Читать книгу The Land God Made in Anger - John Davis Gordon - Страница 13

He first went back to his ship and collected the sextant, the nautical almanac, the sight-reduction tables, an Admiralty chart of the coast, a plotting sheet and parallel rulers. He grabbed some cans of food, beer, two bottles of brandy, some cooking utensils and four blankets, which he slung in the back of the Landrover. Then he drove back towards Swakopmund and the Skeleton Coast beyond. Skellum was sprawled in a drunken sleep. That was okay with McQuade: he expected no great meeting of minds on this journey and just hoped that the man had not made up the whole story.

The road north from Swakopmund was smooth, compacted sand. To the left was the moonlit Atlantic, in all other directions was only sand, hillocks and humps going on and on. At three o’clock they came to Henties Bay, a little resort for sport-fishermen, holiday houses sitting on bare sand, and McQuade swung off the coastal road, north-east, towards Uis Mine. Now they were in the dune country, hills of yellow and white in the flashing headlamps, going on and on. Then, gradually, the dunes began to turn flinty hard, impacted with the brown gravel hurled into them by the winds, and now the earth was turning into flinty rockiness, hills of rocks rising up into the starry sky, stones flying up from the wheels. Then the dry scrub began to appear. The first light came, greyness turning to pink. Outside Uis Mine he turned left, towards Khorixas, and now here and there were iron windmills. Sunrise came, red and gold fanning up behind the rocky mountains; it was early morning when McQuade drove into dusty, dry Khorixas and stopped at the service station. He shook Skellum awake.

‘You must show me the way from here.’

Skellum blinked around, all hungover and horrible. Then memory dawned on him. He suddenly looked uncomfortable.

‘Ah – I cannot take you to my father’s kraal.’

So it was all a hoax! ‘Why not?’ McQuade demanded dangerously.

Skellum shifted. ‘Because he will beat me.’

‘Why will he beat you? Because your story is a pack of lies?’

‘Because,’ Skellum shifted uncomfortably, ‘he does not know I took these things from his hut.’

‘You stole them from your own father?’

Skellum waggled his hungover head. ‘I only borrowed them …’

McQuade grabbed him by his shirt front theatrically. ‘Last night I paid you fifty rand to take me to your father. Now get on with it! And if you’re frightened he’s going to beat you,’ he snatched a bottle of brandy off the back seat, ‘fortify yourself with this!’

It was nine o’clock when the Landrover went grinding up the stony track through the yellow brown rocky hills and came to a halt at Jakob’s kraal. It consisted of three small stone huts, plastered with mud, roofed with flattened paraffin tins. A cooking fire smouldered outside the central hut. A scrawny old man and an old woman appeared in the dark doorway, astonished.

Skellum was right to be nervous. As he and McQuade climbed out of the vehicle, the old man’s astonishment gave way to fury. He snatched up a thick stick and came charging at Skellum, swiping. Skellum flung his arms up and his father swiped him on the shoulders, swipe, swipe, shouting curses, and Skellum scuttled about backwards, his scrawny old father swiping after him. ‘Stop!’ McQuade shouted. ‘Stop! I am not the police! I am a friend!’ He grabbed the stick. ‘I am a friend!’

They sat around the smoky fire, on the ground, while the old woman made tea. Skellum sat against a hut wall, malevolently nursing his bruises and his hangover. Scrawny chickens scratched in the earth and half a dozen goats wandered around. Jakob had been pacified by a present of a bottle of brandy and assurances from McQuade that he had not come to make trouble. Why did the Baas want to hear the story? Because he was interested, McQuade said, and as he already knew the story, why should not Jakob repeat it truly? The old man was sullenly impressed by these arguments and the brandy, whilst still glancing malevolently at his son.

He solemnly told the story again. McQuade had to be careful how he asked his questions lest it appear that he criticized his conduct. They spoke in Afrikaans:

‘And you’re absolutely sure only two men came out? Is it not possible that more emerged after the fight?’

‘Not possible. I would have seen their footprints when I came back.’

‘Why did you go back?’

‘Because I had left my bag when I ran away. I hoped it would still be there.’

‘But you only found the wallet?’ He did not believe that – the old man had stolen it. ‘How many bottles of water were in your bag?’

‘Five.’

About five pints. A determined man could get a long way on five pints. ‘And how much dried meat?’

Jakob put his finger on his wrist, indicating a piece of meat the size of his hand.

‘And where is Petrus now, the other man with you?’

‘He has died.’

‘Have you or Petrus ever told this story to anyone else?’

Jakob shook his old head.

‘Do you remember the time when the great war ended?’

‘I remember hearing it was ended.’

‘Did this happen before or after that?’

‘After,’ Jakob said.

‘How long after? One month? Two? Four?’

‘Maybe one month.’

Oh yes, McQuade thought.

‘And was there water to be found in the river beds near the coast? If a man dug for it.’

‘If he dug for it he would find some water.’

‘And game?’

‘Yes, there would be some game near the river beds.’

So he could have got food and water. And he had a gun. ‘Why didn’t you take his gun?’

Jakob said, ‘I was frightened. I ran away. I did not think about the gun until afterwards.’

‘And the man’s front teeth were definitely broken?’

‘Broken.’ Jakob pointed at his own gums.

So he was in pain for a long time, McQuade thought, so the first thing he would have done when he reached civilization was go to a dentist. ‘Can you describe this man? How old was he? Was he younger or older than me?’

Jakob glanced at McQuade. ‘About the same age.’

‘And how old am I?’

‘Maybe you have forty years.’

Not bad, McQuade thought. That meant that if H.M. had survived, he would now be an old man of about eighty. ‘What colour hair did he have?’

Jakob pointed at a dark rock.

‘Was his hair curly or straight?’

‘Straight.’

‘Eyes?’

Jakob indicated his own eyes. ‘Brown.’

‘Anything else? Scars, for example?’

Jakob shook his head. ‘I saw no scars.’

‘What was his nose like? Broad; thin, straight, crooked?’

‘It was straight, like yours.’

‘How was his mouth?’

‘He had thin lips.’

‘How was his chin? Did it have a dent, like mine? Or was it round, like yours?’

Jakob thought. ‘I think it had a dent.’

‘How tall was he?’ McQuade stood up. ‘Taller than me? Or shorter?’

Jakob stood up. He compared McQuade to himself, then touched the tip of McQuade’s shoulder.

That’s short for a white man, McQuade thought. He himself was six foot so H.M. was about five foot three or four.

‘And was he fat, thin or average?’

‘He was not fat, he was not thin.’

‘Did you get anything else from the dead man apart from the cross and the tag? A piece of paper, maybe? Another wallet?’

Jakob shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘And what did this man look like?’

Jakob said: ‘He was dead. His face was covered in blood and sand. And the jackals had been eating him.’

‘All right. Now please –’ he was going to say ‘be honest’ but changed it, ‘– please think carefully. Was there anything else in the wallet apart from the white money? You can tell me without fear. Was there a card, perhaps? Some papers?’

Jakob glanced away. ‘Nothing.’

McQuade thought he was lying but let it go for the moment. ‘Did you ever exchange any of the white English money for our money?’

Jakob said emphatically: ‘No.’

McQuade knew he was lying. Four hundred and eighty-five is an untidy number of forged English pounds. But only a few people had trusted the strange-looking money. ‘Why not?’

‘Because I was afraid the police may say I stole it.’

McQuade nodded. ‘How many people know about this story, Jakob?’

‘I told only my wife and my son.’ Jakob gave a truculent glance at Skellum.

‘Did Petrus keep anything taken that day?’

‘He did not want anything.’

‘And how did Skellum get hold of it?’

‘He stole it! From my hut!’ Jakob said indignantly.

‘When?’

‘Last month he ran away. Later I found he had stolen these things.’

Skellum was sitting against the hut wall, a big bruise on his temple, one eye swollen, looking murderous. McQuade wanted to ask him how many people he had told the story to, but didn’t think he would get any truth from Skellum. Now for the all-important question.

‘And can you remember the place on the shore where the white men came out of the sea? The exact place?’

Jakob glanced at him. Then looked away.

‘I do not think I remember.’

‘But why not? Damara people remember the eyes of a buck they shot fifty years ago!’

‘Because the coast walks.’

This was true. The Skeleton Coast changes, the winds and tides slowly shifting the great expanses of sand, so that old wrecks are sometimes found buried hundreds of yards inland. McQuade burrowed his hand into his pocket. He counted off four fifty-rand banknotes elaborately. He held them out to Jakob.

‘Please take me to this place.’