The Gooseberry Fool (15 page)

“Um, yes, sir. A small town in the Orange Free State.”

“A dorp, not a town. A bloody dorp. Let me tell you something.”

Paul Rampaul hesitated at the switches, then came across.

“You see, man, my pa, he was a small farmer. A very religious man, too, and every Sunday we were kept sitting in that church, morning and afternoon. They are a religious people up there.”

“Really, sir?”

“So bloody religious that when the doc says to my pa that the way things look I’m going to be born on the twenty-fifth, he takes certain steps.”

There was a bump from behind them as the bachelor guest used a cushion shot off the wall to get himself through the doorway.

“Like I was saying, he takes steps. First he makes my ma walk up and down half the bloody night to shake me out. But I’m inside, hanging on like a bugger. So next he gets the old gamaat to harness the donkeys to the cart and then drive her up and down the bad road to the dam. Still they can’t shift me. You know what he does next?”

His listener leaned forward, giving the lie to the belief that they all had curry on their breath.

“He makes the gamaat take a horse and bring back a bloody witch doctor! Honest, that’s sodding truth! Tells the old baboon that he’d better give my ma the right muti or he’ll take the ox whip to him. Jesus, that did the trick. He gives my ma such a purge I didn’t stand a chance. Just after the sun comes up, I come down-born on the twenty-fourth like a good little Christian who knows his place.”

Paul Rampaul broke into a wide grin.

“What the hell’s the joke, coolie?” Kramer snarled. “My ma’s dead before the sun goes down again.”

He tossed back the brandy and walked out, hating himself, astonished at himself for disclosing what, up until then, had been known only to the Widow Fourie. But this, like every other twenty-fourth of December, had been a bad, bad day.

And there was another half hour to go before midnight.

With Shabalala handcuffed to the armrest in the back of the Anglia, Zondi got it back on the road and started for home. He could not drive as fast as he wanted to, for there were no white stones to define the road’s border in his headlights. But he was determined to reach the tar at least when Christmas Day began.

His prisoner had already given his reasons for being in Jabula—innocent reasons, of course. He had claimed that news of the eviction of Robert’s Halt had reached him through a cousin soon after he had parted with his town wife, Lucy, the afternoon before. This had been a terrible shock to him, and he had been very anxious to help his family set up their new home. As his employer was going to be late, it had not been possible to take his leave properly. He could not write a note and, in his haste to leave and find a bus, he had not thought of asking Lucy to pass on a message. Besides, he was not sure what he was doing was within the law. It had seemed possible to get to Jabula and back without his boss knowing. But the place had been much farther away than he had thought.

So far, Zondi had made no mention of the murder.

The road began to zigzag up into the hills where the guinea fowl had met its end. If Zondi could get over them in ten minutes, he would just reach the tar in time. Then he could really open up.

“Shabalala?”

“Yes, my father?”

“If this story you tell me is true, why then did you hide in that hole? What had you to fear from me?”

“You? I do not understand.”

“Look, did you think I was a GG spy, come to see what men were in Jabula?”

“I never think these things. I see you only when you are with the women.”

And running before them, no doubt. Just as well for him he left that out.

“Then why did you hide, skelm?”

“Not skelm, my father!”

Zondi jerked the wheel hard over, drifting wide on a bend, then slamming on his brakes. A cry of pain came from the back seat as the American cuffs, which tightened if you tugged on them sharply, bit into Shabalala’s wrists. Zondi built up speed again.

“I want no bloody lies!”

“True’s God, my father, true’s God. Shabalala tells you no lies.”

“Then why”—Zondi jerked the wheel slightly—“why did you get in that hole—the grave?”

“Because I saw the car.”

“This one?”

“No, the car that is blue.”

Zondi could not help losing acceleration.

“What car do you mean?”

“It come by along the road. I see it and I am afraid.”

“Why so?”

“I think my boss is very angry and he comes to take me away and punish me.”

“But your boss had a white car. I’ve seen it.”

“This is the car of his friends, my father.”

“How do you mean?”

“Big men, they come and talk with my boss. They put fear in me. They are like—like.…”

“So you thought your boss had got his friends to help look for you, right? And maybe he was with them?”

“Yes, my father. True’s God.”

And it sounded like it, too. But Zondi was conducting this interrogation with his back turned, and needed to see how the eyes moved. He adjusted his rear-view mirror so that it reflected the stress-gray face of Shabalala. The car’s vibrations and the weak cabin light made such details as pupil size impossible to judge, yet it was a more satisfactory arrangement.

“These men in the blue car—tell me more about them. Do you know what they are called?”

“No, my father.”

“What do you think their business was with your employer?”

“I only give them food, then go.”

“You must have heard something.”

“I cannot speak Afrikaans.”

“Not understand one word? Rubbish, Shabalala! Do you want the car to dance again?”

“No, no, that is terrible! I will think.”

The Anglia rattled over the ridge of hills and started down the short run to the tar road.

“Well, Shabalala?”

“Maybe they have the same work. They talk of a boss sometimes when I wash the dishes.”

“And that’s all? Do you know what Boss Swart’s work is?”

“No, my father. He never told me.”

“You like him?”

“Oh, yes, a very good man.”

Just to keep Shabalala in the right frame of mind, Zondi allowed the Anglia to judder violently over corrugations around a sharp lefthander.

“In what way was he a bad man, Shabalala? Is any boss altogether a good man?”

“Boss Swart never asks me to do women’s work.”

“That’s good, but can’t you think of anything you don’t like about him?”

Shabalala plainly made an effort to recall something that would please.

“He has strange ways sometimes, my father.”

“Like what?”

“He sends me to fetch parcels from cars.”

Zondi glanced up sharply into the mirror.

“You steal them?”

“No, no, my father! True’s God I never steal. I take from the back cupboard of the car with a key.”

“Where do you get this key?”

“Under the tire.”

“And then?”

“I told you truth. I take the parcel, not heavy, just paper, leave the key in the lock place.”

“How many times have you done this?”

“Three.”

Zondi had another question half formed when it happened. A blue Volkswagen suddenly appeared from behind him, hurtling out of the night through his own dust, which, together with the unaligned rear-view mirror, had kept its lights from catching his eye.

There were two men in it, white men and tough, who waved to Zondi to pull over and stop.

Shabalala gave a whimper and cringed back against the door. Zondi thought fast, drove fast, conceding not an inch of the road. Wheel to wheel, the two vehicles raced down toward the plain. Then the moon was snuffed out by black cloud, leaving the Anglia’s headlights to give only a split second’s warning of the next turn.

In those final seconds, Zondi decided to believe every word Shabalala had spoken. Which meant that the story of parcels was one the lieutenant must hear—and nobody was going to stop him.

So when the Volkswagen cut in, its passenger screaming abuse and its horn blaring, Zondi braked and tried to swing across its tail. He made it, caught a small boulder under his right front wheel, and felt the steering go.

He stamped on the brake. The Anglia, fit only for the scrapheap from the start, could take no more. The next pothole was enough to fracture its hydraulic system and the brake pedal sank soft to the floor.

The hand brake worked, but thin air gave the tires nothing to grip on. And there was no need at all for the brake at the bottom of the cliff.

9

C
HRISTMAS
D
AY HAD
more than dawned when Kramer awoke with a taste in his mouth like reindeer dung. Which would teach him to sleep on his back. As for his pillowcase, all he had in it was pillow, but it felt full of surprises—like yule logs, rocks, and old spark plugs. Hell, what a hangover. Maybe Mrs. Delmain would have an aspirin or something.

He rolled off his divan and took his clothes from their hanger behind the door, sniffing suspiciously at his shirt. It ponged, so it was definitely time for a new one; he took one out of its wrapper and put it on.

Then he tidied the room. All it had in it was the bed, the hanger, a cardboard box of personal papers, and an empty wardrobe, so it did not take long. His towel and shaving things he left in the communal bathroom, having spread it around among the other lodgers that he had a skin ailment. This concentration solely on essentials caused Mrs. Delmain considerable distress, and time and again he had had to turf out desks and other rubbish she felt he ought to have a use for. But at heart she was a good woman, and might help a sick man.

It was interesting how moods could change. Despite the headache, his own had much improved, and he quite looked forward to spending the day at the typewriter compiling an accident report that would have Colonel Muller bawling Colonel Du Plessis up the wall. As for detail, he was going to have every blade of grass on Wallace’s lawn numbered. But seriously, the report would be an evident and deplorable waste of a senior officer’s time: that was the point to be made.

Kramer went along the passage, shaved in his customary fifteen strokes, and met Mrs. Delmain on the landing.

“Happy Christmas, Lieutenant! Smell the turkey?”

“Very nice.”

“Then you’ll be in for once? Please say yes.”

“There’s this murder,” he said, watching her face turning respectful in the hope of a snippet of inside information. “Done with a cotton reel, but don’t say.”

“Oh, you can always trust me, Lieutenant, you know that!”

“It’s too sordid, Mrs. Delmain. Sorry.”

Far from being disappointed, this single piece of misinformation would keep her happy for hours over her cooking. And her sewing, come to that. She beamed gratefully at him.

“I wish you’d join us at the table this once. After all, you’re never here for the meals you pay for—and it is a special occasion.”

“I could eat an aspirin if you’ve got one.”

“Headache? Well I’m sure I can manage something better than that. Just you go to your room and I’ll bring it up.”

He waited, half expecting to have the tablet served with stuffing, but was handed instead a cut-crystal glass filled with egg yolk and Worcestershire sauce.

“You’re one of the best, Mrs. Delmain,” he said gratefully. “I should have told you, they used the needle as well as the reel.”

“Dear, dearie me!”

“I’m better already.”

“Oh, I’ve got this message for you; my hubby took it a minute ago.”

“Ta.”

He read it quickly, twice, and then gave Mrs. Delmain a hug that damn near made her break wind.

The Widow Fourie and the children had their heads out of the

Orange Express as it drew into Trekkersburg station. They waved. And it was all as if nothing had happened.

“Hello, Trompie.”

“My girl.”

“Happy Christmas, Uncle Trompie!”

“Same to you, kids. Where’s the rest of your luggage?”

“It’ll come later. Didn’t have time to pack.”

Only the children had anything to say all the way back to the flat. Kramer and the Widow Fourie had never gone much on words just for the sake of words.

When she did speak, it was to exclaim in dismay at the mildew on her leather sofa and at the other damage wrought by high temperatures and humidity in an unoccupied home.

“How’s the time, Trompie?”

“Eleven.”

“Want to go and see what your friends got from Father Christmas?” she asked the eldest girl.

“Let’s go!” came a chorused reply.

One day the children would realize what such suggestions were all about. Kramer wondered what they would think of him then. He cared about this, quite a lot, sometimes.