by Wilbur Smith
A hand shook the door handle, jerking and straining at it. Then a shoulder crashed into the narrow frame. It was a screen door – not built to withstand rough treatment. Debra knew it would yield quickly.
She screamed then, a high ringing scream of terror, and it seemed to break the spell which held her. Her legs would move again, and her brain would work.
She whirled and ran back into her workroom, slamming the door and locking it swiftly.
She crouched beside the door, thinking desperately. She knew that as soon as he broke into the house Akkers need only switch on a light. The electricity generator would automatically kick in on demand, and in the light he would have her at his mercy. Her only protection was darkness. In the darkness she would have the advantage, for she was accustomed to it.
She had heard the nightjar and the owl calling so she knew that night had fallen, and it was probable that the raincloud still blanketed moon and stars. Darkness was out there in the forest. She must get out of the house, and try to reach the servants’ quarters.
She hurried through the rooms towards the rear of the house, and as she went she thought of a weapon. The firearms were locked in the steel cabinet in David’s office – and the key was with him. She ran through to the kitchen and her heavy walking-stick was in its place by the door. She grasped it thankfully and slipped open the door catch.
At that moment she heard the front door crash open, with the lock kicked in, and she heard Akkers charge heavily into the living-room. She closed the kitchen door behind her and started across the yard. She tried not to run, she counted her steps. She must not lose her way. She must find the track around the kopje to the servants’ hutments.
Her first landmark was the gate in the fence that ringed the homestead. Before she reached it she heard the electricity generator throb to life in the power house beyond the garages. Akkers had found a light switch.
She was slightly off in her direction and she ran into the barbed-wire fence. Frantically she began to feel her way along it, trying for the gate. Above her head she heard the buzz and crackle of the element in one of the arc lamps that lined the fence and could flood the gardens with light.
Akkers must have found the switch beside the kitchen door, and Debra realized that she must be bathed in the light of the arcs.
She heard him shout behind her, and knew that he had seen her. At that moment she found the gate, and with a sob of relief she tore it open and began to run.
She must get out of the light of the arcs, she must find the darkness. Light was mortal danger, darkness was sanctuary.
The track forked, left to the pools, right to the hutments. She took the right-hand path and ran along it. Behind her she heard the gate clank shut. He was after her.
She counted as she ran, five hundred paces to the rock on the left side of the path that marked the next fork. She tripped over it, falling heavily and barking her shins.
She rolled to her knees, and she had lost the walking-stick. She could not waste precious seconds in searching for it. She groped for the path and ran on.
Fifty paces and she knew she was on the wrong fork. This path lead down to the pumphouse – and she was not familiar with it. It was not one of her regular routes.
She missed a turn and ran into broken ground. She stumbled on until rank grass wrapped about her ankles and brought her down again, falling heavily on her side so that she was winded.
She was completely lost, but she knew she was out of the arc lights now. With luck she was shielded by complete darkness – but her heart was racing and she felt nauseous with terror.
She tried to control her gulping, sobbing breath, and to listen.
She heard him coming then, pounding footsteps that rang clearly, even on the rain-soaked earth. He seemed to be coming directly to where she lay, and she shrank down against the wet earth and she pressed her face into her arms to hide her face and muffle her breathing.
At the last moment his blundering footsteps passed her closely, and ran on. She felt sick with relief, but it was premature for abruptly the footsteps ceased and he was so close she could hear him panting.
He Was listening for her, standing close beside where she lay in the grass. They stayed like that during the long slow passage of minutes. For Debra it seemed an eternity of waiting – broken at last by his voice.
‘Ah! There you are,’ he giggled, ‘there you are. I can see you.’
Her heart jumped with shock, he was closer than she had thought. Almost she jumped up and began to run again – but some deeper sense restrained her.
‘I can see you hiding there,’ he repeated, giggling and snickering. ‘I’ve got a big knife here, I’m going to hold you down and cut—’
She quailed in the glass, listening to the awful obsceneties that poured from his mouth. Then suddenly she realized that she was safe here. She was covered by the night and the thick grass, and he had lost har. He was trying to panic her, make her run again and betray her position. She concentrated all her attention on remaining absolutely still and silent.
Akkers’ threats and sadistic droolings ended in silence again. He listened for her with the patience of the hunter, and the long minutes dragged by.
The ache in her bladder was like a red-hot iron, and she wanted to sob out loud. Something loathsome crawled out of the wet grass over her arm. Her skin prickled with fresh horror at the feel of multiple insect feet on her skin, but she steeled herself not to move.
The thing, scorpion or spider, crawled across her neck and she knew her nerves would crack within seconds.
Suddenly Akkers spoke again. ‘All right!’ he said, ‘I’m going back to fetch a flashlight. We’ll see how far you get then. I’ll be back soon – don’t think you’ll beat old Akkers. He’s forgotten more tricks than you’ll ever learn.’
He moved away heavily, noisily, and she wanted to strike the insect from her cheek and run again, but some instinct warned her. She waited five minutes, and then ten. The insect moved up into her hair.
Akkers spoke again out of the darkness near her. ‘All right, you clever bitch. We’ll get you yet,’ and she heard him move away. This time she knew he had gone.
She brushed the insect from her hair, shuddering with horror. Then she stood up and moved quietly into the forest. Her fingers were stiff and cold on the fastenings of her slacks, but she loosened them and squatted to relieve the burning ache in her lower belly.
She stood up again and felt the child move within her body. The feel of it evoked all her maternal instincts of protection. She must find a safe place for her child. She thought of the hide by the pools.
How to reach them? For she was now completely lost.
Then she remembered David telling her about the wind, the rain wind out of the west, now reduced to an occasional light air, and she waited for the next breath of it on her cheek. It gave her direction. She turned her back to the next gust and set off steadily through the forest with hands held out ahead to prevent herself running into one of the trunks. If only. she could reach the pools, she could follow the bank to the hide.
As the cyclonic winds at the centre of the storm turned upon their axis, so they swung, changing direction constantly and Debra followed them faithfully, beginning a wide aimless circle through the forest.
Akkers raged through the brightly lit homestead of Jabulani, jerking open drawers and kicking in locked cupboard doors.
He found the gun cabinet in David’s office, and ransacked the desk drawers for keys. He found none, and giggled and swore with frustration.
He crossed the room to the built-in cupboard unit. There was a sealed-cell electric lantern on the shelf with a dozen packets of shotgun shells. He took down the lantern eagerly and thumbed the switch. The beam was bright white, even in the overhead lights – and he sucked his teeth and chuckled happily.
Once more he ran into the kitchen, pausing to select a long stainless-steel carving knife from the cutlery drawer before hurrying across the yard to the gat
e and along the path.
In the lantern beam, Debra’s footprints showed clearly in the soft earth with his own overlaying them. He followed them to where she had blundered. off the path, and found the mark of her body where she had lain.
‘Clever bitch,’ he chuckled again and followed her tracks through the forest. She had laid an easy trail to follow, dragging a passage through the rain-heavy grass and wiping the droplets from the stems. To the hunter’s eye it was a clearly blazed trail.
Every few minutes he paused to throw the beam of the lantern ahead of him amongst the trees. He was thrilling now to the hunter’s lust, the primeval force which was the mainspring of his existence. His earlier set-back made the chase sweeter for him.
He went on carefully, following the wandering trail, the aimless footprints turning haphazardly in a wide circle.
He stopped again and panned the lantern beam across the rain-laden grass tops, and he saw something move at the extreme range of the lamp, something pale and round.
He held it in the lantern beam, and saw the woman’s pale strained face as she moved forward slowly and hesitantly. She went like a sleep-walker, with arms extended ahead of her, and with shuffling uncertain gait.
She was coming directly towards him, oblivious of the light which held her captive in its beam. Once she paused to hug her swollen belly and sob with weariness and fear.
The legs of her trousers were sodden with rain water and her flimsy shoes were already torn, and as she hobbled closer he saw that her arms and her lips were blue and shivering with the cold.
Akkers stood quietly watching her coming towards him, like a chicken drawn to the swaying cobra.
Her long dark hair hung in damp ropes down her shoulders, and dangled in her face. Her thin blouse was wet also with drops fallen from the trees, and it was plastered over the thrusting mound of her belly.
He let her come closer, enjoying the fierce thrill of having her in his power. Drawing out the final consummation of his vengeance – hoarding each moment of it like a miser.
When she was five paces from him he played the beam full in her face, and he giggled.
She screamed, her whole face convulsing, and she whirled like a wild animal and ran blindly. Twenty flying paces before she ran headlong into the stem of a marula tree.
She fell back, collapsing to her knees and sobbed aloud, clutching at her bruised cheek.
Then she scrambled to her feet and stood shivering, turning her head and cocking it for the next sound.
Silently he moved around her, drawing close and he giggled again, close behind her.
She screamed again and ran blindly, panic-stricken, witless with terror until an ant-bear hole caught her foot and flung her down heavily to the ground, and she lay there sobbing.
Akkers moved leisurely and silently after her, he was enjoying himself for the first time in two years. Like a cat he did not want to end it, he wanted it to last a long time.
He stooped over her and whispered a filthy word, and instantly she rolled to her feet and was up and running again – wildly, sightlessly, through the trees. He followed her, and in his crazed mind she became a symbol of all the thousand animals he had hunted and killed.
David ran barefooted in the soft earth of the road. He ran without feeling his bruised and torn skin, without feeling the pounding of his heart nor the protest of his lungs.
As the road rounded the shoulder of the hill and dipped towards the homestead he stopped abruptly, and stared panting at the lurid glow of the arc lights that floodlit the grounds and garden of Jabulani. It made no sense that the floodlights should be burning, and David felt a fresh flood of alarm. He sprinted on down the hill.
He ran through the empty, ransacked rooms shouting her name – but the echoes mocked him.
When he reached the front veranda he saw something moving in the darkness, beyond the broken screen door.
‘Zulu!’ He ran forward. ‘Here, boy! Here, boy! Where is she?’
The dog staggered up the steps towards him, his tail wagged a perfunctory greeting, but he was obviously hurt. A heavy blow along the side of his head had broken the jaw, or dislocated it, so that it hung lopsided and grotesque. He was still stunned, and David knelt beside him.
‘Where is she, Zulu? Where is she?’ The dog seemed to make an effort to gather his scattered wits. ‘Where is she, boy? She’s not in the house. Where is she? Find her, boy, find her.’
He led the Labrador out into the yard, and he followed gamely as David circled the house. At the back door Zulu picked up the scent on the fresh damp earth. He started resolutely towards the gate, and David saw the footprints in the floodlights, Debra’s and the big masculine prints which ran after them.
As Zulu crossed the yard, David turned back into his office. The lantern was missing from its shelf, but there was a five-cell flashlight near the back. He shoved it into his pocket and grabbed a handful of shotgun shells. Then he went quickly to the gun cabinet and unlocked it. He snatched the Purdey shotgun from the rack and loaded it as he ran.
Zulu was staggering along the path beyond the gates, and David hurried after him.
Johann Akkers was no longer a human being, he had become an animal. The spectacle of the running quarry had roused the predator’s single-minded passion to chase and drag down and kill – yet it was seasoned with a feline delight in torment. He was playing with his wounded dragging prey, running it when he could have ended it, drawing it out, postponing the climax, the final consuming thrill of the kill.
The moment came at last, some deep atavistic sense of the ritual of the hunt – for all sport killing has its correct ceremony – and Akkers knew it must end now.
He came up behind the running figure and reached out to take a twist of the thick dark hair in the crippled claw of his hand, wrapping it with a quick movement about his wrist and jerking back her head, laying open the long pale throat for the knife.
She turned upon him with a strength and ferocity he had not anticipated. Her body was hard and strong and supple, and now that she could place him she drove at him with the wild terror of a hunted thing.
He was unprepared, her attack took him off-balance, and he went over backwards with her on top of him, and he dropped the knife and the lantern into the grass to protect his eyes, for she was tearing at them with long sharp nails. He felt them rip into his nose and cheek, and she screeched like a cat – for she was also an animal in this moment.
He freed the stiff claw from the tangle of her hair, and he drew it back, holding her off with his right hand – and he struck her. It was like a wooden club, stiff and hard and without feeling. A single blow with it had stunned the Labrador and broken his jaw. It hit her across the temple, a sound like an axe swung at a tree trunk. It knocked all the fight out of her, and he came up on his knees, holding her with his good hand and with the other he clubbed her mercilessly, beat her head back and across with a steady rhythm. In the light of the fallen lantern, the black blood spurted from her nose, and the blows cracked against her skull, steady and unrelenting. Long after she was still and senseless he continued to beat her. Then at last he let her drop, and he stood up. He went to the lantern and played the beam in the grass. The knife glinted up at him.
There is an ancient ceremony with which a hunt should end. The culminating ceremony of the gralloch, when the triumphant huntsman slits open the paunch of his game, and thrusts his hand into the opening to draw out the still-warm viscera.
Johan Akkers picked the knife out of the grass and set down the lantern so the beam fell upon Debra’s supine figure.
He went to her and, with his foot, rolled her onto her back. The dark black mane of sodden hair smothered her face.
He knelt beside her and hooked one iron-hard finger into the front of her blouse. With a single jerk he ripped it cleanly open, and her big round belly bulged into the lantern light. It was white and full and ripe with the dark pit of the navel in its centre.
Akkers giggled and wiped the
rain and sweat from his face with his arm. Then he changed his grip on the knife, reversing it so the blade would go shallow, opening the paunch neatly from crotch to rib cage without cutting into the intestines, a stroke as skilful as a surgeon’s that he had performed ten thousand times before.
Movement in the shadows at the edge of the light caused him to glance up. He saw the black dog rush silently at him, saw its eyes glow in the lantern light.
He threw up his arm to guard his throat and the furry body crashed into him. They rolled together, with Zulu mouthing him, unable to take a grip with his injured jaws.
Akkers changed his grip on the hilt of the carving knife and stabbed up into the dog’s rib cage, finding the faithful heart with his first thrust. Zulu yelped once, and collapsed. Akkers pushed his glossy black body aside, pulling out the knife and he crawled back to where Debra lay.
The distraction that Zulu had provided gave David a chance to come up.
David ran to Akkers, and the man looked up with the muddy green eyes glaring in the lantern light. He growled at David with the long blade in his hand dulled by the dog’s blood. He started to come to his feet, ducking his head in exactly the same aggressive gesture as the bull baboon.
David thrust the barrels of the shotgun into his face and he pulled both triggers. The shot hit solidly, without spreading, tearing into him in the bright yellow flash and thunder of the muzzle blast, and it took away the whole of Akkers’ head above the mouth, blowing it to nothingness. He dropped into the grass with his legs kicking convulsively, and David hurled the shotgun aside and ran to Debra.
He knelt over her and he whispered, ‘My darling, oh my darling. Forgive me, please forgive me. I should never have left you.’ Gently he picked her up and holding her to his chest, he carried her up to the homestead.
Debra’s child was born in the dawn. It was a girl, tiny and wizened and too early for her term. If there had been skilled medical attention available she might have lived, for she fought valiantly. But David was clumsy and ignorant of the succour she needed. He was cut off by the raging river and the telephone was still dead, and Debra was still unconscious.