Gwennie's Girl Page 8

Then Johnny burst through the crowd. He flung the woman away. ‘Don’t touch them,’ he almost shouted. ‘You know they all have lice.’

  It was so crude and such unnecessary humiliation that Lizzie swung around and stepped between him and the woman, the temptation to slap him almost overwhelming, ‘Get out! Get out of here this minute. Wait for me in the car and don’t you ever, ever dare to speak like that again! I will see you lose this job and that you don’t ever get another in this line of work. You’re a lying, cowardly, mealy-mouthed little worm. Get out of my sight! Out! Get the fuck out of my sight! Wait for me in the car!’

  He looked gob-struck by the attack but had no option but to slink away.

  ‘That was quite well said, I think,’ said Hester.

  The two women stayed a little longer talking with the crowd who had not had Lizzie’s outburst interpreted but who had obviously gotten the main gist of it. When Lizzie and Hester joined Johnny in the car, he was apologetic over an underlying resentment and was now much more wary of the women and their questions as if he had realised that they might not be taken in by his performance. It was too late. They had seen how often the military spoke of his beneficence and how little aid was passing through civilian distribution points. They had to spend a lot more time together so a degree of civility was maintained. He did do some good work, had, at least, been able to get supplies into the country. It was probably something of his own, real and understandable, fear that led him to kow-towing to the military boys. He was energetic and efficient, but he was also a frightened little bully. All bullies are frightened, Lizzie, you know they are. Remember? It’s just that when you are the one being bullied it’s hard to remember. This may be a different sort of war zone, Lizzie, but do try to be smart enough to learn something from what you see.

  They made one more stop at a medical clinic, and then Johnny became quite agitated. ‘We have to leave. We have to go back to Yerevan, get out of here quickly.’ When they queried this sudden change of plan he said, ‘An attack. There is an attack planned. There’s going to be a lot of shelling. We have to get out quickly.’

  So the little guy did have some source of information. Or was he just in a hurry to get back to Yerevan and offload these two pesky women? They had to take his word for it, and his nervousness was pretty convincing, so they headed back to the border and went through the Corridor at break-neck speed. Lizzie realised where that expression probably originated as they bounced and flung their way around boulders and potholes. Once they had to stop because the rim of one of the back wheels was bent in and rubbing badly. Johnny took a sledgehammer, a sledgehammer, from the boot and pounded the rim back into some semblance of shape then they hurtled on again over the top, skidding on ice and taking their chances in the mist. They saw no one and heard nothing until they were on the flat land in Armenia heading back towards Yerevan.

  Then they heard the soft boom of shells far behind them and realised he might be a little prick, but he had gotten them out and safely back. Yerevan now looked familiar with the black marketeers on the roadside, the smell of fumes. Even with its air of dejection, it seemed like civilisation after the past few days. They were staying at a once glamorous hotel that was now all chipped gilt and faded glitz. There was sometimes a trickle of cold water and for an hour each evening there was electric light. Bliss. There was coffee, bread and some vegetables. Extra bliss. There was a bed. But far and away the most luxurious thing of all was that there was no Johnny snoring. No need to position oneself in case that bloody handgun went off in the middle of the night. Lizzie tried not to think too much, about whether she was scratching her head because it needed a good shampoo (impossible even with that occasional trickle) or whether she was scratching because she had brought back some live souvenirs.

  For two days, they met with a range of UN agencies and NGOs that were based in Yerevan trying to co-ordinate and organise humanitarian assistance. It was obvious Johnny knew none of them and had been operating out of the mainstream. This was not always a bad thing given the heavy bureaucracies that could develop but, in this case, it had been counter-productive. Based on his information and reports, his agency had been bringing in supplies that were mostly geared to the needs of an army rather than the most pressing food, soaps and types of medication needed by the civilians. They had been under the impression these were being taken care of by other organisations. The irony was that very few people had the sort of access he had to the areas most under fire. If he had had any sense he could have kept the army happy with some stuff and passed on the information about community needs. Lizzie and Hester made their reports, and each hoped that they would make some difference to the lives of the people they had met.

  Yerevan was under a self-imposed curfew so work always had to be finished well before dark in order to be off the streets. There were stories everywhere of the bandits in the city itself where carjacking and killings were reported every day, and anyone abroad at night was prey for these roving gangs who were reported to rape and kill as well as rob their victims. Lizzie, Hester and Johnny were careful not to take any unnecessary chances and always returned to the hotel by late afternoon each day.

  Until the day the car wouldn’t start.

  They came out of meeting with a UNICEF representative, bundled into the car all tired and ready to finish the day. The streets were emptying as people hurried away to the relative safety of their homes. Johnny was unusually quiet as he was beginning to realise that his operation was being seen to be quite different from the reports he had given and the way he had presented himself. He grumbled into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition key, but the engine would not catch. It took nearly an hour of trying, of waiting in case the engine was flooded, of trying again, of searching in vain for another car to jump-start them and finally of pushing before it started. By this time, the light was nearly gone and the streets were deserted. They set off but at an intersection, the engine cut out again. Everyone was determinedly calm as they pushed again, and it finally caught again. They were about half an hour from the hotel, and it was dark as Johnny drove quickly keeping the revs up as much as he could.

  They were about five minutes from the hotel when they saw the lights of another car approaching from the opposite direction. They all seemed to hold their breaths until the car passed by them. Then as Lizzie watched out the back window, she saw it slow and swing into a U-turn. It was coming back behind them. Johnny put his foot down, and the little car surged ahead doing its best to get them to safety. The other car caught them and sat behind them with its headlights on high. Lizzie turned again and was momentarily blinded. The other car was almost touching their bumper. Against the lights, she could see nothing and they were all travelling too fast for these old cars and these roads. Johnny reached for his gun unclipping the holster. For a few moments, nothing seemed to change. The order of things remained. Then the other car came up on them and rear-ended their car. They held on as they were jolted by the hit.

  Then the other car pulled back momentarily. For a moment, they thought it might be over but then the other car started to pull alongside them.

  ‘Give me the gun,’ said Lizzie. ‘They won’t expect it from a woman in the back seat.’

  Johnny hung on to the precious weapon, but Lizzie could almost taste his fear mingling with her own and Hester’s.

  ‘Give me the bloody gun!’

  The other car was toying with them, edging up but not yet level with them. Hester took the gun from Johnny’s hand and passed it back to Lizzie who registered how obscene and heavy it felt. She checked that she could feel the safety catch and sat leaning on the back of the front seat with the gun out of sight in front of her. She knew they were almost at the hotel but could not see the entrance in the darkness somewhere ahead of them. The other car too suddenly realised that their prey might be close to its home, and there was a sudden roar and it was alongside. Lizzie could make out four shapes. Slowly, the predator inched forward, and they knew it was only seco
nds until they were forced off the road. Lizzie gripped the weight in her hand, and no one spoke.

  Then Johnny swerved their little car and hit the other one. The surprise of the attack caught the other driver off guard, and there was a momentary hesitation. Ahead of them, they could see the hotel. There would be a guard at the entry. Johnny put his foot down and took the turn at full speed. For an instant, it seemed they would roll but somehow the wheels held the surface, and they were safe. Their hunters pulled up and sat with their lights down the driveway, sat like a creature growling in the night. Johnny pulled up in front of the doorway, turned off the engine and the lights, and they sat silent and frozen in the darkness that was only pierced by those staring white eyes from the road. They sat and waited. There was no sign of the guard. Then slowly the white light moved, the engine sounded louder and the car slunk away. Three people exhaled. Lizzie checked the safety catch and handed the gun over Johnny’s shoulder. Then she gripped his shoulder in thanks. The little prick had gotten them away safely again.

  It was only later when Sam asked Lizzie if she would have used the gun that she realised she would have done. Yes, if she were honest, she knew she would have fired that weapon and possibly killed a man. What price, Lizzie the Pacifist? Think about it, girl. In your heart, you know you would have pointed that gun and you would have pulled the trigger.

  It was interesting that Hester, instinctively, had recognised that in Lizzie.

  When she finally made it to her room, Lizzie felt quite exhausted. There was only a little time left with electricity, and she used it to finish her report. As the bulbs flickered, she lit the candle and dropped onto her bed intending to rest a minute and then pack in readiness for the trip home that would begin with the joys of Yerevan airport early in the morning. She must have fallen asleep. She woke suddenly to realise the candle was guttering, and that there was someone in the room standing by the bed. It was the not-at-all-lovely Lulu. He was still in his army fatigues, still toothless, with his pants unzipped and playing with his weapon. His gun—that weapon. He was leering as he moved closer.

  Lizzie sat up slowly. ‘Get the fuck out of here, Lulu.’

  He stopped, not understanding the words but a little taken aback by her tone. She repeated, ‘Get the fuck out, Lulu,’ in her most school teacher voice. She pointed to the door. ‘Out. Out. Out with you.’ She shooed him out like some recalcitrant pup or donkey. Bloody hell, she thought as she put a chair against the door and was asleep again within ten seconds.

  She had to scramble a bit in the morning but they were in plenty of time for the three hours of push and shove needed before boarding. They said goodbye to Johnny, thanked him and as they warned him about the operation and their report, Lizzie was left with the distinct feeling that he regretted not turning her over to the bandits or tying her to a stake in the ice field at the top of the Corridor. As they entered the old plane, Lizzie and Hester commented that it didn’t seem so bad. They didn’t notice any smell. Then they both collapsed, even Hester giggled, as they realised that they probably smelt worse. Their clothes were filthy, they hadn’t showered properly since they left home, their hair was dirty and they were very likely bringing numerous crawling little head passengers and tiny white eggs with them.

  The plane was late of course, and they had to rush to make the connection in Paris. Hester was coming to Geneva for the de-briefing sessions. As they boarded Swissair, it was like going into heaven. The cabin crew greeted them but, more importantly, so did the aroma of coffee and warming croissants. It was all so clean and so comfortable that they stood for a moment at the entry to smile at each other. They were the last to board. They began down the aisle and Lizzie noted noses wrinkling as they approached and knew they must smell really bad. Hester tapped her on the shoulder, and as Lizzie turned, Hester actually grinned, then shook her hair vigorously and ran her fingers through it several times. Lizzie grinned back and, standing there in the business class section with blue suits withdrawing from the proximity of these two noisome late passengers, she repeated Hester’s performance. If they were indeed carrying tiny little “extras” in their hair, they could gleefully share them around. It was probable a measure of their state that they thought it was hilarious.

  Sam and Rome

  Lizzie arrived back at Geneva airport, dirty, tired and, as was often the case, overwhelmed by the sadness of so many of the stories. She cleared customs with her grubby bag and her camera, saw Sam waiting for her, with a bunch of yellow roses and looking so sane and safe and loving that Lizzie caught her breath. Do not get sentimental, girl. How did you get into his arms so quickly? Why does he smell clean and feel comforting while you are just smelly and uncomfortable?

  Oh, but it felt good to have him take her bags and settle her into the car and drive home. After a bath and a glass of wine—what time of day is it anyway?—Lizzie fell into her bed with her white linen and her lavender-scented pillows. Lizzie loved her bed. It was such a sign of being able to sleep without fear of being woken by the man who had been her husband and who hated her. She did still have nightmares, where she dreamt she had woken and he was a looming, presence of danger and her own powerlessness—but these came less and less often now. They never came when Sam was with her so Lizzie was snoring very soon, hoping she was not “doing a Johnny”.

  The next day she went to the office, wrote her report and took her photos to the lab where they printed the contact sheets immediately that Lizzie chose those to use. She saw her boss and the resident journos for a debrief. She answered questions at the afternoon press conference and was cool and professional with no sign of the tears which could come so suddenly when she remembered the stories. Home, and there was Sam with a glass of French shiraz and dinner in the oven. Bliss. Again, Lizzie was longing for her bed. Again, Sam just held her until she slept. Again, there were no phantoms to haunt her dreams. In his arms, she was safe. Funny how that sort of safe was still such an issue even when the man who had been her husband was on the other side of the world. How would those women she had met ever cope with their memories of the violence done to them? Lizzie knew empathy with them, their sorrow, their lack of safeness and the bruising they would carry forever.

  The next morning dawned bright, and Geneva gleamed as pennants on the Pont de Mont Blanc fluttered gently across the lake and pointed coloured fingers to the shimmering sky and gentle sunshine. Lizzie and Sam went down to Ruth’s for breakfast and then held hands as they sauntered along the Quai and Lizzie felt her muscles unknot as she exhaled after the weeks of tautness.

  ‘What are your next movements?’ she asked Sam.

  ‘I am taking a week off before heading back to Hong Kong. What about you?’

  ‘Nothing much, I hope.’

  ‘Why not come with me?’

  ‘Are you going back to Rome?’

  ‘Yep, to my lovely Trastevere.’

  Sam had told Lizzie about his love affair with Rome and the little village inside the big city, the old town of Trastevere, across the Tiber. He had an apartment there which was his escape, his bolthole when he needed one. He had described it with affection, and Lizzie had wondered why he did not spend more time there. He had told her, ‘You are in Geneva,’ and laughed when she jumped nervously. ‘Don’t worry, girl, I am not going to move here. You are quite safe and I’ll keep my distance.’ So why now ask her to go there with him? Careful, Lizzie, careful. Watch your step with this bloke.

  ‘I don’t think that would be good idea,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe you need to keep that as your special place, your own pad.’

  Sam grinned. ‘Really? That is the weakest bit of nonsense I have heard even from you Miss Lizzie-On-Your-Own. I am not asking you to move in with me or shift to Rome. Just come and enjoy it for a while with me as your live-in lover boy. Very Italian way to recuperate. Liliana and Franco will not even blink.’

  Liliana and Franco were Sam’s landlord and landlady. Fr
anco was a world-renowned gold and silver smith, who had exhibited at the Uffizi in Florence, in New York and Paris and Moscow as well as having made special crosses for a couple of popes and other celebrities and world leaders. Lizzie had seen the books of his work and loved it. There was a delicacy and organic style which enchanted her when combined with the purity of the metals and stones he used. They clearly loved Sam and understood his need for a refuge when he was between wars. Sam said the apartment was simple but it had its own courtyard which, in the centre of Rome, was a real luxury. Lizzie wavered. It did sound attractive. Sam was attractive. No-strings-attached-attractive Sam. Just a little interlude before they each went their own ways again. What the hell?

  ‘OK.’

  ‘OK? You mean it?’

  ‘Didn’t you mean it?’ Lizzie rushed.

  ‘Of course I meant it. Just so pleased you will see sense and come with me. Fantastic. Wonderful. Amazing.’

  ‘Oh enough,’ said Lizzie, ‘When are you planning to leave?’

  Sam had the grace to look sheepish. ‘Well, actually, I have tickets booked for tomorrow morning.’

  ‘You booked a ticket for me before you asked me? What a bloody cheek.’

  ‘Yeah, but I knew I could cancel yours—but I don’t want to cancel.’ He grabbed Lizzie around the waist and waltzed her in circles across the pavement to the amazement of the Swiss passers-by. ‘We are going to Trastevere. You will love it, girl, love it, girl, love it.’

  So the next day Lizzie and Sam arrived at Fiumicino, to be met by Guido, Sam’s usual driver, who took them to the Piazza Trilussa just at the Ponte Sisto, the pedestrian bridge which crossed the river to Trastevere. The first thing that struck Lizzie was the music. A young man was playing an accordion on the bridge. At the end of the cobbled street, an older man sat playing a flute. In the days which followed, she would hear a couple playing violin and cello, another man who sang outside Sam’s apartment each evening for diners at the family run restaurant with its pink tablecloths and the charmer who invited passers-by to enter.