Edge of the Rain

by Beverley Harper

  ‘Just remember, Uncle Ben, if I go down, so do you.’

  ‘Why are you like this? I’m your uncle.’

  ‘Insurance, dear Uncle.’

  The door banged shut.

  Come back, Uncle Ben. God help me!

  Footsteps coming back. The door handle turned. The telephone rang again. Kel put his head around the door grinning. ‘Don’t go away now. This’ll be the one I was waiting for.’

  Again the minutes ticked away. 11.05. She couldn’t make much sense of what he was saying but she heard him say, ‘Transfer all the money into my account,’ and, a little later, ‘Yes of course, but it’s got to look as though the transfer came from my uncle. You can do that? Good man.’ Then, as he was saying goodbye, ‘Talk to you next week, Karl?’

  11.10. Come on, Mummy, where are you?

  At 11.10 Alex stopped running and bent double, winded. Think. I’ve got to think. The South African border was about nine miles east. He could make it well before morning. He decided to head for the Tlokweng Road. It meant a risk of being seen but he could make better time than if he cut through the bush. A donkey brayed close by and he nearly jumped out of his skin. Then, adopting the trotting run of the Bushmen, Alex set off again.

  Paul and three of his friends were playing poker at his house. At 11.15, his doorbell rang persistently and urgently. A woman stood there wringing her hands. ‘I’m Pamela Carter. Madison’s mother.’

  ‘Come in.’ He stood back but she shook her head.

  ‘Maddie’s in trouble. I know it. Please, can you help?’

  ‘Come in,’ he said again. ‘Please.’ He led her into the lounge. ‘What’s the problem?’

  She wrapped her arms around her body. He could see she was close to breaking down. ‘That scheme of yours. Have you any idea what you are asking of my daughter?’

  ‘She told you?’

  ‘There are no secrets between the two of us. She’s dreading it.’

  He led her to the couch and she sank into it. ‘I know,’ he said quietly, sitting next to her. ‘But what else could we do?’

  ‘She’d have done it you know. She would not have let you down. But the idea was so repulsive to her she had to try something else first. She hasn’t come home. I’m worried.’

  The game of poker was forgotten by the other three. They crowded around Pamela Carter. ‘What’s she done?’ one of them asked.

  She lost the battle with the tears and they slid down her face. ‘She went out just after nine. She said she was going to try and find the licence at Kel’s house. She said anything was better than letting him come near her. She . . .’ Pamela Carter choked on her words, ‘. . . she said if she wasn’t back by eleven I was to come and let you know.’

  ‘Shit!’ Paul said. ‘Bloody little fool.’

  Mrs Carter jumped to her feet. ‘No she isn’t. She’s brave and desperate. You had no right to involve her in your stupid plans.’ She flung back her head, set her jaw and grated, ‘Are you going to help or not?’

  ‘Let’s go,’ Paul snapped, furious with Madison and with himself. ‘Are you guys in?’

  ‘Try and stop us,’ one of them snapped back. Kel came back into the room. ‘Where were we, darling?’ He bent down and ripped the tape off her mouth. It hurt like hell but she steeled herself not to cry out.

  Stall. I’ve got to stall.

  ‘Remember that time you were caught up the tree outside my room?’ Her lips were stinging. Her voice didn’t sound as though it belonged to her. She was almost mindless with fear.

  ‘So what?’ he sneered.

  ‘I knew you were there,’ she lied.

  He was unwinding the tape from her ankles. With the pressure off, her shins pulsated with relief. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I knew you were there the first time, too. The time you got Alex into trouble.’

  He sniggered. ‘Daddy would be pleased.’

  Her eyes nearly gave her away. Hatred, loathing and fear clouded her head. With a supreme effort she kept them from showing in her eyes. ‘Could I please have a drink of water?’

  She could see he was about to refuse. ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘My throat is terribly dry.’

  He caught the innuendo. ‘Can’t have that, darling.’

  He was gone two minutes. 11.13. Where are you Mummy?

  He came back with a glass of neat brandy.

  ‘I can’t drink that!’ she protested. ‘Please, all I want is some water.’

  But he placed his hand under her head and raised it and tipped the glass towards her mouth. The liquid burned her throat and she choked, spitting it up. ‘Drink it down, bitch.’ The glass tipped towards her again. He held it there, hard against her mouth, and she had no option but to swallow.

  Choking and gasping she shook her head but he held fast until the glass was empty. ‘Good girl.’ He placed the glass on the floor. ‘Now . . .’

  ‘Don’t you want to know why I broke in?’

  ‘I know why you broke in. Did you find it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll just make sure, darling.’

  Stall him. He’s easily stalled. She looked at the clock. 11.18.

  He stormed back into the room. ‘Where is it, bitch?’

  Her courage and strength were deserting her. She began to cry but he slapped her face hard. ‘Where?’ Then he laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll find it.’

  He found it with his first attempt, screwed it up in a little ball and threw it into a corner of the room. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she sobbed.

  ‘You’re a friend of Theron’s aren’t you? That’s reason enough. Besides,’ he sneered, ‘the little look I got outside your room was enough to make me want to see more.’ He reached out and pinched her on the breast. Although she was wearing a tracksuit it hurt as much as if she were naked. ‘You’ve got the best jugs I’ve seen.’ He pinched again, watching her face carefully.

  She tried to hide the pain of it but failed.

  He licked his lips. ‘You’ve got guts, Madison, I’ll give you that.’ His hand moved to her nipple and he squeezed hard.

  Madison screamed.

  ‘That’s it, darling. That’s it.’ He squeezed again. ‘There’s plenty more where that came from.’

  Sobbing with pain and outrage, Madison heaved as hard as she could and lashed out with her foot. Kel side-stepped easily.

  ‘Going to fight me, eh?’ He was ripping at the buttons on his shirt. ‘Good.’

  His shirt came off, buttons flying. He stood on one leg and removed a shoe and sock, hopping slightly to keep his balance. ‘You’re going to like this, darling.’ He was glassy-eyed with anticipation and lust. The other shoe and sock came off. He fell on her and kissed her full on the mouth, a wet, slack-lipped kiss that made her moan with revulsion. Then he licked her face like a dog would, lapping at her mouth, the corner of her eyes, her ears, her forehead. He was smiling the whole time.

  Suddenly he got off her and stood. ‘Back in a minute.’

  Frantic, she looked at the clock. 11.22. Her face was wet from his tongue. She was whimpering in fear but when he returned she gave a small scream of pure terror. He was holding a butcher’s knife.

  ‘Don’t. Please don’t,’ she begged.

  ‘This?’ He looked at the knife as if wondering how it got into his hand. Then he laughed. ‘Don’t worry about this, darling. Not yet anyway.’

  He unbuckled his belt and dropped his trousers, stepping out of them and kicking them away. ‘This . . .’ he said, holding the knife towards her, ‘. . . is to remove your clothes.’

  What happened next was a blur of movement. She had not heard or seen the bedroom door open. Her eyes were fixed on that insanely cruel face. Kel was walking towards her smiling when suddenly he was flying sideways, the knife leaving his hand and clattering loudly against the wall. Men’s voices shouted, a chair overturned, the solid thump of fist on flesh, then someone was unlocking the handcuffs and she was enveloped in the strong safe protection of s
omeone’s arms, she had no idea who. It didn’t matter who. Then it did matter who and she drew back to see one of Paul’s friends and grabbed for him again and he held her tightly while she clung to him shaking and crying.

  ‘I wouldn’t have hurt her, I didn’t mean her any harm.’ Kel’s face was bloody and he was blubbering and cringing away against the wall. ‘I only wanted to frighten her.’

  Paul ran his hand through dark hair which had fallen over one eye. He looked grimly satisfied. Another of his friends handcuffed Kel and pushed him out of the room. Paul came to the bed. ‘Can you stand up?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Well do it.’

  She got shakily to her feet and was wrapped in his arms.

  ‘You bloody little fool.’

  She nodded into his chest.

  He leaned away and cupped her chin, looking intently into her eyes. ‘Did he hurt you?’

  ‘A bit.’ Her voice wobbled with emotion.

  ‘You smell like a brewery.’ He gently brushed hair back from her face.

  Her entire body shook and tears coursed down her cheeks.

  ‘Come here.’ He held her again and whispered into her hair. ‘I’m sorry, Madison. I had no idea you felt so repulsed by what I asked you to do. I’m so sorry.’

  She’d have forgiven him anything just to continue the feeling of safety which was slowly creeping through her body.

  The couple of policemen on duty late on Wednesday evening did not know what to do with Kel when he was brought to them, handcuffed and bleeding. They knew who he was. More importantly, they knew who his uncle was. After some lengthy discussions, and after Paul and his three friends steadfastly refused to hand Kel over to anyone other than Alistair McKeith, the Head of Botswana’s Criminal Investigation Department, they telephoned McKeith at his home.

  McKeith arrived looking sour and dishevelled twenty minutes later. ‘This had better be worth it, Theron,’ he growled in a broad Scots accent. ‘Get that man into the cells,’ he roared to the hapless police on duty. ‘You. . .’ he stabbed a finger at Paul, ‘. . . you lot get in here.’

  The four men followed him into his office, a mess of old furniture and overflowing files, bare window, linoleum floor and two wooden chairs. Looking out of place on the wide windowsill, a large and flourishing rubber plant. ‘My wife,’ McKeith grouched, following Paul’s gaze. He rubbed sleep from his eyes then grinned, ‘At least, it’s her plant,’ he amended.

  ‘Thank Christ!’ one of Paul’s friends murmured.

  McKeith looked sour again. ‘What the hell is going on?’ He heard Paul out in complete silence, his expression never changing. ‘Where’s the bloody girl then?’ he rasped when Paul had finished.

  ‘Give her a break. She’s been through hell.’ Paul rummaged in his pocket. ‘Here’s the licence. We’ll testify she was handcuffed to the bed and being threatened with a knife. The guy was down to his Y-fronts so he was planning more than a tea party. She’ll make a statement tomorrow.’

  ‘I could have her arrested as well you know.’

  Paul leaned across McKeith’s desk and stared him down. ‘But you won’t will you, Alistair,’ he said quietly. ‘Kel’s family is corrupt, the whole lot of them. Madison has evidence of diamond theft, tampering with government records, giving false evidence at Alex’s trial, bribing prison guards and possibly even attempted murder. My brother has spent months inside that hellhole for nothing. No-one has been allowed near him in all that time. Injustice is the nicest word I can think of for what’s happened to him.’ He drew back and grated, ‘Don’t even think about arresting Madison.’

  McKeith stared at him, unblinking. ‘You threatening me, Theron?’

  Paul didn’t flinch. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes,’ McKeith said softly, then grinned. ‘I rather thought you were.’ He rose and went to his office door. ‘Shemmen,’ he bellowed.

  A black policeman came on the run and executed a smart salute. ‘Don’t bloody do that all the time, it drives me potty.’ The policeman smothered a grin.

  ‘Get down to the cells and tell that low-life he’s under arrest. We can hold him for forty-eight hours.’ He looked back into the room. ‘That young lady’s story better be good.’

  ‘You’ve got enough on him as it is.’

  ‘Laddie!’ McKeith grated. ‘I want the lot of them.’ He snapped off his office light. ‘Come on, come on, I’d appreciate some sleep tonight.’

  ‘What about my brother?’

  ‘Another night won’t hurt him. Besides, how far do you think we’d get at this hour. The Chief Justice will have to sign an official release. Your brother will be out by tomorrow afternoon.’

  Too keyed up to go to work the next day, while Madison gave evidence to a charming and sympathetic McKeith who had clearly been bowled over by her looks, Paul moped around his house, expecting Alex to appear at any moment. When his front doorbell rang at 12.30 he rushed to open it. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’ Madison pushed past him into the house.

  ‘Come in,’ he said drily.

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘McKeith promised to get straight onto it.’

  He followed her into the lounge. ‘How are you feeling? Was McKeith . . .’

  ‘McKeith was wonderful and I’m fine. The bruises will heal.’

  ‘Madison, I meant what I said last night. I had no idea you felt . . .’

  She turned to face him. The strain of last night was still there but the terror was gone. ‘I should never have done it. You were right, it was a stupid thing to do.’

  He shook his head. ‘You had such a close call. If anything had happened to you I’d never have forgiven myself.’ He pulled at his ear. ‘Oh come here and give me a hug.’

  She went into his arms and he said against her hair, ‘Shit, Madison, don’t ever do anything like that again.’

  The doorbell rang again. McKeith stood there. ‘May I come in?’

  Paul led him into the lounge. ‘Has Kel been arrested?’

  McKeith looked happy. ‘Arrested, incarcerated and singing loudly.’

  ‘How about Uncle Ben?’ Madison asked.

  McKeith looked even happier. ‘Arrested, incarcerated and contemplating the trouble he’s in. He hasn’t talked yet but he will. His nephew has implicated him in everything.’

  ‘When is my brother going to be released?’

  McKeith looked at Paul sympathetically. ‘That’s why I’m here,’ he said quietly. ‘Your brother escaped during the night.’

  Alex made good time once he reached the road. There was hardly any traffic at that hour. Any vehicles out and about could be seen in plenty of time for him to hide from their penetrating headlights. A mile from the border post he left the road and made his way through the bush to the border fence. He climbed the fence and was into South Africa before dawn.

  On the other side was the isolated Marico bushveld. Terrible sandy, rocky country, densely covered with thorn trees and shrubs, sparsely populated, and hotter than hell between September and April. This was the land of the Voortrekkers’ descendants. Hardy Afrikaaners who spoke little, worked hard, lived simply and feared God above all else. Years of drought and overgrazing meant the few farmers still in the area needed vast areas of land just to eke out an existence. Twenty thousand acres sounded grand but, in reality, those who ran these large estates were dirt poor, their beasts thin and undersized and their way of life desired by few. The young left as soon as they decently could. The land was farmed by middle-aged and old folk.

  Once he was over the border Alex was virtually undetectable. He had no qualms about surviving in the Marico. Compared to the Kalahari, it was paradise. He needed clothes, food and money, in that order. The first two were easy.

  In order to protect their clothing from rotting in the extreme heat, the locals’ washing was left on lines overnight to dry. Alex found a pair of jeans, a shirt and some socks at the second farm he came to. Outside the back
door, he relieved the farmer of his work boots. He was an hour away into the bush before the farmer discovered his loss. The following night, a farm well inside South Africa provided a chicken, some vegetables, an old metal bucket and a small aluminium dish containing water, presumably for the dog. Alex made himself a stew, lighting the fire the way !Ka had showed him, by rubbing two sticks together. He ate the food by dipping the dish into the bucket and scooping it out.

  Money was a problem. Not particularly happy about stealing, he drew the line at breaking into a house and taking money. He had to find work and that was not easy. Offering to do menial tasks would look suspicious; whites in South Africa had Africans for that purpose. Three days later, in the tiny town of Thabazimbi some one hundred miles from the Botswana border, he convinced the man who owned the garage that he was a mechanic. It took the proprietor two weeks to discover that Alex’s knowledge of engines was rudimentary. By then, however, Alex had collected two weeks’ pay. He hitched a lift to Johannesburg.

  He needed a job and he needed a place to stay. He bought a newspaper and sat in a coffee shop, scanning the classifieds. He nearly missed it. His own name jumped off the page at him from the Personal column.

  ‘ALEX THERON! PLEASE PHONE PAUL. BOLAND HAS CLEARED YOUR NAME.’

  Alex couldn’t believe it. He found a public telephone booth and, with shaking hands, dialled Paul’s number. When Paul answered he shouted, ‘It’s me. Call me back. Got no money.’ He read the number out and then hung up. The shrill ringing of the telephone one minute later was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.

  ‘Why didn’t you call me?’ Paul asked immediately. ‘Jesus, Alex, we all thought you were dead.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come to see me?’ Alex asked back. ‘I was in that prison nearly three months. I didn’t get a single letter or visitor.’

  ‘Christ, Alex! Every man and his dog tried to see you. No-one was allowed. We all wrote to you. We thought you would at least get our letters.’

  ‘I got nothing.’ Alex felt bitter. All that time he believed they had abandoned him.

  ‘A few heads rolled on your behalf,’ Paul said. ‘The warden has been fired. Madison reported him for not allowing you visitors.’