Silent Valley

by Malla Nunn

  You’re shit out of luck, soldier, the sergeant major said.

  Emmanuel wiped sweat from his eyes and calculated the distance. With a solid run-up and superhuman effort, the jump to the other side was possible. Shabalala might make it, but the rest of them would end up littered across the floor of the chasm, too far down for help to reach them in the unlikely event they survived the fall.

  Emmanuel checked the woods, mentally running through a number of escape scenarios. All ended in death or serious injury. Twigs snapped and leaves crunched in the brush. He unclipped the Webley from its holster.

  A bedraggled white boy in a filthy school uniform appeared out of the gloom. Small, with a shock of black hair matted into tendrils, he might have stepped from a sorcerer’s catalogue of forest spirits. His right eye was pale blue, his left eye dark brown.

  ‘Come,’ he said.

  SIXTEEN

  Gabriel Reed, runaway, habitual thief and number one suspect in the Amahle Matebula murder case, jumped a trickling stream and jogged into the fold of a hill. Bony shoulderblades pressed against the fabric of his grey wool jacket, detailed at the cuffs and lapels with scarlet piping. Matching grey trousers hung loosely from his hips and the hems trailed in the dirt. The Kings Row College uniform probably cost more than Emmanuel earned in a month.

  Gabriel navigated a hairpin bend in the path and ducked under a tangle of branches. Behind the wooded barrier a wide rock platform jutted out from the mountain and beyond it, on a higher level, could be seen the black mouth of a tunnel. A distinct four-syllable birdcall echoed in the leaf canopy and Gabriel peered into the overhanging tree branches.

  ‘Chrysococcyx cupreus,’ he said. ‘The emerald cuckoo.’

  Strange bedfellow indeed, the sergeant major whispered. How befok is he, do you reckon?

  Befok enough to know about this place, Emmanuel answered. For our purposes that makes him the good kind of crazy.

  Until you ask him about Amahle, the Scotsman said. This is the same boy who went batshit on Zweigman and Daglish. Don’t forget it, Cooper.

  He would not. Gabriel was odd in the extreme and unpredictable, but till they were rested and ready to move on, this mountain hideaway was their port in a storm. He’d keep a watch on their host.

  Two members of the defeated impi squeezed into the hidden space, tired from the quick climb. The flood of adrenaline released during the fight in the kraal had drained away and they were running on empty. Emmanuel bent the branches back to allow the third member of the attacking group through. The injured fighter made it to the rock without assistance thanks to the painkillers and the thick cotton gauze dressing applied to the flesh wound by Zweigman during a rest stop half an hour ago.

  The German doctor ducked off the path with his medical bag held to his chest and his hair looking like exploding grey fireworks. His steps were slow and awkward, which Emmanuel found odd. Even when masquerading as a shopkeeper back in the town of Jacob’s Rest, Zweigman had moved with purpose.

  The doctor shuffled to the rock and slumped down. Bright red drops splattered the ground where he’d walked. Emmanuel went over and examined Zweigman’s pale face and dilated pupils. He pulled the medical bag from the doctor’s clutched hands. A metallic taste he associated with combat patrols into enemy territory flooded his mouth.

  ‘Lie down,’ he said to Zweigman. ‘Gently now.’

  Fresh blood soaked the doctor’s jacket and shirt and stained his leather medical kit. Emmanuel pushed the clothing aside, copying the actions of the medics who’d worked the battlefields.

  A wad of cotton wool was stuffed deep into a cut on the doctor’s upper right shoulder. It was a mirror opposite of the old bullet wound on Emmanuel’s left shoulder. He remembered the initial feeling after the bullet struck, a dull fist punched into the flesh, and then the real pain had set in, raw and unrelenting.

  He looked up; the Zulu policeman had silently joined him. ‘Put pressure on the wound, Shabalala. I’ll check the kit.’

  Emmanuel searched the medical bag for a morphine syrette or a bottle of painkillers. A single pill rattled in the bottom of a glass jar; on its own it was useless for severe pain. No medicinal brandy either. Even the supplies of bandages and gauze were low. Zweigman had used them on the injured fighter, knowing there’d be nothing left to treat his own injury.

  ‘What the hell did you do that for?’ Emmanuel snapped the bag shut in frustration. He curled his hands into fists to stop them trembling. Other emotions – anger, helplessness and terror at the thought of losing Zweigman – he pushed out of his mind.

  ‘Young man . . .’ Zweigman motioned to the injured fighter then back to himself. ‘. . . Old man . . .’

  *

  Gabriel stood at the tunnel entrance, a bedraggled angel backlit by afternoon sunlight. The three members of the impi had now left the rock sanctuary to circle back to their kraal, anxious to defend their homes and families from any revenge attack carried out by the Matebula clan.

  ‘Will he die?’ Gabriel’s voice was devoid of any emotion other than curiosity. Like a malfunctioning flashlight, the schoolboy swung from intense focus to a diffuse emptiness in which his emotions appeared to have little connection with the outside world.

  ‘Not today,’ Emmanuel said.

  Among the treasure trove of stolen goods stored in the tunnel he and Shabalala had unearthed a feather blanket, a bag of quilting rags and a bottle of peach brandy lifted from Covenant Farm. Zweigman’s wound was re-dressed with the fabric remnants, a bed made from the blanket and the pain in his shoulder dulled by the alcohol. It wasn’t enough, though. Not by a long way.

  Zweigman groaned in pain and Shabalala lifted the covering to check the wound. Blood soaked through the new dressings in the shape of a rose. ‘Not good, Sergeant,’ he said.

  ‘I know. The bleeding has to be stemmed and the stab wound stitched.’ That was a job for a trained medical professional with the right tools. Emmanuel swallowed the dull metallic taste flooding his mouth and scrambled for a plan, any plan to prevent Zweigman from dying on a cold dirt floor miles from his wife and new son. One person could help. ‘We can’t move him in his condition. I’ll have to bring Daglish here.’

  ‘She will come?’

  ‘I’ve got to try.’ There was no other option. If not for this assignment, Zweigman would be safely in the Valley of a Thousand Hills dispensing cod liver oil and basking in the brilliance of his adopted son. The burden of guilt was on Emmanuel.

  He walked to the boy, who’d crouched to examine a black and yellow lizard sunning itself on a rock. Amahle was buried and the investigation stalled. Questioning the boy about the murder had to wait till Zweigman was well.

  ‘Pseudocordylus melanotus. Drakensberg crag lizard,’ Gabriel whispered.

  The teenager had a mania for classification but defied it himself. The term befok wasn’t specific enough. At fifteen or sixteen years old, he was still childlike. His different-coloured eyes gave the clearest indication that he was a bizarre mix: fully sane one moment and off the air the next.

  ‘I left my car at the turn-off to Covenant Farm,’ Emmanuel said to Gabriel. ‘Can you take me there?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My friend is sick. He needs help.’ Simple phrases, expressed clearly, seemed to be the best way to communicate.

  ‘That man is bad.’ Gabriel studied the lizard’s scales and long tail. ‘He took off Amahle’s clothing and cut her with a knife.’

  ‘Dr Zweigman was conducting an examination of Amahle’s body to find out what killed her. He meant no harm.’

  Gabriel picked at the red piping on the lapels of his jacket with dirty fingers. ‘He didn’t have to hurt her. I could have told him what killed Amahle.’

  ‘Can you tell me?’ Just one more minute, one more answer, to satisfy the craving to know for certain who’d killed the chief’s daughter.

  ‘A witch put a spell on her,’ Gabriel said. ‘And a wizard.’

  A whole minute wasted. Time
to move on. The mission to secure Daglish had to be completed in daylight and it was already almost four in the afternoon. Gabriel continued to watch the lizard.

  ‘You are right, little baas. A witch used black muti to kill the chief’s daughter.’ Shabalala placed Zweigman’s folded glasses next to the temporary bed and approached the tunnel mouth. He crouched by the schoolboy’s side. ‘The man in there under the blanket can help find this witch.’

  ‘Is he powerful?’ Gabriel switched to Zulu and immediately sounded less stilted and formal.

  ‘Oh yes. He is a healer who uses only good muti to heal the sick and fight evil wizards and witches.’

  Gabriel fixed Shabalala with an intense stare. ‘He should have used his power to break the spell over Amahle. He should have given her new breath.’

  ‘Ahh . . .’ The Zulu detective made a sound of regret. ‘Only the great, great one is capable of breathing life into someone. We must accept that the ancestors have built a hut for Amahle and that is where she will stay from now on.’

  ‘She will never come back to this cave and play?’

  ‘No, little baas. Never.’

  Gabriel looked away and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his wool jacket. He gripped his knees and pulled them close to his chest. The hard stone surfaces of the tunnel amplified the wet sound of his sobbing. Emmanuel stepped back. Gabriel’s guilt or innocence in relation to Amahle’s murder was irrelevant. With the talk of wizards and witches and his unnatural intensity, young Reed would be found not fit to stand trial and transported from the police holding cells in a padded wagon.

  Shabalala stayed by Gabriel’s side and waited for the tears to stop. He did not speak. Like a river, the boy’s grief would find its own course.

  The lizard scuttled into the leaves and Gabriel raised his face to the sky. He sat perfectly still and watched white clouds form against the blue. ‘Cumulus mediocris. Low to middle clouds.’ The joy had gone out of the naming game. He turned to Shabalala, lost. ‘Must I help the sick healer?’ he asked.

  ‘If you are able, little baas.’

  ‘My name is Gabriel. My father and my brother are the bosses.’

  ‘And I am Samuel. This other man is called Emmanuel.’

  It was a good idea, putting them all on a first-name basis. For good or ill, the odd schoolboy had now become a part of the effort to save Zweigman.

  Gabriel stood up and pointed to the valley floor. ‘Sampie Paulus. The Voortrekker. He lives at Covenant Farm. Three miles due east.’

  ‘That’s the place,’ Emmanuel said. ‘The car is on the main road. Just by the turn-off.’ The Afrikaner farm was connected to the outside world by an eroded mud track strangled with kaffirweed and thornbush. Fine for a team of oxen to navigate but not a Chevrolet.

  ‘That’s where it was parked yesterday. A matte black 1951 Chevrolet Fleetline Deluxe.’ Gabriel jumped from the mouth of the tunnel to the rock ledge below, ready to head off. That he’d slashed the front tyre of said Fleetline Deluxe with a knife seemed a detail not worth mentioning.

  ‘Exactly the same place,’ Emmanuel said. He suddenly remembered the knife, sharp enough to cut hardened rubber. The boy might still be armed. And while he was tired from crying and malleable now, that could change at any time.

  Emmanuel jumped down a level and turned to Shabalala, standing guard at the tunnel entrance. Words failed him.

  Shabalala said, ‘I will take care of the doctor till you get back. Hamba kahle, Sergeant. Go well.’

  ‘Sala kahle, Constable. Stay well.’

  *

  Emmanuel followed Gabriel’s agile movements through the forest as best he could. The boy paused every few minutes for him to catch up. Just when Emmanuel was sure the same protea bush crowded with yellow butterflies had been circled three times and they had crossed the grove of sycamore trees once before, they stepped onto the main road a foot away from the Chevrolet.

  ‘Can I sit up front?’ Gabriel sprinted to the front passenger door. ‘Can I sit in the front seat, Emmanuel?’

  ‘Of course.’ Emmanuel dug out the car keys. The truth was he hadn’t thought about what to do with Gabriel after they got to the Chevrolet. Dragging a thief into a town where he had robbed every shop was not part of the plan. Then he remembered that only Gabriel knew the way back to the rock tunnel and to Zweigman. ‘Get in,’ he said and unlocked the door.

  The sun dipped lower. The dirt road cut into the hills and mapped the contours of the valley floor. Gabriel wound down the window and leaned out to smell the air. Emmanuel kept the Chevrolet at sixty, high for the potholed road but he needed to make up time.

  He drove with hands tight on the wheel. Gabriel called out the scientific nomenclature of plants and animals followed by their common names. Emmanuel stopped listening and rehearsed his approach to Daglish. The town doctor respected Zweigman’s medical knowledge and expertise. That would help. This morning’s long walk down Greyling Street in a nightdress and dressing-gown would not.

  They hit the edge of town and Emmanuel slowed down. At the side of the road, a hefty black woman sold freshly grilled corn from a stand. Two young children hunched in the shade her body cast and played with rusty bottle tops.

  Emmanuel shifted down a gear and drew parallel with the first white-owned house, a cottage with the windows shut and the curtains drawn.

  ‘Mrs Violet Stewart,’ Gabriel said. ‘Frightened Mole.’

  Each consecutive dwelling prompted the same response: the proper names of the inhabitants and then a special nickname assigned by Gabriel. A sprawling residence encircled by box hedges and two topiary elephants standing guard in the front garden belonged to ‘Mrs Samantha Eggers. Always Screaming.’ A buttoned-down Indian man in baggy blue trousers, white shirt and thin bow tie: ‘Mr Bijay Gowda. Bus Ticket.’

  The shops appeared along the dirt road. A white cat jumped a fence and settled into a patch of sun just short of the turn-off to the police station.

  ‘Felis catus.’ Gabriel rested his chin on the top of the leather seat to get a prolonged look at the pet. ‘Snowflake.’

  Naming and cataloguing the world seemed to be a way to make sense of it, although Emmanuel had noticed a particular enthusiasm for animals over plants and people. Snowflake held Gabriel’s attention for a whole minute. The police station, Dawson’s General Store and the café rolled past. Emmanuel turned into Daglish’s driveway.

  A bronze convertible, low to the ground with flashing chrome teeth, was parked by the front door. The cream hood and freshly waxed paintwork gleamed in the sunlight. This automobile was a well-loved toy; Jim, Daglish’s husband, the most likely owner.

  ‘Nineteen forty-nine Mercury convertible. Mint condition.’ Gabriel reached for the passenger door handle, ready to leap out and put his filthy handprints across the hood.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ Emmanuel said, looking for a delaying tactic. ‘If I can tell you your secret name, will you stay in the car for five minutes?’

  ‘Both names?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you’re wrong, can I play in the Mercury?’

  ‘Yes, you may.’ He hoped to Christ that Daglish’s memory wasn’t faulty or her Zulu completely mangled.

  Gabriel’s fingers curled on the door handle, intrigued by the proposition. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Guess.’

  ‘Gabriel Reed. Nyonyane. Little bird.’

  The boy was awed, his blue and brown eyes wide with surprise. ‘How did you know? It was a secret.’

  ‘Luck.’ Emmanuel pulled the car keys from the ignition. ‘Don’t move. I’ll be back in five minutes.’

  ‘Grown-ups always say that.’ The boy sank back against the leather, already bored.

  Emmanuel went to the front door and knocked. Swing music blared from inside, a trombone and trumpet fighting for supremacy. The convertible in the driveway and the music spinning on the gramophone made Daglish’s house look like a party venue.

  The music brought back memories of Paris in the g
rip of post-war hedonism: the bright white neon signs that shone a false daylight onto the streets and the dim hole-in-the-wall clubs filled with music and girls. He knocked louder to compensate for the Glenn Miller Orchestra.

  ‘Yes?’ Daglish’s voice was sharp. If there was a party hopping out back, she’d yet to have a drink and loosen up.

  ‘It’s Detective Sergeant Cooper. I need your help.’

  The lock turned and the door opened a crack. Dr Daglish’s face appeared in the narrow space. The kick and jive of the music contrasted with the tight set of her jaw and the narrow cast of her eyes. She’d shed the nightdress and dressing-gown of this morning for a plain brown dress with three-quarter-length sleeves and a high neckline.

  ‘This isn’t a good time.’ Daglish kept the door closed as much as possible to stop the sound of their conversation from drifting down the hallway. ‘You’ll have to come back later, Detective Cooper.’

  When Jim had finished throwing his own homecoming party and the gramophone records were back in their paper sleeves – or else the broken pieces swept up from the floor and dumped in the garbage.

  ‘Dr Zweigman is injured. He needs medical attention urgently.’ Emmanuel decided to focus on Zweigman the man in need and keep Daglish’s duty and responsibility for later, if he needed them. ‘I came straight to you. No-one else in Roselet can help.’

  Daglish slipped out of the house and closed the door with a quiet click. She leaned back and pressed her palms against the wood like Pandora trying to keep a lid on her box of evil. ‘Where is Dr Zweigman?’ she whispered, even though the heady blast of trumpets was loud enough to drown a baby’s wail.

  ‘In the valley, close to Covenant Farm. We’ll have to drive to the turn-off and then walk the rest of the way.’

  ‘That’s miles away. It will take hours to get there and back.’

  ‘It will be an overnight trip,’ Emmanuel said.

  ‘That’s impossible.’ The blood drained out of Daglish’s face. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  The drawn expression, her simmering panic and the nervous flick of her gaze to the ground: Emmanuel recognised the signs of distress, knew every twitch from long years of reading his own mother’s face. While the music played the world was safe. The moment the horns ended, a grim domestic war would begin.