Clare Houston - An Unquiet Place

‘And did he?’

‘Not as such, but he’s experienced strange things up on the plateau. Seen women dressed in Boer clothes, smelt smoke or sewage, heard keening. Did you ever hear these stories, Suzanne?’

‘No, Mum never told us. I suppose she didn’t want to frighten us as kids, but I saw something once.’

‘What?’ both Hannah and Kathryn said in unison, sitting forwards in their chairs.

Suzanne smiled at their response. ‘I was home on holiday from university, dealing with some stuff… Anyway, I rode up to the plateau on my own, just for some space. I don’t know why I did – I’ve always found it unsettling there. I got to the gate, and my horse wouldn’t ride through. He was a bit silly sometimes. I thought he was just acting up, so I got off and tethered him to the fence post. Kept going on foot. As I crested the slope, I saw, down at the other end of the plateau, two women digging a hole. One was standing in the hole, hip deep, and one was on the edge. I thought they must be workers doing something for my dad. But, for some reason, something unnerved me, and I turned before they saw me, went quickly back to my horse, who was trying to get away from the post. He nearly threw me off when I eventually managed to mount. We bolted home.’

‘And?’ said Hannah. ‘Were they workers?’

‘This is the weird part. When I got home, I realised they had been dressed in old-fashioned clothes. Their heads were covered and they wore dresses to their ankles. I know some women labourers still wear dresses, you know, over trousers? But this was different, long sleeves and cinched-in waists. And then I went with my dad the next day in his pickup. There was no hole. He didn’t know what I was talking about.’

‘So freaky!’ said Kathryn, enthralled.

‘What’s your take on ghosts, Kathryn? You’re into spiritual stuff,’ said Hannah.

‘I’m not sure.’ Kathryn tipped her head to one side. ‘I certainly believe in the spiritual realm. You can’t be religious and not believe that there are other realities out there. But I’m no expert. I don’t understand why only some people see them, or why some people might get stuck after they die and reappear.’

Hannah took a sip of wine. ‘I’ve been raised in an atheist household – all this kind of stuff has always been termed nonsense. Then I come up here and meet rational people, like you’ – Hannah gestured to Suzanne – ‘who have stories like that. I don’t understand.’ She paused for a moment. ‘And then a crazy part of me wants to ask you about the hole they were digging.’

Suzanne laughed. ‘What about the hole?’

‘How big was it?’

‘Maybe a metre and a half? And narrow.’

‘Could it have been a grave?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Suzanne. ‘Why?’

‘Because Joseph said he thinks he’s identified the cemetery. If your hole is in the same place he’s identified, it just adds another whole level of weirdness to this story.’

They sat for another hour, sipping Amarula Dom Pedros for dessert, enjoying the soft evening air. They kept the conversation light, trying to steer away from any topic which might unsettle them now that it was time to make their way home.

They parted in front of the bistro, Kathryn and Suzanne getting into their cars.

‘I can drop you at your gate, Hannah,’ called Kathryn.

‘And drive me twenty metres round the corner? No, I’ll be fine.’

They waved and Hannah walked down the front end of the block, passing the shop gate. The power hadn’t come back on yet, and the street was darker than Hannah had expected. Feeling silly, but wishing she’d taken up Kathryn’s offer, she quickened her pace. At the best of times, the dark unnerved her, but the talk of ghosts and scary Esme added a layer of anxiety, and her heart pounded a beat in her ears. As she rounded the corner, she noticed a car parked across the road which hadn’t been there when she’d left. It had a Free State number plate but its windows were black, revealing nothing. She hurried in through her gate, taking the steps two at a time, key ready in her hand. As she reached forwards to unlock, a figure rose from a chair in the shadows. Hannah screamed. In two strides, the figure had grabbed her. She kicked out, connecting with bone, adrenalin pumping through every inch of her. She wrestled the iron grip on her, about to scream again when she realised the figure was saying, ‘Hannah! Stop it, Hannah!’ Todd’s voice. She twisted away from his hands, her heart stuttering. Her fingers rattled the key as she opened the kitchen door.

Once inside she managed, with shaking fingers, to find her stash of candles and set some on the kitchen counter. As she lit the last one, the lights came on, blinding her. ‘Bloody power cuts!’

‘You sit,’ said Todd, still rubbing his shin. ‘I’ll sort out some coffee. Have you been drinking?’

‘Just a few glasses of wine with supper,’ she said, then wondered why she was explaining to him. He took charge of her kitchen, figuring out the unfathomable coffee machine in seconds and setting a cup of very strong coffee in front of her. She hated black coffee, but he had always insisted that milk and sugar ruin the flavour. Now she hated herself for obediently sipping it. He studied her small house without comment. She glanced around the kitchen and saw what he was seeing. Her ProNutro bowl in the sink from breakfast, Patchy’s food bowl on the counter. A jersey and bag heaped on the chair. Books piled next to her computer on the table. General disorder. The familiar feeling of inadequacy came slinking back.

‘What are you doing here, Hannah?’

‘What do you mean?’ Hannah folded her arms across her lap.

‘I mean this concentration camp nonsense.’

‘It’s not nonsense,’ she said, feeling childish.

‘Hannah,’ he said smoothly, persuasively, ‘I can’t have you digging up Afrikaner Nationalism in the current climate.’

‘What are you talking about?’

He sighed. ‘Hannah, don’t you know anything that’s going on? We’re in a political crisis. The opposition is having a field day with our leadership. We simply do not need someone digging up the past, and such a loaded past right now.’

‘Are you talking about the ANC party’s not needing controversy or not needing you?’

Todd’s eyes hardened. ‘Do you have any idea how this looks? I’ve worked my arse off to build my reputation and credentials with a black party, and now my fucking fiancée is making headlines with old Afrikaner propaganda!’

Hannah slammed her mug down on the table, noting his horror at the hot coffee spilling onto the wood. She pushed her chair away from the table. ‘Firstly, I am not your fiancée, Todd, fucking or otherwise. And secondly, nobody knows about this dig, so what the hell are you going on about?’

He pulled his leather attaché case from below the table. She had bought it for him in Italy. Spent a fortune on it – just before she found out he was sleeping with someone else. He unclipped the flap, hauled a newspaper from it, and threw it across the table so that it skidded in front of her. The paper was folded to an inside page but the headline was bold, ‘South African War Concentration Camp Found on Free State Farm’. Below the headline was a picture of Hannah and Joseph on site, looking across the plateau.

‘Where did this story come from?’ said Hannah, horrified, thinking about Alistair.

‘I’m glad you grasp the seriousness of this,’ said Todd. ‘The best thing is for you to come back to Cape Town. As long as you aren’t here, I should be able to distance myself from it. Leave Joseph to do his thing.’

‘It’s also my thing, Todd.’

‘Hannah,’ his voice returned to the smooth tone, ‘your parents are sick with worry. Your department head is wondering where you are. I’ve even heard talk of a junior lectureship in the offing… If you come back with me, I can arrange it. Hannah, I care about you.’ He moved over to her and slid his hands around her waist, pulling her hips closer. The familiar smell of him hit her nostrils, expensive aftershave, laundered cotton. He lowered his face to her neck and she felt his tongue on her skin.