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I KOSOVO, AUGUST 1998

CHAPTER ONE

The three of us sat in a small copse at the far end of the village, taking shelter from the blistering heat in the leafy bower, bosky, cool, on this scorching summer’s day.

The jeep was parked out on the road nearby, and I peered towards it, frowning slightly, wondering what had happened to Ajet, our adviser, guide, and driver. He had gone on foot to the village, having several days ago arranged to meet an old school friend there, who in turn would take us to see the leaders of the K.L.A. According to Ajet, the Kosovo Liberation Army had their main training camp near the village, and Ajet had assured us in Péc and then again on the drive here, that the leaders would be in the camp, and that they would be more than willing to have their photographs taken for transmission to newspapers and magazines around the world. ‘Everyone should know the truth, should know about our cause, our just and rightful cause,’ Ajet had said to us time and again.

When he had left the copse a short while ago he had been smiling cheerfully, happy at the idea of meeting his old friend, and I had watched him step out jauntily as he had walked down the dusty road in a determined and purposeful manner. But that had been over two hours ago, and he had still not returned, and this disturbed me. I could not help wondering if something unforeseen, something bad, had happened to the friendly young Kosovar who had been so helpful to us.

Rising, I walked through the copse and, shading my eyes with my hand, I stood looking down the dirt road. There was no sign of Ajet; in fact, there was very little activity at all. But I waited for a short while, hoping he would appear at any moment.

My name is Valentine Denning, and I’m a New Yorker born and bred, but now I base myself in Paris, where I work as a photojournalist for Gemstar, a well-known international news-photo agency. With the exception of my grandfather, no one in my family ever thought I would become a photojournalist. Grandfather had spotted my desire to record everything I saw when I was a child, and bought me my first camera. My parents never paid much attention to me, and what I would do when I grew up never seemed to cross their minds. My brother Donald, to whom I was much closer in those days and tended to bully since he was younger, was forever after me to become a model; but I’m not pretty enough. Donald kept pointing out that I was tall, slim, with long legs and an athletic build, as if I didn’t know my own body. At least I don’t look bad in the pictures Jake and Tony have taken of me. But I’m not much into clothes; I like T-shirts, khaki pants, white cotton shirts and bush jackets, workmanlike clothes that are perfect for the life I lead.

I’m thirty-one years old, constantly travelling, living out of a suitcase, and then there are the crazy hours, the lack of comfort, even the most basic of amenities, when I’m on the front lines, covering wars and other disasters, not to mention the danger I often find myself facing. But I prefer this life to walking down a catwalk showing off Paris couture.



Turning away from the road at last, I went back to rejoin Jake Newberg and Tony Hampton, comradesin-arms, as Tony calls us. I think of these two men as my family; we’ve worked together for several years now and we’re inseparable. Jake is my best friend, and Tony has graduated from best friend to lover in the past year. The three of us go everywhere together, and we always make sure we are on the same assignments for our news-photo agencies.

I gazed at Tony surreptitiously for a moment, thinking how fit and healthy he looked as he sat on part of a felled tree trunk, loading two of his cameras with rolls of new film. Tony, who is Irish, is ten years older than me. Stocky and muscular, he has inherited his mother’s Black Irish good looks, and is a handsome and charismatic man. But it’s his masculinity, his potent sexuality that women found most appealing, even overwhelming, and certainly irresistible, as I have discovered.

Consideredtobeoneofthe world’s great war photographers, of the same ilk as the late Robert Capa, he is something of a risk taker when it comes to getting his pictures. This does not unduly worry me, although I know it gives Jake Newberg cause for concern; he has discussed it with me frequently of late.

I eyed Jake, sitting on the grass with his back to a tree, looking nonchalant as he made notes in the small blue leather notebook he always carried with him. Jake is also an American, ‘a Jew from Georgia’, is the way he likes to describe himself. At thirty-eight, he is also one of the top war photographers, a prize-winner like Tony. I’ve won many awards myself but I’ve never attempted to put myself in their league, although Tony and Jake say I belong there, that I’m just as good as they are.

Jake is tall, lean, with a physical toughness about him that makes him seem indestructible – anyway, that is the way I view him. He’s an attractive man, with an expressive face, blondish curly hair and the most vivid blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Yet despite his puckishness and the mischievous twinkle that often glints in those eyes, I long ago discovered that Jake is the most compassionate of men. And I’ve come to appreciate his understanding of the complexities of the human heart and the human frailties we are all afflicted with.

Tony glanced up as he became aware of me hovering over him. ‘What is it?’ he asked, frowning slightly. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘I hope Ajet’s all right, Tony, he’s been gone –’

‘I’m sure he is,’ Tony cut in quickly, with a certain firmness, and then he gave me a reassuring smile. ‘It’s very quiet, peaceful out there, isn’t it?’

I nodded. ‘There’s hardly any sign of life.’

‘Doesn’t surprise me. I think the village is probably half-deserted by now. It’s more than likely that a lot of locals have already left, are moving south ahead of the Serbian army, crossing the border into Albania as fast as they can.’

‘You’re probably right.’ I sat down on the grass and fell silent, ruminating.

Jake glanced at me and then looked thoughtfully at Tony. He said in a brisk tone, ‘Let’s abandon this shoot, get the hell out of here, Tony. I’ve got a bad feeling.’

‘But we won’t get this chance again,’ I felt bound to point out, sitting up straighter, staring at Jake.

Ajet suddenly reappeared. He came wandering in from the road looking as if he had no cares in the world. Not only did he seem unperturbed, he actually looked pleased with himself, almost smug.

‘Everything’s set up,’ he announced in his perfect English, learned during the eight years he had lived and worked in Brooklyn, where his uncle and cousin still lived. ‘I saw my guy,’ he continued, ‘I talked to him at length. We drank coffee. He has just closed his shop, gone out to the farmhouse in the fields at the other side of the village. The farmhouse is the K.L.A.’s headquarters now. He is going to bring the top leaders here –’ Ajet broke off, looked at his Rolex watch, a cheap copy of the real thing bought on the streets of Manhattan. He nodded to himself and finished, ‘One more hour. Yes, in one hour approximately they will come to the village. We will meet them at the shop. Now we relax, we wait here.’

‘Good man!’ Tony exclaimed, beaming at the young Kosovar. ‘And since we’ve got an hour to kill we should eat. Let’s get the bottled water and the sandwiches from the jeep.’ Jumping up, Tony started to walk towards the road.

Ajet exclaimed, ‘No, no, Tony, please sit down! Please. Do not trouble yourself. I will go for the box of sandwiches and the water.’

I murmured, ‘I’m not hungry, but I would love some water.’

‘No food for me either,’ Jake said. ‘Just water, like Val.’

The young man hurried off, and I looked at Tony and then at Jake. ‘I might go down the road to the village, mosey around a bit. What do you think?’

Jake nodded but made no comment.

Tony walked over to me, took hold of my hand and pulled me up from the grass. ‘I don’t like you being out of my sight on a shoot like this, Val, especially since we don’t really know the lay of the land around here. But I think it’s okay, certainly Ajet doesn’t appear to be worried. So go for a walk if you want.’

Slipping his arm around my waist, he brought me closer to him, held me in a loving embrace. Against my hair he murmured, ‘I’d like to get back to Belgrade tonight, Vee. There’s something about your room at the hotel that I find most appealing.’

‘It’s because I’m in it,’ I answered, laughing, and I kissed his cheek. ‘At least, that better be the reason.’

‘You know it is.’ Holding me away from him, he smiled, his black eyes dancing, and then almost immediately his expression turned serious. ‘When you get down there keep your eyes peeled and stay on the perimeters of the village. That way you can get back here quickly, should it be necessary.’

I leaned into him. ‘Don’t worry so much, I’ll be fine. By the way, I haven’t told you today that I love you, have I? But I do.’

‘I love you too, Val.’

Ajet came back carrying the cardboard box. After placing it on the rocks, he opened it with a bit of a flourish, and began to hand out the bottles of water, offered us the wrapped sandwiches from the hotel in Peć He went on fussing around us and behaving as though he were serving us at a grand banquet, and Tony and Jake exchanged amused, knowing looks and laughed.

I had been loading my camera, and I looked from one to the other and asked, ‘Am I missing something? What’s the joke?’

‘No joke,’ Tony said, and blew me a kiss.

II

I focused my Leica 35-mm on the ragtag collection of children ahead of me, a short way down the road. There were about five of them in all, sitting together against a ruined wall. As I peered through the lens, I took in their pallor, their haunted expressions, and the fear clouding their innocent young eyes.

A heartbreaking little band, I thought, so forlorn on this bright sunny day. A day for playing. Not a day for war. I repressed a sigh and began taking pictures.

And then the sound of gunfire was breaking the quietness of the afternoon, and I instantly abandoned the shots of the children.

A flurry of unexpected activity had begun to erupt all around me…exploding bombs, mortar fire, the rumble of tanks in the distance. Closer by, I heard terrified screams, the sound of running feet, people scattering, seeking safety. And then more screams filled the air, along with the staccato rat-a-tat of machine guns, and guns not so far away at that.

All of my senses were alerted to danger, and my chest tightened, and I sucked in my breath sharply when I saw Tony rushing out of the copse just behind me. I had left him there only a few minutes ago, sitting on the rocks with Jake, eating a sandwich.

Now he was sprinting towards the line of fire.

I raced after him in his wake. And dimly, in the distance, I heard Jake behind us, shouting, ‘Val! Val! Don’t follow him, for God’s sake. It’s too dangerous.’

I paid no attention.

Tony was our leader, and as always he was hell-bent on getting the best pictures, whatever war we were covering and no matter what the cost. Taking risks meant nothing to him. He seemed to thrive on danger, as well I knew. Tony was consistently in harm’s way, and so were we because of him, although, as he frequently reminded us, we did have a choice of whether or not to follow him into the fray.

Once again, Jake’s voice carried to me above the noise of exploding shells and deafening artillery. ‘VAL! STOP! Don’t follow Tony.’

I did not stop. Nor did I look back. I was hard on Tony’s heels, my camera held tightly in my hands, my mind, my entire being, concentrated on one thing: doing my job as professionally as possible and getting the best pictures for the photo agency I worked for.

Leaping forward, Jake now streaked after me and Tony. I realized his warnings of a moment ago had been pushed to one side, indeed probably forgotten altogether. What he always wanted was to reach me, grab hold of me, and pull me out of danger.

Kalashnikovs were spraying bullets from all sides and the shelling was rapidly growing heavier; the summer air was thick with smoke and dust, the smell of cordite mingling with that of blood. And the stench of death was suddenly all pervasive, numbing, and I wished we had never come here.

We had arrived late that morning to take a few simple photographs of the Kosovo Liberation Army’s leaders; now, unexpectedly, we found ourselves in the midst of this violent battle between the K.L.A. and Serbian troops. I couldn’t help wondering if this was a deadly ambush, a trap we had walked into with our eyes wide open. And where was Ajet? I hoped the young Kosovar had been smart enough to stay in the copse, and that hopefully he had driven the jeep into the trees for safety.

I knew that Serbian troops had been moving south for days, keeping up the deadliest fighting along the way, brutally driving the Kosovars out of their villages and towns. Thousands of terrified civilians were already on the move, a steady stream of humanity being cruelly driven from their homes and homeland, seeking safety across the borders in Albania and Macedonia.

Unexpectedly, a small boy appeared as if from nowhere, and began to totter forward on his thin little legs, heading directly into the line of fire, oblivious to the fighting and the mêlée spinning around him. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, and reacted instantly. Veering to my right, I sped over to the child and threw myself on top of him, all of my instincts compelling me to protect him no matter what.

Bombs continued to explode, and pieces of shrapnel were swirling like deadly snowflakes, although they were much more lethal. I covered the child with my body, put my arms around him, and held him tightly. He was shaking, and this did not surprise me one bit. I detested the sound of the guns and bombs myself; they were discordant and frightening, and most especially to a small child.

After a moment, I lifted my head and glanced up.

The sky was a perfect cerulean blue, without cloud, and the sun was shining brilliantly. Summer, I thought; I ought to be on vacation with Tony, not spreadeagled on the ground with my face pressed into the dirt in some obscure village in the Balkans.

Small, rubbery legs and arms began to wriggle, eel-like, under me, and I finally rolled off the child, jumped up and pulled him to his feet.

He gazed up at me soulfully with a faint, perplexed smile; I smiled back and gave him a little push towards a young woman who was rushing towards us, calling out something I did not understand. With a nod to me and the words, ‘Thank you,’ spoken in carefully pronounced but accented English, the young woman grabbed the boy’s arm and dragged him away. It was obvious that she was scolding him as the two of them moved away from the shelling and went behind one of the houses on the side of the road.

I was glad to see the child taken to safety; at least I hoped he was safe. Many of the nearby houses and shops had been bombed, had crumbled into heaps of stones and bricks and there were fires flaring everywhere.

Wondering where Tony and Jake were, I glanced around, suddenly saw their backs disappearing down a narrow side street. Immediately I jogged after them, trying to catch up, not wanting to be left behind.

The shelling had now reached a climax and I knew Tony and Jake were heading right into the maelstrom, their cameras poised. I followed them into the fray, but for once, much to my surprise and consternation, I realized I did so against my better judgement. I had to admit to myself that for the first time in my association with Tony and Jake I had certain misgivings about following Tony’s lead. A curious sense of foreboding swept over me and this feeling was so unfamiliar, so unprecedented I was startled, and I stopped in my tracks, discovered that for a splitsecond I was unable to move forward. I was rooted to the spot.

Then the moment I’d had nightmares about, had forever dreaded, was suddenly and frighteningly upon me. Tony was going down, his camera flying out of his hands as he was struck by a stream of bullets. He was thrown backwards by the impact, lay sprawled on the cobbled street, still and unmoving.

‘Tony! Tony!’ I screamed and began to run to him.

Jake, who was closer, also shouted his name, and went on, ‘I’m coming to you, Tony, hang in there!’ But the words had hardly left Jake’s mouth when he toppled forward, and fell to the ground, hit by a sniper’s bullets.

Without giving any thought to my own safety, I pressed on through the curtain of gunfire and shrapnel, heading towards my friends, knowing I must do something to help them, although I was not certain what I could do under these horrific circumstances.

Out of breath and panting, I paused momentarily next to Jake, bent over him and gasped, ‘How bad are you?’

‘I’ve been hit in my leg and hip but I’m okay, don’t worry about me. It’s Tony I’m concerned about.’

‘Me too,’ I muttered and sprinted away. When I reached Tony I dropped to my knees next to him. ‘Darling, it’s me.’ As I spoke I moved a strand of black hair away from his damp forehead and stared down into his face.

Finally he opened his eyes. ‘Go, Val. Find cover. Dangerous here,’ he told me in a low, strangled voice.

‘I’m not going to leave you,’ I answered, looking him over swiftly. I was appalled at his gunshot wounds, and I felt myself filling with dread. He had been hit in his chest, his shoulder and his legs, and other parts of his bodyas well, as far as Icould make out. I was frightened and alarmed by all the blood; he was covered in it, as if he had been riddled with bullets. Oh God, oh God, he might not make it. I swallowed the cry that rose in my throat. It took all my self-control not to break down; I leaned over him, brought my face close to his. ‘I’m not leaving you, Tony,’Irepeated, endeavouringtokeep my voice as steady as possible.

‘Go,’ he whispered. Summoning all of his strength, he managed to say, ‘Get out. For me.’ His voice was very shaky.

RealizingthatTony was becoming undulyagitated by my continuing presence, and knowing that I must try to find help for both men, I finally acquiesced. ‘All right, I’ll go,’Imurmured against Tony’s face. Istroked his cheek. ‘Just stay calm, lie still. I won’t be long. I’ll be back with help very soon.’

I kissed him lightly and began to crawl away on my hands and knees, keeping low and close to the ground in an effort to dodge the flying bullets. I was making for a small building nearby, one of the few which remained standing, and I had almost reached it when I felt the impact of a bullet slamming into my thigh. I slumped down in a heap, wincing in pain and clutching my Leica to my chest. Then I glanced down at my thigh; blood was already oozing through my khaki pants, and it occurred to me that I wasn’t going to be much use to either Tony or Jake.

Turning my head, I glanced over at Jake. ‘How’re you doing?’

‘Okay. Are you hurt very badly, Val?’

‘Idon’tthinkso,’Irepliedandhopedthiswasreallythe case. Although deep down I was fairly certainitwasn’t, I nevertheless had a need to reassure Jake.

He asked over the battery of noise, ‘What about Tony?’

‘He’s not good,’ I said, and my voice wobbled. ‘He’s terribly shot up and in need of medical attention, urgent need of it, and much more than we are. I saw a Red Cross ambulance up on the ridge over there; let’s hope the medics get here quickly. Tony’s losing masses of blood…’ I swallowed. ‘It’s…it’s touch and go with him…I think…’

Foramoment Jake couldnotspeak. Hewas obviously distressed by my words. At last he said, ‘Tony’s going to beallright, Val. He’stough, and don’t forget he’salways said he has the luck of the Irish.’

‘He also says he’s blessed by the saints,’ I replied tensely. ‘I hope he’s right.’

Jake called back, ‘Just keep cool, hang in there, honey.’

I could hardly hear him. His words were almost but notquitedrownedoutbytheexplosions andthe thunder of mortar fire, which seemed to be closer than ever. In a few minutes troops were swarming everywhere, both the K.L.A. and the Serbians; they were filling the village, running through the streets, fighting. I wasn’t sure who was who. I looked for distinguishing emblems on their uniforms but without success, then remembered that those who wore the black paratrooper berets were the Kosovars. They seemed to be outnumbered. I closed my eyes, hoping I would betaken for dead, and overlooked. I knew there was no longer any possibility of dragging myself over to Tony. My spirit was more than willing, but I was just too weak physically, and the troops were converging now.

So I resigned myself to wait for the Red Cross ambulance I had seen not long ago. Surely it would drive down into the village soon. Putting my hand under my T-shirt I found the gold chain on which I’d hung Tony’s ring. He had given it to me only a couple of weeks ago, when we had been in Paris together. Suddenly tears were dangerously close to the surface as memories of those happy days rushed back to flood my mind.

Myfingers closed around the ring. I began to pray: Oh God, please let Tony be all right. Please don’t let him die. Please, please, let him live. I went on praying silently and the fighting raged on around me unabated.

III

White light, very bright white light, was invading my entire being, or so it seemed to me. I was suffused in the bright white light until I became part of it; I was no longer myself, but the light…

I opened my eyes and blinked rapidly. The light was bright, harsh, startling, and I felt disoriented. And for a moment I thought I had not really woken up, but was still in my dream, living the dream. As I blinked again, came slowly awake, I wondered where I was; still somewhat disoriented, I glanced around in puzzlement. The white walls and ceiling and the white tile floor, in combination with the brilliant sunlight flooding through the windows, created a dazzling effect…echoing the bright white light that had dominated my strange and haunting dream.

Shifting slightly in the bed, I winced as a sharp pain shot up my thigh, and immediately I remembered everything. Of course, I was in a hospital room. In Belgrade. After the three of us had been shot, we had subsequently been rescued by the Red Cross and patched up by the doctors on a temporary basis, so that we could travel. We had then been taken to Péc in the ambulance I had seen in the village when the fighting had first started.

Jake and I had not been as seriously injured as Tony, who had been badly shot up and was in critical condition, having lost a lot of blood. Fortunately, the medics in Péc had been able to give him a blood tranfusion before the three of us had been flown out.

Details of the flight came back to me as my mind finally began to clear. Tony had been on a stretcher in the transport plane, and I had sat next to him all the way, holding his hand, talking to him, begging him to keep fighting. The medics were hopeful he would pull through; they had told me and Jake that Tony had a better than average chance of making it. He had slept through most of the flight while Jake and I had kept a vigil by his side; our hopes had soared as we had headed towards Belgrade because he was holding his own so well.

But when was the flight? Yesterday? The day before? Or even earlier than that?

Glancing at my wrist, expecting to see the time, I discovered I was not wearing my watch. My eyes strayed to the utilitarian metal nightstand, but it was not there either. The top of the stand was entirely empty.

I pushed aside the bedclothes, and, moving gingerly, inched myself into an upright position, and then manoeuvred my body onto the edge of the bed. My bandaged thigh was still quite sore from the gunshot wound but I managed, nevertheless, to stand up, and I was surprised and relieved to discover that I was relatively steady on my feet, and had only the smallest amount of discomfort when I walked.

In the cramped bathroom attached to the hospital room, I ran cold water into the sink and splashed my face with it, patted myself dry with a paper towel and peered into the mirror. My reflection didn’t please me. I looked lousy, done in. But then what else could I expect? My pallor was unusual – normally I have such good colour – and there were violet smudges under my eyes.

Moving slowly, I made it back to the bed, where I sat on the edge, fretting about Tony and Jake, and wondering what to do next. My main concern was Tony. Where the hell was he in this hospital? And where was Jake? My clothes had apparently been taken away, and since I was wearing only a skimpy cotton hospital gown, tied at the back, I couldn’t very well go wandering around the hospital in search of them. My eyes scanned the room for a phone. There wasn’t one.

A sudden loud knocking on the door startled me and I glanced towards it just as it was pushed open, and Jake, heavily bandaged and supporting himself on a pair of crutches, hobbled in. He was unshaven and looked crumpled in hospital-issue pyjamas and an equally creased cotton robe.

‘Hi,’ he said, and propping the crutches against the wall near the nightstand, he half-hopped, half-limped to the bed, where he sat down next to me. ‘How’re you doing, Val?’

‘Well I’m obviously not going dancing ce soir,’ I said, glancing down at my bandaged thigh which bulged under the cotton gown and then at him. ‘I’ll give you a raincheck tomorrow. And you seem to be doing okay with your balancing act on those crutches.’

He nodded.

‘How’s Tony? Have you seen him yet? Where is he? When can I go and see him?’ I asked, my questions urgent, tumbling out of my mouth anxiously.

Jake did not answer me.

I stared at him.

He gazed back at me, still not saying a word.

I saw how pale he was, and haggard-looking, and noticed that his bright blue eyes were clouded, bloodshot, as if he’d been crying. Inside I began to shrivel, scorched by an innate knowledge I dare not admit existed. But it did. Oh yes.

Jake cleared his throat and looked at me intently.

My heart dropped. I knew instinctively what he was going to say; an awful sense of dread took me in its stranglehold, and I felt my throat closing. Clasping my hands tightly together, I braced myself for bad news.

‘I’m afraid Tony didn’t make it, Val darling,’ Jake said at last, his tone low, almost inaudible. And final. ‘He’d become far too weakened before we arrived here, and he’d lost such a great deal of blood initially –’ Jake paused when his voice broke, but eventually he went on, ‘It’s devastating…I never thought it could happen, I –’ Very abruptly, he stopped again and, unable to continue, he said nothing more, simply sat there helplessly, gazing at me, shaking his head. His sorrow was reflected in his face, which was grey, bereft.

I was speechless. Finally I opened my mouth to speak but no words came out. There was a long, silent scream echoing through my brain and I snapped my eyes shut, wishing I could block it out, wishing I could steady myself. Instead I fell apart, began to shake uncontrollably as shock engulfed me.

I felt Jake’s strong arms encircling me, and I clung to him, sobbed against his shoulder. Jake wept also, and we held onto each other for a long time. And together we mourned the tragic loss of a man we both loved who had died before his time.

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

I

PARIS, SEPTEMBER

 

I have always loved my apartment on the Left Bank where I’ve lived for the last seven years. It is spacious, light and airy, with six large windows in its three main rooms, all of which are of good proportions. These rooms open onto each other, and this enfilade gives it a lovely, flowing feeling which appeals to my sense of order and symmetry, traits inherited from my grandfather, who was an architect.

 

But ever since my return from Belgrade in August, I’ve been experiencing an overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia, one which I am still finding hard to dispel. Although I can’t quite understand why I should feel this way, every day I have the constant need to flee my apartment as soon as I awaken.

 

It’s not that it holds any heart-wrenching memories of Tony, because it doesn’t. Friends for a long time though we were, we did not become emotionally involved with each other until twelve months ago; besides which, he hardly ever spent any time at my place, being constantly on the move for work, or in London where he lived.

 

I was aware that my urge to get out had more to do with my own innermost feelings of despair than anything else; I’ve been unnaturally agitated inside and filled with a weird restlessness which propels me into the street, as early as dawn sometimes.

 

The streets of Paris are my solace, and part of my healing process physically in a very real sense. Firstly, the constant walking every day is therapeutic because it strengthens my damaged leg; secondly, being outside in the open air, amongst crowds of people bustling about their business, somehow soothes my troubled soul, lifts my spirits and helps to diminish my depression.

 

Today, as usual, I got up early. After coffee and a croissant at my local café on the corner, I set off at a steady pace, taking my long daily walk. It’s become a ritual for me, I suppose, something I find so very necessary. At least for the time being. Soon I hope my leg will be completely healed so that I can return to work.

 

It was a Friday morning in the middle of September, a lovely, mild day. The ancient buildings were already acquiring a burnished sheen in the bright sunlight, and the sky was an iridescent blue above their gleaming rooftops. It was a golden day, filled with crystalline light, and a soft breeze blew across the river Seine. My heart lifted with a little rush of pleasure, and for a moment grief was held at bay.

 

Paris is the only place I’ve ever wanted to live, for as long as I can remember; I fell in love with it as a child when I first came on a trip with my grandparents, Cecelia and Andrew Denning. I used to tell Tony that it was absolutely essential to my well being, and if Jake happened to be present he would nod, agreeing, and pointing out that he lived here for the same reason as I did.

 

I always thought it odd that Tony would merely frown, looking baffled, as if he didn’t understand what I meant. Tony was born in London and it was there that he lived all his life. And whenever the three of us would have this discussion about the merits of the two cities, he would laugh and shake his head. ‘London is essential to me because it’s a man’s city,’ he would remark, and wink at Jake.

 

I had supposed he was alluding to those very British private clubs for men filled with old codgers reading The Times, the male-dominated pubs, cricket at Lord’s, football at Wembley, and Savile Row tailors who appealed to his desire for sartorial elegance when not on the battlefront covering wars. He had never really discussed it in depth, but then he had been like that about a lot of things, an expert at brushing certain matters aside if he didn’t want to talk about them.

 

Thoughts of Tony intruded, swamped me, instantly washing away the mood of a few moments ago, when I had felt almost happy again. I came to a stop abruptly, leaned against the wall of a building, taking deep breaths, willing the sudden surge of anguish to go away. Eventually it became less acute, and taking control of my swimming senses I walked on purposefully.

 

It struck me as being rather odd, the way I vacillated between bouts of mind-boggling pain at his loss and the most savage attacks of anger.

 

There were those tear-filled days when I believed I would never recover from his death, which had been so sudden, so tragic, when grief was like an iron mantle weighing me down, bringing me to my knees. At these times it seemed that my sorrow was unendurable.

 

Miraculously, though, my heartbreak would inexplicably wash away quite unexpectedly, and I would feel easier within myself, in much better spirits altogether, and I was glad of this respite from pain, this return to normality. I was almost like my old self.

 

It was then that the anger usually kicked in with a vengeance, shaking me with its intensity. I was angry because Tony was dead when he should have been alive, and I blamed him for his terrible recklessness, the risks he had taken in Kosovo, risks which had ultimately cost him his life. Unnecessary risks, in my opinion.

 

Destiny, I thought, and came to a halt. As I stood there in the middle of the street frowning to myself, I suddenly understood with the most stunning rush of clarity that if character is destiny then it had been Tony’s fate to die in the way he had. Because of his character…and who and what he was as a man.

II

 

After crossing the Place Saint-Michel, I made my way towards the Rue de la Huchette, and walked down that narrow street, which long ago had been immortalized in a book by the American writer Elliot Paul, very aptly entitled A Narrow Street. After reading the book, I had been drawn to this particular area of Paris, and for the three years I was a student at the Sorbonne I had lived right here in a quaint little hotel called the Mont Blanc.

 

The hotel came into my line of vision almost immediately, and as I strolled past I glanced up at the room which had been mine, and remembered those days in a swirl of unexpected nostalgia.

 

Thirteen years ago now. Not so long really. But in certain ways they seemed far, far away, light years away, those youthful days when things had been infinitely simpler in my life.

 

So much had happened to me in the intervening years; I had lived a lifetime in them, and I had become a woman. A grown-up woman, mature and experienced.

 

Glancing across the street, I eyed the El Djazier, the North African restaurant which had once been my local hangout…what an habitueé I had been o that strange little nightspot full of colourful characters.

 

Sandy Lonsdale, an English writer who had lived in the hotel at the same time as me, had constantly predicted I would disappear one night, never to be seen again, whipped off to some disreputable brothel in Casablanca or Tangier by one of the seedy blokes who lurked in the restaurant most nights.

 

But of course that had never happened, the seedy blokes being perfectly innocuous in reality, and I had taken enormous pleasure in teasing Sandy about his vivid imagination and its tendency to work overtime. ‘You’ll make a great novelist,’ I used to tell him, and he had merely grinned at me and retorted, ‘You’d better be right about that.’

 

On numerous occasions I had taken Tony and Jake there, and they had enjoyed it as much as me, their taste buds tantalized by the couscous and other piquant Moroccan dishes, not to mention the erotic belly dancers in their flimsy costumes and tinkling ankle bracelets.

 

On these evenings, when we were back in Paris for a bit of relaxation and rest from covering wars, Jake would usually invite us to one of the jazz joints after dinner at the El Djazier. There were several spots on the Rue de la Huchette, where many of the greats of American jazz came to play or listen to others play.

 

Jake was a jazz aficionado and could happily spend long hours in these smoke-filled places, sipping a cognac and tapping his foot, lost in the music, lost to the world for a short while.

 

I ambled up the street, and glanced around as I walked. I never tired of wandering around this particular part of Paris, which I knew so well from my student days. It was full of picturesque cobblestone streets, ancient buildings, Greek and North African restaurants, art galleries and small shops selling colourful wares from some of the most exotic places in the world. Aside from anything else, it brought back memories of the time I had attended the Sorbonne, such a happy time for me, perhaps the happiest of my life.

III

 

My grandfather Andrew Denning had been alive when I decided I wanted to study in Paris. Later, he had often come here to visit me, defying my mother, who had forbidden any contact between us once I had made the decision. My mother was angry with me because I had chosen to study in France, although I never understood her attitude, since she had been indifferent to me from the day I was born. So why did it matter where I studied?

 

Grandfather Denning didn’t have much time for his daughter-in-law; in fact he privately thought she was a cold, unfeeling woman, and he had never paid any attention to what she said. He had reminded her that I was the only daughter of his only son, and his only female grandchild, and he was damned if he would let anyone stand in the way of his visiting me whenever he wished to do so. As an afterthought, he had added in no uncertain terms, that no one told him what to do or how to spend his money, least of all his son’s wife. And that had been that apparently. Grandfather had told me all about it later; we kept no secrets from each other. I thought of him as being more like a pal than a grandfather, perhaps because he was so young in appearance and had the most youthful of spirits.

 

To my mother’s great consternation and frustration, she had not been able to influence him one iota, let alone control him, and she had apparently ranted and raved about her father-in-law for months after their original confrontation. This I had heard from my brother, the family gossip, who only reinforced my opinion of him when he became the sidekick to a gossip columnist. According to Donald, my mother had screamed blue murder, but my father had, as was customary, remained totally mute. For years I suspected that this state of being had afflicted Father since the day he entered into so-called wedded bliss with Margot Scott. Until the day he died he hardly ever said a word, perhaps because he couldn’t get one in edgewise.

 

It was my grandfather who supported me financially and morally, once I had decided to study in Paris, and in those days he had been my best friend, my only friend.

 

My mother had never forgiven him, or me for that matter. But then I believe my mother has never forgiven me for being born, although I don’t know why this should be so. From that day to this she has never shown me any love or given me much thought. It is not that Margot Scott Denning doesn’t like children; everyone knows she dotes on my sibling, Donald the Great, as I used to call him when we were children. It is I she has an aversion to, whom she tends to avoid whenever she possibly can.

 

Grandfather and I were always aware of that, and he had often expressed concern about the situation. I had taught myself not to care. I still don’t. He has been dead for five years now, and I still miss him. He gave me the only sense of family I ever had; certainly my parents never managed to induce that sentiment in me. Quite the opposite. I wished Grandfather were here with me now, walking these streets; I always found such comfort in his loving words, his understanding, his kindness and his wisdom. He was the only person, other than Grandma and Tony, who had loved me. Now all three of them were gone.

 

Was that the reason I had chosen to walk around this particular area today? Because he had been so partial to it, and because it made my happy memories of him and of our time spent together here so vivid in my mind’s eye? Perhaps…

 

‘Teaching you Paris,’ Grandfather used to say as he took me around the different arrondissements of the city. Gradually, I had come to learn about many of the great buildings, the architects who had brought them into being, the historical significance of each one, not to mention the many different architectural highlights.

 

When I reached the top of the Rue de la Huchette, I crossed into the Rue de la Bûcherie, which was more like an open square than a street. It had flower-filled little gardens fronting onto cafés lined up along one side of the square, and overshadowing them was the Cathedral of Notre Dame. This magnificent edifice outlined against the azure September sky stood on the Île de la Cité, one of the islands in the Seine, and on the spur of the moment I decided to go over to the cathedral. I had not visited it in years. In fact, the last time I had been there had been with my grandfather.

 

Andrew Denning had enjoyed an extremely successful career as an architect in New York, and he had had an extraordinary eye for beautiful buildings, whether modern or ancient. In particular, he had been an admirer of the cathedrals of Europe, forever marvelling at their majesty and grandeur, the soaring power inherent in them and in their design and structure.

 

And so whenever he came to visit me in Paris he made a point of taking me on excursions to see some of his favourites…Rouen and Chartres in France, and, across the English Channel, St Paul’s and Winchester; and, up in Yorkshire, Ripon Cathedral and York Minster, the latter being my own favourite. It is from my grandfather that I have inherited my eye which serves me so well as a photographer; that’s what I think anyway, and as it happens I’ve also grown to love cathedrals as much as he did.

 

Within minutes I was across the bridge and standing in front of the three huge portals that lead into Notre Dame. I chose to enter through the one on the right because the door stood ajar, beckoning to me, I thought.

 

Once inside I caught my breath and stood perfectly still…I was utterly mesmerized. I had forgotten how awe-inspiring this place was, with its beauty and size; and its absolute stillness overwhelmed me.

 

There were hardly any tourists this morning, the cathedral was practically empty, and as I began to slowly walk down the centre aisle my footsteps echoed hollowly against the stone floor.

 

Glancing up, I gaped at the apse, that enormous, intricate, domed ceiling, flung so high it seemed to disappear into infinity. ‘Soaring up to heaven’, Grandfather used to say of it.

 

He and I had visited many of the smaller churches in Paris and the surrounding countryside, and we had taken part in the services as best we were able. We both spoke enough French to follow the Catholic service; being Protestant, we were not exactly familiar with the rituals, but somehow we managed. We also made trips to other European countries, as well as North Africa and Israel, where we visited mosques and synagogues. Grandfather was fascinated by places of worship whatever the religion being practised in them.

 

I heard his voice reverberating in my head: ‘It doesn’t matter whose house you sit in, Val, as long as you love God,’ he had once remarked to me. ‘In my Father’s house there are many mansions: if it were not so I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.’ With those words of St John’s Gospel ringing in my ears, I continued down the aisle and took a chair, sat staring up at the high altar in front of me.

 

Sunlight was filtering in through the many windows above the altar. It was a light that subtly changed colour as it seeped in through the stained-glass panes in those breathtaking windows, changing from blue to green to pearl, and then to a soft yellow and a lovely lambent rose.

 

It was the most tranquil light which seemed to tremble visibly on the air, and dust motes rose up into the shafts of sunlight. The peacefulness was a balm, and how cool it was within these thick and ancient stone walls. Cool, restful, restorative, a welcome refuge, far away from the turbulence and violence of the world I lived in when I was working.

 

I closed my eyes, let myself fall down into myself, and eventually, as was inevitable in this quiet place of worship, I began to think of Tony, of his death, and of the future. And I asked myself yet again, for the umpteenth time, how I was going to go on without him, how I would manage without him by my side. I had no answers.

 

It seemed to me that all of my energy ebbed away, leaving me deflated, and I just sat there collapsed in the chair, with my eyes closed, for the longest time. I had no appointments, nowhere to go, no one waiting for me or worrying where I was. Time passed. And after a long while, just sitting there in the silence of the cathedral, I heard my grandfather speaking to me as if from a great distance. His voice was so very clear when he said, ‘Always remember this, Val, God never gives us a burden that is too heavy to carry.’

IV

 

The phone was ringing loudly as I let myself into my apartment an hour later. I snatched it up and exclaimed, ‘Hullo?’ only to hear the receiver clattering down at the other end.

 

Too late, I got it on the last ring, and sticking out my good leg I slammed the front door shut with my foot. Swinging around, I went into my tall, narrow kitchen, a place I’d always enjoyed but which I had not occupied very much of late. I like cooking, in fact it’s a sort of hobby of mine, a way to be creative, to relax when I’m back from covering wars and the like. But because of my grief and misery I had abandoned the kitchen, having no desire to be in it to cook only for myself.

 

I had hardly eaten a thing these last few weeks, and I had lost weight. But suddenly, today, I felt really hungry and I opened the refrigerator, frowned at the contents, or rather the lack of them, and swiftly closed the door in frustration. Of course there was nothing worthwhile to eat in there: I hadn’t been shopping. I would have to make do with a mug of green tea and a couple of cookies, and later I would go to the corner store and pick up a few things for dinner.

 

A moment or two after I’d put the kettle on, the phone began to shrill once again, and I lurched towards it, grabbed hold of it before the caller had a chance to hang up. As I spoke I heard Jake’s voice at the other end.

 

‘Where’ve you been all day?’ He sounded both put out and worried at the same time.

 

‘Walking. I’ve been out walking, Jake.’

 

‘Again. I can’t believe it. I bet if someone locked you up in an empty room and told you to draw a detailed map of Paris and its environs, you could do so without batting an eyelid. And all from memory.’

 

‘Yes, I guess I could. But you do a lot of walking, too, so why are you picking on me?’

 

‘I’m not. I called to invite you to dinner tonight. I haven’t seen you for a week. Too long, Val.’

 

‘True, and I’d love to have dinner. I’ll cook for you,’ I said. Hearing his voice had instantly cheered me up. I’d missed him whilst he had been in the south; anyway, he was my biggest fan when it came to my culinary skills.

 

‘That’s a great offer, but I’d prefer to take you out…it’s much more relaxing for you.’

 

‘Okay, it’s a deal.’

 

Jake cleared his throat several times and his voice was a bit more subdued when he added, ‘I had a call from London today. From Tony’s photo agency. About a memorial service for him. They’ve planned one and they want us to come.’

 

This news so startled me, so threw me off balance, I was rendered silent, and when I finally did speak all I could manage was a weak, ‘Oh.’

 

‘We have to go, Val.’

 

‘I’m not sure…I don’t think I’m up to it,’ I began, and faltered, unable to continue.

 

‘We were his closest friends,’ Jake countered. ‘His intimates. His comrades-in-arms, he called us.’

 

‘We were, I know, but it’s hard for me.’

 

Jake fell silent, then after a moment or two, he said softly, ‘The whole world is aware that we were with him in Kosovo when he was killed…that we came out alive. How will it look to the world if we don’t show?’

 

I stood there gripping the receiver, utterly mute, as if I’d been struck dumb, shaking like the proverbial leaf as I weighed the odds. Should I risk Jake’s disapproval, everyone’s disapproval, by not going? Or should I go and expose myself to a large amount of pain and heartache? And could I handle that? I just didn’t know. For weeks I had tried very hard to get my turbulent feelings under control, and I was not so sure I could face a memorial service. Not now. It would open up so much and it would just…do me in emotionally.

 

‘Are you still there, Val?’ Jake asked, cutting into my swirling thoughts.

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘You seem reluctant to go.’

 

‘I’m not…I’m just…thinking it through.’

 

He said nothing. I could hear him waiting at the other end of the line, could practically hear him breathing.

 

Finally, realizing he was waiting for me to say something, I muttered, ‘I couldn’t bear to hear the world eulogizing him…It would be so painful for me, I’d be in floods of tears through the entire service. I’m trying to come to grips with my grief.’

 

‘I understand what you’re saying. If you want to know the truth, I’m not so keen to live through it myself. But we don’t have a choice. And Tony would want us to be present.’

 

‘I guess he would…’ My voice trailed off.

 

‘We’ll talk about it tonight.’

 

‘All right,’ I agreed, my heart sinking.

 

‘Good girl. I’ll be there about eight to pick you up. See ya, Kid.’

 

He had hung up before I could say another word, and for a second or two I stood there clutching the receiver, chastizing myself under my breath. I was so dumb. Absolutely stupid. I ought to have realized that Tony’s agency would hold a memorial service for their fallen colleague. One who had been their biggest star. And their hero. If only I’d thought it through properly, and earlier, I would have been far better prepared. But as it was I’d spent the last six weeks grieving for him, feeling sorry for myself, and getting angry at him and the world in general.

 

I banged the receiver into the cradle and stared at the kettle absently, thinking it was taking a long time to boil. I turned up the gas automatically, and let out a heavy sigh. I’d been caught off guard. And now there was no way out. I would have to go to the memorial service for appearance’s sake. And I could easily come face to face with her.

 

That was it, of course. That was at the root of my discomfort and reluctance to go to the memorial. I didn’t want to run into Fiona Hampton. Tony’s ex-wife. It struck me then that it was unlikely she would be there, in view of their recent divorce and the searing bitterness which had existed between them. Of course she wouldn’t go to hear him lovingly eulogized by his friends and colleagues. That would be out of character. She was a hard woman whose contentiousness had driven him away from her and the marriage, and sympathy and compassion did not exist in her makeup.

 

Remembering how unpleasant things had been between them convinced me I was right, and eased my anxiety about going myself. I made a mug of green tea, took out a packet of cookies and stood at the counter munching on a couple and sipping the tea, suddenly feeling more relaxed.

 

Of course I had no way of knowing that indeed Fiona would attend the memorial, and that meeting her would change my life irrevocably, and so profoundly it would never be the same again.

 

CHAPTER THREE

I

 

After my long morning walks through the streets I always felt tired in the afternoons, and invariably had to rest. Today was no exception; in fact, I felt more fatigued than usual. I went through into my bedroom, took off my cotton trousers and shirt, slipped into a dressing gown and lay down on the bed.

 

My head had barely touched the pillow when the phone next to my ear shrilled loudly. I reached for it, and pushed myself up on the pillows as I said, ‘Hullo?’

 

‘It’s me, Val,’ Mike Carter announced in his warm, affectionate midwest voice. He was the head of the Paris bureau of Gemstar, one of the founders actually, and a very old, very dear friend. ‘How’re you feeling, honey?’

 

‘I’m fine, Mike, thanks. A lot better. Well, coping at least. What’s happening?’

 

‘Oh just the usual stuff…you know, wars, terrorist attacks, hijackings, serial murders, famine, earthquakes, floods. Disasters by the cartload, in other words.’ He laughed, but it was a hollow laugh. ‘I guess one day the world will blow itself up, but in the meantime, what’s happening is what I call the small stuff.’ He chuckled again, in that macabre way of his, and asked, ‘Know what I mean?’

 

‘I do,’ I answered, laughing with him. Mike’s black sense of humour appealed to me, as did his penchant for practical jokes. But these things aside, he had always been my strongest ally, a great supporter of mine ever since I’d joined the agency seven years ago. Over the years a close friendship had developed between us. My grandfather had been very taken with him, and Mike had been smitten in much the same way, and the two had remained good friends until the day Grandfather died.

 

Mike went on, ‘I’m not calling to lure you back into the fray, Val. Whenever you want, come on in. But take as much time as you need. It’s your call. We all understand how you feel, me most especially.’

 

‘I know that. Maybe in a couple of weeks,’ I murmured, and surprised myself with this answer. Two weeks was not so far away; I’d actually planned on taking three months off, and here I was shortening it. I was amazed at my unexpected response to him.

 

‘Well, that’s great!’ Mike was exclaiming down the wire. ‘You’re sorely missed around here. But listen, sweetie, the reason I called is because Qemal, the brother of Ajet, got in touch with the agency today. He asked for you, so he was put through to me. He wanted you to know that Ajet’s safe. In Macedonia.’

 

‘I’m so glad to hear that!’ I cried, genuinely relieved and pleased to have news of the young Kosovar at last. What had happened to him, what his fate had been, had troubled me and Jake for weeks. When we’d attempted to reach his brother there was never any reply at his Paris apartment. ‘Jake and I thought Ajet had been killed, Mike,’ I explained. ‘Where has he been all these weeks? Did his brother say?’

 

‘Yes, he told me Ajet had been wounded the day he was with you outside Péc? Apparently he left the wood where he was waiting for you with the jeep, once the fighting started. He actually went looking for the three of you, but he was shot before he could make contact. He was left for dead in the streets, but later he was rescued by some of the locals. They went out into the countryside a couple of days later and found soldiers from the K.L.A., who were able to get medical help for Ajet. The Kosovar soldiers then took him to Albania, God help him; I’ve heard the hospital conditions there are primitive. Eventually Ajet got to Macedonia, although his brother didn’t say how. You’d written the agency number on a bit of paper and given it to him, and the kid kept it. He asked Qemal to let us know he was safe. He especially wanted you to know that, Val.’

 

‘I’m glad he’s safe, and recovered. It was a fluke he made it.’

 

‘I know, I know. Everything’s in the lap of the gods in the long run. That’s my belief, at any rate. As Bogie once said, it’s a cockeyed world we live in.’ Mike half sighed, half coughed, and hurried on, ‘I gotta go, honey. Let’s talk next week, or when you feel like it. I’m here if you need me, whenever you need me, day or night. Just give me a shout and I’ll be there.’

 

‘Thanks, Mike, for everything, and especially for caring about me, and for your friendship…’ I found myself choking up and left the sentence unfinished.

 

‘Feel better soon,’ he murmured into the phone.

 

We hung up and I lay back against the pillows. Mike Carter was one of the good guys, one of the best, and he’d seen it all. After knocking around the world as a photojournalist, he and several of his colleagues had founded Gemstar, an agency very similar to Magnum which had been started years before, in the late 1940s, by Robert Capa.

 

When Mike’s beloved wife Sarah had been killed in a freak automobile accident outside Paris, he had given himself a desk job at Gemstar in order to stay put so that he could bring up his two young children himself, with the help of a nanny. He was no stranger to sudden death, to unspeakable loss. And grief and sorrow were old companions of his, as I well knew. But he somehow managed to hide his pain behind the gruff heartiness and a genuine warmth. Still, I knew how much he had suffered after Sarah’s unexpected and untimely death ten years ago.

 

Now my thoughts turned to Ajet and that fateful day near Péc the memory of it still terribly vivid in my mind. Almost immediately, I pushed the violent images away, smothered them. I closed my eyes, needing desperately to sleep. That was the ultimate refuge from heartache, and now I craved it. Very simply I wanted to blot out everything, everyone, the whole damn world.

II

 

I must have dozed off and slept for a very long time, because when I awakened with a start the room was no longer filled with the bright sunlight of early afternoon.

 

Grey shadows lurked everywhere, curled around the bookshelves and the big Provençal armoire, slid across the ceiling and spilled down onto the walls.

 

The overwhelming greyness gave my normally cheerful bedroom a gloomy look, and involuntarily I shivered. Someone walked over my grave, I thought, as gooseflesh speckled my arms, and then I couldn’t help wondering why I’d thought of that particular and rather morbid analogy.

 

Glancing at the bedside clock, I saw that it was almost six. I couldn’t believe I’d been asleep for over four hours. Slipping off the bed I went and looked out of the big bay window.

 

The beautiful Paris sky of earlier was cloud-filled now and darkening rapidly, the sunny blue entirely obscured. Rain threatened. Perhaps there would be a storm. I turned on the lamp which stood on the bureau plat, and sudden bright light flooded across the photograph of Tony in its silver frame. It had been taken by Jake last year when we had been on vacation together in southern France. I stared down at it for a long moment, and then I turned away, filled with sadness.

 

Sometimes I couldn’t bear to look at it. He was so full of life in this particular shot, his hair blowing in the wind, his teeth very white and gleaming in his tanned face, those merry black eyes narrowed against the sunlight as he squinted back at the camera.

 

Tony stood on the deck of the sloop on which we were sailing that vacation, the white sails above him billowing out in the breeze. How carefree he looked, bare-chested in his white tennis shorts. A man in his prime, obviously loving that he was so virile. You could see this just by looking at the expression on his face, the wide, confident smile on his mouth.

 

I sighed under my breath and reached out to steady myself against the desk, and then I moved slowly across the floor, retreating from the window area.

 

His son Rory had taken possession of Tony’s body once it had arrived in England, and the boy had taken it on to Ireland. To County Wicklow. There Tony had been buried next to his parents.

 

Rory would be at the memorial service, wouldn’t he?

 

That question hovered around in my head for a moment. Of course he would. And so perhaps I would finally get to meet the son Tony had had such pride in and loved so much.

 

I lay down on the bed again, and curled up in a ball, thoughts of Tony uppermost once more. Absently I twisted his ring on my finger, then glanced down at it. A wide gold band, Grecian in design, set with aquamarines.

 

‘The colour of your eyes,’ he’d said the day he’d chosen it, not so long ago. ‘They’re not blue, not grey, not green, but pale, pale turquoise. You have sea eyes, Val, eyes the colour of the sea.’

 

Pushing my face in the pillow, I forced back the tears which were welling suddenly.

 

‘Mavourneen mine,’ I heard him whisper against my cheek, and I sighed again as I felt his hand touching my face, my neck, and then smoothing down over my breast…

 

Snapping my eyes wide open, I sat up with a jolt, got off the bed and hurried into the bathroom. Pressing my face against the glass wall of the shower stall, I told myself I must pull myself together, must stop thinking about him in that way…stop thinking about him sexually. I’ve got to get over him, he’s not coming back. He’s dead. And buried. Gone from this life. But I knew I couldn’t help myself. I knew that his memory would be always loitering in my mind, lingering in my heart. Haunting me.

III

 

I took off my dressing gown and the rest of my clothes and stepped into the shower, let the hot water sluice down over my body, and then I dumped loads of shampoo on top of my head and thoroughly washed my hair.

 

After stepping out of the shower and towelling myself dry, I wrapped a smaller towel in a turban around my head. And then I examined my wound. I did this every day. There was a funny puckering around it, but that would go away eventually; that’s what my doctor here in Paris had told me.

 

I’d been very fortunate, he’d explained when I’d first gone to see him, in that the bullet had missed muscle and bone, and gone right through flesh. Where it had exited, it had left a gaping hole originally, and the main problem for the doctors in Belgrade had been picking out the bits of cloth from my clothes which ha


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