That
was the plain truth. If Parthiv was on the docks to pick up hashish, he'd never
risk a conversation with a European boy. It would have just elicited more
attention. Emmanuel moved on.
'What
did you do after you picked up the package?'
'Took
it back to the car and hid it in the glove box.'
'Then
what?'
'It's
like I said. I took Amal to find a woman.'
'Where
was Giriraj?'
'At
the car.'
'No
he wasn't,' Emmanuel pointed out. 'He was in the alley with the two of you.'
Parthiv
pulled on an earlobe. 'I said to stay and keep guard. Plenty crooks on the
docks.'
'Did
you tell him to keep a lookout for you?'
'No.
I told him to keep eyes out for police. Police take your stuff, you can't steal
it back; it's gone and gone.'
Emmanuel
slipped the knife into his jacket pocket. Giriraj's strength and speed were
impressive. He hadn't heard him lurking in the alley; wouldn't have looked
behind him if the brothers hadn't tipped him off with a look over his shoulder.
Why
was Giriraj in the alley instead of at the car, and how did he get the
scratches Emmanuel had seen on his arm last night?
Best
to concentrate on one thing at a time and take small steps along a path that he
would abandon come sunrise tomorrow.
'The
notebook,' he said to Amal, who was pressed against the wall. 'Let's get it.'
The
boy peeled himself away and they turned to the exit. Maataa stood in the
doorway, an unlit clove cigarette in one hand and a box of matches in the
other. Emmanuel nodded to her. She'd witnessed the whole scene with Parthiv, he
was sure. Seen it and done nothing.
He
let her make the first move. He was sure that if Maataa came at him with a
knife, she'd find a major artery and the courtyard would be spray-painted a
nice shade of 'blood from a reclassified white man'.
Maataa
lit her cigarette and threw the matches onto the floor. She walked over to a
corn oil can that contained a fruiting aubergine and pulled a bamboo stick
loose from the soil. Another puff of her cigarette and she swished the stick
through the air to test its soundness.
'Giriraj!'
she called. 'Giriraj!'
Amal
pressed to the wall again and slid down to a crouching position, smaller
targets being harder to hit. Parthiv searched, in vain, for a magical way to
break through the walls and escape.
With
a rustle of sari silk from the partition, Giriraj appeared in the courtyard. A
tap on the floor with the bamboo stick told him where to stand.
'Down,'
Maataa said.
Parthiv
and Giriraj kneeled side by side with blank faces. Maataa laid the bamboo stick
lightly on Parthiv's shoulder and then on Giriraj's shoulder, as if knighting
them into a secret society.
The
bamboo gained height and whistled through the air before smacking against
Parthiv's and Giriraj's shoulders and legs. And then all over. Emmanuel inched
forwards then thought better of it. Not his fight. Both men absorbed the blows,
their bodies like stiff toy soldiers arranged on the battle line.
Emmanuel
crouched next to Amal and whispered, 'What's going on?'
'They
are being punished.'
'I
can see that. What for?'
"The
package. They were not supposed to pick it up.'
'Did
the package belong to someone else?'
'No,
but Mr Khan, he controls the amount of packages coming into Durban. He does not
like others to bring in more packages than him.'
'Who's
Mr Khan?' Emmanuel asked. The whack of the bamboo cane hitting flesh was
distracting. Parthiv had accused him of being a spy for Khan moments before.
'A
Muslim,' Amal whispered. 'He is in business.'
'What
business?' Emmanuel asked, but he already knew. It would be a legitimate
enterprise - a dress shop or garage - backed up by prostitution, hashish
smuggling and anything else that made money.
'Taxis
and restaurants and ah . . . many other things.'
'Is
your mother in the same business?'
'No.
Sometimes she lends money, and when the people don't pay, then Parthiv and
Giriraj collect it. That is all. Mr Khan is big. My mother is small.'
Clearly
Parthiv wanted more of Durban's criminal action and his mother was not happy
about that. Maataa stopped and flicked ash from her clove cigarette. She
pointed the bamboo stick towards Emmanuel and Amal. They stood up.
'You
will tell Mr Khan they have been disciplined, yes?'
'I'll
tell him,' Emmanuel said. Another lie, but there seemed to be no other answer.
'Go,'
Maataa ordered.
Emmanuel
and Amal were out of the courtyard in less than five seconds. Emmanuel had the
keys in the ignition of the Buick in under a minute.
The
waves of the Indian Ocean curled blue against the long sweep of South Beach.
Landlocked Dutch farmers and holidaying Rhodesians splashed in the water or
sheltered under a canopy of striped umbrellas. A recently erected sign was
cemented into the sand: 'Under section 37 of the Durban by-laws this bathing
area is reserved for the sole use of members of the white race group'. The
message was repeated in Afrikaans and in Zulu so there was no misunderstanding.
A
black vendor in a high-collared uniform moved among the sun worshippers with a
tray of ice-creams slung from his neck by a wide leather strap. The law did not
apply to those whose job it was to service the Europeans.
Emmanuel
drew level with a bench. A sign painted on the wood read 'Whites Only'. Like
hell. He sat down and sipped his lemonade. There was between a zero and nought
per cent chance that he was going to walk miles to the non-white section of the
beach just to take a rest. Guilt stirred at the sight of the black ice-cream
vendor trudging across the sand. There was no place for him to take a load off
or dip his feet into the ocean when the heat got too much.
A
child, all blonde pigtails and chubby thighs, chased a ball past the bench.
Emmanuel retrieved Jolly's notebook, which he'd picked up from Amal's house in
Reservoir Hills. It fitted in the palm of his hand. Two strings were attached.
One had a pencil at the end, while the other was cut clean, not frayed or
snapped. That explained the penknife. It was used to sever the notebook from
the boy's khaki pants, not in self-defence.
Emmanuel
flipped the pages one by one. Lists of orders for pies, cool drinks, boerewors
rolls, hollowed-out loaves of bread filled with curry called bunny chow, and
beer. Where did an eleven-year-old child get beer? The next page wasn't a list
but a portrait sketched in pencil. A girl with wisps of feathery hair stared up
from the paper with ancient eyes. He flicked another page to get free of the
girl's dark gaze.
The
contents of the notebook fell into a rough pattern: eight or so pages of orders
for a variety of takeaway foods followed by a chilling portrait of a child. The
children - boys and girls, blacks and whites - might have been ghosts for all
the warmth they had in them. They stilled his heart, made him wonder what Jolly
had experienced in his short life to be able to draw such desolate children.
'Ice-cream.
Ice-cream,' the vendor called out. It was late afternoon and this would be the
last run of the day. The
baas
wanted only empty boxes at
sundown. 'Vanilla. Chocolate ice-cream.'
Emmanuel
flipped and found an uneven edge where another page had been. He ran a finger
over it then across the surface of the next blank page. Ridges teased his
fingertips. He lightly feathered the tip of the attached pencil across the
blank page. An image of a bare-breasted mermaid with a fishtail curled beneath
her appeared. One eye was closed, the other wide open. A winking mermaid. The
image was innocent yet somehow salacious.
'This
taken?' a white girl, about fifteen, in a pink dress asked. She had a pretty
Dutch boy in tow.
'Not
if you qualify,' Emmanuel said.
The
girl frowned, uncertain.
Emmanuel
pointed to the sign on the bench. The girl laughed, a pretty sound in keeping
with everything else about her. She sat down, pulled the boy close and rested
her head on his shoulder. 'Isn't it perfect?' she sighed.
'The
best,' the boy agreed and traced circles on the girl's bare shoulder with
gentle fingertips.
Light
shimmered on the water. The black ice-cream vendor struggled up the stairs from
the beach with his wooden box. His polished shoes were covered with fine grains
of sand.
'Here.'
The girl waved her arm in the air. 'Here, boy.'
The
vendor approached, a half smile on his mouth, his gaze a fraction to the left
of the couple, mindful always to not make eye contact with the little
baas
and the little madam.
'What
is it?' The girl pointed to the lone tub in the box.
'Vanilla,
missus. One bob. Very good.'
The
boy dug into the pockets of his shorts and handed over some coins. The vendor
handed back the ice-cream and the change.
'Check
it,' the girl demanded. 'Pa says the ones who live in the city cheat you
blind.'
The
boy counted the coins while the vendor concentrated on the row of brightly
painted buildings in the background.
'It's
all here.'
'Go.'
The girl waved the ice-cream vendor away with a flick of her hand. Her fingernails
were painted a frosted pink, the colour of the sky in fairytale books. She
placed her head back on the boy's shoulder. He pulled open the top of the tub
then began to spoon tiny paddles of vanilla into her mouth.
An
ocean breeze ruffled Jolly's notebook and wrapped the pages around Emmanuel's
fingers. He scribbled the pencil along the bottom edge of the page and two
words emerged from the grey: 'Please help'.
Emmanuel
felt a chill come over him in the sunshine.
The
sun was down but a trace of heat lingered. A breeze tousled the trees, lifted
hems and stirred up the exhaust fumes from cars cruising the slow lane of West
Street. Lines of smartly dressed couples snaked down the pavement and waited
for the Empire Cinema's late Friday night movie session to open. Suits, ties,
ironed dresses and gloves, the occasional corsage pinned to a tulle ruffle. The
nine o'clock double feature was 'dress formal':
Where the North Begins
followed by
Tarzan's Desert
Mystery.
In
the afternoon, Emmanuel had had a haircut and shave followed by a shoeshine at
the corner stand. He'd bought coffee, milk and bread for the week. None of
these routine domestic tasks had taken his mind off Jolly Marks's notebook.
He
drove past the Central Post Office. The trunk of a Natal mahogany, known as
'dead man's tree', was plastered with white funeral notices edged in black.
Jolly Marks would have an announcement posted there soon.
At
the Point, he parked the Buick a block down from the bus stop. The place he was
looking for didn't advertise.
The
lights from a moored passenger liner,
Pacific Pearl,
twinkled like a miniature city at
the harbour mouth.
He
came to within sight of the crime scene. Scraps of orange and white paper
streamers lifted into the air and curled against lamp poles. Jolly had probably
worked a ten- to-fifteen-minute radius from the freight line. Emmanuel would do
the same, and look out for takeaway cafes with pies and boerewors rolls on the
menu. Jolly's notebook was in his pocket.
A
police car crawled from the harbour terminal and stopped so the officer could
shine a flashlight between two storage sheds. The plan, to walk the Point
openly, wasn't so much a plan as an invitation to trouble. If the police in the
cruiser spotted him twice they'd stop and ask where he was headed. Basic
procedure.
That
he was an ex-detective pursuing a lead in his own personal homicide
investigation would not get him out of trouble with the uniforms if they nabbed
him. The thought of explaining to the police that investigating the murder was
more than an intellectual challenge, that it was a desire to restore order and
help the dead on their way, almost made him smile. Surely they'd understand?
And all of this coupled with an arrogance that he himself acknowledged. Since
this particular murder of this particular boy had found
him,
he was certain that he could put it right.
Emmanuel
walked quickly towards Browns Road. One circuit and he'd be gone. It was too
hazardous otherwise. He turned left and glimpsed a familiar figure also moving
fast. Dim light from the streetlamps bounced off the high sheen of Giriraj's
bald head. Interesting, Giriraj back at the Point so soon after the beating
this morning.