Disclosure

By

D.M.White

She collected the small hand broom and opened the door, ready to hurl the bristly piece of plastic.

Instead of the expected dog she was confronted by a big, tired, tousled looking man sitting on the porch decking. Dark hair, dark eyes and a dark shadow of unshaved whiskers across his chin.

Shock nailed Beatrix’ feet to the floor. Tripped her heart so it flapped like a trapped bird. Drained the blood from her head, making her dizzy. She clutched the doorframe and stared at the man before her.

Nelson Joseph Burfield-Mills.  Sonny to his friends. Erstwhile husband to Beatrix.

As birthday presents went, nothing could have surprised her more.

She watched him heave himself to his feet. Conscious of his eyes on her face, and her own trembling limbs, as he settled himself into some sort of order. Dressed in gray cotton pants, a tee shirt and a thigh-length cotton jacket too thin for the "true" New Zealand winter, he shivered as he watched her watching him.

“Well?” he asked.

The information given to him in Tunis said his wife Beatrix Jacqueline lived here. Was this magnificent, golden haired creature that woman? She certainly fit the description, but how could he be sure?

And how did a man address a woman he was married to, but had no memory of?

Disclosure © 2008 by D. M. White

                         Chapter One

Sonny Mills walked along the airport corridor, his long legs covering the carpet in a measured tread. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and barely noticed the people around him. Not quite the walking dead, but jetting through five countries in as many days with more time than he cared to remember, confined in the aeronautical equivalent of a tin can, had taken its toll.

“This way sir.” The attendant walking beside him applied a gentle pressure to his elbow. Sonny had been passed from hand to hand ever since he had begun this trip from one side of the world to the other and while it frustrated him, it also solved many problems. “We’ll take the elevator to the Customs Hall.”

“Thank you.” Sonny held his breath as the metal box dropped beneath his feet. Let it out again when the doors whooshed open and hoped his pounding heart would remain in his chest.

“Through here,” the man continued as he guided Sonny along the hallway.

“Good morning,” he said to the uniformed man behind the desk when the two came to a stop.

“Your passport please,” came the request. Sonny pulled the document, so recently supplied through the British Embassy in Tunis, from his pocket and put it on the desk before him.

“Would you remove your glasses please?” The Customs officer might have posed the request as a polite question but Sonny knew it was an order.

He slid the blue-lensed spectacles up onto his hair. Frowned then lowered his lids over tired, blood shot eyes as the bright lights aggravated the headache thundering behind them. “Why doesn’t it say on your passport that you need them?” The man inquired.

“A relatively new situation,” Sonny advised quietly.

“Permanent?”

“I sincerely hope not,” he said with feeling.

“If it becomes permanent, you’ll need to have it noted on your passport.”

“Thank you,” Sonny nodded and slid the blue-lensed glasses back onto his nose. An impulse buy, which had brought unexpected assistance and saved him from making a fool of himself, right from the moment the sidepieces were hooked over his ears.

He slipped the returned passport into his pocket and walked into the arrivals hall. He wanted this over, to be as far away from the artificial world of air travel as possible.

“Luggage next,” said the airport employee who was escorting him. “What’s your bag like?”

“A mud-colored canvas satchel.” Sonny told him and watched quietly as the man reached for the bag issued to him in Tunis, removed it from the conveyor belt then compared the label with Sonny’s baggage claim ticket. The two moved towards the x-ray check and watched as Sonny’s worldly goods were swallowed by the big machine only to be spat out and returned to him, a moment later.

“Are you being met?” His guide inquired as he handed Sonny his satchel.

“Unfortunately not,” Sonny said wearily. He had got this far thanks to the many assistants assigned to him once he had been listed as sight impaired at the Tunis airport, but now he was on is own.

“A taxi then?”

“Please,” Sonny replied with relief.

Exiting the building he shivered as a cool wind whipped around him. Mon Dieu it was cold. The air, tainted with aviation fuel and the stink of jet exhaust from a recent take-off, filled his nostrils. Adding to the headache making mix of noise and people. Creating agony. The years of clean, clear, desert air had made him super sensitive to the smells and sounds of civilization.

Sonny pulled his thin coat around him and gave the address supplied along with his passport by the officials in Tunis, to the cab driver. He noted as he sank against the soft upholstery, he had swapped airport smells for vinyl and whatever aftershave the man used. He slipped his glasses into his jacket pocket and looked out into the night, observing what little he could see of this land he had once called home.

The cabbie pulled away from the curb and the car picked up speed. A minimum of traffic on the motorway in the early hours of the new day provided a clear run between the airport and Auckland’s sprawl, before the car turned up an off-ramp and moved into empty streets. Black asphalt ribbons tying the city together, taking him towards the quiet suburban house where, if all went well, he would put down his bag and take up his life.

Sonny paid off the taxi from the carefully folded New Zealand money in his trouser pocket, which along with his clothes and satchel were all part of the largess supplied in Tunis. He stepped towards the property, lit by pale predawn light.

It was well established.

The house decades old.

The grounds neat.

He heard a dog bark somewhere close by, as he pushed through the little garden gate, stepping into a tidy and pleasant place. But no animal came bounding forward to snap around his ankles, or to offer a friendly welcome. The smell of the freshly turned earth in the flowerbeds teased him. He crouched and took a pinch of the dark soil between his fingers, lifted it to his nose and breathed deep.

Sensor lights came on as he walked quietly along the pathway towards the back of the house letting him know someone was conscious of the unseen, the unknown.

The porch was purely utilitarian. No seats. No swing. Nothing for him to rest on– while the last of the dark hours melted into day. But it was sheltered from the wind, and thankful for small mercies, he eased down, put the canvas bag behind his back and settled in for the duration.

His fear would keep him awake. The roiling, churning, gut wrenching feeling, hammered in the space just below his ribs–the cooler temperature which already had a strong grip on his weary frame. Tremors of serious sleep deprivation combined with shivers of cold to run the length of his body and his teeth chattered.

He had been in the northern hemisphere, where it was the height of summer, just hours before. And in the sun baked Sahara before that. The woman inside would probably call the law and have him arrested if he started to bang on the locked door, so he remained focused and still.

To find himself seated at a small fire, somewhere in the Sahara had been a shock. To remember his name and be reminded he had another life outside the desert tent-town where he had dwelt for five years, an even greater one. This cold morning on the other side of the world would tell him if he did indeed have a wife and a life here in this corner of Godzone. Or reveal if that too had disappeared into the void of dark emptiness, where he had hung in suspended animation until recently.

To come to this place had been an act of faith, and not his either. Most people preferred to do nothing when life looked too hard, sic transit gloria mundi, but he had not been allowed that luxury. His options severely limited by the circumstances surrounding him.

He had surfaced from a world of mists and shadows, insubstantial forms and fractured sound, into an alien place. Blinked in shocked surprise and stared around in confusion. He had expected green grass, bushes and mountains. Instead he saw brown everywhere.

How does a man adjust? He wondered in those first minutes, as the terrifying prospects of what might have happened fought for dominance in his mind. To the shock of finding himself in a foreign place with no memory of how he got there? To sitting across a desert campfire from what at first glance, appeared to be a pile of tatty old rags? Faded, threadbare cloth that contained an ancient crone.

“Bonjour,” she said when he turned his head and met her eyes.

“Where am I?” He answered in the same language his voice raspy, unused and filled with panic.

“Somewhere safe,” she said calmly.

He gazed around puzzled. Bewildered by the tents, date palms and camel enclosure behind her.

“How long?” he asked, his voice trembling with emotion. “How long have I been here?”

“A long time,” she said quietly.

“How did I get here?” he demanded.

“You walked.”

His eyes rounded in fear. “Tell me,” he begged.

“Later,” she promised.

A group of boys tumbled from a nearby tent and ran to him. “Come, silent one,” they said as they tugged at his hands and robes. “Come.  The camels must be loaded.”

His eyes sought those of the old woman. He cocked his head in question.

“Breathe slowly. Remain silent. Remember the children are your net of safety.”

He nodded and rose. His mouth was dry. His limbs trembled and his gut felt as though a long-fingered hand had plunged into its depths to squeeze the life from his vital organs.

Once his period of labor was finished, a man with a long, flowing gray beard and flapping robes led the loaded camels, away into the great expanse of desert. The older boys and young men departed with him. Only old men, busy women and small children stacking camel chips for fires to be lit later in the day, remained in the tent town.

He looked for the woman who had spoken to him. He was, he knew, tied to her in some way. As he thought this, a small girl-child tugged on his sleeve. He smiled down at her. She pulled on his clothes again and he nodded, letting her lead him where she would. Not surprised when she pointed to the ground by a little fire where the old woman sat making strong coffee.

She sent the child away with food and quick words. The girl laughed and ran off in the direction of a tent, not far from where they sat.

“We are alone now,” said the old woman passing him food. “No one can hear us, and those who do see, see only what they expect. The village crone feeding the beast of burden. The big silent one who earns his bread with the sweat of his brow.”

“I do not understand,” he said struggling to control the terror he felt.

“You saved the children, so we saved you,” she said quietly, holding a tiny cup of dark coffee towards him. “Now though, it’s time for you to go.”

“Go?” he gasped. “Why?”

“Your silence kept you safe, as did the glazed look in your eyes. Both allowed me to care for you. Now however, you no longer need the children to lead you around, or my voice to direct you.” He nodded, for he recognized her voice. Knew it to be the one that had constantly reached into the darkness, keeping him grounded.

“You’re whole now and must go to the woman who put the ring on your finger,” she told him. Sending him off later in the day with Mohammed her grandson who took him on the first leg of his journey back to civilization.

Now he would see if her faith would be realized.

* * *