by Sue Rabie
The lights in the bar dimmed and flickered.
Mark looked across at the overhead strips in the next room and waited for them to settle.
They did.
It was then that he noticed Alex Kyle and Jake were missing, their cots unoccupied.
He got up and went across to the bar. It was empty.
He returned to the hall. Potgieter still hadn’t returned with the wood, so Mark wandered as quietly as he could through the sleeping bodies to the toilets and changing rooms. The men’s changing rooms were in darkness. The ladies’ changing rooms were empty too. Undeterred, he made his way towards Malan’s office and the storerooms and it was then that he heard them.
They spoke quietly, as if they didn’t want anyone else to hear them.
But Potgieter’s voice was still loudest.
Mark moved closer.
‘… some sort of parolee, an ex-con, that’s why Du Plessis is on his case all the time.’
‘How do you know?’ someone asked. Jake.
‘I’m a cop,’ Potgieter said with exaggerated indifference. ‘It’s my job to know.’
There was a moment’s silence, as if Jake was sceptical about Potgieter’s explanation.
‘I saw the file,’ came the eventual truth. ‘They’d just had one of their monthly meetings, which in itself is a giveaway. I just happened to see what was inside Roth’s folder.’
‘Just happened to see what was inside?’ Jake asked.
Mark heard Potgieter snort. ‘I didn’t have much time to see it all, but the bits I did get a glance at were quite interesting.’
‘Really?’ Jake drawled. ‘Like what?’
‘Well, for one, Roth isn’t even his real name, it’s Theron. And, for another, it said he killed someone, something about culpable homicide, something about his licence to practise being withdrawn …’
‘Licence to practise …?’ Jake echoed. ‘What kind of practice.’
‘Dunno,’ the constable responded with apparent disinterest.
‘Well, what did Roth, or Theron, or whatever his name is, do before he came here?’ Jake asked.
‘I told you, I don’t know. Lawyer maybe?’ Potgieter suggested. ‘At least that’s what everyone else says … Hey, you’d better let me unload that if you’re going to handle it.’
Mark felt a hollow feeling in his chest as he realised what was going on between the men.
‘What do you mean that’s what everyone else says?’ Jake prompted, distracting Potgieter from his suggestion.
‘You know, the guys at the club,’ Potgieter drawled. ‘But old Mr Mollard says we’re wrong.’
‘Mr Mollard?’
‘Mr Mollard … the retired banker who lives next to Mrs Perryman.’
‘What does old Mr Mollard think?’
There was a click and a smooth whirring.
‘Well, he thinks he was some sort of doctor. He says he’s not a lawyer. His hands are too smooth for an engineer and he’s too well educated for a mechanic.’
There was disdain there and underneath that, a little envy.
‘Here,’ came an offer. ‘Have another.’
It was then that Mark realised they were drinking.
Drinking and handling a loaded weapon. Not a good combination.
Damn it, he thought to himself. They didn’t need this, not with Potgieter, he was a mean drunk.
Mark went forward, anxious to stop the drinking going any further and confident that he could handle the situation with just Potgieter and Jake there.
He was in for a shock. It wasn’t just Potgieter and Jake standing talking next to the storeroom door.
Alex Kyle was also there.
Jake had a half-jack of brandy in one hand and Potgieter’s .38 special in the other.
Damn, Mark thought.
A slow smile appeared on Jake’s face as Mark looked from the alcohol to the gun and back.
‘Why, it’s farm boy,’ Jake said, straightening up. ‘Where’s your big shot snowplough driver?’
Mark was taken aback. Kyle and Potgieter didn’t question Jake’s belligerent tone. In fact, it was Potgieter who sniggered stupidly. Jake looked at Mark with a raised eyebrow. A challenge? He began turning the revolver’s cylinder, the gun making one slow measured tick after another.
Mark realised very quickly that he needed help.
He looked at Kyle. If anyone could help, if anyone could control Jake, it was Kyle.
But Alex Kyle just looked at Mark. He wasn’t drunk. In fact, Mark could see he was far from it. His gaze was sharp; his eyes clear. He smiled a slow, confident smile. Mark suddenly realised that Alex Kyle was more dangerous than Potgieter and Jake put together.
What have I got myself into? Mark thought.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, trying to resolve the situation. ‘We should get some rest, it’s been a long day.’
No one said anything.
Jake passed the half-jack to Potgieter and went back to clicking the cylinder round and round. Potgieter took a quick, almost furtive sip of the brandy.
‘Potgieter,’ Mark cautioned. ‘You shouldn’t be doing that.’
‘Doing what?’ Potgieter said defensively. ‘I’m off duty, I can do anything I like.’
Mark tried again. ‘We’re in an emergency situation here,’ he said calmly. ‘I don’t think anyone’s off duty. And I don’t think anyone should be drinking.’
‘That’s a bit unfair, don’t you think, Mr Werner?’ Alex Kyle said, softly. He smiled. ‘I think you’re being unreasonable. Potgieter has been working his fingers to the bone. He needs to relax as much as you or Mr Roth.’
In the background the cylinder ticked slowly away.
‘David’s been out there for two days now,’ Mark said, defending his friend. ‘He’s been going nonstop trying to save your asses …’
‘Speaking of Mr Roth,’ Alex Kyle interrupted. ‘What’s so special about your golden boy? And what’s so deep and dark about his past that only the sergeant knows about it?’
Mark felt his blood pressure rise. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he told Kyle. ‘And frankly David’s past has got nothing to do with you.’ He turned to Potgieter, addressing him as he glanced at the gun in Jake’s hand. ‘He saved their lives don’t forget. He’s out there now trying to save the life of a child.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Kyle smiled. ‘The sick boy back at the farm. So Mr Mollard was right.’
He glanced lazily at Jake, a secret look passing between them, then he nodded. ‘Give Potgieter his gun back, Jake,’ he said.
Mark was still wary as he watched Jake step forward. Jake held the revolver out with his hand over the barrel and the butt facing Potgieter. Potgieter had no choice but to take the gun in his right hand, his forefinger sliding automatically into the trigger guard because of Jake’s grip.
Mark saw it coming.
He stepped back, out of the way, as the barrel swivelled towards him.
‘Don’t …’ was all he managed.
Jake took Potgieter’s arm at the elbow with one hand and closed his grip over Potgieter’s hand with the other.
He squeezed down on Potgieter’s finger, and the gun went off.
The sound of the gunfire was very loud, the echo crescendoing down the passage.
Something kicked Mark in the chest.
Suddenly he couldn’t breathe.
Twelve
❄
David hurried into the hall and pushed past the throng of people. He knew something had happened. Something terrible. He knew from past experience what the shocked, silent crowd meant – that someone was hurt.
But he didn’t expect it to be Mark.
He was lying on a cot with Du Plessis, Malan and May standing over him in a strained, panicked silence.
‘Undo his collar,’ Malan hissed at Du Plessis. ‘He can’t breathe.’
Mark …
No …
Someone had rucked up Mark’s jacket and plaid shirt to reveal a sm
all purple hole in his side. There was a thin trickle of blood coming from it, a harmless rivulet. There was also a trickle of blood coming from his mouth.
Mark …
His face was white. Around his mouth the skin had started to turn blue.
‘Mark?’
Mark’s eyes were squeezed shut against the pain, his face and neck drenched in sweat. There was a horrible gurgling sound as he tried to breathe.
David knew instantly what was wrong, knew instantly what to do.
He moved.
He took off his gloves and brushed Du Plessis aside as he knelt beside Mark.
‘Get him on the floor.’ he ordered the policeman.
‘David …’ Du Plessis began.
David didn’t give him a chance to carry on. ‘He’s drowning,’ he said as he ripped the plaid shirt open across Mark’s chest. ‘We need to get him on a flat surface.’
It was better to work on the floor, would be easier without the unsteady cot hampering his movements.
‘May … ? May!’
She looked up at him for the first time, dread in her eyes.
‘Listen to me!’ he snapped.
He waited for her to give him a jerky nod.
‘I need you to find a piece of hollow plastic pipe from the kitchen … a hose … anything!’
She gave another jerky nod.
‘I need a plastic container, a bottle … I need towels, and hot water … Can you do that?’
She didn’t move.
‘May?’ he said. ‘I need them now.’ He spoke firmly.
She gave another jerky nod and pushed herself away from the cot.
David turned to Du Plessis. ‘Let’s get him down.’
He stood up, noting the blueness around Mark’s mouth deepening, noting the strained intake of breath, the froth of pink at the lips. ‘Lean the cot to the side,’ he ordered, glancing at Malan and motioning him to steady the top end. ‘Phiwe …’ he said, looking around for the Zulu and finding him standing at the bottom of the cot staring at Mark in disbelief. ‘Phiwe, take his feet.’
Phiwe did as he was told, and between them they eased Mark to the floor.
David stepped back over Mark, elbowing someone aside as he did so and kneeling down to look at the wound.
There was still surprisingly little blood.
Not a good sign.
He glanced up at Du Plessis. ‘Your knife,’ was all he said.
‘David …’ Du Plessis said, a warning in his voice. ‘You can’t …’
‘A knife, Du Plessis …’ David hissed. ‘Quickly.’
Du Plessis took out a knife.
It wasn’t a police-issue pocketknife. It was a wicked-looking, fold-open Kershaw, the name moulded into the rubberised handle. Its smooth-edged blade was twelve centimetres long with a sharp point. Perfect.
‘Malan, I need a bottle of whiskey …’
Malan didn’t question the order, just went quickly to the bar and got the closest available brand.
‘May,’ David shouted across to the kitchen without looking up. ‘I need those things … now!’
Malan returned with the whiskey bottle, open and ready.
David opened the knife and held it out to Malan. ‘Pour,’ he instructed, and Malan complied, liberally dousing the blade with the alcohol to disinfect it.
David nodded that it was enough, then bent over the wound. His hands that had only minutes before been aching with cold seemed steady and firm, the throbbing tiredness in his back and head gone. That old sensation of power was back. He was ready. He could do this. ‘You might want to get these people back,’ he said to no one in particular.
He studied the bullet hole, gauging the trajectory and the depth of the wound. It was impossible without an X-ray. He could only hope the bullet hadn’t damaged both lungs, could only hope it hadn’t damaged anything important as it passed into the chest cavity.
He glanced up at Malan. ‘Hold his arms,’ he said. He looked at Phiwe. ‘Hold his legs.’
The two men did as they were told. The crowd around them didn’t move.
They will now, David thought, when they see the blood.
And he slid the blade up into the wound and into Mark’s chest.
There was a gasp from Mark, and a greater, combined gasp from the onlookers. ‘Oh, my Lord …’ someone breathed.
A pool of blood began to form on the floor beneath Mark’s back. There was a sigh from behind David and a heavy thud. Someone had fainted. There were urgent voices. David ignored the commotion. He turned the knife slightly, gritting his teeth as Mark tried to cry out and twist away.
The blood gushed again and Mark drew a ragged breath of air.
‘David! You’re killing him!’ It was Du Plessis who protested, the policeman’s heavy hand that David felt on his shoulder.
He tried to shrug it off.
‘No, Du Plessis,’ someone said. ‘Look.’
The change had been almost instant. Mark was breathing – still shallow, difficult breaths, but they were easier. The blueness around his mouth was fading. And yet the blood continued to flow out over David’s hands.
David glanced up at May to see if she had the equipment he had asked for and caught Malan’s eye. It had been he who had spoken in David’s favour. He was still holding Mark’s arms; Phiwe still at Mark’s feet. May was standing behind him. She had a thin plastic pipe and a plastic bottle in one hand and a steaming kettle in the other. Under her arm she gripped a clump of towels.
Her face was as white as the snow outside.
As was Du Plessis’s.
The sergeant could see Mark was breathing again, but the sight of the blade in the man’s side was still too much for him. ‘Put the knife down now, David,’ he said. ‘He’s breathing!’
And yet David kept the pressure on the Kershaw. It was the only thing keeping Mark alive, was the only thing keeping Mark from drowning in his own blood.
For now.
‘Let David work, Du Plessis,’ Malan said. ‘It looks like he knows what he’s doing.’
David did know, all too well.
He knew the consequences of his actions, knew he was breaking his parole and rendering himself liable for conviction yet again. But he didn’t care about the consequences. He was thinking only of Mark, of what he still had to do and how he was going to manage it without the proper equipment.
He beckoned May forward. She came instantly, even though it was apparent she was struggling with the sight of all the blood. She knelt at his side.
‘The bullet’s probably lodged in his chest,’ David told her. ‘He’s bleeding internally, into his own lungs. We need to let that fluid escape, but we also need to stop the bleeding from the wound itself. The plastic pipe will do that.’
‘But all the blood,’ Du Plessis said, the doubt on his face evident, ‘he’ll bleed to death.’
‘Only if you don’t let me do my work,’ David told him. ‘May?’ he prompted, turning to her. ‘The pipe?’
May slid the piping and the bottle into his hand. He shook his head at the bottle. ‘Hold it till I need it,’ he told her.
She nodded fixedly at him.
‘You sterilised them?’
He knew she had, they were still hot to the touch, but he needed her to answer, needed her to focus.
‘Yes,’ she said. Her voice was still jerky.
‘How did you sterilise them?’
‘I poured boiling water over them,’ she said, holding up the kettle. ‘I’ve still got some left.’
‘I’m going to need you to help me,’ he said. ‘Can you do it?’
She kept her composure this time. ‘Yes,’ she said. Her voice was steady and alert.
He nodded his thanks and shuffled round so he was bending over Mark’s face. His breathing was still stilted, the rivulet of blood smeared across his cheek, but no longer running from his mouth. ‘Mark?’ he called. ‘Mark can you hear me?’
Mark’s eyes were shut, held tightly closed in pain, but
he nodded almost imperceptibly.
‘Okay,’ David said, ‘I’m going to slip a pipe into you. It’s going to hurt, can you handle it?’
There was a hush as he held the piping ready against Mark’s side.
‘Mark?’ David tried again.
‘Do … it …’ came Mark’s barely audible reply.
David glanced once more at Malan and Phiwe to make sure they were holding Mark down. He took a breath, slid the pipe into Mark’s chest and deftly removed the knife. There was another intake of breath from the crowd, and a strangled moan from Mark who twisted in pain and then lay still.
He had fainted.
David continued to work. The blood was gushing once more … out of the tube and onto the already reddened carpet. David motioned for May to feed the pipe into the bottle. ‘Make sure it’s secure,’ he told her.
The end of the pipe fitted the bottle perfectly and May pushed the pipe firmly into the spout. Blood dripped rapidly into the plastic before slowly easing to a steady flow.
‘Hold it low,’ David told her.
She did as she was told as he went about cutting the towels into strips with the Kershaw.
The danger was over for now. At least Mark wouldn’t drown in his own blood, but what other damage had the bullet done?
The bullet had to be removed, the internal bleeding stopped and the wound stitched closed. But how? There were no facilities in Boston for that sort of procedure. The closest thing was the clinic, but that had no light and no power.
They needed to get him out of Boston.
‘Malan,’ David said, glancing up as he secured the pipe draining Mark’s chest with the strips of towelling, ‘can you reach the medical evacuation helicopter services on your radio?’
Malan looked doubtful. ‘Even if I get through to the hospitals in Pietermaritzburg,’ he said, ‘they might not be able to fly in these conditions.’