Читать книгу Morgan's Child - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

MORGAN stood at the window of the quarters that had been provided for him at RAF Craythorpe, watching the rain streaming down the panes. It didn’t seem to have stopped raining since he’d stepped off the plane from Lagos the day before, and although he’d dreamed about the kind of gentle rain they got in England the reality was no longer so appealing.

How long were they going to keep him here?

Suppressing his panic, he acknowledged that he was only fooling himself by pretending the weather was responsible for the way he was feeling. He was just using it as an excuse to bolster his confidence. Blaming the rain for the fears and apprehensions that wouldn’t go away.

Lifting one balled fist, he pressed it hard against the glass, trying not to give in to the urge to smash his fist right through the pane. He would have liked that, he thought; liked to have shattered the glass and felt the sharp pain of the broken shards digging into his fresh. God knew, he badly wanted to smash something, and only the certain knowledge that his doctors—keepers—would put it down to his uncertain mental state kept him from creating an ugly scene.

But, dammit, they couldn’t keep him here indefinitely. All right, he’d been suffering from malnutrition when they released him. but there was nothing wrong with his mind, no matter what they thought He needed familiar things; familiar people. He just wished he didn’t have the feeling that they didn’t exist any more.

He took a steadying breath.

The trouble was that although he knew he was free he didn’t feel free. In fact, what he really felt was a shattering sense of disorientation. He’d anticipated that his wife and family would have assumed he was dead, but he hadn’t realised how that might affect him now. For so long he’d been forced to blank his mind of any thoughts of loved ones or face the purest kind of mental torture there was.

He sighed. It was hard to remember how he’d felt that morning when his car had been ambushed on the way to the airport. Then, he’d been planning what he was going to do when he got home; looking forward to seeing his wife. He’d missed her so much, and since their marriage they’d spent so little time together. He couldn’t wait to get back and tell her how he felt.

The men who’d shot out the tyres of the car and then shot its driver had seemed totally ruthless. It was only later that he’d discovered that because the man had worked for Ungave he was considered expendable. Besides, Mdola didn’t take any prisoners. He had no pity for any of Ungave’s men who were of no use to him.

Morgan supposed his strongest emotion at that time had been terror, but the fact that he’d survived the attack had sustained him throughout the long trek through the jungle that had followed. It wasn’t until they’d reached the rebels’ stronghold, in the mountains that bisected the northern half of the country, that he’d had to quell a sense of panic. He might be alive, but he was helpless. So long as General Ungave was in power, they’d never let him go.

The ironic thing was, Mdola had wanted him for much the same reasons as Ungave. He needed Morgan’s knowledge of sophisticated tactical weapons to enable him to use the armaments he had. God knew who’d supplied them, but Mdola’s men had been equipped with every kind of gun imaginable; mortars; ground-to-air missiles; the list was endless. An arsenal they barely understood.

But the most remarkable thing of all had been that he had recognised Julius Mdola. They’d been at Oxford together, and although they hadn’t been close friends at that time they had shared an interest in martial arts. Morgan had been staggered to learn that the man General Ungave had overthrown had been Mdola’s uncle, and despite the desperation he was feeling it had been some relief to be able to speak to the man in charge.

His lips twisted. Not that, in the long run, it had done him a lot of good. Despite the fact that Mdola was educated in the West, and could sympathise with Morgan’s position, the demands of the situation meant that Morgan had to be treated like any other prisoner. He wasn’t imprisoned, of course, in the truest sense of the word, but he wasn’t supposed to leave the compound. The only time he had, he’d regretted it. And if it hadn’t been for Julius Mdola he knew he’d have been shot.

But would he have survived his captivity if he hadn’t become Mdola’s friend? he wondered. It was a question he’d had plenty of time to ponder in the years that followed. Would he have kept his sanity if Mdola hadn’t allowed him to use the old typewriter they’d kept to chum out their propaganda? Would it have been better if he hadn’t survived at all?

He scowled.

He couldn’t answer any of these questions. His release had not been the cause for celebration he’d imagined it would be. Would he ever be able to absorb his changing circumstances? Would he ever come to terms with the fact that life had moved on?

But it wasn’t just his changing circumstances that was giving him such a sense of anticlimax now. It was more than that; he had the uneasy suspicion that no one wanted him here. Was he a welcome face or just an embarrassment? Would it have been easier for everyone—his wife particularly—if he had been as dead as they’d believed?

Dead!

For the past four years, everyone had thought he’d died in the inferno they’d made of his car. They’d mourned him; they’d even held a memorial service for him, according to his mother, and a stone had been erected in the churchyard at Tudor Cross.

His scowl deepened. Had she thought he’d be pleased to hear that? he wondered. Had she no conception of how it made him feel? He wasn’t dead; he was alive; he didn’t want to hear about his funeral service. But most of all he didn’t want to feel like an outsider, especially with his wife.

His wife!

His lips twisted. He wasn’t sure he knew his wife any more. The alien confrontation they’d had the previous afternoon had left him feeling more confused than ever. He’d expected their meeting to be strained, yes, but not that she’d act like a stranger. And a stranger, moreover, who didn’t like him very much either.

He swore, finding a certain satisfaction in hearing the oath leave his tongue. God, he’d never thought it would be easy, but he’d had no conception of just how hard it had proved to be.

Of course, his parents had been present at the time, and it was possible she’d been inhibited by their demands. His mother, particularly, had asked a lot of questions, and Fliss had behaved as if only the older woman had had that right.

His appearance couldn’t have helped, he acknowledged. His shaved head—to remove any infestation of lice—and several days’ growth of beard on his chin must have looked strange. He looked like a savage, and even though he’d shaved his beard since it wasn’t much of an improvement. His hand had been shaking so much when he used the razor that his chin was now covered in cuts.

He supposed he was thinner, too, though that was less of a problem. He’d soon put on weight once he started eating normally again. And his muscles were hard from the physical regime he’d set himself. Apart from its obvious advantages, keeping fit had been another way of keeping sane.

But, dammit, he hadn’t been prepared for civilisation. Four years of living with a rebel army had taken their toll. Someone should have warned his wife that he wasn’t the man he used to be. He’d seen too many horrific sights, too much killing, to ever view his own life in quite the same way again.

He hunched his shoulders. They’d warned him, of course. Mdola, at first, and afterwards the British authorities in Lagos: they’d all tried to tell him that returning home after so long an absence was bound to cause problems he couldn’t foresee. It was going to take time to adapt, for him and for his family. That was why they’d brought him here to the air base at Craythorpe, for expert counselling. They wanted to assess his state of mind; make sure he was fit to live with normal people again.

He snorted. Mdola wouldn’t like that, he reflected. So far as he was concerned, it was the West who had been crazy for supporting Ungave’s regime. President Mdola now, Morgan thought, still finding the concept incredible. But he was happy for his friend, and proud of the victory he’d achieved.

Even if it bad screwed up his own life, he conceded. But then, he hadn’t known what was facing him when he’d left England. A normal life, he mused. What the hell was normal? If Fliss’s reaction was anything to go by, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

And it was the knowledge that there had been no real communication between him and his wife that was causing him so much soul-searching now. The truth was, he supposed, that Fliss’s attitude had struck at the core of his manhood. Her apathy had made him doubt whether he was still a man.

As if he didn’t have enough doubts of his own.

It was stupid, he knew, to allow her behaviour to affect him. Fliss was still in a state of shock; he’d seen that right away. It was ironic, really, because he’d had doubts about his own feelings. He’d even convinced himself at times that he didn’t have feelings any more.

Now, all he could think of was, what had she been doing while she’d thought he was dead? It occurred to him that she might even have got married again. God, was that why she’d been so reticent the day before? Because she didn’t know how to tell him the truth?

He realised now that secretly he’d always believed she’d be there waiting for him. That he’d harboured the thought that what they’d had had been so special, she’d never seek consolation in the arms of another man. But the woman he’d met the previous afternoon had behaved as if they were merely distant acquaintances. Had she been wearing his ring? He couldn’t even remember if she had.

A group of servicemen crossed the parade ground outside at that moment, and Morgan drew back into the shadows of the room, loath to be observed gazing out. The men glanced his way and he guessed his arrival had caused quite an upheaval. The base wasn’t large and it wasn’t every day they entertained a psycho like him.

He raked unsteady hands over his scalp, feeling the strange prickle of stubble beneath his palms. Once his hair grew back, he’d look less like a gorilla. He might even feel less like one, too, he thought, expelling a weary breath.

Apparently, there was a band of cameramen and media people camped outside the gates of the air base. He wondered if his mother had told him that to compensate for what she’d said about his memorial stone. In any event, all it had done was make him feel even more of a misfit He didn’t like the thought that they were waiting, like jackals, to attack.

He turned back into the room, surveying its bright interior without enthusiasm. The room was comfortable and warm, but impersonal. It was part of the medical facility here at the base and although it was furnished as a sitting room it was just another hospital room.

There was only one familiar item in the room and that was the picture his mother had brought of his and Fliss’s wedding. It showed himself and his wife and his parents, a group photograph taken outside the small church at Tudor Cross. He and Fliss had been married from his parents’ home because Fliss’s parents couldn’t be present. Her father had been killed when she was still at college, and her mother had married again soon afterwards and gone to live in the United States.

They’d been so happy on that day, he thought painfully. They’d been living together for over a year, but they’d both wanted to make that commitment, and they’d been sure their marriage would last. Of course, she hadn’t wanted him to go away, but that had been their only real quarrel. He’d had every intention of making it up to her when he got back.

When he got back...

The thought stuck unpleasantly in his throat, and, putting it aside, he concentrated on his parents’ images instead. They had aged in the last four years, he conceded. His father was quite grey now, yet when this photograph was taken his hair had been a lighter shade of ash than his son’s.

Though God knew what colour his hair would be when it grew back, Morgan reflected impatiently. The way he was feeling now, it should be white. Only Fliss didn’t look any different from what he remembered. She’d let her hair grow, of course, but apart from that she didn’t seem to have changed.

She was so beautiful; so God-damned beautiful, and he knew an uncharacteristic desire to tear the photograph in half. In God’s name, he thought bitterly, what was going to become of them? Had she really only been tense, or was she actually living with another man?

His mouth tightened. Dammit, he had to stop torturing himself like this. He had to concentrate on getting well. The dysentery he’d been suffering from had gone, but the doctors here had warned him it would take time before he could cope with the ordinary demands of living. Even being in crowds disturbed him, and the occasional spells of panic that had punctuated his period of confinement were not likely to disappear overnight.

He flung himself onto the worn hide sofa and reached for the remote-control pad. Surfing through the television’s channels, he felt his thoughts drifting away again. He had found it almost impossible to concentrate on anything since he got back, the pages of the journal that had been his lifeline still lying untouched in his bag.

They’d given him a watch and he glanced at it now, wondering how long it had been since lunch. He’d been told to rest before his next session with the therapist, but despite the pills they’d given him he found it hard to sleep.

The strap of the watch felt unfamiliar on his wrist, but he didn’t take it off. His mother had said they’d found the remains of the Cartier watch they’d given him for his thirtieth birthday in the burnt-out shell of the automobile. It was that as much as anything that had persuaded Ungave’s men that he was dead.

He shuddered, and the taste of the chicken soup they’d served him at lunch suddenly burned the back of his throat. Nausea, like a chilling wave, swept over him, leaving his skin clammy and his forehead moist with sweat. It was images like that that the doctors were trying to get him to talk about. He’d been suppressing the memories for so long, but they were still as sharp as ever.

He was thrusting himself up from the sofa again in an effort to dispel the sickness he was feeling when the door opened behind him. Swiping a hand across his damp forehead, he turned reluctantly to see who it was. Templar, he guessed; Sean Templar. He might have the same initials as the Leslie Charteris character, but Sean Templar was no saint.

But it wasn’t Sean Templar. To his amazement—and apprehension, he admitted tensely—it was his wife who stood uncertainly in the open doorway. Dammit, he thought, he’d assumed she’d gone home. The impression the psychologist had given him was that both his wife and his parents had left the base.

‘Hi,’ she said, hanging onto the handle of the door as if she was afraid that if she let go of it he’d jump on her. Morgan’s lips twisted. If she only knew. Far from being horny, he was very much afraid he might be impotent. ‘How—how are you?’

The words were clipped and unfamiliar to him. Oh, God, he thought, when would he get used to these polite exchanges again? For the past four years nobody had cared how he was feeling. He’d been expected to obey orders however friendly Mdola might have been.

Fliss hesitated a moment and then, as if realising she couldn’t hover in the doorway indefinitely, stepped cautiously into the room. ‘Did you sleep well?’ she asked, starting as the automatic hinge closed the door behind her, and Morgan had to stifle the desire to ask her why she was here.

‘I slept,’ he said instead, not prepared to go into the reasons why his sleeping habits were not a subject for discussion. The concept of relaxing when the next breath he took might be his last was so alien to him that he’d forgotten how to sleep soundly any more.

‘Good.’

She seemed to accept his answer at face value, her eyes skittering over his guarded face before darting about the room. She was nervous; that was obvious; but he should be grateful that she’d come. After the day before he hadn’t thought she would.

‘Did you?’ he countered, and there was a trace of anxiety in the gaze that sought his face. ‘Sleep well,’ he prompted drily, wishing he knew what she was thinking. If she was concerned about him, why was she looking so blank now?

‘Oh—’ Comprehension dawned and with it a tight smile that thinned her lips. ‘Well, yes. Your parents and I were accommodated in the visitors’ quarters. It was easier not to leave the base because of the—well, because of the press outside. We’re going home later today.’

Alone?

The thought refused to be dislodged, but Morgan determinedly put it to the back of his mind. ‘all,’ he said, trying not to feel aggrieved that he’d been kept in ignorance of their presence. He blew out a breath. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

He indicated the sofa where he’d been sitting but Fliss chose one of the straight-backed chairs nearer the door. ‘This is fine,’ she said, crossing her legs, and his nerves tightened unfamiliarly at the sight of her slim calves.

The idea that she wanted to stay as far away from him as possible reared its ugly head, but he firmly squashed it down again. If he started thinking like that he’d soon be paranoid. The polite kiss she’d offered him the day before should have warned him that they might have problems taking up where they left off. It wouldn’t do to upset her. He just wanted to get out of here as soon as he possibly could.

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, and Morgan found himself watching her almost hungrily. Not because she was his wife, he assured himself, but simply because she was a woman. There were a few females he’d come into contact with during his captivity but sex for sex’s sake did not attract him.

His mouth felt dry. Even now, it was hard to believe she wasn’t just a figment of his imagination. For so long, he’d been forced to banish his memories of her to his dreams. But she was here now; she was real; and the knowledge was like a surge of pure adrenaline in his veins.

She looked so good. The long black skirt covered her knees, unfortunately, but the neat little vest she wore with it accentuated the narrowness of her waist and the fullness of her breasts. A scarlet shirt and black slouch boots completed her ensemble, the collar of her shirt a perfect foil for her dark hair...

Aware that he’d been staring and that Fliss was waiting rather apprehensively for him to say something else, Morgan pulled the chair nearest to her away from the wall and straddled it. He noticed she moved her foot aside to avoid brushing his trouser leg, but although he didn’t like it he pretended not to notice and, folding his arms over the back of the chair, he regarded her without hostility.

‘Alone, at last,’ he said, not without some irony, and then wished he hadn’t when she immediately drew back. But he had to go on, and, fixing a smile on his lips, he regarded her encouragingly. ‘I was beginning to think you were afraid to be alone with me.’

‘No—’ She seemed to make the denial involuntarily, and then hurriedly tried to repair the damage. ‘That is—your parents thought it would be easier—for you—’ she made the insertion hastily ‘—that way.’

‘Did they?’ Morgan’s mouth twisted. ‘I assume you mean my mother. She seemed to do most of the talking, as I recall.’

‘She was—excited,’ said Fliss awkwardly. ‘It’s not every day a son returns from the dead.’

‘Or a husband,’ murmured Morgan wryly, and she offered a rueful smile.

‘You’ve shaved,’ she said, as if she’d just noticed, and Morgan wondered what was going on behind that smooth pale mask. Was she pleased to see him? How was he supposed to know? As yet, she hadn’t said anything to give him a clue.

Rubbing a hand over his jawline. he decided to take the initiative, and instead of answering her he said softly, ‘It wasn’t my fault.’ She looked startled then, and he continued, ‘The ambush, I mean. There was no way I could let you know I was alive.’

Her eyes sought his then, and as if his words had offended her now she gave him a disbelieving stare. ‘No way?’ she said, through tight lips. ‘Yes, the authorities told your father that. They also said you’d known President Mdola. That you’d been working with him for the past four years.’

Morgan sighed. ‘Not with. for.’

‘Is there a difference?’

‘I think so.’ He drew a breath. ‘And it wasn’t quite as cosy as it sounds. He needed the knowledge I had of tactical weapons, just as Ungave did, only in a different way—’

‘Yes, you helped him to murder innocent women and children,’ cried Fliss fiercely. ‘And after all you’d said about saving lives!’

Morgan blew out a breath. ‘I was a prisoner, Fliss. Whatever you may have heard, whatever lies you may have been told, I was a prisoner, just like anyone else. Maybe knowing Julius saved my life. I suppose I’ll never know. But once I’d seen where their headquarters was, once I’d examined their weapons, there was no way they could let me go.’

Fliss quivered. ‘If you say so.’

‘I do say so.’

‘And you couldn’t even use the phone?’

‘The phone?’ Morgan snorted. ‘What phone? There aren’t any phones in the jungle. And they had more sense than to let me near their radio transmitter. Get real, Fliss. I’m sorry, but there was nothing I could do.’

Fliss smoothed her hands over her knees. ‘Well, anyway, you’re back now.’

‘Yes.’ Morgan noticed she didn’t say ‘home’.

‘I expect it all seems very strange.’ She chewed on her lower lip. ‘Four years is a long time.’

‘Yeah.’

Morgan could feel the tension building inside him, and he tried to tamp down his irritation. She was behaving as if he’d been on some kind of pleasure trip. Hadn’t she any idea of how desperate he had felt?

‘Look,’ he said, after the silence had stretched into an ominous chasm between them, ‘I know it hasn’t been easy for you—’ Or for me either, he wanted to add, but he bit back the words. ‘And I don’t want you to be afraid that I might—well, come on too strong.’ He doubted if he could anyway. ‘I realise it’s going to take a while for us to—adjust to what’s happened. But, if we take it slow and easy—’ he forced a smile ‘—who knows? I suppose time alone will tell.’

She nodded, and the chunky braid fell forward over her shoulder. The ebony strands caught the light, exposing glimpses of red and gold, like a fire in the darkness. He remembered when he’d first got to know her he’d thought she was like her hair. soft and silky on the outside, but with an inner heat that exploded his senses and fired his blood.

He closed his eyes abruptly, disturbed by the unexpectedly carnal nature of his thoughts. It was so long since he’d touched a woman, and he couldn’t deny he wanted to touch her now. He’d thought his sexual feelings were dormant, but he had only to be alone with her for all the fantasies he’d had about her to come flooding back into his mind. He didn’t know what that said about his mental condition, but it made a mockery of his determination to take it slow.

‘Are you all right?’

Fliss had noticed the effort he’d had to make to control his emotions, and once again he resented her cool response. Didn’t she have any idea of how he was feeling? Didn’t she comprehend that he needed understanding, not confrontation?

What if Mdola hadn’t overthrown Ungave...?

But that way lay danger. The doctors here had warned him not to dwell on what might have been. He was free; he was back in England; and he had to stop thinking about the past. The fact that his life had hung by a thread for so long had little bearing on his future.

‘I’m fine,’ he lied now, feeling the pain as his nails dug into the wood. He thrust back his anger, and tried to concentrate on positive images, but her detachment was bloody hard to take.

‘Good.’

She was pleating her skirt now, revealing an unexpected nervousness in the way she folded the cloth. But although it should have reassured him it didn’t Why the hell didn’t she open up to him?

‘Did you miss me?’

He hadn’t meant to say that, but it was out now, and Fliss gave him a guarded look. ‘Of course,’ she said, but somehow he couldn’t believe she meant it. If she had, wouldn’t she look at him with something more than suspicion in her eyes?

She shouldn’t have come back, he thought bitterly. She should have waited until they’d both had time to come to terms with the situation. He had the feeling she thought she was the only one who had suffered during his absence. For pity’s sake, it hadn’t been an easy ride for him.

She pulled her lower lip between her teeth now, and once again a host of erotic images filled his head. But it was obvious she had no such weaknesses, and when she spoke he had to think hard before his mind was able to shift into another gear.

‘I couldn’t believe it, you know.’

Morgan concentrated on his breathing. ‘No?’

‘No.’ She seemed to have found a topic she could discuss, and there was even some animation in her face as she went on, ‘The letter they sent—well, it didn’t seem real somehow. Even after I’d read it, I still couldn’t believe you were coming back.’

Morgan could feel his nerves stretching, expanding, unravelling like a ball of string that was strung so thinly he was half afraid it might break. ‘I understood my mother told you,’ he said tersely. ‘Are you saying you had a letter after all?’

‘Well, of course I got a letter!’ she exclaimed, and he wondered if she realised how stressed he was.

‘But you didn’t read it?’ he asked harshly, feeling his temper rising. ‘For God’s sake, Fliss, don’t you bother to read your mail?’

‘Of course I do.’ She was defensive now. ‘But—but that particular night I was tired, so I put it down in the kitchen and forgot about it’

Morgan couldn’t hide his anger. ‘You forgot about a letter from the Foreign Office!’ He uttered an oath. ‘My God, what could be more important than that?’

Fliss caught her breath. ‘I didn’t know there was a letter from the Foreign Office,’ she protested. ‘As I say, I was tired. And all I usually get are bills, anyway.’

Morgan breathed deeply. ‘All right. So when you eventually read the letter you didn’t believe it.’

‘I didn’t believe you could be alive,’ she amended breathily. ‘For heaven’s sake, Morgan, we’d been told you were dead. You must appreciate how it was for me.’

‘No.’ Morgan refused to make it easy for her. ‘Tell me,’ he invited grimly. ‘I’m getting the feeling you weren’t best pleased to get the news.’

‘That’s not true!’

‘Then what is true?’ he demanded. ‘Go on: enlighten me. Tell me how ecstatic it made you feel.’

‘It wasn’t like that—’

‘No sweat.’

‘It wasn’t.’ She swallowed, her hand seeking the gold chain she wore about her throat. ‘We—I—was stunned. Your mother told you, we’d even held a memorial service for you—’

‘I know that.’ He scowled.

‘Then you should understand how—how distressing it was to hear the news.’

Distressing!

Morgan wanted to beat his head against the wall. For God’s sake, was she deliberately trying to destroy him? She was using words to describe his return that might more accurately be used to describe his death.

“I think you’d better go,’ he said, keeping his tone flat. If he allowed his real feelings to show, she’d run from here to next week. Pressing his hands down on the back of the chair, he pushed himself to his feet. ‘Templar—the psycho—will be coming soon, and he doesn’t like an audience.’

‘Oh, but—’ Suddenly, she was reluctant to leave. The doctor said you might like to—to talk.’

‘We’ve talked,’ said Morgan tightly, swinging his leg across the chair, but he misjudged its height and the heavy article went over. It cracked like a bullet as it landed on the floor.

Fliss jumped to her feet then and, almost simultaneously, the door opened and Sean Templar burst into the room. It made Morgan wonder if the psychologist had been standing with his ear glued to the panels all the time they were talking, ready to intervene if anything untoward occurred.

For a moment, they were all frozen in a ridiculous tableau, and then Templar bent to pick up the chair. ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked pleasantly, and Morgan heard Fliss muffle a sob.

‘What could be wrong?’ he demanded harshly. ‘My wife was just leaving. that’s all.’

And Fliss pressed a hand to her mouth as if he’d struck her, before rushing tearfully out of the room.