Let the Dead Lie (18 page)

Two
Union Jack flags flew from a makeshift line strung across the front garden of a
brick house. Across the road, a white banner with the word 'Republic' fluttered
from the front fence of an equally small dwelling.

'English
versus Afrikaner,' Exodus said. 'One side is for the Queen and her country and
the other side is for Prime Minister Malan and a republic.'

'Are
you taking bets on the winner?' Emmanuel asked.

The
odds had swung behind Malan, the ex-Dutch reformed church minister with pants
hitched high over his prosperous gut. He was in London for the coronation but
was talking up plans for an independent South Africa while the bones of British
soldiers interred in the fields of Zululand and the Transvaal turned in their
graves.

'I
must give more money now that Malan and his people are the chiefs. Many laws to
break means many bribes to pay the police. But to say the truth . . . both the
Dutch and the British, they can go and dance off a cliff. No hard feelings,
baas.'

Emmanuel
shrugged to indicate that no offence was taken. Reclassification from white to
mixed race had forced him outside the confines of the white world. From the
perimeter he had experienced the singular truth that governed the lives of a
majority of non-white South Africans: the weight of the boot on your back, Boer
or British, was equally heavy.

'Look
at this clown.' Exodus drew focus away from his bold remark and indicated a
fair-haired youth who tore circles into a field of dirt with a motorbike. Smoke
and dust blew from the tyres. Two girls looked on from the edge of the field,
vaguely impressed by the roar of the engine and the smell of burnt fuel.

'Rough
and tough from the Bluff. That's what we say in town. Have you been out to this
place before?'

'First
time,' Emmanuel said. Almost six months in Durban with nothing to show but
rough hands and corded muscle. The loop between the Dover flats and the Victory
Shipyard was almost the entire orbit of his universe.

The
DeSoto climbed steadily upwards then swung left onto a road that followed the
spine of the headland. A thick blanket of vegetation covered the slopes and
spread down to the edge of the bright ocean water. A breeze blew in a stench of
soured pork and fish.

'That
is the whaling station,' Exodus said. 'They are cutting and boiling the fat in
big vats. Will you still be able to enjoy your visit?'

'I'll
give it my best shot. And my name is Emmanuel.'

This
afternoon would be special if it led to one of the last people to see Jolly
Marks alive. Possibly. Maybe. Hopefully. Words for a prayer, not a police
investigation. Facts, hard evidence, witnesses. That's what he needed to stay
out of jail.

They
peeled off the main road onto a dirt track that cut into a mass of thornbush
and creeping triffid weed. A white mailbox marked the presence of a dwelling
somewhere in the thicket. Red dirt, blue sky and fifteen different shades of
green surrounded the car. The sound of an automobile driving on the main road
receded into the quiet.

The
DeSoto bumped downwards and the silver teeth of the front grille levelled the
underbrush to lawn. The chrome hood ornament, a bust of Spanish explorer
Hernando de Soto, cast a steely gaze into the bush.

'We
are here.' Exodus pulled into an untidy lot overshadowed by ancient Natal
mahogany trees. A tumbledown house occupied a square of land that had been
cleared of all vegetation. A flock of glossy starlings perched along the broken
fence line, their feathers iridescent in the sunlight.

'You
sure this is it?' Emmanuel said.

A
deserted dwelling off the main road and far from prying eyes was the perfect
setting for a shakedown. Men who used Exodus's services were easy targets. Rob
them and they rarely reported the theft to police. Rough them up and they
sometimes hit back but mostly they crawled into a corner and licked their
wounds, their shameful secret safe.

'This
is the place,' Exodus said. 'I left them here. It was pitch black but we found
the mailbox and then the house.'

Them.
More than one person had been dropped off in the dead of night. He opened the
car door and the caustic stench of the whaling factory brought the smell of
death. It was too late to back out now. If he mentioned the word 'police'
Exodus would drive away without a goodbye. The two pounds were already in his
pocket.

The
front yard of the dilapidated house was a solid block of cement over which a
collection of plaster-cast animals stalked. Three snarling wolves encircled a
spotted deer with huge brown eyes, and a knee-high brown bear grappled with an
elk; northern-hemisphere animals of prey arranged on a barren slab that resembled
the unforgiving snowfields of winter. The owner of the house was a European,
Emmanuel figured. A man with fond memories of the hunt and kill.

The
house's windows were shut but a faint glow was discernible from under the
curtain's edge - maybe a lantern low on oil. The absence of power lines
confirmed the lack of electricity. If things went wrong there'd be nowhere to
make an emergency phone call and nowhere to hide except the green expanse
encircling the house. The parked DeSoto, with Exodus still at the wheel, was
the only point of escape.

Emmanuel
knocked on the front door and it swung inwards. A sharp metallic sound broke
the silence, then stopped. Someone or something was moving around inside.

'Police,'
he said. 'I'm coming in.'

An
open window at the back of the room let in enough daylight to illuminate rows
of shelves buckling under the weight of rusting harpoons, fishing hooks and
spools of anchor chain. A yellowing shark foetus floated in a specimen jar and
next to it, a pyramid of bleached bones. The hollow eye sockets of a human
skull stared out from the graveyard pile. A prickle of warning raised the hairs
on the back of Emmanuel's neck.

'Police,'
he said a little louder.

No
answer.

A
polished leather suitcase leaned against a wall and the flame of the oil lamp
suspended from the ceiling beam flickered weakly. A bowl of pickled eggs and
brown onions was set up on a small table with a fork still stuck into the food.
A crate of empty vodka bottles was jammed against the back door. Emmanuel
crouched down to examine the unfinished meal. The onion on the end of the fork
was bitten in half. Someone had left the house in a hurry or had retreated to
another room.

The
flame of the oil lamp flared bright and then expired on a curl of grey smoke.
Suddenly a length of silver chain swung across Emmanuel's view and tightened
against his throat. He leaned back and jammed his right hand between the hard
line of the choke chain and his neck, which still bore the boot marks left by
yesterday's encounter with the police. The world seemed intent on cutting off
his air supply.

A
quick jerk on the silver chain and it loosened. The person on the other end
gasped for breath, their strength already depleted. Emmanuel exerted a steady
pull on the chain, certain now of his superior strength. Work at the Victory
had not been a waste. A hand appeared on the edge of his peripheral vision and
then a rounded stomach bumped against his shoulderblades. Fat and weak. Not the
ideal build for a strangler. The chain gave way altogether and fell to the
floor. A dog began to bark in the backyard.

Emmanuel
swivelled a half circle, caught a skinny arm in his grasp and twisted hard. His
assailant lost balance and tipped backwards. The body slammed into Emmanuel's
chest and momentum swung against him. He crashed onto the wooden floor and the
weight of his attacker's body pinned him down forcing the air from his lungs.

A
fine curtain of hair covered his face and blocked out the room. He twisted to
the left so the body was in front of him, held close in a parody of a satisfied
lovers' pose. His hands touched rounded hips and the swell of a stomach, taut
and curved as a globe. A tremor of movement and the distinct kick of life
pulsed under his palm. Emmanuel sat up, stunned.

His
attacker was heavily pregnant, with white-blonde hair and curiously sloping
eyes of Prussian blue. From her position on the floor, she swung a fist but
Emmanuel caught her wrist and pinned it against her side.

She
struggled against his hold and spat out words in Russian. Emmanuel didn't need
a translator to understand: if curses worked he'd be blind and infertile by
nightfall. He let the woman expend her energy till she was exhausted and
gasping for breath.

'Stop,'
he said quietly. 'Stop.'

'Da.'

Emmanuel
stood and pulled the woman off the floor. She pressed a hand to the small of
her back and straightened up. Her black shirt tightened against her full
breasts and stretched across the swell of her pregnant belly.

The
girl tugged at his sleeve and pointed to a darkened side room. Emmanuel shook
his head. There was no chance he would walk into an unlit space with the person
who'd just tried to strangle him.

'English?'
he said. 'Do you speak English?'

'Nyet.'
She jabbed a finger into his
chest and demanded, 'American? American?'

'No,'
he said. 'South African.'

'American?
Da?'

'No.
Nyet.
Not American.'

His
answer didn't satisfy her and she cursed him to his face. Clearly his
nationality was a bitter disappointment. It wasn't the first time. The women of
France and Germany had known from experience that American servicemen's ration
packs were fatter than those of their English or Canadian counterparts.

The
dog continued to bark outside. Emmanuel went to the window. A slope-backed
German Shepherd ran the length of a low fence line that separated the patchy
yard from the lush row of monkey apple trees and flowering creepers. He checked
the perimeter and the feeling of being watched returned. The dog's restless
patrol continued.

He
couldn't find anything out of the ordinary and turned back to the woman, who
had finally fallen silent. She pointed to the side room.

'You
first,' Emmanuel said and wrapped the silver chain around his hand. Risk
nothing, gain nothing. He fell into step behind the woman. The dog barked and
snarled again.

The
room was narrow and built along a bank of windows that faced the backyard.
Heavy curtains kept out daylight. The pregnant woman stood in the middle of
the floor.

Emmanuel
tugged a curtain open and sunlight poured in, bright white after the darkness.
He blinked hard and turned around. A great ox of a man with a bristly beard and
watery green eyes sat in a deckchair. The tropical light glinted off the silver
barrel of an automatic pistol in his hand. A Walther PPK.

'Fuck,'
Emmanuel said. He raised both hands in surrender. Europe was filled with the
graves of soldiers who'd tried to outrun the firepower of this particular
German-manufactured sidearm.

The
woman squatted next to the deckchair and whispered harshly into the man's ear.
The word 'American' was repeated again and again amid the torrent of Russian, a
little sharper with each use. The hand holding the pistol was white-knuckled
and shaking.

Emmanuel
kept still and observed. The bearded man was wide-shouldered and wide-necked,
the deckchair barely able to hold his girth. Standing with the Walther in his
hand he would be in complete control of the situation. So why was he still
sitting?

The
woman continued whispering and the man drew in a sudden, sharp breath. His jaw
clenched and his fingers twitched around the metal grip of the Walther before
it clattered to the floor.

Emmanuel
and the woman lunged for the gun simultaneously. He blocked her advance with a
shoulder and sent her flying back. There'd be time later to feel guilty about
tackling a pregnant woman, but for now the Walther was his and that felt good.
Emmanuel approached the man, who had hauled his bulk from the deckchair. Two
attempts to put him out of action, both failed. The Russian couple weren't
professionals.

'Sit,'
he said. 'Now.'

The
man collapsed into the canvas and drew a ragged breath. The pain seemed to have
passed and colour had returned to his face. He glared at his own hands,
disgusted by their inability to hang onto the gun.

'English?'
Emmanuel said.

'A
little.'

'Good.
What's your name?'

'Nicolai
Petrov.'

'Who
is she?' Emmanuel pointed to the woman, who was sulking in the wake of her
failure to secure the gun.

'Natalya
Petrova.' The man breathed out the name then said with a hint of pride, 'Wife.'

'She's
your wife?' There would have been a thirty-year age gap between Nicolai Petrov
and the petulant blonde.

'Yes.
Mine.'

Natalya
chewed her fingernails, bored by the two older men talking in a language she
didn't understand. Emmanuel suspected that unless the conversation, in any
language, was about Natalya, she wasn't listening.