Aneke twists around to look up at her husband. “Hey Ruan, didn’t somebody say the doctors might be flying to Harare later?”

 “Ja … ja they did.”

“We need to get on that flight and get these sorted,” she says, hand tapping on the passports. “Might still make Vic Falls …”

“Okay … could be a plan,” Ruan says slowly. He is about to say something else when Rudd cuts in.

“No way. Your problem is not an emergency. These helicopters are for the injured.”

“What do you mean?” snaps Aneke, turning to face him. “The blacks? We’re Australian citizens now. Australia will want to get us out of here. That’s the real world, hey.”

Rudd slams his hands flat on to the table, bouncing the passports. He leans towards Aneke, his jaw clenched tight. “You have NO idea do you? None.”

Her gaze does not flinch. “I’m your guest.”

Ruan steps forward. “Back off, please.” He pulls his wife to her feet. “She’s right. We’re your guests. You’re here to help us.”

Rudd wants to chop his own ears off. He stands back holding his head, and lets Father Norman’s hand on his shoulder, persuade him back to his seat.

“Have you met the doctors yet?” Father Norman asks the couple.

Ruan shakes his head.

“They’re in the reception lounge I think.”

“Okay. We’ll go and look for them. Come on Aneke.” Ruan tries to guide his wife away. She stands but doesn’t leave.

“Thanks for nothing,” she spits. “Our visit puts money into your Lodge, and this whole mess of a country. Don’t forget that.” She picks up the passports. “You should be thanking us Rudd. Not yelling at us. Let’s go Ruan.” Chin haughty, she swings around and leads her husband up the stairs. As she’s about to disappear from view, Father Norman calls out.

 “Aneke.” She slows but doesn’t stop. “They’re black. The doctors are black.”

Aneke waves dismissively. “Agh … they’ll have a white manager, hey.”

Then she’s gone.

“Good luck to them,” says Father Norman. “Rudd I think you need to rest. You nearly lost it back there. Get too tired, and you don’t know what’ll happen.” Rudd nods.

 “Many like her around?”

“No. Occasionally, but hardly ever.” Rudd lets out a deep breath, exhaustion taking over from anger. He knows he should be doing something, but can’t think where, or what. Out of half-closed eyes he watches Father Norman walk over to the tea picker painting, his hands folded behind his back.

“I like this,” he says. “Who’s the man in the yellow hat?”

Rudd struggles to focus. “My father … he loved that hat …” He slumps his head into the crook of his arm and closes his eyes. He is vaguely aware that the priest’s voice is closer now.

“Come … to your bed.”

An arm slips around his back, lifting him to his feet. He tries to shake himself free. “I’ll get there.” But the arm remains, guiding him to the steps.

“Did your father always wear that hat?”

“Ja … show people where he was … that he wasn’t afraid.” Rudd takes the steps slowly and deliberately, careful in the dark. When he reaches the last he thinks he notices a few people in the distance on the sofas. There is a flash of bright pink standing beside them.

“Looks a tall man,” says Father Norman.

 “Ja …”

They reach the medical room, and Rudd pushes the door open. He falls sideways on to the bed. The last thing he remembers is somebody taking off his shoes.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Rudd’s mind clenches in the corner of his skull. When he answers, his voice is barely a whisper.

“Jim opened the window. Jim, the house boxer. Stephen was in bits.”

“Why did you do it?”

Rudd looks straight at the priest. “Because I was a coward. Dad did that kind of thing to me. To toughen me up, he said. So I passed it on.” He tips his head back, eyes fixed on the emptiness above him, trying to escape. But Father Norman drags him back.

“Listen to me Rudd,” he says slowly. “Must have been terrible for you, and for Stephen, but this storm is nothing to do with either of you, or your father. This is not your fault.”

“I should have told them not to come. It was my call. Dad’s right. I’m weak.”

“You’re not weak Rudd. You’re human, and you’re exhausted. If you start beating yourself up now, chances are you will fail. But you haven’t failed yet. Nobody’s saying that. Nobody’s died, and you’ve fed them twice. People like you.”

“Stephen’s died. At Christmas. I never got to apologise.”

Rudd closes his eyes, the weariness in him now so deep that all he can see is down. He is descending, descending, when the kitchen door thuds open. Its crack snaps him upright, and spins Father Norman on his chair. They see Aneke, in a bright pink rain jacket, with Ruan behind her. She is waving something in one hand, body language distraught.

She shouts out to them, each word fired like a bullet. “Man, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. See our passports? They’ve been ruined.” She comes closer, passports waving. So close now that water drips over Father Norman’s head.

 “Excuse me, but those are wet,” says the priest, patting water off his shoulders.

“I know,” retorts Aneke. “That’s my point. They’re ruined.”

“Write offs,” says Ruan, shirt buttons panting. “They were in her bag on the floor and they’ve got soaked. Our room is like a lake.”

“Total disaster.” Aneke’s voice rises an octave. “You’ve got to call the embassy now Rudd, and get this sorted.”

Rudd stands up. “I can’t. They’re no comms.”

 “Surely your mobile works?” says Ruan.

Rudd shrugs. “Battery’s dead. Same as everyone’s. No power. Plus, you’re never going to get much reception here, especially in this weather.”

Aneke storms at him. “Typical. Nothing works. So glad we don’t live here any more.” Hair frizzing around her red face she turns to her husband. “See I told you. We could be stranded here for another month. Or more!” Her voice catches on a high squeak, and suddenly, urgently, Rudd wants to laugh. He fights to steady himself, yanking hard on the broken edges of his own sanity.

Opposite him Father Norman gets to his feet, and tries to calm things down. “I’m sure when the weather clears, someone will be able to …”

“You’re not even from here,” Aneke spins towards him. “As if you’d … as if you’d … ” She huffs, then stutters, then stops, her face inches from the priest’s. Breathing hard, she sits down heavily on his chair, and drops the passports with a wet slap on to the table.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Suddenly aware of his own empty plate, Rudd asks the priest if he has eaten.

“Yes. I sat down with the doctors earlier. Sounds like a tragedy out there.”

“I know. Brutal.”

“Wish there was something I could do, but without the mission truck …” Father Norman twists his hands palm upwards, then his fingers fall back to their tapping.

“No idea about your truck. I heard Jacobus’ was okay by some miracle.”

The priest shrugs, and pushes his chair back from the table, hands now still and folded in his lap. “Maybe tomorrow. Meanwhile, will try to make myself useful here. As Jacobus says, a truck is just a truck.”

“No.” Rudd shakes his head. “A truck is way more than that here. No transport and you can be in real trouble.” He slumps into a brooding quiet. On the wall beside him, the last of the rain-soaked sun catches on a painting of teapickers. Beneath it, the long serving table sags with dirty plates.

“You must be tired,” Father Norman says after a few seconds of silence.

“One way of putting it.” Rudd’s body begins to drift, every bolt loosened to its limits. His mind too is fraying, threads pulling free faster than he can catch them. He starts to speak without meaning to. “Wish I’d cancelled yesterday when I saw that report. All this damage … it’s like some kind of punishment. ”

“Punishment? Why? You couldn’t have done anything. If you’d tried to cancel, nobody would have listened. Not this lot. I know wedding crowds, and there was no stopping this one.”

“Maybe.” Darkness seeps between them. Then another thread pulls. “Storms are nightmares for me.”

“Nightmares? Why?”

“It’s Stephen,” he says, too weary to stop. He thumps his elbows on to the table, one either side of his plate. His head drops between his hands.

“Stephen?”

“Trying to get in.”

“Get in? Where?”

“I shut him out. Out of the dormitory at school.” The words collapse out of Rudd, broken as a dam. “There was a massive storm. He was terrified, and I just kept him out there on this balcony begging to get in. He was so terrified. Had a thing about thunder.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I wasn’t the only one, but I was the one who held the window closed. Me. And I was supposed to be his friend. But I just joined in. With everyone.” He looks up at the priest, and jeers the taunts, mouth smirking. “‘Keep the little wimp out there.’ ‘You want us to throw you outside too?’ That kind of stuff …” The words fade.

“How old were you?”

“First year. 12. Stephen and I were the ‘wimps’. Always bullied. Then I tried to dodge it. To join in. To be the bully. I was so pathertic.” The words stab, faster and faster. “I was the one holding the window closed. Me. And it was my friend out there. My only real friend. Stephen. And I did that to him.” Rudd slaps a hand across his heart. “To my friend. Now, he’s always there. In my head. Trying to get in.” He drills a finger into his temple. “Always in my head.”

 “What happened?” Father Norman asks quietly.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023