The Land God Made in Anger. John Davis Gordon
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A cooking fire smouldered outside the central hut. A scrawny old man and an old woman appeared in the dark doorway, astonished.
Skellum was right to be nervous. As he and McQuade climbed out of the vehicle, the old man’s astonishment gave way to fury. He snatched up a thick stick and came charging at Skellum, swiping. Skellum flung his arms up and his father swiped him on the shoulders, swipe, swipe, shouting curses, and Skellum scuttled about backwards, his scrawny old father swiping after him. ‘Stop!’ McQuade shouted. ‘Stop! I am not the police! I am a friend!’ He grabbed the stick. ‘I am a friend!’
They sat around the smoky fire, on the ground, while the old woman made tea. Skellum sat against a hut wall, malevolently nursing his bruises and his hangover. Scrawny chickens scratched in the earth and half a dozen goats wandered around. Jakob had been pacified by a present of a bottle of brandy and assurances from McQuade that he had not come to make trouble. Why did the Baas want to hear the story? Because he was interested, McQuade said, and as he already knew the story, why should not Jakob repeat it truly? The old man was sullenly impressed by these arguments and the brandy, whilst still glancing malevolently at his son.
He solemnly told the story again. McQuade had to be careful how he asked his questions lest it appear that he criticized his conduct. They spoke in Afrikaans:
‘And you’re absolutely sure only two men came out? Is it not possible that more emerged after the fight?’
‘Not possible. I would have seen their footprints when I came back.’
‘Why did you go back?’
‘Because I had left my bag when I ran away. I hoped it would still be there.’
‘But you only found the wallet?’ He did not believe that – the old man had stolen it. ‘How many bottles of water were in your bag?’
‘Five.’
About five pints. A determined man could get a long way on five pints. ‘And how much dried meat?’
Jakob put his finger on his wrist, indicating a piece of meat the size of his hand.
‘And where is Petrus now, the other man with you?’
‘He has died.’
‘Have you or Petrus ever told this story to anyone else?’
Jakob shook his old head.
‘Do you remember the time when the great war ended?’
‘I remember hearing it was ended.’
‘Did this happen before or after that?’
‘After,’ Jakob said.
‘How long after? One month? Two? Four?’
‘Maybe one month.’
Oh yes, McQuade thought.
‘And was there water to be found in the river beds near the coast? If a man dug for it.’
‘If he dug for it he would find some water.’
‘And game?’
‘Yes, there would be some game near the river beds.’
So he could have got food and water. And he had a gun. ‘Why didn’t you take his gun?’
Jakob said, ‘I was frightened. I ran away. I did not think about the gun until afterwards.’
‘And the man’s front teeth were definitely broken?’
‘Broken.’ Jakob pointed at his own gums.
So he was in pain for a long time, McQuade thought, so the first thing he would have done when he reached civilization was go to a dentist. ‘Can you describe this man? How old was he? Was he younger or older than me?’
Jakob glanced at McQuade. ‘About the same age.’
‘And how old am I?’
‘Maybe you have forty years.’
Not bad, McQuade thought. That meant that if H.M. had survived, he would now be an old man of about eighty. ‘What colour hair did he have?’
Jakob pointed at a dark rock.
‘Was his hair curly or straight?’
‘Straight.’
‘Eyes?’
Jakob indicated his own eyes. ‘Brown.’
‘Anything else? Scars, for example?’
Jakob shook his head. ‘I saw no scars.’
‘What was his nose like? Broad; thin, straight, crooked?’
‘It was straight, like yours.’
‘How was his mouth?’
‘He had thin lips.’
‘How was his chin? Did it have a dent, like mine? Or was it round, like yours?’
Jakob thought. ‘I think it had a dent.’
‘How tall was he?’ McQuade stood up. ‘Taller than me? Or shorter?’
Jakob stood up. He compared McQuade to himself, then touched the tip of McQuade’s shoulder.
That’s short for a white man, McQuade thought. He himself was six foot so H.M. was about five foot three or four.
‘And was he fat, thin or average?’
‘He was not fat, he was not thin.’
‘Did you get anything else from the dead man apart from the cross and the tag? A piece of paper, maybe? Another wallet?’
Jakob shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘And what did this man look like?’
Jakob said: ‘He was dead. His face was covered in blood and sand. And the jackals had been eating him.’
‘All right. Now please –’ he was going to say ‘be honest’ but changed it, ‘– please think carefully. Was there anything else in the wallet apart from the white money? You can tell me without fear. Was there a card, perhaps? Some papers?’
Jakob glanced away. ‘Nothing.’
McQuade thought he was lying but let it go for the moment. ‘Did you ever exchange any of the white English money for our money?’
Jakob said emphatically: ‘No.’
McQuade knew he was lying. Four hundred and eighty-five is an untidy number of forged English pounds. But only a few people had trusted the strange-looking money. ‘Why not?’
‘Because I was afraid the police may say I stole it.’
McQuade nodded. ‘How many people know about this story, Jakob?’
‘I told only my wife and my son.’ Jakob gave a truculent glance at Skellum.
‘Did Petrus keep anything taken that day?’
‘He did not want anything.’
‘And how did Skellum get hold of it?’
‘He stole it! From my hut!’ Jakob said indignantly.
‘When?’
‘Last month he ran away. Later I found he had stolen these things.’
Skellum was sitting against the hut wall, a big bruise on his temple, one eye swollen, looking murderous. McQuade wanted to ask him how many people he had told the story to, but didn’t think he would get any truth from Skellum. Now for the all-important question.
‘And can you remember the place on the shore where the white men came out of the sea? The exact place?’
Jakob glanced at him. Then looked away.
‘I do not