‘She can try.’ Claire was doubtful. ‘But if Tessa’s reaction when I spoke to her about it is anything to go by, Jennifer won’t get to first base.’
Michael was frustrated and it showed. ‘Drug the bloody girl and stick her on a plane with Sally.’
‘Michael, please! This is your sister. If she refuses we can’t force her. What’s wrong with the girl? Any normal child would jump at the chance to go to France.’
‘If I know my dear sister, her current priority is to get back with Jackson.’
Claire buried her face in her hands.
‘Don’t worry, Mother. I’ve already had a word with Wilson. Jackson’s being sent to his grandparents again. He’ll be gone in two days.’
Claire looked up at him. ‘A lot can happen in two days.’
Michael nodded. ‘I’ll make sure it doesn’t,’ he said grimly.
Dyson Mpande, with no warning, was abruptly set free at 1.45 a.m. on the morning of the same day that Tessa left the Sacred Hearts Convent of Mercy. For the past two years he had been held prisoner just outside the inland city of Pietermaritzburg, having first spent three weeks in Empangeni’s local jail and a further eighteen months in Durban.
It hadn’t been an easy time but then he hadn’t expected it to be. He knew what he was up for, in the event of capture, when he joined Umkhonto. Prisons for Africans were overcrowded and basic. Some officers were fair but, in the main, they were sadistic, uneducated and prejudiced. A lethal combination, especially when they believed right was on their side. Dyson, as with all the others taken that night, had been severely beaten many times, routinely starved, taunted, insulted and nearly worked to death. Life was a never-ending nightmare of pain, fear, filth, and sleep and food deprivation.
News of the outside filtered through with each new intake of prisoners. Two years earlier, just after Dyson had been moved to Pietermaritzburg, a series of bomb explosions outside government offices around the country had heralded Umkhonto’s presence and future intentions. No-one had been hurt but the incidents drove a wedge between Nelson Mandela who approved and Albert Lutuli, the African National Congress’s president, who did not. However, six months later, when Mandela was arrested and sentenced to life imprisonment, even the peace-loving Lutuli stated, ‘No-one can blame brave just men for seeking justice by the use of violent methods.’
Dyson and others, avidly devouring any news, no matter how insignificant, took comfort in the fact that at last the struggle for equality had nudged up a gear. The knowledge revived their flagging spirits.
And then, at 1.45 a.m. in the morning, they came to his cell. Keys turning in the lock and the metallic clang of his door being roughly opened broke through a thin veil of fitful sleep. The light was snapped on. Blinking against its harshness, Dyson made out one of the regular police guards looking down at him.
‘Get up, kaffir.’
The two other occupants of the cell stirred and opened their eyes. Seeing it was Dyson who was the object of the guard’s interest, they rolled away from the intruding light and went back to sleep. There was nothing they could do for him.
Presuming he was in for yet another of their sporadic interrogation sessions, Dyson braced himself for the barrage of verbal and physical abuse. Instead, he was led out of the building and up to the main prison entrance. A small door set into the heavy timber gates opened silently and he was shoved through, out into the night. No words were exchanged. He expected the policeman to follow. Dyson could hardly believe it when the door banged shut behind him and he was on his own.
This was a trick. Nothing stirred outside the prison, no barking dogs, not a sound. He went to move, then froze. Realisation made his scalp crawl. It was the middle of the night and no African was supposed to be at large unless they had a permit. He could be shot on sight. He could be dead and buried within an hour, disappear with no trace. The more his mind raced, the more convinced he became that police were out there in the darkness, just waiting for him to move.
Dyson strained to see into the darkness beyond the security lights. He had to get away, couldn’t stay here, a perfect target illuminated for the convenience of the police marksmen. But how? Where to? He’d only once seen outside the walls and that had been two long years ago. The prison was in a rural area, Pietermaritzburg being several kilometres away. That much he did know. It was starting to rain. Fat drops splashed on to the dirt road. Thunder. A storm was coming.
Realising he was damned if he stayed and damned if he moved, he opted for the latter. Shoving both hands deep into his pockets, head down against the sudden deluge, he walked slowly along the perimeter road, expecting at any moment that a bullet would take his life. If the intention had been to release him then he would surely have been given back his own clothes. Sometimes, at night, he had heard shots from outside the walls and, inevitably, a face would be missing the next day. The guards would smugly announce that a prisoner had been apprehended while trying to escape. It was invariably someone held without charge or trial long enough for questions to be raised over the legality of their continued internment. Only yesterday, one of the guards had taunted him, ‘You have friends in high places, kaffir. Looks like your day in court is coming.’
Dyson had been excited. Michael! It had to be his influence. At last, a trial. He was under no illusion that the courts would exonerate him but at least it meant some publicity, all fuel to the growing fire of protest sweeping through enlightened South Africans and around the world.
God! What a fool to think he’d be allowed a trial. This was how the system dealt with anyone considered likely to pose a threat to authority. For God’s sake, think! The shots outside the walls, they were always some distance away. They’re not going to shoot you here. The police want sport. Keep it slow. They want you to run. They’re playing with you.
A rustle in the long dry grass nearly panicked him but he forced himself to maintain his steady pace, relaxing slightly when a mountain reedbuck darted across the road in front of him. If the guards were out there, and Dyson was damned sure they were, they would wait for him to run. The rain is getting harder. They might get sick of waiting. Think! The games with Michael. The only way he’d ever taken his friend by surprise was to do the completely unexpected. Sometimes that meant doing something blatantly obvious.
Run! His mind screamed at him. For God’s sake, run. He was approaching a corner of the prison. Then he saw it. A thin corridor of shadow where the security lights did not quite overlap. Run. Do the obvious.
Lightning flashed, long jagged tendrils that slammed into the earth frying anything in its path. Dyson didn’t consciously make a decision. He was a dead man anyway. Far better to have a bullet end his life than spend the rest of his days in prison. If he ran or didn’t run, the outcome would be the same. A dead man couldn’t tell anyone he hadn’t tried to run. Instinct took over. He did not know he had started running. Thunder exploded and rolled away. Something tugged at the seam of his shirt and, a split second later, he heard the crashing report of a high-powered rifle. A volley of shots rang out. Then silence.
‘Where is he? The bastard’s gone,’ a voice called to his right.
‘He’s out there. Bring the dogs.’
More voices joined in.
‘Hold your fire, men. He won’t get far.’
Dyson heard the high excited whine of one of the German shepherds. ‘Here, boy. Smell him out. Good boy.’
‘Fuck this, man. Let’s get it over with. I’m soaked.’
Dyson was beyond the security lights before he stopped. He had no idea of the terrain. His eyes had not adjusted to the dark. He was frozen where he crouched, unwilling to move in case he made a noise.
‘Hey, Kurt. This looks like a good one, hey?’
‘Ja, Hennie. Bottle of brandy to the man who nails him.’
‘Fuck this rain.’
‘It’s only water. What’s the matter, Fanie? Scared you’ll wash away?’
‘Should we release the dogs, sir?’
/>
‘Not yet, man. Let’s have some sport.’
There was hearty laughter.
‘Fan out, men. The judge will need a body with bullets in it, not someone shredded by teeth. Only if I blow the whistle let the dogs go.’
Dyson recognised the voice. Captain Eksteen sounded confident, almost amused, that Dyson had disappeared. I can’t stay here.
‘He can’t get far. You, Kurt, take three men and cover the other side of where he disappeared. Fanie, take another three and stay this side. The rest of you, follow me. Don’t veer off. The last thing we need is an injured policeman. Shoot to kill but make damned sure it’s the kaffir.’
‘Sir? What if . . .’
Dyson didn’t wait to hear any more. They were going to advance in formation in his direction. The dogs would let them know where he was. A tree was no good. He had to get away. He turned and took a tentative step. He was still night blind. Another step. Another. The rain was coming down with increasing intensity. He took another step and there was nothing there. Dyson dropped like a stone.
It wasn’t a long fall but it winded him slightly. Sand under him. He must be in a dry river bed. Lightning showed he was. No time for caution. Dyson sprinted for the other side and scrambled up it. Thunder. Or were they shooting? I’ll never get away. Dear God, help me. Behind him were bobbing lights. Torches. Don’t look at the lights.
Running blind, Dyson headed away from the prison, instinctively trying to veer west where he knew he might find sanctuary in the peaks and valleys of the misty hills of Mpendle. Then he heard the whistle. They were releasing the dogs. And Dyson knew, with agonised certainty, that he would never get away.
Still he ran, not so much blinded by the darkness any more but by the torrential rain as the storm spewed its overburdened clouds on to the land below, indifferent to the drama being played there. They’re gaining, they’re gaining. He was frantic with fear. More afraid of the dogs than a bullet.
A corner of his mind told him the dogs should have reached him by now.
Shots. A dog yelped and cried. Behind me. They’re well behind me. Dyson ran and ran. Adrenalin pumped through him. He did not feel the straining of his leg muscles, nor the whistling of his breath as he fought for air. He dare not risk a glance behind to see if the torches were there. Shouts. Way back. Distant and muffled by the pouring rain. But he heard their anger. The rain had washed away his scent.
And Dyson dared to hope.
He ran until he was completely blown, until his flight for safety was nothing more than the staggering shuffle of a man well past his endurance level. Tortured lungs screaming for air. Legs trembling with exertion. Heart threatening to burst. Head pounding as blood thumped through. Brain registering nothing. Until he could not take another step and he fell, face down, sobbing with exhaustion as the pounding rain which had saved him poured from the sky and pummelled the man on the ground until he resembled nothing more than the muddy earth on which he lay.
Reason returned slowly. The dogs had lost his scent but, if the rain stopped, they could easily pick it up again. It took all his willpower and every last ounce of strength to rise. He stood, swaying, and looked back towards the prison. He could see the glow of the perimeter security lights. Is that a torch? If it was it was several hundred metres away and heading south. Turning away, Dyson moved slowly westward. If they came for him now he had no more reserves. One foot after the other, each step taking him away from his pursuers. It was all he had left and it would have to be good enough. And the rain cascaded down.
He was still not safe but the odds were stacked more in his favour than they had been. Why didn’t they shoot while I was in the light? There had been excitement in the voices he’d heard. Anticipation. How many had they hunted down in the past? They had wanted him to make it hard. It was a challenge. Man. The last frontier for a hunter. Only they’d lost him, panicked and set the dogs loose. Dyson kept walking. With luck, it would rain all night. With luck, when the rain stopped, he could have further hidden his scent in a stream or, better still, a river. With exceptionally good luck!
As he walked, his mind was working overtime. He could not return to UBejane, that’d be the first place the police would look. In fact, he’d do well to get out of South Africa. ‘Worry about that later,’ he thought feverishly. ‘First get the hell away from here.’
Four hours later, as Tessa King awoke from her last sleep in the convent, Dyson Mpande was on a little used back road heading towards the towering Drakensberg Mountains and the tiny British protectorate of Basutoland. Along the way he had stolen some clothes that had been left draped over a bush to dry, abandoning his prison garb to the swirling waters of a swollen Umkomaas River. With luck, they would end up in the Indian Ocean. He was calling on a lot of luck, he realised that.
The further from the prison he went, the more relaxed he felt. Although still in South Africa, in the English-dominated province of Natal, the hill country was Zulu where he could be certain of unquestioned hospitality.
Among the news of the outside world that had reached him in prison, Dyson knew that the Union of South Africa had become a Republic and that the ANC was now directed by Oliver Tambo from his exiled base in London. The name Mangosuthu Gatsha Buthelezi, Chief of the aristocratic Buthelezi clan, well educated, well connected and related to two previous Zulu kings, was being whispered as the man who could lead the way out of the apartheid era. His following had grown rapidly, especially after a cameo appearance in the film Zulu where he played the part of his own great-grandfather, Cetshwayo.
Dyson knew he was out of touch. ‘One thing at a time,’ he told himself, watching a new day lighten the peaks of Mpendle. He did not know this country. The terrain was very different from that north of the Tugela River. Gorges, ravines, wild rivers and towering rocky peaks. He’d learned of this place at school and could see why it had been named Mpendle, the exposed place.
‘First, get to Basutoland. Then worry about where the fight for freedom is heading.’
He was cold. Mist shrouded the valleys. The majestic beauty of the mountains reaching no further than his eyes. Would he be welcome in Basutoland? The Sotho were traditional enemies of the Zulu. Should he try to make it further north to Bechuanaland? At least there he’d have access to other countries. Basutoland was surrounded on all sides by South Africa.
‘One thing at a time,’ he repeated to himself. ‘At least you’re still alive.’
Tessa could barely contain her excitement. She was home. Jackson was here. She would sneak out tonight and meet him. God how she longed for him. She had fantasised to such an extent that all reason had flown. He was taller, more handsome than any man had any right to be. He burned for her and loved her as much as she did him. They would go to England or somewhere far from South Africa and live happily ever after.
Dinner was agonisingly slow. Afterwards Sally, who had also done well in her final exams, wanted to chat. Gregor, now twelve years old, insisted that the entire family listen to and help him rehearse his role as Puck in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which was to be staged at his school in Empangeni.
Tessa wondered if the family would ever go to bed. At ten she yawned and stretched. ‘I’m tired. It’s been a long day. See you in the morning. Good night all.’
Through the closed door of her room she listened until all sound in the house had ceased. She waited for nearly another hour in the total darkness to be sure that everybody was asleep and to give the dogs a chance to settle down in their baskets on the other side of the house. With a wildly beating heart and carrying her shoes, she carefully opened the French doors and stepped on to the verandah.
‘Going somewhere?’
Her brother’s voice startled her so badly she fumbled and dropped the shoes. ‘None of your business.’
She heard his chair scrape as he stood up. ‘Oh yes it is.’ She could make out his silhouette as he moved towards her. ‘Inside, missy.’
Tessa stood her ground. ‘I’
m eighteen. I can do what I like.’
‘Fine.’ He kept coming. ‘I’ll call the police.’
There was something in his voice that told her he meant it. Still, she pushed. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Try me.’
Tessa nearly howled with frustration. Michael followed her and snapped the padlock shut.
Tessa made a rush towards the inside door but Michael was too quick. Stepping into the passage beyond, he pulled it shut and she heard the lock turn. ‘You’ve brought this on yourself, Tessa,’ he called. ‘You can’t be trusted. You may be eighteen but you will not break the law and run the risk of total disgrace while you’re living under this roof. Good night.’
‘Wait,’ she called in panic, ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’
‘There’s a pot under your bed. Use it.’
His footsteps faded away. She turned to the window and tried to open it. It was still wedged so that it opened only a crack. The other window was the same.
In the morning she was swollen-eyed from crying tears of rage. Claire unlocked the bedroom door. ‘I’m sorry, Tessa. I had hoped this would no longer be necessary.’
Tessa made no comment.
Her mother stepped into the room. ‘It’s for your own good, darling. Men boast about certain things and people talk. If the police ever found out . . . We’re only trying to protect you.’
Tessa turned sullen eyes on her mother. ‘You have no idea,’ she said softly. ‘You just have no idea what you are doing to me. I love Jackson.’
‘No,’ Claire said sadly. ‘You may think you do but it’s not love.’
‘How would you know?’ Tessa challenged.
Claire flushed at her daughter’s implication. The scorn in Tessa’s eyes left her in no doubt that Tessa had been referring to her mother’s somewhat celibate existence. ‘What are we to do with her?’ she thought in despair.
‘Do you intend to keep me locked up all day and all night?’ Tessa asked coldly.
‘No. You are free to do as you please. But I beg you, darling, don’t go looking for Jackson. We don’t want any more unpleasantness. Jackson is leaving UBejane tomorrow.’
People of Heaven Page 25
