The Gooseberry Fool Page 10

“He told you he’d have to pack it in, Samantha? Said he couldn’t afford it and all that?”

  “That’s right, the bastard. I hate him—hate him.”

  “For what he did to you?”

  “And to himself! God, if only he’d let himself go he could really be something—live, be alive! Instead.…”

  “You really don’t think he meant what he said about his wife?”

  “How could he?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “You’re a youngster still, Samantha. You may come to—”

  “Don’t you start that bloody nonsense with me! Just you don’t! Oh, my God, I could kill him!”

  “Interesting,” said Kramer, as she flung herself through the door to the Ladies.

  But hardly surprising. All the classic angles of the three-sided figure were there, and one of its sharp points had cut open this little girlie’s heart. If she did not come back out of the bog in two minutes, he would have to break down the door.

  She was back in under ninety seconds, pretty pert and showing she was the other sort, the kind that cauterizes a wound with hot hate and fights on. Or so she was trying to make herself believe—possibly by taking certain lines of action, innocent in terms of physical violence but as nasty as a bomb out of a blue sky. The trouble was that excess emotionalism often led to the consequences being overlooked; an atomic blast for the sake of the bang, with not a thought for the shock wave or fallout. And Samantha Simon was standing right in the way of some fallout at that very moment, unaware of what her amateur Nagasaki had yet to do to her.

  “I’d like to go now—I’ve told you everything. You can ask him the rest.”

  “That he prefers being well off to love in one room in Greenside?”

  “Yes; ask him.”

  “Then just one more question, miss. I want you to take a look at something I’ve got here.”

  She came over to the table and perched on the edge of her chair, making it plain she would be detained only a moment or so.

  Kramer drew out the reconstituted Christmas card and slid it across.

  “This arrived in the post at the Wallaces’ house yesterday morning,” he said. “Does it bear your name?”

  “It—but it isn’t.…”

  “And can you tell me what word is underlined on this card?”

  “Pros—prosperous?”

  “That’s right; you wish him a prosperous new year. A year with lots of money. In other words, a year when he can afford what he likes. But not his little library assistant.”

  “I—did—not—send—this—card,” Samantha said quietly, each word spoken with separate emphasis. She had gone white, bright white the way a decapitated corpse goes.

  Kramer shook his head.

  “Sorry, Samantha; that’s not how I see it.”

  Now she was trembling, trying to stand.

  “All right: what is this about?”

  He shrugged.

  “What’s the charge?”

  “No charge.”

  “I—I can go?”

  Kramer waved a hand at the door. Her eyes went narrow, her mouth curled into a small sneer.

  “And no punishment?”

  “Ach, read about it in the papers.”

  “Don’t be funny.”

  Funny? He was being hilarious. The day after Boxing Day, the Trekkersburg Gazette would have the full details of the fatal accident—including the name Mark Clive Wallace. In three days, to put it another way, Samantha Simon would know what despair can do to a man pushed too far. The line of print would jerk like a rope.

  But there was good in everything. Kramer was now free to give old Zondi a hand.

  8

  ZONDI LAY BLEEDING into his handkerchief on the hill overlooking Jabula. A sharp flint had torn into his temple as he fled the mob, another stone had done something bad to his back, but otherwise he was at least still in one piece.

  In the moonlight the distance he had run seemed far shorter than it had been. He noted the dried-up stream where most of his pursuers had dropped back, exhausted. He realized with a shudder that the remainder, who must have been recent arrivals, and still in good condition, had almost reached the slope before stopping, too. They were the bastards who had thrown the stones in a desperate bid to bring him down. Now there was nobody out in the veld and no sign of life except for the flicker of a few fires.

  The wound hurt, but in no way approximated the pain he felt deep inside: the pain of his failure. Now it would take a hundred armed policemen to get anywhere near Jabula—and every one of those hundred would inevitably come to hear of how he, Mickey Zondi, had run, tail between his legs, from a crowd of shouting women. Never mind what the truth of the matter had been; the joke would soon spread to the farthermost station. And when the laughter reached the ears of the lieutenant, that would be the finish of Mickey Zondi, whatever had gone before.

  Zondi had not made any effort to leave the hill, simply because he could think of nowhere to go. The thought of driving back to Miriam had crossed his mind, but lasted no longer than it took to picture himself explaining what had happened. Also, the children might overhear, for all the family slept in the same small room.

  He smiled thinly. It seemed now, ironically, that he and Shabalala shared a dilemma—they were both fugitives from the law, both without a sanctuary, both without hope this side of the grave. The only peace they would ever find was in, yes, death. Deep in a grave where the earth was moist and no sound could penetrate the sunbaked crust. Deep, deep down.

  He looked across at the graves on the far slope, testing the authenticity of his unfamiliar mood, seeing if he really felt unable to live on with the cross of what he had done. It was in such times, he acknowledged with self-disgust, that weak men return to the God-talk of their childhood and remember words such as “cross.” As it happened, his feelings remained unchanged by an appraisal of the graveyard. That, in a strange way, made him feel stronger. At least strong enough for one more squeeze on the trigger. He had three bullets left.

  Two too many, while Shabalala would have none. The man would find a tree and tie his belt to it. Put the belt around his neck and slip from the branch. Die with his eyes staring and his tongue sticking out at the moon. A little later, his bowels would open and empty themselves down his trouser legs. As the lieutenant had often said, a noose was the world’s best laxative. As the lieutenant.…

  But this was nonsense. Shabalala would not want to die; they would have to tie him to a stretcher with the sixty or seventy other condemned men in the big cell looking on, singing their hymns, waiting their turn.

  Zondi’s injuries were making him feverish; soon he would not be able to think straight, to do what had to be done. He took the pistol from under his arm and felt the brute weight of it.

  His eyes moved back to the graves, calculating from the grid pattern how many had already been filled in, and then beginning, but not completing, a count of the open holes. Black holes, secret holes, open-mouthed for their single ration of man. They did not frighten him. He wanted a place where he could—

  The pistol slipped from Zondi’s hand. His taut body sagged. Light blazed in his mind, leaving him exalted.

  “Shabalala!” he said out aloud, snapping his fingers, cheerfully cursing himself, feeling on top of the world and no pain.

  The graveyard was a perfect place in which to hide.

  Colonel Du Plessis was also at the Albert Hotel when Kramer finally turned up for his drink with Scott. The two of them were standing at the bar against the wood paneling on the far side. They gave him broad smiles and raised glasses of lager. Thank God for that, if nothing else. Orange juice, for Christ’s sake!

  “Well, what did you get her, Tromp?”

  “Something nice.”

  “And delivered it in person, too, hey?” asked the Colonel, very snide.

  Kramer looked down at him and, just for an instant, enjoyed a quickie fantasy in which he beat the old bitc
h to her knees with a brick. Then he chuckled and got an elbow on the counter.

  Paul Rampaul, the most excellent of all Indian barmen, placed a brandy concoction beside it without a second lost. It was said that Paul, an urbane, very handsome man of considerable natural dignity, knew the favorite drink of every one of his customers—and proved this on their second visit.

  “Merry Christmas, Paul.”

  “And to you, Mr. Kramer, sir. A pleasure to see you again.”

  That was all. None of the obsequious stuff most Indian barmen traded in. Mr. Rampaul was already back polishing his glasses.

  “And how goes the Wallace case, Tromp?” asked Scott.

  “Fine. I’ve got it all wrapped up.”

  “Oh, dear, does that mean I’ve got to read your report now, Lieutenant?”

  “I’ll give it to you verbal, sir.”

  “Please, not tonight. Anyway, I like—”

  “Everything on paper?”

  The Colonel caught the edge of Kramer’s remark and specks of ice froze in his watery eyes. Every now and then, there was a tiny glimmer of evidence to support the myths surrounding this meek little whiner—this wormlike snake with fangs an inch long. But Kramer had never been one to bother with historic precedent.

  “Yes, everything down on paper, my friend. I want everything—post-mortem, laboratory tests, scene of accident, statements.”

  “Lab tests, Colonel?”

  “I said that, didn’t I, Lieutenant Scott?”

  Scott squirmed, then saw Kramer’s wink.

  “Yes, sir, you said that.”

  “But hell, Colonel, man, it’s an open-and-shut!” Kramer objected. “Wallace got on the booze at the Comrades’ because of the heat, wasn’t used to holding his liquor, came down the hill too fast and couldn’t make it. Chucked his arms up to protect himself and bam.”

  “Kramer!”

  “Sir?”

  “That report will be on my desk at HQ on Boxing Day at ten sharp. Understood?”

  “But, sir, I thought that as—”

  “You think nothing once I’ve given an order!”

  The other customers—and there were still a good number of errant fathers and husbands working themselves up to take knife to turkey—had paused in their joke-swapping about wife-swapping to eavesdrop. Paul Rampaul had discreetly left for the kitchen across the yard.

  “Isn’t the lab closed over Christmas, Colonel?” said Kramer, keeping his voice calm.

  “Ach, so it is!” the Colonel replied, becoming instantly jolly. “Send your stuff down to Durban—they’re open—and we’ll make that the day after Boxing Day—Friday. But I’ll have the rest of it when I said.”

  “I’m to work Christmas Day?”

  “Never know you to miss one, Lieutenant. It’s true, you know, Scott, this is a dedicated officer we have with us.”

  So Kramer had been right—the bastards were out to get him. And Scott was already on the other side—very sly with his meaningful glances at the Colonel, very careful to laugh in the right places. But such positive proof of their intentions was unexpected. Perhaps the lager had something to do with it. No, unlikely. Whatever these men were, they were not given to carelessness. It gave the whole thing a new, vaguely sinister twist.

  The lull in the exchange had encouraged their audience to get back to the one about the chap who came home unexpectedly and found a baboon in his closet.

  “May I get you another, Mr. Kramer?”

  “Thank you, Paul.”

  “Maybe you think I’m being an old woman,” said the Colonel, nudging Kramer in the ribs. “Point is—and you must have overlooked this—I’m on temporary duty as divisional commandant. Colonel Muller gets back from the Free State on Friday lunchtime and I want all my own business tidied up by then for the handing-over ceremony.”

  “Sir.”

  “Ach, don’t think I can’t see you are disappointed, Tromp. I know what you were wanting to do: to give your little black friend some help on the Swart case.”

  “Black what, sir?”

  “Ach, you must have more faith in him, man!”

  “I’ll try, sir.”

  The Colonel and Scott both laughed loudly, as if Kramer had meant to be witty. So he pretended he had, forsaking his sarcasm.

  “Come on, gentlemen, this round’s on me,” he said. “What is it to be?”

  They had one drink with him, during which time he learned there still was no news from Zondi, then they left together. What bastards.

  “Paul?”

  “Mr. Kramer?”

  “Here’s ten rand. Tell me when I owe you more.”

  “I.…”

  “Yes, Paul? Speak up, man.”

  “I have no right to say anything, Mr. Kramer.”

  Paul’s expression was very troubled as he pressed the glass up for the first of the doubles.

  How Zondi had taken so long to arrive at the obvious was more than he could understand. Right back at the start he had realized that Jabula itself offered poor cover, but with exposed ground all around, it was better than nothing. He had tied himself down to the idea of finding Shabalala on the ground somewhere—or even up in the air, for he had checked the windmill—but never underneath it. While all the time, below the surface was the only place you could hide in a barren flatland, In fact, he could have come to thinking along the right lines much sooner if only he had simply paid proper attention to the fly woman. She had said that Shabalala had walked off through the huts. All Zondi need have done was to follow in his footsteps and then, at the end of the huts, he would have seen the graveyard ahead of him. But no, he had decided Shabalala was somewhere in those huts and had begun his search without asking a single question, convinced that any answer he received would be a lie.

  All this was, however, behind him now as he stalked stealthily down on the burial place. There was a chance that Shabalala was no longer there, but this was unlikely, for his wife still had not returned and, if he had ears at all, he would know that the people of Jabula had good reason to deeply resent his coming. He could easily become their next victim.

  Zondi refused to consider the chance that he was wrong yet again and Shabalala had never been in the graveyard. That way lay despair; besides, it lacked logic.

  He had about a quarter of a mile to go and the grass was very short. There was nothing for it but to get right down and crawl on his elbows. Not only was it important that he should avoid flushing out his quarry; he also had to deceive any watching eye at Jabula: he doubted that his head, let alone his legs, could take another hasty retreat so soon.

  Some of the ache and pain had returned, yet it was muted by fresh hope and the sense of well-being inherent in every hunt, whether for man or for beast. Zondi was not quite certain which of the two he would soon encounter skulking in its hole.

  His hand touched cold scales and whipped back. Snake. Dead snake. He sobbed once with relief. In the dark, without sticks, he could have died then.

  Zondi waited, however, for the moon to come out properly from behind cloud to make sure that the thing, a long, dull gleam of cobra, was beyond harming him. It was not uncommon for a snake chopped in half by a spade to still bite the gardener’s foot. No, it was quite, quite dead, and he tugged at its tip.

  Then he crawled on with his torch between his teeth, trying to ignore what all this was doing to his clothes. There was not much farther to go.

  At last he was beside a mound of stone in which a plank cross stood at an angle, just like on the church roof at Robert’s Halt. He waited stock still, listening, scoffing silently at the childish prickle of fear induced by such a place. In his job he had learned that a man need fear only the living. But there was no denying it, the smell of death was in the air, and it was never pleasant to breathe.

  Not a single sound.

  Zondi moved forward, down the rows of the recent dead, and on until he reached the first of the open graves. He lay flat and peered over the edge. It was empty. Six feet deep w
ith sheer sides and a credit to the army engineers’ striving to bring perfection to everything.

  Just then Zondi heard a pebble fall. It could have been dislodged by a rat, of course. Then a cough.

  A wheezing cough that came from somewhere to his left.

  Chill air came down into the valley, making the weeds stir uneasily and an owl lift like a shadow from a child’s grave. Zondi shivered, mainly because he was sweating heavily.

  This was his moment of truth—as the lieutenant would say. Right, Lieutenant, sir, here he comes; let me show you how to get a man out of a six-foot hole without exposing yourself to any danger.

  Another cough pinpointed the exact spot. Shabalala was at the near end of the open grave that had a thistle growing beside it. In less than a minute of extreme caution but, more importantly, silent movement, Zondi was there, too.

  He raised his head and looked back at Jabula. One fire remained, its glow unbroken by figures seated around it. All were asleep.

  Now, Lieutenant!

  The dead snake was dropped into the grave, landing on something soft.

  In seconds it was over. Shabalala gasped and came up out of the earth like a terrified rabbit out of a viper pit. He made one mighty leap, clawed frantically at the edge of the grave—for he was not a big man—and heaved himself out. He was still on hands and knees when the cuffs went on him and the muzzle of the PPK pressed into his forehead.

  “Make no sound,” whispered Zondi. “Or I will shoot.”

  And for the first time that day he prayed—prayed he would not have to pull the trigger.

  Paul Rampaul risked his reputation and served a tonic water to Kramer. For a moment or two, it could have gone either way. Then Kramer sipped a little.

  “Such is life, Paul.”

  “Your change, Mr. Kramer.”

  He slid over the best part of three rand.

  “Take half for the kiddies, man.”

  “That is generous, sir.”

  “Ach, then buy your wife a present!”

  Paul took the money with a small, grateful smile; he did not earn much despite the hours he worked. It was a few minutes before closing and only a very drunk bachelor, who lived in the hotel, shared the large room with them. But only in the most marginal sense.