Fliss’s mouth dried. She’d forgotten all about the invitation Celia had issued at New Year. It was just after Graham had popped the question, and Fliss had been too anxious about their reaction to give an answer then. ‘I—’ A lie seemed the only alternative now. ‘I can’t remember, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, well, never mind.’ Celia had too much else on her mind to worry about what her daughter-in-law had been ringing about. ‘And in the circumstances no doubt we’ll be having a celebration when Morgan comes home. You must come and stay with us when he gets back.’
‘Well—’
Once again, Fliss was nonplussed. She felt as if events were moving far too fast for her to handle. They hadn’t even heard from Morgan yet, and already Celia was wanting to organise their lives. How could she make any plans? She didn’t know how she’d feel when she saw him again.
‘Give them time, Cee.’ To her relief, Morgan’s father chose to intervene. ‘We’ve all had a shock, and I think Felicity needs some breathing space. I know you mean well, but you’re rushing things. We don’t even know how fit Morgan’s going to be when he gets home.’
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
