Authors: Judith Stephan
Nelspruit was a small, but bustling, conservative town. It had all the necessary amenities, most essential shops, some restaurants and one or two main streets and of course the hospital.
The news from the resident gynaecologist was fairly disturbing. He said that the baby was lying dangerously low - Placenta Praevia he had called it - and that Michaela was in danger of going into premature labour – a hazard at only thirty weeks. Besides often sparking a premature delivery, this condition could cause the mother to hemorrhage. Dr. Gordon suggested that she sit it out for another week, preferably in bed, but at least with her feet up, and then she be flown to the Sandton Clinic in Johannesburg at the beginning of the following week, where her confinement was already arranged, and all the facilities for her fragile condition were readily available.
While Michaela was having as econd sonar, Shilo broke the news to Stratt over cappuccinos in the hospital coffee shop.
“Michaela is going to have to go to Johannesburg next Monday,” she said, “and you know what that means - I have to go with her.”
“I knew that this was going to happen, I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon,” Stratt said, enclosing her hand in his. “This is the moment I have been dreading all along.”
“Oh, Stratt, maybe you were right. Maybe we shouldn’t have…”
He placed a finger on her lips.
“There must be no regrets. I’m glad it happened. Even if I never see you again, at least we have had this brief time together. Maybe this is Fate stepping in, maybe we were never really meant to be together. And this is happening before we are too deeply involved,” Stratt replied with optimism, but knowing that he was already too deeply involved.
“That’s one way of looking at it… but Stratt…” answered Shilo, on the verge of admitting that she was over her head in this relationship already.
“Listen, angel, why don’t you and I plan that all-nighter I’ve wanted to take you on. We could spend a night alone in the bush … just you and me, and we can talk about how we are going to deal with this.”
A nurse came out and said they were ready for her, and Stratt ushered Shilo into a booth so she could have blood drawn. She heard Stratt speaking to the lady in a strange language behind the grey, hospital curtains. Stratt then told that they could have the results in three hours and that the laboratory would call the lodge with them later that day.
Just then, Michaela, in a wheel chair, pushed by Dorianne, came up to the table where they sat on the concourse.
“I’m so sorry, Shilo,” Michaela said, “I’m ruining your holiday, especially since
everyone is getting along so nicely.”
She smiled knowingly at Stratt and then at Shilo.
“Is it that obvious?” Stratt laughed.
“It’s not your fault, Micky,” Shilo said with a rueful smile, “we’re here because of you in the first place, or else I would never have met him.”
She squeezed Stratt’s hand which left a flutter in his stomach. How was he going to deal with losing Shilo?
“Just think, you’ll be back where you belong – in civilization,” he decided to say, even though he k
new where she really belonged. Here with him. Shilo gave Stratt another glance, but his comment seemed to settle it for him. Yes, she would be back where she belonged. She didn’t belong here.
*
Shilo lay on a cold stainless steel gurney. They had not cleaned her up yet, and only a crisp, white sheet separated her from the bloody mess below. A strong smell of surgical spirits and bleach hung in the air. She listened intently, trying to hear what her parents were saying outside the room in the passage.
“Doctor Johnson, I know what the rules say, but I don’t want this all over the papers. Not for the Delucci family nor for Shilo. She is still so young and impressionable … something like this can rise up and slap her down later in life. There must be no record of it here. You treated her – yes; but it was an accident. Say she fell off a wall or something. No reference to rape or paedophilia and definitely no reference to what she did to the man. The truth must not be revealed. Is that clear?”
“But, Mr Delucci, it was attempted rape. The police must be notified.”
“The police have been notified back in Harrogate and it is being dealt with discreetly. She killed her attacker! Do you understand what the media will do about that? No one will see that she was an innocent victim … they will see that another Delucci has been involved in some sort of scandal. It will haunt her for ever. It will be dredged up when she least expects it and will always loom on the horizon as a threat.”
Shilo cringed inside. She had killed Bill Moffatt. She was a killer. She was still shaking uncontrollably, trying to stop her teeth chattering, wishing that someone would come in and just hold her and comfort her instead of discussing her outside as if she were a property for sale. Where was Mother? Why was she being left alone? Why wouldn’t they clean her up? Her curiosity made her look under the sheets. Her legs and dress were caked in blood, as were her little white pants. There was a throbbing pain in her groin. She tried to sit up to have a look, but she was too weak. Her arms were bruised and her wrists were tender where Bill Moffatt had clutched her and crushed her bones against the hard floor.
Shilo?”
She jerked herself away from her reverie. Stratt was looking at her in earnest.
“What’s wrong? You look so worried. Your cheeks are flushed. Were you day dreaming?”
“I don’t know … I feel so tired. Every bone in my body is aching and … I hate hospitals … their smell. It reminds me of …”
“What?”
“Never mind. Maybe I’m just afraid of what those results might reveal.”
He put a smooth hand on her forehead.
“You’re starting to get a fever … just as I suspected.”
*
Corbett was called the minute that Bernice came around. Although she was groggy and a little disorientated at first, she was quite alert and seemed not to be suffering from temporary amnesia as trauma victims or those with head injuries are wont to do.
She was a fairly attractive girl if you looked past the dyed black hair, the black nail polish and nose ring and multiple piercings in her ears. She was far more way out than the killer’s usual victims … they were usually nondescript, plain girls, with mousy hair, frumpy clothes and lousy social lives. Loners usually. Physically she was not worse for the wear. She had bruises on her head and face where he had hit her, her throat was red and bruised from his attempt at strangulation, and her wrists and ankles were raw from the restraints, but otherwise she was fine and in fairly good spirits. This told Corbett that she was possibly not unaccustomed to violence, and wondered if that was why she had run away from home… and perhaps why her step father had looked a little sheepish in Corbett’s presence.
“Now we want to catch this bugger. You are our only chance, Bernice. I need to know absolutely everything about him,” Corbett said.
“But where do I start?” she sighed.
“Let’s start with what he looked like.”
“Well, he was young … perhaps in his mid-twenties. He was not that tall – perhaps a little taller than me. He had brown hair, neatly cut and combed. I can’t remember his eye colour, but I think they were also brownish. Oh, yes, and he had a moustache. A little thin one,” she said, “How’s that?”
“Perfect. Any identifying features, like a mole, a limp, a tattoo, a gold tooth?” Corbett inquired, never lifting his eyes from the notebook where he was jotting down valid points.
“No, not that I can recall. He did have a really posh accent though … and you know I am almost sure he looked vaguely familiar, like I had seen him somewhere before. Not in person, I mean like in a picture … in a newspaper or magazine,” she said, “but I could be wrong there.”
Bernice took a sip of water, and then ran her fingers through her punky hairstyle.
“Tell me about his car. We are presuming that he gave you a lift, did he not?” Corbett continued.
“Yes, I was hitchhiking ….Wow, it was wonderful. A really posh car. It was a BMW something or other. It was black or dark blue or charcoal grey, anyway a very dark colour. I couldn’t really tell as it was already dark. But it did have real leather seats. Beige leather.”
“It was definitely a BMW?” Corbett queried.
“Sure. I just don’t know the model,” she replied.
“What exactly happened from the time he picked you up until the time he attacked you. I want to know everything he did and everything he said. You might think it trivial, but the smallest clues are sometimes the missing pieces of the puzzle that we need.”
Then he leant back in his chair, pencil poised and waited for her reply.
*
The results came through just before sunset, and Shilo was devastated. She had the beginnings of that dreadful tropical disease – malaria. But Stratt had known it all along and had acquired all the medicine she needed from the pharmacy at the hospital. She started on the medication straight away, but for two days she shivered and shook in the clutches of the delirium and fever. The headaches and the body aches were severe, and Stratt stood vigil once again: He cooled her burning forehead, held her as she thrashed around, let her sip water through a straw … and just sat and watched as she got through the worst of it. He wouldn’t let Dorianne or Michaela help with anything. He carried her to the bathroom when she needed it, issued her with the medication and cooled her forehead with damp compresses until the fever broke, and then he allowed himself a few minutes of rest on the wicker chair next to her bed.
On the third day, Shilo woke up from what seemed like a blur. She was disorientated but the headache had gone, and she lay on her side and stared straight ahead of her. There sat Stratt, asleep in the chair. He looked dreadfully tired with dark rings under his eyes, his tousled hair and three day’s growth on his chin. He was deep asleep and Shilo wondered how long he had been there. Why did he persist in being there when she was at all time lows? Her memory started coming back to her in dribs and drabs and she started getting flashes of him carrying her, bathing her brow, smoothing her hair, making her swallow some foul-tasting fluid … Had he been nursing her through this disease? Had he been there the whole time? A pang of humiliation at what he might have seen surged through her, tinged with a guilty admiration that someone could care so much.
“Stratt?” she whispered hoarsely.
His eyes shot open and he sat up with a start.
He rushed to the bedside.
“Are you awake? Thank God you’re awake.”
“Stratt? How long have you been here?”
“Three days. You have been out of it for three days.”
“You’ve been here all this time? What about my aunt and sister?”
“They’ve been in and out … but I wanted to look after you. I told them to let me do it. I haven’t left the room.”
She smiled.
“I can see that.”
“Do I look awful?” he said, smoothing his hands over his bristly face.
“No,” she breathed. “
You look absolutely great. Just a little wilder than normal.”
“How are you feeling?” he asked, helping her sit up in bed.
“Fine. My mouth feels like the bottom of a parrot’s cage, and I’m a little shaky … but wow! I feel great. How can I ever thank you?”
“You’ll feel a little weak for a couple of days,” he said, “but it was mild and you should be as right as rain in no time.”
“Thank you, Stratt,” she said. “Thank you so much for caring … for being here.”