The Leopard Hunts In Darkness Part 42

There were three typewritten foolscap sheets, much of them filled with denunciations of his "imperialistic masters" and the hysterical cant of the extreme left. But in this mishmash, like plums in a stodgy pudding, were the hard facts of which Craig stood accused.

He read through it slowly, trying to force his numbed brain to function clearly, but it was all somehow dreamlike and unreal, seeming not really to affect him personally until he read the words that jerked him fully conscious again.

The words were so familiar, so well remembered, and they burned like concentrated acid into the core of his being.

J fully admit that by my actions I have proved myself to be an enemy of the state and the people of Zhnbabwe." It was the exact wording used in another doc.u.ment he had signed, and suddenly he was able to see the design behind it all.

"King's Lynn," he whispered, and he looked up from the typewritten confession at Peter Fungabera. "That's what it's all about. You are after King's Lynn!" There was silence, except for the tap of the swagger stick on the table-top. Peter Fungabera did not miss a beat with it, and he was still smiling.

"You had it all worke4ut from the very beginning. The surety for my loan you wrote in that clause." The numbness ahJ lethargy sloughed away, and Craig felt his anger rising again within him. He threw the confession on the floor. Captain Nbebi retrieved it, and stood with it held awkwardly in both hands. Craig found himself shaking with rage. He took a step forward towards the elegant figure seated before him, his hands reaching out involuntarily, but the tall Shana sergeant barred his way with the barrel of his rifle held across Craig's chest.

rill

"You b.l.o.o.d.y swine!" Craig hissed at Peter, and there was a little white froth of saliva on his lower lip. "I want the police, I want the protection of the law."

"Mr. Mellow," Peter Fungabera replied evenly, 'in Matabeleland, I am the law. It is my protection that you are being offered."

"I won't do it. I won't sign that piece of dung. I will go to h.e.l.l first."

"That might be arranged," Peter Fungabera mused softly, and then persuasively, "I really do urge you to put aside these histrionics and bow to the inevitable. Sign the paper and we can dispense with any further nastiness." Crude words crowded to Craig's lips, and with an effort he resisted using them, not wanting to degrade himself in front of them.

"No," he said instead. "I'll never sign that thing. You'll have to kill me first."

"I give you one last chance to change your mind." "No. Never! Peter Fungabera swivelled in his chair towards the tall sergeant.

"I give you the woman," he said. "You first and then your men, one at a time until they have all had their turn. Here, in this room, on this table." Christ, you aren't human," Craig blurted, and tried to hold Sally-Anne, but the troopers seized him from behind and hurled him back against the wall. One of them pinned him there with the point of a bayonet against his throat.

The other twisted Sally-Anne's wrist up between her shoulder blades and held her in front of the sergeant. She began to struggle wildly, but the trooper lifted her until just the toes of her running shoes touched the stone-flagged floor, and her face contorted with pain.

The sergeant was expressionless, neither leering nor making any obscene gesture. He took the front of Sally Anne T-s.h.i.+rt in both hands, and tore it open from neck to waist. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s swung out. They were very white and tender-looking, their pink tips seemed sensitive and vulnerable.

"I have one hundred and fifty men," Peter Fungabera remarked. "It will be some time before they have all finished." The sergeant hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her shorts and yanked, them down. He let them fall in a tangle around her ankles. Craig strained forward, but the point of the bayonet pierced the skin at his throat. A few drops of blood dribbled down his s.h.i.+rtfront. Sally-Anne tried to cover the dark triangular mound of her pudenda with her free hand. It was a pathetically ineffectual gesture.

"I know how fiercely even a so-called white liberal like you resents the thought of black flesh penetrating his worn an." Peter Fungabera's tone was almost conversational.

"It will be interesting to see just how many times you will allow it to hap pi The sergeant and the trooper lifted Sally-Anne between them and laid her on her back on the refectory table. The sergeant freed the silk-shorts that bound her ankles but left the running shoes on her feet, and the tatters of her s.h.i.+rt around her upper body.

Expertly they pulled her knees up against her chest and then forced them down, tucking them under her armpits.

They must have done this often before. She was helpless, doubled over, wide op and completely defenceless. Every man in the room.wls staring into her body's secret depths.

The sergeant began to unbuckle his webbing belt with his free hand.

"Craig!" Sally-Anne screamed, and Craig's body bucked involuntarily as though to the stroke of a whip.

"I'll sign it," he whispered. "Just let her go, and I'll sign it." Peter Fungabera gave an order in Shana, and immediately they released Sally-Anne. The trooper stood back and the sergeant helped her to her feet. Politely, he handed her back her shorts, and she hopped on one foot, sobbing softly and trembling, as she pulled them on.

Then she rushed to Craig and threw both her arms about him. She could not speak but she choked and gulped down her tears. Her body shook wildly and Craig held her close and made incoherent soothing noises to her.

"The sooner you sign, the sooner you can go." Craig went to the table, still holding Sally-Anne in the curve of his left arm.

Captain Nbebi handed him a pen and he initialled the two top sheets of the confession, and signed the last one in full. Both Captain Nbebi and Peter Fungabera witnessed his signature, and then Peter said, "One last formality. I want both you and Miss Jay to be examined by the regimental doctor for any signs of ill-treatment or undue coercion."

"G.o.d d.a.m.n you, hasn't she had enough?"

"Humour me, please, my dear fellow." The doctor must have been waiting in one of the trucks outside. He was a small dapper Shana and his manner was brisk and businesslike.

"You may examine the woman in the bedroom, Doctor.

In particular, please satisfy yourself that she has not been forcibly penetrated," Peter Fungabera instructed him, and then as they left the dining-room, he turned to Craig. "In the meantime, you may open the safe in your office and take out your pa.s.sport and whatever other doc.u.ments you need for the journey." may Two troopers escorted Craig to his office at the far end of the veranda, and waited while he struck the combination of the safe. He took out his pa.s.sport, the wallet containing his credit cards and World Bank badge, three folders of American Express travellers" cheques, and the bundle of ma.n.u.script for the new novel. He stuffed them into a British Airways flight bag and went back to the dining-room.

Sally-Anne and the doctor came back from the bed, room. She had changed into a blue cashmere jersey, s.h.i.+rt and jeans, and she had controlled her hysteria to an occasional gulping sob, though she was still s.h.i.+vering in little convulsive fits. She dragged her camera bag and under one arm carried the art folder of photographs and text for their book.

"Your turn," Peter Fungabera invited Craig to follow the doctor, and when he returned Sally-Anne was seated in the back seat of a Land-Rover parked in front of the veranda. Captain Nbebi was beside her, and there were two armed troopers in the back of the vehicle. The seat beside the driver was empty for Craig.

Peter Fungabera was waiting on the veranda. "Goodbye, Craig," he said, and Craig stared at him, trying to project the full venom he felt for him.

"You didn't really believe that I would allow you to rebuild your family's empire, did you?" Peter asked without rancour. "We fought too hard to destroy that world." As the Land-Rover drove down the hills in the night, Craig turned and looked back. Peter Fungabera still stood on the lighted veranda, and somehow his tall figure was transformed. He looked as though he belonged there, likea conqueror who has taken possession, like the patron of the grand estate. Craigt.w.a.tched him until the trees hid him, and only then 4id the leaven of his true hatred begin to rise within him Al he headlights of the Land-Rover swung across the signboard: King's Lynn Afrikander Stud Proprietor: Craig Mellow It seemed to mock him, then they were past it and rattling across the steel cattle-grid. They left the soil of King's Lynn and Craig's dreams behind them, and swung westwards. The lugged tyres began their monotonous hum as they hit the black top of the main road, and still n.o.body in the Land-Rover spoke.

Captain Nbebi opened the map-case that he was holding on his knees and took out a bottle of fiery locally made cane spirits. He pa.s.sed the bottle over the front seat to Craig. Craig waved it brusquely aside, but Timon Nbebi insisted, and Craig took it with ill grace. He unscrewed the cap and swallowed a maud-dul, then exhaled the fumes noisily. It brought tears to his eyes, but immediately the fireball in his belly spread out through his blood, giving him comfort. He took another swig and pa.s.sed the bottle back to Sally-Anne. She shook her head.

"Drink it," Craig ordered, and meekly she obeyed. She had stopped weeping, but the fits of s.h.i.+vering still persisted.

The spirits made her cough and choke, but she got them down, and they steadied her.

"Thank you." She handed the bottle back to Timon Nbebi, and the politeness from a woman who had been so recently degraded and humiliated was embarra.s.sing to all of them.

They reached the first roadblock on the outskirts of the town of Bulawayo, and Craig checked his wrist-watch. It was seven minutes to three in the morning. There were no other vehicles waiting at the barrier, and two troopers stepped out from behind the barricade and came to each side of the Land-Rover. Timon Nbebi slid back his window and spoke quietly to one of them, offering his pa.s.s at the same time. The trooper examined it briefly in the beam of his flashlight, then handed it back. He saluted, and the barrier lifted. They drove through.

Bulawayo was silent and devoid of life, only very few of the windows were lit. A traffic-light flashed green and amber and red, and the driver stopped obediently, although the streets were completely deserted. The engine throbbed in idle and then above it, far off and faint, came the popping sound of automatic rifle, fire

Craig was watching Timon Nbebi's face in the rearview mirror, and saw him wince slightly at the sound of gunfire. Then the light changed and they drove on, taking the south road through the suburbs. On the edge of the town there were two more road-blocks and then the open road.

They ran southwards in the night, with the whine of the tyres and the buffet of the wind against the cab. The glow from the dashboard gave their faces a sickly greenish hue and once or twice the radio in the back crackled and gabbled distorted Shana. Craig recognized Peter Fungabera's voice on one of the transmissions, but he must have been calling another unit, for Timon Nbebi made no effort to reply and they drove on in silence. The monotonous hum of engine and tyres and the warmth of the cab lulled Craig, and in a reaction. from anger and fear he found himself dozing.

He awoke with a start as Timon Nbebi spoke for the first time, and the beat of the Land-Rover's engine altered.

It was dawn's first light. He could see the silhouette of the tree-tops against the paling lemon sky. The Land-Rover slowed and then swung off the main tarmac road onto a dirt track. Immediately the mushroom smell of talc.u.m dust permeated the cab.

"VAlere are we?" Craig demanded. "Why are we leaving the road?" Timon Nbebi spoke to the driver and he pulled to the side of the track and stopped.

"You will please step out," Timon ordered, and as Craig did so, Timon was waiting for him, seeming to help him down but instead he took Craig's arm, turned it slightly, and before Craig could react to the icy touch of steel on his skin, Timon had handcuffed both his wrists. It had been so unexpected and so expertly done that for seconds Craig stood bewildered with his manacled hands thrust out in front of him, staring at them. Then he shouted, "Christ, what is this?" By then Timon Nbebi had handcuffed Sally-Anne as quickly and efficiently, and ignoring Craig's outburst, was talking quietly to his driver and the two troopers. It was o quick for Craig to follow, although he caught the to Shana words "kill" and "hide'. One of the troopers seemed to protest and Timon leaned through the open door of the Land-Rover and lifted the microphone of the radio. He gave a call sign, repeated three times, and after a short wait was patched through to Peter Fungabera. Craig recognized the general's voice despite the VHF distortion.

There was a brief exchange, and when Timon Nbebi hung the microphone, the trooper was no longer protesting.

Clearly Timon Nbebi's orders had been endorsed.

"We will go on,"Timon reverted to English, and Craig was roughly hustled back into the front seat. The change in their treatment was ominous.