Читать книгу Black Diamond - Havana Adams - Страница 9

PROLOGUE

A shriek pierced the still night air and then moments later a single hoarse word was screamed out.

“Fire!”

In the ramshackle township of Ivory Crossing, on the outskirts of Cape Town, no word could provoke panic and fear quite like this word. Even as the voice shrieked again, “Fire, Fire,” the word was gathering pace on the night air, repeated now by a growing clamour of voices. The silence of the night had been ruptured.

Bodies spilled out of their makeshift homes. Babies wailed. Women screamed. Men began to run, gathering their meagre possessions even as the flames grew. By now orange flames fanned out, leaping from house to house. A blaze lit up the inky blue-black of the African sky. Panic had seized the township.

As they ran, a crush of bodies tripping over each other, pushing and shoving and jostling, few turned back to look at the small tin-roofed shack that seemed to be the epicentre of the blaze.

Hours later, in the watery grey dawn, a scene of destruction greeted the survivors. A half-mile radius of homes had been levelled, the scorched earth still smouldering in the cool morning air. An old woman, her shoulders hunched over the precious bundle in her arms, stood barefoot and stared unblinking at the devastation. The shawl around her shoulders had slipped to the ground but she continued to stare at the shack where it had all begun. A faint mewling sound drew her attention to the bundles in her arms, to the two babies, mirror images of each other, that she cradled against her. The mewling subsided and the babies settled back into deep sleep. The only evidence of the terror in which they had been caught up was the dark sooty smoke marks that marred their brown skin. The woman turned to the tall uniformed man who stood alongside her.

“This one is Grace,” the woman said indicating the baby in the crook of her left arm who sucked her thumb in sleep. “And this is Lola.” The officer barely afforded the twin babies a glance, his eyes focused on the smouldering remains of the rest of the township. Finally, he turned to the woman.

“Where are the parents?” The old woman shrugged, tilting her head towards the charred, burnt-out remains of what had once been the twins’ home.

“The fire started in their house, they didn’t make it out,” the woman said with a long deep sigh. There had been many fires in the township but the ferocity of this blaze, the speed with which it had spread, tearing through homes and destroying lives, twisted the woman’s gut and she knew she would never forgot this day. “What will happen to the babies now?” she asked, remembering their beautiful and yet serious mother, a teacher, who had worked tirelessly to ensure that the children in the township received some kind of education. She thought too about their father who had worked in the mines. The old woman had always been struck by his kindness, he had a gregarious charm that drew people to him and yet he was the first to help her fetch water and offer her extra kerosene to light her lamps.

In her arms, one of the twins stirred and the woman looked down at them. “What will happen to them now?” she asked again. The police officer shrugged, barely sparing the tiny babies a glance.

“They are orphans now,” he answered already turning his back.

A small jet taxied down a private airstrip, slowing before it finally came to a complete halt. On board the jet, Scarlet Wilde stared out at the open landscape of rusty red sand that was visible, in every direction, for as far as the eye could see. The sun blazed down on the tarmac, bouncing off the runway to create a blinding glare. Even with her trademark white blonde hair swept back away from her face and wearing only a minimal amount of make-up, Scarlet was still recognisable as Hollywood’s favourite fallen angel. For every peak in her short and yet prolific screen career, there had been a corresponding crash in her personal life. The Oscar win had been followed by love affairs gone bad, lovers that sold their stories and most recently a marriage heralded with fanfare that had faltered after a mere 73 days of what the papers had christened unholy matrimony. It was true to say that for Scarlet Wilde, success and strife went hand in hand.

“Whenever you’re ready, ma’am.”

The First Officer hovered at the entrance to the cabin but Scarlet barely afforded him a glance and instead continued to stare out of the window, noticing that from within a single-storied building men in suits were hurriedly emerging, scurrying out like ants towards the stationary plane. Scarlet watched the flurry of activity in the otherwise still landscape. Amongst the group of men stood a small woman, her assistant, Riley. Scarlet allowed herself a smile as she watched her and the men slowly advance towards the plane.

It was rare for Scarlet to travel alone without her trusted assistant by her side. But, in this matter, Scarlet had known that she could trust only one person to go ahead and smooth the waters for her. Scarlet let her thoughts drift through what had brought her to South Africa. The news had broken just as she had been flying out of LAX; Scarlet Wilde was adopting a baby from Africa. Scarlet shook off the tension and melancholy that had settled over her during the flight. She shook off the memory of that last argument with Jared, her husband of 73 days.

“You can’t take care of a pair of shoes, let alone a child,” he’d screamed and she had lunged for him then, tearing at him. The vintage claw ring on her finger ripped into his face, immediately drawing blood. At the sight of his blood she had gasped and stopped, shocked, but the damage was done. It was not the worst fight that they’d ever had but she’d crossed a line and within the hour Jared had filed for divorce. Scarlet took another deep breath and shook away the memories. She centred herself back in the airplane cabin and thought of what lay ahead. She was beginning a new chapter in her life and she would show them all. Scarlet Wilde was ready to prove everybody wrong. She deserved to be a mother; she would be a good mother. Scarlet rose quickly to her feet. She grabbed the cashmere wrap that had warmed her through the flight, picked up her tote bag and strode towards the exit.

“Thank you,” she said with only a momentary glance at the pilot and before he could respond, she was gone.

Scarlet emerged into the close heat of the mid-afternoon sun and even for a girl raised in the humidity of South Carolina, she blanched. She pulled her sunglasses off her head and onto her face as Riley moved towards her, engulfing her in a momentary hug.

“We all set?” Scarlet asked anxiously.

“All set,” Riley replied with a smile. “We’re going to three orphanages today.” Riley gave an apologetic nod towards the men in suits. “I couldn’t stop them coming, official welcome brigade from the government.” Scarlet nodded and turned to shake the hands that were offered to her, accepting the greetings and congratulations. As they moved towards the terminal building a car pulled up. As Scarlet stepped into the car, Riley was already instructing the driver about their destination. Moments later, a partition went up, allowing them privacy and Riley turned to face Scarlet as the car pulled out of the airstrip.

“Are you ready for this?” Riley asked. After only a split second’s hesitation Scarlet nodded. She was ready to be a mother.

The Matron was running.

As she dashed as quickly as her thick bowed legs could carry her, a buzz took up and spread through the Tumaini orphanage. Matron never ran. Nobody ever ran at Tumaini House. Not the three hundred or so children cramped in the inadequate, dated facilities and not the staff, not unless they wanted to be rewarded with one of Matron’s hot slaps. Running was reserved for outside during football games or for escaping great danger. Nobody ran indoors and yet here she was, Matron, lumbering down the long corridors, past the cracked walls, the boarded-up windows, the constant stench of urine, her breath laboured and panting noisily out of her. The children stared at her in amazement and then looked away for fear of inviting her anger but they knew at once that something momentous must be afoot.

Matron burst into Mr Peters’s office without knocking, another first. Mr Peters leapt up, a look of irritation giving way to one of concern as he took in the panting form of Matron, her heavy breasts heaving up and down in seismic shifts beneath her patterned, brightly coloured kaftan. Mr Peters watched as she fought to gulp down air.

“What is it?” Peters asked. He watched as Matron sucked in air and prayed she wouldn’t keel over dead in front of him before she could give up her news.

“She’s…coming…here.” Matron finally pushed the words out.

“Who?” Peters asked none the wiser. Matron shook her head.

“The actress, the famous one, from Hollywood. She’s here, in South Africa to adopt a baby. Scarlet Wilde…” Peters’s eyes widened as he grasped Matron’s words. He had only a vague idea of who Scarlet Wilde was, his interest running more to African dramas and Bollywood musicals rather than Hollywood blockbusters, but he knew as well as Matron what an adoption from an American star would mean. In a neighbouring town some American pop star had adopted a boy and they had seen the flood of money that had poured into that orphanage. Peters had watched the head of that orphanage swap his modest Peugeot for a Mercedes. White people adoptions meant money and famous white people adoptions; well, the sky was the limit.

Matron had slumped into one of the chairs, her breath almost completely back. “She has already been to Tiberi and Kaluu,” she said, referring to the neighbouring orphanages. “But she hasn’t seen what she wants there.” Peters nodded slowly.

“Then we must make sure she finds what she wants here,” he finally said. In his mind’s eye he was already sifting through the babies they had in the dorms upstairs – the beautiful ones, the ones that didn’t cry, the ones with nicely kept hair and the right shade of black for white people – not too dark. They were short of boys, but white people Peters had learned were different, often they actually preferred girls. And slowly, a smile crept across Peters’s face. He had it.

In a room filled with twenty-five cots, most over-filled with three or four babies, Peters and Matron zeroed in on one. They stared down at the sleeping forms of nine-month-old Grace and Lola.

“That one,” Peters said, his finger pointing directly at Lola. Almost as though she knew that her fate rested on this man’s decision, Lola’s eyes opened. Thick lashes fluttered open to reveal wide, hazel eyes. Lola rarely cried and now she stared quietly at Peters and Matron as they stood whispering above the cot.

“What about the other one?” Matron asked in hushed tones and their gazes shifted to the still sleeping Grace. Lola’s chubby arm reached across to her twin, as though she might ward off the attentions of Peters and Matron. Peters shook his head as he stared at Grace. She was thin and in sleep, she gave a pitiful, hacking cough. That they were twins, mirror images of each other, was still clear to see, but slowly in their six months at the orphanage Grace had started to wilt where Lola had grown chubby, robust and healthy. There was little money for medical care at the orphanage and so nothing had been done to help Grace. She would get better on her own or she wouldn’t. That was all there was to it. Peters shook his head again and he turned back to Lola and smiled.

“No,” he said. “Just this one.” Lola was a beautiful child, there was no denying that and, with thoughts of the BMW that would be his should the adoption go through, he plucked Lola from the cot and turned and started to walk out of the baby room.

“But sir…” Matron began, her eyes darting to the still-sleeping Grace. “We can’t separate them, can we?”

Peters stared hard at Matron. The silence between them lengthened and in that instant Matron knew that to defy Peters would be an act of folly; he could make life very hard for her, she knew. And so she nodded and fell into step next to Peters as he carried Lola out of the room.

From the moment their eyes met, it was a done deal. Freshly washed and clothed and now housed in the other baby room that was used only when VIPs visited the Tumaini orphanage, Lola’s natural beauty was unmistakeable. Where other babies had smiled or wailed, Lola simply stared, her wide hazel eyes almost assessing. Slowly, Scarlet reached for the girl and Lola came to her willingly, without fuss. As she’d cooed at the girl, finally Scarlet had won a smile and she knew then that this was the baby for her. The paperwork was already in process and by nightfall that day Lola Biko, born in a shantytown, would be sleeping in a cot in the grandest five-star hotel that South Africa had to offer.

A week later, after all the excitement had died down, Peters heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction. It had all gone off without a hitch. The news outlets, always eager for human-interest stories and new angles on the apartheid story, had embraced their story. Peters had been interviewed by news stations, he had spoken of the plight of these parentless African children and what the outside world could do to support and help. Already letters stuffed with dollar bills, pounds sterling, German Marks had been arriving. All their fortunes were rising.

Peters strolled slowly through the darkened corridors of the orphanage and inhaled deeply on a cigarette. He thought about the changes he would make: the peeling walls would be transformed, they’d get more beds so fewer children would have to sleep on the floor, maybe they’d get a typewriter for the classroom. So what if he happened to get a Mercedes too? Or perhaps a BMW. Everybody wins, he thought to himself.

As he approached the baby room, he saw that a light was still on. Matron was completing her checks and now she lingered by the last cot in which Grace lay alone. Peters approached Matron and together they stared down into the cot. The girl’s hazel eyes were open, glassy and unfocused and she made a weak croaking sound.

“She won’t eat,” Matron said quietly.

Peters stared at the girl. She looked even thinner than she had just days ago and her breath was loud and laboured. Grace stared intently, eyes identical to Lola’s stared straight at him and for a moment Peters felt a shaft of fear; he fancied that he saw something like reproach in her eyes. Then, he shook it off. He was a modern man, educated; he did not subscribe to old African superstitions. Slowly, her hazel eyes closing almost unwillingly, as though she was fighting it with as much strength as she could muster, Grace settled into sleep. And Peters gave a small sigh of relief.

“What about her? What if anyone finds out?” Matron asked softly. Peters sighed and stared at the girl again. That she was in decline was clear for anyone to see. Peters had seen the same thing time and time again, babies that came to the orphanage that simply wasted away. He took the cigarette butt from his lips and ground it out underfoot and then he spoke.

“She is wasting. Look at her, she’ll be dead before the month is out.”

And then Peters turned and walked away putting Grace firmly to the back of his mind.

In sleep, Grace reached out, her tiny fist grasping at air, where her twin sister had been.