The sergeant hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her shorts and yanked them down. He let them fall in a tangle around her ankles. Craig strained forward, but the point of the bayonet pierced the skin at his throat. A few drops of blood dribbled down his shirt-front. Sally-Anne tried to cover the dark triangular mound of her pudenda with her free hand. It was a pathetically ineffectual gesture.
‘I know how fiercely even a so-called white liberal like you resents the thought of black flesh penetrating his woman.’ Peter Fungabera’s tone was almost conversational. ‘It will be interesting to see just how many times you will allow it to happen.’
The sergeant and the trooper lifted Sally-Anne between them and laid her on her back on the refectory table. The sergeant freed the silk shorts that bound her ankles but left the running shoes on her feet, and the tatters of her shirt around her upper body.
Expertly they pulled her knees up against her chest and then forced them down, tucking them under her armpits. They must have done this often before. She was helpless, doubled over, wide open and completely defenceless. Every man in the room was staring into her body’s secret depths. The sergeant began to unbuckle his webbing belt with his free hand.
‘Craig!’ Sally-Anne screamed, and Craig’s body bucked involuntarily as though to the stroke of a whip.
‘I’ll sign it,’ he whispered. ‘Just let her go, and I’ll sign it.’
Peter Fungabera gave an order in Shona, and immediately they released Sally-Anne. The trooper stood back and the sergeant helped her to her feet. Politely, he handed her back her shorts, and she hopped on one foot, sobbing softly and trembling, as she pulled them on.
Then she rushed to Craig and threw both her arms about him. She could not speak, but she choked and gulped down her tears. Her body shook wildly and Craig held her close and made incoherent soothing noises to her.
‘The sooner you sign, the sooner you can go.’
Craig went to the table, still holding Sally-Anne in the curve of his left arm.
Captain Nbebi handed him a pen and he initialled the two top sheets of the confession, and signed the last one in full. Both Captain Nbebi and Peter Fungabera witnessed his signature, and then Peter said, ‘One last formality. I want both you and Miss Jay to be examined by the regimental doctor for any signs of ill-treatment or undue coercion.’
‘God damn you, hasn’t she had enough?’
‘Humour me, please, my dear fellow.’
The doctor must have been waiting in one of the trucks outside. He was a small dapper Shona and his manner was brisk and businesslike.
‘You may examine the woman in the bedroom, Doctor. In particular, please satisfy yourself that she has not been forcibly penetrated,’ Peter Fungabera instructed him, and then as they left the dining-room, he turned to Craig. ‘In the meantime, you may open the safe in your office and take out your passport and whatever other documents you may need for the journey.’
Two troopers escorted Craig to his office at the far end of the veranda, and waited while he struck the combination of the safe. He took out his passport, the wallet containing his credit cards and World Bank badge, three folders of American Express travellers’ cheques, and the bundle of manuscript for the new novel. He stuffed them into a British Airways flight bag and went back to the dining-room.
Sally-Anne and the doctor came back from the bedroom. She had changed into a blue cashmere jersey, shirt and jeans, and she had controlled her hysteria to an occasional gulping sob, though she was still shivering in little convulsive fits. She dragged her camera bag and under one arm carried the art folder of photographs and text for their book.
‘Your turn,’ Peter Fungabera invited Craig to follow the doctor, and when he returned Sally-Anne was seated in the back seat of a Land-Rover parked in front of the veranda. Captain Nbebi was beside her, and there were two armed troopers in the back of the vehicle. The seat beside the driver was empty for Craig.
Peter Fungabera was waiting on the veranda. ‘Goodbye, Craig,’ he said, and Craig stared at him, trying to project the full venom he felt for him.
‘You didn’t really believe that I would allow you to rebuild your family’s empire, did you?’ Peter asked without rancour. ‘We fought too hard to destroy that world.’
As the Land-Rover drove down the hills in the night, Craig turned and looked back. Peter Fungabera still stood on the lighted veranda, and somehow his tall figure was transformed. He looked as though he belonged there, like a conqueror who has taken possession, like the patron of the grand estate. Craig watched him until the trees hid him, and only then did the leaven of his true hatred begin to rise within him.
The headlights of the Land-Rover swung across the signboard:
King’s Lynn Afrikander Stud
Proprietor: Craig Mellow
It seemed to mock him, then they were past it and rattling across the steel cattle-grid. They left the soil of King’s Lynn and Craig’s dreams behind them, and swung westwards. The lugged tyres began their monotonous hum as they hit the black top of the main road, and still nobody in the Land-Rover spoke.
Captain Nbebi opened the map-case that he was holding on his knees and took out a bottle of fiery locally made cane spirits. He passed the bottle over the front seat to Craig. Craig waved it brusquely aside, but Timon Nbebi insisted, and Craig took it with ill grace. He unscrewed the cap, and swallowed a mouthful, then exhaled the fumes noisily. It brought tears to his eyes, but immediately the fireball in his belly spread out through his blood, giving him comfort. He took another swig and passed the bottle back to Sally-Anne. She shook her head.
‘Drink it,’ Craig ordered, and meekly she obeyed. She had stopped weeping, but the fits of shivering still persisted. The spirits made her cough and choke, but she got them down, and they steadied her.
‘Thank you.’ She handed the bottle back to Timon Nbebi, and the politeness from a woman who had been so recently degraded and humiliated was embarrassing to all of them.
They reached the first road-block on the outskirts of the town of Bulawayo, and Craig checked his wrist-watch. It was seven minutes to three in the morning. There were no other vehicles waiting at the barrier, and two troopers stepped out from behind the barricade and came to each side of the Land-Rover. Timon Nbebi slid back his window and spoke quietly to one of them, offering his pass at the same time. The trooper examined it briefly in the beam of his flashlight, then handed it back. He saluted, and the barrier lifted. They drove through.
Bulawayo was silent and devoid of life, only very few of the windows were lit. A traffic-light flashed green and amber and red, and the driver stopped obediently, although the streets were completely deserted. The engine throbbed in idle and then above it, far off and faint, came the popping sound of automatic rifle-fire.
Craig was watching Timon Nbebi’s face in the rear-view mirror, and saw him wince slightly at the sound of gunfire. Then the light changed and they drove on, taking the south road through the suburbs. On the edge of the town there were two more road-blocks and then the open road.
They ran southwards in the night, with the whine of the tyres and the buffet of the wind against the cab. The glow from the dashboard gave their faces a sickly greenish hue and once or twice the radio in the back crackled and gabbled distorted Shona. Craig recognized Peter Fungabera’s voice on one of the transmissions, but he must have been calling another unit, for Timon Nbebi made no effort to reply and they drove on in silence. The monotonous hum of engine and tyres and the warmth of the cab lulled Craig, and in a reaction from anger and fear he found himself dozing.
He awoke with a start as Timon Nbebi spoke for the first time, and the beat of the Land-Rover’s engine altered. It was dawn’s first light. He could see the silhouette of the tree-tops against the paling lemon sky. The Land-Rover slowed and then swung off the main tarmac road onto a dirt track. Immediately the mushroom smell of talcum dust permeated the cab.
‘Where are we?’ Craig demanded. ‘Why are we leaving the
road?’
Timon Nbebi spoke to the driver and he pulled to the side of the track and stopped.
‘You will please step out,’ Timon ordered, and as Craig did so, Timon was waiting for him, seeming to help him down – but instead he took Craig’s arm, turned it slightly, and before Craig could react to the icy touch of steel on his skin, Timon had handcuffed both his wrists. It had been so unexpected and so expertly done that for seconds Craig stood bewildered with his manacled hands thrust out in front of him, staring at them. Then he shouted, ‘Christ, what is this?’
By then Timon Nbebi had handcuffed Sally-Anne as quickly and efficiently, and ignoring Craig’s outburst, was talking quietly to his driver and the two troopers. It was too quick for Craig to follow, although he caught the Shona words ‘kill’ and ‘hide’. One of the troopers seemed to protest and Timon leaned through the open door of the Land-Rover and lifted the microphone of the radio. He gave a call sign, repeated three times, and after a short wait was patched through to Peter Fungabera. Craig recognized the general’s voice despite the VHF distortion. There was a brief exchange, and when Timon Nbebi hung the microphone, the trooper was no longer protesting. Clearly Timon Nbebi’s orders had been endorsed.
‘We will go on,’ Timon reverted to English, and Craig was roughly hustled back into the front seat. The change in their treatment was ominous.
The driver threaded the Land-Rover deeper and deeper into the thorn veld, and the morning light strengthened. Outside the cab, the dawn bird chorus was in full voice. Craig recognized the high clear duet of a pair of collared barbets in an acacia tree beside the track. A brown hare was trapped in the beam of the headlights and lolloped ahead of them with his long pink ears flapping. Then the sky began to burn with the stupendous colours of the African dawn and the driver switched off the headlights.
‘Craig, darling. They are going to kill us, aren’t they?’ Sally-Anne asked quietly. Her voice was clear and firm now. She had conquered her hysteria and was in control of herself again. She spoke as though they were alone.
‘I’m sorry.’ Craig could find nothing else to say. ‘I should have known that Peter Fungabera would never let us go.’
‘There is nothing you could have done. Even if you had known.’
‘They’ll bury us in some remote place and our disappearance will be blamed on the Matabele dissidents,’ Craig said, and Timon Nbebi sat silent and impassive, neither admitting nor denying the accusation.
The road forked, the left-hand track barely discernible, and Timon Nbebi indicated it. The driver slowed further and changed to a lower gear. They bumped along it for another twenty minutes. By then it was fully light, the promise of sunrise flaming the tiptops of the acacia.
Timon Nbebi gave another order and the driver turned off the track and drove blindly through the waist-high grass, skirting the edge of a grey granite kopje, until they were entirely screened from even the rudimentary bush track that they had been following. Another short order, and the driver stopped and switched off the engine.
The silence closed in on them, enhancing their sense of isolation and remoteness.
‘No one will ever find us here,’ Sally-Anne said quietly, and Craig could find no word of comfort for her.
‘You will remain where you are,’ Timon Nbebi ordered.
‘Don’t you feel anything for what you are going to do?’ Sally-Anne asked him, and he turned his head to her. Behind the steel-rimmed spectacles his eyes were perhaps shaded with misery and regret, but his mouth was set hard. He did not reply to her question, and after a moment turned from her and alighted. He gave orders in Shona, and the troopers racked their weapons in the back of the Land-Rover while the driver climbed up onto the roofrack and brought down three folding trenching-tools.
Timon Nbebi reached through the window and took the keys out of the Land-Rover’s engine, then he led his men a short distance away and with the toe of his boot marked out two oblongs on the sandy grey earth. The three Shonas shucked off their webbing and battle-jackets, and began to dig out the graves. They went down swiftly in the loose soil. Timon Nbebi stood aside watching them. He lit a cigarette and the grey smoke spiralled straight up in the still, cool dawn.
‘I am going to try to get one of the rifles,’ Craig whispered. The weapons were in the back of the vehicle. He would have to crawl over the backs of both seats, then reach the rifles which were standing upright in the racks. He would have to open the clip on the rack, load the weapon, change the rate-of-fire selector and aim through the back window – all with his hands manacled.
‘You won’t make it,’ Sally-Anne whispered.
‘Probably not,’ he agreed grimly, ‘but can you think of anything else? When I say “Go”, I want you to throw yourself flat on the floor.’
Craig wriggled around in the seat, his leg hampering him, catching by the ankle on the lever of the four-wheel-drive selector. He kicked it free and gathered himself. He took a slow breath, and glanced out of the rear window at the little group of grave-diggers.
‘Listen,’ he told her urgently. ‘I love you. I have never loved anyone the way I love you.’
‘I love you, too, my darling,’ she whispered back.
‘Be brave!’ he said.
‘Good luck!’ She was crouching down, and he almost made his move, but at that moment Timon Nbebi turned towards the Land-Rover. He saw Craig twisted around in the seat, and Sally-Anne down below the sill. He frowned and came back to the vehicle with quick businesslike strides. At the open window he paused and spoke softly in English.
‘Don’t do it, Mr Mellow. We are all of us in great danger. Our only chance is for you to remain still and not to interfere or make any unexpected move.’ He took the ignition keys from his pocket, and with his other hand loosened the flap of the webbing pistol-holster on his belt. He kept on talking softly, ‘I have effectively disarmed my men, and their attention is on their work. When I enter the Land-Rover, do not hamper me or try to attack me. I am in as great a danger as you are. You must trust me. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ Craig nodded. Christ! Do I have any choice, he thought.
Timon opened the driver’s door of the Land-Rover, and slid in under the wheel. He glanced once at the three soldiers who were by now waist-deep in the two graves, then Timon slipped the key into the ignition and turned it.
The engine turned over loudly, and the three soldiers looked up, puzzled. The starter-motor whirred and churned, and the engine would not fire. One of the troopers shouted, and jumped out of the grave. His chest was snaked with sweat and powdered with grey dust. He started towards the stranded Land-Rover. Timon Nbebi pumped the accelerator, and kept turning the engine. He had a desperate, terrified look on his face.
‘You’ll flood her,’ Craig told him. ‘Take your foot off!’
The trooper broke into a run towards them. He was shouting angry questions, and the starter went on – Whirr! Whirr! Whirr! – with Timon frozen to the wheel.
The running trooper was almost alongside, and now the others, slower and less alert, began to follow him. They were shouting also, one of them swinging his trenching-tool menacingly.
‘Lock the door!’ Craig shouted urgently, and Timon pushed down the handle into the lock position just as the trooper threw his weight on it. He heaved at the outside handle with all his weight, and then darted to the rear door and before Sally-Anne could lock it, jerked it open. He reached in and caught Sally-Anne by the upper arm and began dragging her from the open door.
Craig was still hunched around in the front seat and now he lifted both manacled hands high and brought them down on the trooper’s shaven head. The sharp steel edge of the cuffs cut down to the bone of the skull, and the man collapsed half in and half out of the open door.
Craig hit him again, in the centre of the forehead, and had a brief glimpse of white bone in the bottom of the wound before quick bright blood obscured it. The other two soldiers were only paces away, baying like wolfhounds and armed with th
eir spades.
At that moment the engine of the Land-Rover fired and roared into life. Timon Nbebi hit the gear-lever, and with a clash of metal it engaged and the Land-Rover shot forward. Craig was thrown over the seat half on top of Sally-Anne, and the bleeding trooper was caught by his dangling legs in a thorn bush and ripped out through the rear door.
The Land-Rover swerved and bucked over the rough ground, with the two screeching black soldiers running behind it, and the open door flapping and banging wildly. Then Timon Nbebi straightened the wheel and changed gear. The Land-Rover accelerated away, crashing over rock and fallen branches, and the pursuing troopers fell back. One of them hurled his spade despairingly after them. It shattered the rear window, and broken glass spilled over the rear of the cab.
Timon Nbebi picked up their own incoming tracks through the high grass, and at last they were going faster than a man could run. The two troopers gave up and stood panting in the tracks, their shouts of recrimination and anger dwindled and then were lost. Timon reached the bush track at the point that they had left it, and turned onto it, picking up speed.
‘Give me your hands,’ he ordered, and when Craig offered his manacled hands, Timon unlocked the cuffs. ‘Here!’ he gave Craig the key. ‘Do the same for Miss Jay.’
She rubbed her wrists. ‘My God, Craig, I truly thought that was the end of the line.’
‘A close-run thing,’ Timon Nbebi agreed, with all his attention on the track. ‘Napoleon said that, I think.’ And then, before Craig could correct him, ‘Please to arm yourself with one of the rifles, Mr Mellow, and place the other beside me.’
Sally-Anne passed the short, ugly weapons over to the front seat. The Third Brigade was the only unit of the regular army still armed with AK 47s, a legacy from their North Korean instructors.
‘Do you know how to use it, Mr Mellow?’ Timon Nbebi asked.
‘I was an armourer in the Rhodesian Police.’