Читать книгу Circus - Irma Venter - Страница 20

Johannesburg, present

It’s unnaturally quiet in the reeds. A handful of weavers cling to the green stalks waving in a hot, dry breeze. They don’t move, just stare at me.

I stand ankle-deep in grey mud and debris from the polluted Jukskei River that winds its way through Johannesburg. If the two cops don’t shoot me, I’ll probably be eaten alive by E. coli.

My breathing has calmed down. I listen. Turn my head like the birds, in search of movement, footsteps. Hear the traffic higher up, towards Marlboro Road. Excited voices.

I take out the bottle of water I always carry in my handbag, pour some in my cupped hand and wash the blood from my ear and neck. Thankfully the bleeding seems to have stopped. I drink the rest of the water and throw the bottle back in the bag. Feel if my phone is still safe between my breasts. Then I grip the remaining knife and put my lipstick in my bra, next to the phone. I drop the handbag. Nothing inside would be of any use.

Where are the cops? Are they waiting for me to emerge from the reeds? Do they think I’ll try to outwait them, run for the Gautrain station? It’s only three, four hundred metres away.

Or I could dash to the right through the reeds. Run until I reach Woodmead and the busy M1 highway.

I’ll have to be quick; reinforcements are no doubt on their way.

I consider my options. To my right is a small section of marshland and then a stretch of burnt grassland. Too little shelter, so no to option 2. Option 1 wouldn’t work either. The train station is too obvious a choice.

No. I’ll hunt rather than be hunted. It’s how I have come to prefer it, anyway.

Strange how things change. How people change.

A weaver flutters up, flies away. My eyes search for where it was perched, but see nothing.

I crouch down and look towards the highway again. I don’t see any flashing lights, but I hear sirens: the urgent wail of ambulances and the shorter, shrill sound of police vehicles. If those two men aren’t real cops they’ll have to get out of here or they’ll be in trouble.

Another weaver flies up. Then I hear it, over the sirens and the rustling of reeds in the wind: footsteps in mud. No shoes being sucked in. Bare feet?

I close my eyes. Try to track the sound. Is it the older man or the younger one with the shoulder wound?

The footsteps are coming from the right, from the direction of the burnt veld. Someone has taken his time, circling round the marshland, avoiding the police and curious bystanders.

The sirens must have forced the men to make a move.

More weavers flee before the measured, cautious steps.

I crouch lower in the reeds, search for his location.

There. A white shirt. A third man?

No, it’s the older man. He’s got rid of his police shirt and boots and is wearing a white T-shirt. He looks like a mad security guard, pistol in hand, barefoot.

I gauge the distance between us. Twenty, twenty-five metres.

His eyes are searching as he walks; he hasn’t seen me yet.

I hold the knife ready, between thumb and forefinger. Where is the younger man? Did I hurt him badly enough to force him to seek help?

I keep my eyes on the white shirt in the reeds.

Come closer, I urge. With you out of the way, I can walk out of here, catch a taxi and go find Liesbet.

My phone vibrates, long and insistently. Why didn’t I switch it off when I had the chance?

Closer, I pray. Give me a bigger target. Open up your shoulders.

On Marlboro Road, cars are hooting as the traffic struggles to get onto the N3. Near the Gautrain station the spectators are multiplying by the second. Pedestrians stop to watch what’s happening, hoping for more drama.

The man comes closer. Why doesn’t he give up? What did Yasen offer him as a reward?

My phone vibrates again. Fifteen metres.

Again.

With my left hand I pull it out of my cleavage, my eyes never leaving the man.

It’s Ranna. Two missed calls, followed by an SMS. Liesbet taken. I’ll find her, I swear.

No …

No, no, no!

I bite back the swearwords. What now?

I can’t abandon Liesbet. Not again.

I make a split-second decision. I jump to my feet, drop the knife and run. Reeds rustle and snap. I sprint across the stretch of open grass, heading for the Gautrain station. I plunge into the crowd of onlookers on Marlboro Road, on to the sweating, cursing drivers who have got out of their cars to see why the traffic has ground to a halt.

Who will help me?

Not the Mercedes. Nor the BMW. Taxi? No.

The white Tazz with five men in overalls.

I take out the lipstick, run around the Tazz. Duck and write Ranna’s phone number on the rear side window and next to it: YASEN TODOROV VIKTOR DE KLERK.

“Hey! What the hell …” The driver gets out and comes around the car.

“R10 000 if you phone this number.” My eyes are pleading. “Tell the woman to look for this man. Tell her not to call the cops.”

A scream makes me look up. Four cars away I see the older policeman, still armed.

I yank off my Cartier wristwatch, push it into the dumbstruck Tazz driver’s hand. “Take this for now. Go now. Go!”

I run around the car and sprint up the road. I must keep the cop away from the Tazz.

Past another car, two. I pretend to lose my footing. Drop down on the tar so that he can see my hands are empty. Quicken my breathing to sound like a terrified woman, backed into a corner. Look over my shoulder, fear on my face.

Come here, I urge him silently. Don’t look at the Tazz.

Doors slam as people scurry into their cars at the sight of the armed man.

Gaining confidence, he comes running, the pistol levelled at me.

“Lie still,” he hisses. Then he shouts loudly in English: “Police! Everything is under control. We’ve got her.”

He steps on my back, takes off his white T-shirt and covers my face.

I raise my head carefully and peer through the sweaty fabric, searching for the Tazz. The driver has made a right turn, out of the queue. He accelerates across the traffic island, against the oncoming traffic, and heads for Alexandra township. Two cars follow, convinced it’s a good idea to get out of here.

I lower my cheek onto the hot tar. What is the man waiting for?

I become aware of the drone of an engine, growing louder as it approaches.

I turn my head, try to see what’s happening.

“Lie still!” the man barks. “Don’t move. If we end up on YouTube, I’ll shoot you.”

It’s the Metro police bakkie from earlier, with the younger man behind the wheel. He is driving with two wheels on the pavement, the siren urging pedestrians to get out of the way.

I should have aimed better. Thrown harder.

The policeman yanks me to my feet, presses the pistol into my back. “Behave,” he hisses in my ear. “Or I’ll shoot you right here.”