Thunder over the Grass Read online

  She went to run but something tugged at her nightdress and then gripped her shoulder. She turned her head and stared into the eyes of white man with a thick beard. His fingers dug into her shoulder. She felt the energy go out of her—she could not fight.

  The baby screamed.

  Energised by her instinct to protect the child, Ulrika bit the fingers digging into her shoulder. Hard. She did not let go but clamped down harder and harder. He swore and tried to pull his fingers away. She was almost jerked from her feet but released him, tasting thick blood. She ducked as a shadow flew past her.

  A fist struck the man across the jaw.

  “Bastard!” shouted Valentine.

  Ulrika wasn’t sure whether he was insulting the man or crying out at the pain he had inflicted on his own fist which he shook for a moment.

  Valentine grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her away, in the direction of his room. She staggered a few steps and then stopped as Valentine swung at the dazed man again, this time striking him in the neck. It was then she realised Valentine was not wearing any clothes. She turned away trying to comfort the crying baby.

  The French window of Barbara’s suite opened and Maliha’s head appeared. “Come inside quickly.” She gestured vigorously and Ulrika stumbled towards her, the nightdress seemed sticky around her knees and the balcony had sharp protrusions that dug into her bare feet.

  As she got to the French window Maliha reached out and took the child from her, which was a relief to the soles of her feet but within moments she was inside standing on the blessed carpet.

  The light was still off in here as well but the illumination from the windows played across the room revealing that Maliha too had nothing on. She seemed to be examining the child in the dim light. Before she had a chance to avert her eyes Maliha thrust the baby once more into her arms.

  “Feed the baby in Barbara’s bedroom. If Barbara wakes up, tell her there’s been some trouble but we’re dealing with it.”

  Ulrika just stared at her.

  “Do you understand, Ulrika?”

  She nodded.

  “Then go!” Maliha gave her a shove and she staggered through into the bedroom. Closing the door behind her made her feel safer even if it would not stop anyone. As far as she could see Barbara was still asleep. She took the baby to the armchair in the corner and sat down. Little Baba was just whimpering now that the fuss had died down.

  Ulrika pulled down the shoulder of the nightdress and put the baby to her breast. The sensation of suckling calmed them both.

  v

  Maliha shut the door behind Ulrika. The sound of Valentine swearing drifted through the open door on a breeze. There was no sound from beyond the door to her suite. She unlocked it as quietly as she could and pulled it open.

  Nothing moved. She pulled the door wider and stepped back in case of attack.

  “Maliha, call for a doctor, Amita’s been shot.”

  “I am not hurt,” came a plaintive voice from somewhere near the floor.

  “Your arm is bleeding.”

  “It is not much.”

  There was a commotion of voices outside the room. Maliha dashed into the bedroom and grabbed her dressing gown. “Valentine you need to put something on. Right now.”

  She pulled open the telephone case and called down. News of the gunshot had apparently reached the ground floor. Perhaps others had rung down.

  “This is Maliha Anderson; my maid has been shot by intruders. We need a doctor immediately.”

  “Yes, Miss Anderson.”

  “And the police. I want Chief Detective Karel Vandenhoek.”

  “The chief detective?”

  There was an urgent and loud knocking on the door. Maliha glanced over at it. It was probably not locked since the intruders had gained entry that way. She turned her attention back to the call as there was more knocking.

  “There has been a shooting of a foreign national in the most prestigious hotel in Johannesburg. I was speaking with him only today. I think he will want to know.”

  “I will tell them what you said.”

  Maliha put down the phone and went to where Amita was now sitting up against the wall, holding her right arm up against her chest with her left.

  “It does hurt, sahiba,” she said.

  Maliha nodded. There was a lot of blood on Amita’s clothes and the floor—they would have to replace the carpet completely—but both entry and exit wounds in her upper arm seemed to be only seeping blood.

  Light in the suite increased as the door from the corridor opened. Maliha toyed with a couple of courses of action then decided that being a helpless victim would be the best approach.

  “Who is it?” she called out in a quavering voice. “Please don’t hurt us.”

  “Hotel porters, miss,” came a gruffly South African accent which seemed familiar. “Are you all right?”

  “No, my maid has been shot, she needs medical assistance.”

  Amita grabbed Maliha’s wrist. “I cannot be examined,” she said with genuine fear. Maliha put her hand over Amita’s and squeezed it.

  “I know, we’ll keep you here. They will only look at your arm.”

  The porters entered in a rush. There were three of them, all white, the oldest was the one she had embarrassed when they first entered the hotel.

  “I have called for a doctor and the police,” Maliha said. “Please check to make sure they are gone.”

  The men spread out through the rooms but were back within seconds.

  “No one, miss,” said the older one. He looked through the doorway and down at where Amita sat on the floor in her blood. Almost hesitantly, almost as if he had to force himself, he said. “I served in the Anglo-Boer war, miss. I have some experience with bullet wounds. I can look. If you like.”

  She looked up into his moustachioed face and met his eye. She nodded and pulled back to give him room. One of the other, younger, porters slipped through and checked the room.

  “The baby’s gone!” he shouted. The other two froze. The older man moved first to examine Amita’s arm.

  “The baby is safe,” said Maliha. “The wet nurse escaped through the window with the child.”

  Maliha noticed how the older man’s eyes flicked to the door lock and frame taking in the bullet marks around the lock and the splintered wood. Maliha knew that he wanted to not believe her story.

  “A lot of blood maybe,” he said. “But a clean wound. This will heal nicely. Do you have something for a bandage?”

  “The tablecloth,” said Maliha. “Cut in strips.”

  He nodded and lifted his head. “Dirk, make bandage strips from the tablecloth.”

  “There are scissors in the third drawer down of the bureau,” said Maliha.

  The sound of Valentine rapping on the window attracted her attention; she pointed in the direction of the French window. He disappeared and then appeared at the bedroom door.

  “How is she?”

  “The bullet went through her upper arm,” said Maliha.

  The second porter pushed past Valentine and held out dangling strips of white cloth to the one on the floor. He glanced up and growled. “They need to be rolled up.”

  The youngster gathered up the ends and attempted to extract one. Maliha and Valentine simultaneously reached out and took an end each. They pulled and the strips separated.

  They each rolled them up fast around their hands but Maliha was the first to hand one to the porter tending Amita. He took it and wound it tight about Amita’s arm. She winced with her eyes squeezed shut but said nothing.

  Maliha stood up as Valentine passed his rolled bandage to the second porter.

  “Amita,” said Maliha switching to Hindi. “You have to say that I was in the bedroom with you and Ulrika.”

  “Of course, mistress.”

  “Do you know what they were after?”

  “No, mistress, but if they knew this was your bedroom, perhaps it was you.”

  Maliha nodded then turned
to Valentine. “I need to check on Barbara,” she said. “Will you stay here?”

  “Of course.”

  Maliha went into Barbara’s lounge through the connecting passage. She closed the door and leaned against it. Tears ran from her eyes. This was just too much. They could have killed Amita. They could have killed or taken the baby. She could have died herself. Or lost Valentine.

  She shook herself. Why should dying be a problem? She had put herself into those situations more than once. But that was the point. On those occasions she had known what she was doing. This was like the time the rebels had attacked Barbara’s house, but even then she had realised it was coming, if belatedly.

  There were only two reasons they would want to attack: if she was closing in on the child-stealers, or if someone had decided to take a violent dislike to the presence of a black baby in the white-only hotel. Not impossible but far less likely.

  She stood up straight and wiped the tears from her cheeks, then rubbed her eyes until they unblurred. This was not a time to become the victim of events.

  vi

  She knocked on the door of the bedroom. “Open the door, Ulrika.”

  There was a long pause. Maliha gave the girl time. Eventually she heard a soft padding across the carpet inside and the key turned in the lock.

  Ulrika stood there in her nightgown, holding the baby, looking lost and scared. Maliha had a flashback to the boarding school except it had been her own image in the mirror she had seen, at age eleven, thousands of miles from home among people who despised her.

  Maliha went in and shut the door.

  She went over to Barbara to ensure the Faraday was still active. She paused to listen to the old woman’s breathing; it was steady and firm.

  “She has not woken,” said Ulrika.

  “Good,” responded Maliha. “Let’s sit down.”

  Ulrika went back to the armchair, where she could prop up her arms to support the sleeping child.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Ulrika related the events.

  “They did not speak?”

  “I could not hear their words.”

  “Pity. Very well,” Maliha said. “You know that I was with Mr Crier.”

  Ulrika’s face reddened and she could only nod.

  “It is not something to be ashamed of; we are engaged.” Then she wondered why she was justifying herself. “I do not wish others to be aware of our physical relationship. I’m sure you understand that?”

  Ulrika nodded again.

  “So we will say that I was also in the bedroom and helped you escape through the window with the baby.”

  A fear came into Ulrika’s eyes. “Will there be police?”

  “Yes.”

  “I cannot stay here.”

  Despite her words Ulrika seemed too terrified to move. Paralysed in the chair.

  Maliha stared at her as connections clicked into place. “Hans Putnam is your father.”

  Hans Putnam, the Mayor of Johannesburg. Maliha closed her eyes. This night was getting better and better.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Maliha, the chief detective has arrived,” said Valentine as he came in.

  “Thank you.”

  “He’s in Barbara’s lounge.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” she had a sudden thought, “would you mind waiting with Barbara in here?”

  “Yes,” he said though he seemed unsure. Maliha hurried to the door and let him in. She put her head out and saw the chief detective standing by the French windows. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  She grabbed Valentine by the hand. “What have you told him?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “I said I was woken by the gunshot but by the time I arrived the birds had flown.”

  “Good,” she said and glanced at the rabbit girl in the corner, still the expression of sheer terror on her face. “She’s the daughter of the Mayor of Johannesburg.”

  “Shit.”

  Maliha gave him a stern look. “Yes, quite, but please don’t use such language.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “We have done nothing wrong.”

  “No I know, but—”

  “But nothing, Valentine,” she said. “We’ll stick close to the truth except where you and I were together.”

  “Because we’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “It’s not wrong,” she said. “It just won’t be seen as appropriate.”

  She gave his hand a squeeze and went out into the lounge, acutely aware that the dressing gown did nothing to hide her shape. Well, that might help. She put on the most worried face she could muster.

  “Chief Detective Vandenhoek, I’m so glad you could come yourself,” she held out her hand which he shook with the very slightest pressure and a frown.

  “Miss Anderson. I thought I was beyond the rank where I could be pulled from my bed in the middle of the night.”

  “Tell that to our intruders,” she said. “I asked for you specifically because this is a matter with potentially serious consequences, perhaps even international.”

  “A coloured maid getting shot does not strike me that way, even if she is in a suite of the hotel.” He took a deep breath and met her eye. “After all, Miss Anderson, you are the one that insisted on keeping that baby here.”

  She smiled without the slightest humour or goodwill. “Shall we sit down, Chief Detective?” She indicated an armchair for him and she took the sofa.

  “If I were to tell you that the mayor’s daughter is here and under my protection how would that affect your view?”

  He leant forward. “Is that something you expect me to believe?”

  “Ulrika Putnam is in the other room.” She indicated the bedroom door with a nod of her head. “She could have been the one who was shot.”

  Vandenhoek followed her gaze and stared at the closed door. He rubbed his mouth with his palm and pursed his lips. He turned back to Maliha. “What about the baby?”

  “Hers or mine?”

  “Hers.”

  “She gave it away.”

  “Good.”

  Maliha knew she was tired; she knew she was overwrought by the events of the day; and she knew she should keep better control of herself. But she did not.

  “Good? How dare you. That poor girl has been mistreated by her father; only her mother gave her any support at all. She has been forced to give away her very flesh. And you say ‘good’?”

  “The scandal would be terrible,” he said calmly. “We have fought hard to become a nation that is as independent as the British will permit. To have a scandal like this affect such an influential person, it would make Johannesburg and our nations a laughing stock around the world.”

  Maliha sat back. “You’re saying the father was black.”

  The chief detective remained impassive. “She did not tell you that.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  Vandenhoek’s expression became smug, as if he had somehow won a crucial point in a game.

  Maliha glared. “My parents were not of the same race, Chief Detective. So what in the world makes you think it would make any difference to me?” she toned down her venom. “The fact remains, the mayor’s daughter could potentially have been the one shot.”

  “The only person for whom that would have been a problem, Miss Anderson,” he got to his feet, “is you.”

  Maliha stood to reduce his superior position. “So you are going to cling to the idea that the attack was by offended citizens?”

  He shrugged. “There is no other possible reason.”

  “Apart from the fact I visited Wit Nickells’ house and confirmed that his family was attacked in the night,” she approached the detective. “That his child was stolen in exactly the same way as the black children that have gone missing.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Just how bad a policeman are you, Chief Detective?”

  “Goodnight, Miss Anderson.”

  He strod
e to the main door and pulled it open. Halfway through it he stopped and turned.

  “And what evidence do you think you found?”

  “Marks of a hot container on the carpet emitting a sleep-inducing substance,” she said. She could see the arrogant disbelief taking over his face. “If Mrs Nickells had not got up at the wrong moment, for whatever reason, she would still be alive and you would not be holding her husband for murder but looking for the child.”

  “You have a very active imagination, Miss Anderson,” he said. “I hope our paths do not cross again.”

  The door shut with the sound of finality.

  “Arrogant idiot,” she said beneath her breath.

  vii

  The police left an hour later as the sun was rising and, shortly after breakfast, Maliha received a note from the hotel asking her to leave.

  “As if it’s my fault,” she said to no one in particular. She knew there was no Sky-Liner to the Fortress for two days so she could agree to their request and still remain a little longer.

  She leaned against the frame of the French window staring out into the increasing noise and bustle of the city. Valentine came to stand beside her and put his arm round her waist. Ulrika was with the baby and Amita in Barbara’s bedroom. Between them they were tending both, though Amita was severely limited by the sling. Elder Barbara had indicated she was hungry, but needed feeding just like her young namesake.

  “Of course it’s not your fault,” he said.

  “I know that,” she snapped and felt his hand tense on her hip. “Sorry. This place is just infuriating. It’s like trying to get sensible answers from a calculating machine where the number five is stuck and adds itself into every sum.” She adjusted her balance and leaned into him instead. He relaxed.

  “I can’t go back to India yet,” he said carefully as if he expected her to attack again.

  “I know,” she said. “I don’t suppose I will either but we need a plan.”

  “Let’s take a walk,” he said. “You know we haven’t done that for a long time.”

  She thought of all the reasons why that would be a bad idea. “Thank you, I would be happy to accompany you.”

  * * *

  They took a taxi north until the city was invisible behind a range of gentle hills. There was nothing but grassland marked off by fences.