beyond my bedroom door. When I realized this, I leapt out of bed, snapped on the light, struggled into my robe and slippers and ran to the door. I yanked it open to find myself facing a room full of blazing lights. Every lamp was turned on.
Much to my shock and horror, Zac was standing in the centre of the room in his pyjamas, looking demented, angrily bashing the television set to pieces with a kind of manic concentration. And what was that he had in his hands? A frying pan? I was astonished. I didn’t even know we had one. Pushing this irrelevant thought to one side, I rushed toward him, exclaiming, ‘Zac! Zac! Stop it! Stop doing that! At once! You’ll wake Claudia. She’ll be up here any minute wanting to know what’s going on.’
I took hold of him firmly, put my arms around his rigid body. He stared at me blankly. I saw how glazed his eyes were, and his face was wet with tears.
‘Oh, Zac,’ I whispered against his shoulder. ‘You’re suffering so much, I’m so sorry. I’ll try to help you in any way I can. Come on, give me the pan.’
He pulled away from me, gaped at me once more, almost angrily now, and then, with something of a grand flourish, threw the copper pan onto the floor and made to walk away from me.
Before he could take one step I shrieked, ‘Stop! Don’t move!’ I had just noticed he was in his bare feet. ‘You’ll cut your feet on that mess,’ I warned him.
The floor where he stood was strewn with twisted metal, broken glass, wires; all the innards of the television set. I had an unexpected flash of Richard Burton as Shannon, the defrocked priest, in the movie
The Night of the Iguana
, cutting his feet to shreds when he stepped on broken wine bottles near his bed.
‘I’ll get your shoes,’ I said, hurrying into Zac’s room, shouting over my shoulder, ‘Just stay there. Don’t take a step.’
He didn’t.
When I came back he was still standing in the same spot. He did not say anything to me, nor did he look at me; his gaze was directed at the floor and the detritus surrounding him, as if he was surprised to see it scattered there.
Walking carefully, I pushed bits and pieces of glass and metal to one side with my feet, until I’d made a small space in front of him, where I placed his loafers. ‘Slip your feet into them,’ I instructed.
Once he had done so, I guided him over to the sofa, forced him down onto it and took the seat next to him. He appeared to be in a weakened state; he fell back against the cushions and closed his eyes.
I sat holding his hand, not sure what to do to help him, other than to keep him calm. I had no idea what had brought this on. Had he been watching the news? Following reports of the Arab Spring, the various uprisings spreading through the Middle East after a young Tunisian man, Mohamed Bouazizi, had set himself on fire last December, dying in hospital in January?
I knew from Geoff that Zac had watched the unrest and violence developing, was aware of the troubles infecting other countries. But he’d promised me he would not watch any more coverage. Had he had a nightmare again? Or one of those horrific flashbacks, when a bad experience replays itself, and is just as engulfing as the real event? I just didn’t know what had affected him. How could I?
Certainly something had set him off, made him genuinely angry. But that was easy to do. Anger lurked beneath the surface these days; he was angry at tyrants and dictators, politicians and governments, terrorists and insurgents. Overall, he was stricken by the horrors of the world that we, as photojournalists, lived in day and night on a constant basis.
Zac had covered too many wars in too many countries in the past sixteen years. It was no wonder he was full of rage and sadness and despair. We all suffered from a kind of numbed exhaustion when we finally came out, stunned by war.
He had taken his all-seeing camera to Sierra Leone, Somalia, Ivory Coast, Israel, Palestine, Lebanon, Kuwait,
Much to my shock and horror, Zac was standing in the centre of the room in his pyjamas, looking demented, angrily bashing the television set to pieces with a kind of manic concentration. And what was that he had in his hands? A frying pan? I was astonished. I didn’t even know we had one. Pushing this irrelevant thought to one side, I rushed toward him, exclaiming, ‘Zac! Zac! Stop it! Stop doing that! At once! You’ll wake Claudia. She’ll be up here any minute wanting to know what’s going on.’
I took hold of him firmly, put my arms around his rigid body. He stared at me blankly. I saw how glazed his eyes were, and his face was wet with tears.
‘Oh, Zac,’ I whispered against his shoulder. ‘You’re suffering so much, I’m so sorry. I’ll try to help you in any way I can. Come on, give me the pan.’
He pulled away from me, gaped at me once more, almost angrily now, and then, with something of a grand flourish, threw the copper pan onto the floor and made to walk away from me.
Before he could take one step I shrieked, ‘Stop! Don’t move!’ I had just noticed he was in his bare feet. ‘You’ll cut your feet on that mess,’ I warned him.
The floor where he stood was strewn with twisted metal, broken glass, wires; all the innards of the television set. I had an unexpected flash of Richard Burton as Shannon, the defrocked priest, in the movie
The Night of the Iguana
, cutting his feet to shreds when he stepped on broken wine bottles near his bed.
‘I’ll get your shoes,’ I said, hurrying into Zac’s room, shouting over my shoulder, ‘Just stay there. Don’t take a step.’
He didn’t.
When I came back he was still standing in the same spot. He did not say anything to me, nor did he look at me; his gaze was directed at the floor and the detritus surrounding him, as if he was surprised to see it scattered there.
Walking carefully, I pushed bits and pieces of glass and metal to one side with my feet, until I’d made a small space in front of him, where I placed his loafers. ‘Slip your feet into them,’ I instructed.
Once he had done so, I guided him over to the sofa, forced him down onto it and took the seat next to him. He appeared to be in a weakened state; he fell back against the cushions and closed his eyes.
I sat holding his hand, not sure what to do to help him, other than to keep him calm. I had no idea what had brought this on. Had he been watching the news? Following reports of the Arab Spring, the various uprisings spreading through the Middle East after a young Tunisian man, Mohamed Bouazizi, had set himself on fire last December, dying in hospital in January?
I knew from Geoff that Zac had watched the unrest and violence developing, was aware of the troubles infecting other countries. But he’d promised me he would not watch any more coverage. Had he had a nightmare again? Or one of those horrific flashbacks, when a bad experience replays itself, and is just as engulfing as the real event? I just didn’t know what had affected him. How could I?
Certainly something had set him off, made him genuinely angry. But that was easy to do. Anger lurked beneath the surface these days; he was angry at tyrants and dictators, politicians and governments, terrorists and insurgents. Overall, he was stricken by the horrors of the world that we, as photojournalists, lived in day and night on a constant basis.
Zac had covered too many wars in too many countries in the past sixteen years. It was no wonder he was full of rage and sadness and despair. We all suffered from a kind of numbed exhaustion when we finally came out, stunned by war.
He had taken his all-seeing camera to Sierra Leone, Somalia, Ivory Coast, Israel, Palestine, Lebanon, Kuwait,
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