t gladness. It was fury. I was so angry I could hardly breathe.

Skizi. This was all her fault.

I couldn’t believe the cheek of it. How had she
dared
? The guilt and the hurt faded, until I couldn’t feel anything but rage.

It was as if I was watching myself from outside. I saw myself open the front door and step out into the street, head held high, fists clenched at my sides. The door swung noisily shut behind me, but I didn’t look round. I saw myself stride away, towards the church, following the monochrome streets, my footsteps ringing out in the dead silence. When I got to the church, I turned left, down the alleyways, trying to remember where Skizi had taken me. I wasn’t sure exactly where I was going, but I kept walking and I wasn’t afraid, even when I could hardly see anything. I came out by the river and made my way up the hill, through the long grass. Now I could see the path, wide and pale in the moonlight, with low, odd shadows, and the hut and its olive tree, in front of the moon. I sped up, breaking into a run, and my bare feet felt slippery in my shoes.

When I was a few metres from the hut I stopped to catch my breath. Up here the breeze was stronger, and the olive leaves rustled, whispering to me. I was still shaking with anger. I took deep breaths, but my heart was racing and I couldn’t get it to slow down.

I walked through the grass to the door of the hut, careful not to kick the blocks of stone that were scattered around. I heard something on the ground scuttle away as I came close. The door was ajar, and it opened loudly as I pushed it, scraping on the ground. I heard a movement from the other end of the hut, where Skizi’s bundle of blankets had been.

I said clearly, ‘Get up. You dishonest, thieving Zikindi scum.’

There was a patch of paler grey that raised itself, and I saw the glint of her eyes. ‘Esteya?’ Her voice was thick with sleep; it made her sound very young, like a child.

‘You stole my key,’ I said. ‘You let yourself into our house and took my mother’s jewellery and Martin’s knife and all the little valuable things. You’re a
thief
.’

There was a silence. The world was developing, very slowly, like a photograph: now it was clearer, with subtle, hardly perceptible hints of colour. Skizi was sitting up, her hair over her face, her eyes catching the light.

She said, ‘Yes . . . ?’

It took me aback; I’d expected her to deny it. I took a deep breath and tried to remember what I’d been planning to say. ‘Well, I want them back. Now. They’re not yours. It was a wicked – a wrong – a
horrible
thing to do.’ I heard my voice, and wondered why I didn’t sound convinced by my own words. ‘Give them back
right now
.’

Skizi raised her hand to push her hair out of her eyes and leant forward, watching me through the dimness. She said, ‘Do you need them?’

‘No, but – no, but they’re not yours. You
stole
them.’

‘Yes, I suppose so . . .’ she said again. Her voice was quiet and level, as if she didn’t understand what I wanted.

I strode into the middle of the room. The holes in the roof threw a pattern of moonlight on the floor, like angular lace. I said, ‘Where are they? Where have you hidden them? I want them back
this instant
.’

‘All right,’ she said. ‘If you really need them.’

But she didn’t move. I could see her properly now. She was still wearing her grimy shirt. Her neck was only a little bit darker than the cloth.