Pale Horses (18 page)

He had broken his word. He was never going to help her to discover why her husband had died and why their community had been destroyed. All he was doing was using her to assist him with his own criminal activities.

And that was the problem. She was working for a criminal.

Where would they be able to hide and not be found? How could she protect her boy, now and in the future, with no money, no ID, no job, no surviving family or community, and no prospects? Her employer had told her he could buy connections and contacts in any city and any town he chose. And that he could, and would, pay people to find her and her boy no matter where they tried to hide.

Was he telling the truth? She wasn’t sure, but she couldn’t risk finding out the hard way.

Blinking tears away yet again, Ntombi faced up to the stark reality of her situation. She had to escape, but she had not the faintest idea how.

‘My sister!’ Ntombi spun round to see Portia’s large and cheerful form approaching from the side of the garage where the lifts to the more expensive apartments, including Portia’s own private lift, were located. She was swathed in a bright orange, green and black printed traditional dress that fitted the criteria of ‘smart but colourful’ to a T.

‘Is this not the most unbearable hour of the morning? What is the school thinking?’ she laughed. ‘They are cruel, I think. Cruel to us, making us get up in the dark and the cold. I was hoping my husband could do the lift this morning, but he is in Polokwane today for the ANC conference. Where is my naughty son now?’

Portia’s smile narrowed a fraction. ‘Bongani!’ she yelled, her voice reverberating off the garage walls. ‘Come on. You wanted to leave early, and now you are playing around! Are you with Khumalo?’

‘Khumalo isn’t going,’ Ntombi said. Her voice sounded flat and dead.

Portia gaped at her, eyes wide, and clapped a hand over her open mouth.

‘My sister, why not? What has happened? Is he ill?
Hai’khona
, he will be so disappointed, the small one!’

‘I’ve just had a message from my employer. I have to start work early today. Now, in fact.’ It was all Ntombi dared to say.

‘That is the only problem? You can’t take him to school?’

Ntombi nodded, wiping a hand over her eyes.

‘Then it is no problem at all. He can travel with me.’

‘But I’m working into the night. I might only be back sometime tomorrow.’

‘He can sleep over. They are good friends, those two. In fact, I was going to ask you when I last saw you – you are welcome to think about this, of course – but we are going down to the coast for a week tomorrow, to escape this horrible Johannesburg winter weather. Bongani was hoping to take his classmate Richard with him, but he is going overseas with his parents. So then he asked me if Khumalo could come along.’

‘To the sea?’ Ntombi’s eyes widened.

‘To Umhlanga. The most beautiful beaches in the country, in my opinion.’

‘I would love him to go!’

‘We will leave late tomorrow morning. Will you be back from work by then?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Well, then, Khumalo must pack his bag now. They will not need much for the holiday. Some shorts, some T-shirts, a swimming costume. Nothing smart. Here, write your phone number down on this business card and take one of mine so we can stay in contact. Go now and call your son. Tell him to pack quickly and hurry down to our car. And when we get back from holiday,’ Portia’s eyes flashed sparks, ‘you and I are going to make an appointment to see a labour lawyer. No, don’t look so frightened, and don’t try to argue with me. We are going to do it because I think your employer is abusing you.’

Her unwanted passenger was standing just inside the foyer of the Sandton Sun when she pulled up – ten minutes late thanks to the discussion she’d had with Portia in the garage, and having to help Small Khumalo pack his bags, and the even more frustrating fact that the first petrol station she went to had been out of unleaded fuel. She was sweating under the long sleeves of the traditional outfit she now wore – a similar style to the one Portia had sported, although more muted, in rustic browns, creams and beiges, with intricate beadwork around the neckline.

He was dressed in a sharply cut black suit, red shirt and black tie. Dark Oakley shades covered his eyes. He looked every inch the wealthy businessman apart from his shoes, which although well polished were not dress shoes but tough-looking, steel-capped work boots.

He was speaking on his cellphone as she pulled up, tyres squealing briefly. He carried a briefcase in his other hand, which from the way he was handling it was almost empty, and a bulging black gym bag over his shoulder, which looked full and heavy and clanked when he hefted it onto the floor behind his seat.

‘No, it’s OK. She’s here now,’ he said into the phone as he slammed the door. Ntombi realised with a sense of dread that he was speaking to her employer, who now knew she’d arrived late.

‘Get onto the highway,’ he told her impatiently, before resuming his conversation. ‘We’ll go straight there. It’s ready, right?’ He waited, listened. What was her employer telling him? Try as she might, Ntombi could hear nothing from the other side of the phone except a faint clacking.

‘Yes, I can do that, but I want the money today. No EFT, that takes time. I want cash in my hands. Have it waiting for me when I get back to Sandton.’

The clacking on the other end of the line suddenly assumed a higher pitch.

‘I don’t care. It’s a risky job. I need it all up front.’ Another pause. ‘All right, then. Seventy per cent today; the other thirty via EFT to the Absa account tomorrow.’

He waited again before speaking. ‘Your buyers are meeting you tomorrow night? I’ll get the goods to you early tomorrow evening. Seven p.m. Yes, I can deal with the woman at the same time.’

The woman?

Ntombi’s heart nearly stopped as she remembered the unconscious female she’d been forced to transport the last time she’d chauffeured the man. She hadn’t known what had happened to her, but she still suspected the worst. And who was she and how had she become involved? And in what? Trafficking? Drugs?

Ntombi didn’t know. She didn’t even know whether she felt relieved or terrified that the woman was obviously still alive.

Then he paused, listened, and glanced briefly over at Ntombi.

‘Yes,’ he said coldly. ‘I can do that too.’

Ntombi knew it was going to be a long drive when, at nine a.m., after three solid hours of driving, she was told to pull into the petrol station a few hundred metres ahead.

‘We won’t be stopping again till the afternoon,’ her passenger said. ‘Go and buy some food and drink.’

As soon as the car came to a halt, he got out and strode off in the direction of the men’s toilets.

How easy it would be, she thought, to simply leave him here and drive away. Leave him all alone at this newly refurbished Sasol garage, with its convenience shop and Wimpy restaurant and scattering of drivers.
Just drive off, take the next exit, turn around and go back the way she had come. Head for home instead of going ever-further on the N2 in the direction of Kimberley and Bloemfontein, through endless golden-brown farmland that looked flat and surprisingly featureless, with little growing in the winter fields.

Of course, retribution would be swift and immediate. First her son, then herself. That was how it would be.

Abandoning the idea with something approaching relief, Ntombi undid her seatbelt, climbed stiffly out of the car and headed for the Wimpy. She ordered two burgers, two large portions of chips on the side, to go. Food for him, not for her. She wasn’t remotely hungry. Quite the opposite. Her stomach was so tight she thought she’d bring up anything she tried to eat.

But she knew she couldn’t keep going on nerves alone.

Turning back to the counter, she ordered a cheese-and-tomato sandwich for herself.

She knew what his food would be like. The burger roll mass-produced and lacking in substance, squishing as flat as tissue paper where the sauces moistened it, the meat over-salty and overcooked and hard.

She’d come up with her own recipe for a simple burger. Half a kilo of minced topside, finely chopped onion, one egg and a handful of breadcrumbs. Various spices – she’d spent a long time trying different combinations and puzzling over how to get the balance of flavour right. In the end, she’d added freshly chopped coriander and a dash of Worcestershire sauce and prayed it would have the effect she was aiming at.

She’d shaped the patties – not too flat, because thicker burgers were juicier and more tender – and fried them on the heavy ridged pan that Khumalo had bought from the second-hand shop. She was patient, waiting for the pan to sear black lines into the meat, flipping them only once. Brown outside, their middles were pink and tender and bursting with flavour.

‘Cook with happiness.’ That was one of the pieces of advice she’d picked up after reading a magazine article on top South African chef Lucas Ndlovu. She’d cooked those burgers with pure happiness, and her son had laughed with delight as he’d eaten his, the juices running down his chin.

While she waited for her order, Ntombi followed the signs to the ladies’
toilet. She found herself standing to one side to let an overweight white woman with a frizzy-looking perm walk out. The big-bosomed, pink-cheeked female brushed past Ntombi as if she were invisible, without so much as an acknowledgment.

She squatted over the toilet with her colourful outfit bunched up in her clenched fingers, not wanting to let the material come into contact with the sticky floor, and then washed her hands with the harsh-smelling liquid soap. Walking back via the garage shop to purchase two big bottles of water and two cans of Coke, she collected her food and carried the already grease-stained bags outside to the car.

The same woman was leaving as Ntombi waited to cross over to where the BMW was parked. She was climbing into the passenger seat of a Ford bakkie, with a red-haired, solidly built man at the wheel. A farmer, she guessed, and the thought made her heart sore, because it was what her Khumalo had hoped to be one day.

She wondered what would have happened if she’d ended up working for that woman instead of her current employer. Would she even have bothered to listen to Ntombi’s story, or believed it? She didn’t think so. The woman looked like the type who thought black workers should not come to her with their problems.

At least her employer had listened carefully, and taken all the details she’d given him.

He hadn’t acted on them, though. Hadn’t troubled himself to help. Worse still, he now knew that thanks to what had happened, she and her son were all alone in the world, and that gave him power over her.

She should have said nothing. Just done her job like a good worker.

When the farmer’s wife saw Ntombi walking over to the driver’s side of a vehicle newer and far more expensive than her own, her face went sour, as if she’d bitten down on a rotten pecan. She turned and snapped at her husband and the Ford started up with a growl and grumbled its way out of the car park.

And then, above the noise of its unhappy engine, Ntombi heard another sound, one as unwelcome as it was unexpected. The high-pitched trilling of her cellphone.

She put down the bags of greasy takeaway food and rooted around frantically for the phone in her bag. The number was unfamiliar but the dialling code was from Bronkhorstspruit. Her heart doubled its speed.

She stabbed the answer button.

‘Mrs Khumalo?’

‘Yes … speaking.’ Fear washed over her in waves. Who was calling? She could hear background noise, lots of it. The woman on the other side of the phone was raising her voice in order to be heard.

‘It’s Sister Baloyi here. I’m calling from the Theunisvlei clinic.’

Ntombi’s heart sank. The one place in the world she had never wanted to think about ever again. The place that had been unable to help her husband.

‘What is it?’ she said.

‘We had a lady come in to the clinic looking for you on Tuesday. She said your husband did some work for her before he passed away, and that she owed him money. She would like you to have the money. I am calling to give you her details so that you can get in contact with her.’

‘Mrs Loodts?’ Ntombi asked, confused. She remembered the weekend work Khumalo had done at the nearby farm with the horses. The grocery bags he had brought back to her, filled with exotic ingredients. Bull’s eyes and green glacé cherries; rocket and brinjals; glass noodles and pickled ginger.

‘No. This lady is …’ Sister Baloyi spoke slowly, as if she was reading it out. ‘… Jade de Jong.’

‘I don’t know who she is,’ Ntombi confessed. ‘Perhaps she is trying to get hold of another Khumalo.’

‘Well, there’s no other information on this piece of paper.’ The woman sounded kind but annoyed, as if she didn’t have time to argue with widows who were questioning the prospect of extra money. ‘Wait, there is something here on the back. Some notes written down, and another name. Sonet Meintjies. Does that mean anything to you?’

Suddenly Ntombi couldn’t breathe. The sun-drenched tarmac seemed to have sucked all the air away.

‘Give me the number, please,’ she managed.

‘Do you have a pen?’

There was one in her bag. But she didn’t have the chance to look for it because at that moment the passenger door of the BMW opened and the man in the black suit got out and turned to face her, his mirrored shades reflecting the sky behind her and turning the blue into bloodied gold.

‘What’s going on?’ he snapped. ‘Who are you talking to?’

No time to think. ‘The hospital,’ she mouthed to him. Then, into the phone, ‘Yes, go ahead.’

The sister gave her the number. It was easy to remember. 082, which was Vodacom, and then three digits in sequence. The last four she repeated to herself over and over again.

Thirty-eight, forty-two. Thirty-eight, forty-two.

‘Thank you,’ she said hurriedly and disconnected. Her armpits were soaked with sweat, and the phone nearly slipped to the ground as she tried to place it in the palm of the man’s outstretched hand without actually touching his skin.