Simi struggles to understand the request, and when at last she does, she lifts her hand slowly towards the doctor. The effort throbs, and the pain beats in the knowledge that infection has set in.

“Thank you,” says Dr Miriam, taking the hand gently.

Simi does not register much over the next few minutes, apart from understanding that others are trying to help her. Propped up by cushions, she sits with her eyes closed, trying to stay awake, and to make sense of the voices that come and go. She hears Marybelle’s threading through them all like the chorus of a song, with Dr Miriam’s drifting in and out to either side. In front of her somewhere she can hear the deep voice of Dr Jabu Ndlovu.

“When’s this helicopter coming?”

She opens her eyes and sees the doctor is talking to Katania. Beside him, bulky and deeper in the shadows is Dr Jonathan Hove. Katania, still seated, is looking up at them both and telling them that her helicopter will arrive in the morning – first thing.

“That so? Douglas here tried to find another helicopter for us in Mutare but couldn’t,” says Dr Jabu Ndlovu.

“What a shame. This one belongs to a friend of Jean Jacques. Perhaps I could take a report or news with me?”

 “Yes. That is essential. Plus a list of supplies for the helicopter to bring back. And this lady must go with you. Her condition is deteriorating.”

Simi sees Katania peer across at her, then, golden hairclip shining, she stands up. “I’ll see what I can do.” She is about to leave when Dr Miriam steps past Simi to speak to her.

“Excuse me. I shall need to travel with this guest, to monitor her condition.”

“Well, I’m not sure …”

“It is extremely urgent.”

 “And what about us?” says Aneke, as she gets up off the sofa, arms folded.

“You?” Dr Miriam asks.

“Best thing for you is to walk to Mutare with the others tomorrow,” says Dr Jabu Ndlovu.

“What? Walk?”

“Yes. Your embassy can come and get you from there.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Too right,” says Ruan.

“Come on Ruan. We’re wasting our time here.” The pale fuschia of Aneke blurs through the dark past Simi, with Ruan hurrying to keep up behind her.

Simi feels a touch on her arm, and turns to see Marybelle. “You need to rest Simi. We’ll get you back to your room.” Eyes dizzy, Simi tries to get to her feet, but a surge of nausea forces her back. “Don’t rush. We’ll wait for Dr Miriam.” Simi nods. Grateful to be still, she waits.

Then Dr Miriam is beside her, asking if she can stand. She tries to, but as she does so, her thumb knocks the edge of the table, sending a slash of pain down into her wrist. She cries out, and thumps back on to the sofa.

“Simi!”

She feels arms rush in to support her. They lift her upright and half carry her through the dark reception area and down towards the bedrooms.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Simi’s focus starts to fade. The edges of her vision swim, blurring around Katania’s teeth white smile. It is tight and disapproving, and holds for a wing beat, then it vanishes as Katania chops briskly through Aneke’s hopes of a ride.

“No. No room for you. Possibly the doctors. That’s why I’m here. But I do have quite a lot of luggage with me. Essentials …”

Simi leans back on the sofa with helicopters spinning her mind to the point of nausea. They thump through her, dragging voices behind them. Some talk of rescue, others of disaster. She tries to listen through the ache, but worse than the ache now is anxiety, fresh and urgent. The anxiety knows and she knows, something is very wrong with her hand. She is sweating now. Her back sticks to her kaftan, and her kaftan is damp beneath her arms. She forces herself upright, and turns to Marybelle to ask for help, but Marybelle does not see her. Marybelle has both hands over her mouth, eyes shocked, as her whole body listens horrified to Dr Miriam’s description of the damage and the dead seen that morning. Simi’s plan to tell Marybelle evaporates, and she collapses back again.

She closes her eyes and rests, her breathing shallow. She hears a groan. Then it comes again. She notices that the voices have stopped talking, and that the groan has changed to whimpering. She tries to place it, but gives up, her head too heavy to search. Then she feels a hand on her arm. She opens her eyes and sees Marybelle’s face looming close. There is another groan, close and raw, and she realises it is she who is groaning and whimpering. She hears Marybelle call her name again.

 “Simi. Simi. I’m so sorry. Where did my mind go? Dr Miriam please, would you have a look?”

Simi closes her eyes. She can hear people talking, and she knows most of them, but she cannot follow what they are saying, for her head is sludgy with the mud of nightmare – with rain, and more rain, with lost families, and bones. The bones. Those bones. She cannot remember where they come from. It bothers her. She starts to fret. Searching. Not quite reaching. Whose were the bones? Why the bones? Then, as she starts to sink, she feels a new hand on her forehead. She tries to respond, to catch herself somehow, but she is exhausted, and her body heavy as lead. It is weighed down and clammy, and her eyes throb. She drops her chin on to her chest, desperate to sleep. Just for a little.

“Simi. Simi.”

Yes. No. Please wait. Must sleep. Just … later …

“Simi!”

Simi opens her eyes, and sees someone, but she cannot focus. She cannot keep her eyes open.

“Simi. Please. You have to try. Please.”

The tone pulls Simi from the deep. She looks up again. She tries to sit straighter, manages slightly, but with each movement the band around her forehead gets tighter and tighter. She sees Dr Miriam kneeling beside her, studying her. Simi feels sick.

“Simi, may I look at your hand please?”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

“Simi … oh, hello.”

Simi turns to see who Marybelle is greeting. She expects it to be the doctors coming back to their seats, but it’s not. It is Jen, Hansie and Katania who approach the sofas.

“There you are. We’ve been looking for you,” says Hansie.

As they come closer, Simi sees Katania twitch a patronising smile towards them. “You ladies were marvellous,” she says. “Mind if I sit down? My feet are killing me.”

“Sure,” says Ruan, pulling up a chair for her.

“And you are?” she asks before sitting, looking first towards Dr Miriam, and then turning to the pilot.

“I am the pilot. Douglas Makanda. That young lady is Dr Miriam Muzenda.”

Katania acknowledges the information with a nod. “I am Katania Stone,” she says. Her bangles jangle as she raises her right hand and places it briefly on her chest, before gesturing towards Jen. “This young lady is my daughter, Jennifer, and her new husband, Hansie van Graan.”

“Congratulations,” says Douglas Makanda.

Katania sits down on the chair Ruan has provided. She crosses her legs slowly, turquoise trousers clinging. Simi wonders wearily how she manages to look so pristine every time she sees her. The white of her blouse is ghostly in the dark, and a broad gold hairclip gleams when she turns her head.

Simi adjusts her kaftan, aware suddenly of the lingering smell of sausages. Carefully, she raises her good hand to check her hair wrap, and is relieved to find that it is still holding its position, at least as far as she can tell. She tweaks it slightly, just for the sake of doing something, and as she does so notices the newly-weds slipping away to join the smokers sheltering outside, under a remaining patch of roof.

She swings her attention back again and hears Katania questioning the young doctor. “Are there more of you? Someone told me there were four of you.”

“Three of us,” Dr Miriam replies.

“And one pilot,” adds Douglas Makanda, grinning.

Marybelle chips in. “The other two doctors have just left. They were telling us how terrible it is out there.”

“Awful, simply awful,” agrees Katania. “So sad that I won’t be able to help any more tomorrow.”

“Why? Are you off somewhere?” Marybelle asks.

“’Fraid so. Desperate shame, but Jean Jacques can’t stand the thought of me stranded in this chaos. He’s sending a helicopter to take me to Harare. His driver and car are waiting there.”

Simi tries to hang on to the conversation, but her mind starts to spin, mulching ideas into fragments and then scattering them just out of reach. She is vaguely aware that Aneke and Ruan are chasing helicopters, hoping for a ride. That Marybelle is talking about Jean-Jacques. Jean Jacques? Simi ponders, then connects. Katania’s man. Somewhere remote. Africa. Mining. Something. Simi struggles to focus. She wants to know. How did he hear? How did he arrange a rescue? She sits forwards, clutching the wrist of her sore hand against her chest.

“I just know …. wouldn’t like me to be stuck … he’d want this. Hansie and Jen sorted it …. insisted. He’ll pay … don’t want him worried.” Katania’s smile, sweet as a slice of lemon, holds until Aneke asks the question again.

“Any space for us?”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023