Like Clockwork

He knelt in front of her and smiled. ‘What lovely eyes, my lamb. I’m afraid they will be next. As soon as I’ve fixed your feet.’

It had been a while since she’d heard the sounds that had sustained her. She felt the fierce resilience of her body – blindly wanting to keep itself alive – ebb away. The fog of terror almost overwhelmed her. She put her free hand down to steady herself, unexpectedly feeling the smooth touch of the stone she’d tripped over earlier. There the sound was again. This time, though, he heard it too. He looked up, alert, listening. But he returned to his task: as soon as he’d bound her feet, it would be over.

Theresa lifted the stone as high as she could and smashed it down on his skull. He pitched forward with a moan of rage. She hit him again, marvelling at the smoothness of the object in her hands. He lay still at her feet, blood oozing from the back of his head. And once again, Theresa lifted the stone high, at the ready, but this time she did not hit him.

A bunch of keys lay on the table. She fumbled for a moment and fitted a large one snugly in the lock, barely aware of the rust inside the mechanism as she turned it. Then she pulled the door open and hurtled through, slamming it behind her. She stood still in the dank tunnel, trying to orientate herself in the dim light filtering from the stone chamber behind her. From her left, she could hear someone calling. She turned towards the voice and made her way as fast as she could, feeling her way down the dark tunnel. The voice was getting louder. Theresa paused to listen. It was a woman, calling her name.

‘I’m here,’ she meant to shout, but her voice was just above a whisper. She felt her way along the tunnel. The walls were rough and covered with slime. In places, the stone gave way and Theresa could feel a cold rush of air that seemed to indicate a smaller, subsidiary passageway. She kept her mind on the voice calling from up ahead, and felt rather than saw the bend in the tunnel wall. But as she rounded it, her heart leapt.

A woman holding a torch was running towards her. Theresa collapsed into Clare Hart’s arms.

‘Please, please take these off.’ She was scrabbling pointlessly at the tight boots. Clare had a knife in her other hand.

‘Hold still,’ she said, inserting it into the top of one boot, and then the other. She made deft incisions, slicing through the suede, nicking Theresa only once. ‘Where is he?’

Theresa pointed to the door. ‘In there. I hit him.’ Her voice was very faint. The adrenaline that had kept her going had ebbed away. She was on the verge of collapse. Clare called Riedwaan.

‘Where the fuck are you?’ he shouted into the phone.

‘I’ve got her, Riedwaan, Theresa Angelo. She’s safe. We need an ambulance.’ Her words came out in a rush.

‘Where are you, Clare? How can I send anything if I don’t know where you are?’

‘I’m in the storm-water drains. There’s a tunnel behind the boathouse at Three Anchor Bay – the one on the far side of the slipway, where the elephant seal is. We need an ambulance for this girl. And I think one for Tohar. She’s wounded him.’

‘I’m at your flat. I’ll be with you in a minute. Just get out of there. Get yourselves above ground.’ Panic pulsed through Riedwaan’s voice, galvanising Clare.

‘Up you get, Theresa.’ She gripped her arm firmly and pulled her up. The girl winced as Clare’s fingers dug into the bruises on her arms. But she managed to get to her feet, leaning heavily on Clare’s shoulder.

‘We must lock him in. He won’t let me go if he comes after us,’ Theresa pleaded. Clare hesitated, the urgency of getting Theresa out and onto the promenade impelling her forward. ‘Please,’ said Theresa. ‘We must.’

‘Okay.’ Clare capitulated. She turned back into the darkness, holding Theresa’s hand to steady her. The door that Theresa had appeared from was slightly ajar. Clare pushed it open and looked inside. She took in the coil of rope, the table, the television, the camera. There was an overturned chair and a blood smear. But he was gone. Tohar was nowhere to be seen in the claustrophobic space. Her stomach lurched in horror. She turned towards Theresa, who was leaning against the tunnel wall where Clare had left her.

‘Come, Theresa.’ She grabbed hold of her hand, panic clutching at her throat as she pulled her in the direction of the boathouse. ‘Come now.’

Theresa did not need to ask why. Fury welled up in her throat. Fury at herself for not striking that final blow. She should have known: third time lucky. She followed Clare. Her ears strained for sounds beyond the clatter of their feet – but she could make nothing out. She imagined the holes in the wall, the dark places where he might be hiding, waiting for her.

Clare had come in from the storm-water drain on the other side of the lighthouse, making her way through the subterranean passages. Clare gripped Theresa’s hand painfully tight – as much to keep herself together as to keep Theresa with her. Her foot caught painfully on a rock and Clare dropped her torch, the sharp crack instantly snuffing its comforting light. Theresa’s heart felt as if it would burst as the darkness enveloped her, sharpening her terrible sense that they were not alone in those tunnels.

Clare pushed herself back onto her feet and pulled Theresa up with her. She waited a moment for her eyes to adjust, and then headed towards the gleam of light coming from where she hoped the boathouses were. Twenty paces brought them up against a heavy door. Clare pushed hard, and it swung reluctantly inwards, every joint and bolt groaning. She stumbled through, with Theresa right behind her. Tohar’s car gleamed in the faint light.

‘There’s the exit,’ said Theresa, her whisper ghostly in the dark. They made their way around the car.

‘Ssh,’ whispered Clare, her hand stopping Theresa. It came again from the passage. A sibilant noise, as if something heavy was being dragged. Clare pushed the door closed and moved a heavy coil of rope in front of it. Fear squeezed at her throat, making it difficult to breathe. Theresa Angelo had no colour left in her face. She shook convulsively. But her voice was calm when she spoke. Clare was beginning to understand how she had managed to survive that far.

‘The door’s over there,’ Theresa pointed. ‘But there are two padlocks.’ They heard the dragging sound again, closer this time, right near the door. And they heard a curse – though the voice had been rendered unrecognisable by pain and rage.

Once again, Clare took Theresa’s hand. Her eyes had accustomed themselves to the dimness. Light filtered through chinks in the double door. She could make out bolts held in place with the huge padlocks. ‘Hide behind the car. Keep behind me.’ Theresa crumpled next to the rear wheel of the Jaguar. Clare had drawn her gun from its hiding place. There was a thud on the inner door. It shifted slightly. She aimed at the bottom lock of the boathouse door. The sound of the shot deafened her, but she steadied her hands and again took aim. The second lock exploded off the padlock just as the inner door burst open. Theresa screamed, scrambling to her feet. She pulled Clare after her, shoving the door open. The cool air welcomed them as they stumbled onto the filthy slipway.

‘Clare,’ said Riedwaan. Then he caught Theresa and held her against his chest. ‘Theresa?’ he asked. She nodded, beyond speech.

‘Riedwaan,’ Clare was hoarse. ‘He’s in there. He followed us.’

‘Here’s our back-up.’ Clare looked up to see Rita Mkhize and three uniformed men from the hostage unit. ‘You go up, Clare. The ambulance is on its way.’ Riedwaan stepped back from her, holding back tears of relief at seeing her safe. From inside the boathouse there was the sound of a door closing. ‘Let’s get him.’ The men followed him as he pushed the boathouse door open.

Clare led Theresa Angelo back to street level. ‘Can I call my mom?’ Clare handed over her cellphone. ‘You dial, please.’ Clare keyed in the number and waited for it to ring. A woman’s frantic voice answered immediately. Clare handed the phone to Theresa.

‘Mom? Mommy, it’s me.’

Taking the phone from the sobbing girl, Clare gave Mrs Angelo directions. Then they went to wait for the ambulance, which would soon join the steadily increasing number of vehicles flashing their emergency lights.

Joe Zulu came over with two blankets. He wrapped one around Theresa. ‘Eish, sisi, I am very happy to see you.’ The other he handed to Clare. ‘And you, Clare.’ He had ordered coffee at the petrol station. He heaped sugar into the cups, which he gave to the two of them. Theresa’s hands were shaking so much that he held the paper cup for her to sip.

The ambulance pulled up just as Theresa’s mother arrived. The car she was in had barely stopped before she was hurtling across the lawn. Mrs Angelo wrapped her arms around her child and held her as if she wanted to absorb her back into her body. Clare watched as mother and daughter turned and together collapsed into the arms of the man who had driven Mrs Angelo there. ‘My baby,’ he breathed into Theresa’s blood-matted hair.

‘I’ll follow you to the hospital,’ Mr Angelo said to the paramedics, helping his wife and daughter inside. Then he