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

Rudd stabs his fork into the last of his chips. He sweeps it up through the tomato sauce on the edge of his plate, and back down towards a few grains of salt. His eyes are almost closed, his head pillowed on the palm of his hand. Sleepily, he repeats the motion, hypnotized by the slow, wiper-blade progress of the fork. Finally he brings the red-gold slice up to his mouth, chews it slowly, and then lets his fork rattle down on to the plate.

“Mind if I join you?”

He looks up and sees an older man in front of him – tall, tidy, looking clean in the shadows. Slowly, slowly his tired mind connects him back to the wedding, back to the service under the trees, planets ago. Surprised, he pulls himself upright and glances around the room. It’s empty. Even the doctors have gone.

“May I join you?” the priest asks again.

“Sure. Everything okay? My apologies for all this,” he mumbles, sweeping his hand vaguely around the room.

“Not your fault,” says the priest, sitting down. “Good meal by the way. Impressive producing it in these conditions, especially with no staff.”

“Thanks. Wasn’t just me.”

“Saw Simi and Marybelle in the kitchen earlier. Quite a partnership.”

“For sure,” says Rudd.

 “Marybelle? She must have Scottish in her, or something?”

Rudd shrugs. “Don’t know. Jacobus might.”

“Oh. You don’t know?”

“No, not really. Jacobus was talking to Tim about her. I think Jacobus was at school with her.”

Rudd sits a little straighter, trying to drag his mind back from the cliff edge of sleep. Marybelle? She slips around his mind, like a bird trapped in a room. He can’t catch her.

“Oh,” says the priest. “I see. She seems a bit of an outsider, don’t you think?”

Marybelle? Why all these questions about Marybelle?

“I don’t know.” Rudd shrugs . He tries to end it there, but the priest’s eyes force him deeper. “May have grown up with Jacobus. Something like that. His mum took care of her because her mum died? The mum who adopted her. I think she was adopted. Best to ask Jacobus.”

“Wonder if she’s got any family …” the priest muses, the fingers of one hand tapping gently on the table, his signet ring a dull glow.

Rudd cricks his neck from side to side, eyes closed. When he opens them he sees that the priest is looking at him. He stops his stretching. “She works at a school. The same one she went to. I do know that. Seems mad to me.”

He is about to stand up, to end the conversation, when the kitchen door swings open. It thumps against the wall, and as though summoned by some mysterious force, Marybelle appears, with Simi behind her.

Rudd raises a hand in greeting, relieved at the interruption, but Marybelle does not stop. She hurries past, ushering her companion up towards the reception area. He calls out to her. “Everything okay, Marybelle?”

She stops, and turns towards him. “Oh, hi Rudd. Never saw you. Hello Father Norman. Just off to find the doctors. Can’t stop.” She gives them a little wave, and is gone before Rudd can reply, with Simi’s kaftan, flowing like a field of flowers behind her.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023