Present Darkness Page 12

  “I’ll let the others know.” The warden tugged his uniform straight, squared his shoulders and set off to the dining hall. The clatter of plates and the low hum of inmates’ voices drifted across the yard.

  “We could go back and ask about the visitors.” Emmanuel gave Shabalala the option of banging on Aaron’s gates for a second time.

  “No, Sergeant. That boy is truly my son. His mind and his mouth are closed. He will tell us less than the noisy white man.” Shabalala glanced in the direction of the long, ugly dinning hall where Aaron would sit and eat a meal of boiled cabbage and boiled potatoes served with a chunk of boiled meat. “It would be quicker to find the men who came to visit and ask them face to face about their business than to wait for Aaron to speak.”

  “If we can find them. Half the people in Sophiatown and Alexandria aren’t listed on any records. There’s still Fatty Mapela’s dance tonight.” Emmanuel opened the driver’s door and spoke over the hood. “Let’s head to the Brewers’ house and search that storage shed.”

  *

  She lay flat to the concrete floor, desperate to feel the cool of it in the stifling heat. It was Sunday, maybe. Time blurred in the cell. Light followed dark and then around again. She’d lost track of the turnover. Yellow light glowed through the high window, inviting her up and out into the day. Not yet. Not now. Male voices reached into the cell. Glass shattered against the outside wall at regular intervals. The big man was drinking with friends and throwing the empty bottles against the side of the house for fun, for the pleasure of the sound of a thing breaking. The little man, the coward who’d helped kidnap her, and two others whose voices she didn’t recognise, were in the front yard. A car had arrived on the property earlier, followed by the slam of doors, loud greetings, and the slap of hands on shoulders: four good friends reunited and happy to share company. The girl hated their laughter.

  She lay still and listened; caught snatches of conversation.

  “Five minutes … quick work … then out … we’ll make enough to buy a couple of animals. Maybe a lion or a couple of buffalo.” That was the big man talking up a big plan. He was the boss, the one in control. Of course. Such a greedy person, the girl thought, to want more than a beautiful face, slick hair and a strong body. She would never be obedient or grateful enough to stay his hand.

  “… Be prepared for … not easy …” another of the men added a comment and silence settled on the yard. The girl sat up, alert. Footsteps crunched gravel and a bottle clinked.

  “Out of the way. Now!” the big man yelled. A gunshot cracked the air, splintering glass and wood. Another shot kicked dirt against the high window, rattling the frame. The girl scuttled across the floor and slid under the iron cot. She pressed a knuckled fist to her mouth to hold back a sob. The big man had rules; so many rules. Screaming was forbidden. So too, cursing and bad language. Signs of weakness were punished.

  “Save the bullets,” the little man said. “You might need them tonight.”

  “They won’t fight. Wait and see …” the creak of the windmill covered the rest of the big man’s words and gravel from the drive blew against the walls. The girl stayed under the cot, breathing deeply. Fear slowly subsided. She un-clenched her fist and pressed her palms to the cool concrete floor. A metal object with a sharp point pricked her skin. Familiar ridges and shapes teased her fingertips. The girl lifted the item to the light and blew away dust. It was a rusty hair clip with the cushioned ends missing, identical to the dozens she’d lost or mislaid over the years.

  Like so many other girls, she thought. Where was the owner of the hairclip now? Gone, buried in the fruit orchard or under the windmill that sang in the wind. And others too, she was sure, all swallowed by the ground and forgotten.

  The underside of the cot, a lattice of diamond-shaped wire, loomed close to her face. She gripped the metal till it cut into her palms, causing pain and sharpening her mind. The men laughed in the yard. Bottles clinked. While they laid plans and played with guns, she was safe. After that, the big man’s attention would turn back to her cell. It would be too late then to fly. She tugged at the metal, testing its strength. Pushed vertically against the wall, the underside of the cot could serve as a climbing ladder that could reach up to the window. She was light, scrawny, even. The wire was strong enough to take her weight. Worth a try tonight, while they slept off the booze and the moon sank in the sky.

  A bottle smashed against the wall and a door slammed. Footsteps sounded on the gravel driveway and the wooden floors inside the house. The girl scrambled from under the cot and wiped dirt from her clothes and hands. She sat on the edge of the cot with her legs pressed together and the hem of her dress pulled over her knees. Back straight, eyes to the floor and chin tucked in, she held absolutely still, hardly daring to breathe. Every detail was perfect. He couldn’t fault her. Not today. She was all and more than he’d asked for: modest, quiet and obedient. A hand turned the doorknob, testing the lock. The lock held. The footsteps receded, moving in the direction of the stairs.

  The girl sat, dazed. A door closed. Car engines coughed to life and a male voice called directions. She held still. The big man might come back to judge the tilt of her head, the lank fall of her hair, the exact placement of her bare feet on the concrete floor. The cars drove off, spitting dirt and gravel from under their wheels. A lump rose in the girl’s throat. Far in the distance, the car engines idled at the gates to the property and then sped away again. Tears ran down her cheeks and splashed onto her hands. He was gone for sure. Everything was perfect and he’d never know. Hours of practice wasted. Hours of worry swept aside as if her hard work didn’t matter, as if she herself mattered nothing to him at all.

  The hairclip lay on the floor, rusted and lifeless. The owner had sat on this very cot, waiting for a chance to please the big man and receive a smile, a soft word in exchange for her efforts. The girl knew it. She got to her feet, shook her limbs out. The house was empty. The big man and his friends would be gone a while. They had plans. The time to fly had come.

  A long push and the cot slammed against the wall with the high window. She flipped the metal frame and angled it so it leaned against the wall like a ladder. Slowly, resting the weight of one foot and then the other onto the diamond shaped wires, she climbed. Light refracted through the glass. Her fingers touched the wooden frame. Two more footholds and she could see outside. A lonely dirt road cut through flat, bush country and ended at the gravel drive. Birds sang from the trees, the branches of which were visible at the right edge of the glass. There were no crops or livestock. The expanse of harsh, dry country seemed to go on forever. Finding food and water might be a problem. What did it matter? The big man was stingy with food and water. He gave her just enough to keep her alive until such time as he decided otherwise. She grabbed the lock and turned the metal catch. Rust slowed the movement. She jiggled the mechanism, gaining precious inches. Finally, the two parts of the lock snapped free. Paint flaked from the windowsill and specks of blue dropped to the floor. She pushed the frame out. The wood groaned but stayed fixed. Another push. Still nothing.

  “Please …” A pile of earth pushed against the bottom of the frame on the outside, holding it shut. The window was stuck fast. Worse yet, two metal bars were nailed to the wood frame to secure the exit. Breaking the glass wouldn’t free her.

  A red-haired child with long pigtails tied with white ribbon streaked across the yard with a sack slung across her shoulder. She was fast, nimble on her feet. The girl banged a fist to the glass.

  “Hey you!” she screamed. “Help me! Help me out!”

  Dust whirled in the empty yard. Was her vision of the child with the braids and the empty burlap sack real or a long-ago memory of her own childhood?

  She climbed down and paced the cell, trying to figure a way out. The big man might let her go. It was possible. If she was good, followed instructions, sat perfectly still and smiled at the right time, then maybe. He must know how hard she worked at being obedient n
ow. A metal point stabbed her foot, sticking into the flesh. She leaned against the wall and checked her arch. The tip of the hairpin pushed into the skin, deeper than it should have for a quick step. Breath caught in her throat. Twice now, the pin had brought news from the dead. She pulled it free. Blood trickled from the wound, and stained the concrete floor; another warning from the other side. The only way out of this cell alive was through the window.

  She turned the pin over and studied the sharp point. Maybe there was a way out. It would take hours. She straightened the hairpin and climbed the bed frame. She pushed the point under the window ledge. The dirt loosened. She scraped sand into the cell and dusted it to the floor. Again and again she repeated the action. She worked on her freedom one grain at a time.

  16.

  A dirt lane ran directly behind the Brewer’s house and cut through to the next street. Several homes backed onto the strip of weed-choked land with a fruiting mulberry tree growing wild at the centre. Emmanuel and Shabalala entered the lane and counted garden fences along the way. Ashes from the weekly garbage burn off were sprinkled along the green corridor.

  “Four more gates and we will come to the principal’s house,” the Zulu detective said and gave the rough ground a cursory glance. “Many people use this place to come and go.”

  “Mostly servants, I think,” Emmanuel said. “Whoever kept Cassie company on Friday night didn’t get into the Brewers’ garden via the main house. He must have come this way.”

  Birds flew from the branches of the mulberry tree at the sound of a wooden gate scraping against dirt. Shabalala put a finger to his mouth for quiet and pointed down the lane. The gate to the Brewers’ overgrown yard opened and a black man backed into the lane. He wore the traditional patched blue overalls and dirt-splattered gumboots of a “garden boy”. The man shut the gate and checked the alley in both directions. He’d spot them in a few seconds. Emmanuel stepped into the man’s sight line to make sure he’d be seen.

  “Police,” he said. “We’d like a word.”

  The man wheeled around and took off, churning weeds and purple mulberries underfoot. A guard dog growled from behind the fence of a tidy brick house, its ears pinned back. Emmanuel ran through the shade of the mulberry tree and caught the man close to the street corner. He brought him down easily. The smell of marijuana and beer clung to the mat of the man’s greying hair and his clothes.

  “Take some advice.” Emmanuel kept the man’s bony shoulders pinned to the ground. “If you’re afraid of the police, don’t run. Don’t run because we will catch you. And when we catch you we will beat you for making us run.”

  The black man flinched, expecting a blow. Emmanuel jerked him into a sitting position and said, “Tell me why you took off.”

  “I was scared, ma baas.”

  “Have you got something to hide?” The question put the pressure back onto the suspect and ignored the long list of reasons that a black man might have for fearing the police. “Empty your pockets and let me see.”

  The man pulled out a joint and held it up with a grimace. It was tattered and gaunt, much like it’s owner. “I ran because of this. The white people do not allow such things near their homes.”

  “The police don’t allow such things at all,” Emmanuel said with the haze of last night’s smoke and drink buzzing in his head. Davida’s observation had been wholly accurate; being a white policeman in a country beset by rules made for a dangerous sense of freedom. “Where do you come from?”

  “I am the yard boy for baas Allen. His house is there on the corner.”

  “Name?” He took the joint and held it between thumb and forefinger. Possession of a banned substance and resisting arrest would put the gardener in jail for a solid stretch. This afternoon, however, he and Shabalala were hunting bigger prey.

  “I am called Sipho, ma baas.” The gardener’s gaze remained pinned to the joint and the policeman holding it as if he might, at any moment, light up and draw deep. “Sipho Zille.”

  “You were in Principal Brewer’s garden,” Emmanuel said.

  “That is so.” Sipho brushed crushed weeds and twigs from his overalls, stalling for time. The guard dog, a brown and black mutt, bristled, bared its fangs and barked through the chain link fence.

  “Sergeant,” Shabalala called from the Brewers’ garden gate. “Come. Bring the man.”

  “Up,” Emmanuel ordered Sipho. “Let’s take a walk.”

  The gardener sat flat to the ground with his fingers dug into the dirt. Whether trapped by fear or physically paralysed, it hardly mattered. The dog’s owner would be out to check on the disturbance soon. If the police came to investigate and took down names, Mason would find out they were running their own dark investigation.

  Emmanuel crouched by Sipho and said, “Show me your passbook.”

  “I don’t have it. It is in my hut. Baas Allen’s house is just there, near the corner. I can go and fetch it.”

  “You could live in that mulberry tree for all I care. You must carry your passbook on your person at all times. That’s the law. So, here are your choices. Walk back to Principal Brewer’s garden or drive with me to the nearest police station where you will be charged with one count of resisting arrest, one count of possessing a banned substance and one count of failing to produce a passbook. Do you think baas Allen will hold your job for you while you’re in jail?”

  Sipho got to his feet and moved to the Brewers’ lot. Emmanuel was glad to be free of the barking dog and the birds calling danger from the trees.

  “This way,” the Zulu detective said and led the way into the wild yard. Grass, trees, climbing vines and flowers wrestled for space. Emmanuel found the chaos beautiful, nature’s version of a slum township where the residents mixed in whatever way they wished. Off the path and deep in the dense foliage, Shabalala stopped at the edge of a plot of land on which chest-high marijuana plants grew in thick stands.

  “Yours?” Emmanuel asked Sipho of the flourishing herb garden worked on by an army of bees and butterflies.

  “No, ma baas. Never.”

  “How did you find this place, Detective Constable?” He addressed the question to Shabalala who in turn glanced at the gardener with pity.

  “I followed the track of the man’s boots from the lane to here, Sergeant.”

  “This man here?” Emmanuel placed a hand on Sipho’s shoulder.

  “Yebo. The marks of his gumboots are all around.” Shabalala motioned to the prints in the garden dirt where Sipho had stopped to pull weeds. “From this place he must have seen many interesting things.”

  The Zulu detective pointed to the thicket that shielded the small plantation from exposure. The walls of Cassie’s shed were visible through the patchwork of trees. A distance of around fifty feet separated the marijuana plot and the shed, yet it was possible to see small portions of the pathway clearly. Emmanuel turned Sipho to face the stone hut and kept his hand on the gardener’s shoulder.

  “You lied to us about owning the dagga plants.” He used the slang term for marijuana so there’d be no misunderstanding. “We’ll give you that one for free. We’ll make you pay for the next lie out of your mouth. Understand?”

  “I hear you.” Sipho’s voice thickened with fear.

  Emmanuel dug his fingers deeper. “See that stone hut in the trees?”

  “Yebo, it is clear to me,” Sipho said.

  “Who comes and goes there?”

  The gardener swallowed hard. “The daughter of the house. She is the one who uses that place … and maybe there is someone else.”

  “Is this other person perhaps a European?” Naming Cassie’s visitor right away would be rude. Servants learned to talk in wide circles to avoid dismissal or punishment for being too familiar or forward. Questions and answers needed to unfold in a cautious, roundabout way.

  “Yes,” Sipho said. “I have seen a white baas in this garden.”

  “Does this man live near by?”

  “At number thirty-seven; the yel
low house with big windows. His wife and child stay there also.”

  Andrew “call me Andy” Franklin of the ironed safari suit and neatly trimmed moustache. The helpful neighbour who’d asked after Cassie’s welfare on the morning she’d left for Clearwater Farm in Rust de Winter. Andy was more than curious. He was involved.

  “Mr Franklin lives in a yellow house,” Emmanuel said.

  “That is the white man who comes and goes from that hut.” Sipho relaxed. His tight shoulders visibly softened with relief. The name hadn’t come from him. It was better, safer to stay in the background of white people’s business. “How many times the man you named came here to visit, I cannot say.”

  “Franklin lives two doors down.” Emmanuel brought Shabalala into the conversation. “He gave me the names of neighbours who had problems with Principal Brewer’s native education program but failed to mention he’d been playing with Cassie in the back garden.”

  “Mr Franklin must have forgotten.” The Zulu detective’s tone was dry as rhino hide. “A married man has much on his mind.”

  “We’ll have to help Andy remember.” He turned Sipho around to face the lush marijuana crop. The neat rows and freshly weeded soil demonstrated a deep love of the herb. “Tell me what you know about Mr Franklin.”

  “I don’t work for baas Franklin. I am the yard boy for baas Allen.”

  Emmanuel’s fingers relaxed. He patted Sipho’s shoulder. “No problem. We’ll call Mr Allen from the police lock-up.”

  “Wait,” Sipho said. Stuck between white people’s private business and police business made it hard for him to breathe and puzzle a way out of trouble. The tall Zulu and the lean white man could, between them, break every bone and snap every tendon in his body before throwing what remained into a jail cell. “I am not baas Franklin’s boy but I have heard that there is fighting in the house. There is no money. The wife is worried for the child. Baas Franklin comes to visit the white teacher’s daughter when the sun goes down. I have seen him enter the hut three times. On two Fridays and then on a Saturday.”