Those Who Love Night (42 page)

The inspector's eyes were wide with alarm, but he did as he had been ordered. The sergeant turned to Abigail. “Wait here, please. Your clients are coming.” He left by the same doorway as the inspector.

“Jesus.” Helena was bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet. “I can't believe this. Should I get a taxi for them?”

“Perhaps that's not a bad idea,” Abigail said. She had also noticed the one lone minibus taxi parked just off the highway. The taxis seated at least twelve people. There would be plenty of room for the seven and for the Makwati girl. Helena ran for the door.

“This is so wonderful.” Rosa was standing just inside the door. “Congratulations, Abigail. What an achievement.”

One of the policemen behind the counter crossed to the radio and turned up the volume. Immediately Chunga's voice was in the room. “Where are these people? Plumtree? Come in, over.” This time there was no static, and the signal was strong.

“Plumtree here. Over,” the officer said.

“Who's in charge there?” Chunga demanded, adding “over” as an afterthought.

“Sergeant Mafuta. Over.”

“Get him for me. Get him for me now.”

As the officer ran for the passage into which the sergeant had disappeared, the phone on the counter rang and the remaining policeman behind the counter answered. Abigail saw Yudel move quickly to the radio and reach behind it. He jerked hard at something, then stepped away, turning his back on the radio. “What?” she whispered.

“Antenna.” His voice was so low that she could barely hear it.

Now there were voices from the passage, the mumbled sounds of more than one person. A female voice was asking, “Where are we going?” A male voice answered that they were going to the Harare Holiday Inn, at government expense.

The inspector came into the charge office first, followed by the eight activists. Tony Makumbe, who came in last, was the only one Abigail recognized. “Good morning, people,” she said. “I trust you're ready to travel.”

“Who are you?” a small yellow-skinned woman asked.

“My name is Abigail Bukula. I'm your legal representative. This is my colleague, Mr. Gordon.”

“We're going to court?”

The inspector had stepped between Abigail and her clients. “The court hearing is over. You are all free to go.” He passed a sheet of paper to Abigail. “I need you to sign this, ma'am.”

“Thank you, inspector,” she said.

It had taken a moment for the seven to comprehend the reality of their position. “We're free,” a voice said. “Is that right? Who hired you?”

“Krisj Patel contacted me, but we have to go.”

“Krisj? When?”

“Krisj did it,” Abigail said. This was no time for explanations.

The yellow-skinned woman was hugging one of the men. Others were shaking hands. One of the women kissed Yudel. But their voices stayed low. The celebration was real, but there was a subdued element to it. Perhaps it was just possible that the reason for the celebration may not be real. Freedom was not yet complete.

Of the seven, only Tony showed no emotion. He was still in the doorway that led to the cells, leaning against the wall. Abigail made her way through the muted happiness. She took one of his hands in both of hers. “Tony, I'm your cousin.”

“I'm pleased to meet you.” She was not sure that what she saw on his face was a smile. “Thank you for all you've done.”

Abigail moved her grip to his arm. “We must go.” She looked at his face, but could not read the expression. He was looking past her.

With Abigail leading and Yudel coming behind to herd the stragglers, they arrived on the veranda. There was no sight of Helena and the taxi. Abigail looked for Yudel, but her eyes caught the figure of the sergeant. He was at a window, observing the scene, his arms folded across his chest.

54

Abigail was still looking at the sergeant when, at the end of the street, the two double-cabs turned the corner and accelerated toward them. They passed the police station and continued to the next intersection, where they both swung hard to the right, then reversed, blocking off that exit completely. They had barely stopped when two more double-cabs entered the street from the same side. They stopped almost immediately and blocked off the street at that intersection.

No one on the veranda spoke. Down in the street, the four black double-cabs were in position. There was no immediate movement from any of them. Then the front passenger door of the nearest one opened and Jonas Chunga stepped out. Now doors were opening on all of the vehicles, and
CIO
agents were following the example of their boss. He came as far as the gate before stopping. Four agents fell in behind him. At the other end of the street, six more agents had spread across its width.

Chunga said nothing and showed no sign of coming closer. Yudel looked for Inspector Marenji, but he had retreated into the charge office. Abigail was first to move. In a corner of her vision she saw Yudel step forward. The finger of one hand fluttered. “No,” she said. “I have to go alone.”

Abigail stepped carefully off the cement apron of the veranda and onto the dirt of the yard. Jonas Chunga was no more than fifteen or twenty meters away, surrounded by the evidence of his power, the agents who would follow his orders without question. They may have seen him kill and may have killed for him. She started slowly across the uneven surface, picking her way. To fall, even to stumble, would be a sign of weakness. And weakness was not something she could afford.

Abigail picked a spot that she guessed to be halfway between herself and Chunga, a patch of cement that may have been the remains of a structure that had once stood there. She stopped at her chosen spot and waited for him to come to her.

His face was clearly visible to her now. The determined set to the jaw, the direct gaze, the complete stillness of features and hands: she had seen it all before. But I will come no closer, she thought. You will have to move too, my friend.

And will you move? she wondered, watching his motionless form. My aunt's lover, she thought … almost my lover, almost my rapist.

Chunga was coming toward her, moving even more slowly than she had. His arms were partly outstretched, signaling to his men to stay where they were. Neither he nor Abigail dared show any eagerness to get this done. Hurrying was out of the question.

He stopped within arm's length of her. “Good morning, Jonas,” she said, deliberately keeping her voice low.

“Good morning, Abigail. Every time I run into you lately, you seem to be leaving.” He, too, spoke very softly. It seemed that by mutual agreement this was between just the two of them. But now that he was close to her, she could see the movement of his eyes. He was struggling to give her his full attention. Something on the veranda was drawing him to it.

Tony, she thought. Yudel was right. “Just bad luck, I suppose. I'm told everything in life is about timing.”

“Yes.” His eyes again darted in the direction of the veranda. “Ours does not seem to have been too bad this morning.”

“And what do you intend doing with your good timing?”

“I haven't yet decided.” He was looking at her, forcing his attention away from the young man behind her. His eyes had narrowed and any playfulness that may have been present in his voice was gone. “You didn't really think you could get away with this. Or did you?”

“I have a court order. My clients are free.”

“No. You have a piece of paper and your clients are on the veranda of the Plumtree police station.”

“You're not going to ignore a court order, are you? You were there when the judgment was made.”

“I'm going to do what's best for my country.” But he was not looking at her. She could see how he was struggling to keep his mind on her.

A cry came from behind her. Abigail recognized neither the voice nor the single word that had been called out. It was only when the cry came a second time that she heard the word “Father!” clearly, and knew the voice was Tony's.

“Father,” it came again. And for the first time since she had first met him, Jonas Chunga's composure was shaken. “Father.”

This was not the time to look round or to allow her gaze to falter. None of Tony's friends, nor any
CIO
members would understand. Chunga was trying to keep his eyes on her, but could not. They flickered again toward the young man on the veranda behind her. The pretense could not be maintained. His attention moved from Abigail and he was looking past her. At last she turned to look back. Tony was standing at the edge of the veranda. “Father.” The cry came again. Abigail could not say whether it was a plea, a cry for help or simply an acknowledgment of their relationship. Then Tony was coming toward them, uncertainly, not with the sort of care she had shown, stumbling as he stepped off the cement.

“Father.” Abigail heard a wildness in the sound, the call of an animal in pain. “Father.” If there was more he wanted to say, the struggle to articulate it was too great. Now he was stumbling toward them. In a momentary glance, Abigail thought she saw fear in Chunga's eyes. “Father.”

The distance was not great, but later, as she remembered the incident, she could not decide whether it had taken very long for him to reach them or perhaps no time at all. He stumbled again on the uneven surface. Then he was in his father's arms. His own arms were round Chunga, holding him close, perhaps the only time he ever had. Chunga seemed unable to move. Abigail knew that there was nothing else that could have had this effect on him. “Father,” Tony sobbed.

The embrace lasted only seconds. Tony burst away, stopping within an arm's length of Abigail. It was a moment before she realized that he was holding his father's service revolver in his right hand. Chunga's jacket had been thrown open for an instant and Abigail saw that the shoulder holster was empty now. Tony was standing just a few meters away from his father and pointing the revolver at him. Almost immediately firearms had appeared in the hands of all the
CIO
men. “No,” Chunga shouted. “Put away your weapons. Put them away.”

Almost any other command would have been obeyed instantly, but this one was different. This political lunatic was pointing a firearm at the director. The bastard was clearly mad.

“Put them away,” Chunga commanded again. “Any man who fires his gun will be the next to die. Put them away.”

Tony had found a target in the center of his father's chest. On either side of Chunga the guns were being put away—slowly, reluctantly, one agent at a time. “Tony,” Chunga spoke gently. “Tony, it's all right. It's all right. Just put down the gun. No action will be taken against anyone, just put down the gun.”

“Father…” The word hung in the space between them. It was clear that there was more to be said, but that saying it was not possible. “Father.” Tony raised the hand that was holding the gun. The angle of his wrist twisted. He had found a new target, one he could not be denied. A finger was searching for the trigger. The single report of the gun seemed to be amplified by the quiet of the rural morning. The bullet struck the boy just below his right ear. He fell heavily on the spot where he had been standing.

None of the
CIO
agents had moved. Yudel was the first to reach Tony's body. His fingers searched for the carotid, then for the artery at his wrists, but in neither place did even the smallest flicker of life reveal itself. He found the position of the entry wound. The brain stem must have been blown away, and with it any chance of the body's functions continuing. He rose to look at Chunga. The director was sinking to his knees. It was clear that he did not need proof that his son was dead. Abigail had moved back a few steps, putting that small extra distance between herself and the now lifeless body of her cousin.

*   *   *

To Abigail it seemed later that every moment of that morning had been etched permanently in her memory. Afterward she would remember the unevenness of the ground as she walked toward Jonas Chunga. She would remember the look on his face, first as he approached her, then when he heard his son calling to him.

If one moment was blurred in her mind it was the fraction of a second that it took for Tony to turn the gun away from his father and toward himself. It had happened so fast that perhaps there had never been even an instant when the picture was clear to her.

She remembered too the long moment, far too long at the time, before Chunga, consumed by his private hell, was able to give direction to his men. Without him giving the orders, none of them knew what should be done with the remaining seven dissidents, or with Yudel and Abigail. It was only when Chunga waved a hand, still without rising, and snarled, “Let them go, let the bastards all go,” that the group on the police-station veranda moved uncertainly into the street.

Equally clear in her memory was the horror on the face of Helena, who had heard the shot from the front passenger seat of the minibus taxi she had gone to fetch. Her first words on seeing Tony's body were: “So the swine are open about killing us now.” Yudel had intercepted her to quiet her and tell her what had happened, and how silence was the best option.

Abigail could also never forget the brief meeting, that she later described to Yudel as bizarre, with Helena and her seven colleagues. They were in their seats in the taxi. She suggested that they make the short run to the Botswana border post. She said she was sure she could get them into that country as political refugees. The post was poorly manned, and there was no boom. If they left the taxi and walked across in a loose group, they would be in the office on the Botswana side before the Zimbabweans realized what was happening. Botswana would take them in. It was the continent's country that had greatest respect for personal freedom. They always accepted political refugees.

But the group in the taxi had already held an impromptu caucus among themselves. They had looked at one another, and Helena spoke for them all. “We are very grateful for what you and Yudel have done. Also Rosa. She was very brave too. But we're staying. We believe our country is changing, and we are going to stay here and help it change.”