Dictator

82

Justus Iluko dragged the back of his hand across his brow to wipe away the sweat. His lawyer had bought clean shirts for him and Canaan and a floral cotton dress for Farayi so that they would all look respectable in court. But the back of the prison van was like an airless steel oven and its twelve passengers, crammed on to the benches down either side, were roasting in the heat. Outside, they could hear the sound of engines idling, horns tooting and angry drivers shouting at the crowded street as if their righteous indignation could somehow ease the congestion.

Justus smiled at his daughter as the van jerked forward and started moving down the road. ‘Not much longer now, then we will get some fresh air.’

He waited for her reply, or even the faintest signal of acknowledgement, but none came. Farayi was sunk in depression so deep as to be almost catatonic.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ Justus said. ‘We are innocent. Even if the police will not admit it, the judge will know and he will set us free. I am sure of it.’

He wished he could reach over to stroke Farayi’s head, the way he had when she was a little girl, but the chains that shackled his hands and feet made it impossible.

‘You know that is not true,’ said Canaan, bitterly. ‘The judges are as bad as the rest. Even if they know what is right, they are too afraid to do it. They do not dare make Gushungo angry.’

‘But Gushungo is dead.’

The words came from the only other woman in the truck. Her name was Winifred Moyo. She was a farmer’s widow and she was facing trial for attempting to silence her crying grandson by cooking him in a pan over an open fire.

There were gasps of amazement around the van, then a voice called out, ‘Do not listen to her! She is a madwoman!’

‘He is dead, I promise it,’ Moyo insisted. ‘The guard told me this morning.’

‘She is right, I heard this, too,’ another man said.

‘So who is in charge now?’ asked Justus. ‘Is Tshonga taking over? If he is, maybe we will get justice.’

‘Not from Patrick Tshonga!’ cackled Moyo. ‘They are saying he is on the run from justice. He is a criminal, just like us!’

‘Mr Tshonga is a good man,’ Justus insisted. ‘I am sure that-’

The van had come to a grinding halt again and the rest of his words were lost in another angry blast of horns. People were shouting up at the front of the van. Their voices were suddenly cut short, and then came the deafening percussive blast of an automatic weapon fired just a few feet away.

Farayi looked up, her eyes wide in terror. Winifred Moyo screamed, while male voices shouted for help and demanded to be let out. A second later, their wish was granted. There was another shot, and the inside of the door lock flew into the van and clattered against the bare metal floor. Then the doors were flung wide.

Two men were standing there. One of them carried a strange-looking black gun. The other clasped a vicious-looking pair of bolt-cutters. They were wearing facemasks and gloves but their eyes – one set blue, the other an eerie, clear green – made it obvious that they were whites.

‘Please remain calm,’ the man with the bolt-cutters shouted.

Justus frowned. That voice was familiar.

‘You are quite safe. We are not, repeat not, going to hurt you. Just stay where you are and let us into the truck.’

The man with the bolt-cutters stepped up into the van while the other man covered him with the gun. Winifred Moyo was thrashing on the bench, desperately trying to wriggle free from her shackles. The man ignored her and went straight to Justus.

‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘I’m getting you out of here.’

‘Car-’

Carver put a hand over Justus’s mouth. ‘Shh, no names.’ He pointed at the two youngsters. ‘Those your two?’

Justus nodded.

‘OK,’ Carver said.

He got to work with the bolt-cutters, snapping chains and setting the Iluko family free. They rushed to the end of the van and were helped out by the second man.

‘Thirty seconds!’ the second man called out, as Justus scrambled down on to the road. His voice sounded South African.

‘Coming,’ said Carver.

He looked around for the least panic-stricken face he could find: a middle-aged man with flecks of grey at his temples. Carver cut the chain that linked his leather-cuffed wrists then handed him the bolt-cutters. ‘Free yourself, then pass it on,’ he said. Then he too raced from the van.