The Night of the Cobra - Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Later, she sat on the bed in her hotel room. She wanted the oblivion of sleep so badly but it wouldn’t come. Her raw eyes were locked in a blind stare, too scared to close on a world that had betrayed her.

The bullet that had killed him had entered under his left arm, skirting his flak jacket and exiting in his right side. Lung damage, arteries severed – she couldn’t really remember what the doctors had said. It was all so irrelevant.

When she got back to her room after leaving the field hospital, she had started screaming – mad, manic, wordless howls. Glenn tried to calm her. He thought it was shock.

When she finally collapsed on the bed, he left and returned with a bottle of whiskey. For an hour, they drank silently and single-mindedly. Then he left again, stumbling to his room.

But still she couldn’t sleep and now she was drinking whiskey again. Her mind had gone blank. Pain had numbed her senses and she was lost.

Then she saw his footprints. The mud had dried but the imprint was clear. She sank to her knees, crawled across the floor and traced the outline with her hand. She started mewling, an animal sound of grief and slid lower until her cheek was on the floor. Her tears mixed with the dried mud and smeared her face.

Peter found her several hours later and woke her. She blinked and offered a smile in the half-awake split second before she remembered. Then her face froze.

“Come on dear. That’s right. Let’s get you on the bed.” She let herself be led and sat again on the edge, staring at nothing.

“I just don’t understand. It was so fast. Why was it so fast?” Her voice was a whisper as she raised her face to Peter. “Death shouldn’t be that fast, that .. that … cavalier. He was so young.”

Peter swallowed awkwardly. “The shots seem to have come from the hotel back on the government side. You know the one – used to be the city’s finest but now the government militias are camped there. Of course, they say the rebels fired first. I don’t remember that.”

He shook his head and paused. “In any case, no one is going to take responsibility for shooting a western journalist. The government says it will investigate but frankly with the city in such a state, I wouldn’t hold out much hope of learning anything.”

The words washed over her. She was vaguely aware of scattered gunfire in the distance. She looked up. It was dark.

“What time is it?”

“Seven-thirty. You were out for a while I think,” Peter said. He paused uneasily.

“Tim called. He was worried but I told him you were in shock and had taken a sedative.”

The sound of Tim’s name pierced the shell of pain surrounding Nina and she started to shake again.

“Oh my God, Tim. I have to talk to Tim.”

As sobs shook her shoulders, Peter hugged her to him.

“There’s plenty of time for that tomorrow. I think you need some sleep. It’s been a terrible shock. For all of us.” His voice broke.

She buried her face in his shoulder so that her voice was muffled and cried “But we could have been….” She couldn’t finish. “And now he’s gone and I will never know what really happened. I’ll never know.”

In Peter’s arms, she wept until she had no more tears and her sobs were dry. When she finally slept, he laid her on the bed, blew out the candle and left.

The final chapter in Shaun Ridge’s life played out before Nina in a blur. The United Nations, which had a team of peacekeepers in the country, arranged for his body to be flown home and an official from his latest employers – he was in Liberia for the current affairs magazine Today – arrived to travel with him.

Nina went to the airport for the sending off. But she did not cry. It was as if she had passed through some barrier of pain into an emotion-free void.

She stood shivering in the torrential rain with other colleagues, watching the pale pine coffin being wheeled into the rear of the DC-10 that would take it to Dakar and from there on to Europe.

She dealt with her loss by denying it, by refusing to acknowledge its true extent or to think of the possibilities that had died with Shaun. She could almost feel her soul shutting down, the bolts being drawn on her feelings.

She was too terrified to think so she didn’t. She drank whiskey and sat in her hotel room. She spoke briefly to Tim. He was on his way. She watched CNN in the hotel bar until she didn’t even flinch when his picture appeared.

He looked younger in the photograph, smiling, his hair hidden under a dusty red scarf in some country she would never visit with him.

Sometimes late at night, her guard dropped and her mind would torment her with “what ifs” until she felt as though she couldn’t breathe, until she felt she must die from pain and anguish and the crushing weight of mortality.

She called the Chronicle and said she was going home. Tony Richards told her to take all the time she wanted. They were sending someone else in.

Then she waited for the plane that would fly her out. She refused to think beyond that.

When Tim walked into her room, she thought she would weep again. He strode across the floor and hugged her tight. They stood like that for several minutes, neither speaking.

Her husband looked exhausted, his eyes small and ringed by dark shadows. She wanted to collapse into his arms, and beg him to make everything right but fear of falling apart completely helped her force her emotions back.

She couldn’t talk to him properly now. She needed to go home first, to be alone and she what parts of her were still functioning.

“Are you alright? They told me you were in shock? Oh darling, why did you try to go across?”

His voice was soft but Nina jumped on the criticism, grateful for a chance to argue principle rather than dwell on the tragedy.

“We were told it was safe. We had guarantees from both sides. We did everything by the book – checked with the guys on the roadblocks, wore our flak jackets, went in a group. It was just unlucky, just bloody unlucky.”

Her voice had risen and she was trembling. Tim seemed taken aback by her vehemence.

“Okay, okay. It’s alright darling. I’m not blaming you. I was just so worried.”

“I know, I’m sorry” she said, turning away and reaching for the whiskey. She thought better of it and instead picked up a cigarette from the bedside table.

“Did you know him well?”

And there it was. The first question.

She lit the cigarette, inhaled and then turned to face Tim who was sitting on the bed, his arms supporting his tilted back.

“I actually met him in Freetown last week. He was new in town so I gave him some advice. Then he came here on the same plane as me.”

She paused, scared by the icy calm that had seeped into her mind, allowing her to speak so easily. She did not even blush. She wondered if she had crossed some rubicon and would never again be able to feel properly.

Time enough to worry about that later. For now she was grateful for whatever steadied her voice and her soul.

“He was a nice guy. Too young to die.” Her voice cracked a little and she sat down beside Tim. He put his arm around her shoulders.

“Listen, you don’t have to talk about it darling. I’m glad you’re going home. You need to get out of here. I’m just sorry I’m not going to be there. But they are really stuck for staff here and I’ve got the most experience so I said I would stay for a few days anyway. I’ll try to get home as quickly as possible. I’ve asked Emmanuel to look in on you. He was worried about you too.”

The tone was neutral but something lay unspoken between them. Nina knew that Tim found her collapse strange.

When her friend Robert was shot dead in Ivory Coast, she had carried on working with renewed ferocity. It was as though the story became more important because of the 28-year-old’s death.

It was more crucial than ever to cover every detail, to get the facts right, to keep the war on the front pages. Her work became a tribute to him.

She knew Tim could tell that this time was different. She hoped he would think it was because she saw the killing herself. She couldn’t deal with any more questions – and there were bound to be some – yet.

Later, they went down to the hotel bar to eat. Glenn was sitting in a corner with Peter and he waved them over.

“Hey there, have some food. It’s spaghetti bolognaise, or a close relative.”

They sat down.

“Did you hear the news?” Peter asked. “They’ve agreed a ceasefire at the talks in Freetown. For what it’s worth. Heaven knows it’s not the first time but the fighting has died down a little this afternoon so maybe it will hold for a while…”

“I was out with the government boys earlier and they all seem pretty fed-up,” Glenn added.

Catching Nina’s sharp look, he muttered: “I know it’s only been a few days but I need to work. It’s the only thing that will keep me sane right now.”

“I’m with you there,” said Peter. He had done report after report on the day Shaun was killed. Time and again, he was asked during the live Q & As, why they decided to go over the bridge. His replies were measured, logical. He managed to keep a lid on his emotions but only just.

Nina knew how much that day must have cost him mentally, but like her, he would save that reckoning for the terrifying quiet of home.

“Has anyone else been over the bridge since?” Tim asked.

Glenn shot a quick glance at Peter. “Two French journalists went over today” he replied. “They got back about an hour ago. The rebel chiefs have set up camp across from the port, in an empty villa. They say they will stop fighting as long as the talks continue.” He paused.

“The agencies are going to try to go across tomorrow. I think I’ll go with them.” He kept his eyes down, avoiding Nina’s shocked face.

“My editors want the rebel side as well,” Peter sighed. “So I’ll probably go with you as well. It should be okay this time. Nobody is going to shoot at us now, not after what happened.”

Nina said nothing. She stared at her fingers fiddling with her lighter. In normal times, she would have stayed too, would have tried again to get across the bridge, would have been driven by the memory of the young photographer. But not now.

The door Shaun had opened had slammed shut too fast. The experience demanded its tribute in pain and suffering and that could only be delivered when she was alone.

She saw him begin to fall again, saw him lying on the muddy ground, blood seeping from under his fingers, fingers that only hours before had been wrapped in her hair, caressing her back, awakening hopes and dreams and emotions that were sweet and troubling.

Suddenly, she realized tears were falling on her fingers. She got up suddenly, overturning the plastic chair in her fierce despair.

She strode off into the dark, heading back to her room as the three men stared.

Tim looked puzzled. Peter and Glenn quickly looked back to their drinks, afraid to catch his eye.

“She’s very upset. I’ve never seen her this way,” Tim said. There was a pause.

“Everyone has their own way of dealing with something like this. It was so close, and real and personal,” Peter said. “I don’t mind saying it’s terrified me. I’d love to be going home but there is no one to take my place right now.”

Glenn nodded. “Don’t worry,” he said. “She’ll bounce back. She’s tough. It’s a shock that’s all.”

Tim nodded, running his hand through his curly hair. “I hope so.”