by Malla Nunn
“Look in the sack.” Delia kept Julie pinned. “See for yourself, Detective Cooper.”
Shabalala picked up the hessian bag and pulled the ties loose to reveal the contents: four buns, a leather canteen, a mango and a collection of cotton scraps of the sort normally used to sew patchwork quilts.
“What are the rags for?” he asked. He remembered that his sister Olivia had kept rags to dress up her collection of “grass dolls”, long tufts of wild grass, which she’d plaited into cornrows before tying the ends with vines and bits of cloth.
“I have to bandage the sick girl’s leg.” Julie tugged the hem of her skirt over her knees and sat up. She looked Emmanuel over from head to toe with an interest that he found disconcertingly adult. “The cut on her leg has sand and blood in it.”
The specific nature of the answer caught Emmanuel off guard. Either Julie lived in a detailed fantasy world or the bizarre story had an element of truth.
“Who is this girl?”
“I don’t know her name but she’s from the Lion’s Kill farmhouse. The big man kept her locked in a little room but she got out. Must be that’s how she got hurt … by kicking in the window.”
“Lion’s Kill?” Delia’s grip tightened, which caused Julie to wince. “You know not to go near that property after what happened. You’ve read the warning signs.”
The nursing mother had mentioned the new fence and the signs put up by the white man across the river. Abraham, the mystery man found in the Brewers’ garden, had travelled to Johannesburg to check the legal boundaries of the adjoining farm.
“Where is the girl now?” Emmanuel focused on how he, Shabalala and Zweigman could do the most good. Rescuing an injured girl they could manage. Land disputes were outside their jurisdiction.
“She’s in the hills.” Julie lifted her chin in the direction of the three peaks. “I gave her bird eggs to eat but she’s got no water and her lips are cracked.”
“Sunstroke and dehydration.” Zweigman made a long-distance diagnosis. “A fatal combination if untreated.”
Delia’s fingers loosened and she leaned in close to Julie. “These men are police. You’d better be telling the truth or it’s the jail house for you, miss.”
Jason and his siblings squatted, barefoot and ragged, by their mother’s side. The younger ones observed Julie with pink, milk-washed eyes. A hundred times “sorry” wouldn’t fix things with the police. Their sister was in for it now.
“Cross my heart and hope to die …” Julie looked Emmanuel in the eye. “Boy-Boy and Precious from the reserve also saw her. She asked me to stay but I couldn’t. I told her that I’d come back later with more food. I said I’d try.”
“This is dangerous business, Cooper,” the Sergeant Major said. “Call the nearest police station. They’ll lead a rescue while you drive back to Johannesburg. Remember the mission objective. Get Cassie’s statement to the Dutch lawyer before Mason lights a fire under your arse.”
“I can’t just walk away.”
“You can and you will, soldier. Do the right thing by Aaron and by Davida. Keep a low profile and slink off down the road. I’ll not hold it against you.”
Emmanuel turned to Delia who knelt on the cracked paving stones with slumped shoulders. Evidence of her failures lay in every direction: dried corn, filthy children, natives milling unattended at the back of her house and a daughter who’d rather roam the bush than read a book or bake a cake.
“Call the local police,” he said. Hard times made for hard choices and he chose Aaron’s freedom and Davida’s safety above all else. “They’ll conduct a thorough search of the hills and the farmhouse on Lion’s Kill. We don’t have the resources for a proper rescue.”
“The police constable won’t come,” Delia said straight off. “He steers clear of Lion’s Kill. No charges have ever been laid against the owner, Leonard Hammond.”
“There’ve been complaints?”
“Dozens, but nothing’s ever come of them. People say it’s because a retired detective owns part of the farm and knows the higher ups in Pretoria.”
“Sergeant,” Shabalala spoke in a low voice. “If the little one knows the way we can reach the hills before dark. I will bring us back by the full moon.”
Emmanuel motioned the Zulu detective away from Delia and her family. Zweigman joined them to form a tight circle.
“Do we believe Julie’s story?” Emmanuel asked them.
“I think the child is telling the truth,” Shabalala said.
The doctor mulled over the complexities of the situation then said, “If the injured girl does not exist we will look foolish for having believed a lie. If she is real we will have saved a life and our conscience will be clean. If we drive away we will never know either way.”
“Aaron …” Emmanuel prompted. Shabalala had the most to lose from delaying the journey back to Jo’burg. He had till dawn to call Elliott King and suggest an early departure to Mozambique for all the residents of the Houghton house; a temporary solution to the threat posed by Mason.
“My son will not be released tonight even with the new statement.” The Zulu detective had calculated the hours and weighed the risks. “The lawyer can do nothing till the morning.”
Emmanuel picked up the hessian sack and gave it to Zweigman. “See what else we need.”
The doctor checked Julie’s cache and added blankets, more food, water and flashlights to the supply list. Jason and the younger children raided the house for the items after Delia gave a weary go ahead. She believed in luck and knew hers had run out. A sick girl rescued from imminent death could be the charm that opened the doors so good luck could walk in. Shabalala emptied the hessian sack and reloaded it with supplies for the journey. Zweigman packed extra disinfectant into his medical bag while Julie hunted the yard for stones to arm her slingshot. The five remaining children ran laps of the swimming pool and sent the resident frogs into frenzy.
“We are ready, Sergeant,” Zweigman said and joined Shabalala at the start of the path that ran down to the river. The sun showed more orange than yellow and the sky had turned a softer blue with tendrils of green at the horizon line. Twilight closed in fast.
“We’ll be back after dark. I can’t say when,” Emmanuel told Delia. “If you leave a light on and the curtains open in the kitchen we’ll find our way back faster.”
“Of course,” Delia said. “You keep an eye on my Julie, Detective Cooper, and stay away from the Lion’s Kill farmhouse.”
Emmanuel thought over that last piece of advice as he walked down the path. Jason Singleton had said his father died while on a hunting weekend at Lion’s Kill. Delia’s tension suggested there might be more to the accident than a misfired gun.
“N’kosi …” One of the elderly men who’d squatted under the tree for the better part of the afternoon approached Shabalala and spoke in a low, urgent voice. He gestured to the hills and then moved back to join the others in the shade. Julie ran ahead with a pocket full of stones and her slingshot in her right hand. Emmanuel drew level with the Zulu detective who balanced the weight of the hessian sack on a broad shoulder.
“Let me guess. The old man warned us against going …”
“Yebo, that is so,” Shabalala confirmed. “He said the men across the river like guns and they like beer. When they drink they load their guns and shoot them at whatever moves.”
“One warning from Delia and another warning from the old man,” the Sergeant Major said. “Could this bare-arsed rescue be anything but a bad fucking idea?” Emmanuel ignored the Scotsman. The journey would finish when the girl in the hills was safely back at Clearwater and not before. Zweigman and Shabalala felt the same.
They followed the course of the river upstream for roughly fifteen minutes before coming to a chest-high wire fence that blocked access to the bank.
“This way.” Julie took Emmanuel’s hand and tugged him in the right direction. “We have to go into the fields now. It’s more fun walking on the sand but we can
’t do that any more.”
They switched from following the riverbank to tracing the fence line for another quarter-hour. Up ahead, a collection of mud huts and cinderblock dwellings stood in a wide field. A dozen footpaths led from the huts to the river, access to which had been cut off by construction of the new fence. Emmanuel stopped. Julie kept hold of his hand.
“This is why Abraham Zolta went to check the boundary lines,” Emmanuel said. “The people living in the native reserve have to walk a mile in the direction of Clearwater to gain access to the river.”
“The new border gives the white man’s farm the river,” Shabalala said and stepped off the path so three women carrying empty buckets on their heads could pass. “In this dry season he is king.”
“Is the fence legal?” Zweigman asked with a raised brow.
“If the government approved the expansion under the Group Areas Act then yes, it’s legal. Our man in Baragwanath hospital went to Johannesburg to double-check the maps; a bold move for a black man living on an isolated reserve.”
Julie tugged Emmanuel’s hand and pointed to a board attached to the chain-link fence by a wire. A skull and cross bones was spray painted above a red-lettered warning: “Private property. Keep Out. Trespassers will be shot and fed to the lions.”
“It’s time to sit up and pay attention, soldier. You’re walking into a cluster-fuck. I can feel it.”
Emmanuel accepted that the mad Scotsman had a point. They were entering armed territory with one Webley six-shooter revolver, a child’s slingshot and a hessian sack filled with relief supplies. They had to get in and out fast.
26.
Sleep came in snatches but the pain lingered. The cut in her leg throbbed and burned. Alice wedged herself deeper into a rock crevice high off the ground. Clawing her way up to the narrow sanctuary had taken hours and turned her muscles to jelly. She peered into the blue and crimson sunset. Light reflected off the windows of the farmhouse where the big man lived. He and his visitors were home: eating, drinking, and enjoying their shelter from the heat and the sun. It wasn’t fair but when had her life been fair? The red sky faded to the colour of ashes and night dropped like a curtain overhead. So many stars … She rested her forehead against the rock and closed her eyes, determined to sleep and dream.
The crunch of footsteps and the timbre of male voices came from the thorn trees. Alice held her breath, made herself small. A wild animal grunted in the darkness but she paid it no mind. The most dangerous predators were the men and they were moving closer: their torch beams shining across the ground.
“This is the place,” a man’s voice said. “I see her prints.”
Alice cupped her mouth and muffled a scream. The big man had brought in a tracker to hunt her down and drag her back to the cell. That’s who must have been in the car that sped through the dirt road this afternoon.
“Where has she gone?” another strange voice asked.
“Not far. She’s hurt and dragging her leg across the dirt.”
Twin light beams converged on the place where she’d rested against the rock. Broken eggshells littered the ground. The shafts of light tilted suddenly upward and caught Alice in their glare. She cried out and scrambled to her feet. Her legs gave way and she fell from the crevice like a fledgling out of a nest. Wind ruffled the hem of her dress as she dropped through the air and she tensed, waiting for impact. Strong arms caught her mid-fall and laid her gently to the ground.
“See?” a girl’s voice said. “I told you she was here. Look, there’s the cut on her leg.”
“Julie?” The name came thick and slurred from Alice’s mouth. “You came back.”
“Ja. I brought men with me. Police.”
Alice dug her elbows into the dirt and wriggled backwards. She’d encountered the police before: most of them unsympathetic or looking for a sexual favour. Rescuing prostitutes was not their highest priority. An olive-skinned man with messy white hair and gold-rimmed glasses leaned into the spotlight. This one, she sensed instantly, was kind.
“I’m Dr Zweigman,” the man said in a foreign accent. “Drink first and then I will look at your leg.”
She gulped water from a canteen held to her mouth by a tall black man wearing a suit. Broad-shouldered and with arms strong enough to catch her body in mid-air, he’d be more than a match for the monster who’d snatched her from the alley. The thought of the big man beaten and cowed by a black man made her smile. Water gurgled from her mouth and spilled to the ground.
“That is enough for now, Shabalala,” the foreign one called Zweigman said. “Sergeant Cooper, please cut a piece of fruit with no skin for the patient while I attend to the wound.”
“Not choking …” Alice grabbed a muscular forearm and held tight. “Laughing …”
The black man, Shabalala said, “This water is for you alone. There will be more soon. I promise.”
She believed him. The white doctor and the well-dressed detective were unlike the men she knew back in Johannesburg. They were gentle. If she’d been naked, Alice believed that they would have treated her with the same degree of care.
“Light please, Detective Constable,” Zweigman said.
Shabalala placed the canteen down and picked up a silver flashlight. He aimed the beam at her legs, which were scratched and filthy. Strange that she cared what a native thought of her physical condition, but she did. A darkened shape crouched at her feet and peeled a mango with a penknife. Zweigman had called that one Sergeant Cooper. Julie stood by the Sergeant’s side with her hip pressed to his shoulder. He took her weight, neither encouraging nor disapproving of the intimate contact. Cooper’s relaxed posture made her think he was used to female company.
Cooper got to his feet and moved to her side. Julie followed with a torch and the Detective Sergeant and the girl squatted opposite Shabalala. Alice squinted into the confusing darkness and made out a clean-shaven jaw and a bruised cheek.
“What’s your name?” the Sergeant asked.
“Alice.”
“Open wide, Alice,” he said and slid a piece of mango into her mouth. It tasted delicious, like her grandmother’s farm. “Another one?”
“Please.” The juice stung her lips but the pleasure of eating the fruit outweighed the pain. Cooper leaned in with the second piece held between thumb and forefinger. Built leaner than the black detective, he moved with a confidence that Alice associated with men who took their looks for granted. Dark hair, light coloured eyes, a face composed of clean cut lines … he’d never paid for it in his life. The Sergeant wasn’t precious about his appearance though; the bruised face and the raw knuckles made him appear strong. He was the kind of man you could depend on when there was trouble.
“More light please, Sergeant,” the doctor said. Cooper exchanged the mango for Julie’s torch and angled the beam onto the cut in her leg. The doctor’s gentle fingers probed the wound. Alice thought of home and tried to find some comfort there. She’d mend and grow strong. It would take a while to scrape up the courage to return to the alley. She’d have to work the streets in the meantime, making less money as a result. Memories of the three men and the red-haired girl would fade and she’d be left to take care of herself again.
“Almost finished.” The doctor picked out dirt and glass with a pair of tweezers. “I cannot stitch the cut until it is absolutely clean and I cannot be sure of that till there is proper light to see by. A bandage will suffice for now.”
Disinfectant stung the wound but it was a good pain, a healing pain. Alice pushed herself into a sitting position and watched the doctor apply the bandage. Physicians who took on prostitutes as clients rarely had such steady hands.
“More water for the young lady,” Zweigman said to the black detective who uncapped the canteen and handed it to her. She drank deep, enjoying the sensation of wetness in her mouth.
“When last did you eat?” the doctor asked.
“I got fed twice.” Alice tried to unpick dates and times and failed. “I don’t r
emember which days.”
“Have the rest of the fruit but try to go slowly. Your body needs time to get used to having food in the stomach,” Zweigman said. “Please rinse the young lady’s hands, Shabalala.”
The black policeman motioned for her hands, which she held out to her side. He poured water into her cupped palms and waited till she’d scrubbed away the dirt before repeating the action. Julie handed over the mango while Cooper peered across the crop of thorn trees to a pinprick of light shining in the window of the big man’s house.
“Is that’s where you were?” he asked after the mango flesh had disappeared.
“Ja. In a little cell with a cot and a bucket.” Alice chewed at the pip like a starving dog. “We came from Jo’burg but I don’t know where I am now.”
“You’re in northern Transvaal, off the main road to Rust de Winter,” Cooper said. “Did you miss the road signs?”
“They put a hood over my head,” Alice said. “I couldn’t see anything … not till we got to the farmhouse.”
“How many are there?”
“Two: the big man and his little friend. Other men came to visit but they didn’t stay.”
Cooper and the black detective exchanged a quick glance. The description of the big man and his smaller friend meant something to them.
“The big man is the boss.” Julie spoke with authority. “He’s the one you have to look out for. The little one is scared of him, that’s for sure.”
“The small one is a coward,” Alice agreed. “Another car drove to the farmhouse this afternoon. I don’t know how many men were in it.”
“How long before we can make a move back to Clearwater?” the Sergeant asked the white-haired doctor.
“That depends on our patient,” Zweigman said. “If she can stand and put weight on her leg we can leave right away. I would prefer that we wait till she is better rested.”
Alice grit her teeth and got to her feet. The cut hurt worse than before. She placed half her weight onto the injured leg and felt the muscles quiver. Walking was out of the question but with help she could limp. The black policeman offered his arm. She clung on tight and hobbled in the direction from which she’d seen the rescue party come. If the big man found them he’d kill the policemen and the doctor; of that she had little doubt. Her fate and that of the little girl she dared not think about. They moved slowly into the cover of the thorn trees.
