Thunder over the Grass

by Steve Turnbull

  Ulrika shook her head.

  “Did you trust this woman?”

  “I had to!” Ulrika shouted and stood up. Maliha looked pointedly in the direction of the bedroom door. Ulrika sat down. “I had no choice.”

  “We always have a choice.”

  Amita had finished with the telephone and now stood next to Ulrika’s chair. She handed Ulrika a kerchief as she wept once more. Amita caught Maliha’s eye and gave her mistress an admonishing look.

  “Some of these are not bad women,” said Maliha. “But there are those who have no heart. They realise that if they do not need to spend the money they receive on the child they will have more for themselves. There have been cases of women who killed the children they took in.”

  “Why are you saying this to me?” demanded Ulrika between sobs. “Do you hate me so much?”

  Maliha closed her eyes and felt her own tears burning behind the lids.

  “I don’t hate you but I need you to understand what may be the truth here.”

  “The most likely truth?” asked the girl.

  “Yes.”

  iv

  The sun lit up the room and filled her closed eyes with sourceless light. She buried her head further into the pillow. She could smell the left-over scent of his shaving lotion then smiled as she thought of holding him close and breathing in the scent of his body.

  A shadow passed across the sun. The mattress squeaked and someone pushed her plait back from where it lay across her face and lips pressed against her cheek. Bristles scratched her face. She was not sure whether she was still dreaming.

  “Good morning, sleepy head.” A calloused hand came down on her bare shoulder and squeezed gently.

  She rolled on to her back and opened her eyes. Her cheek had not lied, he needed a shave.

  “Did you miss me?” he said. She reached out, grasped him by the shoulders and pulled him down to her. She kissed him for a long time, holding him as tight as she could as if she were a drowning woman clinging to a log.

  “Seems that you did,” he said when she finally released his lips. He rolled off her and she followed with her arms still round him. She rested her head on his chest and was calmed by his firm heartbeat.

  “What’s wrong, my love?”

  “I don’t know,” she said into his shirt which was still dusty from his journey. “I am scared, Valentine.”

  He gave a laugh that was almost a snort. “You?”

  “It’s not a joke,” she said. “Something about this makes me very afraid.”

  “About what?”

  “Someone stealing children.”

  “It’s really happening?”

  She nodded, scraping her cheek on his buttons. She got up and knelt by his side. She was aware that her nightgown did not hide her body very well, but this was Valentine; she liked the way he admired her.

  She studied him in his travelling clothes and frowned. They really would have to have the sheets changed; the dirt from the road was falling off him into the bed. She glanced at the clock on the mantel, it was only seven o’clock. He must have started very early.

  He looked thoughtful.

  “What did you discover?”

  “I found Marten Ouderkirk’s family. I don’t know whether my information helped them or not, but they let me stay the night at least. It was as well we didn’t tell them about Baba. They are as bigoted as any in this place. I imagine it would have done more harm than good; they certainly would not have wanted to keep her. Except perhaps to punish her in her mother’s stead.”

  Maliha nodded. “But you found the place where they boarded the vessel?”

  He smiled and nodded. “There was a drunk who was recruited but missed the boat.” His face fell.

  “What is it?”

  He raised his hand and ran it down her arm making it tingle. “I adore the colour of your skin.”

  “What did you discover?”

  “I don’t know, Maliha,” he said. “Mr Ouderkirk accompanied me, and that turned out to be a great blessing. We found the place the ship had landed. It was of the same type that I saw over Pondicherry, perhaps even the very same one.” He trailed off.

  “But...?”

  “We were attacked.”

  “By men?”

  “No, by a hyena.”

  “A pack.”

  “Just one.”

  “They eat carrion and only hunt when they must, in packs.”

  Valentine shrugged. “It would seem that this one had not read the rulebook.”

  “Was it rabid?” she said, suddenly worried, she glanced across his clothes looking for a tear.

  “I’m all right,” he said. “You and Ouderkirk both! If you like I will strip naked for you to check.”

  She gave a coy smile and he tutted.

  “We went to a farm nearby. Everybody was dead and had been for a long time. And there were dead hyenas mixed up with them.”

  “You’re saying a pack of hyenas attacked a farm?”

  He nodded, pulled himself up and went towards his bathroom.

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Tell the hyenas. And what’s more,” he said. “The one we killed? Its eyes were pitch black. No pupils at all.”

  She frowned. “How could that be?”

  “I’ll leave the clever stuff to your intellect, my dear.” He stood up and stretched, working the kinks out of his back. “I need to get clean.”

  Every penthouse bathroom had hot and cold running water and she soon heard the water thundering into the bath. She brushed the dirt out of the bed as best she could. She was tempted to go out on to the balcony but after Ray Jennings had taken those pictures, no matter how poor they might be, she decided it might not be the best move. Instead she just threw the windows open to let fresh air in.

  She busied herself tidying around the place until she heard him groan and splash into the bath. She could not prevent the smile that crept across her face.

  It took a little courage, she was not like Françoise Greaux, but he had not locked the door to the bathroom. She went to the door that led through to Barbara’s suite and locked it to avoid any awkward interruptions, then returned to the bathroom and pushed open the door.

  The way the bath was arranged he lay facing the door. He had his eyes closed. The water was clear but the ripples and distortion obscured the view of his entire body. She pushed the shoulders of her nightgown to the side and wriggled so it fell to the floor.

  In her bare feet she stepped up to the lip of the bath and stretched one leg over and in. The movement of the water disturbed him and he opened his eyes. He must be tired, she thought. She could see the thoughts running through his mind as he realised what was happening, then attempted to cover himself, then realised she was naked and finally simply made room for her.

  Climbing into a bath was not a very elegant action but she managed without too much embarrassment and then sank down into it. They had to let some of the water out otherwise it would have splashed over the top. She sat awkwardly with her head among the taps, and her legs intertwined with his.

  He seemed almost incapable of taking his eyes from her breasts. She decided it must be because he was so tired.

  “I have not heard of sharing a bath,” he said.

  “It has a long tradition,” she replied.

  “Really?”

  “The Romans did it all the time.”

  “The Romans were thoroughly debauched.”

  She smiled. “And we are not?”

  “Not thoroughly,” he said. “Not yet.”

  “Is that a promise or a threat?”

  “Which would you prefer?”

  She flicked her fingers into the water and splashed him. He plunged both hands in and thrust them at her, launching a wave that reached her chin and splashed on to the floor.

  They burst out laughing.

  “Always overdoing your retaliation, Mr Crier,” she said.

  He nodded. “That is the story of my life.”<
br />
  “Well,” she said. “I believe I must check your body for rabid hyena bites.”

  “Really?” he said and then paused, apparently the prospect of what might be to come was overwhelming, then he recovered. “Yes, I expect you should. Where would you like to start?”

  “Here!” she said, grabbed his foot and lifted it out of the water. His posterior slipped forward and his head sank backwards. He came up spluttering.

  “You will pay for that, Miss Anderson.”

  v

  The bath had been fun, Valentine thought as he pulled on his boots and laced them tight. They so seldom had any time for simple enjoyment. Usually they spent their hours dealing with violent death or dangerous murderers. She was driven to do it, and he did it because?

  He was at a loss. Once upon a time he had done it for King and Country; it was his duty and he felt it had value. Now he did it because he wanted to please Maliha and, perhaps, part of him also objected to having an incomplete case. If he could find Timmons and bring him to justice then perhaps he could face her without the guilt that lurked at the back of his mind.

  He glanced over at where Amita was assisting Maliha into another flowing dress he had not seen before. Amita had brought the clothes and items through into his rooms. This dress was an attractive pastel yellow. It had a decorous neckline and length—barely revealing her ankles or her breastbone—but left her arms bare.

  Amita tightened the white belt that cinched Maliha’s delicate waist. Valentine smiled to himself as he tied the laces on his other boot. He had told Maliha there would have to be changes with Amita now that he and Maliha were engaged. And there had been: he had changed. Somehow he no longer felt embarrassed knowing that Amita was a woman in clothing and attitude alone. But that was apparently enough.

  They took breakfast in Barbara’s suite at nine o’clock and he was introduced to their new stray, Ulrika. He made no comment. Maliha seemed to collect random people but always she would put them to work in one way or another. She brought him up-to-date on the information supplied by Jennings—another stray, though in this case a most unwelcome one, like a dog with mange that insists on following you home.

  The girl, Ulrika, looked tired as if she had not slept well. Maliha had not discussed why she was here but he gathered from the conversation that she was being a wet-nurse to Baba. He said nothing despite knowing that Baba had been taken off the breast back in India. He let it go; it was not a subject one discussed at the breakfast table.

  “What are your plans, Valentine?”

  He jumped at his name; he had been so engrossed in his own thoughts.

  “I will be heading back to the air-dock to see if there’s any news. What about you?”

  “I need to talk to the man accused of killing his wife,” she said. “If he’s innocent he will know something.”

  “What about Barbara?”

  Maliha sighed. “I would prefer to stay with her, of course. But Ulrika will be sufficient: someone Barbara can talk to. Anyway I can’t trust Ray to investigate properly.”

  “You would trust him at all?”

  Maliha shrugged. “He is a newspaper reporter. He can be trusted to do what a newspaper reporter would do.”

  “Lie?”

  “Omit inconvenient facts.”

  She smiled at him across the breakfast table in full view of Amita and Ulrika. He smiled back. Unaccountably Ulrika grabbed up a napkin and dabbed her eyes before excusing herself and going back into Maliha’s rooms.

  Maliha stared after her. “I am not going to second-guess my every thought and action simply because it might make Ulrika cry,” she said, quite huffily Valentine thought.

  “Why did that make her cry?”

  “I have no idea.”

  * * *

  Valentine stepped out into the main street and put on his fedora to block the sun’s glare. He had left Maliha with Ray Jennings. He had turned up at ten o’clock and eaten what was left on the breakfast table. It was astonishing watching him put away such a quantity.

  He had looked up and grinned. “Stay stocked up as you never know where the next meal is coming from—an old infantry saying.”

  “I doubt you were ever in the army,” Valentine had commented.

  “Don’t make it untrue.”

  Valentine forbore to agree with the nasty little man and left as soon as it was polite to do so. Maliha had come out into the hotel corridor with him and they kissed. Once again she became the woman he had found in bed that morning.

  “Be careful,” she had said holding him tight.

  “Careful is my middle name.”

  “Valentine is your middle name.”

  “Only one of them.”

  “Be careful,” she said again.

  “I will.”

  Then she kissed him again and went back into the room without another word, shutting the door on him.

  Across the road he saw the two street children that had been hanging around Maliha, what were their names? Izak and Lilith? They might be able to help him. He crossed the busy street dodging carriages, steamers, diesel machines and trams. Not to mention bicycles and other pedestrians.

  “If you marry the goddess will you be a god?” said Izak without any preamble.

  Valentine smiled then thought how angry Maliha would be at Izak’s description. “She’s not a goddess, that was just a misunderstanding.” There, he had done his duty though he knew it would make no difference whatsoever.

  “Is she gonna find the stolen children?” asked the little girl.

  “If she can.”

  “She going to bring fire out of the sky and burn the bad people?”

  “No, she’s not going to do that. She’s really not a goddess.”

  Lilith looked unconvinced and very unimpressed that he should lack faith. He decided he needed to take the upper hand as the conversation was careening out of control.

  “I wondered if you would be able to help me.”

  “You working for the goddess?”

  “Yes.” After a fashion. “But she’s really not a goddess.”

  “Your name is Crier.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you cry a lot?”

  Valentine sighed. How many times had he heard that joke in his life? But he looked down at the child. She was deadly serious. He was about to say no, because crying was not perceived as a manly trait, but what was the truth? He had cried many times since he had met Maliha.

  “I cry as much as the next person, I suppose.”

  “But your name is crier,” she insisted.

  “And yours is Lilith,” he said.

  She looked at him as if he was crazy. It occurred to him that he wasn’t going to explain to this child who Lilith was.

  “What do you want to know?” asked Izak apparently deciding that his sister, or whatever she was, had been doing too much of the talking.

  “I need to go to the air-dock and see if there’s a message for me. If there isn’t—” he paused wondering if he should ask but it was probably too late now. “Do you know the bad places where air-sailors go?”

  “Are air-sailors stealing the children?”

  “Shut up, Lilith,” said Izak and hit her across the head. “I know some places. You want me to take you?”

  Valentine wanted to say no, he certainly did not want Lilith near those places, but truth was he could do with a guide. It would make his job a lot easier.

  “If there’s no message, yes,” he said. “But not Lilith.”

  “She’ll be with me,” said Izak.

  Valentine did not bother arguing.

  vi

  Maliha with Amita and Jennings took the cab to the central police station. It was not far; nowhere in Johannesburg was any great distance. As the capital city of a country it was not very large. However Maliha did not want to walk and felt arriving in a cab would look better.

  The policeman behind the desk glanced up as she entered then proceeded to ignore them. Maliha felt the ang
er building but she did not know how to deal with these people and entrenched prejudice.

  “Oi, mate,” said Ray, in a conversational way.

  “Can I help you?” said the sergeant, looking only at Ray.

  “Yeah, bet you can,” he approached the desk and spoke more quietly, almost conspiratorially. “You know who this is, right?”

  “Not sure I really care, mate.”

  “She’s someone who can get your rear-end hauled across the nearest fire, and you broken back to copper. If not out all the way.”

  Maliha could not believe what she was hearing. She turned away from the desk to hide her face. It was not that she wanted to laugh but it was utterly outrageous. She forced herself to study the map of Johannesburg and its surrounds on the wall.

  “Let me introduce meself,” said Ray. “Ray Jennings, reporter for the Manchester Guardian—you heard of that, right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Remember in the war when that woman reporter, Churchill, she blew the whistle on the women’s camps, got the Brits to fix it? And reported on the state of the farmers and got the Brits to give them money too? Well she’s a mate of mine. Works on the same newspaper.”

  Maliha could not see the sergeant but as Ray’s ridiculous story unfolded she could imagine him being taken in.

  “But what’s that got to do with this one?”

  “She does investigating. You know those stories about Sherlock Holmes?”

  “I’ve read some.”

  “This one is like a real Sherlock Holmes.”

  “But she’s coloured.”

  Maliha’s amusement turned to fury; she could feel herself go rigid with anger. Amita placed her hand gently on Maliha’s shoulder.

  “Don’t let that fool you, she’s solved loads of crimes and even had her aunt locked up for murder. She’s got no soul that one.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  There was a long pause. Maliha desperately wanted to turn round but forced herself to remain where she was. She realised they were still talking, but so quietly she could not hear the words.

  The sergeant finally cleared his throat. “Miss Anderson.”

  She turned. The supercilious look on his face had been replaced by a nervous apprehension. She walked towards the desk and he leaned back in his chair. She glanced at Ray; it was now he who looked smug.