Thunder over the Grass Read online

  “Only whites live round here, Maliha—ow.”

  Maliha glanced round. Ray had his hand to his head and was frowning at Amita. “You say Miss Anderson,” said Amita.

  Maliha turned back and tried the door. It was locked.

  “’Ere, let me,” said Ray. Maliha gave him some space and examined the window at the front. Ray dug around in his pockets and pulled out a key. He fitted it in the lock and turned it.

  “What would you be doing with a key like that?” asked Maliha as she returned to where he waited.

  “Do you really want to know?” he said.

  “Perhaps not.” She looked into the dark interior. “Try not to touch anything. Or disturb anything.”

  “Or walk on anything?”

  “Exactly.”

  “We’ll just wait out ’ere then, shall we?”

  “No, come in or you’ll attract attention.”

  Maliha stepped through. The door gave on to the main room at the front, a door led through into the kitchen/scullery and there was a staircase leading up to the next floor with a cupboard beneath it.

  A dark wood table stood in the centre of the room. There was a plant pot in the middle. The plant itself was dried up and dead. Four plain straight-backed chairs stood around the table and there was an old armchair by the window.

  It looked unlived-in. There was a thin layer of dust on everything but beneath it the table’s surface looked polished.

  The scullery was the same and a search of the cupboards and larder showed nothing of value. Everything had been cleared out and left clean. The only thing that was out of place was the dark patch in the sandstone floor. The place where Mrs Nickells had been found, stabbed to death. Maliha tutted.

  She headed upstairs, the steps creaking as she went.

  “All right if we ’ave a look round now?” asked Ray.

  “Be my guest,” Maliha said as she climbed.

  The two rooms on this floor were the main bedroom and a smaller one containing a child’s cot. The main bedroom was hidden in half-light. Maliha went to the window and drew back the curtains. The carpet was a dull red and what had probably been white but was now grey.

  There was a mark on the carpet by the door.

  She went over and crouched down with the light from the window on it. The carpet was simply woven, there was no pile, but there was a small patch that was burnt. She ran her gloved fingers over it, the tips were blackened. She brought her fingers to her nose. Charcoal.

  The discolouration was a rectangle about six inches long and two wide. It faded towards the door and round the sides but the middle and end nearest the bed were solidly black. It suggested a tube that was hot at one end lying on the carpet.

  She stood up again and looked at the walls. She recalled Wit Nickells’ fingers; they were not discoloured by cigarettes, and his breath had not carried that distinct odour she had come to expect from smokers. He did not smoke and smoking among women was confined only to radical females. It was unlikely Suzanne Nickells was a smoker. There were no ashtrays but they might have been removed by whoever stripped the house.

  She hurried downstairs. Halfway down the stairs she found Ray was examining the door to the scullery while, when she reached the bottom, she saw Amita staring out of the front window.

  “Is there any cigarette residue on the walls, Ray?”

  He looked at her then scraped his fingernail down the wallpaper beside him. He studied the result, sniffed it and rubbed it between his fingers. “Don’t think so.”

  “Good,” she replied, lifted her skirts and ran back upstairs.

  She walked back into the main bedroom and stood on the burnt patch. She turned round slowly staring carefully at the bed, the walls, the window, the wardrobe and the door. Everything looked clean.

  Why was everything clean? Who cleaned the house where a murder had taken place when the accused might be found not guilty and return? Unless they were sure he would be condemned. Why clean everything?

  Because they had got it wrong. They had made a mistake and were worried they might have left evidence behind.

  She continued turning on the spot. Steadily step by step.

  They had a device, in a tube, activated by heat that generated a noxious gas. Those who inhaled the gas became unconscious.

  Turn.

  In the tiny homes of the black families they could release their gas and everyone would be rendered helpless. They could steal the child and take their tube with them. No one investigated because no one cared.

  Then they thought they would take a white child—how did they identify which one? They arrived at the home but Suzanne Nickells surprised them, one of them grabbed up the nearest weapon and killed her. They continued their mission and put the tube in the bedroom to incapacitate the husband. Then they took the child. Even if the babe had cried out its father would not have heard.

  The intruders had one clever person with them and he had brought the knife to the bedroom and put it in Wit Nickells’ hand to condemn him. Thinking, rightly, that no one would investigate further even though the child was missing.

  And it was all supposition. No court here would accept it.

  For a moment, Maliha wavered. How could she possibly save Wit Nickells from the gallows? Only by finding the child and those who abducted them.

  She stopped turning and stared at the door frame.

  “Bring me a chair!” she shouted. There was an exclamation of surprise, possibly from Amita, and an indeterminate thud. The sound of people moving and then a chair scraping the floor. Followed by a short argument. And then a thumping on the stairs and a clattering as the chair rattled against the banister.

  The chair appeared being carried by Amita. Maliha indicated a point just inside the bedroom door. With Amita’s help she climbed on to it, bringing her eyes in line with the top of the frame.

  She ran an unsoiled finger along the length of the top of the frame. It was slightly sticky. She looked at the faint yellow-green deposit with satisfaction. Holding Amita’s hand she climbed down and sat on the chair. Then took a sniff.

  The smudge on her glove smelled sweet, almost like honey, but caught in the throat like smelling salts—ammonia. She felt light-headed and the room swam.

  And woke to Amita’s concerned face, Ray just behind her. Maliha frowned. She had not heard him coming up the stairs. Then she realised she was lying on the bed.

  “How long was I unconscious?”

  “One or two minutes, sahiba.”

  “That is a very potent concoction.”

  It might have been the after-effects of the drug but she felt far more positive than she had up to then.

  At last she was getting somewhere.

  iii

  When they chose to retire in the evening, Maliha decided there was no point in pretending that she was not sleeping in Valentine’s bed.

  After all, she reasoned, who was here? She had already discussed the matter with Barbara, Amita was not concerned and Ulrika had had carnal relations with her son’s father, whoever he was. Maliha paused at the thought she had considered Amita as being someone whose opinion was relevant. Then smiled to herself; it was good manners to consider everyone’s feelings regardless of their status.

  In fact the only person she might have to persuade in the matter was Valentine himself who was far more likely to be concerned with appearances—yet only for Maliha’s sake. She called Amita over after she had sent Ulrika to bed with the baby.

  “I will be sleeping in that room,” Maliha indicated Valentine’s door, “so I won’t need you tonight, Amita. But if you could come in around seven thirty that would be fine. I will be wanting a bath.”

  “Yes, sahiba,” said Amita. “Do you wish nightdress tonight?”

  “No, I won’t be needing one.”

  Amita nodded. “Goodnight, sahiba.” She closed the door behind her. Maliha turned to see Valentine shutting the adjoining door behind him. She heard the lock click and frowned.

 
She walked over and rapped on it. The lock clicked again and he pulled it open.

  “Haven’t you forgotten something?” she said.

  His immediate reaction was to glance behind her to see if anyone was looking.

  “They’ve gone to bed,” she said.

  He smiled and stepped through the door pulling her into his arms. The kiss was warm but did not last long enough. He did not pull away but held her in his arms; she could feel the pulse in his neck against her cheek. It was a trifle fast which could be due to arousal.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “No, of course not.”

  She pulled free of his embrace and took his hand. She led him through into his rooms, pausing only to let him shut the door.

  “Leave it unlocked,” she said, then at his questioning face. “So Amita can come through in the morning to run the bath.”

  He looked for a moment as if he would still lock the door, and then acquiesced. She drew him on, through the lounge, negotiating the furniture and into the bedroom. She pulled him to the bed and pushed him down on to it. Then stood back.

  She always planned her life and actions so carefully but she found, in her relations with Valentine, it was always better to simply follow whatever thought or instinct was suggested in the instant.

  She stood in front of him, hands at her sides. She found herself breathing heavily. She contemplated activating the phonograph but decided it would be more of a distraction. She was not Salome.

  “What are you doing?” he asked with a slight smile on his face, though it did not vanquish the worry she could see infecting him. She smiled and placed her index finger against her lips.

  She turned her back on him trying to remember where the fastenings were for the dress she was wearing. Recalling the map of Johannesburg was easy compared to this. She reached one arm over her shoulder and the other round her back to disengage the hooks from the top down, revealing her shoulders.

  Before the first of the whip scars he had inflicted—under her instruction—came into view, she turned back towards him. She had half of the fastenings undone and pulled the bodice down, exposing herself, then pulled her arms free of the sleeves. She switched off the lights and paused while their eyes adjusted.

  It reminded her of the time she had been forced to step onto the stage at school to recite a poem by Blake. The sheer embarrassment of being the subject of attention where every pair of eyes was criticising the colour of her skin.

  She closed her eyes and snaked her hands above her head. The action lifted her breasts. He breathed in noisily and she smiled. She had seen dancers in a kinematograph and read descriptions of dance—she had even been taught before she was sent to Britain. The music need not be heard; it could be thought and felt. She needed only a rhythm in her mind. She rejected all the trite songs of Schubert. Then the intense rhythms of the tabla came to her and she heard the rhythm in her mind.

  Her hips slid to the side and back again in time to the beat of her thoughts, slow and sedate. She remembered her training and moved her hands. She felt her body become the flickering flames of a fire.

  She swayed and her body writhed to the inner rhythm. She focused only on herself. On her own movements. She turned on the spot. His breathing became harsher, catching in his throat as he watched. Her movements may have represented flame but now she burned. She ran her palms across her skin feeling the sheen of sweat.

  The hair that Amita had meticulously pinned up in the beginning of the day fell down across her face, shoulders and back. She pressed her thumbs into the dress at her hips, catching the bloomers beneath as well. Smoothly, in time to the inner music, she pushed them down to her knees. She stood up straight; with one foot and then the other she stepped out of them, naked save for her sandals.

  She did not cease to dance. Now she knew he was captivated she turned round revealing the scars he had made on her.

  More than anything she wanted to push him back on the bed and force him into her. She knew he would not resist, though they had not been in that position before. But tonight was not the night for her to dominate him. He needed to be the strong one because he was the one that was lost.

  She moved in front of him and knelt. Sitting back on her heels, her head down. Now that she stopped the air from the open window blew cold across her damp skin.

  He did not move. She reached out and untied first one boot and then the other. He lifted his foot allowing her to remove it along with his sock. She did the same with the other. He stood up and she could hear the faint rustle as he unfastened his shirt buttons. It fell to the ground beside her. The slight clink of metal on metal indicated he was undoing his belt. One leg and then the other emerged. He wore short drawers for undergarments and they joined the other clothes.

  She watched his feet as he headed to the bed and climbed in. She remained where she was. He must command her.

  “Come to bed, Maliha.”

  In a fluid motion she leaned back so the soles of her feet were flat on the floor then stood up. She kept her head bowed. He had the sheet pulled back ready for her and she lay down on her back beside him with her hands at her sides, not stiffly but subservient to his desire.

  He placed his hand flat on her belly then slid it gently up until he cupped her right breast. He leaned forward and placed a butterfly kiss on her left nipple, then bit gently. She shivered.

  He moved closer. His body pressed against hers. He brought his hand to her cheek and turned her head towards him and kissed her. She mirrored his pressure and the intensity of his passion. She would give back whatever he gave to her.

  For minutes they touched and kissed. Always he seemed to be on the verge of tears, and so she was too.

  When he finally squeezed between her thighs and penetrated her, she felt nature’s passion driving them higher, while the weight of humanity dragged them down. She failed to reach paroxysm though she drove him to his. But she did not mind, she had done this for him.

  “I don’t want to lose you again,” he mumbled as he fell asleep.

  iv

  Amita opened her eyes to the dim grey of the bedroom at night. It wasn’t unusual; little Baba often woke needing changing or feeding. But on this occasion there was no sound from the baby.

  Someone was moving in the other room.

  Perhaps Ulrika had got up to use the WC but Amita could hear Ulrika’s breathing at the end of the bed. She looked around the greyness of the room. The door to the main room was shut but there was a light moving behind it.

  Someone was in the mistress’s suite. It would only be a matter of time before they opened the door to the bedroom. One woman had already been murdered. What if the child-stealers had been watching her mistress and had come to silence them all? What if they wanted to steal little Baba away?

  The window opening on to the balcony was the only means of escape but there were things to be done before they attempted it.

  Amita pulled back the sheet and slipped out of bed. Her bare feet made no sound on the carpet that covered the floorboards. She paused, should she wake Ulrika first? No, the door must come first. The light beneath the door had increased in intensity.

  She covered the distance in four silent strides and leaned her shoulder against it. She reached out to the key and saw the bar handle dipping. She had arrived just in time. Pressure increased against her shoulder, she caught hold of the key and turned it. The door opened a fraction despite her efforts and the key would not engage.

  Amita rammed her bare foot against the bottom of the door. Whoever was on the other side of the door would know he was being prevented. Subtlety was no longer required. She pulled away for a second, the pressure on her foot increased then she slammed her full weight against the door. It slammed noisily back against its frame. Ulrika woke with a strangled half-cry and the key turned with a satisfying click.

  Amita threw herself away from the door as the air vibrated with a deafening explosion. And a hole ripped through the door. Somethin
g on the far side of the room shattered.

  An angry voice shouted in the other room and another defensive one shouted back. Ulrika was alternately squealing and breathing in sharply. Then the air filled with the baby crying.

  Amita dashed across the room to where Ulrika was lying. She had not got up but was lying with a sheet over her head. Ripping the sheet from her Amita grabbed her wrist and yanked her to her feet. “Get out the window.”

  The room echoed to a great thump as the invisible assailants threw themselves against the door. Amita did not think the door would last long but someone must have been alerted by the gunshot. Ulrika had frozen in the middle of the room as they struck the door. Roughly Amita shoved her in the direction of the window then turned to the crying baby. She gathered up little Baba, wrapping her in the blanket.

  She headed over to where Ulrika was struggling with the sash window, trying to force it upwards from its slightly open position. There was another solid thump from the door and the sound of cracking wood. Amita shouldered Ulrika aside and shoved the baby into her arms. She unlatched the window and slammed it upwards.

  There was another thud. The frame splintered. The door crashed open. A shadow moved into the room preceded by a gun.

  Amita screamed like a banshee, took two steps to get up speed and threw herself at the intruder.

  The gun went off.

  * * *

  Climbing from the window looked impossible with the baby. Ulrika didn’t know what had happened with Amita. She had to get out. She sat on the window frame. She did not dare look into the room: Amita might be lying dead; the man might be coming for her. She had to get out.

  Holding the crying baby tight she pulled her legs up one at a time, ripping the thin cloth of the nightgown Amita had lent her. She fell through and landed heavily on her knees and elbows. She had her hand behind Baba’s head and stopped her from striking the grid. The child was momentarily silent from the sensation of falling. The metal grid of the balcony cut into Ulrika’s leg. The pain was motivating.

  Releasing one arm from around the child she pushed herself to her feet.