Those Who Love Night (37 page)

“Should we change over now?” Yudel had to shout to make himself heard above the sound of the rain.

“We have to.” Abigail struggled to get the words out. “I can't drive now.”

Yudel and Abigail got out into the rain to change places. She stopped him in front of the car. Their clothes were already saturated by the torrent. Above the noise of the rain and with water cascading over her face, she shouted to Yudel. “He wanted Janice, not me? Are you certain?”

“Nothing in all this is certain, but I believe so.”

“How terrible,” she gasped, “but how wonderful, how damned liberating to know that I'm not really the one he wants.”

Yudel's own confusion had been as great as Abigail's. Only since his meeting with Chunga had the confusion begun to clear, and only since seeing Loise's photograph had his thoughts crystalized.

In Yudel's view, one more matter could be left untouched, but it was not so for Abigail. “Did Jonas kill Krisj?”

She was reaching out to him with both hands. He took them in his. “We'll never be able to do anything about the killing of that man,” he told her. “Let it go. Nothing can be done about it now.”

She had brought her face right up to his to be able to hear him. “I can't let it go. Tell me.”

There was no avoiding this woman. “I think he ordered the killing.”

“Why? For what possible reason?”

Yudel could feel rainwater running down his back. In the light from the headlights he saw it pouring over Abigail's face, as if she were in a shower. “Helena and her friends all assumed that there is a connection between the attempts on Tony's life and the killing of Patel. But the two had nothing to do with each other. I misunderstood Loise when she was unable to say directly what men saw in Tony that brought shame upon him. She thought there was nothing wrong with being that way, but that she knew men did not like it. I thought she was talking about his schizophrenia. Suneesha Patel had come much closer, telling me how she hated Tony's relationship with her husband. And Chunga's contempt for Patel had been clear. The idea that this Indian man of no importance was his son's lover would have been something Jonas Chunga would never be able to bear. If his finger was not on the trigger the night Patel died, then I feel sure he gave the order.”

At last they got back into the car. “There's more, isn't there?” Abigail's voice sounded more secure now. A new strength had appeared with the powerful release of emotion.

“Yes. In my anxiety to learn everything, I've endangered us all. I tested all this by imputing his actions to Wally who, like Chunga, was also a police officer. I told him that I knew that Wally had gone over to the government side and that his daughter had killed herself for that reason. His reaction was profoundly enlightening. I thought he was going to attack me. I also lied to him about what the Five Brigade soldiers had done to Janice.”

“Why, Yudel? For heaven's sake.”

“I needed to see his reaction to try to establish that my thinking about him and Janice is right. But I fear that I went too far. He's no fool. Once he calms down, he'll realize what I was up to. I hope it's not before tomorrow.”

Reaching the hotel, they ran through the rain for the entrance. The lobby was lit by candles. Perhaps the standby plant had failed. They crossed the lobby toward the stairs still running, scattering rainwater with every step. They were just starting up the stairs when the lights flickered briefly, then came on. “In this weather,” Abigail said, “it's a miracle.”

She stopped Yudel on the landing. Her face was filled with the wonder of a new discovery. “They're in the police cells in Plumtree, aren't they?”

Yudel looked into her excited face. “I believe so,” he said.

In the gloom of the stairs, her eyes were bright points of light. “Jonas comes from that area and was in charge of the police station there. He would know the local police. And Plumtree is almost on the Botswana border, some five hundred kilometers from here. The length of time Paul Robinson says it took them to be delivered and for the truck to return is about right. They must be there, Yudel.”

“The only way to find out is to go there.”

“No,” Abigail said. “There is another way.”

48

There were no attendants on duty at the first filling station to which Helena guided Yudel. She had answered at the first ring when he called her. “We need your help,” he had told her.

“Have I seemed reluctant so far?”

“Not in the slightest.”

A wind had come up, sweeping the rain in long bursts under the roof that covered the pumps. The glass-fronted room where the attendants normally sought shelter was in darkness.

At the second, a handwritten sign read, “No petrol during power failures.”

“Even when the power's on, it seems,” Helena said. She stared at the lifeless pumps for only a moment. “I have an idea. I know a transport operator who owes me a favor. He has his own tanks.”

“Let's go there,” Yudel said. He was thinking about Rosa and whether Abigail had contacted her. He knew that this weather was their greatest ally. It was surely going to keep even Jonas Chunga and his
CIO
indoors. Few crimes were committed on such nights as these, few rebellions conducted and even fewer arrests made. Such matters were usually kept for better weather.

The transport operator's dwelling was in a few rooms behind his yard, where two small trucks were parked. Yudel could see the two-hundred-liter fuel tanks mounted on steel frames at above head-height. At least it was a gravity feed. If the power went off, the force of gravity could still be relied on. He could see no shelter anywhere. The dirt of the yard had already turned into a swamp. Water was pouring down the sides of the tanks. Yudel wondered if refuelling was possible without getting as much water as fuel into the car.

At the hotel, Yudel had ignored his damp clothing, saying he would change when there was a chance of it remaining dry. The water running down his back, which was only a little below his body temperature, had since been soaked up by his clothing, but he had cooled down with the relative inaction in the car. The fabric clung damply wherever it touched skin.

The motor gate was closed and padlocked, but a side gate stood open, hanging crookedly on its hinges. “I'll go,” Helena said. “I know him.” Without giving Yudel the opportunity to debate the matter, she was out of the car, leaving the door open, and splashing across the yard to bang on the door with her flat hand.

Yudel leaned across to close the door. The rain was already swirling through the doorway onto the passenger seat. He saw Helena bang on the door a second and third time. There were lights inside, but Yudel could see no movement. It was only after the fourth attempt that she tried the door handle. It opened immediately and Yudel lost sight of her as she tumbled inside and out of the rain.

He was still watching the door when she appeared again and waved for him to join her. As he ran across the yard, the thought came to him that the African thunderstorms of his experience were almost always violent, but short. This one did not seem to know the rules.

The front room was part storeroom, part lounge. It contained shelving on which sat cans of oil, spare oil filters, a few battered box files, a monkey wrench, assorted screwdrivers, a large bunch of keys and other necessities of life for the fat African man who was sitting on the linoleum floor. He was staring at Helena through glazed eyes. An empty bottle of cheap brandy, lying on its side next to him, made clear what had reduced him to his current state. A television set with bunny-ears antennae was producing nothing more than a vigorous snowstorm on its tiny screen. The man's face and hair were wet.

Helena was leaning over him. She had a wet kitchen cloth in one hand. Her pointing finger was so close that, in Yudel's view, the transport operator risked losing an eye. “Ezekiel, I have an emergency. I must fill up from your tanks.”

Ezekiel turned his head away to avoid the finger. With or without it blurring his vision, he was going to have difficulty focusing on Helena. “One hundred American, to fill up.”

“Are you crazy? You want to get rich from me on one sale?”

He seemed to be trying to concentrate. “Eight hundred rands South African.”

“You're out of your mind.”

Ezekiel raised a finger of his own. “No discount,” he said. He tried to rise, but instead lurched to one side and lost consciousness.

“Gordon, help me search for the keys to the gate's padlock.” Helena was already looking around the room.

“Are we going to take the fuel without his permission?” Yudel felt uneasy at the thought.

“Do you see any alternatives?”

Ezekiel woke suddenly and blinked at his visitors. “Hard times,” he assured them before his eyes again closed.

“You're telling me,” Yudel said. He found the padlock key in one of Ezekiel's trouser pockets. Just like a small operator, he thought, keeping the important things close. “Now, how do we fill the tank in this rain?”

“I've seen him do it. He throws a tarpaulin over the tanks, the truck and everything. Then he runs the petrol in.”

“It sounds jolly,” Yudel said.

“If you've got fifty American dollars, that will do.”

Yudel slipped it between two fingers of Ezekiel's right hand. The tarpaulin was in plain sight, rolled up on the floor next to the television set. Yudel looked at Helena for suggestions. “You'll have to get up on a chair,” she said. “I'll hold it steady. Then you have to the throw the tarpaulin over one of the tanks and I'll pull it over the car as well.”

“In this rain?”

“Can you think of another way?”

49

Abigail knew that the presence of the prisoners in Plumtree police cells was based on nothing more than a likelihood. She had the number she wanted from the Matabeleland directory, and she keyed it in. A surly voice mumbled, “Plumtree.”

“Good evening,” Abigail said. “This is Advocate Abigail Bukula. I would like to speak to the officer in charge.”

“Not on duty,” the voice said.

“Who's in charge now?”

“The inspector is in charge now.”

“What's his name?”

“Inspector Marenji.”

“Let me speak to him.”

“He's outside.” Nothing in his tone suggested that it might be possible to call the inspector.

“Go and get him.”

“He's in the garage, checking vehicles.”

“What's your name?”

“Charles,” the voice said.

It was not exactly what Abigail had wanted, but it would do. “Constable Charles, I am a barrister of the High Court. Do you know what that means?”

“Yiss.” The word slid out in an expulsion of air. “I know.”

“I'm not calling at this time of night for a small matter. Get Inspector Marenji immediately. I'll wait.”

“I'll get him.”

“Thank you.”

The handset was put down heavily, perhaps with unnecessary force, but Abigail could hear the sounds of voices and movement in the background. It was almost five minutes before a new voice came onto the connection. This one was lighter and sounded younger. “Good evening, ma'am,” it said. “Inspector Marenji here.”

“Good evening, inspector. Advocate Abigail Bukula here.”

“Yes, ma'am, what can I do for you?” The inspector sounded friendly and businesslike.

“You have seven of my clients in custody. I have a High Court order for their release. I will be with you in a few hours to take them off your hands.”

This time there was too long a pause before the inspector spoke. “Do you have their names?”

Abigail had the list of the seven before her. She read the names into the telephone. “Please prepare them for release by the time I get there.”

Again the long pause, while the inspector thought about this. “Where are you now?”

“Not far away. I'll be with you shortly. I trust I won't have to wait.”

“I'll have to talk to my sergeant.”

“Talk to anyone you like. Just see that they're ready for me. I'll have the court order with me, signed by Judge Mujuru. Good evening.” She hung up. For the first time she realized that her hands and face were both wet, this time with sweat. “They're there,” she said to herself. “My God, they are there.”

Abigail knew the country well enough to estimate that ordinarily it would take perhaps six hours to cover the four hundred and fifty kilometers to Bulawayo, and another hour from there to Plumtree.

She knew that her calculations were based on good weather and daytime driving. But now, at night and in this weather … The rain was drumming on the roof as insistently as before. She acknowledged that it could take twice that long, if they got through the roadblocks and if the rain had not washed away sections of the road. She looked at her watch and saw that the time was seven o'clock. I'll give us ten hours, she thought. If we're out of here in an hour, we'll be there before the local police or the
CIO
people are out of bed tomorrow morning.

One other critical matter remained. She already knew the answer, but she had to try. If flying were possible, that would change everything. A friendly voice from the airport answered at the first ring. “No, ma'am. Tonight's flight to Bulawayo has been canceled. Nothing is coming in or going out in this weather. The incoming Jo'burg flight has turned back to wait for morning.”

“Thank you,” Abigail said. “What time is tomorrow's first flight to Bulawayo?”

“O-nine hundred hours.”

“Arriving there?”

“Eleven hundred, if there are no delays.”

“Are there often delays?”

“Not always, ma'am, but sometimes,” the friendly voice said.

I'll pray for delays, she thought. “Thanks.”