by Wilbur Smith
It spread over the greased table like spilled treacle, dropping from one plate to the next, and finally into the waste bin at the end of the table.
A diamond is unwettable, immerse it in water, scrub it, but it comes out dry. A coat of grease on a steel plate is also unwettable, so wet gravel and sea shell will slide over it and keep moving across the agitating, sloping table.
But a diamond when it hits grease sticks like a halfsucked toffee to a woollen blanket.
In the excitement and anxiety of the moment Johnny felt his weariness recede, even the pain in his stump was muted by it. His eyes and whole attention were fastened on that glistening yellow sheet of grease.
The little stuff under a carat in weight, or the industrial black diamond and boart would not be visible on the table; the agitation was too rapid - blurring with speed, and the flow of loose material would disguise them.
So complete was his absorption that it was some seconds before he was aware of a presence beside him. He glanced up quickly.
The Old Man was there, standing with the wide stance and tension-charged attitude that was his own special way.
Johnny was acutely conscious of the Old Man’s bulk beside him - and he felt the first flicker of alarm. What if this was a barren run?
He needed diamonds now - as he had never needed anything in his life.
He scanned the blurring plates of yellow grease, seeking the purchase price that could buy back the Old Man’s esteem. The speckled gravel flowed imperturbably across the plates, and Johnny felt a flutter of panic.
Then from across the table the foreman let out a whoop, and pointed.
“Thor she blows!” Johnny’s eyes darted to the head of the table.
There beneath the outlet from the bin, half buried in the thick grease by its own weight, anchored solidly while. the worthless gravel washed past it, was a diamond.
A big fat five-carat thing, that glowed sulky and yellow, like a wild animal resenting its captivity.
Johnny sighed softly and darted a sideways glance at the Old Man.
The Old Man was watching the table without expression, and though he must have been conscious of Johnny’s scrutiny, he did not look up. Johnny’s eyes were dragged irresistibly back to the table.
By some freakish chance, the next diamond fell from the bin directly on to the one already anchored in the grease.
When diamond strikes diamond it bounces like a golf ball off a tarmac road.
The second diamond, a white beauty the size of a peach pip, clicked loudly as it struck the other then spun head high in the air.
Both Johnny and the foreman laughed involuntarily with delight at the beauty of that twinkling drop of solid sunlight.
Johnny reached across the table with his good hand, and snatched it out of the air. He rubbed it between his fingers revelling in the soapy feel of it, then turned and offered it to the Old Man.
The Old Man looked at the diamond, nodded in acknowledgement.
Then-he pulled back the cuff of his coat and checked his wrist watch.
“It’s late. I must get back to Cape Town.”
“Won’t you stay for the rest of the run, sir?” Johnny realized his tone was too eager. “We could have a drink together afterwards.” He remembered that the Old Man abhorred alcohol.
“No.” The Old Man shook his head. “I have to get back by this evening.” Now he looked steadily into Johnny’s eyes.
“You see, Tracey is getting married tomorrow afternoon and I must be there.” Then he smiled, watching Johnny’s face, but nobody could ever guess the meaning of a smile on the Old Man’s lips - for it never showed in his eyes.
“Didn’t you know?” he asked, still smiling. “I thought you had received an invitation.” And he went out of the shed to where his jeep stood in the bright sunshine waiting to take him out to the aircraft landing-strip among the sand dunes.
The pain in his injured hand, and the Old Man’s words denied Johnny the sleep he so desperately needed, but it was two o’clock in the morning before he threw back his blankets and lit the lamp beside his camp bed.
“He said I had been invited - and, by God, I’ll be there.” He drove through the night, and the next morning. The first two hundred miles were on desert tracks of sand and stone, then he reached the metalled highway in the dawn and turned south across the great plains an dover the mountains. It was noon before he saw the squat blue silhouette of Table Mountain on the skyline dwarfing the city that huddled beneath it.
He checked in at the Vineyard Hotel, and hurried to his room to bath and shave and change into a suit.
The grounds of the old house were crowded with expensive automobiles, and the overflow was parked along both sides of the street outside, but he found a space for the dusty Land-Rover. He walked up through the white gates and across the green lawns.
There was a band playing in the house, and a hubbub of voices and laughter drifted out through the windows of the ballroom.
He went in through the side door. The passages were thronged with guests, and he made his way amongst them seeking a familiar face in the groups of loud-voiced gesticulating men and giggling women. At last he found one.
“Michael.” And Michael Shapiro looked round, recognizing him and letting the conflicting emotions of pleasure, surprise and alarm show clearly on his face.
“Johnny. It’s good to see you.”
“Is the ceremony over?”
“Yes, and the speeches also - thank God.” He took Johnny’s arm and led him aside.
“Let me get you a glass of champagne.” Michael hailed a waiter and put a crystal glass into Johnny’s hand.
“Here’s to the bride,“Johnny murmured and drank.
“Does the Old Man know you are here?” Michael came out with the question that was burning his mouth, and when Johnny shook his head, Michael’s expression became thoughtful.
“What’s he like, Michael, Tracey’s husband?”
“Kenny Hartford?”
Michael considered the question. “He’s all right, I suppose.
Nice-looking boy, plenty of money.”
“What’s he do for a crust of bread?”
“His daddy left him the whole loaf - but to fill in the time he does fashion photography.” And Johnny pulled down the corners of his mouth.
Michael frowned. “He’s all right, Johnny. The Old Man picked him carefully.”
“The Old Man?“Johnny’s jaw thrust out.
“Of course, you know him - he wouldn’t leave an important decision like that to anybody else.” Johnny finished his champagne in silence, and Michael watched his face anxiously.
“Where is she? Have they left yet?”
“No.” Michael shook his head.
“They’re still in the ballroom.”
“I think I’ll go and wish luck to the bride.”
“Johnny.” Michael caught hold of his elbow. “Don’t do anything stupid - will you?” Johnny stood at the head of the marble staircase that led down into the ballroom. The floor was crowded with dancing couples and the music was loud and merry. The bridal party sat at a raised table across the floor.
Benedict van der Byl saw Johnny first. His face flushed and he leaned quickly to whisper to the Old Man, then began to rise from his seat. The Old Man placed a restraining hand on Benedict’s shoulder, and smiled across the room at Johnny.
A Johnny went down the stairs and made his way through the dancers. Tracey had not seen him. She was talking to the silky-faced young man who sat beside her. He had wavy blond hair.
“Hello, Tracey.” She looked up at Johnny and caught her breath.
She was more beautiful than he remembered.
“Hello, Johnny.” Her voice was almost a whisper.
“May I dance with you?” She was pale now, and her eyes went to the
Old Man, not to her new husband. The gleaming white bush of hair nodded slightly, and Tracey stood up.
They made one circuit of the dance floor bef
ore the band stopped playing. Johnny had planned a hundred different things to say to her, but he was dumb until the music ended and the opportunity was passing.
Hurriedly now in the few seconds that were left Johnny told her: “I hope you will be happy, Tracey. But if you ever need help - ever - I will come, I promise you that.”
“Thank you.” Her voice was husky, and for a moment she looked like the little girl who had cried in the night. Then he took her back to her husband.
The promise had been made five years ago, and now he had come to London to honour it.
Number 23 Stark Street was a neat double-storeyed cottage with a narrow front. He parked outside it. It was dark now and lights burned on both floors. He sat in the parked Jaguar, suddenly reluctant to go further. Somehow he knew that Tracey was here, and he knew it would not be pretty.
For a moment he recaptured the image of her as a lovely young woman in a wedding dress of white satin, then he climbed out of the
Jaguar and went up the steps to the front door. He reached for the bell before he noticed with surprise that the door was ajar. He pushed it open and walked into a small sitting-room furnished with feminine taste.
The room had been hastily ransacked, one of the curtains was spread on the floor and on it were piled books and ornaments. Pictures had been taken down from the walls and stacked ready for removal.
Johnny picked up one of the books, and opened the cover. On the fly leaf was a handwritten name. “Tracey van der Byl He dropped it back on the pile as he heard footsteps on the stairs from the floor above.
A man came down the stairs. He was dressed in soiled green velvet trousers, sheepskin boots, and shabby frock coat of military cut fragged. with tarnished gold braid. He was carrying an armful of women’s dresses.
He saw Johnny and stopped nervously, his pink lips opened in vacant surprise but his eyes were beady and bright under the thatch of lank blond hair.
“Hello,” Johnny smiled pleasantly. “Are you moving out?” And he drifted quietly closer to the man on the stairs and stood looking up at him.
Suddenly from the floor above a low wail echoed down the stairs.
It was an eerie sound, without passion or pain, as though steam were escaping from a jet, only just recognizable as human. Johnny went rigid at the sound, and the man on the stairs glanced nervously over his shoulder.
“What have you done to her?” Johnny asked softly, without menace.
. “No. Nothing! She’s on a trip. A bad trip.” The man’s denial was frantic. “It’s her first time on acid.”
“So you’re cleaning the place out, are you?“Johnny asked mildly.
“She owes me plenty. She can’t pay. She promised - and she can’t pay.”
“Oh,” said Johnny. “That’s different. I thought you were hitting the place.” He reached into his overcoat and brought out his wallet, riffling the wad of banknotes. “I’m a friend of hers. How much does she owe you?”
“Fifty nicker.” The man’s eyes sparkled when he saw the wallet. “I gave her credit.” Johnny counted off ten fivers, and held them out. The man dropped the bundle of clothing over the banisters and came eagerly down the last few stairs.
“Did you sell her the stuff - the acid?“Johnny asked, and the man stopped a pace from him, his expression stiffening with suspicion.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Johnny grinned. “We are not children - I know the score.” He offered the banknotes. “Did you get the stuff for her?” The man grinned back at him weakly, and nodded as he reached for the money. Johnny’s free hand snapped closed on the thin wrist and he swung him off his feet, forcing his wrist up between his shoulder-blades.
Johnny stuffed the money into his pocket, and marched him up the stairs.
“Let’s go and have a look, shall we?” There was a mattress on the iron bedstead covered with a grey army blanket. Tracey sat cross-legged on the blanket.
She wore only a thin cotton slip and her hair hung lank and lustreless to her waist. Her arms crossed over her chest were thin and white as sticks of chalk. Her face also was pale, the skin translucent in the light of the electric bulb.
She was rocking gently back and forth and wailing softly, her breath steaming in the icy cold room.
It was her eyes that shocked Johnny the most. The eye seemed to have expanded to an enormous size, and beneath each was a dark bruised-looking smear. The pupils of the eyes were distended and glittery with the same adamant sheen as uncut diamonds.
The big glittery green eyes fastened on Johnny and the man in the doorway, and the wail rose abruptly to a shriek.
The shriek died away, and she bowed forward and buried her face in her hands, covering her eyes.
“Tracey,” said Johnny softly. “Oh God, Tracey!”
“She’ll be all right,” the man whimpered and twisted in his grip. “It’s the first time - she’ll be all right.”
“Come!” Johnny dragged him out of the room, and pushed the door closed with his foot. He held him against the wall, and his face was set and pale, his eyes merciless - but he spoke quietly, patiently as though he was explaining to a child.
“I’m going to hurt you now. I’m going to hurt you very badly. Just as badly as I can without killing you. Not because I enjoy it, but because that girl is a very special person to me. In the future when you think about giving poison to another girl - I want you to remember what I did to you tonight.” Johnny held him with his left hand against the wall and he used his right hand, punching up under the ribs at an angle to tear the stomach muscles. With three or four blows he was too high, and he felt ribs crack and snap under his fist.
When he stepped back the man sagged slowly face forward, and Johnny caught him cleanly in the mouth snapping his teeth off at the gums, splitting his lips open like the petals of a rose. The man had made a lot of noise.
Johnny looked into Tracey’s room to make sure she had not been disturbed, but she was still bowed forward, rocking rhythmically on her haunches.
He found the bathroom and dampened his handkerchief and wipe the blood off his hands and the front of his overcoat.
He came out into the passage again and stooped over the unconscious body to check the pulse. It was strong and regular, and he felt a lift of relief as he dragg the man’s face out of the puddle of his own blood and vomit to prevent him drowning.
He went through to Tracey and, despite her frantic struggles, wrapped her in the greasy army blanket and carried her down to the Jaguar.
She quietened down and lay like a sleeping child in the back seat while he tucked the blanket round her, then he went back into the house and phoned 999, giving the address and hanging up immediately.
He left Tracey in the car outside the Dorchester, while he went in to speak to the reception clerk. Within minutes Tracey was in a wheelchair on her way up to the two-bedroom suite on the second floor. The doctor was there fifteen minutes later.
After the doctor had gone Johnny bathed, and carrying a tumbler of Chivas Regal in one hand he went into Tracey’s room and stood by her bed. Whatever the doctor had given her had put her out cleanly. She lay gaunt and pale - yet with a strangely fragile beauty that seemed enhanced by the bruised discoloration of her eye sockets.
He stooped to brush the hair from her cheek, and her breath was light and warm on his hand. He felt such an infinity of tenderness for her then as he had never known for any other person, he was amazed by the strength of it.
He stooped over her and gently brushed her lips with his own. Her lips were dry and flaky white, and their touch was harsh as sandpaper.
Johnny straightened up and went to the armchair across the room.
He sank into it wearily, and sipped the whisky, feeling its warmth spread from his belly and untie the knots in his muscles. He watched the pale ruined face on the pillows.
“We are in a hell of a mess, you and I,” he spoke aloud, and felt anger again. For long minutes it was undirected, but slowly it gelled and found an object to foc
us on.
For the first time in his life he was angry with the Old Man.
“He has brought you to this,” he said to the girl on the bed.
“And me-” The reaction was swift, his loyalty was a thing grown part of his existence. Always he had trained himself to believe that the Old
Man’s machinations were just and wise - even if at times the justice and wisdom were hidden from him. Mortal man does not doubt the omnipotence of his gods.
Sickened by his own treachery, he began to examine the Old Man’s motives and actions under the bright light of reason.
Why had the Old Man sent Michael Shapiro to fetch him out of the desert?
“He wants you in Cape Town, Johnny. Benedict didn’t measure up.
The Old Man has given him the London Office, it’s a form of exile.
He’s picked you to take over the C company,” Michael explained.
“Tracey is out of the way.
She and her husband are in London also. I guess the Old Man thinks it’s safe to have you back in Cape Town now.” Michael watched
Johnny’s undisguised joy and went on slowly.
“I’m speaking out of turn, perhaps. Mr. van der Byl is a strange man. He’s not like other people. I know how you feel about him, I’ve watched it all, you know - but listen, Johnny, you can go anywhere on your own now. There are a lot of other companies that want you-” But he had seen the expression on Johnny’s face, and stopped okay, Johnny.
Forget I ever said it. I only spoke because I like you.” Thinking on it now, there had been substance in Michael’s warning. Certainly he was General Manager of Van Der Byl Diamonds, but he was no nearer to the Old Man than he had ever been. He lived under the mountain but the mountain was remote and he had not been able to scale the lowest slopes.
He had found the city as lonely as the desert, and he was ripe for the first attractive woman who set her snares for him.
Ruby Grange was tall and slim with hair the colour they call “Second Cape” in a diamond, like sunlight through a crystal glass of champagne.
He wondered now at his own naivety. That he should be so easily misled, and should have rushed so headlong into her web. After the wedding she had revealed herself, exposing the deeply calculating greed, the driving hunger for flattery and material possessions which was her mainspring, and her complete absorption with herself - Johnny had not been able to believe it. For months he fought off the growing certainty until it could be denied no longer, and he looked with chilled dismay on the shallow selfish little creature he had married.