The Boston Snowplough

by Sue Rabie

  He had to stop them, he was the only one who still could.

  David pushed past Inga and made for the back door.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’ Inga asked as he limped behind David towards the kitchen. ‘Where are you going?’

  David made for the back door, but he stopped to pick up the tin of rusks.

  ‘I’m thinking they would have already got to the bus by now,’ he said, trying to pry the tin open. ‘I’m thinking they’ve got the women and the boy and have found whatever it is they’re looking for. By now, they are already on their way back to the club.’ He got the lid off the tin as he stepped off the stoep. ‘They’ll need to take care of the people at the club first,’ he said as he looked around for the horse. ‘Then when the helicopter lands, they’ll only have to take care of the paramedics.’

  The horse was standing outside the tack room where its food was kept, and David held the tin of rusks out to it and shook the contents.

  The horse pricked up its ears and began to amble over.

  Inga watched David as the horse came nearer. ‘So, you’re going back there?’ he asked. ‘You’re going up against these men who have weapons and hostages, and who’ve already shot a man and killed two others, and you’re just going to stop them?’

  David nodded.

  ‘How?’ Inga asked. ‘Do you have a gun? Do you have a plan?’

  David shook his head.

  ‘And how are you even going to get there?’ Inga asked. ‘Walk?’

  David held the tin out to the horse that had come right up to him and was sniffing at the offering.

  He glanced at Inga, a faint smile on his face. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’re riding …’

  Twenty-Four

  ❄

  David saddled two horses, the black one that had nearly trampled him, which he remembered was called Mowgli, and the toffee-coloured bay, aptly named Fats. He left them to eat as he returned to the house where he had left Inga sitting in the kitchen, his arm tucked into his stomach and a blanket over his shoulders.

  As he raided the kitchen and Anri’s medicine cabinet for painkillers, David thought about leaving Inga at the farm. At least he would have food and warmth and a roof over his head. But he decided against it in the end. Inga needed help. The painkillers he had found weren’t enough and David knew that he had to get him back to Elandskrans so someone could take care of his arm. Or at least halfway back. To the crossroads.

  ‘No,’ Inga said, when David told him his plan, ‘I’m coming with you. You can’t face them on your own.’

  David ignored him as he helped him up and led him outside to the waiting horses.

  ‘They’ll kill you,’ Inga continued as David got him onto his horse. ‘You won’t stand a chance.’

  David was silent, and Inga frowned down at him as he adjusted the stirrups and made sure Fats’s girth was tight.

  ‘But you already know that, don’t you?’ Inga said as the realisation hit him. ‘You don’t care … you don’t care what happens.’

  David stopped tightening the girth and looked up. ‘I care about what happens to the others,’ he said.

  Inga pulled the blanket closer about his shoulders. ‘But not yourself.’

  David patted the horse and then turned to his own animal.

  Inga was right. He was only worried about Anri and Miriam and Michelle, about the boy, about Mark and the others at the club, about M’Kathle and the situation at Elandskrans, about Inga. There was so much that could go wrong, so many people, so many ifs.

  What if he couldn’t save them?

  What if he didn’t get back in time?

  What if he couldn’t stop Jake and Kyle?

  Stop thinking about it, he told himself. Just do it.

  He swung into the saddle.

  He had to get Inga to the crossroads. From there Inga would be able to ride back to Elandskrans by himself, the horse would get him there in a quarter of the time it had taken them to walk.

  And then David would be on his own.

  ‘Come on,’ he reached for Fats’s reins and began leading Inga along. ‘Let’s go.’

  He didn’t see Inga scowl at him as he led the way onto the smooth path the grader had made.

  They managed a trot down the driveway, a lumbering one because Fats was reluctant and the snow was still thick even after the grader had passed, but they slowed to a walk as they reached the main road. The trail leading to the bus was obvious, as was the trail leading back towards Boston. So Kyle and Jake had got what they wanted, were now on their way back to the club.

  David turned Mowgli to the left and kicked him once more into a trot, the still reluctant Fats following with resignation. The crossroads wasn’t far, perhaps fifteen minutes at the pace they were going. They kept at it without a stop. It was difficult for Inga, David knew, but he didn’t slow down, and Fats eventually woke up to the fact that there would be no turning back to his warm comfortable stable.

  ❄

  The crossroads loomed ahead.

  They were almost at the place where David and May had made their escape the previous night.

  David stopped. There was a strange bulge in the snow on the right.

  Michelle MacFarlane’s car.

  It was now completely obscured by the snow except for the passenger door that stuck out like a broken wing. He guided Mowgli up to the door. There was a phone in there, he remembered. Michelle’s cellphone that she had been using to call for help. The storm had been heavy then, the reception poor.

  Maybe it would be different now.

  David slid off his horse and went to the car. Snow had piled into the passenger side of the vehicle, and David had to scoop handfuls of it away before he found her bag. Her wallet was on the seat next to the bag, and he picked it up and put it in his pocket, then continued searching for the phone.

  He found it on the floor, with a single bar on its screen indicating very little battery life remaining.

  The signal for coverage was also too low for a good connection.

  It would be better in Boston. He would have to wait until he got closer.

  He shoved the phone into his pocket and struggled back onto the horse.

  ‘Will you make it?’ David asked Inga as they drew up at the crossroads.

  Inga stared angrily at him. The painkillers had started to work, and now he was feeling a little better he didn’t like the thought of letting David go on his own. ‘This is not right,’ Inga argued. ‘I should be coming with you.’

  David shook his head. ‘You’ll slow me down with your arm,’ he told Inga. ‘Besides, I need you to go for help.’

  ‘And if I don’t bring help back in time?’

  ‘Then it’s up to you to pick up the pieces.’

  Inga stared at David for a moment, and then said, simply, ‘No.’

  David glared at him. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m not asking …’

  ‘And I’m not taking orders,’ Inga told him. ‘You don’t even know what you’re going to do, do you?’

  David looked away. Inga was right, he had no idea what he was going to do when he got back to Boston.

  All he knew was that Michelle, Miriam, Anri and the boy were there.

  He could save them. He could save the others too.

  And Inga might just make the difference.

  ‘If you come with me you could die,’ he told Inga.

  Inga grunted and shrugged. ‘I could die anyway,’ Inga told him. ‘I could freeze to death out here in the cold.’

  This time it was David who grunted. ‘And then you won’t be able to thank me for saving your life.’

  ‘You want me to thank you now?’ Inga suggested sarcastically.

  David shook his head. ‘I’d rather wait.’

  They grinned at each other and Inga kicked Fats’s sides. ‘Come on then,’ he said as his horse moved off down the road towards Boston again.

  David watched Fats lumber away along the grader’s trail. For a moment he was tempte
d to turn left to Elandskrans, to return to May and the warmth of the hut and the welcoming smile of the old induna who would be sitting next to the small fire smoking his pipe.

  Then he nudged Mowgli after Fats, urging the horse into a canter through the snow to catch up.

  Above him the clouds parted.

  The skies were clearing.

  Twenty-Five

  ❄

  M’Kathle didn’t understand why David Roth was doing it. He sat pondering it for a while, sucking on his pipe and wondering why this man was so eager to give up his own life for others.

  Because he knew David Roth was going to die.

  He wondered what had befallen the man for him to come to this point in his life. Whatever it was, it must have been very bad.

  He sucked on his pipe again, gazing out over Elandskrans. He had lived on the side of the hill beneath these cliffs all his life, overlooking the cattle in the kraal and the houses in the valley. He did not want to lose any of it, nor did he want to lose any of his people, but if things got worse he knew much of it would go.

  He wondered if David had anything left to lose, wondered if he was really unafraid of those men.

  The sun came out, and a stray late-afternoon beam lit up the valley before him. M’Kathle looked across to the gathering outside.

  Everyone was there.

  They waited on him. For his decision.

  The elders were still talking, the women waiting discreetly behind them. The white woman was there too. She was excluded from any of the discussions, a worried look on her face as she tried to follow the arguments. M’Kathle felt sorry for her. If it was him in her place, he would feel impatient. If it was him, he would be angry.

  He sighed and took one last draw on his pipe.

  It was time to make his decision known, time to go across and tell the others what he would do.

  The talking stopped as he came into their midst, the elders making room for him to enter the circle so he could be heard.

  ‘Have you all spoken?’ he asked in Zulu of no one in particular.

  There was a general nodding of heads and one of the older men stepped forward. ‘It would be foolish to involve ourselves in matters that don’t concern us,’ he said. ‘We think it would be best to let them sort out their own troubles rather than become entangled in their folly.’

  M’Kathle saw the white woman’s shoulders sink.

  He nodded sagely, facing the one who had spoken. ‘And of our own situation?’ he asked.

  Another man stepped forward. ‘The sky is beginning to clear now. We will survive if we slaughter one of the cows.’

  Again, M’Kathle nodded. ‘Yes, we will survive …’

  He stopped there, because he was interrupted.

  May’s patience had run out.

  She took an angry step forward, still on the outside of the circle of elders. ‘My God,’ she said harshly, ‘are you not going to help us?’

  M’Kathle held up his hand to quieten her. She was clearly desperate, upset that no one was prepared to listen. She had explained the situation to the elders, had described in detail what had happened, what Kyle and Jake had done.

  But nobody had said or done anything.

  M’Kathle turned back to his people. ‘We will survive,’ he continued as if May had not interrupted him. ‘We have survived, because of one man.’ He turned to her. ‘She is right, he saved all of us. We must help him.’

  M’Kathle looked at the others in the circle.

  They did not speak as they faced him. They did not need to. They saw the resolve in the old man’s eyes, saw the pride.

  ‘I will need ten good men,’ M’Kathle Ngubane said. ‘Tonight, we go hunting.’

  ❄

  Phiwe stood at the front door of the club and looked at the darkening sky. He could see clear patches of deep indigo blue; the stars that shone through the breaks in the clouds seemed the brightest he had seen in all his life.

  Let it be a good sign, he thought. Let all this be over very soon.

  The morale in the club was low after the long day.

  It wasn’t just the firewood situation – the last of the wood now dead coals in the hearth – the biscuits and rusks had also long since run out. With the generator gone they could cook nothing, so all they had been able to eat were the tinned goods Malan had kept on stand-by in his kitchen storeroom.

  Malan.

  Du Plessis.

  Phiwe despaired every time he thought of them lying covered by blankets in the office. He wished they were dealing with the problems he had before him. Chief amongst them was Mark. He could see a deterioration in Mark’s condition, in the colour of his skin, in his breathing, in the clarity of his thoughts and speech.

  He was asking for David again, was calling for his wife.

  His cries were difficult to bear.

  Phiwe continued staring out into the evening.

  Let someone come soon, he thought again. Let help come quickly.

  Mark’s cries had upset the others as well. They had sympathised at first, had watched as Thembi gave him more morphine to settle him down and ease his pain. But as evening had approached the morphine had run out, and Mark’s cries had become increasingly distressing. The others began turning away from him, one or two even becoming angry at his groans.

  Owen Dlamini and Mr Mollard distracted them by sending them to find more wood.

  ‘Maybe we should move him?’ Mr Mollard had suggested to Phiwe and Thembi.

  ‘If we move him we risk doing more damage,’ Thembi had replied, shooting an angry look at the group of men and women who were watching them huddle over Mark. ‘If they are so upset by his pain, let them move. They can sleep in the storeroom. At least there they won’t have to watch him …’

  She had stopped there.

  The others knew what she was going to say, knew she had stopped short of saying it.

  Mark was going to die.

  Phiwe rubbed his hand over his face. Surely someone would come? If not the helicopter, then at least David. He wouldn’t let his friend die. He wouldn’t let the situation get out of control.

  Or would he?

  Had he really done what the others said he had done? Had he really killed Du Plessis and Malan to escape imprisonment?

  Phiwe had been unable to keep the deaths a secret for very long. The others had asked him where the owner of the club and the policeman were, and neither he nor Owen Dlamini nor Mr Mollard had been able to lie to them to keep the peace. They had told the others of the murders, had even shown the disbelieving ones the office where the bodies lay still and silent under the blankets.

  Big mistake.

  One of the men had seen Du Plessis’s Kershaw still sticking out of the Malan’s back. He had made the connection, and had immediately assumed that David had done it.

  Idiot, Phiwe thought. Not just the man for his assumption, not just himself for letting the man see the knife, but David too, for leaving, and Malan and Du Plessis, for getting killed, and while he was on the subject May and Mark too, and let’s not forget Potgieter …

  He had forgotten Potgieter, as had everybody else at the club. No one had asked where the constable was, nor had they asked where Kyle and Jake were either. Did they assume they had gone after David and May? Did they assume the three men had joined forces to rescue the woman and bring a known criminal to justice?

  Is that what Phiwe thought himself?

  He didn’t know.

  All he knew was that something had to happen soon.

  Someone had to come.

  ❄

  Phiwe stared harder into the distance.

  Was that a light coming down the hill?

  It was a light, getting larger as it got closer.

  Someone had come.

  It was the grader, the single headlamp cresting the road leading down to the village. He could hear its engine as it turned into the club’s lane and trundled up the hill past the graveyard.

  At last, Phiwe thou
ght, as the grader drew to a halt facing the side of the club and he made his way quickly across the hall to meet whoever it was.

  David, let it be David and May, he prayed.

  But it wasn’t.

  In the fading light he was just able to make out Jake as he stepped from the grader, and then Alex Kyle as he opened the groom’s door and climbed out.

  Behind him came a blonde woman, young and attractive. Alex Kyle had a hand on her arm, guiding her through the snow. Jake was left to usher three more people inside – Anri Werner, a large woman he didn’t recognise and a boy.

  They were hurried across to him, Jake pushing the woman from behind as she struggled though the snow with the boy.

  ‘Where’s David?’ he asked as Kyle approached. ‘And May, have you seen May?’

  He didn’t get a chance to ask another question because Kyle was suddenly pushing a gun into his face. All he could do was retreat back into the club.

  ‘Get back!’ Kyle shouted as Phiwe stumbled backwards into the hall.

  The people gathered in the hall looked up in alarm.

  ‘You lot, get over here!’ Kyle demanded, pointing to the stage.

  The nine millimetre commanded instant respect, and they drew slowly towards the stage.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Mr Mollard demanded.

  ‘Shut up!’ Jake yelled. ‘Sit down! Against the stage!’

  Everyone sat, except Anri.

  She had seen her husband, lying on the floor with blankets covering him and a teenage girl sitting beside him.

  Anri let out a gasp, then rushed over. ‘Mark!’ she cried as she knelt over him. ‘Oh, my Lord, what happened!’

  ‘He was shot …’ Thembi began, then stopped as Jake came to stand over them.

  ‘I said, get against the stage!’ he said, bending down and grabbing Thembi by the arm.

  It was then that Phiwe struck.

  He grabbed Jake by the shoulders, pulling him backwards away from Thembi. ‘Leave her alone!’ he shouted, and punched Jake in the face.

  Had it landed, the blow would certainly have sent Jake to the floor, but Jake ducked his chin to his chest as Phiwe hit him.