Present Darkness Page 15

  “Maybe.” He looked to the leader, kneeling with the barrel of a revolver pressed to his skull. “Should I, Lenny?”

  “Do it.” The reply came out terse and short. “And stop using names.”

  The boss man and the petite second in command might be professionals but the rest of the troops were amateurs; all the more reason to talk through the steps of the exchange slowly.

  “We’ll swap at the door,” Emmanuel said. “That’s fine with you?”

  “Ja. That’s all right.” The captive girl sobbed and her tears splashed onto the kidnapper’s fingers. The hand holding the knife gripped the handle tighter.

  “Slowly. No need to rush. Walk to the door. We’ll bring our hostages across. Go.” The jittery robber crab-walked to the entrance, the stocking mask moist with sweat. Fatty tapped the gun barrel to the leader’s head. “You. Up. To the door.”

  Labrant grabbed the elf by the scruff of the neck and dragged him bodily to the smashed entrance. Emmanuel crossed to the man pooled on the floor. He threw the remainder of the whisky and water onto the man’s face and brought him to.

  “You’re leaving,” he said. “You and your friends.”

  The room stilled. People held their breath in anticipation of a sudden twitch of a finger against a gun trigger or the jerk of a blade against neck tendons. Emmanuel pushed the bloodied man to the exchange point and picked up his watch from the loot table on the way.

  “You have two minutes to clear the yards,” he said when the girl hostage staggered to her boyfriend and the four bandits retreated into the corridor. “Then we are coming after you.”

  Fatty released the safety on the boss man’s gun and said, “One minute.”

  The men turned and ran. Emmanuel gave them a thirty-second start. Fatty and Labrant followed him down the corridor and out into the yards. A lone security light cut through the darkness. A vast tangle of tracks and sheds spread out in the moonlight.

  “Aggh …” Labrant made a disgusted sound and pointed to the body of the Afrikaner railway worker sprawled in the dirt. The flecks of fine coal dust suspended in the air of the yard had speckled the red hole that leaked blood on the bib of his overalls. “We should have shot them in the corridor, made an end to it.”

  “Gunning down four white men in front of two dozen witnesses would be the end for us as well.” Emmanuel checked for a pulse and got nothing. The wound was fatal, the Afrikaner killed with a neat thrust of a knife. “There’s no way to clean up that kind of mess and hope to keep it quiet.”

  Labrant grunted agreement and said, “Let’s get this one out of the way before the guests see. They’ll connect us with this for sure and put us in the frame for it.”

  Emmanuel agreed. Better to be cautious than sitting in a police station writing up a false statement. Fatty tucked the revolver into the sash of her dress again and grabbed a limb. Labrant took the other arm and Emmanuel the legs. They lifted the dead man’s weight and shuffled to the corner of the shed. The space between the shed and the next building made a snug, black, temporary casket. Perfect. They laid the body down and walked around to the front.

  Emmanuel stopped, crouched and wiped blood from his shoes with a handkerchief. Shadows flickered in the entrance. He looked up. Davida stood in the dimness, fingers pressed hard to her mouth to stifle a cry. She’d seen them dump the body. He was certain.

  “Come, little girl.” Fatty’s voice carried a sharp edge. “This is no place for a child. Let us leave the men to their business.”

  Davida retreated in silence, her upper arm held in Fatty’s grip. Emmanuel paused and worked again at the shoe leather. Only warm water and soap would remove the stain, he realised. No amount of scrubbing would clean Davida’s mind of the things she’d witnessed. The Afrikaner’s slack body, the strange dance they’d performed while carrying the bleeding corpse to the passage and the peeled orange in the dirt; all were burned deep into her memory. Time would chip away at the images, soften their edges but she’d never forget. He knew. He’d tried.

  18.

  It was the big one who did the stabbing. The pissant who grabbed the girl didn’t have the guts,” Labrant said. “I reckon Vickers knew them, let them in to rob the place.”

  “That was his name?” Emmanuel pocketed the bloody handkerchief, which would now have to be thrown away or burned.

  “Ja.” Labrant blew out a loud breath. “Should never have trusted him. I saw him beat his dog once.”

  “It’s finished,” Emmanuel said. The time for analysis had already passed. “We have to move. The thieves won’t come back after the beating they’ve taken but they might call the police or get the immorality squad down here.”

  “Right.” The Sergeant glanced to the black spot where the body lay. “I’ll take care of Vickers, find him a resting place in the Orange Free State.”

  “We could leave him and call the body into the police tomorrow morning.” That presented the least illegal option. “He might have family.”

  “Lucky for us, Vickers had no family and no friends: just a job and a boss who’ll report him missing when he fails to show up for three shifts in a row,” Labrant said. “A miserable death for a miserable man. I’d shed a tear but I’ll be too busy digging up a bush grave on my brother-in-law’s …”

  “Don’t say any more,” Emmanuel interrupted. “I don’t want to know. Let’s clear the place, first. Get everyone out.”

  They re-entered the corridor of shed twenty-five. Patrons streamed out as if they were running from a burning building; their valuables clutched in their hands, faces drawn with fear, elbows shoving to clear a path.

  “Calm down, people!” Labrant shouted. “The thieves are gone. Move to your cars and leave in an orderly fashion.”

  The crowd gave no sign of having heard. In less than five minutes the room and the corridor were empty. The teenage hostage and her white sweetheart were the last out, their arms wrapped around each other.

  Dust motes swirled in the light of the hurricane lamps, stirred up by the rush of departing couples. Fatty’s working girls bunched together, smoking and chattering in high-pitched voices. Sergeant Labrant would eventually escort them back to the southern edge of town where they lived together in an isolated house screened from the road by tall slash pines. Davida stood by herself, deep in thought or in shock.

  Labrant stripped three tablecloths and rolled them into a ball. “Ready, Cooper?”

  Emmanuel walked out to help remove the body.

  *

  Half an hour later the jukebox had been wrestled onto the back of Fatty’s pick-up truck and the prostitutes packed into the rear of the police van. Vickers Steyn, rolled in tablecloths, occupied the space farthest from the door. A road patrol would see the girls, not the body. Emmanuel said his goodbyes and returned to the shed to collect Davida. At the very least, he’d spared her the sight of Fatty’s girls joking with each other in the presence of a corpse.

  “God above,” the Sergeant Major said upon entering the emptied tin building. “This is, without a doubt, the worst first date in the history of mankind.”

  “Agreed,” Emmanuel replied. What was he thinking? Taking Davida to an illegal dance in a railway yard. His intentions had been good: get her out of the house so she could dance with him while their baby slept safely at home. His decision to expose her to the underbelly of South African life spoke of desperation, of having no more to offer her than snatched moments of normality in abnormal situations. She deserved more than that.

  A single hurricane lamp lit the darkened room. Davida stared into the yellow flame, breathing in and out with deliberation.

  “Come,” Emmanuel said. “Let’s go.”

  Davida continued to stare; the fire cast a spell that blocked the smell of blood mixed with perfume and the echoes of the black girl’s sobs. Emmanuel had witnessed this internal retreat several times during the war. He had lost good men, fine soldiers to shellshock. A mind under pressure sometimes built walls too thick to breach.


  “We have to go.” He laid his fingers on Davida’s arm. “It’s not safe to stay here.” She punched him in the chest, hard. Emmanuel staggered back, absorbed the pain. A high blow caught him square in the mouth, drawing blood from an earlier cut. He grabbed her wrist, instinctively blocking another blow. She fought on. Emmanuel reined her in; let half the hits connect. They slammed into the corrugated iron wall. He turned and pinned her against to the metal sheeting, exerting control. She kicked and twisted until her breath came in short, exhausted gasps.

  “Why did you bring me here?” She slumped against the iron wall and gave up the fight.

  “To dance with you,” he said.

  They stood in the softly lit darkness; their bodies pressed close together, their hearts beating in rough time. Emmanuel thought to step back, to break them free of the rush of adrenaline mixed with desire. Davida’s hips flexed, inviting closer contact. He tried to physically break the spell, give them room for rational actions. Her hands and his lips had other ideas. He kissed the pulsing heartbeat at the base of her neck, the line of her jaw, her open mouth. Fingers found buttons, ripped cotton, touched heated skin. The wall bucked against their pressure.

  Emmanuel pushed the fabric of her skirt above her waist, exposed smooth brown thighs and white silk underwear.

  “Here?” he asked.

  “Now,” she said.

  *

  Night-time and the sky was crowded with a million stars. Grain by grain, the gap under the windowsill grew bigger and the outside world closer. Hour upon hour she’d laboured, stopping to rest aching fingers and quivering muscles. An embedded rock had taken most of the afternoon to excavate and even now it lay loose on top of the soil. She pushed the window out to its full extension. The gap was small, four hand widths at most. She’d have to breathe in and tunnel under like a worm.

  Perched on the top wrung of the iron cot, the girl pushed her head and shoulders under the rail. She gave one last push against the top on the iron cot, which crashed to the floor. Chin pressed to the dirt, she inched forwards. Fresh air touched her face, a luxury after the heat and stillness of the cell. The wooden rail scraped the top of her head and snagged the material of her dress. Outside, a yellow moon lit the yard and deepened the shadows under a scraggy line of fruit trees. One inch more and then another and another: the slowest escape in history. She scraped more dirt to clear a path and spat sand from her mouth. The scent of sagebrush and the sour tang of rotting citrus grew stronger. Soon the land would be hers, the open sky, the wide horizon and the finger of dirt road leading to a bigger road and then to the city. A night owl hooted and the soft whistle of wind called her out. Then came the sound of a car engine, still far off but getting louder. Twin headlights glowed in the darkness: the big man and his gang were on their way home.

  She wiggled, pushed and clawed. The window rail scratched her skin and bruised the muscles on her back. The curve of her bottom snagged on the low wooden bar, holding her half in and half out of the small window. The headlights danced as the car tyres bounced over the road’s surface. If there was a god, he was a cruel one, to let her feel the wind on her face and smell the open bushlands just to take it all away now. The girl stopped, drew a shuddering breath and arched her body like a cat, bringing the full force of her spine and hips to the rail. Nerve endings screamed with pain. She repeated the move, obeying a pure animal instinct to escape.

  How fast cars were, even in the dark, she thought. Speed gave the big man an unfair advantage and he already had the upper hand. Not tonight, the girl decided. Tonight I will prevail. She bucked and flexed, moved forward. The car stopped at the gates. There was time, maybe. The gates closed, the headlights were so bright. Fear tore through her. Animals chewed through their own limbs to get free. She snapped her body up against the bar, willing to exchange broken bones for an inch more space.

  The car reached the gravel drive; a black shape menacing, like a predator. She twisted her hips and the wooden bar gave just enough room for her to slip under. Light swept the forlorn yard and the drought stricken orchard. She lay still, waiting for the engine to die and for darkness. The car parked. Raised voices came from the interior, a fight between the big man and the little one. No sign of the other vehicle carrying their friends. The lights went out. The girl cleared the low bar. Her ankle snagged against the wood. No, please. There’d be no second chances. She had to succeed or die in the attempt. She kicked at the window and smashed the glass. The car lights switched on, illuminating the house. The girl kicked again and broke free. Glass cut her skin, the pain only a faint whisper, barely registering.

  Then she ran.

  Male voices shouted filthy words all of them familiar to her. The engine coughed to life and the tyres gripped the gravel. They were coming after her. She jogged right and sprinted into the fruit trees.

  “Get back here!” the big man shouted. “Now!”

  She glanced over her shoulder; saw the car stalled between two gnarled trunks, the headlights shining into a part of the orchard where she was not. The big man hung an elbow out of the window.

  “You know where you are, girl?” he called out. “A hunting reserve. The animals will tear you apart if I don’t get to you first.”

  She’d take her chances with the wild animals. The night closed around her body like a shawl and she tore into the darkness.

  19.

  Emmanuel woke bruised and aching. The split skin on his knuckles and the pain in his feet from kicking ribs reminded him of the hard fight the night before. The fight itself he barely remembered. Muffled sounds, flashing colours and the sensation of hot blood burning through his veins were all that remained in his mind.

  His palm rested on the sleek curve of Davida’s naked hip. Details of what they’d done against the wall in the rail yard, and again when they’d arrived home, were burned into his memory and would, Emmanuel suspected, remain undimmed until the pyramids turned to sand. With the exception of Rebekah, who was probably still sleeping beside Mrs Ellis in the cottage adjoining the big house, this small hut contained all he needed to live and die happy.

  Footsteps crunched the garden path outside, breaking the bubble. He slipped out of bed, reluctant to face the world. The footsteps grew louder. He pulled on trousers, shoved the Webley into the waistband and shrugged on a shirt. He left the bedroom with a quiet tread and peered out of the front window. Dr Zweigman, wearing a plaid dressing gown, blue pyjamas and slippers hurried through the garden. Emmanuel opened the door before he knocked and stepped onto the porch. He closed the door with a soft click.

  “The night duty guard rang the alarm.” Zweigman’s German accent intensified under stress, trampling vowels and elongating consonants. “There are men at the gate. They’ve asked for you, Detective Cooper.”

  Emmanuel hit the path barefoot and in wrinkled clothes. Ribbons of soft pink coloured the sky as the sun rose through the trees. From the rear of the big house he saw them: three white men in dark suits. Their purposeful stride and tugged down fedoras indicated law enforcement. He moved out to meet them. Zweigman came along, bulking up the odds to two men against three.

  “Fuck …” Emmanuel recognised Mason, flanked by the undercover detectives who’d helped search the Mercedes. Mason had crossed the threshold into Emmanuel’s private life and had brought the fight over the Shabalala investigation right to his doorstep. He quickened his pace, hoping to keep the Lieutenant far from the big house.

  “You know them?” Zweigman asked while trying to tamp down strands of white explosive hair.

  “Unfortunately, yes.” And they now knew where he lived, had found out somehow. Emmanuel confronted the trio halfway up the drive, realised only then that his shirt was unbuttoned, the Webley revolver tucked, township gangster fashion, into the waistband of his trousers.

  “Cooper,” the Lieutenant said. “You appear to have spent the night fighting and fucking.”

  Mason, by comparison, must have used the dark hours to wrestle the to
p off a whisky bottle or three. His pallor matched the grey dawn and red veins webbed the whites of his eyes. The Lieutenant had fallen off the wagon hard and lost his born again certification.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” Emmanuel hooked up buttons to cover bruised and scratched skin. He could do nothing to conceal the blue mark left by a blow to the head during last night’s fight. Mason’s companions smoked in quiet, waking up with the help of nicotine: one wore mismatched socks and the other a gravy-stained tie. They’d been dragged from sleep and tumbled into clothes at short notice.

  “Is there a place to talk, Cooper?” Mason asked.

  “It isn’t my house so right here will do fine.”

  “Pity.” The Lieutenant held up two splayed fingers, signalled for a cigarette. “I’d like to have seen how a sugar baron lives.”

  So, Mason knew the Houghton estate belonged to Elliott King, sugar mill proprietor and owner of vast tracts of South Africa. Davida and Rebekah’s names might also be penned into Mason’s notebook. The thought brought a cold rush of fear, which Emmanuel pushed aside. Fresh from bed, barefoot and physically hurting from the fight at the club, projecting a confident demeanour was imperative.

  “Find out why he’s here,” the Sergeant Major’s voice said. “Doesn’t smell right, does it? Him walking through the front gate, hung over, pale as a cut onion. And the other two have no bloody idea what’s going on.”

  “Is this a social or a police call, Lieutenant?” Emmanuel asked.

  Mason accepted a cigarette from the flap-eared detective and touched the tip to the lit end of the detective’s stub. He drew deep and held in the smoke before letting it drift through barely opened lips. “Where were you between eight and midnight last night, Cooper?”

  “Here,” he said. “In the house.”

  “You have a witness, I suppose?”

  “I was with this man. Dr Daniel Zweigman. We discussed the war.” Using Elliott or Winston King’s name to plump up a lie was out of the question. They held the keys to the little hut, to Davida and Rebekah. He threw Zweigman a look, sent a subtle request for co-operation.