the cement floor. A flare of headlamps lit the drapes, throwing a sick yellow light into the room. Goodbread stood with his back flat to the wall between the door and the window. He took a pistol from under his baggy shirt. Cocked it. The headlamps slid away from the window and Dell heard the moan of brakes as the vehicle stopped, engine idling.
Heard footsteps on the gravel and then a fist hammering at the door, a voice saying in thick English: "Police. Open up."
Goodbread stood holding the pistol. Ready. More knocking. Somebody tried the handle of the locked door. He heard the woman's voice coming from outside, speaking in Afrikaans. "That room is empty."
A man's voice in reply, "Then unlock it and let us see, Mrs. Vorster."
"I can't. My son has the keys. He's in town. At church."
"Who lives in here?"
"I told you. Nobody. A foreman used to but he's gone now, to Walvis Bay."
Heard another voice, a man with a colored accent, "Lady, if you seen this Goodbread or his son, better you tell us now, otherwise you gonna be in big trouble."
"I'm telling you, I haven't seen these people. Where do you come on this?"
Goodbread was about to risk a glance out the gap in the drapes when a flashlight beam sliced through the darkness, the cop outside standing so close that Goodbread could hear him breathing as he peered into the room.
Dell watched the disc of light skim across the wall and the floor and land on the back of the sofa. For a moment he nearly stood up with his hands in the air. Ready to surrender. Get them to call his lawyer – the senior one – and bring him up from Cape Town to straighten out this mess. Then he saw Theron in the courtroom, laughing with the black man who looked like a pimp. Saw the bodies of his family in the morgue.
Dell stayed down.
Goodbread felt the trigger of the 9mm beneath his fingertips, ready to bring the gun up in an arc and shoot the cop through the glass. Then the beam sucked itself back into blackness and was gone.
The white cop spoke as he walked away from the window, "I'll leave my card with you, Mrs. Vorster. If you hear anything you call me. It would be better for you."
Doors slapped closed and the vehicle reversed, headlamps raked the drapes again, floating a yellow rectangle of light across the room, then the driver shifted gear and the vehicle crunched across the gravel and the room went dark.
Goodbread heard the truck bump down the track to the main house where it stopped. Heard a snatch of conversation in Afrikaans, Althea Vorster and the cops talking. A car door slammed and the cop truck took off, motor fading into the night.
Goodbread stayed still, waiting. Listening. Till all he heard was the wheeze of his breath and the ticking of the tin roof as it cooled. He engaged the safety on the pistol and laid the gun on the counter beside the sink. Switched on the light bulb.
"Okay, boy. You can stand."
The man who looked like he once had came slowly to his feet, blinking. Gripping the bottle of Jack Daniel's by the neck, like it was a weapon.
"What the hell were you gonna do, boy? Invite them in for cocktails?"
Goodbread laughed and then coughed. A spasm that he couldn't control. He turned away from Dell, leaned against the wall and hacked like a sick dog, covering his mouth so that his son didn't see the blood that flowed up crimson from his lungs.
Zondi sat on a bed that stank of sweat, listening to the window glass vibrate in time to music from the tavern next door. Zulu bubblegum. Music from his youth, when he had lived in this hellhole of a town. An unhappy time. All about waiting to escape.
He'd checked himself into a room for the night. A cinderblock square, hidden behind the beauty salon in an alley off the main road of Bhambatha's Rock. A bed, a sink, a wooden chair, and a chipped closet with one door that hung off a broken hinge. Judging by the wrinkled pile of skin magazines that lay beside the bed, it was a room used by truckers and delivery
Heard footsteps on the gravel and then a fist hammering at the door, a voice saying in thick English: "Police. Open up."
Goodbread stood holding the pistol. Ready. More knocking. Somebody tried the handle of the locked door. He heard the woman's voice coming from outside, speaking in Afrikaans. "That room is empty."
A man's voice in reply, "Then unlock it and let us see, Mrs. Vorster."
"I can't. My son has the keys. He's in town. At church."
"Who lives in here?"
"I told you. Nobody. A foreman used to but he's gone now, to Walvis Bay."
Heard another voice, a man with a colored accent, "Lady, if you seen this Goodbread or his son, better you tell us now, otherwise you gonna be in big trouble."
"I'm telling you, I haven't seen these people. Where do you come on this?"
Goodbread was about to risk a glance out the gap in the drapes when a flashlight beam sliced through the darkness, the cop outside standing so close that Goodbread could hear him breathing as he peered into the room.
Dell watched the disc of light skim across the wall and the floor and land on the back of the sofa. For a moment he nearly stood up with his hands in the air. Ready to surrender. Get them to call his lawyer – the senior one – and bring him up from Cape Town to straighten out this mess. Then he saw Theron in the courtroom, laughing with the black man who looked like a pimp. Saw the bodies of his family in the morgue.
Dell stayed down.
Goodbread felt the trigger of the 9mm beneath his fingertips, ready to bring the gun up in an arc and shoot the cop through the glass. Then the beam sucked itself back into blackness and was gone.
The white cop spoke as he walked away from the window, "I'll leave my card with you, Mrs. Vorster. If you hear anything you call me. It would be better for you."
Doors slapped closed and the vehicle reversed, headlamps raked the drapes again, floating a yellow rectangle of light across the room, then the driver shifted gear and the vehicle crunched across the gravel and the room went dark.
Goodbread heard the truck bump down the track to the main house where it stopped. Heard a snatch of conversation in Afrikaans, Althea Vorster and the cops talking. A car door slammed and the cop truck took off, motor fading into the night.
Goodbread stayed still, waiting. Listening. Till all he heard was the wheeze of his breath and the ticking of the tin roof as it cooled. He engaged the safety on the pistol and laid the gun on the counter beside the sink. Switched on the light bulb.
"Okay, boy. You can stand."
The man who looked like he once had came slowly to his feet, blinking. Gripping the bottle of Jack Daniel's by the neck, like it was a weapon.
"What the hell were you gonna do, boy? Invite them in for cocktails?"
Goodbread laughed and then coughed. A spasm that he couldn't control. He turned away from Dell, leaned against the wall and hacked like a sick dog, covering his mouth so that his son didn't see the blood that flowed up crimson from his lungs.
Zondi sat on a bed that stank of sweat, listening to the window glass vibrate in time to music from the tavern next door. Zulu bubblegum. Music from his youth, when he had lived in this hellhole of a town. An unhappy time. All about waiting to escape.
He'd checked himself into a room for the night. A cinderblock square, hidden behind the beauty salon in an alley off the main road of Bhambatha's Rock. A bed, a sink, a wooden chair, and a chipped closet with one door that hung off a broken hinge. Judging by the wrinkled pile of skin magazines that lay beside the bed, it was a room used by truckers and delivery
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