Ivory Nation Andy Maslen (best short novels of all time TXT) 📖

also to right a smaller wrong. He decided there and then to take a chance. He’d get her away from Witaarde. Who knew, she might even be a source of intelligence they could use later to shut down the BVR.

‘Listen,’ he murmured. ‘What if I told you I wasn’t with some white pride group. What if I told you I was here on other business, but I could get you out? Would you come?’

She nodded frantically.

‘I would do anything. Just get me away from him.’ She looked down at her breasts as if seeing them for the first time. Then back at him. ‘He hits me. They all do. Hit their wives, I mean. Look.’

She pulled the front of her nightdress all the way down. Her right breast was marked by a livid purple bruise from just beside the nipple to her ribcage.

Gently, Gabriel lifted the nightdress and resettled it over her shoulders. She frowned.

‘Tell me about the ivory poaching,’ he said.

She shook her head.

‘I can’t. I don’t know anything about it. He just goes off on trips and comes back a couple of weeks later.’

She glanced at the bedroom door, then rose from the bed, crossed the room on silent feet and closed it before sitting back down beside him.

‘Alec, I want to leave with you. But I’m scared. Anyway, how will you get away? Brik drove you here, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, but I can steal a truck or something. I’m very resourceful.’

‘When?’

‘I need to talk to him about the ivory. But after that. The day after tomorrow?’

She nodded, glancing at the door as if Witaarde might burst through at any moment, brandishing the big revolver.

‘I can’t believe this is happening. You’re really going to take me with you?’

‘I said so, didn’t I? Maybe we can find a way to rescue the others, too.’

‘Oh, God, I hope so, Alec. I hope so.’ Then she bent towards him and kissed him, lightly, on the lips. ‘Thank you.’

Instead of pulling away, she leaned against him, stroking the bullet scar on his shoulder. Her other hand snaked beneath the covers.

‘Klara, please, you don’t have to.’

‘I know I don’t have to,’ she whispered. ‘Supposing I want to?’

He felt himself hardening in her grasp. Took hold of her shoulders and pushed her, firmly but gently, away. He shook his head.

‘I have someone.’

Klara Witaarde stared into his eyes.

‘Then she’s a very lucky girl.’

She got up a second time and left, kicking the sweat-soaked pyjamas into the corner on her way past. At the door, she turned.

Gabriel released a breath he’d been holding. Was all that real? He couldn’t work her out. One minute a frightened enslaved woman, the next a minx, coming on to him while her husband slept down the hall.

Gabriel woke from a dreamless sleep. No murderous elephants the size of houses. No razor-blade grass stems dismembering him. He had a vague memory of a noise waking him. A nocturnal animal tapping on the window? He turned to find his watch.

And his head exploded in a blinding white flash of pain.

48

Instinctively, he raised his arms to protect himself. The next blow smashed down into his solar plexus, driving his wind from him and leaving him gasping, curled into a foetal position.

Above him, he saw two bulky shapes.

‘Here’s one to put your lights out, kaffir-lover,’ a voice in the darkness said.

The blow connected with his left temple. A high-pitched whine screamed inside his skull. He tasted metal and smelled burnt toast. The world turned orange, then turquoise, then white, yellow, a sickly green, grey…black.

He tried to lift his head. It wouldn’t move. He tried again and felt a tearing pain on the left side. A grenade exploded inside his head, filling him with a violent desire to vomit. He lay still, moaning softly to himself until the agony subsided.

He realised he was conscious again. He raised a finger to the side of his face. It felt crusty. He picked at the substance and felt a piece dislodge. He opened his eyes and brought his finger up where he could see it.

The substance on the end of his finger was congealed blood, the colour of molasses. He returned the finger to his skull and felt around, gingerly probing his scalp. He winced as his questing fingertip found a lump. It felt soft in the centre and a fresh wave of nausea engulfed him. He swallowed, hard, and took a few deep, steadying breaths.

The third time he awoke, he felt something approaching normal. His watch was gone. He looked down. He was naked.

His torso was an atlas of pain, the countries and continents coloured purple, blue, red, yellow and green.

He could smell the rank stink of urine.

The room was ten feet square. No windows. A single door. A bare electric light bulb on a short length of flex.

He heard a key scrape in the lock. Pushed himself back against the wall. Tried to stand. Managed to get into a half-crouch when the door swung inwards.

Filling the frame, Julius Witaarde stood, smiling down at him.

‘How did you sleep, Alec? Is that your real name, by the way? We checked your ID, but who knows what those kaffirs down in Pretoria can do.’

‘I’m not a spy.’

‘No? Then explain all the bullshit you told Klara.’

‘I don’t know what you mean. I didn’t say anything to Klara after she left us alone after dinner.’

Witaarde said nothing in reply. His smile widening, he entered the room and stood to one side. Behind stood Klara. In place of the peasant blouse, suede skirt and bare feet, she now wore a starched, military-style shirt and khaki combat trousers tucked into riding boots.

And Gabriel realised. He’d been played. The oldest trick in the book: the honey trap.

Klara folded her arms across her chest, as if to deny the reality of what he had seen in the early hours of the morning. She sneered down at him.

‘I’m a slave, Alec,’ she said in a whiny, sing-song voice.