by Malla Nunn
“Shh … Shh …” the woman rocked faster. The white man and the black man who dressed like a white man would not stay and listen to the story of her vanished husband if the child continued wailing.
Shabalala held out both hands. “Give the child to me,” he said when the woman hesitated, unsure that she’d read the gesture correctly. “I promise I will not drop the little one.”
She relented and Shabalala cradled the infant in his arms. He swung back and forth in a steady rhythm. The child’s sobs quieted to intermittent hiccups.
“Tell me about your husband,” Emmanuel said. He feared that now, as always, a missing person report would prove nothing more than an effective time waster.
“He went to Johannesburg on the express bus and has not come back. He is gone now for three nights.”
“He left to find work?” If that were the case then the husband might already be lost to this pretty woman and her child. The flow of the city absorbed country migrants into the urban stream and cast them adrift from their home places.
“No, ma baas. He did not go to seek work. He is a teacher at the farm school.” This she said with a shy pride before adding, “And he is a deacon at the church.”
“Why did he go to Johannesburg?” Religion and education were unreliable defences against the temptations of Jo’burg and Sophiatown.
“He went to speak with the madam’s sister and her husband, who is also a schoolteacher.”
Shabalala stopped swaying and sent Emmanuel a look.
“Describe your husband to me.”
“He is a good man, ma baas. Softly spoken and—”
“What does he look like,” Emmanuel interrupted, impatient to have his suspicions confirmed.
“Tall,” the woman said. “Taller than you ma baas but not so high as that man with you.”
“His ears?”
The woman frowned, not fully understanding the question. Ears were ears unless they were missing altogether.
“Are they cut like this?” Emmanuel traced a slit onto his lobes with a fingernail to illustrate the point.
“Yebo. They are cut just as you show. The sister of the madam said he must remove the clay plugs so he did not stand out in the city, where few men keep the custom.”
“Mr Parkview,” Shabalala said with certainty and continued to rock the fretting child from side to side. “What is your husband’s name, mama?”
“Abraham Zolta,” the woman said. “That is what he is called.”
“What business took Abraham to Johannesburg?” Emmanuel asked. Four hours of driving on gravel and dirt roads in a private car translated to six hours or more of rough travel in a dilapidated bus with the misleading name “Fast Boy” or perhaps “Quick Time”.
“He went about the river and the land and to see where the government has drawn their lines.”
“What lines, mama?” Shabalala asked.
The woman blushed and pushed bare toes into the sand. Abraham usually answered questions about white people’s business. “The lines that are drawn on paper,” she said. “The sister of the madam knows where these papers are kept.”
“Martha Brewer worked for the Office of Land Management,” Emmanuel told Shabalala. The new segregation laws created a great deal of work in redrawing town and city boundaries that would formally split the entire country into physically separate “White” and “Non-white” living areas. Whole suburbs were being reassigned with the stroke of the pen. Wrongly coloured residents were given eviction notices.
“Did the government draw new lines for the native reserve?” Jason Singleton said that the people gathered under the yellowwood tree had come from the farm and from a native reserve.
“Maybe, ma baas. The white man across the river said it is so. He made a new fence and put up signs telling us to stay off his land. Abraham took the matter of the fence and the river to the sister of the madam.”
Abraham Zolta had travelled to Johannesburg to settle a land dispute and ended up in the middle of a violent attack. Zweigman estimated a period of two to three days before the schoolteacher would be able to answer questions. It might be a week or more before he made it home.
“You’ve heard what happened to the madam’s sister?” Emmanuel asked, realising that the chances of that were slim.
“I know nothing.” The woman’s shoulders stiffened in anticipation of bad news. Abraham had gone to the city even after she’d begged him to stay close to familiar things.
“Some men … thieves … broke into the house where your husband was staying in Johannesburg. They hurt the madam’s sister, her husband and also Abraham. Now Abraham is in Baragwanath hospital. He will come back to Clearwater when he is well but it will be many more days before that happens.”
“He lives?”
“He does,” Emmanuel said.
The woman looked to Shabalala for confirmation. The word of a white man and a black man together had to be the truth.
“Abraham lives,” the Zulu detective said. “He will return to you and the little one soon.”
The woman scooped the baby from Shabalala’s arms and held it close, seeking the comfort of plump limbs. “God is good but my heart is heavy. What did these robbers take in exchange for the harm they caused?”
“A motor car.” The wrongness of the theft again stuck Emmanuel. If the red Mercedes were the prize, the actual break-in made no sense.
“We will leave the madam’s name and telephone number with the hospital in Johannesburg,” Shabalala said. “When it is time for Abraham to come home, they will call the madam and let her know.”
“When must I come to hear news?” the young mother asked.
“Go to the back door of the farmhouse in three days time and knock. Be at ease, the Sergeant will tell the madam that you are coming. She will expect you.” Shabalala paused so the woman understood that approaching the big house without explicit permission would not cause offence. “What the hospital tells the madam, she will also tell you.”
“My thanks, ma bass. I will do as you say. Salani khale.” The woman swung the baby onto her back, tied it snuggly into place with the cotton wrap and then walked the path leading to the river.
“What is on your mind, Sergeant?” Shabalala asked.
“The two European suspects could have opened the garage, hot-wired the car and driven off with no fuss,” Emmanuel said. “Instead, they forced their way through the back door, beat the Brewers to a pulp and then stole the Mercedes. It doesn’t make sense.”
“The men were looking for money and valuables in the house,” the Zulu detective said, coming to the logical conclusion. “They used the boot of the car to carry away what they had stolen.”
“They wrecked the furniture but left a row of silver picture frames on the mantlepiece and a stack of presents under the Christmas tree. Not one thing in the lounge room had been touched.” Emmanuel visualised the crime scene in vivid detail: the smashed hallstand, the ripped telephone wires and the shards of broken glass lying in the doorway. “Why stop outside the lounge?”
Shabalala thought for a long while and then said, “Maybe they found what they were looking for and had no need to search further.”
“Huh …” Emmanuel considered the implications of that statement. “The thieves were searching for something other than money or jewellery. They found it and took the car on their way out.”
“Maybe so,” Shabalala said.
“Who gives a shit why those men broke into the Brewers’ place?” the Scottish Sergeant Major said. “It’s not your problem, soldier. The Shabalala boy is safe. Let sleeping dogs and corrupt police lieutenants lie. Forget about Mason. Forget about the robbery. Walk away with what you have.”
25.
The sun hung lower on the horizon and the shadows lengthened across the grass. They’d make Jo’burg just after nightfall if they moved now. Glimpses of the farmhouse walls flashed between rows of corn. A high-pitched squeal cut through the air. Emmanuel expected to find Jodie,
the youngest of the children, hanging from the porch rafters like a bat.
“Don’t you run away from me,” Delia’s voice carried from the kitchen. “You stay where you are, miss.”
The back door opened and a bright-haired girl of about twelve scooted outside with a hessian bag slung over her shoulder. She sprinted across the porch with her red pigtails flying and the hem of her dress tucked into her underpants for extra mobility. Delia had no chance of catching up. The girl glanced back and smiled, sure she’d made a clean getaway. Her toe caught the edge of an uneven tile and she pitched forward and hit the ground hard. Delia grabbed a leg and the older maid, brown wig now askew atop her head, gripped an ankle.
“It’s not for me.” The girl tried to kick free. “I’m telling the truth.”
“You’re stealing food for your darkie friends,” Delia said. “Just like you did last week. Don’t lie to me.”
“For shame …” the elderly maid panted. “How can the madam believe the stories coming from your mouth, child?”
“I’m taking the food and the water to a sick person!” the girl screamed. “That’s the truth.”
Zweigman and the rest of the Singleton children came around the far corner of the house at the same time that Emmanuel and Shabalala reached the altercation. The native men sitting under the yellowwood shuffled in for a better view.
“So, this is Julie.” Emmanuel glanced briefly at his watch and allocated five minutes to defusing the situation before he took the long road home to Davida. He crouched down. “How did she get into trouble so fast?”
“Look in the sack.” Delia kept Julie pinned. “See for yourself, Detective Cooper.”
Shabalala picked up the hessian bag and pulled the ties loose to reveal the contents: four buns, a leather canteen, a mango and a collection of cotton scraps of the sort normally used to sew patchwork quilts.
“What are the rags for?” he asked. He remembered that his sister Olivia had kept rags to dress up her collection of “grass dolls”, long tufts of wild grass, which she’d plaited into cornrows before tying the ends with vines and bits of cloth.
“I have to bandage the sick girl’s leg.” Julie tugged the hem of her skirt over her knees and sat up. She looked Emmanuel over from head to toe with an interest that he found disconcertingly adult. “The cut on her leg has sand and blood in it.”
The specific nature of the answer caught Emmanuel off guard. Either Julie lived in a detailed fantasy world or the bizarre story had an element of truth.
“Who is this girl?”
“I don’t know her name but she’s from the Lion’s Kill farmhouse. The big man kept her locked in a little room but she got out. Must be that’s how she got hurt … by kicking in the window.”
“Lion’s Kill?” Delia’s grip tightened, which caused Julie to wince. “You know not to go near that property after what happened. You’ve read the warning signs.”
The nursing mother had mentioned the new fence and the signs put up by the white man across the river. Abraham, the mystery man found in the Brewers’ garden, had travelled to Johannesburg to check the legal boundaries of the adjoining farm.
“Where is the girl now?” Emmanuel focused on how he, Shabalala and Zweigman could do the most good. Rescuing an injured girl they could manage. Land disputes were outside their jurisdiction.
“She’s in the hills.” Julie lifted her chin in the direction of the three peaks. “I gave her bird eggs to eat but she’s got no water and her lips are cracked.”
“Sunstroke and dehydration.” Zweigman made a long-distance diagnosis. “A fatal combination if untreated.”
Delia’s fingers loosened and she leaned in close to Julie. “These men are police. You’d better be telling the truth or it’s the jail house for you, miss.”
Jason and his siblings squatted, barefoot and ragged, by their mother’s side. The younger ones observed Julie with pink, milk-washed eyes. A hundred times “sorry” wouldn’t fix things with the police. Their sister was in for it now.
“Cross my heart and hope to die …” Julie looked Emmanuel in the eye. “Boy-Boy and Precious from the reserve also saw her. She asked me to stay but I couldn’t. I told her that I’d come back later with more food. I said I’d try.”
“This is dangerous business, Cooper,” the Sergeant Major said. “Call the nearest police station. They’ll lead a rescue while you drive back to Johannesburg. Remember the mission objective. Get Cassie’s statement to the Dutch lawyer before Mason lights a fire under your arse.”
“I can’t just walk away.”
“You can and you will, soldier. Do the right thing by Aaron and by Davida. Keep a low profile and slink off down the road. I’ll not hold it against you.”
Emmanuel turned to Delia who knelt on the cracked paving stones with slumped shoulders. Evidence of her failures lay in every direction: dried corn, filthy children, natives milling unattended at the back of her house and a daughter who’d rather roam the bush than read a book or bake a cake.
“Call the local police,” he said. Hard times made for hard choices and he chose Aaron’s freedom and Davida’s safety above all else. “They’ll conduct a thorough search of the hills and the farmhouse on Lion’s Kill. We don’t have the resources for a proper rescue.”
“The police constable won’t come,” Delia said straight off. “He steers clear of Lion’s Kill. No charges have ever been laid against the owner, Leonard Hammond.”
“There’ve been complaints?”
“Dozens, but nothing’s ever come of them. People say it’s because a retired detective owns part of the farm and knows the higher ups in Pretoria.”
“Sergeant,” Shabalala spoke in a low voice. “If the little one knows the way we can reach the hills before dark. I will bring us back by the full moon.”
Emmanuel motioned the Zulu detective away from Delia and her family. Zweigman joined them to form a tight circle.
“Do we believe Julie’s story?” Emmanuel asked them.
“I think the child is telling the truth,” Shabalala said.
The doctor mulled over the complexities of the situation then said, “If the injured girl does not exist we will look foolish for having believed a lie. If she is real we will have saved a life and our conscience will be clean. If we drive away we will never know either way.”
“Aaron …” Emmanuel prompted. Shabalala had the most to lose from delaying the journey back to Jo’burg. He had till dawn to call Elliott King and suggest an early departure to Mozambique for all the residents of the Houghton house; a temporary solution to the threat posed by Mason.
“My son will not be released tonight even with the new statement.” The Zulu detective had calculated the hours and weighed the risks. “The lawyer can do nothing till the morning.”
Emmanuel picked up the hessian sack and gave it to Zweigman. “See what else we need.”
The doctor checked Julie’s cache and added blankets, more food, water and flashlights to the supply list. Jason and the younger children raided the house for the items after Delia gave a weary go ahead. She believed in luck and knew hers had run out. A sick girl rescued from imminent death could be the charm that opened the doors so good luck could walk in. Shabalala emptied the hessian sack and reloaded it with supplies for the journey. Zweigman packed extra disinfectant into his medical bag while Julie hunted the yard for stones to arm her slingshot. The five remaining children ran laps of the swimming pool and sent the resident frogs into frenzy.
“We are ready, Sergeant,” Zweigman said and joined Shabalala at the start of the path that ran down to the river. The sun showed more orange than yellow and the sky had turned a softer blue with tendrils of green at the horizon line. Twilight closed in fast.
“We’ll be back after dark. I can’t say when,” Emmanuel told Delia. “If you leave a light on and the curtains open in the kitchen we’ll find our way back faster.”
“Of course,” Delia said. “You keep an eye on my Julie, Detective
Cooper, and stay away from the Lion’s Kill farmhouse.”
Emmanuel thought over that last piece of advice as he walked down the path. Jason Singleton had said his father died while on a hunting weekend at Lion’s Kill. Delia’s tension suggested there might be more to the accident than a misfired gun.
“N’kosi …” One of the elderly men who’d squatted under the tree for the better part of the afternoon approached Shabalala and spoke in a low, urgent voice. He gestured to the hills and then moved back to join the others in the shade. Julie ran ahead with a pocket full of stones and her slingshot in her right hand. Emmanuel drew level with the Zulu detective who balanced the weight of the hessian sack on a broad shoulder.
“Let me guess. The old man warned us against going …”
“Yebo, that is so,” Shabalala confirmed. “He said the men across the river like guns and they like beer. When they drink they load their guns and shoot them at whatever moves.”
“One warning from Delia and another warning from the old man,” the Sergeant Major said. “Could this bare-arsed rescue be anything but a bad fucking idea?” Emmanuel ignored the Scotsman. The journey would finish when the girl in the hills was safely back at Clearwater and not before. Zweigman and Shabalala felt the same.
They followed the course of the river upstream for roughly fifteen minutes before coming to a chest-high wire fence that blocked access to the bank.
“This way.” Julie took Emmanuel’s hand and tugged him in the right direction. “We have to go into the fields now. It’s more fun walking on the sand but we can’t do that any more.”
They switched from following the riverbank to tracing the fence line for another quarter-hour. Up ahead, a collection of mud huts and cinderblock dwellings stood in a wide field. A dozen footpaths led from the huts to the river, access to which had been cut off by construction of the new fence. Emmanuel stopped. Julie kept hold of his hand.
“This is why Abraham Zolta went to check the boundary lines,” Emmanuel said. “The people living in the native reserve have to walk a mile in the direction of Clearwater to gain access to the river.”