The Gloaming (32 page)

Franco and I, we were not aging well. Smoking is terrible for lungs and all the burning tires we'd inhaled in Tripoli and tear gas in Kinshasa. Franco's guts hadn't been put back in very well in Juba; there was still a big tear in his abdominal muscles. And I still had that bullet in my lower spine.

There was not a breath of wind, not even the sound of leaves rustling. Like the trees were not real, but some kind of painted set. Something Stalin would come up with, a pretty field or village street, and then behind it piles of bodies, most of my
baburya
's family. I kept listening and it was so crazy not to hear anything. We walked because we couldn't run any more. I was just tired, I really couldn't be bothered, like being out in the snow, that feeling you just want to lie down and go to sleep. I almost said to Franco that we should just give up, what did we really care about living?

Then we heard the bicycle bell, a bright little brriiing! We ducked into the trees. Fucking Remy was on a bicycle. They were all on bicycles, the four cyclists of the apocalypse. We stayed low and very still until they passed. But they were looking for us, they knew we weren't far, they were trying to smell us. Franco and I crept away, deeper into the forest.

We walked east, for no reason other than that it was away from the road and Remy, and we needed to pick a steady direction. We walked until it was too dark. We had to stop because the canopy of trees was so thick we couldn't see the stars. Of course, if we still had Franco's iPhone, we could have used the compass app. What a fucking genius.

After three days of walking we were not doing well at all—that fucking forest—and when that third night came we were thinking we were done. Franco, especially. But then we saw a light. Just one little point of light. And we started on, losing the light for a moment or two as we staggered on through the trees.

Finally, we came upon an old mission, a big stone house in a wide clearing. A low wall was more a landscaping feature than serious defense. The gate was open. Anyone could go in. So we went in. There were a number of kerosene lamps in the courtyard and we could therefore see the people here, families, and I wondered why we hadn't heard them further out, because it was quite a din: women cooking and talking, children crying or laughing. I listened to the other sounds, a wooden spoon on a tin plate, bare feet on straw mats, coughing. I felt like crying because my ears were aching from the lack of sound.

No one gave us a second glance. We carried on up the stone steps and into the mission. A crusty old nun came out in a bathrobe. ‘Oh, dear,' she said, taking Franco's hand and leading him into a living room. ‘Oh, dear, dear, dear.' As Franco sat down, she nodded to a young boy: ‘You'd better get the doctor.'

*

To be honest, I did not remember. Certainly, when I saw her, when she walked in, she was not a woman I would recognize or even notice. I wasn't even sure she was a woman. Her hair was cut very short and she was wearing baggy clothes. And the light was very dim.

She was gentle with Franco. She felt his abdomen and took his pulse. She made him comfortable on the sofa. ‘I don't have an IV,' she said. ‘We're completely out.' She held a glass of water to his lips and he took a couple of sips. He looked pretty fucked up and I could see when he lay down that his belly was swollen. She plumped his pillow, then took a wet cloth and washed his face.

She turned to me. For a very brief moment her eyes met mine and I thought I saw something more than professional concern. I had no idea what it might be. She had a basin of water and began washing my face.

‘No,' I pushed her away. ‘I can do it.'

I woke up in the night and she was there, sitting in a chair.

‘What is this place?'

‘A refuge.'

The moon came through the window onto her face and I saw a certain beauty there.

‘A refuge? There's a war. They'll just come here and kill you. Kill all these people. There's no refuge.'

‘Do you have a cigarette?'

I sat up and gave her one.

‘Sister Mary doesn't like me smoking.'

‘Least of her troubles,' I said. And laughed.

‘That's right,' she said.

‘What? What's right?'

‘Nothing.' She took another drag, but there was a smile on her lips.

I watched her. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘I'm a medic. I was with an MSF convoy that was attacked near the mountains. Everyone was killed except me. I ended up here.'

‘When was that?'

‘A year ago.'

Oh, shit, I nearly said. Because I remembered me and Franco, and it had certainly been a fuck up. The wrong coordinates, an error, really. Instead I said, ‘What's the point?'

‘The point?'

I noticed her hands, they were really quite lovely though worn and rough from the sun.

‘Yeah, the point. The people out there, the children. I mean, you save them for how long? It's not like their lives were great even before this particular shit storm.'

‘There is no point,' she said. ‘It's what you make of it anyway.'

‘Then why the fuck bother?'

‘Listen,' she said, turning her head toward a sound. It was still far off, but closing in. The cheerful briiing of a bicycle bell.

She knew what it was, same as me, but she didn't freak out. She kept smoking.

‘Pilgrim,' I said, because it came to me.

She looked at me. ‘Yes, Martin.'

‘I know this one. It doesn't have a good ending.'

She put out the cigarette, stood and wiped her hands on her trousers, an automatic gesture, because they were definitely not dirty. She walked into the courtyard. The sun was just coming up and the women were boiling kettles and the children, most of them were still sleeping. Pilgrim walked among them and they knew her. They offered her tea. Beyond them, under an acacia, was a Land Rover, an old 109, in pretty good shape, and so easy to hotwire.

She went out the gate. Remy J and the others were coming up the road. They stopped their bicycles and got off. Remy started talking to her, gesticulating. Though I couldn't hear his words, it was clear he was very, extremely pissed off. She stood quite still in the tall shadow of him, and as there was no point in running away, no point at all, she raised her arm to shade her face from the rising sun.

I looked again at the 109.

Instead, I said, ‘Remy.' A whisper, really. Then louder, stepping toward him, because I meant it. ‘Remy.'

With thanks to my agent, Kate Shaw, and to Eric Obenauf and Eliza Wood-Obenauf at Two Dollar Radio who passionately nurtured the US publication. In the UK, thank you to my champion editor, Sophie Buchan, and the team at W&N. And to Olga Gressot, Betsy Peirce and my mother who took such good care of my daughters, giving me precious time to write.

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