The hospital corridors were filled with the heavy quiet that settles in after midnight.
‘Thanks so much for coming in,’ said Clare. ‘I didn’t want just anyone looking after me.’
‘I’ve looked after you for how many years, now, Clare?’ said Dr Shapiro. He had almost finished taping up Clare’s chest. ‘By now you know I never sleep, and definitely not for one of my favourite patients.’
‘Medical mafia,’ Clare winced. ‘Still works, even though my father’s been dead all these years.’
‘Be grateful, Clare,’ he smiled.
‘I am, make no mistake. Is anything broken?’
‘You’ll be okay,’ he said. ‘Luckily for you, it looks worse than it is.’
‘Rest. Get some counselling. The shock will set in. It’s not nice having someone try to kill you.’
‘You don’t say,’ said Clare.
‘It’s bloody sore. Aren’t my ribs broken?’
‘One has a hairline fracture.’ The doctor held one of the X-rays up to the light. ‘Nothing to be done except keep yourself still and don’t cough or laugh.’
‘Nothing seems very funny right now.’
‘Like a cat, Clare. You might have started out with nine lives, but you’re working through them at a rate. Go to bed, rest for a fortnight or so until
you feel okay.’
‘I don’t have two weeks,’ said Clare.
‘Don’t start with that.’ Dr Shapiro’s crumpled face was filled with concern. ‘Any time you have something that you need to feel, you bury it in work, just like your father used to. It’s anxiety management and it doesn’t impress me. Now tell me how you’ve been, apart from this.’
‘You really want to know?’
‘I’m your doctor, Clare,’
he said. ‘Of course I want to know.’
‘I have this sense of dread,’ said Clare. ‘It’s settled on me, light as a spider’s web. The more I fight it, the tighter it pulls.’
‘Do you cry easily?’
‘It’s a man’s world I work in. None of them cry.’
‘Yes, and look what happens. They end up shooting their families,’ said Dr Shapiro.
‘I tried drinking, one night,’ said Clare. ‘I sat down
with a bottle of Chenin. But I threw up after the third glass. So, apart from a mother of a headache the next day, that was the end of my drinking career. I suppose it means I’m not cut out to be a cop.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ said Dr Shapiro.
Clare closed her eyes. She saw an arm rising, a black stone in the man’s fist, the arm falling, the stone splintering the woman’s skull.
She saw the woman falling, arms outflung, like angel’s wings against the sky.
‘Are you working with Riedwaan again?’ asked the doctor.
‘I’ve been trying to identify a woman who had her head beaten in 23 years ago, whose body was then sealed under a concrete slab,’ said Clare. ‘I think about her all the time.’
‘Gallows Hill?’ asked Dr Shapiro.
Clare nodded.
‘It’s not your fault
that somebody tried to kill you. You of all people should know that.’
‘I do know it,’ said Clare. ‘I do. But do you know what it does to you to look into someone’s eyes and see that, to them, you are nothing but a living corpse? It’s like looking into the eyes of a basilisk. It freezes one to the marrow. And this didn’t even have anything to do with me personally. This was to do with Riedwaan.’
‘How so?’ asked Dr Shapiro.
‘The skeletons at Gallows Hill have blown some very dodgy land deals right out of the water.’
‘In that case, stick to your film-making for a while.’
‘I’ve tried,’ said Clare. ‘But the documentary I’m working on is what got me into the mess in the first place.’
‘What is it on?’
‘Slavery at the Cape,’ said Clare.
‘For God’s sake, Clare,’ he
said. ‘Why don’t you do something on gardening for a change? Or jazz music. Something where nobody dies.’
He reached for his prescription pad. ‘I’m going to give you something to help you sleep. And something for pain. You let me know when you want to see the trauma counsellor. Tomorrow, perhaps?’
‘I’ll see,’ said Clare. Noncommital.
She stood on the floor, testing her balance. The
pain in her body was starting to differentiate. The ache in her head, the burn in her ribs, the throb in her right hip where she’d hit the ground. Clare pulled her soiled shirt over her bandages and stood up just as Lilith called.
‘Fetch me,’ said Clare, without thinking about it. ‘I have to get out of here.’
Lilith helped Clare take her shirt off. The white bandages were wrapped tightly
around her body, strapping her bruised ribs in place.
‘Looks like Japanese bondage,’ said Lilith.
‘Take them off me. I have to get clean.’ Clare winced as Lilith unravelled the bandage, revealing the livid marks beneath.
‘Kinbaku,’ said Clare. ‘That’s what it’s called. It’s an art form, apparently.’
‘You’re going to look like a work of art when these bruises take on their full
colours.’
Lilith helped her into the bath.
‘More like the rainbow nation,’ Clare said as she sank into the hot water. ‘Battered and bruised, but l live to dream another day.’
‘Drink this.’ Lilith handed her a whiskey.
Clare closed both hands around it, stilling the tremor in them.
‘That stings,’ she said as Lilith dipped the sponge into the warm water and squeezed it over her
skin.
‘Drink your drink and toughen up,’ said Lilith. ‘You’ll get used to it.’
‘You don’t exactly have a bedside manner,’ said Clare.
‘Keep still so I can get you clean enough for bed.’ She touched the bruise forming on Clare’s cheek. ‘What happened to the bastard?’
‘Just vanished,’ said Clare. ‘Into the bush.’
‘Was he injured?’ asked Lilith. She poured warm water over Clare,
then eased her down into the hot water.
‘I think so,’ said Clare.
‘Then he’ll have to get treatment, and they’ll get him. Do you know who he is?’
‘I think I know who sent him,’ said Clare. She took Lilith’s hand, held it. Partly to stop her own from shaking. ‘That development where your mother’s bones were found, well, the people behind that wouldn’t blink an eye. I’d be their second
score for the day.’
Tears welled as she thought of Rita’s crumpled body.
‘You think it was Waleed Williams?’ said Lilith. ‘I saw him on TV.’
Clare handed over the whiskey. ‘I can’t drink any more.’
Lilith drained the glass. She wrapped a towel around Clare and steered her towards the bedroom.
‘I’m so cold,’ said Clare. She had started to shake.
‘Let me hold you,’ said Lilith.
‘You should sleep,’ said Clare. ‘It’s so late now.’
‘I never sleep much,’ said Lilith, lying down beside Clare and taking her bruised body in her arms. As Lilith brushed Clare’s hair out of her face, she felt hot tears against her palm.
‘This isn’t right,’ said Clare.
‘What is?’ asked Lilith. ‘Let me lie here with you. It’ll make us both feel better.’
Clare wasn’t sure if that
was true, but she was too exhausted to object.
Eventually, Clare softened against Lilith and fell asleep.
Lilith kept watch, listening as Clare’s breathing eased into the slow rhythm of sleep, watching the sky fade from black to charcoal to pearl grey.
12 February
Du Randt stopped to fill up in a town that was nothing more than a petrol station and sprinkle of houses along the side of the road. Riedwaan got off the back of the bakkie and lit a cigarette, his last one. He went into the shop to buy some more.
The flash of a bloodied face on the TV screen above the cashier caught his attention. It took Riedwaan a second to work out who it was.
Clare sitting slumped over her knees on the sand. A sea of shacks, torches, firelight flickering on the faces of a crowd gathered around a vehicle. Clare’s car.
‘Give me the remote,’ said Riedwaan.
The plump cashier looked at him, astounded.
‘Give me the fucking remote.’ The authority in his voice at odds with his blue worker’s overalls.
She handed it over.
He turned up the
volume.
‘…attempted hijacking,’ the reporter was saying. ‘The consultant working on the Gallows Hill case in Cape Town, Dr Clare Hart, who is well known for her films about the Cape’s criminal gangs, narrowly survived being abducted in Green Point, Cape Town. This is close to the now-notorious site at Gallows Hill, where several hundred, if not thousands, of slaves lie in unmarked graves.
There is a bitter dispute over the land, which was earmarked for development. Major de Lange…’
The camera cut to Shorty de Lange. ‘All lines of investigation are open.’
‘Is it true, sir, that Dr Hart and Captain Faizal have received threats because of their work?’
‘No comment at this time,’ said De Lange, running his hand over his moustache.
‘The community has been outraged at
the treatment of human remains by the South African Police…’
‘No comment,’ said De Lange.
Riedwaan paid for his cigarettes and the coffee. He dialled Clare’s number as he stepped out of the café and onto the diesel-slick garage forecourt. The phone rang on and on, but she did not answer. His gut twisted as he dialled. ‘De Lange,’ he said.
‘Where the hell are you, man?’ asked De Lange.
‘A long story,’ said Riedwaan. ‘I’m on my way back to Cape Town. What happened? I see her on TV covered in blood in a squatter camp, now I can’t get Clare on the phone. ’What the fuck happened to her?’
‘Hijacking, it looks like,’ said De Lange. ‘She threw herself out of the vehicle. The bugger had a knife at her throat.’
‘This is not a random,’ said Riedwaan. ‘I want you to look at
this scene as if it had been your mother in that vehicle.’
‘I’m on it, Faizal,’ said De Lange. ‘What do you think I was doing there?’
‘I want everything,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Test whatever those fuckers left behind, and see which of them are known associates of Williams.’
‘And the man himself?’ asked De Lange. ‘I’d always heard if there was a blonde involved, he liked to do his own dirty
work.’
‘It wasn’t him personally,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Not this time.’
‘You sound very certain,’ said De Lange.
‘Last time I saw him he had two bullets through his heart.’
‘You put them there?’
‘Possible,’ said Riedwaan. ‘But he has plenty of associates. Pull them in.’
‘Listen, man, a laaitie found a firearm on the scene. Brought it to me because – ag, long story about his
mother,’ said De Lange.
‘What is it?’ asked Riedwaan.
‘An old 9 millimetre pistol,’ said De Lange.
‘That’s not a gangster’s gun. They like that cheap Chinese shit they swap for abalone and tik.’
‘This is old military issue,’ said De Lange. ‘It’s been used a lot. But the gun’s in perfect working order. That gave me a bad feeling.’
‘A hitman using his lucky gun?’ It was four
in the morning, but the chill that touched the back of Riedwaan’s neck had nothing to do with the temperature.
‘That came to mind,’ said De Lange. ‘But who’s the hit for?’
‘Test-fire it,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Check it against all your records. Make this his un-fucking-lucky gun.’
‘It’s my plan,’ said De Lange. ‘I’m on it. Just need a bit more time. I’ve got no evidence chain, so it’s not
going to help me convict. But maybe it’ll help you find the fucker.’
‘Where’s Clare right now?’ said Riedwaan. ‘I saw on the TV that she’s alive. Is she okay?’
‘She’s a tough cookie,’ said De Lange. ‘She’ll be asleep though, I hope. I put her in an ambulance. Sent her to City Park. But she wanted her own doctor. You know her, mos.’
‘Too well,’ said Riedwaan. ‘I can tell you she’s not
going to stay at the hospital. Listen, I’ll be back in town in a few hours,’ said Riedwaan.
‘By then,’ said De Lange. ‘I’ll either have something or fokkol for you.’
He gave Riedwaan the number for the hospital. After an interminable wait, Riedwaan’s call was answered. Eventually, Casualty picked up, and after another wait, he was put through to the women’s ward.
‘Sorry, Captain. There’s
no Dr Hart on the staff,’ said the nurse at the desk.
It cost him, but Riedwaan did not tell her to fuck off.
‘The person I’m looking for has been admitted. Please check your records.’
Her disapproving sniff was audible as she flipped through a file and said, ‘Dr Hart has discharged herself.’
‘How did she leave the hospital?’
‘I have no idea, I’m afraid.’
Riedwaan tried
his landline, no answer. He tried Clare’s landline, the same. He tried her cell phone, but it went to voicemail.
There was nothing for him to do but climb onto the back of thebakkie. He pulled an old blanket up to his chin as Du Randt startedthe engine.
The bakkie with a man and three sheep in the back headed south-west into the expanding dawn.
Lilith was already up and making tea when Clare went down to the kitchen.
‘You look all right,’ said Lilith, placing a hand on Clare’s cheek.
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Clare.
‘You’re a cat,’ Lilith smiled, handing her a cup. ‘Nine lives.’
‘Which reminds me,’ said Clare. ‘My bloody cat. I haven’t seen her for days.’
‘She’ll come home,’ said Lilith.
‘She’s sulking,’ said
Clare. ‘I took her to Riedwaan’s house a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Is that your man?’ asked Lilith. ‘Must be – the only man that’ll cat-sit, is a man in love.’
‘The circumstances were complicated,’ said Clare.
‘I can imagine. You want me to give you a lift?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Clare. ‘I’ll get a taxi.’
Fifteen minutes later, a red Ricky’s cab was there. Clare gave the driver
her address and sank back into the seat. It wasn’t eight yet, and everything looked a little bedraggled. Too early, too sunny for the Mother City.
‘Can we make a detour?’ she said to the driver.
‘Sure.’ He eyed her in the rear-view mirror, with its dangling dice. ‘Where to?’
‘Signal Street,’ she said. ‘The Bo-Kaap. I won’t be a minute.’
She let herself into Riedwaan’s house, leaving
the taxi idling. There was no sign that Riedwaan had returned. Clare went through to the kitchen. The sight of Fritz’s collar on the kitchen table made her heart jump. She checked the food bowl. Empty. She was filling it up when the cat appeared, her tail an exclamation mark of indignation at the end of a disapproving body.