Circus. Irma Venter
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shoulders.
On Marlboro Road, cars are hooting as the traffic struggles to get onto the N3. Near the Gautrain station the spectators are multiplying by the second. Pedestrians stop to watch what’s happening, hoping for more drama.
The man comes closer. Why doesn’t he give up? What did Yasen offer him as a reward?
My phone vibrates again. Fifteen metres.
Again.
With my left hand I pull it out of my cleavage, my eyes never leaving the man.
It’s Ranna. Two missed calls, followed by an SMS. Liesbet taken. I’ll find her, I swear.
No …
No, no, no!
I bite back the swearwords. What now?
I can’t abandon Liesbet. Not again.
I make a split-second decision. I jump to my feet, drop the knife and run. Reeds rustle and snap. I sprint across the stretch of open grass, heading for the Gautrain station. I plunge into the crowd of onlookers on Marlboro Road, on to the sweating, cursing drivers who have got out of their cars to see why the traffic has ground to a halt.
Who will help me?
Not the Mercedes. Nor the BMW. Taxi? No.
The white Tazz with five men in overalls.
I take out the lipstick, run around the Tazz. Duck and write Ranna’s phone number on the rear side window and next to it: YASEN TODOROV VIKTOR DE KLERK.
“Hey! What the hell …” The driver gets out and comes around the car.
“R10 000 if you phone this number.” My eyes are pleading. “Tell the woman to look for this man. Tell her not to call the cops.”
A scream makes me look up. Four cars away I see the older policeman, still armed.
I yank off my Cartier wristwatch, push it into the dumbstruck Tazz driver’s hand. “Take this for now. Go now. Go!”
I run around the car and sprint up the road. I must keep the cop away from the Tazz.
Past another car, two. I pretend to lose my footing. Drop down on the tar so that he can see my hands are empty. Quicken my breathing to sound like a terrified woman, backed into a corner. Look over my shoulder, fear on my face.
Come here, I urge him silently. Don’t look at the Tazz.
Doors slam as people scurry into their cars at the sight of the armed man.
Gaining confidence, he comes running, the pistol levelled at me.
“Lie still,” he hisses. Then he shouts loudly in English: “Police! Everything is under control. We’ve got her.”
He steps on my back, takes off his white T-shirt and covers my face.
I raise my head carefully and peer through the sweaty fabric, searching for the Tazz. The driver has made a right turn, out of the queue. He accelerates across the traffic island, against the oncoming traffic, and heads for Alexandra township. Two cars follow, convinced it’s a good idea to get out of here.
I lower my cheek onto the hot tar. What is the man waiting for?
I become aware of the drone of an engine, growing louder as it approaches.
I turn my head, try to see what’s happening.
“Lie still!” the man barks. “Don’t move. If we end up on YouTube, I’ll shoot you.”
It’s the Metro police bakkie from earlier, with the younger man behind the wheel. He is driving with two wheels on the pavement, the siren urging pedestrians to get out of the way.
I should have aimed better. Thrown harder.
The policeman yanks me to my feet, presses the pistol into my back. “Behave,” he hisses in my ear. “Or I’ll shoot you right here.”
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