Water Music (30 page)

I have to clean up, he said.

So no one will find us? said Clare.

No one will find you, he said.

Then let me help her up there. Unchain her. Unchain me. Theres nothing that we can do. Not here, at the centre of the earth. Not with you.

He gave a half-smile, removed the chain from Rosa. From Clare.

She dropped beside the girl.

Rosa, Clares voice was strong; she had her arm around Rosas shoulders.
Stand up. Get up. Walk.

I cant.

You must, Rosa. Clare pulled her upright. Rosas head flopped against her shoulder. Im with you. Well walk to the end, out of this place. Theres water up ahead. Listen to its music. Its calling you.

Theres no hope, Clare. Its over. But she was getting to her feet.

Clare half-carried, half-led Rosa onwards.

Stern behind them; an executioners footsteps.

Hearing
him walk was like seeing the end of the world. But hearing him meant that it was not yet over, the long trudge of this forced march. With the steepness, Sterns breath was coming faster now.

They slowed, the tunnel angling towards the right, towards the water that thundered off the cliffs. The sound seemed to make Rosa straighten, pulling her along ahead of them.

Clare put her hand in her jacket
pocket. She curled her fist around the porcupine quill. Sharp, stubby, lethal. She tested its point against the pad of her thumb. The pain a lifeline.

She focused her thoughts, kept walking in the darkness.

The night sky was awash with stars, and there was ice in the wind. Riedwaan heard the water before he saw it, the rush of the river as it plunged towards the bay. He and Mandla Njobe, with Gypsy trotting at their heels, zig-zagged between the trees that screened the farmhouse.

Paradys.

There was a watchfulness to the house, although the surrounds were cheerful enough. Rows of turned earth.
A vegetable garden waiting for the weather to warm up. Sheets heavy with rain dragged on the washing lines no one had bothered to bring them in. A plastic scooter lay abandoned on the lawn. A few shrubs stood to attention around the wide verandah. There was no one about.

Riedwaan knocked, waited. He pushed open the front door. The wind gusted into the silence, rustling the clothes of the woman
sprawled on the floor. Black boots neat, small, like Clares. He dropped to his knees, his hand against her neck. No pulse. No chance, not with the way her skull had been split.

A bloodied silver pendant rested on the womans high-necked blouse. Riedwaan picked it up, angling the silver disc to read the inscription.
Forever
one
. He turned it over.
Nancy & Noah
.

Mrs Stern, he said. Where the fuck
is your husband?

The woman stared up at him, mute.

Faizal, called Njobe, squatting at a desk. Heres a boy, look here.

There was a gash in the wood, splinters around it. Riedwaan sank to his haunches. The boy lay under the desk, his arm at an unnatural angle. A contusion on his temple.

Looks like the desk broke the blow, said Njobe.

Riedwaan put his finger on his pulse. Faint but steady.

Get the helicopter, he said. Anwar Jacobs. Get him here now.

Riedwaan yanked down one of the curtains and covered the child.

You go look for Clare, Faizal. Njobe was on the phone already.

There was no one else alive in the house, of that Riedwaan felt certain. He checked anyway, going from one room to the other. In the kitchen, evidence of an interrupted meal. Three plates. The woman, the boy
and the man. Nobody else. Nothing else.

The pantry door was ajar, the shelves packed with bottled preserves. It was hardly big enough for a child to fit into, and other than a couple of cases of beer, the pantry was empty.

Riedwaan went out to the back stoep. The curtain of night lay thick and heavy on the mountain.

A dark shape, indistinct at first, as his eyes adjusted to the dark. A solid
shape under a tarpaulin.

A vehicle.

Where was Clare? Where the fuck was she?

He pulled Clares scarf out of his pocket. The smell of her caught the back of his throat.

Footsteps thudding, nearer.

Riedwaans gun at the ready.

Jesus, Njobe, youll get yourself fucking shot like that, his finger easing the trigger back. The kid OK?

Helicopters on its way, said Njobe. I told them where to find
him. Nothing more I can do there except sit. No Clare?

Nothing here, said Riedwaan, stuffing Clares scarf back into his pocket.

That hers, by any chance? asked Njobe.

You mean this? Riedwaan pulled it out.

Now Gypsy will find her, Njobe smiled.

Riedwaan whistled; the dog appeared, one paw up, ears alert. He held the scarf out, and she whined.

The dog nosed this way and that, her concentration
absolute. She picked up the scent next to the shed. Riedwaan tried the closed door. He drew out his service pistol and fired at the lock. The door swung open. He shone his torch inside, found a light switch. A single bulb glowed weakly.

Gypsy was whining at a door hidden by clutter surrounding it. Riedwaan pushed it open. A row of electrical switches. He tried one, but apart from a fans distant
hum the room remained dark. He felt along the wall. Another switch: this one worked. Everything was illuminated in the windowless room: a desk, a work table, stacked shelves neatly packed.

The Alsatian made straight for the table, cocking her head and whining urgently. Riedwaan pushed the table. It was heavy oak maybe, or ironwood. A scuttling spider large and hairy drew Riedwaans attention
to the floor. The creature disappeared into a groove that ran along the floorboards. Riedwaan put his finger into it, felt cold metal, and lifted the trapdoor.

A flight of stairs dissolved into the darkness below.

Riedwaan went down. Inside the small room, there were two thick shelves that held some tiles, packets of grouting, tools. Gypsy rushed at the bottom shelf, her short, sharp bark a
declaration of triumph.

Riedwaan tipped the shelf, the tiles smashing to the floor. Behind it a metal contraption, a sliding mechanism for moving the shelves.

He tipped the contents of the top shelf too, and a heavy steel door appeared. He put his shoulder to it, pushed it open. The stench made him gag.

He felt for a light switch, flipped it.

A bed, a table, chairs, a pile of notebooks on
a shelf, three Bic pens, a pared apple, and a childs drawing of a woman with a cascade of hair. A flash of silver on the floor. Riedwaan picked it up. The oval tanzanite shone in his hand.

A hole in the ground with mouldy walls. Riedwaans flashlight revealed pencil marks, a neat musical score on plastered walls that were patterned with damp. A dungeon. Custom built. Empty.

Gypsy was scratching
at the far wall. Another door here. Locked.

Riedwaan had his pistol out, took aim.

Faizal, said Njobe. Stop.

The Mountain Man held his hand up. He had his flashlight out, trained on the lock. A tiny piece of wire protruded from the lock.

Back, said Njobe.

Gypsy yipped.

This whole things booby-trapped. Njobes voice was barely audible. We open that, itll blow and take us all with it.

Njobe
had his palm against Riedwaans chest. He was pushing him back up the steps.

I cant leave her in there, said Riedwaan.

You touch that, you kill her. Njobe had him half-way up the steps.

Clares scarf lay on the floor.

Gypsy whined. She wasnt moving.

This is what Wewers was talking about. Riedwaan tried to twist out of Njobes grip, but Njobe had six inches and fifty pounds on him. The tunnel.
This is what he was talking about. We have to get to her, shes in there.

Faizal, stop you need to think, man, said Njobe. If theyre alive, theyre way ahead of us. Go up to the top, cut them off at Hells Gate.

This was the end: the tunnel, so steep for so long, had flattened out. An opening ahead, an O into the darkness outside. As Stern pushed them through, Clare lost her footing; she fell, her hand curling around the rock that had tripped her. She stood up, held onto the rock.

Stern had Rosa now. He was pushing her ahead of him, onto a metal platform servicing the Apostle Tunnel alongside. The
channelled water tumbled and swirled into the catchment pool below. At the maw of the weir, the water circled, a predator looking for its prey before it plunged down the Apostle Tunnel that led through the mountain to Camps Bay.

Rosas sudden scream was a soprano above the relentless bass of the water.

Stern was smiling. He loomed over her, a knife in his hand. Her hair in his left hand was a
gleaming black snake. He yanked hard, snapping her head back, exposing the slender curve of her throat. The knife was pressed against her skin, silencing her. She had braced herself her bare legs cold against the metal.

A knife clattered against the granite cliff.

Clares aim was not true to its mark.

The rock had glanced off Sterns shoulder, making him lurch backwards. Then he was up, and
he was moving. He came at Clare, a howl distorting his face, his lips pulled back. He grabbed at her. She ducked under his arms but he caught at her hair, throwing her to the ground. He kicked her hard again and again and again in the belly, in the back, aiming low killer blows.

Clare could do nothing but curl around herself, around the life inside her.

Riedwaan stopped to catch his breath.
The path he had followed was punishingly steep, Paradys invisible in the mist below. He scanned the mountainside. The wind both ally and enemy had dropped. There was enough starlight to navigate by he would see his quarry ahead of him if he broke cover. But he too would be visible as well as audible.

He climbed higher, higher, to where the path entered the ravine. Hells Gate. It was narrow;
the earth muddy, treacherous. He slowed, felt his way up the crevasse.

He slipped, caught at a branch; a stone skittered from the path, dancing towards the river below. The torrent drowned all sound.

He steadied himself. Kept on. Past an orchard of peach trees, the remains of old houses where, a century before, stonemasons whod built the tunnels and dams had lived.

He climbed the next hundred
metres; the slope was vertiginous. Riedwaan kept his back to the granite. It was slick with moss. The drop below was sheer, the waterfall churning below. Spirals of spray whirled upwards, vengeful furies that grabbed at his soaked legs before falling back, thwarted.

It was impossible to climb higher the valley had tapered to a point. Riedwaan stopped, cast his eyes about him. The waterfall had
burst forth from its channel in the cliff. Up ahead, the mouth of a tunnel gaped, a silent scream in the darkness.

He reached for a handhold. It held. So did the next one. He stepped into the water. The sound was overwhelming; its force sucked the air inwards, pulling him towards the vortex below.

Rosa scrambled on all fours. Ignoring the agony of her hand, she clambered away, struggling to
get out, away from him.

She pulled herself up the stairs leading up from the platform. She was out, and the air was clear and clean.

Roosting crows rasped their outrage at being disturbed. Oblivious to Rosas ordeal, they settled and were soon silent.

She looked up: the clouds were torn open, the stars bright beacons in the night sky.

Rosa squatted, listening to the cascading water. Apart from
that and the pulse of her heart, all was quiet.

She clung to the cliff, tried to focus: what now? How to get down?

Behind her, the mountain. A great stone mother, she thought, and as she did so, she sank into oblivion.

A mans voice.

Rosa, Rosa.

A hand on her forehead, a jacket around her shoulders, cover ing her.

Clare, she heard herself saying.

Where the fuck is she? said the mans voice.

Clares head snapped back, her hair coiled around Sterns fist. Winded, she lay in a foetal position on the platform.

Run, Rosa, she gasped. But Rosa had disappeared.

He pulled her up, into a bloody embrace.

Forcing her body to lie flaccid in his arms, Clares hand brushed her jacket. The quill protruding from her pocket pricked her fingertip, and she recoiled. The movement triggered Stern,
and he bit her arm, sinking his teeth deep into her flesh.

She winced, lifting her arm in a sudden parabola and stabbing at his face. The quill plunged into his right eye, piercing the eyeball as it lodged in the socket.

Stern howled, one hand on his wounded face, the other gripping Clares arm.

He toppled, pulling her with him. In a deadly embrace, they plunged into the weir where the water
churned before being channelled through the darkness of Judas Peak on its journey to Camps Bay.

Clare fell, sank deeper and deeper into the wild water, her killer clinging to her like a succubus.

She stuck two fingers into his gushing eye socket, and with a thrashing movement he released her. She was free, fighting back towards the surface, the turmoil of the water unbearable. Grasping at the
metal stairs that led up to the platform, Clare clung to them as the water pulled at her, snapping her body this way and that. Then something fleshy, heavy hit her sideways, hit her hard. Noah Sterns drowned face touched her lips before being dragged into the vortex.

She would die too if she went down. Her arms flailing, her legs kicking against the water, Clare fixed her eyes again on the metal
stairs. Two quick strokes, and shed be across the maelstrom, shed be there.

She struck off, but she was no match for the water. It took her in its grip and tossed her like a leaf along with the rest of the debris. She whirled towards a precipice where the water rushed over the edge of a pool before tumbling into the Apostle Tunnel.

The breath filled her lungs, held her ribs against the unbearable
pressure of the water. She was sucked downwards, the turbulence tossing her about. She curled herself into a ball. Fragments of her life drifted in front of her as she was whirled down her mother, sitting in the deep shade of a blue gum, her mother who had drifted quietly through her life, never swum against the current. Clare held this image, felt herself succumbing to its allure. She curled
herself up around the burn in her lungs, which crescendoed as the din of the water receded.