That Devil's Madness (36 page)

She had to get out of here. She could make her own way to Skikda, but she was filthy. If she went out like this she'd attract attention. She had to clean herself up.

In the small oval mirror hanging on the bathroom wall Nicolette looked at her reflection – she'd never seen herself like this before, bruised and burnt, her hair not brushed for days. She badly needed a shower, but she'd have to hurry. She stripped off.

Not even the luxury of hot water on unwashed skin could stop Nicolette's mind spiralling through every conversation she'd had with Steven. She examined every inflection, searched for every intimation.
This isn't a game, you know. I know. And you still insist on going? Yes. So be it then.

So be it.

So be it…

But Steven had looked out for her – comforted her when she needed it and stopped her feeling sorry for herself. Bought her boots and cigarettes. Made her eat when she wasn't hungry so she wouldn't get run down. So why go to these extremes now just to stop her getting that story?

Unless he was involved.

She turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. Steven involved in a gunrunning operation was almost too much to contemplate, but she had to consider it a possibility. She dried herself quickly; wrapped the towel around herself and used a facecloth to try and get as much mud off her clothes as possible.

Okay, so what if she assumed he was involved? It would explain all the contacts he had here. The ‘guide' he'd provided for her first time in Constantine. But then again, surely she would have noticed
something
before now. She dressed and ran her fingers through her wet hair.

He never does anything that'll give him away. It's how he survives.
Jean-Paul had said the arms negotiator never got his hands dirty – was always there, but in the background, organising things but never directly involved.
Someone who can travel around without arousing suspicion.
Who better than a journalist – a foreign correspondent?

It all made sense now – once she admitted the possibility of Steven being involved in arms negotiations, little things fell into place, like tumblers in a lock. The arms drop in Constantine, the night they were in Marseille – a much better reason for being there than a bowl of bouillabaisse. He'd gone off after their meal, and at the time she'd just accepted it. The missing film – she remembered now; she'd finished off the film by taking his photo. No wonder he hadn't objected that time – he knew he'd get rid of the film somehow.

She thought of the supposed Boumedienne staff member who'd had nothing to say – a good excuse to get her away, so she wouldn't be included in the press tour of the area. What an idiot he must have thought her – she just agreed to whatever he suggested. And Jean-Paul had said the guns used here probably came from Vietnam.
I know Steven was working with the Vietnamese. He was all over the place.
Even their scoop with the dead farmer made sense now; of course Steven would have known about it. He'd probably organised it.

She felt as one does when a friend had died suddenly. Violently. She wanted to scream, yell at the world, kick something – someone – anything to react to the wrongness of it all, to her stupidity, to her betrayal. But at the same time she wanted to cry, to roll up into a little ball in a corner somewhere, shut the world out and hibernate until it all went away.

She heard a noise outside and froze. Listened. A cat meowed. She breathed out. She had to think. To get out of here. Steven would be looking for her. Depending on when he could get a flight, he could get to Constantine in an hour – he could even charter a plane. How long had she been in the house? In the shower? Would Steven know where to find her? He'd asked her where she was, but she hadn't said anything that would hint at her location. It would take him a while.

What about Rafiq? He could tell him where he'd taken her. No – if Jean-Paul was right, Rafiq probably had no contact with Steven. Too far apart in the hierarchy. And he wouldn't have brought her here; he would have killed her when he had the chance. No, Rafiq would never be disloyal to her – he'd proven himself, twice already. But she had thought that of Steven too…

She went back to the kitchen. She mustn't panic – Steven would need time to find her. By the time he found this house, she'd be on her way out of Algeria. She looked in the drawers for anything she might be able to use. A knife of some sort, matches. She found an empty bottle with a lid and filled it with water.
Rafiq would never be disloyal to her.
Did she believe that? Did she really believe the bond between their family meant something to him? Maybe. Could she rely on that, or was it all too late?
You left and forgot about us, like everyone else.
But she was here, now. If she ran, she'd be doing the same thing she'd done before. Turning her back on what was really happening. Closing her eyes.
The world doesn't want to think about Algeria. It's all too hard.
She could stay. Use her photographs to make the world think. Force it to look at Algeria in the face, tear away the mask of indifference. And if
The Herald
wouldn't publish her photos, she'd find another paper that would. Her grandfather would have done it. She could wait for Rafiq. Trust him. Enlist his help. Tell him the bond hadn't died with their grandfathers. But she'd be risking her life.

Nicolette saw the flash of white turban through the shutters of kitchen window at the same instant the wood of the kitchen door splintered. She turned towards it through air as thick as molasses. Three men burst into the room. Splinters of wood spread out like a volley of miniature arrows pursued by flashes of fire spurting from automatic rifles. The bottle in her hand dropped to the floor. Shattered. Water splashed onto the cupboards and ran between the tiles of the floor, darkening the grouting. Cracks reverberated through the air, each melting into the next, wave after deafening wave. Nicolette put out a hand as if to push away the bullets. Her lips formed into an ‘o' of surprise. Her body fell forward, curling onto itself – a time-lapse photograph of the birth of a fern, played backward.

When her body hit the floor the shooting stopped.

A dark fog crept towards her, enveloped her. She watched her blood slowly spread. Red lava on snow-white tiles. She cursed Rafiq for betraying her.

Tiny particles of dust swirled in the shattered room. A piece of glass gave way to gravity, clinked to the ground. The door of a cupboard slowly opened. Outside, clouds covered the sun. Footsteps crunched the gravel of the alleyway.

On the hill overlooking the village, the soft whistle of Lennon's
Imagine
drifted in the air.

28

Steven finished the last sentence he was writing and pulled the sheet of paper out his typewriter.

‘Tell me what you think of this.'

He put the typewriter on the floor and began to read:

Thursday: January 4, 1979: 13.54GMT

Algiers: Nicolette de Dercou, Australian photographer for the Melbourne
Herald,
was shot dead by unknown gunmen on the Constantine-Sétif road yesterday. Her body was found on the side of the road seventeen kilometres from Constantine. She had been shot several times in the chest and abdomen.

Miss de Dercou was on assignment covering the funeral of President Boumedienne.

Also found was the body of Rafiq al-Zain, a 29-year-old Algerian, believed to have been her guide. He was killed by a single bullet through the head.

Authorities believe it to be the work of insurgents. Algeria has a long history of social unrest, but has enjoyed relative peace since Boumedienne came to power.

Michael Davies, Bureau Chief here in Algiers, said ‘We are greatly saddened by Miss de Dercou's death, and our condolences go out to the families of both victims.'

Steven lowered the sheet of paper and looked at DJ. ‘Think it'll do?'

‘I'd say so. Brief and to the point.'

Steven nodded and sat looking at the sheet of paper in his hand.

‘You okay?'

‘Yeah. I just wish she hadn't run.'

‘You weren't to know.'

‘That's just it, I thought I
did
know – after the way she froze that day, I figured she'd just stay in that cave till they released her. A couple of days of being roughed up, and she'd forget all about chasing gunrunners. I figured all she'd want was to get home.'

‘Yeah, but she
did
run, and once she caught on that you weren't kidnapped, she became a loose cannon. You had no choice.'

Steven nodded – he knew what DJ said was true. But he'd liked Nicolette – she'd reminded him of himself, many years ago. ‘You know, I've been thinking. Maybe we should start something in her memory. Some sort of award or something for photojournalists. Call it
The Nicolette de Dercou Award
.'

‘What about
The Nicolette de Dercou Award in Perpetuity
?'

‘Yeah, something like that. She'd like that.'

‘She would. She was a good kid.'

‘Yeah, she was that…'

29

Nicolette held her grandfather's hand as they walked the decks of the
Neptunia.
A gentle sea breeze played with her long curls.

‘Is Australia very far away?' she asked.

‘The other side of the world.'

‘Have you been there before?'

Louis shook his head. ‘No, but I've seen postcards – it's very beautiful. I think you'll like it.'

Nicolette considered that information for a moment. ‘Is it like Algeria?'

‘Some bits. It's very big. And they've got strange animals there. I saw a picture of an animal with a head like a deer that stood on its hind legs and hopped instead of walking. But what was really strange was that it carried its baby in a sort of pocket at the front.'

Nicolette laughed. ‘Animals don't have pockets, Grandpa!'

‘This one did.'

‘Where? Where did you see the photo?'

‘In a newspaper.'

‘Well, there you are, then. You always say you can't believe anything you see in the papers. That they always lie.'

‘I say you can't believe anything you
read
in the papers. Words can twist the truth so that even though they're telling you one thing, they're really saying another. But photographs, now that's different – you can't mess with photographs.'

Nicolette thought about the difference between words and images – what her grandfather said made sense. She wondered if these animals were dangerous.

They passed a group of children playing with a skipping rope and stopped to watch for a while.

‘Why don't you join them?'

‘I like walking with you better.' Nicolette pulled him away from the children. ‘Grandpa, is Jamilah going to be all right? Rafiq?'

‘I hope so, Princess.'

‘But if the fighting goes on, what are they going to do? They could get killed.'

Louis thought about an Algeria constantly at war – it was a very definite possibility. ‘I guess they'll just have to do whatever it takes to stay alive. It's all you can ask of people, really. But don't worry about them; they'll be all right. Come on, let's go see if your mother's over her seasickness yet. Let's forget about Algeria for a while.'

The
Neptunia
glided over a sea of blue glass. On her deck people strolled arm in arm or sat in deckchairs reading. Africa lay behind her, Australia ahead.

Overhead, a gull screeched.

The Yellow Papers

Dominique Wilson

Trade PB 352pp

ISBN: 9781921924613

e-ISBN 9781921924620

It's 1872 and China – still bruised from its defeat in the two Opium Wars – sends a group of boys, including seven-year-old Chen Mu, to America to study and bring back the secrets of the West. But nine years on Chen Mu becomes a fugitive and flees to Umberumberka, a mining town in outback Australia. He eventually finds peace working for Matthew Dawson, a rich pastoralist.

When the bubonic plague ravages Sydney, Matthew Dawson's daughter returns to her father's property with her son, Edward. But it's a lonely life for a small boy surrounded only by adults, and he soon befriends Chen Mu, forging a friendship that will last a lifetime.

Years later, Edward visits a mysterious and decadent Shanghai, where he falls in love with Ming Li, the beautiful young wife of a Chinese businessman. Invading Japanese armies tear the couple apart and years pass before they reunite, each scarred by the events of World War II and the Korean War. But will it be only to be torn apart once again?

The Yellow Papers
is a story of love, obsession and friendship set against a backdrop of war and racial prejudice.

‘Dominique Wilson is a wonderful storyteller. Spanning the histories of China and Australia, this tale, woven between tenderness and violence, percolates with alternating emotions until the final page is turned. The research is impeccable, the realism unforgiving.' Brian Castro