road, itself hardly better than a track with deeply churned double ruts in the glutinous mud, and all the time the rain fell.
At the crossroads, Mark pulled the motorcycle off the road, and hurried back to talk to Storm through the open window of the Cadillac. It's six hours from here to Umhlanga Rocks in this mud, don't try and push it, he told her, and reached through the window. They embraced awkwardly but fiercely, and then she rolled up the window and the Cadillac pulled away, the rear end sliding and skidding in the mud.
Mark watched it over a rise in the land, and when the rear lights winked out over the ridge, he went back to the motorcycle and kicked the engine to life.
In the sidecar the man stirred, and his voice was mushy and distorted through the mangled lips.
I'm going to kill you for this, he said. Like you killed my grandfather? Mark asked softly, and wheeled the cycle into the road. He took the fork to Ladyburg, thirty miles away through the darkness and the mud and the rain, and his hatred and anger warmed him all the way like a bonfire in his belly, and he marvelled at his own restraint in resisting the temptation to kill Hobday with the bludgeon when he had the chance.
The man who had tortured and murdered the old man, and who had abused and desecrated Storm was in his power and still the temptation to avenge himself was fierce.
Mark pushed it aside and drove on grimly into the night.
The motorcycle slipped and slid from one verge of the road to the other as he took it up the steep ascent of the Ladyburg escarpment, and below him the lights of the town were blanketed by the falling white fog of rain.
Mark was uncertain as to whether or not the General was in residence at Lion Kop, but as he gunned the machine into the walled kitchen yard he saw lights in the windows, and a clamorous pack of the General's hunting dogs rushed out into the night followed by three Zulu servants with lanterns. Mark shouted at them. Is the Nkosi here? Their answers were superfluous, for as Mark dismounted, he looked up and saw the bulky familiar beloved shape step into the lighted window of the study, head held low on broad shoulders, as Sean Courtney peered down at him.
Mark ran into the house, stripping off his streaming oilskins, and he burst into the General's study. My boy. Sean Courtney hurried to meet him across the huge room. What is it? Mark's whole being was charged with a fierce and triumphant purpose. I have the man who killed my grandfather, he exulted, and halfway across the study Sean stopped dead and stared at him. Is it, he stopped, and the dread was plain on his face, is it Dirk Courtney, is it my son? The servants carried Hobday's heavy inert body into the study and laid him on the buttoned leather sofa in front of the fire. Who put those chains on him? growled Sean, studying the man, and then without waiting for a reply, Take them off him. My God, what happened to his face?
Ruth Courtney came then, awakened by the uproar and excitement, dressed in a long dressing-gown with her night cap still knotted under her chin, Good Lord, she stared at Hobday. His arm is broken, and perhaps his jaw also. How did it happen? Sean demanded. I hit him, Mark explained, and Sean was silent for a long moment staring at him, before he spoke again.
I think you had better tell me the whole story, he said. From the beginning. While Ruth Courtney worked quietly over Hobday's broken face, Mark began his explanation to the General. His name is Hobday, he works for Dirk Courtney, has done so for years. One of his right-hand men. Of course, Sean nodded. I should have recognized him.
It was the swollen face. I've seen him before. Quietly, quickly, Mark told everything he knew about the man, starting from his first meeting with Hobday at the deserted homestead on Andersland. He told you he was working for Dirk Courtney then?
Sean demanded. For Ladyburg Sugar, Mark qualified, and Sean nodded his white beard on to his chest. Go on. Mark repeated Pungushe's story of the old man's death, how the three men had come with him to the valley, and how the silent one had shot him and waited for him to die, and how they had buried him in an unmarked grave.
However, Sean shook his head, frowning, and Hobday on the couch stirred and tried to sit up. His swollen, distorted jaw worked and the words were blurred. It's a bloody nigger lie, he said. First time I've ever been to Chaka's Gate was three days ago.
Sean Courtney's worry showed clearly on his gaunt features as he turned back to Mark. You say you hit this man, that you are responsible for his injuries. How did it happen? When he came to the valley, Pungushe recognized him as the man who killed John Anders. I lured him out of his camp, and Pungushe and I captured him and brought him here. After half killing him? Sean asked, heavily, and did not wait for Mark's reply. My boy, I think you've put yourself into a very serious position. I cannot see a shred of evidence to support all this, evidence that would convict a man in a court of law, while on the other hand you have assaulted somebody, grievous bodily harm and abduction at the least. Oh, I do have proof, Mark cut in quickly.
What is it? Sean asked gruffly.
The man on the couch turned his battered face to Sean, and his voice rose confidently. He's a bloody liar. It's all lies. Quiet! Sean waved him to silence, and looked to Mark again. Proof? he asked. My proof will be in the fact that Dirk Courtney kills this man, or has him killed, the moment we turn him free. They all stared at Mark in stunned silence, and Mark went on seriously. We all know how Dirk Courtney works. He destroys anything that stands in his way, or that is a danger to him. Hobday was watching him, and for once the eyes were no longer veiled and cold. His mangled lips quivered and gaped slightly, showing the black gaps where the teeth were missing from his jaw.
It isn't necessary for this man to confess anything to us.
The fact that he has been here, in this house, with the General and myself, in the camp of Dirk Courtney's enemies, the fact that his face bears the marks of heavy persuasion, that will be enough for Dirk Courtney. Then one phone call is all it would take. Something like this Mark paused, then went on. 'Hobday was with us, he is ready to make a sworn statement, about the killing of John Anders. ' Then we take Hobday down to the village and leave him there. Dirk Courtney kills him, but this time we are ready. For once we can trace the murder directly to him. God damn you, snarled Hobday, struggling into a sitting position. It's a lie. I haven't confessed anything! You can tell that to Dirk Courtney. He might believe you, Mark told him quietly. On the other hand, if you turned king's evidence and did confess, you'd have the protection of the General and the law, all the force of the law, and we would not turn you loose. Hobday looked around him wildly, as though some avenue of escape might open miraculously for him, but Mark went on remorselessly. You know Dirk Courtney better than any of us, don't you, Hobday? You know how his mind works. Do you think he will take the chance that you didn't confess? Just how useful are you going to be to him in the future? Can you trust his loyalty, now that the shadow of doubt is on you? You know what he is going to do, don't you? If you think about it, you'll realize that your only chance of survival will be to have Dirk Courtney locked up safely, or dancing at the end of a rope. Hobday glared at him. You bastard, he hissed through his broken lips, and it was as though a cork had been drawn; a steady stream of obscenity poured
