Thunder over the Grass Page 17

  The air throbbed with the sound of the pumping station; she could see it now, a small building amid a few bushed near the outer wall. It had a chimney that emitted a line of smoke. Wide pipes emerged from the building and each one ran to one of the nine tanks.

  Maliha studied them thoughtfully. They would probably have to examine the contents of the tanks.

  “Oi! What do you two want here?”

  iii

  Maliha turned to face a red-faced man in an overall huffing up the slope towards them. He was overweight and the blue-grey overalls he wore did nothing to slim his figure. His moustache drooped at the ends but that was probably intentional.

  “You can’t be here. Tours on Thursdays only,” he puffed.

  “Tours? Are you serious?” said Ray, his voice sounded strangled as if he were still fighting the acidic taste. He had picked up the lemonade and was taking sips. Pity, thought Maliha as she had been hoping he would choose not to drink it.

  Maliha smiled and held out her gloved hand. “My name is Anderson. I am pleased to meet you Mr...?”

  “Oh.” He wiped the palm of his hand on his overall and her hand disappeared inside his wide flabby palm. He did not grip her hand tightly but gave it the slightest shake. “Grummond.”

  “You’re British?” she said.

  “Yes, Mrs Anderson, Institute of Civil Engineers. On loan as it were, getting the new station running properly. Then it’s back to Blighty,” he paused as if uncertain. “Hopefully.”

  She smiled. “My father was Iain Anderson, the engineer. You might have heard of him.”

  “Well, goodness me,” he said and grinned. “The Anderson valve? Such a useful invention, we have one—well several—in the pumping station.” Then he remembered. “I heard about...I mean...I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you, Mr Grummond,” she said. “You’re very kind.” She turned and indicated Ray. “This is Mr Jennings, he’s a newspaperman.” She could not help but notice the cloud that descended over Grummond’s demeanour when she mentioned the press. “However, he is not here in any official capacity. I wanted to see the treatment works and he was willing to accompany me.”

  “Afternoon,” said Ray giving a nod to Grummond, who seemed to brighten a little.

  “Can we look inside the pumping station?” she asked to distract him.

  “As it’s you, Mrs Anderson—oh, Miss Anderson?”

  “Yes, Mr Grummond, just Miss. My fiancé is otherwise engaged this afternoon which is why Mr Jennings is here.”

  “’E didn’t fancy the stink,” muttered Ray.

  Mr Grummond led the way to the pumping station door and unlocked it. Hot, fetid air wafted out. He went in and Maliha followed.

  “I’ll stay out here if you don’t mind?” said Ray. “I don’t know how it’s possible but that place smells even worse than it does out here.”

  “Don’t wander off,” said Maliha.

  Ray scowled and said quietly. “I don’t even know why we’re here.”

  After the bright outdoors the interior was pitch black. Her eyes adjusted quickly and Grummond switched on a light. The outer part of the building did not rise very high but inside it had been cut into the ground and went down over thirty feet. The brickwork inside was covered in an impressive pattern of green and white tiles and brick columns rising up to a vaulted ceiling.

  The pumping machines throbbed, hissed and gurgled in a complex rhythm of sounds. There were three in total, driven with steam from a furnace running in a chamber opposite the entrance. Under the electric lights the brass, copper and steel glinted brightly.

  Each pump managed three wide inlet pipes that fed in from the walls. And the same three pipes then led up twenty feet and into the wall beneath her feet. She thought she knew which tanks were the most likely candidates but in the end she might have to check them all. She shivered involuntarily.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said Grummond proudly. Maliha looked up at where he stood leaning over the glistening rail and smiled.

  “Does each of the inlets correspond more or less to the direction they come from?”

  “Let’s go down,” he said. “I’ll walk you through it.”

  She spent the next ten minutes half-listening to his description of the system. Most of the functionality was obvious; the only thing she was truly interested in was the source of the effluent from pipe to pipe. He knew them all and she linked them to the map of Johannesburg in her mind.

  “I’d like to see in the tanks,” she said after his explanation had wound down. They were standing on the painted floor of a cathedral to sewage. The pumps thudded around her and the disgusting contents.

  “You would?” He had a pained look on his face. “They are not the sort of thing for a young lady’s eyes.”

  “I know,” she said. “But even so.”

  “I don’t know if I should.”

  She turned towards him. “Mr Grummond, do you know what I do?”

  He frowned uncomprehendingly, gave his head a slight shake.

  “I investigate crime.”

  The fear returned to his eyes. He glanced at the stairs as if he intended to make a run for it.

  “And you have a secret that you think would result in imprisonment, or at least serious trouble.”

  His knees buckled and he leant against the nearest pumping machine for support. Sweat broke out across his brow and he wiped his hand across it. “I have a wife, a son. Please don’t...” He seemed at a loss to know exactly what it was he did not want her to do.

  “Mr Grummond, what you do does not harm any other person.” Maliha knew she was feeling her way in the dark. She had not the slightest idea what it was that drove the fellow’s guilt but he did not give the impression of being a malicious fellow.

  “No, I swear it. I never have.”

  “Then I see no reason to betray your secret.” He sagged again, this time from relief. “However I want no more questioning of my requests.”

  “Of course, whatever you want.”

  “And,” she said, “you really should cease those activities.”

  “Yes, I will, thank you.”

  She knew he meant his promise when he said it. And she knew he would fail to keep it. Sooner or later his compulsion would get the better of him and he would justify giving in to it. She hoped it would not degenerate into anything that involved anyone else. Whatever it was.

  iv

  The sun’s light blinded her once more as they emerged.

  Ray was not immediately visible; she finally spotted him standing in the shade of the bushes beside the pumping house. He emerged when she beckoned, the lemonade bottle dangling from his hand.

  “I need you to help Mr Grummond lift off the covers on the tanks.”

  “You’re not serious?”

  “I’ll get you some gloves,” said Mr Grummond and headed off in the direction of the administration building.

  Maliha looked at the nine tanks. The one in the top-left position was the best option. The centre of the nine would be her next choice but it would be better to deal with them systematically. Her guess could be completely wrong anyway.

  “What did you see in there?” asked Ray.

  “I just wanted to see where the pipes came in from and which tank they led to.”

  “Didn’t know you had such an interest in crap.”

  “Must you use that language?”

  Ray grinned. “Does it upset you?”

  “Inasmuch as it’s inaccurate, yes.”

  “Sorry, your majesty.”

  “Shut up, Ray,” she said. “Or I’ll pass on details of your behaviour to Amita.”

  He had been poised to utter some retort or other, but he shut his mouth. A result that Maliha found quite satisfactory and enlightening.

  Mr Grummond returned a few minutes later carrying two sets of gloves. He handed one pair to Maliha. They were far too big. “In case you need them,” he said. “They’re the smallest ones we have.”

  Ra
y pulled on the other pair and Grummond handed him a T-shaped tool with a hook at the other end. “Called a tau,” he explained. “Put the T in your fist and use the hook to lever up the sheet so you can get your fingers under it.

  They stood at either end of the first panel. Ray had a few false starts but finally got the tau underneath the panel and lifted. A cloud of flies, tens of thousands of them, erupted from the gap. Ray dropped his end in shock and ran back a dozen paces. Maliha and Grummond waited while he recovered himself and returned. Together they managed to get the whole panel off to the side and leaning against the wall. Ray choked and retched again. There were three panels to each tank and a couple of minutes later they had all been removed.

  Bracing herself Maliha judged the breeze, such as it was, and approached the open top from the windward side to reduce the appalling malodorous stench. She looked down. The surface was a few feet below. The top of the brown and grey liquid was an oily slime with patches of foam. Tiny bubbles were constantly rising and popping releasing their miasma. Thankfully unidentifiable lumps floated here and there while others rose and sank. The air was thick with flies.

  She forced herself to scan the surface taking in everything trying to identify items. There was the occasional stick or twig that were almost comforting as she took it all in. Finally she stepped back, she turned away and sought air that was at least a little cleaner.

  “Have you finished?” said Ray.

  She didn’t respond. There was something nagging her, an image in her mind.

  “We’ll put it back then, yeah?”

  “No,” she said abruptly.

  “What?”

  She turned and came back to the tank. She knew where she needed to look but the thing she had seen that nagged at her was no longer visible. It must have sunk. She kept her eyes on the place.

  “Mr Grummond, do you have such a thing as a boathook?”

  “I’ll get it.”

  He set off again.

  “You want to fetch something out of this?”

  “No, Ray,” she said. “I want you to do the fetching. I’ll do the guiding.”

  “You know I’ve already thrown up four times, right?”

  “I know,” said Maliha. “It means you’ll have nothing left to come up. Right?” She mimicked his accent with the final word.

  “Think you’re funny, do you?”

  She was distracted by Grummond hurrying back. He was now dripping with sweat but showed no sign of slowing down. She wondered whether he could even smell what it was like here anymore. Ray took the boathook without any further question.

  “Where do you want me then?”

  Maliha went back to the tank and closed her eyes. The piece of knitted material she had belatedly recognised, though it was covered in filth, had been about three foot in from the side opposite her.

  She opened her eyes and pointed. The material had not resurfaced but she was sure of the location now. Ray knelt on the edge of the wall, then jumped as Mr Grummond grabbed his jacket.

  “Don’t want you falling in, Mr Jennings.”

  Ray gave an unconvincing laugh. “Yeah, no, me neither.” He glanced up at Maliha’s pointing finger and dipped the five-foot pole down until it was just above the surface.

  Maliha called instructions to him. He always seemed to overshoot and it took a while before she was happy with his position, taking into consideration the length and angle of the hook itself.

  “All right, put it in, but slowly,” she ordered. She saw Ray screw up his face as he slowly dipped the pointed end of the boathook into the disgusting morass. He stopped before the hook part had touched the surface. “There’s something in the way,” Ray shouted.

  “Pull up a bit, take it to your left a few inches and down again.”

  This time the head of the boathook went all of the way in and down. She saw him leaning further over with Mr Grummond holding tight. When it looked as if it had gone in about a foot she called a halt. “Move it back to your right.”

  He did so. The surface around the pole swirled and eddied. Something with rounded surfaces lifted up and then sank out of sight. Ray choked. “Don’t be sick now!” Maliha shouted.

  “Got something,” he said with a gulp. “Something’s there.”

  “Pull up a little so the hook engages, then stop.”

  He did so, then looked at her with a frown on his face.

  “Ray, Mr Grummond, whatever you pull up, don’t let it go. It’s important.” They just stared at her. “Do you understand?” Mr Grummond nodded.

  “No, I don’t bloody understand,” said Ray. “I do understand that you hate my guts and this is your revenge.”

  “Ray, if I’d wanted revenge I could have done it a dozen other more effective ways than this,” she said. “I need you to trust me.”

  He looked at her with a face full of disdain. “Yeah, whatever you say, Miss bloody Anderson.”

  “When you’re ready then.”

  Ray focused on the bubbling liquid below them. He moved his hands down the pole a further few inches and then drew it up slowly.

  Something broke the surface, and Ray stopped pulling. As the liquid of the tank drained away it resolved into the corner of a knitted blanket. It had a smooth edging that Maliha guessed was probably satin.

  “Just the corner of a blanket,” shouted Ray.

  Maliha raised her hand to her neck. She felt cold despite the heat. “Keep pulling.” She realised that the words had caught in her throat and she had made no noise at all. “Keep pulling.”

  Ray did as instructed. More of the blanket came up out of the mire. It was getting heavier and Ray was straining. He paused for a moment to let the liquid drain, then lifted again.

  Then Maliha saw it. A lump, no more than a couple of inches long, emerged. The liquid ran off it.

  “Don’t drop it!” Maliha screamed moments before Ray let the rod slip momentarily. The lump sank.

  “Fucking Christ, Maliha!”

  She looked into his face. It was drained of colour.

  “Tell me you’ve still got it hooked. For god’s sake, Ray!”

  He nodded. “Yeah, still got it.”

  “You have to bring it in.”

  He nodded, his face filled with fear.

  “What are you two talking about?” said Grummond.

  “Close your eyes, Mr Grummond,” she said.

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Fucking close them, Grummond, and don’t fucking let go of me.”

  “Do as he asks, Mr Grummond,” Maliha said in more consoling terms. “Please, it will be for the best.”

  Grummond frowned but followed her direction.

  Ray looked at Maliha with despair in his eyes.

  “You have to, Ray,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  He nodded and sighed. He pulled again.

  And the bloated body of the dead baby rose from the mire.

  v

  Ray had not passed out but his body had tried to eject his stomach’s contents repeatedly, except there was nothing more to come up.

  Grummond had panicked when he realised what was lying on the stone slabs at the side of the tank. Maliha told him to fetch a cloth and a bucket of water. And when he had done that and they had covered the body she sent him to fetch the police.

  The flies still filled the air. Thankfully the disgusting stench of the place kept the vultures away.

  The battered body of Lochana Modi, crushed skulls, poisoned husbands, beaten and broken friends, poisoned girls and caesarean births. Never mind the leprous poor of India. Her experience with those things did not compare to this. She felt numb, and her fingers were cold.

  She shook herself. She must look at the body and there was only a limited amount of time.

  “Want any help?”

  Ray’s voice came from behind her. She realised she had not heard the sound of his convulsing body for a minute or two.

  “No,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

  “
My mother was a martyr,” said Ray. “Just like you. Never accepted help, always had to do everything herself. Died at thirty-five.”

  “Disease brought on by exhaustion and overwork?”

  “Nah, she was hit by some drunk toff in a steam carriage,” said Ray. “Probably would’ve outlived me. She was tough as nails.”

  Maliha felt like laughing but it was not appropriate.

  “Yeah, it’s funny,” said Ray. “We all had a laugh about that. Eventually. She was like that though, always liked to ’ave a laugh. Joker to the end.”

  “Is that even true, Ray?”

  “Every word.” He came up beside her and stared at the form under the cloth. “Better wash that crap off before it dries hard or you won’t be able to do your thing.”

  “My thing?”

  “Your magic, Miss Anderson,” he said. “Whatever it is, right now we’re just prevaricating, ain’t we?”

  He was right. Why did the fact that it was a child make it harder? She shook her head and knelt down beside the body.

  “Should’ve asked him for a tin bath.”

  Maliha couldn’t decide whether it would be better to start at the feet or the head. Ray plunged his hand into the bucket and pulled up a cup. He grabbed the bottom of the cloth and pulled it past the small bare feet. He doused them with water and started to wipe.

  She looked at him. His face scrunched up in concentration, perhaps holding back the horror, and she found that, suddenly, she did not hate him. When push came to shove, Ray Jennings did the right thing. And that’s all anybody could ask.

  * * *

  The child was black, male, about eight months old and had been dead a couple of days. There was post-mortem damage to the skin probably from the battering as it passed through the sewer system. But there did not seem to be any other wounds on the body. That indicated the child had not been tortured or otherwise harmed, then thrown into the sewer alive, for which she was grateful.

  The boy’s head had been hidden inside the wool blanket with the satin edging and when they unwrapped it it provided the final confirmation the child had been dead before being disposed of. But Ray’s strength deserted him one final time. The top of the skull had been sliced off. The brain was missing as were the eyes. Ray fell back.