Jackson knew that she had felt his erection. He felt a hot flush of embarrassment rise to his cheeks. He had no idea what to do or say. Suddenly, she took her hand away and leaned back on both arms, staring at him, her firm breasts provocatively thrust forward in a well-practised display.
‘I’ve never had hlobonga,’ she said.
Is this an invitation? He remained silent.
‘I don’t think I would like it.’
Jackson said nothing.
‘Do you think I’d like it?’
He shrugged, miserably mute.
She gave a light tinkling laugh. ‘You want to do it to me don’t you?’
She was playing with him. His earlier bravado collapsed. The calls were all hers and she knew it. He would tell her to go to hell. Instead, he heard himself meekly say, ‘Yes.’
Again the little laugh. ‘You’re honest. I like that.’ She leaned towards him. ‘I’ve heard that Africans are bigger than white men.’ She put her hand back on his bare leg. ‘Is that true?’
Her skin burned into his flesh. ‘I do not know, I’ve never seen a white man’s . . .’ He didn’t know what to call it in English.
‘Dick,’ she said, staring into his eyes.
‘Deek?’
‘Can you keep a secret?’ She seemed to change the subject.
‘Of course.’
‘Do you know what fuck means?’
Jackson had heard the word and knew what it meant. To hear it come from a girl’s lips was shocking. ‘Yes.’
He nearly fell off the boulder at her next words. ‘Would you like to fuck me?’
His penis was straining painfully against his shorts. His heart was beating wildly as an uninvited wave of butterflies took over his stomach. ‘Yes,’ he said hoarsely. ‘But it is against the law.’
She pouted. ‘It’s a stupid law.’ Her nails scratched his leg. ‘You have a dick and I have a hole. They don’t care what colour they are. Why should we?’
Jackson’s head was spinning. Her words were too direct for him to know how to deal with them. She seemed devoid of any shame. Then he thought, ‘What if this is a set-up?’ He looked wildly around, half expecting to see policemen.
‘Are you afraid of me?’
She was watching him intently, that half-smile back on her face. He knew, suddenly, that she was deadly serious. ‘Show me your hole,’ he burst out, made bold himself by her deliberate vulgarity.
Tessa unbuttoned her school blouse and cupped one lace-covered breast with her hand. Jackson was unmoved. Breasts were an everyday sight. It was what she had between her legs that fascinated him. She’d offered more than just hlobonga. As he watched her face the small pink tip of her tongue darted out to wet her lips. Sitting opposite him on the rock, she spread her legs and, taking his hand, placed it against her panties. He could feel her warmth through the thin material. Reaching out, she felt the front of his shorts. ‘My,’ Tessa breathed. ‘What a big boy you are.’
All Jackson’s reason told him he was playing with fire. White girls were off limits. Especially the daughter of his father’s employer. But she drew aside the elastic of her panties and guided his finger into her. He had never been this far with a girl before. She felt soft and moist. ‘Would you like to put your dick into there?’ Her breathing was unsteady.
Jackson simply nodded.
‘Show it to me,’ Tessa demanded.
Using one hand, he tried to unbutton his straining flies. Impatient, she knocked his fumbling fingers away and drew him out. He groaned as her hand closed around him.
Tessa’s eyes were wide with carnal interest. ‘My God, you are huge.’ She pushed his hand away from her panties and jumped up. Jackson looked bewildered, his penis sticking straight out of his shorts like a staff. ‘Down here,’ she panted, jumping off the rock.
As he watched, she pulled off her panties, hoisted her skirt and lay on the bare ground, legs spread. Thick black pubic hair glistened in the sun and plump pink lips parted invitingly. She was playing with herself, half-shut eyes watching him. ‘Come on,’ she beseeched.
Jackson realised that she was gripped by the same kind of need that sometimes came over him. He could wait no longer. Jumping down, he stepped out of his shorts and fell on her. Tessa gave a cry of shock as she took the full length of him and then, raising her legs around his waist, not paying any heed to the rough surface of the ground against her back and shoulders, she rocked with him, exhorting him to go deeper, faster, rougher.
When Jackson came inside her it was truly the best moment of all his fourteen years. But he pulled back almost immediately, fearfully expecting her to cry or scream, somehow to blame him. She did none of those things. She lay very still, smiling. Then she breathed, ‘Yesss!’ and reached for him.
Tessa went straight to her room via the French doors off the verandah, avoiding both her mother and Michael. She stripped off her clothes and stood naked, looking at herself in the full-length mirror on the door of her wardrobe. She could smell Jackson’s sweat, and his semen. She could feel the soreness from his large penis. Her gaze travelled up to her face and she saw the small smile of satisfaction there. It had been better than anything she had ever had before. She’d heard that Africans were huge down there. It was true. Jackson was enormous. She shivered at the memory of him thrusting into her. She was becoming aroused again. Crossing to the door, she locked it. Her school bag was on the floor just inside the room but she ignored it. Instead, she went to her bed and lay down, fingers seeking the little bud of pleasure. This time she did not need the pornographic magazines from under the mattress. This time all she needed was Jackson’s promise to come to her room later this evening. It was a promise he’d given readily.
Tessa gave a sigh as release flooded through her. For a few minutes she just lay there, savouring the languid peace that always followed. Finally, humming a little, she rose, pulled on a robe, picked up her wash bag and headed for the bathroom. She passed Sally’s room. As usual, the door was open and, as usual, Sally’s head was bent over her homework. Tessa lounged against the door. ‘Hi!’
Sally looked up. ‘Hi!’ she responded, surprised. Tessa rarely went out of her way to speak to her. ‘Are you having a bath already?’
‘Yes.’ Tessa reached one hand behind her head and fluffed and shook out her dark curls, arching and stretching so that the robe fell open revealing her nakedness. She made no attempt to cover up. ‘I smell like a kaffir.’
‘Tessa,’ Sally admonished. ‘That’s not very nice.’
‘Yes it is,’ Tessa said smugly. ‘It’s very, very nice.’
Sally looked at her, puzzled.
Tessa laughed and turned to go. ‘Don’t worry about it, sis. Just take my word for it.’ Then she was gone.
Sally shrugged. Half the time she was at a loss to know what Tessa was talking about. A faint smell hung in the air. It was not unpleasant, just earthy and noticeable. It took her a moment to identify it. It was the odour of African sweat, quite different from white people’s. Sally stared at the doorway where Tessa had stood. She wouldn’t . . . she couldn’t. Not even Tessa would go that far, surely? Sally shuddered. She was under no illusions about her sister.
As Tessa lay in the warm scented water, she experienced a radical mood swing. It had happened before, after she’d been with one of the boys at school. A sudden switch from euphoria to despair. Why am I like this? None of the other girls are. What’s wrong with me? Tears welled in her eyes. At times like this, Tessa felt so much hatred for Sally she could almost imagine killing her. It’s not fair. Why me and not Sally?
For most of the time Tessa honestly believed that she carried an exciting secret no-one else knew, and that she was daring and sophisticated. When a boy singled her out for special attention, especially one of the seniors, she convinced herself that she was popular. Never for one moment did she suspect that practically the whole school knew of her antics and were laughing behind her back. Tessa wanted acceptance and so, when the inevitable h
and crept up her skirt, she gave in because she thought it was a way of getting it. And yes, she liked it too.
But once or twice, like now, when she questioned why she was so different from others her age, she would cast around miserably in her mind, trying to find a reason. Inevitably, it always came back to her father. He was flawed. So was she. The thought left her weak with self-pity.
By the time she returned to her room, however, Tessa’s mood had swung again. Jackson was coming to see her tonight. And Tessa could hardly wait.
At dinner, Claire noticed that her usually fractious and surly daughter was almost amenable. Sally was unusually silent. Claire wrongly deduced that the two had had an argument from which, judging by her good humour, Tessa had emerged as the winner.
Gregor chattered, oblivious of the mood reversal in his sisters.
Michael ate quickly and excused himself, his mind on other things. The weather had held, there was no wind and they had two blocks of cane to burn off that evening.
Joe came awake reluctantly, his mind blearily anticipating the inevitable hangover. It was pitch dark and it took a moment for Joe to register that he was not in bed. Groaning, he sat up, willing his mind to work. Blindly reaching out a hand, he felt the bamboo-like stalk of sugar cane. So, he was in the fields. That’s right. He could recall stumbling into one after his earlier encounter with Raj and Michael. It wasn’t the first time he’d been incapable of making it back to his room. ‘God!’ Joe muttered, as a familiar surge of guilt hit him. ‘I’m supposed to be on the wagon.’ It was then that he smelled the smoke.
Not unduly alarmed, Joe took his time. He was still trying to stand when he heard the distinctive sound. He tried to work out where exactly the fire was but, having no idea which field he was in, his senses were completely disoriented. He knew that they would start lots of small fires along one whole side of the block but from where he stood, with the plants towering over him, Joe had no way of telling which way that was.
He was becoming slightly worried. He had never forgotten the agony of burning flesh on his legs and had developed a pathological fear of fire. Turning slowly, he could see nothing. The crackling roar of the fire grew louder, the sound like a tornado. Once the small fires caught and combined, an unstoppable wall of flame would race from one side of the block to the other. He should run. But which way? ‘Stay calm,’ he told himself. At this time of year there was usually a breeze coming off the sea which meant that the fire should go in on the western side and back burn towards the coast.
As Joe worked this out the sky above suddenly exploded into an eerie red. Which way was east? How far into the field had he gone before falling asleep? ‘Jesus Christ,’ Joe yelled in a panic. The fire, fed by the air it sucked towards it, gathered speed.
To the east would be darker. Joe stumbled and cursed. The cane, planted along ridges, formed a wall, difficult enough to get through even by day. In this particular field the rows appeared to run from north to south. Joe knew he’d never get out alive by running along the furrows – the breadth of the fire at his back told him he was smack in the middle of the northern and southern boundaries. The only way out was away from the flames.
Years of abuse had robbed his body of stamina. He blundered blindly on, stumbling and falling, forcing his way through the rigid stalks.
Flames were leaping thirty metres into the air. Sparks and burning trash were carried even higher by the swirling vortex of heat. Joe could see the way ahead now. Sugar cane, row after row of it, lit by the fire at his back. Where’s the fucking road? He risked a look over his shoulder and a chill of horror froze his adrenalin-charged body. The flames were just behind him, roaring, reaching out, sucking in the air, greedy and eager. His air. ‘Nooooo!’ he screamed. At that moment, Joe knew he was going to die.
Feeling the hair on his head start to singe as the overwhelming heat closed in, Joe faced the fire, his fists bunched and a snarl on his face. Impartial to this gesture of defiance, the fire swept on. There was an instant of searing agony, a wild scream of anguish, and Joe King was no more.
A soft scratching at the flyscreen announced that Jackson had arrived. Tessa had been pacing her room, excited and anxious, convinced he would not come. She opened the door and drew him inside.
‘No,’ he whispered, as she went to close the door, ‘I might have to leave quickly.’
Tessa shut the door. ‘You won’t,’ she promised. ‘Sally and Gregor are asleep. Mother thinks I am too. She’s listening to the radio. Michael’s out on a cane burn.’ She reached out in the darkened room and found his arm. ‘Come,’ she murmured. Closing her fingers around his wrist, she led him to her bed.
Jackson went willingly, anxious as she to repeat this afternoon’s experience. He had never known anything like it, nor anyone like Tessa. It was better by far than hlobonga. That they were both under age, that the laws in South Africa forbade sexual contact between the races, that she might fall pregnant, of these things he did not care. Her hands were reaching for him, demanding, hot hands. Jackson pulled his T-shirt over his head, unbuttoned his pants at the waist and, hooking thumbs under both shorts and underpants, pulled them down and stepped free. Naked and ready, he turned to her.
‘Oohhh!’ she breathed, fingers closing around him.
Jackson’s hands slid under her nightdress. Tessa spread her legs a little so he could feel her. She wore no panties and his probing fingers found her moist and eager.
‘Wait.’ She stepped back, raising the flimsy garment over her head and flinging it impatiently away. She moved towards him in the darkness until his erect penis was touching her belly, then slowly, turning slightly, she swayed from side to side. The sensation of her soft skin rubbing against him was exquisite and he throbbed with desire. Neither of them could wait. Tessa was trembling from head to foot. ‘Now,’ she demanded. ‘Do it to me now.’
He heard the rustle of bedclothes as she sat and reached up to his shoulders, drawing him forward and down as she lay back. He slid into her and she raised herself to meet him, legs going up and around his waist.
‘Harder,’ she breathed into his ear. ‘Harder.’
Jackson pumped at Tessa with everything he had. He felt his climax gather, felt the liquid release running through his lower belly and genitals, there was a roaring in his head as a low groan escaped him.
‘Sshhh!’
He rolled off her, suddenly aware that they were naked together and that he, Jackson Mpande, was in the house and the bed of the white Nkosi’s daughter. He, who only slept on a mat, was lying between the crisp white sheets of a white girl. He, who the government classified as little more than an animal, could reach over and put his hand on her private parts and she, who belonged to the untouchable ruling class, would open her legs and let him.
It was heady stuff to a fourteen-year-old boy. The chances of it happening were so remote, so impossible to even contemplate, that Jackson gave a grunt of genuine amusement.
‘What is it?’ Tessa hissed.
‘I was just thinking,’ he whispered into her ear, ‘what our God-fearing government would do if they could see us now.’
The mental image of self-righteous outrage was more than Tessa could bear. She got a fit of the giggles. ‘Fuck them,’ she said, once the amusement passed. ‘Who cares what they think.’ And to prove it was of no concern to her, she reached for him again. Jackson responded eagerly. If she’d been older and thought about it, Tessa might have concluded that she’d met her sexual equal.
They found Joe King half an hour after the fire had gone through. As the flames raced towards the eastern side of the block, the Pondos positioned themselves along the roads. Carrying stout sticks with a heavy knob carved at one end, and holding flaming torches high, they waited, eyes darting to investigate every rustle, to follow every dark scurrying shadow. Deep within the fields resided all manner of delicacies. Snakes, cane rats, duiker, even larger buck. As all panicked and ran mindlessly before the wall of heat and noise, they proved easy
victims to a well-aimed blow from a knobkerrie.
Once the fire had burned itself out, the Pondos ventured into the smouldering aftermath to look for any animals caught by the blaze. It was there they found Joe, although at the time no-one knew it was him. A runner was sent to find Michael. ‘You come quickly, master.’ The African was in such a state of agitation that Michael knew something was seriously wrong.
He could smell the charred flesh before he reached the body. Someone had been caught in the blaze. ‘Get a torch up here,’ he yelled.
It was the watch which gave Michael the first inkling of the identity of the corpse. Even then, he thought that his father could have lost the distinctive Rolex and that someone else might be wearing it. But the torchlight had also picked up a dull glint of something else on one of the charred fingers. It was a square gold signet ring. His father’s.
Raj moved closer and saw the look of disbelief on Michael’s face. ‘This is very bad business, Master Michael, goodness yes.’ He crouched next to Joe’s still burning body. The Sikh had often seen bodies cremated on a funeral pyre but their spirits were always long gone. Raj stared for a long time at what was left of Joe King. Michael suspected he was praying. Finally, the Indian rose. ‘It was not your fault.’
‘I know.’ Michael felt inexplicably angry with his father. An accident like this unsettled everyone.
‘It would have been quick,’ Raj said quietly.
‘No,’ Michael disagreed. ‘You and I both know that even a couple of seconds in that kind of heat would have seemed an eternity. Look at him. No-one sleeps in that position. He must have been trying to get away.’
‘Perhaps now he has found the peace which deserted him so long ago,’ Raj suggested.
‘Perhaps.’ Michael shook his head. ‘Though what the Almighty will make of him is anyone’s guess.’ He glanced towards the silent ring of awed Pondos. ‘Go now. There will be no more fires tonight.’
‘And you, Master Michael?’ Raj asked. ‘What will you do?’
People of Heaven Page 21
