Deon Meyer - Blood Safari

I made it to my feet, my legs wobbling beneath me.

The treeline was twenty metres away. I heard them shouting behind me. We had to reach the trees. My knees complained, my shoulder was all to hell, the pain a wave building to a crest. You must live, Emma le Roux, you must live.

There was a footpath into the trees. A game path. I jogged, staggering, through the mopanes. Don’t follow the path, because that’s what they’ll do. I swerved to the right. I could smell smoke, burning wood. Were there people near by?

Look where you step, I told myself. Don’t make a noise, get deeper into the bush. I had no more breath, my chest was on fire, legs numb, shoulder dislocated. The trees opened up and there were the huts, a humble place, with five women around a fire. Three children playing in the dust, one wrapped up on a woman’s back. Cooking pots. They were stooped over the pots. The women heard me and looked up with wide eyes. They saw a crazy white man with a bleeding woman over his shoulder.

I heard the balaclava calling behind me. Too close. We weren’t going to make it.

I ran towards the middle hut. The door was ajar. I ran in and shoved it closed with my hip. There were two mattresses on the ground and a small table with a radio on it. I laid Emma down and turned to face the door. When the first one came through, I would have to take his gun. With one hand? It wouldn’t work but it was my only option.

I tried to listen. It was deathly quiet. There was a crack in the door. I peered through it and saw them emerge from the bush, surprised by the huts. They halted when they saw the women, swung the guns and said something in a native language. No response. I couldn’t see the women at the fire. Balaclava shouted something, threatening and commanding. A woman’s voice answered him. They stared at her for a minute and ran off.

I listened. A child wailed. Then another. Women’s voices consoled them.

Had the women sent them on a wild-goose chase?

I went over to the mattress. Emma lay too still. I held my ear to her mouth. She was breathing. Jerkily, unevenly. Not good. There was too much blood on her chest, her hair, her neck, her cheek. I had to get her to a hospital.

The door opened. The woman stood there warily.

‘Is hulle weg?’ I asked.

No reaction.

‘Have they gone?’

She said something I couldn’t understand. She looked at Emma.

‘Doctor,’ I said.

‘Doctor,’ she said, and nodded.

‘Quickly.’

Another nod. ‘Quickly.’

She turned and called out to someone with urgency in her voice.

21

His name was Goodwill and he drove like a maniac.

He seemed too young to have a licence. The Toyota Hi Ace was four years old and had 257,000 kilometres on the clock. At first he argued with me. ‘The clinic in Hoedspruit is shit, we must go to Nelspruit. To the hospital.’

‘There’s no time.’

‘There will be time, I will drive fast.’

‘No, please.’

‘No doctor in Hoedspruit, just nurses. They know nothing.’ He turned right at the junction where we had been attacked. ‘Trust me.’

I hesitated.

‘Then you’d better hurry.’

‘Watch me.’ He sped.

I held Emma tightly in my arms in the middle seat and Goodwill drove with his hazard lights tick-tocking, tyres squealing and horn blaring. I felt her jerk, felt the little spasms in her body as life seeped away. I said to her, ‘Emma, you must not die, please, Emma, you must not die.’

The doctor jerked my arm back into the socket and I wanted to bliksem him right there, punch him in the face, it was such incredible agony, but then it was quickly gone. He stepped back and said, ‘Jissie , pal, I thought you were going to hit me.’ He was in his fifties and as round as a barrel.

‘Fuck it, Doc, I nearly did.’

He laughed.

‘Phone, Doc. I have to know.’

‘I told you.’

‘You said we have to get my arm back in, then we could phone.’

‘Later.’

‘Now.’

‘It’s no use. She’s in theatre.’

‘Where is the operating theatre?’

‘Let me give you an anti-inflammatory.’ He took a syringe out of a drawer. ‘And something for the pain. I must put something on that cut as well.’

‘What cut?’

‘The one on your right biceps.’

‘Doc, where is the theatre?’

‘Sit here.’

‘No, Doc …’

He got angry. ‘Listen to me, pal. If you want to hit me, now’s the time, because I’m going to get tough with you. Just look at you. You’re trembling like a reed, hyperventilating, you’re in shock, bleeding and as dirty as a pig. You want to go and mess around in theatre like that? They’ll throw you out, let me tell you. Get your butt in this chair so I can inject you and clean up that wound. Then you’re going to take a pill to calm you down. And then you’re going to clean yourself up and wait until they come out and tell us what’s up.’

I stood there glaring at him.

‘Your arse in the chair.’

I went over to the chair. I sat.

‘Lean forward. Loosen your belt.’ I did as he said.

‘Bend over more, pal, I have to reach your butt.’

He stood behind me, pulled down my pants and wiped a spot with cotton wool and alcohol.

‘Is she your wife?’ The needle went in. Unnecessarily rough.

‘No.’

‘Hang on. Sit still. Another one for the pain. Is she your girlfriend?’

‘No.’

‘Family?’ He fetched another syringe.

‘No. She’s my client.’ I felt the needle go in.

‘Your client, huh?’ He tossed the syringe in a rubbish bin and opened another drawer.

‘Yes.’

He took out a plastic container of pills. ‘The way you’re carrying on, you seem to care a hell of a lot for your clients. Here’s a pill. Go and clean up, then take it.’

I had lost my cell phone. My wallet was in the BMW. I asked the rotund doctor if I could borrow money from him for the public phone.

‘Use this one,’ he said, and took me to his office. In a silver frame on his desk was a photo of a woman. She was beautiful, elegant and slim. She had long red hair streaked with grey.

‘How do I get a line?’

‘Press zero,’ he said, and closed the door behind him as he left.

I made the call. Jolene Freylinck, the manicured receptionist, answered on the second ring in her deep, sexy voice.

‘Body Armour, good morning, how may we be of assistance?’

‘Jolene, it’s Lemmer.’

‘Hi, Lemmer, how’s it going?’

‘I’ve got to talk to Jeanette.’

No hesitation. ‘I’m putting you through.’

Recorded music, Jeanette’s choice. Sinatra sang ‘My Way’ while I waited. Only two phrases, the part where he says he bit off more than he could chew, before Jeanette interrupted, ‘You’ve got trouble.’ A statement of fact.

I described the trouble.

‘And how is she?’ she asked when I had finished.

‘Critical.’

‘Is that all they will tell you?’

‘That’s all’

‘Lemmer, you don’t sound good. How are you feeling?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’

‘I’m not so sure of that.’

‘Jeanette, I’m fine.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m staying here with her for now.’

For five seconds she was quiet. Then she said, ‘I’ll call you.’

‘My cell phone is gone.’

‘What’s your number there?’

I don’t know how long I sat at the doctor’s desk with my head in my hands. Ten minutes maybe. Or half an hour. I tried to think. My head wouldn’t cooperate. The door opened. A man and a woman came in. He had silver hair and wore an expensive grey suit. ‘Grundling,’ he said, and put out his hand. He smiled. He had sharp teeth. He looked like a great white shark. ‘I am the hospital administrator, and this is Maggie Padayachee, our client services manager. We are here to offer you our assistance.’