by Malla Nunn
“Let’s go,” he said.
She stood up and took his hand. Her fingers curled around his and squeezed tight. Emmanuel turned to the door and noticed pockmarked Piet staring at them with evil intent. Not good. Emmanuel started walking. Please, God. The shattered doorway was so close now. Just four more steps.
“So sweet,” Piet muttered. “The way you looked at her just then. It’s as if you actually like her.”
Emmanuel felt Davida’s fingers slip from his. Piet pulled her back into the room with a yank and held her in the tight band of his arms. Davida twisted and kicked but remained imprisoned against the foul-smelling white man with the cratered face.
“Don’t do this.” Emmanuel heard the pleading tone in his voice and tried again, stronger this time. “Let her go, Lieutenant.”
“The deal,” Piet said, “was for your release. We keep her.”
“No!” Davida arched her back and tried to wriggle free but she was no match for Piet’s bullish strength coupled with his experience in subduing troublesome prisoners. “Let me go!”
Piet lifted her in the air, as easily as he’d lift an empty laundry basket, and threw her back on the bed. The springs groaned and he straddled her in one quick move and pinned her arms above her head.
Emmanuel was close behind. His battered body found a sputter of speed from a reserve located behind his damaged kidneys. He smacked Piet hard in the side of the head and got no reaction. He went in for a second hit and connected with air. Dickie and Paul pulled him back and threw him into the chair. The dark fear from the dream consumed him and grew stronger.
“Good,” Piet said as Davida’s body strained and pressed against his inner thighs. “I like spirit in a woman: a bit of fight.”
“You have everything you want,” Emmanuel said. “She’s of no use to you.”
“I want the photos. The photos for the girl, that’s the trade.”
“If van Niekerk won’t give them up?” Emmanuel asked. That was a real possibility. “What then?”
“Well…” Piet pressed a thumb against Davida’s mouth and forced her lips apart. “You can fuck off out of here or you can stay and watch me work on her. Your choice, Cooper.”
“No.” Emmanuel struggled against the mother lode of Boer muscle holding him in the chair but couldn’t break free. “Don’t do this.”
“You cannot imagine”—Piet’s breath was coming hard as the body underneath him continued to buck and grind—“how beautiful my work can be. I will get to know this woman in ways that are beyond you. I will break her open and touch her soul.”
“Please—” Davida arched away from the evil man leaning close to her. “Emmanuel—help me—”
“Wait,” Emmanuel said. He needed Piet to stop and listen. “Wait. I’ll talk to van Niekerk and try to make a deal.”
“The girl for the photos. That’s the only deal I’m interested in. I’m not going to let your major hang on to evidence that might spoil my case further down the track.”
“Okay,” Emmanuel said. “Let her off the bed and sit her in the chair. I’ll make the call.”
Piet shifted his weight and considered the request. He was reluctant to break away from the bruising and intimate tango that prisoner and interrogator danced together in the dark of the holding cells. He lifted his body and let the girl wriggle from under him. If he didn’t get the photos, he had this to look forward to. The task of breaking the woman to his will.
Emmanuel sat Davida down in the chair and let her feel his touch, gentle and unforced. It hurt to look in her eyes and see the stark terror flickering in the dark circle of her pupils.
“Don’t leave me,” she whispered. “Please don’t go.”
“I have to,” he said. “I’ll come back in a few minutes. I promise.”
“You promise?”
“Yes.” He didn’t know if he was coming back with the keys to her release or with nothing at all. He had to roll the dice.
“Go with him,” Piet said to Dickie. “Make sure he doesn’t start trouble.”
“I’m going alone,” Emmanuel said. “Van Niekerk won’t talk if someone else is listening in. Or is that what you’re hoping for, Lieutenant? A no from van Niekerk so you can get back to work on the girl?”
“Piss off,” Piet said, and fumbled for his cigarettes. “You have ten minutes.”
“Fifteen,” Emmanuel said, and shuffled out of the room past the guard in the hallway.
21
HE MADE SLOW progress toward the office, his bruised muscles twitching with five different kinds of pain. The cut on his eyebrow had opened again and he stopped to wipe away the trickle of blood obscuring his vision. Through the red haze he saw Mrs. Ellis standing in the doorway to the kitchen, neat and trim.
“My God…my God…” she whispered. “Did they do this to you?”
Emmanuel nodded. He was still in his undershorts: a sorry, beaten man with skin pulsing red, yellow, and bright purple.
“My baby—” Mrs. Ellis gave voice to her worst fears. “My baby is alone with those men?”
“Yes,” Emmanuel said, and limped to the office. He had fifteen, twenty minutes tops to turn things around. “I’m trying to get her out.”
“Trying?” Elliot King appeared in front of him, his face pinched tight with impotent rage. “You lured her into that room. It’s your fault she’s in this position.”
Emmanuel slammed Elliot King hard in the chest and sent him flying back into a wall. He leaned to within an inch of King’s suntanned face. “Your daughter came of her own accord and she would have left of her own accord but for you and your half-baked attempt to manipulate events. This has been your doing right from the start.”
“I sent for the police, not a gang of Afrikaner thugs. I should have known not to trust the Dutch.”
“You entrusted Davida, body and soul, to a Dutchman in exchange for a piece of land,” Emmanuel said. “Now you’re not even in charge of your own house. How does it feel, Mr. King?” Emmanuel turned his back on him and limped to the office.
Winston King was inside with the phone to his ear and a crossed-out list of names balanced on his knees. He hung up and rubbed the flat of his palms over his eyes.
“No takers,” Winston said. “Botha will try to contact the commissioner of police in an hour or so to see what can be done. No promises, though. Nobody wants to mess with these Security Branch fuckers. For once the size of your donations isn’t big enough.”
“The commissioner won’t take the call,” Emmanuel said. “A member of the Communist Party confessed to Captain Pretorius’s murder last night. The Security Branch has a signed confession. Nobody is going to go up against them.”
“Shit.” Winston looked sick. “Fucking hell.”
“I’ll take that as an expression of genuine regret for your actions,” Emmanuel said, and signaled him out of the office. “It comes a little too late for the poor bastard who was beaten into a confession and it comes too late for Davida. Two other people are going to pay the price for you, but you’re used to that, aren’t you, Winston? Someone else picking up the bill.”
“Davida doesn’t mean anything to those men,” Winston protested. “Why hold her?”
“She’s currency,” Emmanuel said. “They want to exchange her for a piece of evidence that could derail their case in the future.”
“I’ll tell them—” Winston was ashen. “I’ll confess to everything if they let Davida go. I’ll put it in writing.”
“Wait—” King said from the doorway. “I’ll give them a good price to walk away. How much do you think they’ll take?”
“This might be hard for you to understand,” Emmanuel said, and sank into the office chair. “But this situation is above money. Those men believe they are guarding the future of South Africa. Your cash means nothing to them. Not with a Communist ready for trial.”
“No one is above money,” King stated with certainty.
“Fine.” Emmanuel lifted the phone. “You and
Winston go in and offer them a bribe, see what happens.”
The King men eyed the blood dripping off his chin onto the beaten flesh of his torso.
“You’ll make the deal for her?” Winston blushed at his own cowardice.
“I’ll try,” Emmanuel said, and placed the phone to his ear. “Now get out. Both of you.”
Emmanuel pushed the casement window up and leaned out to take a deep breath of fresh air. The sun was over the horizon and a golden light shone onto the meandering river and squat hills. It was going to be another fine day, full of wildflowers and newborn springbok. The office door opened behind him but he didn’t turn around. He didn’t have the heart or the stomach to face anyone right now.
“He won’t exchange the evidence for my girl, will he?” Mrs. Ellis said.
“No,” Emmanuel replied. “He won’t.”
Van Niekerk had been blunt to the point of insult. There was nothing in the proposal for him. No reason to exchange the ultimate blackmail tool for a frightened girl. He already had a maid and a cook. He had no use for another nonwhite female.
“They’re not going to kill her.” The major had been brutal in his summation. “I’ve seen the photographs and there’s nothing those men can do to her that hasn’t already been done. Disengage and walk away, for Christ’s sake.”
He could imagine van Niekerk doing just that. Walking away from a helpless human being without a second thought. That was his strength, and it would take him to the very top.
“What can I do?” The housekeeper was humble in her powerlessness. “What must I do to help my baby?”
Emmanuel heard the clink of cutlery and smelled the freshly brewed coffee. He checked his watch: 6:50 AM. He had three minutes left to make a decision. Go with van Niekerk and rise to the top of the pyramid of evil. Or stay here and go down fighting in defense of what was right.
He turned to Mrs. Ellis. She’d brought him a mug of coffee and a buttered ham sandwich cut on the diagonal. It was enough to light a spark.
“What’s in the pantry?” he asked.
“Everything,” she said. “We’re very well stocked. Mr. King insists on it.”
God bless the greedy rich, Emmanuel thought as the spark struggled to become a workable idea.
“Meat?” he asked.
“Bacon. Boerewors sausages and wild game steaks.”
“Sweet things?”
“I have some jam biscuits made up and a sponge cake for afternoon tea. Also some dried fruit and store-bought sweets.”
“Is Constable Hepple still here?”
“He’s out on the veranda waiting for you. He told Johannes and Shabalala that he couldn’t go back to town with them. He couldn’t desert his post.”
“Bring Hansie, Elliot King, and Winston in here,” he said. “We have to move fast.”
Emmanuel limped back to the guest bedroom with the mug of coffee in one hand and a half-eaten sandwich in the other. He stood in the doorway and sipped at the drink. The hot liquid singed the cut inside his mouth, slid over the lump in his throat, and continued down to the aching knot of fear in his stomach.
Sunlight filtered into the room but the Security Branch officers and the Pretorius brothers retained a grayish cast, the result of too little sleep, too little food, and too much beer.
“Well?” Piet was lounging on the bed, no doubt keeping the space warm in preparation for the woman’s return. Cigarette butts littered the floor around him.
Emmanuel forced more coffee into his bruised mouth and went to check on Davida: scared stiff but holding up. He handed her the coffee, which she drank down in a few thirsty gulps. She reached for the sandwich but he kept that firmly in his hand. It was a long shot. Relying on a plain ham sandwich to save Davida’s skin. He saw Dickie out of the corner of his eye. The big man was looking at the sandwich and at nothing else.
“Major van Niekerk wants more time to think about it. He’s going to call back in half an hour with an answer.” Emmanuel took a bite of the homemade bread and chewed it before continuing. “Can you wait that long?”
Piet stood up and flicked ash from his pants. “The answer is yes or no.”
“What do you want most, Lieutenant? The photographs or the chance to drop your pants for your country?”
Piet flushed. “And what the fuck are we supposed to do while your major prances around?”
Emmanuel shrugged, and checked his watch. Any minute now, Mrs. Ellis was going to fire the opening salvo of the battle. He took a bite of the sandwich and felt the hungry gazes of Dickie and the Pretorius brothers follow the movement of his hands. He licked butter from his fingers.
“Where did you get that food?” Dickie blurted. “And the coffee?”
“This?” Emmanuel held the sandwich up. “Housekeeper gave it to me from the braai plate.”
“What braai?” Dickie said, and sniffed the air like a hound dog. The smell of woodsmoke began to rise and mix with the aroma of bacon, onions, and fried sausage.
“That bastard, King.” Emmanuel shook his head. “He’s got enough food in the kitchen to feed an army. Although I never had anything like that when I was marching through France. No boerewors or sponge cake in my ration pack.”
Dickie’s stomach gurgled and the Pretorius brothers stepped toward the smashed doorway. The sizzle of oil and meat called all men.
“Wait,” Piet ordered. “This is a setup. Why would anyone light a braai at this time of morning?”
The lieutenant was a pure freak of nature, always on the lookout for danger. He didn’t need food or sleep so long as the “work” remained unfinished.
“Practice…” Davida leaned forward in the chair with the empty coffee mug held close to her chest. “Mr. King is going to have a breakfast braai for the guests when the lodge opens. He likes to test the food and pick what he wants.”
“What happens to the food he doesn’t eat?” Dickie asked.
“He gives it to the workers,” Davida said. “The ones building the huts.”
Dickie groaned at the thought of all that white man’s food going into the mouths of black workmen who were happy with a cob of roast corn and a piece of dried bread twice a day. He sniffed and thought he smelled brewed coffee amid the aroma of roast meat.
“Lieutenant…” Dickie begged. He was a big man. He liked six-egg breakfasts wiped up with a loaf of bread and washed down with a pot of black coffee. His stomach started to eat itself from inside. “Please…”
Piet eyed his men and saw the beginning of mutiny stirring. He’d been negligent; they hadn’t had a real meal in forty-eight hours. He pulled the woman over to the bed and secured her to the frame with his handcuffs.
“Half an hour,” Piet said.
Emmanuel handed Hansie a plate piled high with three kinds of meat and a fat slice of bread on top. The Security Branch crew hoed into the feast served up by Mrs. Ellis and King himself, who’d donned a servant’s apron for the occasion. Winston served coffee and tea with the oily charm that melted the knickers off English girls and made men dig deeper into their pockets for a tip.
“Take this to the man guarding the bedroom,” Emmanuel told Hansie. “Tell him the lieutenant said to eat it in the kitchen while you stand guard.”
Hansie went off and Emmanuel waited. Everything was going according to plan but for Piet’s restlessness. He ate and drank with his men but stopped every few minutes to check his watch and scan the area.
Emmanuel waited until Piet did his security check, then slipped into the house and bolted for the bedroom. He estimated he had two minutes. He pulled a set of keys out of his wrinkled pants and handed them to Hansie, who now stood guard outside the bedroom.
“You know what to do?”
“Of course,” Hansie said, and grabbed the keys.
“Good…” Emmanuel checked the corridor. Empty. “Remember, don’t stop until you get to Mozambique.”
“Yes, Sarge.” Hansie took off; the car keys jangled happily in his hands.
E
mmanuel unlocked Davida’s cuffs and set her free. Her wrists were marked with blood, but that was child’s play compared to what Piet Lapping would take out of her if she was still here when he got back.
“We have to be quick. Go out the window and run straight to the night watchman’s hut. Fast as you can.”
She had to be out of the room and sprinting before Hansie fired up the sports car and drew the men to the front of the house. The window creaked open and Emmanuel lifted her in his arms.
“You?” she said.
“I’ll be fine.” He slid her out of the window. “Run—” he said.
She bolted across a patch of bush in her white cotton shift. She ran hard and did not look back. A memory surfaced as her form flew away from the house…
Emmanuel’s little sister ran fast down the alley, barefoot in her nightgown with the blue forget-me-nots embroidered on the collar. Emmanuel ran alongside her. He smelled wood fires in the air as they raced toward the light of the hotel on the corner. Fear blocked out the cold of the winter night. Anger burned in him at not being strong enough to stop the blade. When he was older, bigger, he’d stand and fight. Behind them, the screams of their dying mother chased them farther and farther into the darkness…
The sports car fired up with a roar and a spray of loose gravel as Hansie sped out onto the road. Emmanuel imagined the grin on Hansie’s face as he revved the sleek Jag across the veldt. He heard the blast of a horn, then footsteps and voices raised in surprise. The Security Branch was taking the bait. Car engines turned over and wheels spun. The pursuit had begun.
He listened for Davida, but with luck she’d made it to the night watchman’s hut and escaped. The plan was to transport her to a safe place known only to King and his faithful servants.
Emmanuel turned to leave. By all conventional standards this case was a failure. The wrong man beaten into a confession, the Security Branch triumphant, and van Niekerk set to blackmail his way up the ladder. Rescuing Davida would have to be the saving grace. It would have to be enough for him.
“You think you know pain?” Piet stood in the doorway, calm as a cobra eyeing a field mouse. “A bullet wound and a few bruises? They are nothing. The scribbling of a child on your body.”