hacking and coughing at the water in his lungs. Clear of the river, he
fell on his face in the mud and vomited a gush of swallowed water that
shot out of his nose and mouth.
He lay exhausted for a long while, until his coughing slowed and he
could breathe again. His shoes had been torn from his belt by the
current. He dragged himself to his feet and staggered forward into the
darkness. As he ran, he held his hand to his face, pulling the broken
thorns from the flesh of his palm with his teeth.
Stars were still showing overhead and by their feeble light he made out
the road, and he began to run along it, gathering strength with each
pace. It was very still now, with only the dripping of the trees and
the occasional far-off murmur of thunder to break the silence.
Two miles from the homestead, David made out the dark bulk of something
on the side of the road, and it was only when he was a few paces from it
that he realized it was an automobile, a late model Chevy. It had been
abandoned, bogged down in one of the greasy mudholes, that the rains had
opened.
The doors were unlocked and David switched on the interior and parking
lights. There was dried blood on the seat, a dark smear of it, and on
the back seat was a bundle of clothing. David untied it quickly and
recognized immediately the coarse canvas suiting as regulation prison
garb. He stared at it stupidly for a moment, until the impact of it
struck him.
The car was stolen, the blood probably belonging to the unfortunate
owner. The prison garb had been exchanged for other clothing, probably
taken from the body of the owner of the Chevy.
David knew then beyond all possible doubt that Johan Akkers was at
Jabulani, and that he had arrived before the bridge over the Luzane
stream had become impassable, probably three or four hours previously.
David threw the prison suiting back into the car, and he began to run.
Johan Akkers drove the Chevy across the Luzane bridge with the rising
waters swirling over the guard rail, and with the rain teeming down in
blinding white sheets.
The muddy water shoved at the body of the car, making steering
difficult, and it seeped in under the doors, flooding the floorboards
and swirling about Akkers feet; but he reached the safety of the far
bank and raced the engine as he shot up it. The wheels spun on the soft
mud, and the Chevy skidded and swayed drunkenly in the loose footing.
The closer he drew to Jabulani the more reckless he became in his haste.
Before his conviction and imprisonment, ARkers had been a twisted and
blighted creature, a man of deep moods and passionate temper. Feeling
himself rejected and spurned by his fellow men he had lived in a world
of swift defensive violence, but always he had kept within the bounds of
reason.
However, during the two years that he had laboured and languished within
prison walls, his anger and his lust for vengeance had driven him over
that narrow boundary.
Vengeance had become the sole reason for his existence, and he had
rehearsed it a hundred times each day.
He had planned his prison break to give himself three days of freedom,
