Thunder over the Grass Read online

  He approached the bones and their shape became clearer. “Lord above,” he muttered. The bones comprised a human skull and a hand reaching forward. It was a child—a boy from the clothes—who could only have been nine or ten.

  “Was it animal or man?” asked Ouderkirk. His voice sounded hard.

  Valentine bent down to examine the bones and the clothes. He did not want to touch them; it felt like sacrilege. One of the arms was completely missing with a leg and foot a short distance away. What remained the clothing looked ripped in places. He did not want to touch it but, with his gloved hand, he turned the skull gently. It was complete.

  “Animal, I think.”

  “That is a blessing.”

  “Is it better to be shot than mauled to death in terror?” said Valentine.

  Ouderkirk grunted. “Animals are honest, Mr Crier. Men are devious. If we found the man that did this we might hesitate and be corrupted by their speech.”

  “I somehow doubt you would, Mr Ouderkirk.”

  “My son is probably dead for a dream that failed.”

  Valentine stood up and turned to him. “Is that a reason not to dream?”

  “I do not think the world has benefited from the dreams of men,” he said. “I prefer to live by the dreams of God.”

  Valentine changed the subject. “Do you think the rabid hyena did this?”

  Ouderkirk dismounted and, keeping hold of the reins, knelt down beside the skeleton to examine the marks. “Looks like teeth marks, could be the right size. But hyenas will eat carrion before they’ll hunt. Something else might have brought him down.”

  “How long would it take for a skeleton to get picked clean like this?”

  “Perhaps two months.”

  “How long could an animal be rabid before it died?”

  “A few days, maybe.” They both stood up and scanned the area again. Nothing moved.

  “It can’t have anything to do with the slavers then.” Valentine looked ahead towards the farm. “I suppose we should check the rest of the buildings.”

  Ouderkirk tied up his horse with the cart and they went ahead on foot. Without speaking of it they chose to check the barn and stables first. They crept forward, weapons ready, a short distance from one another. The stable doors were wide and they checked each one.

  The long-dead remains for four horses were reduced to bare bone. Not even the flies and insects had any further interest. In the main barn there was what had probably been a milk cow.

  That left the farm building itself.

  The main door was wide. The interior dark.

  Valentine was fairly sure that whatever had done this was long gone. But there was still the nagging fear that something nasty would leap out at him from the shadows.

  He and Ouderkirk stood at the steps leading up to the door. All was quiet except for the constant buzz of insects.

  “You first, Mr Crier.”

  Valentine got a firm grip on his gun, climbed the steps—cringing when one of them creaked—and passed through to the black interior.

  Light filtered through dusty and curtained windows. His eyes adjusted to the lower light levels and he frowned at a tangled pile in the middle of the main room. It slowly differentiated into bodies, animal and human.

  “Hyenas?” said Ouderkirk at his shoulder. “How can it be?”

  Six of them. Two directly in front of them, their fur still intact but drawn tight across their bones. There were four more further into the room, lying amid a confusion of human clothes. He could see three detached and eyeless skulls around the room.

  A search of the rest of the house found women in an upstairs bedroom. The door had been barricaded but broken in. They too were now nothing more than clothes and bone.

  Ouderkirk crossed himself again.

  Valentine suddenly felt sick. He ran from the room and down the stairs. He managed to get outside before his stomach emptied its contents on to the ground.

  When Ouderkirk emerged moments later Valentine could see he was not unaffected; his face was pale and his hands trembled on the gun.

  They did not speak as they headed back past the child that had escaped only to be chased down. They said nothing to one another during the entire journey back to Ouderkirk’s farm, arriving as the sun went down.

  viii

  “This is how it will work,” said Maliha to Barbara and Ulrika. “Ulrika, you will take your chalk and move it from one row of letters to the next. You wait at each one and look at Barbara, if she does not blink after a short time, move to the next row. Do you understand?”

  Ulrika nodded.

  “When you know what row to use you will move your chalk from one letter to the next pausing after each one waiting for Barbara to blink again. Which she will do when you reach the letter she wants.”

  Maliha paused, it was hard to contain herself. She had so many questions she wanted to ask Barbara but she had to start from the beginning and take it slowly. She settled herself. Little Baba was asleep, while Amita and Valentine were making their enquiries. Everything that could be done was being done.

  She turned to Barbara and held her hand. “Did you discover anything of interest at the library?”

  There was a long pause then a blink. Maliha’s heart leapt but she schooled herself to calm. “Good.” Then she hesitated; she knew she could walk all over other people’s feelings and concerns. Barbara could have died and now all Maliha wanted to know was what she had discovered. “Do you want to rest?”

  There was no blink.

  “Are you sure you want to do this now?”

  Yes.

  “All right,” Maliha took a deep breath to control herself. “I will leave you and Ulrika alone. You tell her what you discovered but if you get tired you must rest.”

  No response.

  Maliha lifted Barbara’s hand and held it to her cheek. “Barbara, I don’t want to lose you. If you get tired, you must rest.”

  Yes.

  Maliha gave her hand a final squeeze and kissed the old woman on her cheek. She stood and went to the door. She looked back at Ulrika whose eyes were full of fear.

  “You’ll be fine, just write down what she says,” said Maliha. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

  * * *

  The lift operator pulled shut the metal concertina doors and pressed the button for the ground floor. Maliha watched the floors drift upwards past them and felt guilty. She should not have left Barbara alone with Ulrika; after all what did she know about the girl?

  That she was hurt and lost. That she was abandoned and hopeless. That she would cling to anything that gave her hope of seeing her child again.

  And leaving Barbara? Maliha had not realised what a strain it was dealing with someone who was so limited in their ability to communicate. What would it be like if her reason had gone as well? Maliha shook her head; there was no merit in thinking about it. As far as could be determined Barbara’s mental state was not impaired, only her physical ability.

  According to everything Maliha had read it should be possible for Barbara to recover that ability, or at least most of it. She could easily live for another ten or twenty years. Especially if Maliha saw to it that she was in a Faraday for all that time.

  Everything would be all right.

  The lift operator pulled back the gates with a crash and Maliha stepped out almost automatically, adjusting to the increased gravity outside the lift space.

  She crossed the foyer towards the exit and unfurled her parasol ready to erect it outside.

  “Miss Anderson?”

  She turned at the call. Rising from one of the armchairs was a man with an untidy mop of thick blond hair and similarly coloured facial hair cut into a Van Dyke. He was not tall but well built and not unpleasing to look at.

  “What can I do for you, detective?”

  He did not deny it and if he was surprised at her identification of his profession he did not show it.

  “Miss Anderson, I would like a private di
scussion if possible?”

  “You have the advantage of me, detective...”

  “Chief Detective Karel Vandenhoek.”

  “I was about to take a walk, Chief Detective Vandenhoek. You may accompany me, if you wish.”

  He acknowledged with a nod of his head and followed her out through the front doors. The doorman closed it behind them. Maliha snapped the parasol into position.

  Across the road she noticed Izak and Lilith. They had started to move forward when she came out but retreated when they saw the man with her. Maliha angled the parasol so that he could not see her head and brought her finger to her lips. Izak grabbed Lilith by the shoulders and walked away.

  “What do you think of our city, Miss Anderson?”

  “It certainly has the character of the Dutch.”

  “And what character is that, do you think?”

  “Dedicated, pious and dogged.”

  “You are saying that the buildings are uninspiring.”

  “That would be impolite.”

  “I’m afraid it would be the truth,” he said. “We have been here a long time and are not part of the Dutch empire. Most of the original settlers wanted nothing more to do with them.”

  “I am familiar with persecution,” she said.

  She had no particular goal in mind so headed towards the market in the centre of the city. They reached a main road and she allowed him to take her elbow and guide her across safely.

  The streets were filled with vehicles and pedestrians but it was almost as if they had a personal escort clearing the way because no one ever seemed to obstruct them. Maliha could see the sidelong glances and recognised the prejudice in them.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “It is a delicate matter.”

  “Too delicate for you to come right out and say it? Must I guess?”

  They turned into the main square and crossed the tram lines to the tree under which she had stood yesterday with the beggar children.

  “You have a black baby in the hotel.”

  “Yes, I do. She is my ward.”

  “Is that correct?”

  Maliha felt herself grow hot with anger. She did not need this to add to her difficulties. “Yes, Chief Detective Vandenhoek, I delivered her from her mother’s womb with my own hands and the mother died. I am responsible for her.”

  “But she’s black.”

  “Would you allow an innocent to die just because it had a different skin colour?”

  He said nothing. There was a space around them that no one entered. She glanced around, not a single one of the beggars was visible across the square. Did they really fear the police that much? It seemed that perhaps they did.

  “Is that all?” she said. “Or are you going to order me to throw her out of the window?”

  “There has been a complaint.”

  “From whom?”

  “One of the other residents of the hotel,” he said. “The hotel management do not feel they are able to deal with the situation.”

  Maliha wanted to scream at him—and then realised it was unlike herself, why was she like this?

  “So,” she said acidly. “Let me see if I understand this correctly: there is some bigoted fool staying in the hotel who feels that the mere presence of a baby in the hotel in some fashion taints them and they cannot bear it? And as a result a complaint has been made to the police?”

  She looked at him but he was scanning the market, as if seeking out crime, so she changed the subject to the one she had an interest in. “Are you aware that babies are being kidnapped?”

  He laughed. “You heard about the devil stealing babies? The blacks are very superstitious, like children, Miss Anderson. Most likely the babies are dying or being killed by their own parents or kin and they cover it up by claiming an evil spirit stole them away.”

  “So you’ve never investigated?”

  “No, Miss Anderson, we don’t chase fairy tales.”

  “And if it was happening to white babies?”

  He became serious and looked her in the eye. “Nothing like that is happening to white children. Nothing.”

  “Would you mind escorting me back to the hotel, Chief Detective?”

  She did not wait for his reply but left the shade of the tree and headed back out of the market. She had crossed the tram lines and was on the other side of the road before he caught up.

  “You people don’t understand what it’s like here, Miss Anderson,” he said in a tone tinged with anger.

  “What people am I? Do you mean coloured people like me?”

  “Foreigners,” he said. “You did not have to live through the oppression of the British.”

  She turned on him, ignoring the fact they were in public. “I have had to live with the bigotry of the British all my life. Have you noticed the colour of my skin? Of course you have. Well, I have had to deal with the same kind of prejudice from the British that you dole out to the native Africans. So do not for one second try to elicit any sympathy from me for the plight of your complainant because,” she took a breath, “I have none whatsoever.”

  She turned and left him behind.

  Chapter 4

  i

  Amita thought it looked like a field of tents. They had driven to Klipspruit in a horse-drawn cab. None of the white owners of steam taxicabs would bring them.

  “Place stinks,” said Ray.

  The main road west out of Johannesburg had brought them to this settlement for blacks. According to Nkechi, Mama Kosi’s assistant, they had been moved out of the city over the past five years. Neither Amita nor Ray had asked why because the answer was already clear.

  The new homes looked like triangular army tents but constructed of brick and the ever-present corrugated iron. There was a door at each end and one window in each side. Hundreds of them stood in regimented rows, looking as if they went on forever.

  “What is that bloody smell?” said Ray again as he jumped from the carriage to the dusty road.

  Nkechi turned to him. “Sewage.”

  “Don’t your lot know how to stay clean?” said Ray.

  Amita thought that if he had addressed her in such a way she would have flattened him again. But if he had learnt his lesson with her, it was not something he felt the need to apply to anyone else.

  Nkechi, however, did not rise to his obnoxious behaviour. “It is not our sewage, Mr Jennings. It is the white sewage of Johannesburg.”

  “They stuck you next to their shit-hole?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t know how you stood for it. And these places, Christ, London slums are better than this.”

  “Is that the truth?” Amita asked with genuine curiosity.

  Ray paused. “Well, some of them.”

  Nkechi led the way down one of the paths between the brick tents. Women and children watched them pass. It was as if they moved in a bubble of silence. Amita could hear talking and children playing in the distance, beyond their sight, but wherever they moved the residents were silent and watchful. Even Nkechi did not acknowledge anyone.

  “I don’t think they like us much here,” said Ray. He was walking at the rear behind Amita who followed Nkechi.

  Amita smiled at him and, knowing what she wanted to say, made an effort with her English. “You are as popular here as you are anywhere.”

  “Oh, very funny, yeah? Ha-ha.”

  “Do you have family, Ray?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Either you have family or not.”

  “Yeah, well, got a couple of aunts and uncles. No one close.”

  “No wife?”

  “No.” Then he sneered. “You?”

  Amita smiled. “I have Miss Anderson, Mr Crier, the mem sahib, and little Baba.”

  “You’re just a servant.”

  “Yes,” she said. “But I have home.”

  “Yeah, all right, got your point.” Ray stopped talking.

  For all that Nkechi had said th
e smell was from the sewage farm—she could see some taller buildings a few hundred yards away to the east, back towards the city—parts of the path were raised on planks above pools of human waste. The streams were not flowing in the direction of the sewage farm. They were not flowing at all. The air was thick with flies.

  Fifteen minutes later they emerged on the other side of the field of homes. It was slightly up hill which meant that these houses—if you could use the term—were in an advantageous position.

  They moved along the line of front doors until Nkechi stopped in front of one and knocked against the door frame. Ray got out his camera and took three photographs, checking the little window that showed the counter every time he wound on the film.

  There was a fast and incomprehensible exchange between Nkechi and what sounded like a woman inside. Finally Nkechi turned to them. “We are invited inside.”

  Amita had to duck as she went through. The interior was very dark and it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust. There was no furniture, just bare earth and a curtain made of a threadbare carpet. A woman sat on the floor opposite. She wore an old but colourful kanga but was otherwise bare. She looked to be in her forties.

  “Can I take a picture of her?” Ray asked Nkechi. “She’s not going to think I’m stealing her soul and try to kill me?”

  Nkechi turned her gaze on him and did not even smile. “No, Mr Jennings, she knows what a camera is.” She nodded at a line of photographs attached to the underside of the ceiling-wall.

  “All right,” he said. “Smile.” The woman did not but he snapped anyway. “Probably not enough light,” he muttered.

  Nkechi and Amita sat down, cross-legged. Ray followed them to the ground but sat half sideways with his legs out. He pulled out a note pad.

  “What questions do you want to ask?” said Nkechi. “I will translate.”

  “Biographical details first,” he said. “Name, age, that sort of thing.”

  Amita only half-listened as Ray asked his questions and they went to and fro between Nkechi, the woman—who was the grandmother of the missing child—and Ray. He seemed to know his business once he was doing it. Although he lacked the insight of her mistress.