THE TRAIN made good time across the plain between Three Sisters and Beaufort West. The sun had not yet risen, leaving the ankle-deep Karoo scrub in darkness. Intermittent gusts of wind spent themselves against the steel sides of the train.
Elia Dlomo saw none of it. All he could see was a stretcher being carried from the door of Jenny’s cottage and the covered figure on it. He felt nothing that could be described as anger, only a coldness that permeated every part of his being. He was unaware of how deeply he was breathing or how tightly his fists were clenched.
Although he had only seen the body from a distance and it had been covered, Dlomo had no doubt whose it was. He knew now that Hall must have passed that way and the body on the stretcher must have been his work. He was not a believer in coincidences, and a dead body being carried from Jenny’s place on this day was too great a coincidence. He also knew that, even without the evidence of body and ambulance, he would never see the boy alive again. No one would. Hall would not have killed the mother and left the child, not his child.
For a while after the train had passed the township and he had seen this one sight that he would never be able to forget, Dlomo had been unable to think or even move. The conductor had passed through the coach to clip tickets. He had managed to take his from a pocket and hold it out. That had been his only movement while the next two hundred kilometres of track passed beneath the train. Slowly the numbness had passed, but the cold remained. And now the ability to think returned.
He knew now that his enemy was somewhere ahead of him. Sometime yesterday Hall had stopped in Warrenton. He knew how badly Hall wanted this woman in Cape Town and what he would do to her when he found her, and yet he had stopped in Warrenton to kill Jenny.
He too wanted this Beloved woman. He believed that he wanted her as much as Hall did, but for a reason that was not the same as Hall’s. Dlomo hated what he intended to do. But thinking about it was out of the question. Only action was possible now, the ultimate step had been taken and the course of action decided.
He was thinking clearly now, but the inner coldness was still with him. He knew that the way he was feeling would allow him to do what had to be done. No, not allow it, it would compel him to do it.
Beaufort West railway yard – 460 kilometres from the Freedom Foundation
The high-voltage electrical transformers were bolted to the bed of the truck and anchored by heavy chains at the corners. To shield them against sun, wind and rain heavy tarpaulins were fastened over each transformer separately. The angle at which the tarpaulins were secured left a sheltered, tent-like space around each one, large enough for a man to crawl into.
Oliver Hall sat with his back resting against one of the transformers on the downwind side. No one inspecting the freight would be able to see him unless the searcher got down on his hands and knees to look under the tarpaulin and that was not likely.
The night had been very cold. Dawn was still an hour away. When he jumped the train in Warrenton it had been early afternoon and pleasantly warm, but during the night the temperature had fallen and was still only a few degrees above freezing. Not that this was important. Discomfort was of little consequence to Hall.
He had arrived at Jenny Pregnalato’s home with clothing that smelled of the diesel fuel he had used to set David September’s rig alight. Before he left her house, he had found a clean pair of men’s jeans that fitted him and a shirt that was probably hers, but would not look out of place on him. The truck’s tarpaulins had been used many times before and were covered by a rust-coloured layer of dust. While slipping into his shelter, Hall had not been able to avoid touching the tarpaulin altogether. A smear of dust had been left across his left shoulder. He knew he needed a change of clothing if he was to create an impression of respectability.
The train had been moving at what seemed like a good speed. He reckoned that, so long as it kept moving, he would be in Cape Town sometime in the afternoon. The only problem with freight trains was that they could be shunted onto side lines to let passenger trains through. You could lose time that way, perhaps too much time. But for now, the train was going well and he should be there before dark.
Hall’s thoughts were interrupted by the train jerking once, then starting to slow. Probably a small thing, he thought. But it continued to lose speed. Perhaps this was not a small thing. The tattoo of the wheels on the joints in the rails beat more slowly now, and slower every second.
To show himself in any way was to risk discovery, but if the train was going to be searched then it was time to get off. Sooner or later, and maybe it was sooner, they were going to find what he had left behind in Warrenton. He had boarded the train in full view of the township. He had seen no one watching, but that was no guarantee of anything. Township people did not report everything to the police, but what had happened to Jenny Pregnalato was no small thing.
The train was still slowing. At this rate it would soon come to a stop. Maybe it was just one of the things the railway does.
He crept out from under the tarpaulin, trying to avoid rubbing against it a second time. It was still almost completely dark. Also, the steel plating at the coach front would give him some protection. He would have to show his head or part of it, but in the darkness they could see nothing.
Hall made his way to the front. The slowing was gradual, and he heard no sound of braking. This was a planned stop. It was probably nothing to worry about.
The train was negotiating a long curve to the left. He positioned himself on that side at the front of the truck. Looking down the inside of the curve he could see further than he would on the other side.
Below him, down a slope to the left, he saw a substantial country town, the street lights burning. Up ahead a signal point was shining bright green against the shadow of what looked like a warehouse. He could not yet see the station. If a trap was being set there, it would be further on. They did not know if he was carrying a firearm and would be careful.
Then he could see the station, the broad platform and the buildings set back from the rails. The train moved steadily towards it. Being a freight train, if it had to stop, they would do it beyond the station, in the goods yard. But maybe it was a scheduled stop. Maybe there was nothing more to it.
He sank down to his haunches as the train drew up to the platform. Even if they were not looking for him here, non-paying passengers were not allowed on freight trains. It would not help to be arrested for something this petty.
As the front of the train neared the platform, the railway yard came into view, side lines spreading away from the main track. A few lights were burning. The yard looked empty. While he watched, a uniformed policeman, a single brown boer, in the light of a security lamp appeared from behind a shed at the far end of the yard. He was exposed for only a moment, before stepping back into the cover the shed offered.
They were here. Now he knew it without any doubt. He had seen the one fool who, wanting to get a clear view, had broken cover.
The train was now travelling slowly enough for a fast runner to be able to keep up with it. To be on the outside of the curve might mean that he would be shielded by the train itself for another few seconds, no more than that. And it was still dark enough to suit his purpose. He moved to the other side of the truck, stepping over securing chains and the corners of the tarpaulin covering one of the transformers. Without hesitating, he climbed the side gate, holding tightly onto it, until his feet found the topmost of three rungs mounted near the corner of the truck. Hall understood the chance he was taking. By now the officers in the yard may be able to see him, but staying on the train was a bigger risk. He hesitated on the bottom rung only long enough to time his jump.
The speed at which the train was travelling was too great for him to remain upright for more than two strides, but two long strides absorbed much of the shock. He went down hard on his hands, knees and right shoulder, rolling away from the train. A moment later he was lying in the dust, winded and bruised, watching the train sl
ide away in the pre-dawn night.
He was in a long ditch inside the fence that enclosed the tracks. He heard the train coming to a stop, but had to crawl up the slope to get a view of the station yard. Lying flat on his stomach and screened by a mixture of scrub and reeds, he could see the right and back of the train. The first sign of pursuit was a shouted command. He could not make out the words, but he recognised the way such commands were given. Almost immediately two policemen appeared on the side of the tracks nearest him. Both had their attention fixed on the train. A moment later he saw movement on the truck where he had been hiding. They were working their way down the train from the front, truck by truck.
Hall lay unmoving until he was sure the police search was over. He did not feel the rough stubble of the scrub on which he was lying. After the train had moved on and he was sure that they had satisfied themselves that the report they had received was wrong, he waited another ten minutes. Even then he first shifted his position to give himself a clear view of the station and the yard before rising to his feet and stepping across the tracks. Seconds later he was walking the narrow road bordering the tracks, his hands in his pockets, whistling softly to himself. They were fools. He had always known it. Now he was more certain than ever.
THIRTY-THREE
APART FROM the ghosts that troubled Yudel, night in C-Max was cold. He had slept on the Public Works-issue couch that stood against one wall of his office. It had not been a good night’s rest. He had been awake till almost two o’clock, until then patrolling the passages and blocks of the prison and ignoring the suggestions of the acting director that he should go home.
When he did lie down, the couch’s thin plastic foam mattress did little to insulate him from the wooden slats underneath. He had found a blanket in the staffroom and, with that and his jacket as his only covering, he had tried to settle down for the night. Sleep eventually came, but through it he could hear the intermittent sounds of warders moving in the passages and the occasional cough from one of the nearer cells. He felt all around him the breathing of three hundred imprisoned men. He knew that they seldom slept easily and none of them would tonight.
He had closed the door of the office to block out the light coming in from the passage. Now when he woke, the office was almost completely dark. For a moment he did not know where he was. He was certain only that something had driven away all sleep and drawn him into full consciousness. A sliver of light entered under the door. He stumbled uncertainly to his feet.
Where the hell am I? Yudel asked himself. He should have been at home with Rosa, but what was this darkness and what place was this? He took a step forward and brushed against his desk.
Yudel found the handle and threw open the door as a troop of four warders he had never seen before came past. They showed no interest in him, moving quickly down the passage in the direction of A-Section.
The young officer who had appointed himself acting director was close behind. ‘I wish you would go home, Mr Gordon. There’s no need to worry. I’ve got everything under control.’
‘I’ve never seen those men before,’ Yudel said.
‘I’ve brought in reserves. I thought bringing in reserves would be a good idea.’
‘I think so too.’
The acting director smiled. Yudel was not a security officer like himself, but he was a senior who now had an office just down the passage from the minister. It was all right if he approved of your actions. He may talk about it in the right circles. ‘I’ve got extra men in every section and I have an armed squad at the main entrance just in case they’re needed. You agree, Mr Gordon?’
‘Yes, of course.’ But Yudel had stopped listening to the ambitious young officer. He knew what had woken him and he knew what he had to do now. ‘You’re doing a damned good job, but now I need to speak to certain inmates. Can that be arranged?’
‘Of course. Definitely. I’ll handle it immediately.’ He had Yudel’s approval and he was going to get the best out of it.
The street outside the complex in which Nathi Lekota lived was quiet. No one seemed to be moving in the neighbourhood. Dawn was the vaguest pink tint above the eastern horizon. It was much too early to be calling on the residents. At least, that was the opinion of the security guard at the gate of the complex.
‘My friend,’ Abigail told him. ‘This is very urgent. I am Advocate Abigail Bukula and I am here to see Mr Lekota about an important legal matter.’
The guard was a young and simple man from a rural area where there were no advocates and women were not usually this forceful. He had been three months in the job after two years without employment. He wanted desperately to do the right thing, and Mr Lekota had told him he did not want to be woken. That seemed to be the right thing. On top of this, his knowledge of English was poor. The only part of what this woman was saying that he understood was that she wanted to come in to see Lekota. He tried explaining his problem to Abigail in his home language, which was Venda.
She sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand you.’
He tried Tswana. His Tswana was not good, but he could usually make himself understood.
‘I’m sorry, my friend.’ There was nothing friendly in her tone of voice. ‘I have to see Mr Lekota and I have to see him now.’
What kind of sister was this who could only speak English? ‘He say no,’ he told her.
‘And I say yes. Open the goddamn boom.’ Abigail was getting tired of this. Lekota had the knowledge she wanted and he was on the other side of the boom.
The guard was not clear about what she had said, but he guessed that she was swearing at him. What kind of women do you get in the city? he wondered. Didn’t their mothers teach them to be polite?
At that moment, an engine started inside the complex. After revving a few times, one of the residents, in a bright-red sedan, apparently intending to get an early start, approached from the other direction. The gate was only wide enough to take one car at a time.
The guard pointed at Abigail and waved for her to reverse. Like hell, my friend, she thought.
Inside the property, the tenant who wanted to go to work, stuck his head out of the window of his car, and said something to the guard. The guard answered and the other driver also waved to Abigail to reverse.
Sorry, boys, she thought, waving him back.
The other driver shook his head angrily and threw his car into reverse. Abigail smiled at the guard. He raised the boom, but as Abigail drove through, he shouted, ‘You come back.’
Like hell, buddy, she thought, accelerating briskly away. The guard would have instructions not to leave his post. By the lights at the gate she saw him standing in the middle of the drive, a man who had just failed in his task of keeping unwanted guests away from Mr Lekota.
There was no light in Nathi Lekota’s house and he took five minutes to answer Abigail’s knocking. Standing in the doorway of his house in pyjamas and dressing gown, Lekota blinked at her as if he was having difficulty focusing. He was carrying too much weight and Abigail knew that he would be on the far side of seventy by now.
Lekota was both a fulfilled and a resentful man. When the gold rush among activists for positions in business had started after the first democratic elections, he had tried to join in and find a well-paying position that included shareholding, but failed because he was neither a party member nor part of a syndicate of former activists or unionists. The corporations were only interested in groups that had influence in the right places. Apart from a few exceptions, individuals came nowhere in the race for sudden wealth. Instead of becoming a director of a mining company, he was the provincial head of a non-governmental body that trained farm labourers with the aim of turning them into farmers. Both his salary and his promised pension were ordinary. He lived alone and loved his work, but resented his comrades from the struggle who were now making the serious money. He was not pleased to see this woman, attractive though she was, whom he did not recognise. ‘What do you want?’
‘Unc
le Nathi, it’s Abigail.’
‘Abigail,’ he repeated. He was still not glad to see her, but she was the daughter of a comrade who had died in the struggle. ‘But Jesus, I told you I don’t know what happened to Michael Childe.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Why not?’ He turned and walked deeper into the house without looking back. ‘Do you know what time it is?’ Abigail did not know and was not interested. She stepped into the house, closed the door behind her and followed. By the time she reached the lounge, he was pouring himself a drink from a bottle of cheap whisky. ‘You want one?’
‘No, thanks.’
He grimaced at the taste of the whisky. ‘This stuff is all ancient history. Why don’t you leave it alone?’
‘I can’t.’ She sat down in an armchair, but he remained standing, leaning against a small bar in a corner of the room, looking studiedly bored.
‘You can’t? Your father was also obsessive. He also couldn’t leave things alone.’
‘This is not about being obsessive.’
‘What’s it then?’
‘It’s about protecting Michael Childe’s daughter.’
‘Come again.’ Despite his determination to look bored, Lekota had stepped away from the bar and was staring angrily at her. ‘What the fuck are you talking about, kid?’
Abigail bridled under what she saw as an insult. ‘Damn it, Nathi, I’m not your kid or anyone else’s. Did you know that Childe’s daughter’s in the country.’
‘Oh? She survived then?’
‘Yes and she’s been here for the last two weeks.’
In a moment the anger drained from Lekota, like a balloon being deflated. He sat down heavily opposite Abigail. ‘Does this have to do with Oliver Hall’s parole?’
‘Yes.’
‘Jesus Christ, how could they have been such fucking fools? He was where he belongs.’
‘He broke the conditions of his parole twenty-four hours after he was released.’
The Top Prisoner of C-Max Page 20
