The Apocalypse Child

Chapter 1

The day was a bit cloudy; the autumn wind was chilly. Rachel pulled up into the drive of their magnificent sherry wood manor house in Chelsea, Greater London. She got out of her silver Mercedes Benz, brought out her briefcase, and mounted the stairs leading to the front door of her home. Rachel was a lean woman in her late thirties. Her elongated neck and long legs gave her a graceful look of a well-groomed woman. Her oval face and high cheekbone fitted her titian springy curled hair when it cascaded down to her shoulders. She had a habit of rubbing her temples when she was distressed; it was one of the habits her mother never could manage to make her break. Before she got to the door, it was opened by their butler in a white shirt and black trouser, a uniform that fitted him like a second skin. This was a luxury she had deemed unnecessary, but her mother persisted. ‘Everybody who is anybody is doing it,’ she had quipped. Her mother was forever bugging her about things that she, Rachel, considered trivial, like hiring a butler.

The butler was a native Haitian man in his late twenties with a skinny haircut which made his wide forehead and pointed chin pronounced. He had piercing brown eyes that always watched people like a predator, giving him a look like a lion on the prowl. He rarely smiled and never spoke until he was spoken to. He seemed to keep to himself, even with the staff. Rachel wondered if he had any friends at all or whether he was even interested in making any. A permanent scowl was carved on his face which irritated her mother to no end. The butler’s height alone made him tower above her even though she was fairly tall for a woman; the guy had to be at least six feet four. She was always uneasy in his presence, and to be honest she would have fired him if not for the fact that her mother did not approve of him. ‘Anything to piss Mother off,’ she thought, hiding a smile.

She recently found out that his name was Edouard. It wasn’t like she never tried, unlike her mother who believed help should be seen and not heard, but the man rarely talked about himself. Their first butler was passed on to her by her mother when she got married. Dear old Gerard was a Scottish fella with a jolly smile and a heavy Scottish accent, but Gerry as she fondly called him had been getting too old for his job, and finally, she had convinced him to retire with a sum of money as compensation.

She did not intend to hire another butler, but her mother had nagged her till she called up the nearest agency and instructed them to send any available person. She did not care about background or qualifications; she just wanted to get her mother out of her hair. They gave her Edouard’s name and number. She scribbled it down in her diary in haste; she called him immediately and asked him to start as soon as possible. Though she complained constantly that she had no use for help, secretly she was appreciative she gave in to her mother’s insistence. If she had not, she would not have known what she would do without them because they came in quite handy.

She was always torn between having a normal family and raising her only daughter in an ordinary way, giving her a memorable childhood like other normal people, unlike her childhood. She grimaced as she remembered having to undergo a series of ballet dancing lessons she didn’t care about, as well as boring music lessons and etiquette lessons. Then there had been the finishing school in Switzerland with her mother hammering into her ear that it was for her own good and that she should learn how to be a lady. She shuddered; she hated for Isabella to go through that. No wonder she had ended up a psychoanalyst.

‘Good evening, madam,’ Edouard said as he took her briefcase and her coat. She nodded, stepped past him, and entered the warm foyer. Things were quiet, and she wondered where Isabella, her thirteen-year-old daughter, might be.

‘Edouard, do you happen to know if Isabella is having a nap?’ she asked over her shoulder.

‘Yes, madam, Mrs McGowan was with her in her room a minute ago,’ Edouard replied; she nodded as she mounted the steps. As she passed her daughter’s room, she stopped; hesitating briefly, she knocked softly and opened the door. The room was in shadows; a bedside lamp cast an eerie glow on the bed.

She saw a lump, which was her daughter sleeping peacefully; on a chair beside the bed, Mrs McGowan, a plump maternal woman in her fifties with an ample bosom and a squeaky voice, sat slumped with a book open on her laps, snoring loudly. Rachel made to advance to the bed, then hesitated. She then turned and left the room, closing the door silently behind her. She walked down to her room at the end of the corridor; she opened the door to her room and entered, kicking of her shoes as she advanced to the bed, rubbing her neck. It had been a hectic day. Working for a reputable private psychological clinic as their top psychoanalyst was very tasking. She hardly had time, as much as she wanted, to spend with her beloved daughter. She looked around the spacious room, hardly noticing the decor which always brought a smile to her face because she had personally decorated this room and her daughter’s room without having her mother breathing down her neck, making remarks like ‘Rachel, that is so inappropriate.’

‘Didn’t you ever learn anything from me?’

She frowned and closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. Her mother could be a huge pain sometimes. She often wondered why her mother would never understand that she didn’t want to be like her. She was perfectly happy if she didn’t get invited to the horse races and so forth and if her mother would not remind her that she was from a lineage of earls and countesses. She did not care for her noble heritage like her mother; she just wanted to be normal. She did not hate her mother, but she would have appreciated it if her mother would allow her to run her family the way she liked. She would appreciate it if she did not compare her family with that of other people; neither did she want to play by the noble rules. She sighed, the image of her daughter slipped into her mind’s eyes; her face relaxed, slipping into a smile. Isabella had come at the time when she and her husband needed healing. Her daughter mended their broken hearts.

For over ten years, she had struggled to have a child; during that period, she had four children. The first two of her babies were stillborn; the third baby had been delivered successfully. She had thought their ordeal was over. But the newborn fell sick. Their personal physician had diagnosed the illness as harmless flu. The baby didn’t live to see her first birthday; she never survived the illness. The fourth child had been born sickly. The tiny skinny baby had not lived a pain-free life during her short stay. The tiny girl had suffered from one sickness or another; as she was weak and dehydrated all the time, she was kept indoors. She and her husband hadn’t known what to make of the sickness, and the doctors didn’t helped matters. Their money was spent on quite a number of therapies, medical funds, and whatever medical treatment they could find in order to find a cure for this mysterious illness that plagued that small cute child, but it was not successful.

‘Thank God for my parents’ money and the trust fund my granddaddy had set up for me when I was a kid,’ she thought; money was not a problem because she had a lot of that. If not, she only had to cry for help to her daddy and he would give her a blank cheque. He would do anything to make their only child and sole heir to their vast estate happy.

She and Charles, her husband, had almost given up hope on ever having another child. Isabella had been a blessing. The doctors had repeatedly warned them that another pregnancy would be delicate. That is, it could put her in danger as well as the pregnancy. At first, Charles was reluctant to give it another try; nevertheless, after two years of pressure from her as well as her parents, he had agreed. She had cried, begged, and finally threatened him before he gave in. She became pregnant with Isabella. Isabella was a cute, chubby girl, though giving birth to her had not been easy. She spent three awful days and nights writhing in pain of labour before the doctors suggested the C-section. Their personal physician had finally approached them and suggested in a quiet voice, ‘The baby won’t come out…’ He trailed off, staring intently at Charles as he dabbed his forehead with a white tissue. The doctor sparing her a brief glance turned back to Charles and said softly, ‘The only solution is a C-section operation as soon as possible. If not…’ He paused, looking away uncomfortably.

Charles squeezed her hands, shaking his head ruefully. ‘No way, John, no operation please,’ he said.

The doctor regarded him silently. ‘You do know, either way you may lose one of them or even both,’ he whispered softly to Charles, shooting Rachel a look to make sure she didn’t overhear.

Charles closed his eyes. ‘God, I don’t want to go through this again,’ he said softly, exhaling. He paused, and his eyes flickered shut; for a full minute, he didn’t say anything.

‘Charles?’ the doctor called him gently.

Charles snapped his eyes open and glanced at his wife lying on the bed. She looked pale and tired. Her hair plastered to her skin; her eyes were wide and unfocused, delirious with pain. She was breathing rapidly. She had been in labour pain for over three days. Hesitating, Charles said, ‘OK, John, please take care of her…’ He paused, swallowing painfully. In a low emotional tone, he continued, choosing his words with difficulty, ‘If you must choose…’ He trailed off, looking away. John looked at him questioningly, waiting for him to finish, but Charles just shrugged and moved closer to his wife.

John nodded in silent understanding. He turned and picked up the walkie-talkie hanging on his belt; he spoke rapidly into it. ‘Prepare the operation theatre as soon as possible. It’s an emergency.’

The walkie-talkie crackled; a female voice answered, ‘Right away, sir.’

The doctor turned back to Charles. Touching him briefly on the shoulder, he said in a soft voice, ‘Good luck.’ Charles nodded. John left the room, and the door closed behind him.

Charles bent and kissed his wife’s forehead; he took her hand in his, and she clutched his hands, breathing with her mouth open. He stared at her silently; he raised her right hand and kissed it.

‘I love you so much,’ he whispered in a broken voice. Three male nurses in green uniform came in at that moment. Charles stood up. They stared at him, waiting for permission; he nodded and stepped away from the bed. One of the nurses walked over to the head of the bed and pushed, while others joined him. They wheeled the bed out of the room. Charles walked over to the window and stared outside.

The world was still normal, with people going about their businesses. He watched a small girl wearing a pink dress skip ahead of her mother, laughing gaily with no care in the world, yet here he was with his world about to be torn apart. He took a deep shaky breath and walked out of the room. He walked down to the waiting area. Rachel’s parents looked up expectantly as he appeared. He ignored them; he found an empty seat and approached it, then sat down heavily and closed his eyes. He sat there for almost five hours. Rachel’s parents sat huddled together. Rachel’s mother was clutching on to a big brown teddy bear and a single floating red balloon with a picture of a teddy bear drawn on it. Her father was shooting him furious looks, not that he cared at the moment. Rachel’s parents had come in after Rachel had been wheeled into the delivery room. He had ignored them, and they had ignored him in return. He didn’t wish to speak to them if he could help it, and he avoided them whenever he could. They never hid their disapproval from the beginning. If they had a choice, they would not have consented to his marriage to their daughter. Well, the feelings were mutual with his own parents, he thought bitterly, so he couldn’t exactly blame them. It was a little difficult at the beginning with their constant criticism and snide remarks, but over the years, he had developed a civil relationship with Rachel’s parents; mainly, they ignored each other if they could, which was always for the best.

‘Rachel.’

The name resounded inside his head, and his heart skipped a beat. He stood up suddenly, feeling too agitated to remain sitting. Rachel’s parents glanced up at him questioningly; he avoided their gaze, murmuring, ‘I need a breath of fresh air.’ He opened the door in front of him and stepped into the corridor. The air was icy cold. He took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind, shaking his head slowly. A moment later, the door opened, and Rachel’s father came out. An arrogant man in his mid-sixties and well-groomed with a distinctive style, his love for French suits was one of the first things one noticed about him. He had steely blue eyes and an intimidating presence. Rachel’s father was almost as tall as he was, but the man had a way of making people feel small and irrelevant. He had a scratchy voice and was never in a hurry to speak. The man pulled the lapels of his heavy black coat together as he moved to stand next to Charles. They stood there side by side as they stared at the scene below in silence. After a few minutes, Rachel’s father put his hand inside his jacket pocket and brought out a medium-sized gold box. He opened it, took a cigar, and popped it between his lips. He dug into his trouser pocket, brought out a gold lighter with the initials ‘C T’ carved on it, and lit his cigar. He took a deep drag and blew out a puff of smoke. Charles watched the smoke silently as it spiralled in the air until it disappeared. Rachel’s father took another drag, then raised the box and offered him a stick. Charles hesitated; Christopher, Rachel’s father, had never offered him anything unless it had something to do with pleasing his daughter and the man placed a high value on his Cuban cigars. Charles eyed the cigar warily. ‘Erm… ,’ he began, ‘I rather not.’

Christopher regarded him, then chuckled. ‘It will ease your mind,’ Christopher said kindly.

Charles hesitated again, then took a cigar and lit it. He had quit smoking years ago ‘Ever heard of anyone refusing a Cuban cigar?’ he asked himself.

‘Can’t wait for my grandchild,’ Christopher said mildly, puffing out smoke. Charles made no reply; for the first time, he really looked at Rachel’s father. Shockingly, Christopher was fit for his age.

His white thinning hair was cropped neatly; he noticed that Rachel had inherited his high cheekbones, pert nose, and probably red hair. Christopher was puffing his cigar silently and furiously. All of a sudden, he said hesitantly, ‘You have really tried for Rachel.’ Charles looked up questioningly, raising his eyebrow.

‘I wasn’t this patient with my wife,’ Christopher continued. ‘I thought African men are more demanding than the European men.’ Charles swallowed hard but didn’t say anything. Letting his mind to wander, he thought of his mother and the pressure she had on her to produce a male heir for his dad. Thinking about it, he had never wanted his wife to go through that mental torture, and the whole ordeal with his own family had actually put him off children entirely. Yes, he would have loved to have a baby but not at the expense of his wife’s life. His parents’ faces flashed briefly across his mind. He blanked it out as he had done for the past years. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t bother any more about having kids. Hadn’t he and his wife tried enough? He sighed silently, pinching the bridge of his nose. His mother’s face flickered in front of his eyes again. He turned away from Christopher, trying hard to stop the ache it brought every time he remembered. It was a chapter of his life that had been closed a long time ago. He raised his cigar to his lips and took a long drag.

‘Have I ever told you, you are a nice man?’ Christopher asked him suddenly. Charles choked on the smoke he was about to exhale and started coughing. Christopher thumped him on the back distractedly.

‘I think I’m fine now,’ Charles wheezed.

Christopher stepped back, finished his cigar, and threw the stub away. He opened his mouth to say something when the door opened and his wife poked her head out and addressed Christopher, ‘I think you should come in now. It’s too cold out there, don’t you think?’ Christopher patted him on the shoulder, stepped past his wife, and went in. Rachel’s mother looked at him. ‘You too.’ Charles nodded and stubbed out his cigar; he stepped past her and went in.

Four hours later, the doctor came out of the theatre still wearing his surgery uniform and holding his stethoscope. They all sprang up and rushed towards him. ‘How is she, Doctor?’ they all asked in unison.

The doctor hesitated; he extended his right hand for a handshake before his face split into a smile. ‘Congrats,’ he said to Charles, ‘you have a baby girl.’ Rachel’s mother turned and hugged her husband.

‘And my wife?’ Charles asked in a shaky voice.

‘She is fine but tired. She is asleep now,’ the doctor replied, smiling.

‘Thank God and thank you,’ he whispered, sinking into the seat. He was sure his legs couldn’t support him any more.

Rachel took a deep breath; it was a very painful experience, but it was worth it. She loved her baby more than anything in the whole wide world except for her husband, Charles.

Isabella started her life as a girl who was aware of her parents’ initial suffering and had come to heal them. She was a good girl who hardly cried or disturbed. She was very loving, peaceful, and bubbly, and best of all, she was hardly sick. From birth, they watched her closely and cautiously, but she hardly gave them any cause for alarm. At long last, when she turned thirteen, they had started to let go of their initial fears and that finally she would be turning fourteen and would become a big girl. It brought a smile on her face and a tear rolled down her eye. Isabella was growing up fast, and soon she would be leaving home. She remembered the first time Isabella had asked her if she could straighten her curly hair; like hers, Isabella had inherited her mother’s wild springy curls, but unlike her distinctive fiery red hair, her daughter’s hair was black which soothed her caramel-coloured skin. She had consented to having Isabella’s hair straightened, but she had cried herself to sleep with the knowledge that her daughter was growing up fast. Charles had thought she was being silly. Wiping the single tear that rolled down her cheek, she thought only a mother would understand these trivial things. Nowadays, they gave her more freedom and space, with the strong faith that just maybe God had answered their prayers. The only problem she had noticed so far was the uncanny way the girl would talk to herself whenever she thought she was alone. She had caught her one too many times. She had always dismissed those moments, but once she had asked Isabella with whom she was talking, and Isabella had responded that she was playing with a doll. All children did play with dolls; hell, she had done that when she was young. She often wondered why Isabella never had any friends over at her home. Isabella was an only child, and sometimes it proved difficult for such children to develop interpersonal relationship fast.

Whenever Rachel watched her daughter, she had this feeling that there was something mysterious about her daughter, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it; blame it on her psychoanalyst feeling. Laughing out loud, she glanced around the room. She had never mentioned these feelings to Charles. Maybe there was nothing to worry about; she didn’t know… yet. As a psychoanalyst, she knew that lonely children tend to develop unseen friends or talk to their dolls which is absolutely normal, but then, Isabella was barely a child any more. She sat on the bed and removed her Manolo Blahnik pumps. She rubbed her feet, sighing with pleasure. It had been a long day at the clinic and she was tired. She reached over and pressed a button on the wall next to the bedside lamp; she dropped her head on the pillow and closed her eyes. Almost immediately, a knock sounded on the door three times. Edouard entered silently. ‘Get me a glass of red wine,’ she said without opening her eyes.

Edouard bowed and left the room. A few seconds later, he brought a glass of red wine, kept it on the nightstand, and said, ‘Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes, madam.’

She nodded without opening her eyes. Edouard left and shut the door quietly. He walked down the hall quietly. As he neared Isabella’s room, he paused, then looked left and right. He turned the doorknob slowly and eased the door open quietly.

The room was shrouded in darkness. He tiptoed into the room and peered at Isabella’s sleeping face, muttering under his breath with no expression on his face. He stretched out his right hand to open her shirt. Mrs McGowan stirred; he snatched his hand back. Mrs McGowan muttered inaudibly, rolled her head to the left side, and continued dozing. Edouard stared at Isabella for a long time, then turned and left the room.

Thirty minutes later, Rachel came downstairs; Isabella was already at the table. At the sight of her mother, she got up and rushed to her with a cry of glee, ‘Mama.’

Rachel embraced her, whispering, ‘Baby, how are you?’

‘I’m fine, Mama. Where is Daddy?’

‘He will be home soon, honey.’ She nodded.

Isabella grinned at her mother. Rachel smiled and clutched her hand, pulling her towards the dining table. The dining table was a long mahogany table with twelve chairs. It came quite handy when they threw dinner parties. Charles normally sat at the head of the table while she and Isabella sat opposite each other. Rachel pulled Isabella’s chair out for her daughter to sit down, then proceeded to her own seat. She sat down, glancing briefly at her watch. Charles should be home any minute now. In a minute’s time, the front door opened and slammed shut. Footsteps sounded towards the dining room. Rachel and Isabella turned towards the door, smiling. Charles came into the dining room. Rachel’s eyes roved all over him. He looked tired. His shirt was half open; his left hand clutched his tie while his right hand held his briefcase.

‘Daddy!’ Isabella squealed. She jumped off her chair and rushed into her dad’s arms.

‘How’s my baby girl doing?’ Charles asked, tickling her; she squealed excitedly.

‘I’m fine, Daddy,’ she answered.

Rachel watched them with a satisfied smile on her face. She was happy and content.

Everything was beginning to make sense again; this was the life she had always dreamed of—a husband who loved and adored her and her child. They were both the love of her life. ‘Thank you,’ she silently whispered again. She would keep thanking whoever was out there that had fulfilled her dreams; it could be the universe, a supreme being, or a god. She didn’t care as long as she was happy; that was all that mattered. Watching Isabella talk, laugh, and make jokes with her daddy would always be the highlight of her day; it was like a drug to her emotional being. ‘Yes, she is definitely her mother’s child,’ she thought with a smile.

‘Mummy, Daddy is tickling me,’ Isabella shrieked. Rachel’s smile widened. This was all she had ever asked for. What more could she want and what could ever possibly go wrong?

Through the crack in the front doorway, Edouard watched the family. He had opted to watch the family together today because his prayers had gone awry this morning. He hated acting as a peeping tom. He had to be on the lookout for the staff because if they stumbled upon him he would never be able to explain it. He had decided at the last minute to observe the family through the door that led into the foyer because the staff rarely used that door when they were serving dinner. Mrs McGowan always served the dishes via the door that led to the kitchen, which was at the opposite side of the room. He looked at the two parents with interest; he needed to know. They looked plain in his sight. He glanced at their daughter, muttering under his breath. He saw it. He stared, unable to believe his eyes. ‘OMG, fuck me,’ he whispered. He stared at the girl again, muttering; the spiral of black smoke could not be mistaken. He glanced at her father sharply. He wondered if the father had a clue. The parents acted as if they suspected nothing. He could not blame them. If he had gone through what they had gone through, he would have accepted anything that was shoved into his hands. He stared at the girl unbelievably. He had always gotten a bad vibe from her; however, this solidified his misgivings. His gaze slid to Charles, and he wondered if Charles would have a tiny bit of a clue. Shaking his head sympathetically, he was aware that Charles as a doctor believed in logic and science. He shook his head again.

His eyes landed on Isabella. He watched her as she whispered something into her daddy’s ear; her daddy laughed out loud. Edouard clutched at the door, watching them for a long time. Isabella suddenly looked up and looked directly at the door. He stepped back further into the shadows; it appeared as if she had seen him. ‘Does she know?’ he wondered.

Nonetheless to be on the safe side, he remained in the shadows. Isabella kept looking at his direction until her mother asked her, ‘Are you OK, hun?’

She turned and smiled at her mother, ‘Yes, Mama.’

Edouard from where he was standing turned and stepped into the darkness of the foyer.

Isabella felt a prickle of cold run through her body as she watched the doorway. She could have sworn that someone was watching them or rather her. She glanced at her parents nervously; they seemed happy and clueless. She looked back at her food. She tried to concentrate on her food, stealing glances at her parents; they seemed too nice. She could tell they loved her unconditionally. She felt a twinge of guilt as she watched them from the corner of her eyes. She was sure they had no idea; if only they knew. She glanced up towards the doorway again; the feeling of being watched was finally lifting. She wondered who it could be. ‘Could my parents be keeping eyes on me?’ she asked herself; she quickly glanced at her parents, scanning their faces. They were both engrossed in their food.

‘No,’ she said to herself, shaking her head; they had no idea. ‘So who might it be?’ she asked herself again her mind drifted off to possibilities as she lingered over her food.

‘Isa?’ her mother called her fondly. She startled, realising that she had paused in eating her food. ‘You sure you’re OK?’ her mother asked her concernedly.

‘Yes, Mama,’ she answered, forcing herself to concentrate on eating her food. After dinner, they adjourned to the spacious library/study. This was her mother’s favourite place. The room had been built as an exact replica of her maternal grandparents’ study. The room was filled with collections of books. At one side was a bar filled with assorted drinks and at the other end was a real fireplace. The fire was already burning in the grate when they entered. It gave the room a toasty warm feeling. Her parents sat on the couch, her daddy cradling her mother as she leant on to him. Edouard appeared suddenly, offering them both glasses of brandy. She sat by her father’s legs, watching the fire burning in the grate while she thought about her homework, humming under her breath.

Isabella had inherited her mother’s beauty and her father’s classical features. Her caramel colour had a polished glow of tan that many people envied. Her green eyes was in contrast to her colouring; it gave her a peculiar look that made her face memorable. Isabella was tall and lean like her mother. Her springy curly black shoulder-length hair that had been straightened was packed in a ponytail. Isabella had an air of innocence about her unless you stared deep into her eyes; however, she was a master in masking her emotions. Overall, Isabella was a true beauty.

Rachel sighed softly. ‘Isabella has never given me a cause for alarm so why should I be worried?’ she thought, biting her lip. She was a lovely child. Reminiscing about the labour, she thought that she would go through that again for such a wonderful child. Rachel surveyed the room with loving eyes. ‘Yes,’ she mused. ‘This was exactly how I always pictured my family.’

Chapter 2

Isabella lounged against a birch tree near the playground. She watched the other students chattering loudly; some students were huddled