Beneath the Ice (41 page)

By some freak of physics, the tractor managed to right itself and swung back towards the road. It ploughed on, riding directly over one of the road markers. There was a splintering of wood, before the remnants were summarily spat out by the rear axle.

Dedov fought to keep hold of the steering wheel, but with each new contact with the ground it spun violently in his hands. With his left eye closed by streaming blood, he squinted ahead through the windscreen, but all the while he could hear the whine of the Ski-Doo engine nearby. Stang was driving even closer now, so close as to be almost under the arches of the tractor itself.

Dedov swung his head round, trying to look out of the broken window with his one good eye. Suddenly, he saw Stang lunge upwards from the seat of his Ski-Doo and clamp his hand on to the tractor’s wing mirror. Heaving with one arm, he dragged the rest of his body higher until he lay flat against the side door.

Dedov roared with anger, slamming his entire weight into the door and trying to shunt the Norwegian away. Stang’s body was briefly pushed out with it, before he came crashing back in once again and this time managed to get his fist through the broken window and on to Dedov’s throat. His fingers curled around the windpipe, biting deeper and deeper into the flesh, while the Russian frantically twisted in his grip.

Dedov felt his whole throat being crushed. His eyes bulged from the pressure. He reached up with both hands, trying to prise Stang’s grip away, but the man was just too strong. Instead, Dedov flung his whole body forward, using his weight to finally break free and drag himself on to the far passenger seat. Across from him, the Norwegian reached further inside and, turning the key in the ignition, killed the engine.

The tractor slowed, grinding to a halt only a few hundred feet from the edge of the runway. There was silence.

Dedov stared across the cabin as Stang pulled back the door and craned his head inside. His grey eyes seemed to pass over the Russian, instead turning towards the rear seats of the cabin as he searched for the others. When he realised that none were to be found, his lips pulled upwards in a faint smile.

‘The barrier?’ he said, his tone flat and unhurried. Dedov stared at him, realising that despite everything he had done Stang was barely out of breath.

‘They’re gone, Stang. You won’t catch them now.’

He nodded pensively, weighing up the information, before his forehead creased in confusion. ‘Yet you went alone?’

Dedov glowered at him. Behind his back, his hands groped across the seat, searching for the flares he had taken from GARI. A second later, his fingers curled around the plastic cylinder and he snapped off the lid with his thumb.

‘I was never going to leave this place anyway,’ he replied, thrusting the end of the flare towards Stang’s face. There was a split-second’s delay in which Stang’s hand instinctively shot out and locked on to Dedov’s wrist, bending it sideways. The flare exploded in a flash of blinding light, missing the side of Stang’s face by less than an inch. It ricocheted off the roof of the cabin before thudding into the upholstery of the seat behind and fizzing out a dense cloud of red smoke.

Soon, the entire cabin was engulfed in smoke. Dedov was the first to take advantage of the confusion and viciously kicked out towards the Norwegian. The heel of his boot connected with Stang’s face, sending him sprawling back and out of the cabin. As Dedov turned towards the opposite door and frantically tried to open it, he heard Stang scream with rage. It was as if something had snapped inside the man and he burst back into the cabin, ripping and clawing at Dedov’s legs like a wild animal. Dedov desperately felt along the door for the handle, but the smoke was too thick for him to see.

In a single movement, he felt his entire body being wrenched back across the cabin and flung out on to the snow. He wriggled back across the ground but Stang crashed down on top of him, his knees cracking several of the Russian’s ribs on impact. The Norwegian then rained his colossal fists down on Dedov’s face and neck in a blind fury, bludgeoning him with each mighty blow. On and on they went, one after the other, the sheer weight of his fists splintering bone and thudding down on to the flesh with sickening force. There was a muffled scream, but the next three blows fell directly on to Dedov’s mouth, snapping his front teeth and ripping open the whole front section of his jaw.

Stang didn’t stop, even when Dedov’s legs had ceased to kick and his arms had gone limp on the cold snow. The only movement came from the next blow, which sent ripples the length of Dedov’s inert body like the twitch from a long-exhausted muscle.

Behind the tractor the sun slowly re-emerged, sending the first rays of light cautiously across the landscape. It was one of the last few days of autumn and the grey snow was gradually brushed with a faint streak of orange, growing warmer with each minute that passed. Slowly, the sun was awakening the new day.

As the red smoke from the flare hung lazily in the sky, Stang finally stood up. With his chest heaving and his knuckles soaked in blood, he turned his gaze towards the distant sun and shut his eyes, letting the warmth touch his cheeks.

For the first time in weeks, he felt absolutely at peace.

BEAR STOOD IN
the sparsely furnished shop with her hood pulled low over her face. She had been staring out of the window for nearly an hour, watching the flow of traffic on Nyanga’s main road. Every once in a while she would retreat back to the makeshift counter and buy one of the few chocolate bars on display. She did it to appease the old woman running the shop but, by and large, she seemed content to let her customer loiter inside. Only one other person had entered in all the time she had been waiting, and Bear suspected the old woman was glad of the company.

Outside the taxicabs went back and forth in their usual, chaotic way, with the drivers hanging their arms out of the window and beeping the horn at the slightest provocation. But for all the movement, the atmosphere on the streets seemed less charged than she remembered. The battle in Nyanga had come and gone, and despite the appalling violence it had somehow released the tension that had been mounting for weeks across the township. Undoubtedly the lull would only last so long, but for the moment a strange calm reigned on the streets.

Bear watched as the latest in a long line of taxicabs jerked to a halt, disgorging its passengers like cattle. Each vehicle was hand painted with its own unique design. Often the driver’s football team colours were plastered across the bonnet or there was some cryptic affiliation to a local gang. Bear remembered that the words
Lonely Boy
had been stencilled in yellow across the front bumper of the vehicle she had been in. She had even managed to catch the first two digits of the number plate. But Lonely Boy was nowhere to be seen today and, after an hour of waiting, she wondered how she might track it down.

Turning back to the shop owner, she summoned up a smile.

‘I’m looking for a taxi,’ Bear said. The woman nodded encouragingly, suggesting she was in the right place given the goings on outside. ‘This taxi has “Lonely Boy” written across the front. Do you know it?’

The old lady’s face immediately darkened and she wagged her finger under Bear’s nose.

‘Bad men,’ she whispered, lips curling down. ‘Those men are bad! Never go to church. And a girl like you . . .’ Her voice trailed off. She began adjusting the woollen hat perched on top of her head, as though the mere thought could unsettle it.

‘I know,’ Bear agreed, with absolute conviction. ‘But I need to find them. Can you help?’

She pulled a hundred-rand note from her pocket and slid it on to the counter. The woman bristled at the sight of it, before poking it back towards Bear with her stubby forefinger. ‘They run the route from here to Wynberg,’ she said. ‘Everyone knows that.’

‘How often do they do it?’

‘Every few hours. But with that kind of money, you can take the bus.’

Bear nodded in thanks, instead buying another chocolate bar with the hundred-rand note. Going back to the window, she looked out once again, but this time her right hand curled around the weighty handle of the Glock 9mm that Bates had given her. She held it under her hooded top, the hard profile of the pistol pressing up against her sore stomach as she thought back to the taxicab and the brutality of her journey in it. As each detail flashed across her mind, her lips moved in quiet resolve – this time, things would be different.

Nearly forty minutes later, ‘Lonely Boy’ pulled up. It stopped like all the others, with the side door swinging open as the driver harangued his passengers to hurry up and get out. Grabbing her rucksack off the floor, Bear sprinted out of the shop and climbed on board, all the while keeping her gaze locked on the ground and her face concealed behind the hood of her jacket. As she settled into the first row of seats, she caught a glance between the driver and a young man seated beside him. Then, with only two other passengers on board, the door was abruptly slammed shut and the vehicle pulled out on to the main road.

Bear stared out of the window as the taxi lurched through the flow of traffic, wiggling on to the bus lane of the motorway and accelerating hard along the N5 in the direction of Muizenberg beach. She heard brief mutterings, spoken in Xhosa, between the driver and his companion, with an occasional furtive glance in her direction. But with her gaze averted and her head held low, she doubted whether they recognised her.

As the taxicab took the off-ramp and started across an area of scrubland that eventually came out into the hub of Wynberg, Bear suddenly yanked the pistol from her pocket.

‘Pull over,’ she ordered, jamming the barrel into the back of the driver’s neck. He swerved in surprise and a cry of alarm went up from the other passengers.

‘Silence!’ Bear roared, and immediately everyone fell quiet.

In the front seat, the driver soon regained his composure. He began acting entirely indifferent to the fact that he had a gun pressing into the base of his skull and made a show of lounging back in his seat. But every few seconds he would try to sneak a glance behind him and see what was happening.

The taxi ground to a halt.

‘Everyone out,’ Bear shouted, and without a word the side door was run back on its hinges. As a waft of fresh air drifted into the sweaty cabin, the other passengers and the driver’s accomplice spilled out on to the road and began hurrying down a manmade slope towards a narrow stream. They jumped across the insipid brown water, dodging the plastic bags and occasional shopping trolley, as they tried to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the goings on in the taxicab.

The driver shifted in his seat, pulling his vest a little lower to give full prominence to the 28 tattoo running in heavy blue ink across his chest. The tattoo was usually enough to intimidate most people but he smiled for show, revealing two gold teeth at the side of his mouth.

‘Haven’t got much,’ he said, pulling a small wad of notes out of his jeans. ‘Two hundred, maybe three.’

He was stalling for time, having now recognised Bear’s face. He had moved tens of girls in his taxicab and never once considered that any of them would come back for revenge. Most overdosed in the brothels or, if they did eventually make it out of the township, fled back to their villages in the countryside. No one ever came back.

‘Take it,’ he said, jiggling the money in his hand. With her spare arm, Bear sent the notes spinning into the opposite footwell and dug the barrel harder into his neck.

‘I don’t want your fucking money,’ she hissed, causing the driver’s tight smile to fade.

‘It wasn’t my idea,’ he stammered. Now alone, his gangster demeanour evaporated and Bear could see sweat running down through his cropped hair. ‘I just . . . get orders . . .’ he managed, staring fixedly ahead.

‘Shut up,’ Bear snapped. Unclipping the knife that Bates had given her, she raised it in front of the driver’s face. Gently tilting the blade from side to side, she let the razor-sharp metal glint in the light, watching as the driver’s pupils widened with each turn. She held him like that for several seconds, moving her mouth a little closer to his ear despite the rank odour of his skin.

‘Never pick up another girl again,’ she whispered, ‘or I will cut off the only thing that makes you a man.’

The driver nodded frantically as she whipped the knife back and jammed the blade into the underside of his seat. He squealed in fright, jolting upwards as he expected the knife to go straight through the padding and into his crotch. But the blade was only three inches long and instead Bear jerked it back, tearing at the lining. She felt underneath the seat, fingers splaying out across the padding as she tried to find the flashcard Lotta had given her.

When the gang had originally bundled her into the taxicab, she had been thrown under the first row of seats, while they kept her down with their boots. They had stamped on her face and dug their heels into her stomach, but she had managed to get the flashcard out of her bra and tuck it somewhere beneath the floating lining of the driver’s seat.

As her fingers moved back and forth, the driver stayed stock-still, unable to understand what she was doing. Finally, her forefinger caught on a little piece of plastic that had jammed right up against the adjustment bar of the front seat. Bear had been lucky. Had the driver moved his seat back a single inch, he would have slid over the flimsy plastic and crushed it. Holding it up to the light, she checked that it was intact before returning it once more to her bra.

‘Get out,’ she said.

Without a second’s hesitation, the driver groped for the door handle and fell out on to the road.

Bear climbed through into the driver’s seat and sat down, trying to ignore the stench impregnated into the worn plastic cover. As she started the engine and rammed the gear lever into first, she looked across to the opposite side of the road. The driver was hunched over, staring at her in a mixture of fear and emasculated horror, his crotch dampened by a small circular mark from where he had wet himself.