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For my sister
All torture is, in the end, directed at the spirit.
Rogue Male Geoffrey Household
Friday
June 15
1
The bridle path was rarely used in summer. Never in the dead of winter. Almost never. The low cloud lifted and broke, the dawn sky pale, as a horse stepped out of the trees.
Cassie turned her collar up against the wind knifing up the valley. She patted the glossy bays arched neck and the horse, reassured, picked his way through drifts of leaves. The reeds closed behind them.
The bay stopped, nostrils flaring, where some leafless poplars stood sentinel. Cassie urged the horse on. The night before, she had jumped the fallen oak on her way home, and she now gathered up the slack reins and coaxed her horse into a canter. As she did so, the wind tore a sheet of plastic from under a tree. The horse reared. The girl fell hard, hitting her head, pain exploding.
Her quick breath, a knife in her chest. Ribs cracked.
The wind moaning in the trees the only sound.
Cassie rolled onto her side in the hard cold mud, drawing up her knees, opening her eyes.
A tiny foot, waxen and white, protruded from under the fallen tree.
A doll, it had to be. One of those kewpie dolls that had haunted her childish dreams.
Cassie closed her eyes, but when she opened them it was still there: a small foot a childs foot. Cassie yanked at the sheet of black plastic. The hungry wind snatched it from her hands, exposing a swaddled child. Matted black hair, pale bruised skin.
A girl. Maybe three years old. So thin, her knees drawn up to her chest, stick-like arms wrapped round them. The child was blue with cold.
Cassie reached across to pick her up, but her stomach clenched when the girl stuck fast in the mud. She tried again, but the child had been tethered at the waist. Cassie worked the twist of leather loose and pulled her free.
How to warm her? How?
Cassie lifted her top and pressed the cold, limp body against her own warm skin. She tucked her in as best she could, pulling her pink fleece over the little girl.
Her horse, trembling too, stepped closer, touching Cassies shoulder with his muzzle. She leaned against him, felt his heart rate slowing, felt her own slow in response to the animals comforting presence. Breathe, she told herself. Breathe, she told the child. Breathe. Please dont be dead.
The horse touched the little girl with his velvet nose, his breath gentle on her face. Cassie felt the childs heartbeat flicker, tentative, erratic. She tightened her arms around the child.
Help.
Thats what they needed.
Help.
She found her phone, forced her fingers to work, dialled the emergency number.
The man who answered said: Mountain Men. He said: Control.
Please, help… the valley bridle path… shes dying, a little girl… my horse, we fell… the valley, yes… shes tied up… alone, yes… shes alone, Im alone. Please come, please.
Keep still, keep warm, keep together, said Control.
Cassie held the child close, the child kept breathing.
Control was talking. Phoning people, saying, Doctor… police. Help. Hang on.
Cassie folded her body over the tiny husk of a child. Dont die, dont die, she said.
Her horse, warm against her back, shielded her from the wind.
2
Clare Hart held the narrow strip of plastic in her hand, but no matter how long she stared at it, the test in her hand remained positive. The uncompromising line across the centre confirming what the nausea this morning, yesterday morning, two whole weeks of mornings, had been trying to tell her. Physical evidence that she had ignored. She looked up at herself in the cracked mirror. She hadnt slept last night and it showed.
Now what?
Phone Riedwaan, thats what. The thin blue line was his problem too.
In theory.
This was a decision they had to make together.
In theory.
In practice, Clare hadnt seen him for two missed periods. She hadnt spoken to him either. She hadnt been able to. Hed gone undercover Joburg, maybe further north. He shouldve been back last night. Clare would not admit it, not even to herself, but shed waited up for him.
She scrolled through her phone. She knew all his numbers. Home number, office number, cellphone: shed had them by heart before shed slept with him. Shed slept with him before shed known his first name.
She dialled his cellphone.
Faizal. Gang Unit. Voicemail. Leave a message.
But she didnt. If he was back, hed see shed called. Hed phone her back. Maybe by then shed have decided what to do with this thin blue line bisecting her life just like it bisected the narrow piece of plastic in her hand.
You OK, Doc? Major Ina Britz filled the doorway. Black belt, black beanie, grey brush cut: she was never going to win a beauty contest.
Im fine. Clare turned round.
I thought you were talking to someone.
Trying to, said Clare.
You look like shit, Clare, said Ina.
You were looking for me to tell me that? Clare dropped the plastic strip into the bin.
No, said Ina. Im looking for you to tell you the Mountain Men Control sent through a Section 28 special.
What is it? The band of anxiety round Clares chest tightened. Past experience told her that a Mountain Men alert meant trouble.
A horse rider found a little girl on the Orange Kloof bridle path.
Anyone report a missing child up there? asked Clare.
Not yet.
How old is she?
About three. Looks like she was there all night. Ina Britz handed Clare the note.
Shes alive?
Only just, said Ina.
Christ, said Clare, scanning the sparse details.
Youd better get up there before the uniforms arrive and fuck things up.
What about the Community Consultation Forum? asked Clare, watching the black Pajero turning into the muddy parking lot outside their makeshift offices. The new police ministers advisor stepped out of the sleek black vehicle. Jakes Cwele. Leather overcoat. Snakeskin shoes. Its scheduled in a couple of hours, and theres Jakes Cwele. Whats he doing here so early?
Hes here to close us down. He told me he wants to wrap up your report on child killings at the meeting this morning, Clare. Thats what I was coming to tell you when this came through.
Tell him no ones getting the report until Im done with it. End of June. Clare pushed her arms inside her damp coat. Thats when my contract with Section 28 expires.
I told him that, said Ina. He wasnt happy.
I wasnt employed to make people happy, said Clare. Neither were you.
No need to remind me, said Ina. You get up there, get this case going, therell be no way he can publicly pull this unit if youre in the middle of an investigation. Ill be up there soon as Ive told him.
Whats he got against children? Clare was checking whether her iPad with its database of missing children was charged. It was.
Cwele doesnt give a fuck about children, said Ina Britz. Its Captain Faizal and the Gang Unit he doesnt like. So by association that includes you and me and the 28s.
You going to cancel the Community Forum? asked Clare.
Not for one second, said Ina. Thisll turn it against him.
We dont know what this is, said Clare.
&nb
sp; Believe me, said Ina. Whatever it is, this time its going to blow up in Cweles face. Now go. Not out the front.
Clare grabbed her emergency kit and took the fire escape. The wind pounced, pulling at her clothes, her hair, her car door.
3
Clare drove up Orange Kloof until the gravel track ran adrift in the reeds. She parked and walked up the bridle path. This far up the valley, the path was narrow, seldom used. The reeds, fed by the recent rains, reached for each other above her head, enclosing her in their hostile embrace.
It was a relief to reach the clearing. Mandla Njobe, immaculate in his khaki-and-black Mountain Men Security uniform, raised a hand in greeting. He held the reins of a horse, his low voice quieting the nervous bay. Beside him was Gypsy, his wise-eyed Alsatian. Clare held her hand out to greet the dog, and the animal reciprocated with a single dignified thump of her plumed tail. A girl of about fourteen was huddled at his feet, a thermal blanket over her shoulders. Her face was white, her eyes dark smudges. There was a livid gash on her temple.
This is Cassie, Njobe said by way of a greeting. He had a wary gentleness that was at odds with his squared shoulders and a past as an ex-soldier.
Im Dr Hart. Clare dropped to her knees beside the girl.
You dont look like a doctor, she said. Wheres the ambulance?
On its way, said Clare, covering her with a thermal blanket. Can I see her?
You dont look like a policeman either.
I work with the police, said Clare. When things happen to children.
She knows what shes doing, said Mandla Njobe. Show her.
The girl lifted her pink fleece, revealing an emaciated child clutched against the bare skin of newly budded breasts.
The child was naked except for a piece of filthy fabric. Her skin, taut over her ribs, her hollow belly, was so pale as to seem translucent. She was three, four at the most. Clare put her fingers against her neck. There was a flutter against her fingers. Breath, as light as a moths wing, brushed her wrist. Clare cupped one small foot in her hand. The sole so smooth, so unmarked, it seemed never to have been walked on. She lifted the dark hair: a heart-shaped face, a widows peak.
Who is she? asked Cassie. Wheres her mom?
I dont know yet, said Clare.
She turned to Mandla.
Any sign of someone else, maybe? asked Clare. A woman?
She did not need to spell it out. Mandla Njobe would have looked for a womans body already, a mothers body.
Nothing yet. No sign of a mother. The patrols saw nothing last night. No vehicles, no lights, definitely not a woman and child, said Mandla. Cops, he said. Thats what we need. More cops.
Clare thought of Riedwaan, her hand on her phone. She had underestimated how little talent she had for waiting, especially for Riedwaan Faizal. But there was no point in calling him. Hed told her hed get in touch with her when he was able to.
Cassies voice cut through her thoughts.
How did she get here, Dr Hart? Cassies eyes filled with tears, her own childhood not that remote.
Tell me how you found her while its fresh in your mind, said Clare. Thatll help us work that out.
I was riding down to the beach.
Did you see anyone on the way? asked Clare.
The sun wasnt up yet. I saw no one, nothing till I got here.
Thats when you saw her?
No, no, said Cassie. My horse shied when I tried to do the jump. I fell. I hit my head.
She put her hand against the oozing gash in her temple.
When I opened my eyes I saw her little feet. Not a mark, just like a babys. I pulled away all the plastic and I saw her. With nothing on, just this old red lappie. I didnt know what to do so I untied her
What do you mean, you untied her? Clare interrupted.
She was tied to that fallen tree. Heres the belt.
She handed Clare the twist of leather. Clare coiled it malignant as a snake into an evidence bag.
And then?
Then I picked her up, held her against my skin. Her voice caught in her throat. But shes so light, it feels like Im holding a ghost.
From a distance, the roar of a helicopter. Cassie started to shake. The cold, the shock, and the realisation that other people, older people were taking charge. Mandla Njobe dug in his pocket and pulled out half a Mars bar.
Eat this, he said.
She stripped the wrapper and ate it, a little colour returning to her face. The helicopter was close, the whip-whip of the blades audible.
Anything else? asked Clare. Did you see anyone?
I rode from my house, through the forest and downstream. I saw nobody except the Mountain Men patrol on the other side of the valley, said Cassie. The same as last night. I didnt see anyone then either.
What time last night? Clares voice was sharp; Cassie recoiled.
I know it was wrong, she said. Dont tell my mom, please. My dressage lesson was late, so I came this way. Its the quickest.
No, no, said Clare. Thats not what I meant. You said there was no one here last night. What about the little girl?
It mustve been five-thirty. It was almost dark. Cassie concentrated as if she were running a film in her head. She wasnt here.
How can you be so sure? asked Clare.
When I did the jump I dropped my crop, said Cassie. I had to get off to pick it up. There was nothing there.
Thursday sunset till Friday sunrise. Clare had a time frame. It wasnt much, but it was better than nothing.
4
The red helicopter, its blades slicing the sodden air, landed in the clearing. Clares anxiety eased a fraction. The paramedics were off and running before it had settled properly, a stretcher between them. A man followed them, unfolding himself from the helicopter. Anwar Jacobs. Child trauma specialist. He and Clare had worked on a dozen or more Section 28 cases in the last six months. He was the fading childs best hope.
Clare. He acknowledged his colleague as he got clear of the helicopter.
Hi, Anwar, she replied. The paramedics were easing the child out of Cassies arms and onto the stretcher.
We should meet in happier circumstances, said Anwar. Its a little girl?
Yes, said Clare, walking with him. Girl fell off her horse, found the child. The little girl would otherwise be dead.
Was it you who found the little girl? Jacobs knelt next to Cassie.
She nodded. I picked her up, said Cassie. I put her against my skin. My mom does it with puppies if theyre born very weak.
You did the right thing, Cassie, He gently touched the contusion on Cassies head. Now you need to let us see to her. And you need to see to her head, he said to the paramedics.
Then he looked down, all his attention on the child he was laying out on the stretcher.
Anwar Jacobs smoothed the little girls hair. Her eyes were closed, pain etched on her chalk-white features in a way that did not seem possible in so young a child. It was as if her very dreams were a terror, worse than the nightmare of being abandoned to such a bitter night. His large hands were swift and deft. They dwarfed the spectral child as he tenderly unwrapped her. The tiny girls shallow breathing seemed as if it might crack her fragile ribs. Her parchment skin, bruised and filthy, was pallid with a greenish undertone.
I need to stabilise her here, said Dr Jacobs. The heartbeat, its fading fast. They erected a tent over the narrow bed. A miniature field hospital.
The oxygen mask was easy, but the hunt for a vein took six attempts. Jacobs found a vein, the single dark drop of the girls blood swirling into the rehydration fluids the signal of success.
That list of yours giving you anything there, Clare?
Nothing yet, said Clare, scrolling through the database on her iPad. So far, no little girls fit her description. When I can talk to her
Shes not going to be conscious any time soon, he said. So shes not going to be able to tell you what happened.
Shes going to make it, though?
That I cant say yet, he said, openin
g the girls tightly curled fists for the obligatory scrape under the fingernails.
Can you give me anything to work with, Anwar?
Shes been starved, said Anwar Jacobs, glancing up at Clare. Something Ive never seen in a white child in Cape Town. But theres other stuff here I havent seen before. I need to get her to intensive care now. You coming with us?
As soon as things are sorted here, said Clare. We have to search the area, get the forensics done, house-to-house questions.
Ill call you as soon as I have something, he said. You call me when you have a name.
Her family must be freaking out, one of the paramedics said, strapping the child onto the stretcher.
Unless it was them who did it, said Jacobs. Family. Sometimes the most dangerous people a child can meet.
The medics ducked under the whirling blades of the helicopter. In minutes, it was lifting. Then it hovered a moment, a red dragonfly above the trees. The pilot steadied the chopper in the wind, it tilted away, and the silence rushed back to fill the void.
5
An owl hooted, the sound tipping Clare back to last nights darkness and a little girl too weak even to walk. She had been carried here, that much her unmarked feet had revealed.
Clare knelt beside the fallen oak, reading the tiny marks and disturbances to the soil in a way that another woman might read a book. There wasnt much just a flattening of the leaves, a frightened animal seeking refuge from the storm, perhaps. Clare looked up at the thick undergrowth that ringed the clearing. The bridle path was a narrow opening in the reeds; beyond, on the other side of the river, a forest where shadows shifted the shapes of the trees.
Clare examined the belt that had held the child fast to the fallen oak. She looked up at the bridle path. The arms carrying her had tired, perhaps, and so the child was tethered to the fallen tree, its branches providing some protection from the sleet.
A movement drew Clares gaze. A porcupine breaking cover. The creature paused at the edge of the clearing and looked back at Clare, then it turned and ran, dropping a quill as it disappeared into the reeds.
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