Читать книгу Circus - Irma Venter - Страница 12

Johannesburg, present

It is peak hour and the traffic is heavy on the way to the airport. Loaded trucks crawl in the two left lanes of the four-lane highway; everything only slightly faster is launching feeble attempts at overtaking.

“Come on,” I urge a battered white minibus taxi ahead of me.

I take another look in the rearview mirror. The Nissan that has been behind me since the Grayston off-ramp is taking the N1 to Pretoria.

I take the N3 South to the airport. The traffic is moving even more slowly now. It’s almost five. A shortcut through the suburbs usually saves time, but thanks to Eskom a number of suburbs are without power, and consequently without traffic lights.

The Metro police bakkie behind the Nissan has followed me onto the N3. Could it be the same one from earlier this afternoon? Unlikely. Lately, there’s been a police presence at just about every off-ramp in Johannesburg.

Despite my burning haste to board the British Airways flight to Cape Town, I drive calmly, careful not to attract attention.

I hope Ranna is coping. I hope Liesbet is safe.

The Reverend Elizabeth Fey … Who would have thought? Life tends to pay you back for your mistakes. With interest and irony.

Near the Marlboro off-ramp, the police bakkie suddenly flashes its lights. There’s a loud burst from the siren. Who are they trying to pull over? Like all the other drivers, I look at the vehicles around me.

Again, the flashing lights. The cop in the passenger seat leans through the window and motions for me to pull off the road. I stifle my irritation, pull over to the left and come to a stop in the emergency lane. They’d better hurry up, or I’ll miss my flight.

I step out of the Mercedes and go to meet them. Two cops get out of the van, a young man and an older, grey-haired one, their eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I greet them. “Is something wrong?” I was definitely not speeding.

“Ma’am, please get back into your car,” the older man says, motioning at the Mercedes, “before everyone starts slowing down to see what’s happening.”

The younger one falls back and stops, his left hand on his holster.

“My handbag is in the boot. With my licence.”

The older man also stops. “Take it out, then get back into your car. We’re holding up the traffic. Your brake lights aren’t working.”

Ah.

I open the boot. Force my hands to be steady. Curse the Blahniks on my feet. The price one pays for vanity.

Next to my handbag are my throwing knives, covered with a towel. I was going to put them in my check-in bag for the flight.

Using my body as a screen, I put the knives in my handbag and stash my phone between my breasts, before taking out the bag and slinging it over my shoulder.

The older man has his hand on his pistol, alert.

I walk towards him, digging in my bag. “My licence is in here somewhere, I promise. My entire life is in here. I’m sure your wife will say the same.”

I smile and he relaxes visibly. His hand moves from his firearm to his belt.

Heat rises from the tarmac. The younger man’s face is glistening with sweat. He pulls the collar of his navy-blue shirt away from his neck, revealing a tattoo. It looks crude and amateurish against his pale skin, like a child’s drawing.

My heart is pounding. Adrenalin is making my fingertips tingle.

I keep digging in my handbag, my brain in overdrive. I know my brake lights aren’t faulty, because my car was serviced only last week. It would have been better to say I was speeding, or that my number plates had been cloned.

I close the gap between myself and the older man. Closer still.

I take a deep breath. Gauge the traffic on the highway. It inches forward, bumper to bumper, jerks to a standstill, begins to crawl again.

“My wallet is in here somewhere, I swear.” I keep moving towards the road, still pretending to search. The older man steps away from me, closer to the traffic.

I wait.

A few seconds more.

“Got it!”

I hold up my wallet, take another quick step forward, colliding with him. Instinct makes him step back, across the yellow line. A loaded truck hoots sharply, swerves, comes to a stop.

The policeman jumps, lurches to the right, his hands in the air, trying to find his balance. The traffic in the left lane judders to a halt.

I drop my wallet, stoop as if to retrieve it and dive under the truck’s trailer, rolling between the wheels. On the other side I jump to my feet, kick off my shoes and run.

A Polo veers to the right to avoid me and collides with a Golf. I run past the Polo, swerving around an Isuzu bakkie. I jump onto the metre-high traffic island and grab at a lamppost.

“Are you fucking crazy?”

I turn. The owner of the Polo, middle-aged and red-faced, flings open his door. The younger cop runs into the door. His pistol falls on the tar and slides under the Golf.

Measuring the line of cars moving north on the other side of the highway, I try to shrink into myself. Though the traffic has slowed while people stare at us, it is still moving too fast.

“Adriana!” the older cop calls. He’s approaching slowly, cautiously, around the left side of the truck, his weapon still in its holster.

The younger man’s pistol is back in his hand. He levels it at me. Takes one, two steps to the right.

“What do you want?” My hand creeps to my handbag, closes around the hilt of a knife.

The traffic on the other side of the highway slows down as everyone cranes their necks to see what’s happening.

“Yasen wants to talk to you, that’s all!” the older man calls out. He keeps to the left, moving up the road, between the stationary vehicles, as if the two of them want to trap me between them.

I say nothing. Keep an eye on him. Listen for the traffic. Listen …

I jump from the island onto the tarmac. Turn. Throw. The knife lodges in the younger man’s shoulder. He fires blindly.

I duck, cut between a Suzuki and a BMW in the fast lane. Stop on the white line between the two centre lanes, looking for a gap in the traffic. All around me brakes are squealing. A Ford bakkie swerves, ploughs past me, and crashes into another vehicle.

I slide over the bonnet of an old Honda that has come to a halt with smoking tyres.

Run.

Where is the older man?

There. Further along, to my left, still on the other side of the highway, pistol in hand.

Frightened people duck in their cars.

I cross the last lane of the N3 North and sprint up the emergency lane, the tarmac hot and rough under my bare feet. I am under the Marlboro bridge. On the other side of the highway, the older man has kept up with me. He raises his weapon and fires.

Beside me a chunk of concrete shatters off the bridge. Another shot rings out. A piece of shrapnel grazes my ear. I feel warm blood on my skin.

The older man begins to cross the highway, lane by lane. I run up the grass embankment, past surprised pedestrians on their way to Alexandra township and the adjoining Gautrain Metro station. Look over my shoulder.

The older man is about fifteen metres behind me. He fires another shot.

Ahead of me a woman drops to the pavement. People scream and scatter.

No, I’ve got to get away. Innocent people are getting hurt.

I veer to the right, aiming for the open field and the marshy terrain next to the township.

Another shot rings out, this time from a different direction.

I glance to the right. It’s the younger cop. He’s back on his feet.

I should have taken better aim.

Faster. I have to move faster.

I grip the other knife in my left hand. Search for my phone with my right hand. “Phone Ranna!” I scream into the iPhone.

Nothing happens.

“Phone Ranna!”

The phone rings. I flee into the shrubs and reeds.