by Malla Nunn
“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 remember 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.
“I’m glad we found Alice,” Julie said to the Sergeant. “The other girls just disappeared.”
“Other girls?” Emmanuel stopped in the darkness and stared at Julie. He felt the hairs on his neck stand up.
“Last holidays it was a lady with long black hair and black eyes,” Julie continued in a matter of fact way. “I didn’t see the one before that but I heard her crying in the small room.”
“Did you tell anyone about the women?”
“I’m not allowed onto Lion’s Kill. Same goes for Precious and Boy-Boy from the reserve. We’d get a thrashing if our parents found out that we played here.”
“Fair enough,” Emmanuel said. Speaking up meant a beating while silence gave Julie the freedom to roam with her friends. He switched the rope handle of the hessian sack to his left shoulder and walked over to Shabalala and Alice. Zweigman flanked the pair, shining a light onto the ground with a torch.
“Were you the only woman at the farmhouse?” he asked Alice.
“Yes.” She stopped to catch her breath. They’d walked but a few yards from the start position and Clearwater was still miles away. At the rate they were travelling they’d make Delia’s farm by dawn and Johannesburg by early afternoon. “I found a hairclip under the cot. That’s when I figured out that other girls had been locked in the room before me.”
“Tell me how you got from Jo’burg to here.” From her low-cut sateen dress and rough accent, Emmanuel guessed she was a working girl.
“I was in my usual spot, waiting for offers.” Shabalala took the full weight of Alice’s body while she talked. “The big man came from one end of the alley and started moving towards me, slow-like. I didn’t like the look of him so I took off. I almost made it to the road before the little man blocked the way. They caught me. They put a hood over my head and pushed me into a car with leather seats and it smelled of cigarettes. After that I didn’t see anything.”
“When was that?” Emmanuel asked. The big man who led the raid on Fatty’s club had picked through the women like a gold prospector, searching for “a new one” to take home.
“Friday night,” Alice said. “I thought they were rich but the car is the nicest thing about them. The house and the yard are falling apart.”
Shabalala turned in the direction of the farmhouse and listened intently to a sound that barely registered in Emmanuel’s ears. Julie ran back to where they stood and pointed across the plains.
“A car,” she said. “I saw the headlights.”
“It is coming in this direction,” Shabalala said. “They have seen us, Sergeant. Switch off the torches.”
Three beams shut down simultaneously. The group stood in the moonlit darkness, breathing slowly, waiting for the threat to pass. The sound of the car engine grew louder. Alice moaned low in the back of her throat.
“Move,” Emmanuel said. “We have to be gone by the time they get here.”
“The river is this way.” Julie darted ahead, familiar with the landscape and the location of the fence line. Shabalala scooped Alice into his arms and ran. Zweigman and Emmanuel followed, ducking and weaving through thorn bushes. A brown buck sprang from a stand of mopane trees, giving away their location. The car engine revved, the driver shifted into fourth gear.
“In here.” Julie dodged hard right into a thicket of red-spiked aloes. She slipped between the trunks and moved deeper into the heart of the forest. The plants grew thicker, their fleshy leaves touching like outstretched fingers. Emmanuel crouched low and caught a glimpse of Zweigman and Shabalala hidden in the moon shadows. The Zulu detective held Alice tucked close to his chest. Julie was gone.
High beams cut the darkness, flooding the aloes with light. Emmanuel breathed deep and stayed down. The engine whined as the driver shifted down a gear and kept the vehicle close to the outer edge of the forest. Tyres spun in the sand and the car stalled. Emmanuel snapped open his holster with his thumb and gripped the Webley revolver’s smooth handle.
“None of this aiming for the leg bullshit, Cooper,” the Sergeant Major said. “These men have kidnapped and hurt God knows how many women. And they’re connected to the Brewer mess and the club robbery. You know it, too. They will kill to keep their secrets. Shoot straight like I taught you. Get the bastards before they get you.”
The engine started up and the driver tapped the accelerator. Emmanuel slipped the Webley free from its holster and rested it on the curve of his knee. The car tyres spun, kicking up stones. A male voice cursed. The tyres found purchase and the vehicle continued along the sandy edges of the aloe grove. Emmanuel held the gun steady and waited until the mechanical sounds faded into silence. He crab-crawled across the dusty ground to Shabalala and Alice.
“The car is heading for the river,” the Zulu detective said when Zweigman and Julie came out of hiding. “The driver knows we must follow the fence line and then cross over to the native reserve. He will wait for us there.”
“There must be another way off the farm.” Alice looked from one face to the next, desperate to hear the right answer.
“We could take the farm road and follow that back to Clearwater but it will take a long time,” Julie said. “The other river crossing is at the far end of the fence and it will take us a long time to get there, too.”
“We have to be off this farm by dawn,” Emmanuel said. If they failed, they would be on the wrong side of a turkey shoot in the morning and he’d miss the deadline to call Davida’s father and warn him about Mason. He thought through options and came up with a possible way out. “Shabalala and I will draw them away from the river, give the three of you time to cross over to the native reserve. We’ll circle around and come after you.”
Julie moved closer, nudged a shoulder against his leg. “I want to stay with you, Detective.”
“You have to guide Alice and the doctor across the river and back to Clearwater,” he said. “I’ll be back in time for breakfast. That’s a promise.”
He’d broken that promise to his ex-wife Angela at least once a week during their brief marriage. He made Davida no promises. She returned the favour.
They crossed a dry fie
ld, keeping to the treeline. Julie pointed to the river running silver in the moonlight. A multitude of stars dusted the night sky over the plains that stretched to the horizon. A parked car aimed its high beams at the space where the fence stopped short of the riverbank. Cigarette smoke curled from windows.
“Two men, maybe more,” Shabalala said. “They are settled. Only a fire or a storm will move them.”
“Good idea,” the Sergeant Major said. “Put a match to the homestead, stand back and watch the bitch burn. That will get their arses in gear.”
The tinder-dry bushland made the perfect kindling for an inferno that could easily spread to the native reserve and to neighbouring farms. A bushfire drew oxygen from the air like a living being; it jumped and ran and roared with life. It took instructions from no-one.
“A pity there’s no safe way to start a fire in a drought,” Emmanuel said. “Or call down a flood.”
“There’s a braai pit at the back of the homestead. Boy-Boy jumped into it and the sides come up to here.” Julie touched her forehead. “Me and Precious rolled a big stone into the pit so he could climb out.”
The light shining in the window of the Lion’s Kill homestead pierced the darkness. A fire built in a deep pit would barely register over the same distance.
“We run,” Shabalala said. “The men in the car will follow. It is human instinct.”
A breathtakingly simple plan, Emmanuel thought. No fire, no flood: just the two of them running like rabbits in a hunter’s headlights. The plan would work. Sitting surveillance stretched the time, made minutes feel like hours. Nicotine took the edge off the boredom but only for a while. The men would give chase.
“We must move fast to the gap in the fence line and into their light, Sergeant.” Shabalala stood up and scouted the fall of the land, which dipped down to the riverbank. “If we run to the river the men in the car will lose sight of us and begin the chase.”
