The train stayed in the station longer than the fifteen minutes allowed for the stoppage. The scheduled departure time had passed before Dlomo heard footsteps from the far end of the coach and the opening and closing of compartment doors. Occasionally the sounds of speaking reached him, the clearer voices of the policemen and the conductor and the blurred and muffled sounds of passengers who were in their compartments.
Their passage down the coach was slow and apparently methodical. A door rattled and voices were heard, then another door and more voices. There was still time to get out of the compartment and move in the other direction, perhaps slip away on the station. If he could time his move for when they were in a compartment, they may not even realise he had left.
And there was always the Makarov.
Another door rattled. The voices were close now, probably in the next compartment. It was too late to run. He felt under the pillow for the Makarov. It felt solid and reliable in his right hand. The coolness of the metal had already warmed to his body temperature. He had used Makarovs often and they had never let him down. It had been the pistol of choice in the liberation army and now the black market was flooded with them.
With his left hand, he moved the Bible onto his lap, positioning it so that it would shield his right hand where it disappeared under the pillow. The Bible fell open at the story of Samson. In the reading light his eyes picked out the words, ‘Why does the God of Israel sleep?’ I don’t know, he thought, but Elia Dlomo is wide awake.
He heard the adjoining door close. A moment later the conductor’s key turned in the lock of his door and it slid open. One of the policemen, a young man who was wearing the stripes of a sergeant took a step into the compartment. He looked surprised at the minister of religion reading his Bible. ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ he said in English. The conductor and the other policeman crowded into the doorway.
Dlomo nodded. He was holding the Makarov frmly, but not so tightly that an unplanned shot could be fired.
‘If you don’t mind I must look at the face of this man.’
‘Please go ahead.’
The policeman had to step on Dlomo’s bunk, balancing himself on the balls of his feet, to get a look at the sleeping technician’s face. He stepped down, shaking his head. ‘Thank you, Father. We think there’s a criminal on this train, but we won’t bother you again.’
‘Good luck, my son,’ Dlomo said.
‘If he’s here, we’ll get him,’ the officer said.
The two policemen left, but the conductor stayed. ‘There was a bank robbery in Potchefstroom.’ He whispered in Zulu. ‘The officers think one of them is on the train.’
Dlomo looked at the conductor’s excited face. ‘I’m sure the officers are going to catch him.’
‘I think so. I want to see it.’ He was turning to go when the Bible slid and the conductor saw Dlomo’s wrist where it disappeared under the pillow. The gun was still hidden. Dlomo answered a question before it could be asked. ‘It’s this hand. The blood doesn’t flow well there.’
The conductor looked horrified. ‘There’s a heater. I’ll put it on for you.’
He started forward, but would have had to pass next to the pillow and the Makarov to reach the heater. Dlomo raised a strong left arm to block his path. ‘Thank you. I like it this way.’
‘Are you sure, Father?’
‘Yes, but you must go. Our brothers in the police need you.’
‘All right, but if you want it, I’ll put it on for you.’
‘Thank you, my son.’
After he had left, Dlomo wrapped the Makarov in the hand towel again and returned it to the satchel. A bank robbery, he thought. That was luck. It would give the police something else to think about.
Elia Dlomo was an exceptionally determined man. The years of suffering as a child would have broken most boys, but they had built an unshakable will for conquest in him. It was this characteristic, more than any other, that had made him a powerful gang leader and that now drove him to find Beloved Childe. But he was not entirely single-minded. Before he had been freed by his gang, while the possibility of his challenging Oliver Hall was no more than that, he had realised that a trip to Cape Town would take him past Warrenton and Jenny Pregnalato, and also the child she had been carrying when he last saw her.
The train would pass in sight of her cottage. It had been a burden to him that he had not been able to do anything to help support her in the years he had been in prison and now he would be so close.
But this sort of thinking is foolishness, he told himself. I’ll see her when this is over. There’ll be time then.
C-MAX
was quiet, unnaturally quiet for early evening. The night shift was starting to drift in, but Yudel and Director Nkabinde were both staying late. Dongwana’s attempt to smuggle in firearms was reason enough to be concerned. And Yudel could feel the unrest in the air. It came at him in wave upon wave wherever he was, but seemed to grow as he neared D-Section, where Enslin Kruger was held.
He had come close to recommending a lock-down of the entire prison when Dongwana had been arrested. But a lock-down was a serious matter and Yudel knew that it often increased tensions instead of relieving them. He knew that Director Nkabinde felt the same way and so this measure had only been used twice since Nkabinde had assumed control.
Dongwana was not in C-Max. Crimes, even those inside the prison, were the business of the police. He had been taken away a few hours after he had been stopped at the front gate and was now in Local, the awaiting-trial prison a few hundred metres away within the same perimeter.
Yudel and Nkabinde had been discussing Elia Dlomo’s escape and if he had given any indication that an escape was being planned. ‘From a security point of view,’ the director was saying when the phone rang, ‘the issue is – how did he communicate with his colleagues outside?’
The operator had tracked Yudel down to tell him that General Jordaan of the police was on the line. Freek began without formalities. ‘Yudel, I think this bastard Hall just passed through Warrenton. He left his calling card.’
‘Warrenton? On his way to the Cape?’
‘It looks that way. A woman and her child were killed in the location. It was on this morning’s report. I just spoke to Warrenton. The killer used a knife.’
A woman in Warrenton? Beloved would not be in Warrenton. ‘The woman, do you know her name?’
‘An Italian name, Prentalano, I think.’
Jesus. Yudel had risen when he took the phone from Nkabinde. Now he sat down. A game was being played that he did not yet understand. ‘Pregnalato,’ Yudel said.
‘Yes, that’s it. How do you know?’
‘She’s Elia Dlomo’s woman.’
‘The one who escaped?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Then it was probably him, not Hall.’
‘No, it was Hall,’ Yudel said.
Freek paused a moment to digest Yudel’s certainty. ‘There’s something else. A big truck, a heavy rig, was found burnt out a few k’s outside Warren-ton. The driver was still inside.’
‘That’s also Hall.’
‘You’re sure about this?’
‘I know Hall and I know Dlomo. And that’s Hall.’
‘One last thing—’
Christ, what more can there be? Yudel wondered.
‘A man was seen jumping a freight train on the way to the Cape this morning, just outside the Warrenton township. Our men in Beaufort West have been alerted. They’ll be waiting for him.’
‘They’ve got to be careful, Freek, very careful.’
‘Don’t tell us our business, Yudel.’
Yudel reflected briefly that he was hearing that sort of thing a lot lately. Brigadier Sibiya had pretty much told him to mind his own business just before Hall violated his parole. ‘I’m just saying—’
‘Yudel.’ Freek said his name in the manner of a man whose patience was being tested. ‘Our boys in Beaufort West understand what they’re dealing with.’
Nkabinde had been following Yudel’s end of the conversation. When Yudel hung up he turned to the director. ‘Hall’s been busy in Warrenton.’
‘Where the fuck is Warrenton?’
The Cape line between Klerksdorp and Warrenton
For an hour after leaving Klerksdorp, Elia Dlomo had spent little time in his compartment. As the afternoon deepened into twilight, he had walked the train corridors or stood at a window, watching the veld rush by.
It was not just the possibility of discovery by the authorities that bothered Dlomo. They did not seem to be looking for him. Not this far from Johannesburg, he told himself. The train was not scheduled to stop at Warrenton. He barely admitted it to himself, but the thought that he might never see Jenny again, after being so close, was always present.
Twice other passengers had tried to draw him into conversation. The first was a young white man who asked him what church he served. To avoid talking to him he had answered in Zulu, pretending that he could not understand English. The other was an older black woman who had overheard the exchange and spoke to him in that language.
‘He was asking of what church you are,’ she told him.
‘Thank you, my sister,’ he said, turning his face away from her.
‘What church is it? I will tell him.’
Christ, Dlomo thought, and what church are you? If I pick your denomination you may want to discuss it. ‘Catholic,’ he said.
‘I’ll tell him, Father. I’m a Lutheran myself, but I feel we are all brothers and sisters in Christ.’
‘Thank you again, my sister.’ This time he walked purposefully away from her, sat down in the dining car, took out the Bible from his satchel and pretended to read. Immediately he realised his mistake. It was an English Bible. He put it away and retreated to his compartment.
He passed the woman again in the corridor and, judging by the look on her face, she felt offended by his rudeness. That was all right, as long as she stayed away from him. What the hell do priests talk about anyway? he wondered. Not sex or liquor. Maybe money. Today everyone talked about money.
He thought about Hall. The bastard may be in front of me. He may be there already. He may already have done the job on this Beloved woman.
No, don’t think like that, he told himself. Go there and do the job and come back. Don’t think about anything else.
The train ran easily across the flat country before Warrenton. Dlomo leant forward in his seat, scanning the veld for the first sign of the town. The train seemed to slow, then hold the slower speed. Perhaps they slowed for built-up areas. Five minutes later, he saw the first line of lights from the cottages. Outside one of them by the light of a street lamp he saw a boy with a tog bag slung over one shoulder and surrounded by older people who all seemed to be talking. A grey-haired woman had an arm around him.
Dlomo turned his attention away from the scene. He had never been part of such gatherings and he did not want to observe them now.
Line after line of cottages slipped past. Jenny’s was near the far end and only the third or fourth from the side on which he would be passing. If there was enough light he would be able to see it. If she was working the day shift she would have got home an hour or more ago. It was possible she might be standing outside to catch the last bit of twilight. Perhaps he might get a glimpse of her. The cottage was not far from the tracks.
The first policeman was standing on the edge of the wild grass that bordered the township. He was clearly visible in the headlights of a parked vehicle.
What’s that damned boer doing there? Is he waiting for me? Do they think I’m coming here? It’s that Gordon at C-Max. He knows about Jenny. The little bastard told me he does. But if this is a trap, why’s he standing outside?
A second policeman came into view, between the first and the next cottages. Then the angle had changed and he could see between the rows of cottages. The back door of Jenny’s cottage was open, spilling light into the yard. A third policeman was leaning against the doorjamb.
The angle changed again, and for a moment Jenny’s place was hidden by the closer cottages. Then he could see the front of the cottage. His view lasted perhaps a second, but in that time he saw the open front door and two more policemen carrying a stretcher through it. The figure on the stretcher was that of an adult. Both face and body were covered.
THE FIRST SHOT
had Yudel hurrying for the door. Before he reached it, there were two more, the three following each other with less than a second separating them. He stopped in the doorway. Yudel had been warned on many occasions not to interfere when law enforcement officers had to deal with incidents that involved the use of force. Freek had explained the matter to him: ‘First of all, it’s not your role. Secondly, you’re no good at it.’
‘Surely I can help,’ Yudel had said.
‘The best way for you to do that is to stay out of the way.’
Yudel stood in the door of his office, remembering this advice. He was still in that position when the fourth shot was fired. This time he could hear that it was coming from the exercise hall. He ran in that direction, taking the stairs to the vantage point above the hall, twice shouting ‘Hek’ for the guard there to open the gate for him. He looked as alarmed as Yudel was.
From the rail that looked down onto the hall, Yudel saw a group of inmates, perhaps twenty of them, at the gate below. A warder was lying face down in the hall, unmoving. There were just the stairs and one more gate separating them from Yudel. At the head of the group, one of Enslin Kruger’s henchmen carried a hand gun. Three warders, armed only with truncheons, had retreated onto the stairs. As Yudel started backing away in the direction of the library, the prisoner with the gun fired again.
Down below he heard Director Nkabinde’s voice. He was shouting, but Yudel could not make out the words.
Yudel ran for the gate in front of the library. ‘Hek, hek,’ he yelled at the guard, then, ‘Keep it open. Some men are coming up. Close the gate and take cover, after they come through. One of the prisoners is armed.’ He was surprised by the shrillness of his voice.
More shots were being fired, the sounds coming from closer this time. That could only be the prisoner who had the gun. How many shots before he would have to reload? Did he have more bullets? None of the warders in the hall had firearms.