Darkmans (48 page)

Just a doctor of modern languages.’

‘And this book is about your daughter?’

He nodded.

Elen inspected the beautifully reproduced black and white cover photograph of a young woman sitting squarely – confidently – astride a huge, bald-kneed, baleful-eyed camel. She was a strong, lean, fierce-looking creature, scowling down (somewhat exasperatedly) at the photographer, dressed entirely in white robes (her dark hair obscured by an Arabic-style headscarf). She was holding the camel’s reins in one hand and what looked like a map of some kind – or an architect’s plan, perhaps – in the other, with an old rifle supported casually across her lap.

‘The Lily of Darfur?’

He nodded. ‘That’s what they called her. About five months after she disappeared we received a large, brown envelope containing over 400 letters, most of them written in unschooled Arabic. Many from children. And that one, special phrase – that poetic tribute – was used in virtually all of them…’

Elen turned the book over and inspected the photo on the back. This second image was of Eva (aged about seven), standing on a beach in her swimwear, her dark hair curling around her pinched, little face, scowling (once again), her arms folded, defiantly, across her chest and a small plastic spade propped under one elbow. Behind
her, the sea was slowly devouring a huge, ornate sandcastle, a magnificent structure which reminded Elen (in spirit, at least) of some of the early works of that wonderfully eccentric and devout Spanish architect –

‘
Gaudí
,’ Charles murmured (as if reading her thoughts). ‘For about six months all she’d do was talk about Gaudí, think about Gaudí, emulate Gaudí’s work…’

‘Did you always know Eva was special?’ she wondered.

‘Every parent thinks their own kid is special,’ he shrugged, ‘but yes, I suppose we did. Eva had an old soul. From her first days on earth she had this…’ he shook his head, ‘this strangely
exhausted
quality about her. And this unquenchable thirst. This
hunger.
It could be quite terrifying just being around her. She was such a creature of extremes. So vulnerable – lost –
haunted
even, yet so joyful, so inquisitive, so
eager…
’

As he spoke Elen’s eye ran down the assorted eulogies on the back cover: Winner of the Prairie Rose Standard, Joint Winner of the International Origins Award, Shortlisted for the Mary Trask Prize for Non-fiction, and then, ‘Rich, dark, funny, heartbreaking; a book which grapples with the fundamental issues of how it feels – and what it
means
– to be human.’
Sunday Times.

‘Essential reading for both parents
and
non-parents. A truly modern parable.’
Daily Express.

‘Not hectoring, not preachy, but funny, cruel, horribly unrelenting and
real.
Superb.’
Time Out.

‘Unputdownable. Savage but redemptive. Tender but dispassionate.

An unalloyed tear-jerker.’
Marie Claire.

‘A book which really makes you hate yourself for having poked fun at the “clever kid” in class. Heart-breaking.’
Sunday Mirror.

‘[The Lily of Darfur] should be sent out, free, to every college, every nursery and every school in this country. It’s required reading.’ Marie Knoakes,
Health Issues
, Radio 4.

‘This book not only changed my mind, it transformed my world.’ John Myers MBE.

Then, at the very bottom, a highlighted strip which read: Soon to be made into a Motion Picture.

‘What amazing reviews,’ Elen exclaimed.

‘Publisher’s guff,’ he shrugged, ‘I’m convinced they make half of that stuff up…’

‘Do they?’ she looked shocked.

He took the book from her and placed it firmly back into the box.

‘But is there a film?’ she persisted.

He nodded. ‘It came out late last year.’

‘Was it any good?’

‘Good?’ he frowned, plainly conflicted. ‘Uh…Let’s just say the jury’s still out on that…’

‘Really?’

She continued to stare up at him, expectantly.

‘It was called
The Very Special Child
,’ he finally elucidated. ‘I was played by John Cusack. My wife was the girl who played Phoebe in
Friends.
I met her at the premiere, in fact…’ he laughed, wryly. ‘She was extremely charming…’

‘And who played Eva?’

‘A young actress called Maya Coales. Have you heard of her?’

Elen shook her head.

‘No. Nor had I. But she was tremendous. She’d been a regular in kids’ tv drama for years, apparently, but this was her first major role. She was passionate about the part. Incredibly conscientious. She actually came to live with us for a few weeks before she began filming…’

‘That must have been strange,’ Elen murmured.

‘Not only strange but extremely challenging…’

‘How, exactly?’

‘Well…’ he gave his answer a few, brief moments’ consideration ‘…because I suppose I’d taken a kind of
refuge
in the book – almost without realising it – in the act of writing it, crafting it,
honing
it. It was like this perfect, totally self-contained little bubble…’ he frowned, ‘but then suddenly this young woman turns up, and she’s asking so many questions. Questions I hadn’t been able to ask before, questions I hadn’t
wanted
to ask. Questions I’d
avoided
to some extent…’

He cleared his throat and grimaced.

‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ Elen murmured.

‘I’m not…’ he scowled, confused, ‘or if I am, then it’s because I
need
to be. It’s important not to forget, not to…I don’t know…’ he scratched at his ear and mused for a moment. ‘The awful truth is that in some sick and twisted way writing the book has allowed me to become the inadvertent
beneficiary
of Eva’s tragedy – all the literary plaudits, the glamorous film premieres, the financial rewards…They
don’t sit comfortably with me, and nor
should
they. Because no matter how you look at it, we made mistakes with Eva – I mean as parents –
serious
mistakes. Eva was a special case. We needed to…’ he shook his head. ‘There were things we could’ve done. Things we
should’ve
done…’

‘But Eva’s
gone
,’ Elen said softly. ‘Isn’t that punishment enough?’

He smiled at her, vaguely. ‘Writing the book was one thing,’ he confided, ‘but to sit there – in the cinema – and suddenly see everything flashing past in this awful, brash technicolour. To see Eva’s life so…I don’t know…
reduced.
To see everything drawn in such stark, simple strokes…’ he shook his head. ‘Her life was the opposite of that. It was chaotic and fragile and contradictory…just…well, a
mess
, really…’ he shrugged. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all of this it’s that life –
real
life – can’t ever be drawn that neatly and cleanly. Eva’s life was a jumble of bad lines, smudges, half-erased ideas…’

‘A mess of sweat and blood and snot…’

‘
Exactly.
’ He nodded, emphatically. ‘One of the worst things about the film was how they dealt with her death. Eva was kidnapped by the SLA – the Sudan Liberation Army, but in the film they confused them with another anti-government militia called the JAEM – who have strong Islamic connections. They implied that the troubles in the Sudan were based on an Arab/African conflict, although the truth couldn’t actually be more different…It’s an economic, a political – an
environmental
– catastrophe, not a cultural one. And that was something which Eva herself felt very strongly about…’

‘When my father drowned,’ Elen suddenly interrupted him, ‘I did everything I could to lay blame – to seek retribution. It was exhausting and horrible and – I don’t know…counter-productive, even, but it kept him alive. It made him
breathe
again. And at the time I really needed that. It’s what got me through…’ she shrugged. ‘I suppose what I’m trying to say – in my own clumsy, roundabout way – is that Eva gave her life for what she believed in. Hers was such an enormous sacrifice. And perhaps you just need to keep reminding yourself of that fact. Step back and really allow her choices to
mean
something, respect them, allow Eva and what she was to transcend all this other stuff – all the pointless regrets and the misunderstandings. Because if you can’t…’ she shrugged, helplessly, ‘then you’re diluting what’s
true
about her…’

She frowned. ‘If you feel confused or depressed about things, just try and focus in on the pure
idea
of Eva, on the gestures she made, the defiance she showed, on the
moment
, the
fire…
Remember that everything else is just a distraction. An aside. A footnote…’

He stared at her as she spoke, frowning slightly. He focussed in on her eyes, at first, then his gaze moved to her mouth.

‘That’s beautiful,’ he murmured softly, once she’d finished.

She turned and glanced around the room, embarrassed.

‘Have you lived here long?’ she wondered.

‘Uh…’ It took him a moment to snap out of his reverie. ‘Yes.
No.
I mean I don’t really live here. It was a holiday home when the kids were young, and now it’s my retreat. My study. It’s where I come to work, mainly…’

‘It’s lovely. Very…’ she smiled, ‘
cosy.
’

‘An awful mess, you mean?’ he said, teasingly.

‘No. Very cosy. Very
snug…
’ she grinned.

Silence

‘I suppose I should be thinking about getting back…’

She reached out and grabbed a hold of the box.

‘She didn’t die,’ he said, suddenly.

‘Pardon?’

‘I couldn’t…’ he frowned ‘…this is
ridiculous.
’ He put a hand to his forehead. He seemed intensely confused.

‘Eva didn’t die,’ he repeated. ‘It wasn’t…I mean I don’t even know why I’m
telling
you this. I just can’t keep on…’ he almost burst out laughing. ‘It’s just…It’s become…The truth is that she faked her own death.’

‘What?’

Elen’s grip tightened on the box.

‘She fell in love with a Sudanese warlord. Not even a warlord, actually – a least there’d be a kind of
glory
to that – just some local small-time thug. She converted to Islam. She simply wanted to disappear, she said. So they concocted this scheme. She wanted to be dead to
us.
Her family. Her past. Her former dreams. So she killed herself. She killed the Eva she was. But she
isn’t
dead. She’s alive. I went to the Sudan. I
found
her there…’

‘But what about the book?’ Elen asked, appalled. ‘And the
film
?’

‘The book had already been published. The film was in postproduction. I went on a kind of pilgrimage because of some of the things that young actress – Maya – had brought up…And then, when I found out – I mean how ironic, when you think about it…this story was so much more extraordinary, so much more harsh and cruel than
anything
those movie people could’ve conceived of…And when I found out…well, I just couldn’t
bear…
’

He covered his face with his hands.

‘Good God,’ Elen said, staring at him, in horror.

‘Yes.’

They remained silent for a while.

‘I was a failure,’ he said. ‘As a father, as a teacher…even as a chronicler of my own daughter’s demise. And my punishment is to be internationally celebrated for the very thing I was a failure at.’

‘What about your wife?’

He shook his head. ‘I didn’t tell her. I haven’t told her.’

Elen looked astonished.

‘I just couldn’t bear to. I tried to but she wouldn’t…she
couldn’t…
’

‘How long since…?’

‘Three months.’

‘And what will you…?’

‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. ‘

‘But when you
met
her again, didn’t she…?’

‘
Nothing.
No emotion. She was wearing the veil. She spoke to me in Arabic, through an interpreter. She never even made eye contact.’

‘But are you
sure
that she…?’

‘Nobody forced her. Nobody
could
force Eva. Everything she’d done was of her own free will. She said that for the first time in her life she felt truly herself. Truly complete. Truly happy. She said the old Eva was dead and that the person who stood before me was just a ghost…’

Elen’s grip slipped on the box.

‘Are you all right there?’ He quickly moved towards her.

‘Thank you. No. It’s fine…’

She glanced around her, anxiously.

‘Eva made me swear to keep her secret,’ he continued. ‘She begged me. She told me to consider it as my one, last duty to her as her father.’

He paused, observing Elen’s unease. ‘But
enough…
You must get back to your son,’ he said.

Elen opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She seemed overwhelmed.

‘Just try not to think too badly of me,’ he murmured, ‘if you possibly can…’

Her eyes widened. ‘Think
badly
of you?’ she expostulated, ‘How could I? How could I possibly? I’m
honoured…
’

She smiled at him, then she frowned. ‘I’m just…This isn’t really…I just need to…’ she looked around her. ‘Would you mind…?’

She tipped her head, nervously, towards the adjacent room. ‘Yes. I mean no. Not at all. Of
course.
Go through.’

She walked to the door and peered gingerly around it. There was a tiny room beyond; a monkish cell, no more than seven feet square. It consisted of a small bed, a sink and a window covered by a pale, grey blind. Curled up in the bed lay Dory, sound asleep, wrapped up in some blankets and a hand-sewn, patchwork eiderdown.

‘Oh God…’ she glanced over her shoulder, ‘he’s climbed into your bed. And there’s
mud…
’

She gestured, limply.

Charles Bartlett came to join her. He gazed down at Dory.

‘Is he asleep?’

‘Yes.
No.
I’m not sure. He suffers from a rare form of narcolepsy.

Sometimes his behaviour…’

‘It’s fine. You don’t have to explain…’ he took the box from her.

‘I’ll carry this out to the car. Don’t worry about the mess. Take as long as you need…’

He quickly withdrew.