‘If I’m not back by dawn, run.’
‘Where to?’
‘Same place I’m going to right after. Soshanguve.’
Clay thought he’d heard wrong. ‘What did you say?’
‘You heard me – the township.’
‘Jesus,’ said Clay. ‘You’re serious.’
‘We have friends there. It’s the one place that the authorities don’t control. Well, not fully anyway. The perfect place to hide.’ She scribbled a name on a slip of paper, a Pretoria address. ‘Show him this.’ She handed him the paper. ‘He can get you in, keep you safe.’
Clay nodded. ‘Like I said. I’m going with you.’
She leaned towards him, reached for his hand. ‘I know what you’re trying to do, Clay. You want to protect me. It’s very sweet of you. But he’s only organising one badge.’
‘I’ll go, then.’
‘You don’t know what to look for.’
‘Explain it to me. I’ve told you. I’ve got a good memory. You have a camera. I can take photos.’
Vivian shook her head slowly from side to side, glanced at her wristwatch. ‘No, Clay. I have to do this.’ She stood. ‘I’m already late. I have to get to work. If I don’t show up it will only raise suspicion. We have to sit tight until I get word.’
Clay sat up in bed. The bedside clock showed just gone eleven in the morning. After Vivian had left he’d slept for a couple of hours, a fitful half-sleep haunted by shadow and uncertainty. The pain came. He’d refused Vivian’s offer of morphine that morning, had wanted to stay sharp, wanted to start weaning himself from its dulling thrall. He tried to read, but the few pages of Crowbar’s copy of Catch-22 jarred him like a shattered mirror. He’d just reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and was raising it to his lips, when he heard it.
Over the hours and days here, lying in this bed, he’d come to know the sounds of this old house: the sharp cracks from the north-facing pantry in the early afternoon, when the sun’s warmth caused the shelving to expand; the skittering of the doves’ talons on the roof tiles above the patio; the way the back windows creaked in their casements when the warm afternoon winds blew over the city. And now, this familiar sound that signalled Vivian’s departure every morning, her return in the afternoon: the creak of the hardwood floorboards just inside the front door, the noise carried along the hallway into the living area, through the open bedroom door.
Someone was inside the house.
He hadn’t heard Vivian’s knock. Had he missed it? No. Every other afternoon since that first day he’d heard it, clear and distinct. And it was too early.
Adrenaline flooded his system. Clay pushed himself up, swung his feet to the floor, grabbed the backpack – ready to go now, with extra bandages, water and food – and the Beretta from the side table. He was breathing hard. He stood, listened.
Nothing. And then, seconds later, a click. The front door closing. Another squeak of the floorboards. Two of them, then. Definitely not Vivian.
Clay shouldered the bag, winced as the abrupt movement stretched his side. He breathed away the pain, moved to the patio door, slipped outside, closed the door behind him. He scanned the back garden, the wall along the back lane. No one. He moved barefoot along the back wall of the house towards the shuttered windows of the main room. Vivian had cracked the louvres halfway before she’d left the house, as she did every morning. Crouching low, Clay peered through the lowermost slats. From here he could see the main room, the entrance to the kitchen on the right, and the doorway to the master bedroom he’d just vacated on the left. He could feel the gun shaking in his hand. He pushed it against his thigh, tried to control his breathing.
More sounds. Two sets of footsteps, clear now. Whoever it was, they were moving through the front rooms. Jesus. He should run, along the side of the house to the front hedge, out through the side gate onto the street. But there could be others out there, too, watching the front of the house. He glanced back over his shoulder, across the garden, certain now that they would have people positioned in the back. He pulled back the Beretta’s action, chambered a round, filled his lungs and prepared to move.
That’s when Clay saw him. That same pitted face, those eyes that seemed to draw in light but let none escape. Botha stood surveying the main room. A second man – taller, fair, armed with a handgun – appeared behind him. Cobra.
Botha raised his arm and Cobra stopped where he was, stood perfectly still. Clay held his breath.
Then Botha raised his chin and sniffed the air like a hyena. Clay could see his nostrils flaring, drawing in the scent of the place. Could he smell him? The blood, the sweat, the maleness he’d left on the bedsheets the night before, dulling his frustration by his own hand? Jesus. The bastard was tracking him.
Botha pointed to the kitchen. Cobra moved in the indicated direction, to Clay’s right. Botha started towards the master bedroom, to Clay’s left. Both rooms had direct access out onto the back patio. In a few seconds he would be trapped between them.
Clay crouched low and moved towards the kitchen. His side was screaming now, as if he could feel every stitch Vivian had so carefully sewn, inside and out. He stopped just before the doors, hugging the wall. The sounds of cupboards opening, the fridge closing, muffled through the window glass, and now that same Shona melody drifting through the trees, the woman’s voice soft as a lullaby.
And then footsteps, Cobra walking back towards the main room.
Clay counted three and peered through the kitchen door. Cobra was gone. Clay grabbed the door handle, pushed and stepped into the kitchen, Beretta ready. There was no sign of disturbance. The breakfast dishes were as he’d left them in the sink – two plates, two coffee cups. Shit. If Cobra was observant, they’d know she wasn’t alone.
Clay padded across the kitchen towards the main room, pushed himself hard up against the wall. A cough, and then a click and those squeaky hinges Vivian had complained about – the doors leading from the main room out onto the back patio opening. Now the sound of boot soles on the patio tile. Clay crouched behind the kitchen table. There was nowhere else to hide. If Cobra came to the kitchen door, looked in, Clay would have nowhere to go. He would have to fight. And he knew that Vivian was right: as soon as the authorities learned he was still alive, they were all going to disappear, one way or another.
Clay readied the Beretta, took aim. The moment Cobra stepped in front of the kitchen window he’d have a clear view of Clay. As soon as he did, Clay would have to kill him.
Panic came. He was falling down a deep well, the sides rifled like a gun barrel, the surface wet and slick, with no edge or fault to hold. He fell deeper, the circle of light above him growing smaller to vanishing. He tried to push it back, as Crowbar had taught them. Breathe. Focus. Your life depends on this.
Looking back, he realised that this was the start of it. Right there, crouched on that kitchen floor in a suburban home in Pretoria, naked except for a pair of shorts and a handgun, feeling the first symptoms of what would become a lifelong companion, constant only in its unpredictability, predictable only in its year-by-year worsening, until it would become as much a part of who he was as where he was born and who his parents were.
‘Check the rubbish.’ Botha’s voice, raised.
The words broke Clay free. He breathed, cycled air through his lungs. The rubbish. Here, in the kitchen?
Through the kitchen window, he could see Cobra running across the lawn towards the back wall. Cobra pulled off the lid of one of the metal bins and peered inside. He sniffed at the contents, looked up towards the house.
‘Anything?’ came Botha’s voice again, close. He was standing on the back patio, only metres from Clay.
Cobra reached into the bin, pulled out an empty tin, then a bulging, dripping plastic bag, which he held between thumb and forefinger. He stood staring into the bin.
‘No one here now,’ said Botha. ‘But he’s not dead. He’s been here. I can smell him.’
Clay’s heart rate climaxed, all
that this meant starting to cascade through him.
Cobra reached into the bin again, almost up to his shoulder this time, and withdrew what appeared to be a long strip of white toilet paper. It was covered in what looked like shit smears. He kept pulling until several metres of the stuff lay on the grass.
‘What is it?’ called out Botha.
‘A bandage. Covered in blood.’
‘I knew it,’ said Botha, walking across the grass towards the bins.
And then Cobra, barely audible: ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Cut off a piece with blood on it and bag it. Put the rest back and let’s get out of here.’
26
Presumption of Superiority
Clay waited until he was sure Botha and Cobra were gone. Then he picked up the phone. Fear coursed through him thick and hot.
A nurse answered.
Clay spoke her name – Doctor Russell.
‘She’s on the ward at the moment, I’m afraid. You will have to call back.’
‘No, wait. Please. Tell her it’s urgent. This is her father. I need to speak to her.’ It was the emergency code they’d agreed earlier.
Hesitancy. ‘I’ll try to find her, Mister Russell. Please hold the line.’
The hospital was a twenty-minute drive from the house. Botha would be on his way there way now, of this Clay was certain. He had to warn her.
And then what?
Clay stood in that strange room, the telephone in one hand, the Berretta in the other, and tried to comprehend what was happening. The realisation came hard and caustic – a reaction deep inside his core; a change of state so abrupt that he felt as if his blood had solidified in his veins. Three weeks ago he was in Angola fighting for the country of his birth, surrounded by those he would always be closest to. He’d come to accept the possibility of his own death – at least he thought he had, in an abstract, read-about-it-in-the-papers kind of way. And he’d comforted himself with the thought that, whatever happened, his body would be returned to the red soil of the veldt, next to his parents. Now he knew there was a good chance he would never see South Africa again.
The line burned empty. Clay looked at his watch. He’d been holding for almost five minutes. What was happening? Had the nurse been distracted by a patient, forgotten about him? Had Botha radioed ahead, sent his men to the hospital to arrest Vivian? Had they already arrived? He was about to hang up and try again when the line rattled.
‘Hello? Are you still there?’ The nurse.
‘Yes.’
‘Doctor Russell is in surgery. She asks me if you have a message for her?’
‘Tell her we’ve had visitors. I’m going to the beach.’
The nurse repeated the message.
‘And tell her she has less than ten minutes.’
‘Sir?’
‘She has less than ten minutes. Tell her.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It’s very important. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll tell her right away.’
Clay put down the phone. Shit. What else could he do? He didn’t have a car. Even if he stole one from the street he’d never get to the hospital in time. They’d agreed the night before on the emergency message – I’m going to the beach – as the signal for immediate danger. The beach: the address on the outskirts of Soshanguve. The plan was to rendezvous there, and escape into the township.
It was a long way, at least four hours on foot. Bus would be the best bet, one of the old diesel-belching relics the blacks used for the daily trip to and from the city for work. Nights were white. Clay dressed, swung the backpack onto his shoulders, pulled Vivian’s husband’s green bush hat down low over his eyes and started towards the back door. He’d just turned the handle when the phone rang. He stopped, waited. It rang three times. Silence echoed through the room. He pushed the door closed, walked to the phone. A few seconds later it rang again.
‘It’s me.’ She sounded scared.
‘They know I was here. They’re coming for you.’
Silence. And then: ‘Go to the beach. I’ll meet you there in two days.’
‘Two days?’
‘There is something I have to do.’
‘Don’t, Vivian. You have to get out, now.’
‘The pass is ready. I’m going in this evening.’
‘You’re crazy. They were here. They know I’m alive. They know what you did.’
‘Go. I’ll catch up with you if I can.’
‘I told you. I’m not going without you.’
Dead air on the line, her thinking about it.
‘There is a park at the end of my street. Go out the back, turn left. It’s not far. Joseph will pick you up there in twenty minutes.’
‘How will I know him?’
‘He’ll know you.’
And before he could reply she’d gone.
Clay took a last look around the room, and started for the back. He trudged down the laneway. Jacarandas wept over him, spread their fluttering shadows across the wheel-rutted gravel. The pack wasn’t nearly as heavy as the loads he was used to carrying in the bush, but the weeks in hospital had weakened him and it wasn’t long before he was breathing heavily. Still, he longed for the familiar weight and security of his R4, felt somehow incomplete without it.
The park wasn’t far, less than a kilometre. He reached it in just under ten minutes. It wasn’t big – about the size of a cricket pitch. Jacarandas and big, old ironwoods shaded a coarse lawn of buffalo grass that sloped up to a wooden bandstand set at the top of a small rise. The place was quiet. A young white woman pushing a pram along the footpath, her black maid in tow; a black gardener pulling up weeds from a flowerbed near the road. Clay walked up the rise to the bandstand, set his pack on the wooden bench and stood looking out over the park and the well-tended suburban gardens spreading out all around him, this neighbourhood so like the one he grew up in, the presumption of superiority as much a part of the place as the large, fenced gardens and the pools and the little backyard shacks for the black help.
Half an hour since he’d left the house, and Joseph still hadn’t appeared. Clay scanned the surroundings for the hundredth time. The park was empty. What if something had gone wrong? What if Joseph had been arrested, or gone to the authorities of his own accord? He’d give it another fifteen minutes, no more. If Joseph hadn’t show by then, he’d head to Roodeplaat on his own.
A car approached, slowing as it neared the park. Clay stretched, careful of his side and checked the Beretta in his pocket. The car pulled to a stop near the park entrance. It was a white Chevrolet – ubiquitous in South Africa. Through the window glare Clay could make out the silhouettes of two men.
The driver’s side window lowered and a smoking cigarette butt spun to the pavement. The passenger-side door opened. One of the men got out and stood with his back to Clay, looking back along the road, a cigarette burning in one hand.
Something jabbed into Clay’s ribs.
‘Easy.’ It was a voice he’d heard before.
Adrenaline surged through him, a kick in the chest. Clay froze, heart hammering. He’d let himself be distracted by the car, allowed the bastard to walk right up behind him. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered.
‘Not exactly,’ said the voice. ‘Give me the gun.’
Clay reached into his pocket.
‘Slow.’
Clay put the Beretta on the bench. A hand grabbed it.
‘You certainly have fucked things up, Straker.’
Clay could hear the man backing away.
‘Turn around and sit.’
The man was sitting on the other side of the bandstand, one knee crossed over the other, one arm thrown across the wooden railing, a black handgun levelled at Clay’s stomach. It was Cobra.
27
The Vast Improbability of Life
Cobra threw Clay a plastic zip tie. ‘Hands together in front,’ he said.
Clay threaded the tie, put it around his wrists.
&
nbsp; ‘Go ahead,’ said Cobra with a jut of his chin.
Clay made himself big, wedged open his wrists as far as he dared, pulled the strap tight with his teeth.
Cobra smiled. ‘Nice try, Straker. Again.’
Clay pulled in the slack.
Cobra stood, signalled thumbs-up to the white Chevy. ‘If you’re going to try to disappear, you should be more careful,’ he said. ‘Not a good idea, your little doctor friend dumping all those bandages in the bin out back. But you already know that, don’t you?’
The arc light of realisation shot through him, blinded him. ‘Fok jou,’ he croaked, the words weak, without purchase.
Cobra smiled. His teeth were strong and straight, the colour of an old bull elephant’s tusks. ‘Not a bad idea,’ he said, ‘getting her to do it, ja.’
Clay tensed, felt the anger come now, the welcome familiar fury. ‘I should have killed you right there.’
‘Ja, probably,’ said Cobra. ‘An easy shot through that kitchen window.’
Clay’s heart valves fluttered, hung a moment. He swallowed hard, remembering those same eyes staring at him in the back of the Hercules.
Cobra smiled and looked away. He was a step away, no more, looking off towards the far end of the park, the houses beyond, vulnerable. ‘Go ahead, Straker. I know what you’re thinking. Try.’
At this distance, he might be able to take Cobra down. A round kick to the side of the knee might put him off balance long enough to get in close, do some damage. But with hands tied and his side still only partially healed, he had little chance of getting the gun. What he needed was time. Time to think his way through this. Clay said nothing, held his position.
Cobra still hadn’t moved, just stood there with his back turned, looking down the hill. ‘What are you waiting for Straker?’
Clay knew now that Joseph wasn’t coming to meet him, and that Vivian was now either dead or in some BOSS prison somewhere, her Torch colleagues by now exposed and in the process of being rounded up and tortured.
Reconciliation for the Dead Page 23