Morgan's Child

‘Make any waves!’ Fliss caught her breath disbelievingly. ‘The Millennium Coup! What a joke!’

‘Felicity—’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’ Fliss picked up the tray now, and carried it into the other room. She schooled her features. ‘Come and have some tea. I believe I’ve got some biscuits in the cupboard.’

‘Felicity.’ Obviously Morgan’s father wasn’t happy with her reaction, and she stood silently while he commanded his thoughts. ‘No one knew that Morgan was alive, or—or of course the government would have made representations to get him out. We must view what has happened as—as a bonus. Now, sit down, my dear. You still look very shaken to me.’

‘We all are,’ said his wife, using a tissue to blow her nose, and then, sitting down on the sofa, she patted the seat beside her. ‘Come and sit down, Felicity. We’ve got wonderful plans to make. You must both have a proper holiday when Morgan gets back.’

A holiday!

Fliss hung back, hoping Morgan’s father would take the seat beside his wife, but he didn’t and she was obliged to do so. The trouble was, she didn’t seem able to share their excitement, and she thought what a selfish cow she was. It should have been the happiest day of her life, but it had been too long in coming.

‘Anyway, thank goodness we were able to reach Reverend Bland last evening,’ said James into the vacuum, seating himself in the armchair opposite. He smiled at Fliss. ‘I remembered you’d mentioned his name, saying what a good friend he was. I felt sure he was the ideal person to help you. With your aunt being away I assumed you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Oh—no.’

Fliss swallowed, realising there was no way she could reveal how close a friend Graham had become. She glanced down at her hands, wondering if they had noticed she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring on the right finger. Would she ever wear Graham’s engagement ring again?

Thankfully, the Rikers kept the conversation going while they drank the tea and ate several of the chocolate biscuits Fliss had found. Celia confessed she’d not been able to eat any breakfast, though she wouldn’t let Fliss make her anything else, and they chattered on about what they were going to do when their son came home.

It was so easy for them, thought Fliss half enviously. But did they really expect her and Morgan to take up where they’d left off almost four years ago? If she’d known he was alive, she could have looked forward to this day. As it was, she felt as if Morgan was part of her past.

‘So—’ Celia patted Fliss’s hand. ‘What was it you were going to ring us about? With all the excitement, it went completely out of my head.’

Fliss blanked. ‘I beg your—?’

‘Last night,’ her mother-in-law prompted. ‘When you first answered the phone, you said you’d been going to ring us. I just wondered what it was you were going to ring us about. Did you give any thought to spending Easter at Tudor Cross?’

‘Oh—’ Fliss’s mouth dried. She’d forgotten all about the invitation Celia had issued at New Year. It was just after Graham had popped the question, and Fliss had been too anxious about their reaction to give an answer then. ‘I—’ A lie seemed the only alternative now. ‘I can’t remember, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, well, never mind.’ Celia had too much else on her mind to worry about what her daughter-in-law had been ringing about. ‘And in the circumstances no doubt we’ll be having a celebration when Morgan comes home. You must come and stay with us when he gets back.’

‘Well—’

Once again, Fliss was nonplussed. She felt as if events were moving far too fast for her to handle. They hadn’t even heard from Morgan yet, and already Celia was wanting to organise their lives. How could she make any plans? She didn’t know how she’d feel when she saw him again.

‘Give them time, Cee.’ To her relief, Morgan’s father chose to intervene. ‘We’ve all had a shock, and I think Felicity needs some breathing space. I know you mean well, but you’re rushing things. We don’t even know how fit Morgan’s going to be when he gets home.’

CHAPTER THREE (#u7329a598-970b-5be6-bed1-6507f808119d)

MORGAN stood at the window of the quarters that had been provided for him at RAF Craythorpe, watching the rain streaming down the panes. It didn’t seem to have stopped raining since he’d stepped off the plane from Lagos the day before, and although he’d dreamed about the kind of gentle rain they got in England the reality was no longer so appealing.

How long were they going to keep him here?

Suppressing his panic, he acknowledged that he was only fooling himself by pretending the weather was responsible for the way he was feeling. He was just using it as an excuse to bolster his confidence. Blaming the rain for the fears and apprehensions that wouldn’t go away.

Lifting one balled fist, he pressed it hard against the glass, trying not to give in to the urge to smash his fist right through the pane. He would have liked that, he thought; liked to have shattered the glass and felt the sharp pain of the broken shards digging into his fresh. God knew, he badly wanted to smash something, and only the certain knowledge that his doctors—keepers—would put it down to his uncertain mental state kept him from creating an ugly scene.

But, dammit, they couldn’t keep him here indefinitely. All right, he’d been suffering from malnutrition when they released him. but there was nothing wrong with his mind, no matter what they thought He needed familiar things; familiar people. He just wished he didn’t have the feeling that they didn’t exist any more.

He took a steadying breath.

The trouble was that although he knew he was free he didn’t feel free. In fact, what he really felt was a shattering sense of disorientation. He’d anticipated that his wife and family would have assumed he was dead, but he hadn’t realised how that might affect him now. For so long he’d been forced to blank his mind of any thoughts of loved ones or face the purest kind of mental torture there was.

He sighed. It was hard to remember how he’d felt that morning when his car had been ambushed on the way to the airport. Then, he’d been planning what he was going to do when he got home; looking forward to seeing his wife. He’d missed her so much, and since their marriage they’d spent so little time together. He couldn’t wait to get back and tell her how he felt.

The men who’d shot out the tyres of the car and then shot its driver had seemed totally ruthless. It was only later that he’d discovered that because the man had worked for Ungave he was considered expendable. Besides, Mdola didn’t take any prisoners. He had no pity for any of Ungave’s men who were of no use to him.

Morgan supposed his strongest emotion at that time had been terror, but the fact that he’d survived the attack had sustained him throughout the long trek through the jungle that had followed. It wasn’t until they’d reached the rebels’ stronghold, in the mountains that bisected the northern half of the country, that he’d had to quell a sense of panic. He might be alive, but he was helpless. So long as General Ungave was in power, they’d never let him go.

The ironic thing was, Mdola had wanted him for much the same reasons as Ungave. He needed Morgan’s knowledge of sophisticated tactical weapons to enable him to use the armaments he had. God knew who’d supplied them, but Mdola’s men had been equipped with every kind of gun imaginable; mortars; ground-to-air missiles; the list was endless. An arsenal they barely understood.

But the most remarkable thing of all had been that he had recognised Julius Mdola. They’d been at Oxford together, and although they hadn’t been close friends at that time they had shared an interest in martial arts. Morgan had been staggered to learn that the man General Ungave had overthrown had been Mdola’s uncle, and despite the desperation he was feeling it had been some relief to be able to speak to the man in charge.

His lips twisted. Not that, in the long run, it had done him a lot of good. Despite the fact that Mdola was educated in the West, and could sympathise with Morgan’s position, the demands of the situation meant that Morgan had to be treated like any other prisoner. He wasn’t imprisoned, of course, in the truest sense of the word, but he wasn’t supposed to leave the compound. The only time he had, he’d regretted it. And if it hadn’t been for Julius Mdola he knew he’d have been shot.

But would he have survived his captivity if he hadn’t become Mdola’s friend? he wondered. It was a question he’d had plenty of time to ponder in the years that followed. Would he have kept his sanity if Mdola hadn’t allowed him to use the old typewriter they’d kept to chum out their propaganda? Would it have been better if he hadn’t survived at all?

He scowled.

He couldn’t answer any of these questions. His release had not been the cause for celebration he’d imagined it would be. Would he ever be able to absorb his changing circumstances? Would he ever come to terms with the fact that life had moved on?

But it wasn’t just his changing circumstances that was giving him such a sense of anticlimax now. It was more than that; he had the uneasy suspicion that no one wanted him here. Was he a welcome face or just an embarrassment? Would it have been easier for everyone—his wife particularly—if he had been as dead as they’d believed?

Dead!

For the past four years, everyone had thought he’d died in the inferno they’d made of his car. They’d mourned him; they’d even held a memorial service for him, according to his mother, and a stone had been erected in the churchyard at Tudor Cross.

His scowl deepened. Had she thought he’d be pleased to hear that? he wondered. Had she no conception of how it made him feel? He wasn’t dead; he was alive; he didn’t want to hear about his funeral service. But most of all he didn’t want to feel like an outsider, especially with his wife.

His wife!

His lips twisted. He wasn’t sure he knew his wife any more. The alien confrontation they’d had the previous afternoon had left him feeling more confused than ever. He’d expected their meeting to be strained, yes, but not that she’d act like a stranger. And a stranger, moreover, who didn’t like him very much either.

He swore, finding a certain satisfaction in hearing the oath leave his tongue. God, he’d never thought it would be easy, but he’d had no conception of just how hard it had proved to be.

Of course, his parents had been present at the time, and it was possible she’d been inhibited by their demands. His mother, particularly, had asked a lot of questions, and Fliss had behaved as if only the older woman had had that right.

His appearance couldn’t have helped, he acknowledged. His shaved head—to remove any infestation of lice—and several days’ growth of beard on his chin must have looked strange. He looked like a savage, and even though he’d shaved his beard since it wasn’t much of an improvement. His hand had been shaking so much when he used the razor that his chin was now covered in cuts.

He supposed he was thinner, too, though that was less of a problem. He’d soon put on weight once he started eating normally again. And his muscles were hard from the physical regime he’d set himself. Apart from its obvious advantages, keeping fit had been another way of keeping sane.

But, dammit, he hadn’t been prepared for civilisation. Four years of living with a rebel army had taken their toll. Someone should have warned his wife that he wasn’t the man he used to be. He’d seen too many horrific sights, too much killing, to ever view his own life in quite the same way again.

He hunched his shoulders. They’d warned him, of course. Mdola, at first, and afterwards the British authorities in Lagos: they’d all tried to tell him that returning home after so long an absence was bound to cause problems he couldn’t foresee. It was going to take time to adapt, for him and for his family. That was why they’d brought him here to the air base at Craythorpe, for expert counselling. They wanted to assess his state of mind; make sure he was fit to live with normal people again.

He snorted. Mdola wouldn’t like that, he reflected. So far as he was concerned, it was the West who had been crazy for supporting Ungave’s regime. President Mdola now, Morgan thought, still finding the concept incredible. But he was happy for his friend, and proud of the victory he’d achieved.