stand of banana plants.
“Let’s check it,” Emmanuel said of a second stone and iron outbuilding hidden in the Brewers’ urban forest. This one was smaller than the last, with a hole in the roof and no windows: possibly a disused storage shed. Shabalala pushed the door open and automatically stepped aside to allow a European first entry.
Shapes swam in the gloom. Emmanuel found a box of matches on the floor and struck a match. Light flickered over a mattress rolled on the ground and a white candle stub pressed onto a chipped saucer. Shabalala picked up the candleholder and touched the wick to the flame.
A half-bottle of Jamaican rum, lipstick, a spray of pink roses in an old jam jar and an opened packet of cigarettes were set on top of an upturned fruit crate placed next to the mattress.
“What is this place for?” Shabalala asked even though the gritty tone in his voice said he already knew.
“A girl comes here in secret. She puts on make-up and has a drink and a smoke. You roll. You slip away and come back again until the day you’re caught out by her father.”
The teenage Emmanuel might have found this shack and furnished it with all the essentials for sex. Shortly after giving up on being a decent Christian youth, he’d learned very fast how to be bad.
“What’s really changed?” his Sergeant Major whispered. “You still sneak through the bush to sleep with a girl you’re not supposed to touch. Except that now, if Mason catches you, that little family you’ve made? He’ll tear it apart. So you’d better decide quick smart what you’re prepared to do to keep your girls safe.”
“Everything.”
“Good boy.”
Emmanuel leaned against the wall, able to imagine for the first time the terror of having a child in danger. The thought of what he’d do if anyone, including the police, raised a hand to his daughter, Rebekah, chilled him.
“You will go to war to protect your little girl,” the Sergeant Major said with approval. “And I’ll be with you, soldier.”
“Aaron and the school principal’s daughter?” The stony look on Shabalala’s face indicated he disapproved of the idea.
“Did you let your parents pick your girlfriends, Constable?” Emmanuel opened the lipstick and drew a line across his palm. The red had a bright metallic shine; the same colour that had streaked the back of Cassie’s hand on the night of the break-in. “You can ask Aaron yourself tomorrow when we visit juvenile hall.”
The Zulu detective lowered the candle and the semi-darkness hid the mattress, the alcohol and the cigarettes. Police uncovered secrets. The Detective Sergeant, in particular, had a gift for digging up big ones. A loud click in the garden caught them both by surprise. Shabalala blew the candle out and they simultaneously crouched in the dark. Emmanuel pulled the door closed, breathing deep and slow. The sound of human voices and the snap of twigs drew near.
“I don’t see it,” a man’s voice said.
“Look again.” Another male answered. He was farther away, his voice faint. “Keep going in.”
Footsteps crunched through the underbrush, moving in the direction of the storage room. A burnished sky stretched over the hole in the roof, glowing orange. The detectives remained tense but calm: the soldier and the hunter possessed experience enough to wait out a threat while preparing for action.
“There’s nothing here but bush and more bush.” The voice was close, almost breathing through the stone walls. “Are you sure this is the place?”
An indistinct answer came back, the words swallowed by the wind in the treetops. Footsteps receded. Voices trailed off into the distance. Emmanuel stood up slowly, ears strained for the sound of movement outside the storeroom.
“They have gone nearer to the house,” Shabalala said in a low voice. “Two men, maybe more. Looking for something.”
“Give them a minute. If Mason or his men catch us digging around here, things will get
“Let’s check it,” Emmanuel said of a second stone and iron outbuilding hidden in the Brewers’ urban forest. This one was smaller than the last, with a hole in the roof and no windows: possibly a disused storage shed. Shabalala pushed the door open and automatically stepped aside to allow a European first entry.
Shapes swam in the gloom. Emmanuel found a box of matches on the floor and struck a match. Light flickered over a mattress rolled on the ground and a white candle stub pressed onto a chipped saucer. Shabalala picked up the candleholder and touched the wick to the flame.
A half-bottle of Jamaican rum, lipstick, a spray of pink roses in an old jam jar and an opened packet of cigarettes were set on top of an upturned fruit crate placed next to the mattress.
“What is this place for?” Shabalala asked even though the gritty tone in his voice said he already knew.
“A girl comes here in secret. She puts on make-up and has a drink and a smoke. You roll. You slip away and come back again until the day you’re caught out by her father.”
The teenage Emmanuel might have found this shack and furnished it with all the essentials for sex. Shortly after giving up on being a decent Christian youth, he’d learned very fast how to be bad.
“What’s really changed?” his Sergeant Major whispered. “You still sneak through the bush to sleep with a girl you’re not supposed to touch. Except that now, if Mason catches you, that little family you’ve made? He’ll tear it apart. So you’d better decide quick smart what you’re prepared to do to keep your girls safe.”
“Everything.”
“Good boy.”
Emmanuel leaned against the wall, able to imagine for the first time the terror of having a child in danger. The thought of what he’d do if anyone, including the police, raised a hand to his daughter, Rebekah, chilled him.
“You will go to war to protect your little girl,” the Sergeant Major said with approval. “And I’ll be with you, soldier.”
“Aaron and the school principal’s daughter?” The stony look on Shabalala’s face indicated he disapproved of the idea.
“Did you let your parents pick your girlfriends, Constable?” Emmanuel opened the lipstick and drew a line across his palm. The red had a bright metallic shine; the same colour that had streaked the back of Cassie’s hand on the night of the break-in. “You can ask Aaron yourself tomorrow when we visit juvenile hall.”
The Zulu detective lowered the candle and the semi-darkness hid the mattress, the alcohol and the cigarettes. Police uncovered secrets. The Detective Sergeant, in particular, had a gift for digging up big ones. A loud click in the garden caught them both by surprise. Shabalala blew the candle out and they simultaneously crouched in the dark. Emmanuel pulled the door closed, breathing deep and slow. The sound of human voices and the snap of twigs drew near.
“I don’t see it,” a man’s voice said.
“Look again.” Another male answered. He was farther away, his voice faint. “Keep going in.”
Footsteps crunched through the underbrush, moving in the direction of the storage room. A burnished sky stretched over the hole in the roof, glowing orange. The detectives remained tense but calm: the soldier and the hunter possessed experience enough to wait out a threat while preparing for action.
“There’s nothing here but bush and more bush.” The voice was close, almost breathing through the stone walls. “Are you sure this is the place?”
An indistinct answer came back, the words swallowed by the wind in the treetops. Footsteps receded. Voices trailed off into the distance. Emmanuel stood up slowly, ears strained for the sound of movement outside the storeroom.
“They have gone nearer to the house,” Shabalala said in a low voice. “Two men, maybe more. Looking for something.”
“Give them a minute. If Mason or his men catch us digging around here, things will get
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