Swimming with Horses

by Oakland Ross

  “I was thinking you might have a look yourself.”

  “Won’t be necessary. If Melvyn can’t deal with it, wouldn’t be much I could do. You like coffee?”

  For some reason, Jack flinched at the question. Was he being condescended to? He was drinking a beer, for Chrissake. “Coffee, yeah? What about it?”

  The man named Jeremiah nodded back toward the little store. “Make a good cup over there. Have a gulp on me. Hell, have two. I’ll let you know when Melvyn’s done. Just don’t expect any miracles.”

  “No,” Jack said. “I won’t be doing that.”

  An hour later, he was back on the road, and he’d be damned if the steering didn’t work a treat. He was out a fair packet of rand, but he didn’t mind that. Live and learn — that was all he could say. Live and effing learn. Just then, he had a sudden terrible thought. The gun. Quick as a sucker punch, he pried open the cubbyhole, and at once he felt his entire muscular system go slack with relief. There it still was, in all its glory, along with the field glasses he’d acquired just for this trip. The gun, the rounds, and the glasses, all safe and sound. Thank the effing Lord for that.

  FORTY-ONE

  Sam

  Ontario, Summer 1963

  BEFORE LONG I WAS huddled at the table in the Barkers’ kitchen. At Colonel Barker’s direction, I’d put Della away for the night in a stall beside Club Soda’s in the barn. Both he and Mrs. Barker were up now, both drinking Scotch and debating which of them should drive me home. Colonel Barker was still dressed in a terry cloth bathrobe, but now he had on a pair of fuzzy brown slippers. His legs were pale and skinny, riddled with varicose veins. Mrs. Barker wore a housecoat over her nightgown. She looked about ninety years old. Neither of them seemed to be in any hurry to give me a lift. Meanwhile, I was still trying to explain what I had just seen or heard down by the quarry pond. I tried to tell them what had happened, which wasn’t easy because I didn’t really know myself.

  “I heard men’s voices,” I said. “Boys’ or men’s. There were some guys down there. They were doing something bad.”

  “You saw them?” Colonel Barker set his Scotch down on the kitchen table and reached up to adjust his eye patch.

  “Not really. Not very well. But I heard them. They … they were doing something bad. To someone. Maybe to Hilary. It might have been Hilary.”

  Colonel Barker laughed. “Oh, I don’t think so. Hilary is in good hands, I can assure you.”

  He drew out the phrase — good hands — in a way that sounded bitter, sarcastic. I noticed it right away.

  He looked up. “What would you say, Deirdre?”

  “About what?”

  “About what Sam Mitchell here has just been telling us — strange goings-on down in the quarry.”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know what to say. You’re the one who seems to know everything. What would you say?”

  Colonel Barker reached for his Scotch. “Just youngsters — that’s what I’d say. Just youngsters being troublesome. It used to be they got into trouble somewhere over on the Vasco property — parking in their cars and pitching woo and whatnot. But that’s not on, anymore, so I guess it’s the quarry instead.” He rearranged his face in a sly expression. “Woof, woof.”

  Mrs. Barker rolled her eyes. “Well, you’re the expert.”

  She stood up and eased a bag of oatmeal cookies down from a cupboard shelf. She placed a couple on a small plate and set it in front of me, along with a glass of milk.

  “Thank you,” I said. Milk …? Did they think I was a child? I wouldn’t have said no to a glass of Scotch. Scotch and Coke.

  I turned to Colonel Barker and said that we should drive down to the quarry, he and I. That way, there would be two of us, enough to make a difference if necessary. We should go right now. What if it was Hilary down there? What if she was still down there now, hurt and bleeding, or who knew what? I was about to repeat these arguments, this time in a somewhat bolder tone, when a pair of car headlights flashed outside, scattering against the kitchen window. I heard a vehicle growl to a halt in the gravel parking bay.

  Mrs. Barker glanced at her watch. “Must be little Miss South Africa,” she said, speaking in a dull voice, as if she were musing on the prospect of rain.

  And Hilary it was — a Hilary I hadn’t seen before. She swayed into the kitchen, wearing a shimmering dress, sky blue, and with her black hair piled atop her head in what I recognized as a bun. Several locks dangled in front of her ears, and a circle of silver glinted in each lobe. I sniffed at the air — perfume. I’d never known her to wear jewellery or perfume before.

  Not only that, but she wasn’t alone.

  A man ambled into the Barkers’ house just behind Hilary. I recognized him at once and felt an immediate pang of jealousy. I felt as Della must have felt, hit by a spent bullet from a Makarov pistol. He was dressed entirely in black.

  “Quint Vasco,” the man said. He was talking to me.

  “Uh. Right. Sam Mitchell. Uh, we met at your place.”

  “Not Hal Mitchell’s son?”

  “Uh. Yes.”

  “You certainly say ‘uh’ a lot.”

  “Oh.”

  It turned out that the two of them — Hilary and Quinton Vasco — had just returned from Toronto, where they’d attended a concert by Harry Belafonte and Miriam Makeba at the O’Keefe Centre. Miriam Makeba …? The South African singer …? I couldn’t believe it. I’d heard nothing about any such concert. What was even worse, far worse, was that Hilary had attended it with Quinton Vasco, of all people. What was she thinking? My head felt hot, as if it were burning up.

  “Sensational,” said Hilary. She poured a Scotch for herself and another for Quinton Vasco. “Never to be forgotten.”

  “Agreed.” Quinton Vasco sipped his drink and smacked his lips. “Those darkies can sing. I’ll give them that.”

  I looked at Hilary, who closed her eyes. I looked back at Quinton Vasco. Some other time, I might have said something rude, made some biting remark. They aren’t darkies, I might have said. They’re Africans. I hope I would have said something like that. But I was just fifteen, just a jealous fifteen-year-old. Moments earlier I had practically convinced myself that Hilary, right that very second, was sprawled down by the quarry pond, a lifeless wreck, after suffering God knew what sort of abuse. Yet here she was looking perfectly fine — radiant, even — if wholly different from the Hilary I thought I knew.

  Anyway, that wasn’t what mattered, or so I told myself. What mattered was that someone else had been beaten up or raped — I wasn’t sure which; maybe both — down by the quarry pond. She’d been unconscious, drugged maybe, or passed out from drink. Maybe she was down there still. It was possible. I was pretty sure I had scared those guys off and almost as sure they had taken the girl or woman with them, but who knew? I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. It wasn’t easy — not with all that was going on. Why was Hilary dressed like this? Why was she doing anything or going anywhere in the company of Quinton frigging Vasco?

  Colonel Barker drained his Scotch. He announced that he was going to call Hal Mitchell on the phone and ask him to come around and collect his son. It was damned late, far too late for me to be out riding horses all by myself. He wondered whose idea of parenting that was. It certainly wasn’t his. He started for the phone, but Quinton Vasco waved him off.

  “Nonsense, Colonel. I’ll give the boy a lift. Why, it’s practically on my way.”

  “Good show. That’s awfully white of you.”

  Was Colonel Barker being sarcastic again? That was what it sounded like. I thought I understood why. It wasn’t just me. He was jealous, too.

  “No worries.” Quinton Vasco took a swallow of Scotch, crunching the ice with his teeth. He winked at me. “We’ll be off in a tick. Just want to bid a fond farewell to her nibs here.”

  Again, I looked at Hilary. “Hilary …?  ” I said, in a voice that was louder, more urgent, than I had intended.

  Now it was everyon
e else’s turn to look at me, but I didn’t care. I told Hilary about the uproar down by the quarry pond earlier that night. Whatever had happened down there, it was probably over by now, but you never knew. We had to go back there — just in case. I said something about the eyeglasses. Whoever the girl was, she’d lost her eyeglasses. At the very least, we had to look for them. Besides, I said, I had a pretty good idea who the girl was — Leslie Odegaard. Worse, her own brother had been down there, too. It was horrible to think of, just horrible. Her own brother! But we had to do something; that much was clear. And Hilary, being Hilary, agreed right away. She refused even to change her clothes; there wasn’t time. She marched over to the entrance, kicked off her high heels, and pulled on a pair of tall rubber boots.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go, hey.”

  At first Quinton Vasco made a fuss. It was too late, he said, and, besides, Hilary was being unreasonable. Whatever might have happened down in this quarry place — it was nothing to get worked up about. There would be mud and dirt and God knew what else, and here he was, dressed in a bespoke business suit. The whole thing just wasn’t on. But he was no match for Hilary. She was going down to the quarry, and I was, too, and that was final. As for Quinton Vasco, it was his decision. He could come or stay. It was all the same to her.

  In the end, he came — complaining all the while. His complaints grew even more insistent as he nursed his car, a brand new BMW, along the narrow trail that ran off Number Four Sideroad, partway down the escarpment wall. I slumped in the back, amid piles of thick paper scrolls — blueprints or mechanical designs. Each time another tree branch scraped against the exterior of the car, Quinton Vasco let out another moan. Hilary kept urging him forward. Eventually, we had to stop. The way ahead was too narrow, too narrow and too rough.

  “Keep the headlamps on,” she said.

  She and I climbed out of the car. Quinton Vasco emerged a few seconds later, but he stayed close to his BMW, using the open door as a sort of shield, not wanting to venture farther, worried about the shine of his shoes, I guess.

  “Leave it,” he told us. “Let’s go. There’s nothing here.”

  That was true in the sense that there was no other car hereabouts and apparently no other human beings, but Hilary and I kept probing through the undergrowth just the same. We were looking for those eyeglasses. The girl or the woman, whoever she was — she’d lost her eyeglasses. Leslie …? Could it have been Leslie? It was sickening to think of. I’d heard her brother’s voice. Her brother’s.

  “Ye gods.” Hilary was on her knees. “And you’re sure it was around here?”

  “I think so. It was dark. But, yes, I’m pretty sure.”

  “Hey,” said Quinton Vasco. “It’s past midnight. I’ve got an important meeting tomorrow morning. What are you doing out there? I can’t see a damned thing.”

  “Ignore him,” said Hilary.

  I wanted to ask her what was going on. Why was she going on dates with Quinton Vasco, of all people? He was the arch-enemy, after all. Why hadn’t she told me what was what? Why the big mystery? I also wanted to tell her she was breaking my heart. Did she know that? Did she care? But, of course, I said none of those things. Instead, I just kept shambling about on my knees, running both my hands through a riddle of dried leaves, saplings, and weeds, finding nothing.

  After about ten minutes had gone by, Quinton Vasco swore he’d had enough of this, we were both dense as beasts, Hilary and I, and anyway he had work to attend to in the morning.

  “Are you coming?” he called out. Then louder: “Are you coming?”

  “Not yet,” said Hilary. “Give us a few more minutes.”

  “The fuck I will.”

  “Ignore him,” said Hilary. She raised her voice so that I’m sure he could hear her. “Maybe he’ll go away. Racist prig.” After that, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Will someone please put a bullet in that man’s cranium?”

  It was a joke, of course. At least, I thought it was. Next, I sensed rather than saw Quinton Vasco’s approach, a kaleidoscope of shadows in the glare of his car’s headlights. He made straight for Hilary, leaned down, and without an instant’s hesitation plunged his fist into her face, hard as he could.

  “Who’s a prig?”

  She groaned in pain, slumped onto her side in the undergrowth, and he kicked her. He kicked her in the head, hard. Then he stood up, spat, and dropped something to the ground — Hilary’s bag.

  “Hey …!” I shouted.

  “That’s what you get,” he said. “Fuck with me, and that’s what you get. Bear it in mind.”

  He turned and strode back to his car. He climbed in, slammed the door, and wrenched the vehicle into reverse. He backed away toward Number Four Sideroad, taking our only source of light. I turned to Hilary. She was on her knees now, her hands pressed to her face.

  “Bloody doze,” she said. Her voice sounded nasal and weak. She was trying not to sob. “I god a really bloody doze.”

  Just then, I let out a yell as my left hand brushed across something in the dirt. I closed my fist on whatever it was and held it up, barely visible in the darkness. But I could tell what I had found — a pair of eyeglasses.

  As for Quinton Vasco, he was gone.

  In the end, we had to walk only part of the way to the Barkers’, both of us stumbling along in the middle of the road. Hilary had to keep her head back, because of the blood seeping from her nostrils. That guy had really conked her. I couldn’t believe it, hitting a girl like that, as hard as he could. Kicking her. It was infuriating, but there was nothing I could do.

  We kept walking through the night, the stars spiralling overhead. Before too long, a pair of headlights approached along Second Line. This turned out to be Colonel Barker in his Cadillac. He was just checking, he said, in case something had gone wrong. We both got into the car.

  “Hilary …?” he said. “What happened to you?”

  She still had to keep her head back. She clutched a Kleenex to her nose.

  Before she could reply, I answered for her. “A tree,” I said. “She bumped into a tree. She hurt her nose.”

  I wasn’t sure why I said that. But Hilary went along. She just shrugged and said nothing at all. Meanwhile, I slouched alone in the back, clutching the pair of eyeglasses we had found, along with Hilary’s handbag, no doubt with her gun inside. By then it was past one o’clock in the morning, and the colonel drove both of us home — first Hilary, because she was the injured party, then me.

  FORTY-TWO

  Hilary

  South Africa, Winter 1962

  HILARY AND MULETSI SPENT the third night of their journey deep in the shadow of the Drakensberg, in a place called Umzimkhulu Township. There, a man wrapped in a blanket strode out to greet them. He had wisps of grey in his hair, his shoes did not match, and he walked with a stilted gait. He said his name was Champion Moyo, and he asked if they were ghosts.

  “No,” Hilary said. “We’re flesh and blood. Thank God.”

  “Well, we don’t get many people coming through on horseback, much less this late at night. Welcome just the same.”

  He said he would take them in hand, and he was as good as his word. He helped to put the horses away, in a stable yard protected from the wind and otherwise inhabited by goats. That done, he arranged a bed for these unexpected visitors in a cinder-block house. His house. His bed. He said he’d make do at his mother’s home, along with his wife and their two kids.

  Before they settled down for the night, Champion prepared a dinner of mealies with carrots and some kind of meat. Plates on laps, they huddled around a charcoal stove. Hilary elected not to inquire as to the origin of this meat, and Champion did not volunteer that information. When they were done eating, their host proffered a jug of corn brew, and Muletsi agreed to partake of it. Normally, Hilary couldn’t abide the stuff, but she made an exception now. Her nerves were that taut. She needed a wee dram, no matter the source. After the jug had been passed around a sufficient num
ber of times, she confessed that the concoction was not as foul as she had previously believed.

  “Drink has that tendency,” said Champion. “Improves with familiarity, hey?” He winked at Muletsi.

  Muletsi merely nodded. He was turning moody again. She could easily detect the signs by now, and silence was surely one of them. He’d been high-spirited most of that afternoon, but later the same nagging question had returned to haunt him, along with its many subsidiary queries. Was he doing the right thing by leaving South Africa? Her own answer was simple: What else could he do? But she knew he didn’t see it that way — or sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t.

  Just then, they heard a fist pounding at the door, followed by a man’s voice, loud but indecipherable. She set her mug of corn brew on the floor. Champion roused himself to see who was out there on a night this cold and blustery. The door groaned on its hinges, and a lone man swelled into the room, a large, imposing individual, square-jawed, sprouting an unruly beard. He wore a heavy parka and batted his upper arms with his gloveless hands to keep the circulation going.

  He put back his head and erupted in a burst of basso profundo laughter. “Damned cold out this night,” he roared. “Colder than the Virgin’s tit.” At once, he filled the room, partly as a result of his size but mainly on account of his drum-roll personality, large and pulsing. He seemed to glow. “Grand Central Station,” he said. “Is that what this is?”

  “Far from it,” Hilary said. “Very far.”

  “Yes. You are undoubtedly right on the facts. But still. In two days, I’ve barely seen a human face — and now this. A multitude.”

  He said his name was Mandela, and he was freshly arrived from London.

  “London, England …?” she said.

  “You’ve heard of it, I think?”

  She said she had. Remarkably enough, she had. But London was a long way from Umzimkhulu, in every conceivable sense.

  “That is so,” he said. “For better or for worse.”