At the hotel, Yudel had ignored his damp clothing, saying he would change when there was a chance of it remaining dry. The water running down his back, which was only a little below his body temperature, had since been soaked up by his clothing, but he had cooled down with the relative inaction in the car. The fabric clung damply wherever it touched skin.
The motor gate was closed and padlocked, but a side gate stood open, hanging crookedly on its hinges. “I’ll go,” Helena said. “I know him.” Without giving Yudel the opportunity to debate the matter, she was out of the car, leaving the door open, and splashing across the yard to bang on the door with her flat hand.
Yudel leaned across to close the door. The rain was already swirling through the doorway onto the passenger seat. He saw Helena bang on the door a second and third time. There were lights inside, but Yudel could see no movement. It was only after the fourth attempt that she tried the door handle. It opened immediately and Yudel lost sight of her as she tumbled inside and out of the rain.
He was still watching the door when she appeared again and waved for him to join her. As he ran across the yard, the thought came to him that the African thunderstorms of his experience were almost always violent, but short. This one did not seem to know the rules.
The front room was part storeroom, part lounge. It contained shelving on which sat cans of oil, spare oil filters, a few battered box files, a monkey wrench, assorted screwdrivers, a large bunch of keys and other necessities of life for the fat African man who was sitting on the linoleum floor. He was staring at Helena through glazed eyes. An empty bottle of cheap brandy, lying on its side next to him, made clear what had reduced him to his current state. A television set with bunny-ears antennae was producing nothing more than a vigorous snowstorm on its tiny screen. The man’s face and hair were wet.
Helena was leaning over him. She had a wet kitchen cloth in one hand. Her pointing finger was so close that, in Yudel’s view, the transport operator risked losing an eye. “Ezekiel, I have an emergency. I must fill up from your tanks.”
Ezekiel turned his head away to avoid the finger. With or without it blurring his vision, he was going to have difficulty focusing on Helena. “One hundred American, to fill up.”
“Are you crazy? You want to get rich from me on one sale?”
He seemed to be trying to concentrate. “Eight hundred rands South African.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
Ezekiel raised a finger of his own. “No discount,” he said. He tried to rise, but instead lurched to one side and lost consciousness.
“Gordon, help me search for the keys to the gate’s padlock.” Helena was already looking around the room.
“Are we going to take the fuel without his permission?” Yudel felt uneasy at the thought.
“Do you see any alternatives?”
Ezekiel woke suddenly and blinked at his visitors. “Hard times,” he assured them before his eyes again closed.
“You’re telling me,” Yudel said. He found the padlock key in one of Ezekiel’s trouser pockets. Just like a small operator, he thought, keeping the important things close. “Now, how do we fill the tank in this rain?”
“I’ve seen him do it. He throws a tarpaulin over the tanks, the truck and everything. Then he runs the petrol in.”
“It sounds jolly,” Yudel said.
“If you’ve got fifty American dollars, that will do.”
Yudel slipped it between two fingers of Ezekiel’s right hand. The tarpaulin was in plain sight, rolled up on the floor next to the television set. Yudel looked at Helena for suggestions. “You’ll have to get up on a chair,” she said. “I’ll hold it steady. Then you have to the throw the tarpaulin over one of the tanks and I’ll pull it over the car as well.”
“In this rain?”
“Can you think of another way?”
49
Abigail knew that the presence of the prisoners in Plumtree police cells was based on nothing more than a likelihood. She had the number she wanted from the Matabeleland directory, and she keyed it in. A surly voice mumbled, “Plumtree.”
“Good evening,” Abigail said. “This is Advocate Abigail Bukula. I would like to speak to the officer in charge.”
“Not on duty,” the voice said.
“Who’s in charge now?”
“The inspector is in charge now.”
“What’s his name?”
“Inspector Marenji.”
“Let me speak to him.”
“He’s outside.” Nothing in his tone suggested that it might be possible to call the inspector.
“Go and get him.”
“He’s in the garage, checking vehicles.”
“What’s your name?”
“Charles,” the voice said.
It was not exactly what Abigail had wanted, but it would do. “Constable Charles, I am a barrister of the High Court. Do you know what that means?”
“Yiss.” The word slid out in an expulsion of air. “I know.”
“I’m not calling at this time of night for a small matter. Get Inspector Marenji immediately. I’ll wait.”
“I’ll get him.”
“Thank you.”
The handset was put down heavily, perhaps with unnecessary force, but Abigail could hear the sounds of voices and movement in the background. It was almost five minutes before a new voice came onto the connection. This one was lighter and sounded younger. “Good evening, ma’am,” it said. “Inspector Marenji here.”
“Good evening, inspector. Advocate Abigail Bukula here.”
“Yes, ma’am, what can I do for you?” The inspector sounded friendly and businesslike.
“You have seven of my clients in custody. I have a High Court order for their release. I will be with you in a few hours to take them off your hands.”
This time there was too long a pause before the inspector spoke. “Do you have their names?”
Abigail had the list of the seven before her. She read the names into the telephone. “Please prepare them for release by the time I get there.”
Again the long pause, while the inspector thought about this. “Where are you now?”
“Not far away. I’ll be with you shortly. I trust I won’t have to wait.”
“I’ll have to talk to my sergeant.”
“Talk to anyone you like. Just see that they’re ready for me. I’ll have the court order with me, signed by Judge Mujuru. Good evening.” She hung up. For the first time she realized that her hands and face were both wet, this time with sweat. “They’re there,” she said to herself. “My God, they are there.”
Abigail knew the country well enough to estimate that ordinarily it would take perhaps six hours to cover the four hundred and fifty kilometers to Bulawayo, and another hour from there to Plumtree.
She knew that her calculations were based on good weather and daytime driving. But now, at night and in this weather … The rain was drumming on the roof as insistently as before. She acknowledged that it could take twice that long, if they got through the roadblocks and if the rain had not washed away sections of the road. She looked at her watch and saw that the time was seven o’clock. I’ll give us ten hours, she thought. If we’re out of here in an hour, we’ll be there before the local police or the CIO people are out of bed tomorrow morning.
One other critical matter remained. She already knew the answer, but she had to try. If flying were possible, that would change everything. A friendly voice from the airport answered at the first ring. “No, ma’am. Tonight’s flight to Bulawayo has been canceled. Nothing is coming in or going out in this weather. The incoming Jo’burg flight has turned back to wait for morning.”
“Thank you,” Abigail said. “What time is tomorrow’s first flight to Bulawayo?”
“O-nine hundred hours.”
“Arriving there?”
“Eleven hundred, if there are no delays.”
“Are there often delays?”
“Not always, ma’am, but
sometimes,” the friendly voice said.
I’ll pray for delays, she thought. “Thanks.”
Abigail hung up and started packing. It was a process that would take less than five minutes. Apart from clothing and the single file containing the documentation of the matter that had brought her to this place, there was only her laptop and its few accessories.
Something had changed in the storm, possibly the wind direction. The rain was beating against the window now. Streams of water flowed down the pane on the outside. Nothing was visible through the glass.
There was still no guarantee that Yudel and Helena would return with a full fuel tank, or when they would return. The only thing that was guaranteed was that they could not afford even the slightest delay.
Abigail was crouched in front of the cupboard, reaching for her spare pair of shoes, when she heard the door open, then close immediately. “Yes?” she asked.
She had the shoes in one hand and was starting to rise, still facing away from the door. Yudel must have arrived back sooner than she had anticipated. “You ready to go?”
“No, I’m not. It’s a surprise to find that you are.” The rich tones of Jonas Chunga’s voice were unmistakable.
For Abigail, it would take a while before speaking was possible.
“Leaving now in this weather?” The voice was calm, but carefully controlled. Abigail could see none of the gentle amusement she had seen in his eyes before. “I understand there are no flights tonight. The storm has ruled them out.”
“Is that so?” Getting the words out was not easy.
Chunga had moved to the bed. He sat down. “I’m afraid it is. You may as well unpack. It’s not possible to go anywhere tonight. Or were you thinking of changing hotels?”
“No; this one is quite satisfactory.” Her voice had risen a few notes. But where the hell was Yudel—and would he rush in, wet, expecting that they would be ready to go?
“I thought so. By current standards it’s a pleasant enough place.” Chunga leaned back on the bed in a posture of exaggerated relaxation. His eyes were cold, or were they pleading? The fingers of one hand beat a silent rhythm on the bedspread. He gestured vaguely in the direction of the stairs and the lobby. “I asked the manager about you and she said that you were booking out, but I corrected her. I told her that booking out on a night like this was not feasible. She must have misunderstood you.”
“Thank you,” Abigail said. I don’t know where this is going, she thought, but don’t come in now, Yudel. Stay away a little longer while I deal with this. This is something I have to handle myself. I don’t know how, but I have to.
“Of course, that may prove to be a problem for your friend, Mr. Gordon. As I understand it, he has to be out of the country by tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’m sure the weather will be better tomorrow.” She hated the breathless, almost apologetic tone she heard in her voice. “These tropical storms don’t usually last long.”
“Quite so. I’m sure he’ll be fine. I’ll just sit here while you unpack.”
“That’s not necessary,” Abigail said. She had control over her voice now. “We will be leaving in the morning, after all.”
“Of course. Then why not sit down next to me?”
No, Abigail thought. I’m not sitting down next to you or across a dinner table from you, not ever again.
“Please.” He was patting the bed next to him. “It’s a comfortable bed. But you know that. You’ve been sleeping in it for a few nights now.”
“Yes.” But where do I go from here? she wondered. Should I be the regretful lover who never quite became a lover and has now realized that her heart belongs to her husband? Or the indignant advocate who orders him out of her bedroom? Or do I buy safe passage by giving him what he wanted all along? Or do I tell him I know that he never wanted me, that he still longs for my aunt?
“Where is Mr. Gordon, by the way?”
“He went out.”
“Any particular destination?”
“I’m sure there must have been one, but he never shared it with me.”
“What a pity. He is a very clever man, I have to admit. He almost succeeded in deceiving me this afternoon. I only realized what he’d been up to after he’d left. He and I have unfinished business. I’d best wait here until he returns.”
But you aren’t in his room, she thought. You’re in mine. Then again, perhaps it’s better that you aren’t in his room.
Abigail had decided on her strategy. She did not have great confidence in it, but it was at least based on the one strength she knew she had. It was possible that her face, so like that of her Aunt Janice, still left him vulnerable. It had on every occasion so far. But then she knew nothing about his relationship with her aunt. With an effort, she produced a smile. “You know,” she said, “you have had a powerful effect on me. I came very close to forgetting my marriage vows.”
“Close, but not quite.”
She could still see no sign of softening or flirtation in his face. “Especially last night.”
“That’s interesting. Everything about you has been interesting so far.”
“I should think it has been more than just interesting,” she said. How far can I go with this?
“It was interesting for me, but perhaps for you it was just a game, a tease. I think that’s the commonly used word.”
“It never was that.” This time Abigail was telling the truth.
“A tease, because you thought you could use me in the quest for justice—what a word—for those clients of yours.”
“No, Jonas. It was not that. For a few days I almost reached the point when I would have done anything for you.”
“Almost.”
“Yes, almost.”
“But that’s over, so there’s nothing for me to do but to leave, I suppose.”
Abigail knew at which moments silence provided the best argument. And she knew that this was one of them.
“I suppose it would be best if I left, and then tomorrow you and the Gordons can board your flight to Johannesburg. That seems like the obvious solution.”
There was still no sense in replying, but now she knew that he did not intend leaving soon, at least not before Yudel returned. And what did he intend to do with Yudel then?
From beyond the wall, the sound of a heavy object falling to the floor reached them. Chunga’s eyebrows rose in a bored imitation of surprise. “Rosa Gordon is a careless packer.”
You bastard, Abigail thought, how do you even know her name? “That can’t be her. She’s not here; hasn’t been for a few days.”
“So you’ve had her husband all to yourself?”
Forget it, she thought. I’m not going to play your game. There was always the option of racing him to the door. She was closer than he was. But what would she do once she was on the other side of the door, if she even got that far? And perhaps he had a man waiting for him in the passage.
“Well, that’s all I have to say.” He rose and stretched, the picture of a middle-aged man waking from a slumber. “Good night, Abigail.”
It was too easy, much too easy. To respond in any way would be to invite a reaction.
“Are you not going to bid me good night? How about a last kiss?”
The hand that reached out to take her behind the neck moved much too fast for her to avoid it. She was pulled toward him with sheer physical power that she was not able to resist. In the same movement, she was thrown onto the bed and pinned there by one strong arm pressing into her solar plexus.
This time there could be no pleading with him. The pressure of his hand eased a little as he changed position and she tried to roll free. A hand was at her throat, cutting off the air to her lungs. Her left hand was free. Its fingers found one of his eyes. “No,” he cursed. A large hand flashed and she was pinned down again.
“Why, Jonas?” her voice rasped painfully. “There’s no point to this.”
“I think there is.”
“Don’t do this. You�
��ll regret it later.”
“No; you’re the one who may regret it later.” He was on the bed with her. The weight of his body made it impossible to break free. The hand at her throat moved and she could breathe again. She felt her blouse torn away in a single movement. She got one of her legs free. She aimed the knee at his testicles, but found only a fleshy thigh. “Before you struggle any further, know that you can’t win.” One of his hands was on her forehead, pressing her head down into the pillow. The other was at the zip of her trousers. She heard the fabric tear. “Abigail.” In saying her name, the tone of his voice had changed. She heard something close to pleading in it now. “Abigail, I never wanted you this way. I wanted you to be my woman. Even now, I can give you so much.” She was pinned down, but it was clear that he had stopped trying to hurt her. “It’s not too late. It’s still not too late.”
“Jonas, it makes sense for us to stop and talk about this.”
“You mean it makes sense for me to stop.”
Her left hand found the hotel’s reading lamp and she swung it hard, making sharp contact with the side of his head. For just a moment his grip weakened. She saw his right hand rise and the beginning of its descent. She ducked her head forward, pressing her face against his right shoulder. The punch scraped the back of her head. The second smashed against an ear. With her head burrowing into his shoulder, she was protected from his right hand. He tried with the left, but missed entirely. “I’ll fucking kill you,” he cursed. “I would have done anything for you.”
She felt her trousers being torn away. The protective warmth of the fabric had disappeared. One of his legs was between hers, prying them apart. The fingernails of one hand found the skin of his face. She dug them in with the fury of desperation and heard his grunt of pain. Her fingers moved, finding new flesh to dig them into.
Those Who Love Night Page 29
