by Malla Nunn
Two Union Jack flags flew from a makeshift line strung across the front garden of a brick house. Across the road, a white banner with the word ‘Republic’ fluttered from the front fence of an equally small dwelling.
‘English versus Afrikaner,’ Exodus said. ‘One side is for the Queen and her country and the other side is for Prime Minister Malan and a republic.’
‘Are you taking bets on the winner?’ Emmanuel asked.
The odds had swung behind Malan, the ex-Dutch reformed church minister with pants hitched high over his prosperous gut. He was in London for the coronation but was talking up plans for an independent South Africa while the bones of British soldiers interred in the fields of Zululand and the Transvaal turned in their graves.
‘I must give more money now that Malan and his people are the chiefs. Many laws to break means many bribes to pay the police. But to say the truth … both the Dutch and the British, they can go and dance off a cliff. No hard feelings, baas.’
Emmanuel shrugged to indicate that no offence was taken. Reclassification from white to mixed race had forced him outside the confines of the white world. From the perimeter he had experienced the singular truth that governed the lives of a majority of non-white South Africans: the weight of the boot on your back, Boer or British, was equally heavy.
‘Look at this clown.’ Exodus drew focus away from his bold remark and indicated a fair-haired youth who tore circles into a field of dirt with a motorbike. Smoke and dust blew from the tyres. Two girls looked on from the edge of the field, vaguely impressed by the roar of the engine and the smell of burnt fuel.
‘Rough and tough from the Bluff. That’s what we say in town. Have you been out to this place before?’
‘First time,’ Emmanuel said. Almost six months in Durban with nothing to show but rough hands and corded muscle. The loop between the Dover flats and the Victory Shipyard was almost the entire orbit of his universe.
The DeSoto climbed steadily upwards then swung left onto a road that followed the spine of the headland. A thick blanket of vegetation covered the slopes and spread down to the edge of the bright ocean water. A breeze blew in a stench of soured pork and fish.
‘That is the whaling station,’ Exodus said. ‘They are cutting and boiling the fat in big vats. Will you still be able to enjoy your visit?’
‘I’ll give it my best shot. And my name is Emmanuel.’
This afternoon would be special if it led to one of the last people to see Jolly Marks alive. Possibly. Maybe. Hopefully. Words for a prayer, not a police investigation. Facts, hard evidence, witnesses. That’s what he needed to stay out of jail.
They peeled off the main road onto a dirt track that cut into a mass of thornbush and creeping triffid weed. A white mailbox marked the presence of a dwelling somewhere in the thicket. Red dirt, blue sky and fifteen different shades of green surrounded the car. The sound of an automobile driving on the main road receded into the quiet.
The DeSoto bumped downwards and the silver teeth of the front grille levelled the underbrush to lawn. The chrome hood ornament, a bust of Spanish explorer Hernando de Soto, cast a steely gaze into the bush.
‘We are here.’ Exodus pulled into an untidy lot overshadowed by ancient Natal mahogany trees. A tumbledown house occupied a square of land that had been cleared of all vegetation. A flock of glossy starlings perched along the broken fence line, their feathers iridescent in the sunlight.
‘You sure this is it?’ Emmanuel said.
A deserted dwelling off the main road and far from prying eyes was the perfect setting for a shakedown. Men who used Exodus’s services were easy targets. Rob them and they rarely reported the theft to police. Rough them up and they sometimes hit back but mostly they crawled into a corner and licked their wounds, their shameful secret safe.
‘This is the place,’ Exodus said. ‘I left them here. It was pitch black but we found the mailbox and then the house.’
Them. More than one person had been dropped off in the dead of night. He opened the car door and the caustic stench of the whaling factory brought the smell of death. It was too late to back out now. If he mentioned the word ‘police’ Exodus would drive away without a goodbye. The two pounds were already in his pocket.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The front yard of the dilapidated house was a solid block of cement over which a collection of plaster-cast animals stalked. Three snarling wolves encircled a spotted deer with huge brown eyes, and a knee-high brown bear grappled with an elk; northern-hemisphere animals of prey arranged on a barren slab that resembled the unforgiving snowfields of winter. The owner of the house was a European, Emmanuel figured. A man with fond memories of the hunt and kill.
The house’s windows were shut but a faint glow was discernible from under the curtain’s edge - maybe a lantern low on oil. The absence of power lines confirmed the lack of electricity. If things went wrong there’d be nowhere to make an emergency phone call and nowhere to hide except the green expanse encircling the house. The parked DeSoto, with Exodus still at the wheel, was the only point of escape.
Emmanuel knocked on the front door and it swung inwards. A sharp metallic sound broke the silence, then stopped. Someone or something was moving around inside.
‘Police,’ he said. ‘I’m coming in.’
An open window at the back of the room let in enough daylight to illuminate rows of shelves buckling under the weight of rusting harpoons, fishing hooks and spools of anchor chain. A yellowing shark foetus floated in a specimen jar and next to it, a pyramid of bleached bones. The hollow eye sockets of a human skull stared out from the graveyard pile. A prickle of warning raised the hairs on the back of Emmanuel’s neck.
‘Police,’ he said a little louder.
No answer.
A polished leather suitcase leaned against a wall and the flame of the oil lamp suspended from the ceiling beam flickered weakly. A bowl of pickled eggs and brown onions was set up on a small table with a fork still stuck into the food. A crate of empty vodka bottles was jammed against the back door. Emmanuel crouched down to examine the unfinished meal. The onion on the end of the fork was bitten in half. Someone had left the house in a hurry or had retreated to another room.
The flame of the oil lamp flared bright and then expired on a curl of grey smoke. Suddenly a length of silver chain swung across Emmanuel’s view and tightened against his throat. He leaned back and jammed his right hand between the hard line of the choke chain and his neck, which still bore the boot marks left by yesterday’s encounter with the police. The world seemed intent on cutting off his air supply.
A quick jerk on the silver chain and it loosened. The person on the other end gasped for breath, their strength already depleted. Emmanuel exerted a steady pull on the chain, certain now of his superior strength. Work at the Victory had not been a waste. A hand appeared on the edge of his peripheral vision and then a rounded stomach bumped against his shoulderblades. Fat and weak. Not the ideal build for a strangler. The chain gave way altogether and fell to the floor. A dog began to bark in the backyard.
Emmanuel swivelled a half circle, caught a skinny arm in his grasp and twisted hard. His assailant lost balance and tipped backwards. The body slammed into Emmanuel’s chest and momentum swung against him. He crashed onto the wooden floor and the weight of his attacker’s body pinned him down forcing the air from his lungs.
A fine curtain of hair covered his face and blocked out the room. He twisted to the left so the body was in front of him, held close in a parody of a satisfied lovers’ pose. His hands touched rounded hips and the swell of a stomach, taut and curved as a globe. A tremor of movement and the distinct kick of life pulsed under his palm. Emmanuel sat up, stunned.
His attacker was heavily pregnant, with white-blonde hair and curiously sloping eyes of Prussian blue. From her position on the floor, she swung a fist but Emmanuel caught her wrist and pinned it against her side.
She struggled against his hold and spat out words in Russian.
Emmanuel didn’t need a translator to understand: if curses worked he’d be blind and infertile by nightfall. He let the woman expend her energy till she was exhausted and gasping for breath.
‘Stop,’ he said quietly. ‘Stop.’
‘Da.’
Emmanuel stood and pulled the woman off the floor. She pressed a hand to the small of her back and straightened up. Her black shirt tightened against her full breasts and stretched across the swell of her pregnant belly.
The girl tugged at his sleeve and pointed to a darkened side room. Emmanuel shook his head. There was no chance he would walk into an unlit space with the person who’d just tried to strangle him.
‘English?’ he said. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘Nyet.’ She jabbed a finger into his chest and demanded, ‘American? American?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘South African.’
‘American? Da?’
‘No. Nyet. Not American.’
His answer didn’t satisfy her and she cursed him to his face. Clearly his nationality was a bitter disappointment. It wasn’t the first time. The women of France and Germany had known from experience that American servicemen’s ration packs were fatter than those of their English or Canadian counterparts.
The dog continued to bark outside. Emmanuel went to the window. A slope-backed German Shepherd ran the length of a low fence line that separated the patchy yard from the lush row of monkey apple trees and flowering creepers. He checked the perimeter and the feeling of being watched returned. The dog’s restless patrol continued.
He couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary and turned back to the woman, who had finally fallen silent. She pointed to the side room.
‘You first,’ Emmanuel said and wrapped the silver chain around his hand. Risk nothing, gain nothing. He fell into step behind the woman. The dog barked and snarled again.
The room was narrow and built along a bank of windows that faced the backyard. Heavy curtains kept out daylight. The pregnant woman stood in the middle of the floor.
Emmanuel tugged a curtain open and sunlight poured in, bright white after the darkness. He blinked hard and turned around. A great ox of a man with a bristly beard and watery green eyes sat in a deckchair. The tropical light glinted off the silver barrel of an automatic pistol in his hand. A Walther PPK.
‘Fuck,’ Emmanuel said. He raised both hands in surrender. Europe was filled with the graves of soldiers who’d tried to outrun the firepower of this particular German-manufactured sidearm.
The woman squatted next to the deckchair and whispered harshly into the man’s ear. The word ‘American’ was repeated again and again amid the torrent of Russian, a little sharper with each use. The hand holding the pistol was white-knuckled and shaking.
Emmanuel kept still and observed. The bearded man was wide-shouldered and wide-necked, the deckchair barely able to hold his girth. Standing with the Walther in his hand he would be in complete control of the situation. So why was he still sitting?
The woman continued whispering and the man drew in a sudden, sharp breath. His jaw clenched and his fingers twitched around the metal grip of the Walther before it clattered to the floor.
Emmanuel and the woman lunged for the gun simultaneously. He blocked her advance with a shoulder and sent her flying back. There’d be time later to feel guilty about tackling a pregnant woman, but for now the Walther was his and that felt good. Emmanuel approached the man, who had hauled his bulk from the deckchair. Two attempts to put him out of action, both failed. The Russian couple weren’t professionals.
‘Sit,’ he said. ‘Now.’
The man collapsed into the canvas and drew a ragged breath. The pain seemed to have passed and colour had returned to his face. He glared at his own hands, disgusted by their inability to hang onto the gun.
‘English?’ Emmanuel said.
‘A little.’
‘Good. What’s your name?’
‘Nicolai Petrov.’
‘Who is she?’ Emmanuel pointed to the woman, who was sulking in the wake of her failure to secure the gun.
‘Natalya Petrova.’ The man breathed out the name then said with a hint of pride, ‘Wife.’
‘She’s your wife?’ There would have been a thirty-year age gap between Nicolai Petrov and the petulant blonde.
‘Yes. Mine.’
Natalya chewed her fingernails, bored by the two older men talking in a language she didn’t understand. Emmanuel suspected that unless the conversation, in any language, was about Natalya, she wasn’t listening.
‘This is your house?’ he asked.
‘It belongs to my cousin, Kolya.’ Nicolai made the name sound like a disease. ‘He has gone to work at the whaling station. We are visiting here from Russia.’
So, a married couple on a family visit. The attempted strangling and the ambush with the Walther still had to be explained, however.
‘Why are you trying to kill me?’ Emmanuel said. ‘First with the chain and then with this gun.’
Nicolai shrugged. ‘Kill or be killed.’
‘I didn’t come to harm you.’ Emmanuel crouched by the burly man’s chair but kept the sidearm close to the ground. ‘I came here to find out about the boy who gave you the mermaid drawing. It was three nights ago. Do you remember him?’
Nicolai frowned and then shook his head after failing to translate the question from English to Russian.
‘How long have you been in Durban?’ Emmanuel went back to basics. One question and then one answer at a time, until the link with Jolly Marks was made.
‘Here?’ The Russian indicated the sunroom.
‘Yes. How long?’
‘Three days.’
That put the couple in Durban at the time of Jolly’s murder. Emmanuel tucked the Walther into the waistband of his trousers and pulled Jolly’s notebook free. The steel handcuffs in his jacket pocket rattled and Nicolai sat forwards. The Russian recognised the sound the way an orchestra conductor might recognise a note from a favourite instrument.
‘Please.’ Nicolai fumbled with the buttons of his heavy wool coat and pulled a diamond and ruby ring from the lining. He held it out in the palm of his hand. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Take and go away.’
Emmanuel ignored the bribe and removed the documents that stuck out from the breast pocket of the Russian man’s winter garment. Two American passports in the names of Nicholas and Natalie Wren were unmarked by immigration stamps for South Africa or any other country. A healthy Nicolai, sturdy and handsome, smiled from the black and white photo glued to the identification page. Natalya had managed a pout.
‘Real diamonds and real rubies,’ the Russian said. ‘I give you for the passports.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Emmanuel replaced the documents. ‘I’m not going to take them or the jewellery.’
Natalya hovered next to the deckchair, her focus on the ruby and diamond-studded ring. She held her hands out for the jewellery the way a spoilt child might demand sweets.
‘Not a chance,’ Emmanuel said, pushing the goods back into Nicolai’s coat. He flipped Jolly’s notebook to the mermaid illustration and held it up for Nicolai to examine. Natalya poked him on the shoulder and Emmanuel shrugged her off.
‘I’m not giving you the ring,’ he said.
She poked him again, harder.
He turned and faced her so she got the full visual effect of his annoyed expression. ‘Nyet. Don’t ask me again.’
Natalya clutched his hand and dragged him over to the window, where she drummed her knuckles against the glass. She stopped and there was silence. Emmanuel pulled her away from the window. The quiet stretched out.
‘Shh…’ He motioned for her to keep still and checked the backyard through a crack in the heavy curtains. The German Shepherd’s body lay slack against the wire fence. Its pink tongue dangled from its mouth. Yellow leaves blew across the empty yard and lifted into the air.
Emmanuel shoved the notebook into a jacket pocket and backed up two steps. Whoever h
ad killed the dog was still out there somewhere. Exodus and the car were at the front. He moved to the deckchair and leaned in close to Nicolai.
‘Can you move?’ he said.
‘No. I not leave here. They kill me.’
‘Someone’s already killed the dog,’ Emmanuel said. ‘We have to leave this place. Now.’
The emotion in Nicolai’s pale green eyes was pure and animal. Emmanuel had seen it in the faces of soldiers in battle and knew that others had seen it in him, too. It was the fear of death.
‘Go, Natalya.’ The Russian man pushed himself out of the deckchair. ‘I will follow.’
The sound of kicking at the back entrance echoed through the house. Natalya opened the front door and ran with lumbering grace between the ridiculous ceramic statues. Nicolai followed with a limping stride that rocked his wide shoulders from side to side.
‘Movet’ Emmanuel urged them on from the rear. They passed a statue of a yellow-eyed wolf cub by the gate. A few feet more and they made it to the parked DeSoto. Exodus spun around at the sound of the passenger door opening and watched the burly man dripping with sweat slide across the leather.
‘Start the car,’ Emmanuel said. ‘Now.’
The engine turned over. Natalya was no longer at the passenger door. She was running back towards the house, blonde hair flying in the breeze. Emmanuel went after her.
‘What is going on?’ Exodus called out from the car window.
‘Keep the motor running!’ Emmanuel shouted and sprinted towards the shabby building. Natalya was inside, dragging the polished leather suitcase across the floor. The wood panels of the back door splintered against the crate of empty bottles pushed against it.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Emmanuel snatched the suitcase. He wasn’t going to die for a handful of old photographs and Grandma’s brooch. Inevitably people ran into danger for their memories.
‘Run, Natalya.’
She took off and Emmanuel followed. The case was heavy and halved his speed. The back door gave way and the crate of empty vodka bottles toppled over with a smash. Boots crunched the shards of broken glass littering the kitchen floor. There was a heavy thud, the impact of flesh meeting a hard surface, and then a groan.
