?Come,? he said. ?Let?s go.?
?I?m very comfortable, thank you.?
A shot thundered through the quiet of the room and the bullet ripped a hole beside him in the couch. Stuffing and dust exploded from it, falling back to the floor in slow motion. Thobela looked at the white man, who said nothing. Then he got up, keeping his hands away from his body.
?Easy now,? he said to Griessel.
?To the car.?
He went.
?Wait.?
He looked back. Griessel stood beside the assegai. He looked at it, looked at him, as if he had to make a decision. Then he bent and picked it up.
Thobela drew his own conclusions. The man didn?t want to leave any evidence. And that was not good news.
He was supposed to pick her up at half-past four, but at a quarter past there was a knock on the door; when she opened up, there stood Carlos with a big smile and a bunch of flowers.
He came inside and said, ?So, conchita, this is where you live. This is your place. It is nice. Very nice.?
She had to remain calm and friendly, but the tension was overwhelming. Because the toy dog was lying in sight and the syringe of blood was still in the fridge.
She wanted to hide it in the shopping bags along with the ingredients for the meal she was going to cook. Sonia?s dress was folded up in her handbag. Carlos wanted to see where she slept, where her daughter?s room was. He was impressed with the big television screen (?Carlos will get you one like this, conchita. For you and Sonia?). He wandered over to her fridge. ?Now dees ees a freedge,? he said in awe, and as he reached for the handle and pulled, she said, ?Carlos,? sharply, so that the sound of her voice gave her a fright and he looked around like a child who had been naughty.
?Will you help me to get the groceries to the car, please?? She could send him down to the car with a few of the plastic bags.
?
Of course. What are you going to cook for us??
?It?s a surprise, so don?t open the fridge.?
?But I want to see how big it is.?
?Another time.? There wouldn?t be one.
The white man sat in the left back seat of the car and let Thobela drive.
?Go.?
?Where??
?Just drive.?
Thobela took the farm road out. He couldn?t see in the rear-view mirror what was happening on the back seat. He turned his head, as if he had seen something outside the car. At the edge of his vision he saw Griessel with a roadmap on his lap.
He added up what he knew. He was reasonably certain Griessel was a policeman. The Z88, the attitude. The white man had known where the farm was and that Thobela would be on his way there. More important: no other policemen had shown up. The law considered the farm covered.
Griessel had waited for the right call to come over the cell phone.
But that was not police procedure. Couldn?t be.
Who else was after him? To whom else did he have value?
?Go to George,? said Griessel. Thobela looked around, saw the roadmap was folded now.
?George??
?You know where it is.?
?It?s nearly six hundred kilometers.?
?You drove more than a thousand yesterday.?
The policeman knew he had left the Cape yesterday. He had access to official information, but he wasn?t official. It didn?t make sense. He would have to try something. He could do something with the car on the gravel road because he was wearing a seat belt and Griessel was not. He could brake suddenly and grab the man when he was thrown forward. Try and get the pistol.
Not without risks.
Was the risk necessary? George? What was at George? If the policeman had been official they would have been on the way to Cathcart or Seymour or Alice or Port Elizabeth. Or Grahamstown. To the nearest place with reinforcements and cells and state prosecutors.
He was a high-profile suspect; he knew that. If you were SAPS and you caught the Artemis vigilante, then you called the guys with guns and helicopters, you didn?t get off your cell phone until you had your detainee in ten sets of handcuffs.
Unless you were working for someone else. Unless you were supplementing your income . . .
