he would be cured. The thought of this relaxed the knot in his stomach and he lifted the jawbone of the sheep, the teeth grinning at him, and he gnawed at the flesh, feeling the juices flow down his face and onto his shirt.
Inja's work here was done. He'd dumped the Boer's Benz in the shackland. It would be stripped by morning. In an hour he would fly home and report back to his chief, the minister of justice. Tell him there were no mouths left to speak to his enemies.
Then Inja saw that the soccer game had given way to a news broadcast. Saw a face on the screen that he recognized. Inja stood, still holding the jawbone of the sheep in his hand. He shouted for quiet. Shouted so loud and with such authority that the drunken men fell silent.
Inja stared at the photograph of the white man on the TV. The half-breed's cuckold of a husband. The one who had survived the car accident and had now escaped from prison. Inja dropped the sheep's jaw onto the dirt, grabbed his bag and walked toward the street. He would find this white man and kill him himself.
Dell, head again covered by the blanket, let his father lead him from the farmhouse across an expanse of gravel. Heard a door squeal open and shut. Felt concrete beneath his feet. Shrugged off the blanket and found himself in a cramped room that looked as if it had once been a garage. Unpainted plaster walls. Silver sheet iron supported by bare roof beams. A metal door, bolted, still painted primer red. One small window, covered by frayed yellow curtains. A bed. A sofa. The medicinal smell that clung to his father was thick in the air of the room.
Goodbread sat down on the sagging sofa positioned with its back to the door. An electric bulb dangled from the roof, hard shadows hiding his eyes and pooling beneath his sunken cheekbones. His hands, a mottled landscape of veins, rested on the knees of his khaki pants.
A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's stood beside his work boots on the cement floor. No sign of a glass. Dell sat on the narrow bed. Pillow and blankets squared away like in the military. Or prison.
He stared at the old stranger. "Who killed my family?"
Goodbread fired up a cigarette, waving the match dead. "As I hear it told, the man driving the truck goes by the name of Moses Mazibuko. Better known as Inja. Means dog up in Zululand." Sucked smoke. Coughed. "Takes his orders from the minister of justice. Now, if that isn't a fucking joke, kindly tell me when one comes along."
"Why did he want to kill us?"
"He was after your wife. Rest of you were collateral damage." Pulling hard on the cigarette, the end glowing red. Holding the smoke in his lungs, eyes closed. Then exhaling.
Dell shook his head. "Bullshit. Nobody had reason to murder Rosie."
"But they had a few million reasons to kill Ben Baker." Goodbread looked at Dell out of the shadows. "You know about her and Baker?"
"Yes."
"I suspect she was with him the night he was hit. Saw who did it. Got away somehow, but this Inja tracked her down and . . ." Shrugging his bony shoulders. "Guess I don't need to sing you the rest of that sad song."
Dell saw Rosie's face the morning after Baker's murder. Her eyes empty. In emotional lockdown. He watched the old man smoke. "Where are we?"
"An hour and some north of Cape Town. That's all you need to know. For the protection of the people over yonder." Waving his cigarette toward the farmhouse.
"And what happens now?"
"You sleep. You look like ten thousand miles of bad road."
"Don't fuck with me. You've got a plan. Talk."
Goodbread paused with the cigarette halfway to his lips. Held up a hand for silence. Dell heard the low rumble of an engine, the crunch of tires on gravel. Moving fast for an old man, Goodbread dropped the cigarette to the floor, crossed to the wall switch and killed the light.
"Hunker yourself down behind the sofa, where you can't be seen from the window. And stay there. Don't move one goddam muscle. Got me?"
Dell obeyed, squatting down on
Inja's work here was done. He'd dumped the Boer's Benz in the shackland. It would be stripped by morning. In an hour he would fly home and report back to his chief, the minister of justice. Tell him there were no mouths left to speak to his enemies.
Then Inja saw that the soccer game had given way to a news broadcast. Saw a face on the screen that he recognized. Inja stood, still holding the jawbone of the sheep in his hand. He shouted for quiet. Shouted so loud and with such authority that the drunken men fell silent.
Inja stared at the photograph of the white man on the TV. The half-breed's cuckold of a husband. The one who had survived the car accident and had now escaped from prison. Inja dropped the sheep's jaw onto the dirt, grabbed his bag and walked toward the street. He would find this white man and kill him himself.
Dell, head again covered by the blanket, let his father lead him from the farmhouse across an expanse of gravel. Heard a door squeal open and shut. Felt concrete beneath his feet. Shrugged off the blanket and found himself in a cramped room that looked as if it had once been a garage. Unpainted plaster walls. Silver sheet iron supported by bare roof beams. A metal door, bolted, still painted primer red. One small window, covered by frayed yellow curtains. A bed. A sofa. The medicinal smell that clung to his father was thick in the air of the room.
Goodbread sat down on the sagging sofa positioned with its back to the door. An electric bulb dangled from the roof, hard shadows hiding his eyes and pooling beneath his sunken cheekbones. His hands, a mottled landscape of veins, rested on the knees of his khaki pants.
A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's stood beside his work boots on the cement floor. No sign of a glass. Dell sat on the narrow bed. Pillow and blankets squared away like in the military. Or prison.
He stared at the old stranger. "Who killed my family?"
Goodbread fired up a cigarette, waving the match dead. "As I hear it told, the man driving the truck goes by the name of Moses Mazibuko. Better known as Inja. Means dog up in Zululand." Sucked smoke. Coughed. "Takes his orders from the minister of justice. Now, if that isn't a fucking joke, kindly tell me when one comes along."
"Why did he want to kill us?"
"He was after your wife. Rest of you were collateral damage." Pulling hard on the cigarette, the end glowing red. Holding the smoke in his lungs, eyes closed. Then exhaling.
Dell shook his head. "Bullshit. Nobody had reason to murder Rosie."
"But they had a few million reasons to kill Ben Baker." Goodbread looked at Dell out of the shadows. "You know about her and Baker?"
"Yes."
"I suspect she was with him the night he was hit. Saw who did it. Got away somehow, but this Inja tracked her down and . . ." Shrugging his bony shoulders. "Guess I don't need to sing you the rest of that sad song."
Dell saw Rosie's face the morning after Baker's murder. Her eyes empty. In emotional lockdown. He watched the old man smoke. "Where are we?"
"An hour and some north of Cape Town. That's all you need to know. For the protection of the people over yonder." Waving his cigarette toward the farmhouse.
"And what happens now?"
"You sleep. You look like ten thousand miles of bad road."
"Don't fuck with me. You've got a plan. Talk."
Goodbread paused with the cigarette halfway to his lips. Held up a hand for silence. Dell heard the low rumble of an engine, the crunch of tires on gravel. Moving fast for an old man, Goodbread dropped the cigarette to the floor, crossed to the wall switch and killed the light.
"Hunker yourself down behind the sofa, where you can't be seen from the window. And stay there. Don't move one goddam muscle. Got me?"
Dell obeyed, squatting down on
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