tilt. Thirty metres … forty metres.
A thorn ripped through the fabric of her sleeve, leaving a burning pain on her upper arm. She stumbled over a rock, re-balanced and ducked under a low-hanging branch. Her lungs were on fire, but she charged on, pushing herself, her found weapon ready in her right hand.
She reached the big acacia she’d been aiming for, unsure if the poacher had seen her. Then she heard his footsteps not far from her. She peered carefully around the trunk. He was heading towards her, the gun clasped in both hands in front of his chest. The backpack was tugging at him and he kept throwing glances over his shoulder.
He was unaware of her. She gritted her teeth and secured the branch she held in both hands. Then he was there, his breath racing, leaves and dry grass crunching under his soles.
He raced past the tree without seeing her. Three long strides and she swung her branch with all her might, hitting the back of his head. He stumbled but stayed on his feet. She swung again, this time a full blow against his temple.
He sank to the ground with a groan, the gun tumbling away from him. Natasha dropped the branch and dived after it, snatching it as it skidded on the dusty ground. She jumped up and aimed it at him.
The poacher sat frozen on his haunches, hands in the air, eyes bulging.
Gert puffed up to her. His shirt hung out of his trousers. There was a bloody scratch on his cheek. ‘Jesus, Natasha,’ he panted. ‘Do you have to be such a fucking cowboy?’
* * *
We’d hardly got into the car when Smiley told us Vicci’s cousins were visiting from England and she wouldn’t be joining us.
He was lying, of course. He’d planned this. He wanted a chance to be alone with Sophia. I was livid and immediately tuned in to Sophia’s body language. Was she going to fall for his charm? How was I going to compete?
Suddenly, Smiley was an expert on The Beatles. They prattled non-stop, all the way to the farm, about the revolution the band had started in the music world. I became invisible beside the bubbling Sophia, a passive audience.
At the farm, Smiley informed us his father had arranged with the chief of the local village for us to visit there. ‘It’ll be an unforgettable experience for Sophia,’ he said, as he carried Sophia’s bag to the room next to his – the room that had always been mine.
When I gave him a look he said, innocently, ‘You’re going to be in the rondavel where Vicci always sleeps. My mother doesn’t want Sophia to stay there.’
On the narrow path to the village, Sophia didn’t – as I had fantasised – hold my hand. She and Smiley walked ahead of me, chattering without pause.
The last section of the path was decorated with banana leaves and bougainvillea. At the village, a guard of honour received us and we were welcomed warmly and led to special seats, where we sat down beside the chief and some elders. Traditional beer was served in calabashes and plates of steaming matooke – mashed bananas – followed. ‘If you’ve never eaten matooke, you’ve never eaten’, is a well-known Baganda saying.
The chief made a long speech in broken English and, to the sound of enthusiastic applause, a clay pot was handed to the beaming Sophia as a gift.
Then it was time for the kiganda dance.
The women moved their hips to the beat of the drums and melodies from homemade guitars, while they kept their upper bodies still enough to balance bottles of beer on their heads. Sophia laughed and clapped her hands. The Baganda began to sing. As the rhythm sped up, the dancers moved faster and faster. Their bodies trembled, their skins shone with sweat. The mesmerising dance ended half an hour later in a climax intensified by the shouts and cries of the onlookers.
I looked towards Sophia, but the smile froze on my face. Smiley had his arm around her shoulders, her hand was on his thigh and they were staring into one another’s eyes, entirely unaware of my presence.
7
Maria Wolhuter’s house looked neglected. The paint on the walls of the impressive double-storey was peeling off in patches. Khaki bush grew thigh-high in a rose bed. The water in the fishpond was green and murky with trails of sludge drifting on the surface.
Maria opened the door before Kassie reached it. She was smiling.
‘You haven’t changed a bit, Kassie,’ she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. ‘You have no idea how glad I am that you’ve come.’
He followed her into the spacious living room where toys lay strewn across the carpet.
‘Sorry about the mess.’ She motioned for him to sit down in an armchair opposite her. ‘Fransie dumped all his cars here after school, but he’s staying over at a friend’s this evening and didn’t tidy up before he left. I’m sorry.’
‘How old is he now?’ Kassie asked.
‘Eight. It was his birthday the day before yesterday.’ She shook her head. Her eyes were suddenly shiny. ‘Poor thing. He hoped his father would …’
Maria had aged considerably since he’d last seen her. There was a new network of wrinkles across her face and her once pitch-black hair had streaks of grey in it. She was thinner and her cheeks looked sunken, her hands bony. She was in her early forties, but she looked over fifty.
‘Tell me about Barnie,’ Kassie said.
She sat back in the chair, her face tight, her eyes on her interlaced fingers. ‘You don’t want to know … His life just spun out of control after he left the police.’ She looked up at him. ‘Drugs.’
‘Drugs?’ Kassie was surprised.
She nodded. ‘He’s been addicted for ages. He stole and sold all the jewellery I inherited to buy drugs. He blew practically his entire salary on drugs every month. And he earned a lot.’ She sighed. ‘I kicked him out three years ago. A while back he lost his job. He’s been living on the streets.’
She leaned her head on her hand. ‘I’m going to have to sell this place and look for a job. Barnie used up all my money … and obviously there’s no child maintenance. I’m struggling. Fransie’s suffering.’
There were tears in her eyes, but she wiped them away quickly. ‘Can I get you some coffee?’
‘Not for me, thank you. You said on the phone that Barnie’s disappeared. What makes you think that?’
She shifted towards him in her chair. ‘Barnie used to come and visit Fransie every week. That was the one thing he could be relied on to do. I wouldn’t allow him into the house any more, because it was exhausting to keep an eye on him to make sure he wouldn’t steal things. But every Tuesday afternoon, without fail, he was here to visit Fransie and the two of them would play in the garden. It was the highlight of Fransie’s week. But the past few Tuesdays, Barnie hasn’t arrived. It’s devastating for Fransie, of course. It was his birthday on Wednesday, and I was so sure his father would come. Barnie has never forgotten his son’s birthday.’
‘And he didn’t come?’
She nodded.
‘You have to remember,’ said Kassie, trying to reassure her, ‘that drug addicts aren’t known for their reliability. He might just have forgotten. Or he was in no state to come.’
‘That was my thought too. But Fransie was so upset I decided to go looking for Barnie yesterday and this morning. There’s no trace of him.’
‘Do you know where he stays?’
‘Yes. Here, in Newlands, under the railway bridge near the rugby stadium. A friend of ours once saw him there. I took him with me yesterday, but none of the guys who sleep there knew where Barnie was. I went again this morning …’
‘You shouldn’t,’ Kassie said. ‘It’s not safe.’
‘I’m desperate,