That Devil's Madness (5 page)

Even before she reached her daughter's room Nicolette could hear Willow's breathing – it sounded wrong, laboured, a high-pitched wheezing sound as if she couldn't get air down her throat. From the light of the corridor, Nicolette could see her daughter spread-eagle across the bed, still asleep, her blankets kicked to the floor. Benji jumped on the bed, put his head on Willow's chest and whimpered once more.

‘Shhh, Benji. Don't wake her.' She pushed the dog's head off her daughter's chest. Benji gave one quick wag of his tail then lay still.

Nicolette turned on the bedside lamp. Saw the swollen throat, the paleness of her daughter's skin. This was no ordinary sore throat. She picked a blanket off the floor and covered Willow, then hurried back to their bedroom to wake Michael.

As Michael palpated Willow's throat, she woke and crunched her eyes to the light.

‘Hi Possum.' Michael felt for her pulse. ‘Does the light hurt?'

Willow nodded and Nicolette turned off the light, opening the bedroom door wider so that the light from the corridor shone through.

‘We have to get the doctor.'

Michael nodded. ‘Wait till daylight and I'll go to the general store to ring.'

‘What do you think it is?'

‘Probably just tonsillitis. Or mumps – her throat's definitely swollen. She'll be alright, don't worry.'

But Nicolette
was
worried. Her daughter looked too ill for just tonsillitis, and her breathing really frightened her. It seemed as if Willow was fighting for every breath she took. ‘I'll get her some aspirin for her temperature. That won't hurt, will it?'

In the kitchen Nicolette crushed half an aspirin tablet between two spoons, then mixed it with a little jam. But when she tried to give it to Willow, the child couldn't swallow.

‘Please, Michael, get the doctor now…'

#

‘I can't go,' Michael said a few minutes later, handing her a cup of coffee. ‘I think there's too much snow out there, and it's still coming down. The car won't make it through all that.'

Nicolette looked at Michael, stunned.
The car won't make it?

‘So walk. Leave the car, take a torch and
walk.
For crying out loud, Michael, look at her! They'd have cleared the highway during the day – it's only our lane that's a problem. I'm sure of it. The highway'll only have this evening's fall, that's all. You only have to get to the highway. The general store's not far – you'll be okay, we've walked it before.
Please
, Michael, go now. Wait for him there – come back with him in case he doesn't know our place.'

#

For the rest of the night Nicolette stayed beside her daughter, wiping her forehead and body with a damp face washer to try and lessen her temperature, but this seemed to achieve little. She thought of a neighbour whose child had had whooping cough, and how steam had helped, but his breathing had sounded different. Maybe she should light the water heater in the bathroom anyway, and take Willow out there – turn on the shower? Did they have enough kindling? But that little wood-fired heater took forever to heat the water; the firebox was so small it only took the smallest bits of wood…

As dawn broke, she opened the curtains – it had stopped snowing. In the morning light Willow's skin and lips looked blue, and each breath she took seemed to require more and more effort.

‘Sweetheart, it's Mummy. Can you open your eyes for me?' But if Willow heard Nicolette, she gave no sign of it. Nicolette felt a growing panic that she barely managed to control.
Come on, why aren't you here? Why are you taking so long?
But she knew that if the only doctor in Delegate – the closest village – was unavailable for any reason, Michael would have to ring the one in Bombala, and that was well over an hour's drive away in the best of conditions. He'd been gone for hours now. What was keeping them? But she had told him to wait – maybe the doctor'd been called away to see someone else. Maybe
he
was snowed in, up his way.

‘Baby? Open your eyes for Mummy…'
Please God, make them come now.
She went to the front veranda, hoping to see the doctor's car coming her way. Nothing. Back inside she wet the face washer again and wiped Willow's face and chest, knowing it wouldn't help, but she had to do
something
.
I don't care about anyone else being sick. Make the doctor come now. Help my baby!
She stroked Willow's forehead, softly sang ‘Toora-Loora-Loora' – her daughter so loved that lullaby…

Over in Killarney

Many years ago

My Mother sang a song to me

In tones so sweet and low…

Benji still lay beside Willow, his attention focused on Nicolette, and occasionally he'd give a little whimper. Nicolette stroked her daughter's forehead, her cheek, willing her to fight, willing her lungs to breathe more easily.

… Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

Too-ra-loo-ra-li

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

Hush now, don't you cry…

But Willow was too sick to cry – she barely looked conscious. Where were they?
Please God, help my little girl!
She stood and walked to the window, willing the doctor's car to appear. Suddenly, Benji began to howl – a long mournful howl that made Nicolette shiver. She hurried to quieten the dog, anxious he not disturb Willow, and saw that her child had died.

#

‘Through here, Doctor. The room at the end of the corridor.'

Nicolette heard the sound of boots being kicked off, a door being closed.
Stay away from my baby.
The doctor came into the room – an old man she'd never seen before. Benji growled.
Don't touch my baby.

‘Nicolette? Let the doctor—'

‘No! Don't touch her.'

‘Please, I can't examine the child if—'

‘No!' And Benji's growl turned to barks.

‘Will you please let me examine your daughter, and someone take that bloody dog out of here!'

Michael grabbed Benji and shut him in the kitchen, but still the dog barked. By the time he came back into the room, the doctor was putting away his stethoscope.

‘You should have called me earlier. How long had she been sick?'

‘Oh God! Nick?'

But Nicolette didn't answer.

Michael crumpled against the wall, shaking his head. Slowly slid to the floor. ‘A few days… I thought it was just a cold… tonsillitis maybe… mumps…'

‘And you're a doctor, are you?'

‘I was a medic… In Vietnam…'

‘A patch up merchant, then… Your daughter had diphtheria. This didn't happen overnight. If you'd gotten her to me earlier—' He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, then turned to Nicolette. ‘I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. Forgive me. I get angry – needless loss. Tell me, was the child—'

‘The
child's
name is Willow.'

‘I'm sorry. Was Willow immunised?'

Nicolette shook her head. The doctor turned to Michael, a questioning look on his face.

‘We didn't want to. We heard it can cause brain damage…'

The doctor sighed once more. ‘God help me!' he whispered.

Nicolette still sat beside Willow, her face expressionless. She stroked Willow's arm, her forehead, her hair.

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

Too-ra-loo-ra-li

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

Hush now, don't you cry…

‘She's in shock. Look after her. Get her something hot to drink, with lots of sugar. I'm going to have to report this; it's an infectious disease. God knows where she got it. Haven't seen it in years. You'll both have to get swabbed – one of you may be carrying it. Everyone around here will have to get done too. I'll send an ambulance… for Willow…' He picked up his bag. ‘I'm so sorry. I'll be back this afternoon to check on your wife…'

#

Nicolette sat on the steps of the back veranda, Benji at her feet. She felt nothing. No cold, no pain, no emotion. Just nothing. She heard the dull, muted sound of ice crystals compressing underfoot. Michael stood before her and she saw he'd been crying. It meant nothing. He tried to take her in his arms.

‘Don't touch me.'

‘Nicolette—'

‘Don't.'

‘She was my daughter too, you know…' Nicolette stared past him. ‘I thought… Nicolette, I didn't know. I've never seen—'

‘Don't, okay? Don't give me anymore of your bullshit. You're the reason she's dead.
You,
Michael!
You
killed my little girl.'

He stood there for a moment, looking at her, then went into the house. Now only the muffled, isolated sounds of a countryside shrouded by a thick white down. Her own breath – in, out.
Keep breathing, Nicolette.
The soft
phump
of snow falling from a branch. From a neighbouring paddock, a cow moo-ed. Still Nicolette sat, burrowed in a pit of misery where reality no longer existed. Benji stood, stretched, went to a nearby tree to relieve himself. Came back to Nicolette and put his head on her lap and whimpered, but Nicolette didn't react, so he lay down at her feet again. A pale sun shimmered in a slate coloured sky. Hours passed.

#

She heard the paddock gate open, squealing in protest against the cold. Saw the ambulance make its way through the slush towards their house, the doctor's Land Rover following. She rose and went inside.

Even from the corridor she could smell vomit. She walked into their bedroom.

He was slumped across their bed, his face dark purple, smeared with vomit. Still attached to the back of his hand, a needle and slim syringe, his belt loose around his arm. Beside him, a cigarette lighter and a teaspoon on which rested a tiny ball of cotton wool. And tipped over on the floor beside the bed, an empty bottle of brandy.

Nicolette looked at Michael for a long moment, then turned and went to answer the knock on the door.

6

Algiers appeared strange and mysterious to Louis. European-style houses five storeys high mingled with lofty domes and graceful minarets, whilst narrow winding streets climbed to the centre of town where they joined newer, wider avenues built by conquerors. The town was built in the shape of a triangle, with the Casbah a clutter of whitewashed houses surrounded by a wall at its apex. To the north, hills rose to a height of about five hundred metres, forming a background to the city and providing a lush green contrast to the whiteness of the town.

‘
Cirer, m'sieur, cirer?'
The small bootblack pushed his tin of pungent yellow paste towards Marius' face. ‘Mine's the best,
m'sieur.
I polish your shoes?'

Marius shook his head and gently pushed the urchin away. Though no more than six years old, the boy glared at Marius then spat at his feet before joining another bootblack sitting on the footpath. Together they began hitting their brushes on top of their boxes – short sharp rhythmic taps.

‘Why are they doing that, Father?' Louis squinted in the bright morning light; it felt strange to be on solid ground once more.

‘It's to draw people's attention; they need the work. But come, this way…' Marius led Louis up a steep flight of stone steps to the main part of town.

All around people hurried – the dark sombre clothes of Europeans contrasting the white burnooses of Arabs and the colourful costumes of the Turks. Corseted women in leg-o-mutton sleeves, dark-eyed Moresques in loose flowing robes. The city swarmed with soldiers – French soldiers in their blue uniforms, Legionnaires in khaki with protective neck-curtains attached to their kepis, and fearsome Zouaves in short blue jackets with contrasting braiding, bright red pantaloons and wide sashes around their waists.

From the upper platform of a minaret a Muezzin called the faithful to prayer, whilst in the alley next to the mosque a small black-haired boy offered his sister by the hour. And everywhere, dark-skinned barefooted children hustled and begged and stole, then disappeared into the crowd once more.

They arrived at the small butcher shop that had been recommended to Marius, whose owner rented out the room above at a very reasonable price. The smells of raw meat and offal turned Louis' stomach, and he leaned against Marius when they climbed the stairs to their room.

‘You're don't look well,' Marius said when he noticed the light film of perspiration on Louis' forehead, the pallor of his skin. ‘Does it hurt anywhere?' Louis shook his head. ‘Hmm… Well, I don't think you have a fever. Just overtired, I'd imagine, but you better get to bed, just in case. I must go see about our land. Sleep, if you can; I can't have you sick.' He put his duffle bag under the bed, patted his pocket to make sure his money-pouch was still there, and left with a nod in Louis' direction.

#

Louis lay on the bed, but he found the room still swayed to the rhythm of the waves. The smells of the butcher shop drifted through the wooden floorboards so he rose and opened the window wide, letting in a warm breeze smelling of oranges and cumin.

He sat back on the bed and looked around at the sparse furnishings. The bed was small for a double bed, but the mattress felt comfortable under a bedspread embroidered with cabbage roses, and there were two feather pillows. Next to the bed, under the window, was a small table on which stood a carafe of water and one glass. There were no chairs. A small gentleman's wardrobe stood against the opposite wall, and beside it a framed portrait of Napoleon hung on the wall. Louis opened the wardrobe – two wooden coat hangers, and in a corner, a lady's parasol.

It was made of a soft yellow material, such as he had never seen before, and woven with a pattern of small garlands of spring flowers above which butterflies fluttered. Along the outer edge was a pleated trim. Something about the parasol reminded Louis of his mother – but then, everything reminded him of his mother. He felt tears welling in his eyes and quickly wiped them away. He mustn't cry anymore; he'd cried enough on this journey, when sure his father was asleep. But his father hadn't cried, and now he too must act like a man. Once more he examined the parasol. No, his mother would never have owned a parasol – the women of Sablières had no use for such frippery. It was more the femininity of it, the softness of the material… He thought it must be expensive. He'd better give it to the butcher.