Like missing paperwork, stolen wreckage told its own story, and the only pinprick of light in the tunnel of his stupidity was that the theft of the fan disc proved he was on the right track.
It was a small and feeble pinprick.
Tom stared sightlessly into the dust between his feet, the tiny grains thrown into relief by the narrow beam of his torch, which moved gently with his breathing.
He felt Ness’s hand on the back of his neck and almost laughed at the bitter irony. Out of the game and back on the bench for you, Patrick.
‘Maybe we can catch them.’ The thought jumped into his head, and before the words were out of his mouth he was running back to the car, heedless of leaving Ness in the dark.
‘Tom! Don’t!’
He jumped in and started the engine, threw the car into gear and gunned it forward, sliding to a stop beside her. ‘Get in.’
‘But, Tom—’
‘Get in or stay here!’
He saw the flash of anger in her eyes. He wondered if he’d meant it but, before he could decide, the door opened, then slammed and he hit the gas with a vengeance. ‘They won’t be expecting us to follow. They won’t be going as fast.’
She was fiddling with the heater.
‘Cold?’ he asked, trying for reconciliation.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’ But she continued to adjust dials and buttons and slides, and he knew it was so that she wouldn’t have to look at or talk to him.
Fuck it.
The Honda had recovered from its bronchial moment and was roaring along. Tom started enjoying the chase, even though the quarry was not in sight. Adrenalin surged through him. He glanced at Ness’s fingers exploring the air-con. Those fingers had touched him, held him, pulled him urgently towards her. Whether or not they caught the other car, he wanted to get back to De Rust as quickly as possible. They were both strapped in, and it was just as well. He threw the car around like a toy, careless of consequences. They’d had their crash of the night, he figured, so now they were protected by the god of lightning, who wouldn’t strike twice in the same place.
Once, a Merino loomed in the headlights and Tom detoured crazily across fifty yards of stone, sand and tufts at sixty m.p.h. It made him want to whoop, but he kept his mouth shut and his hands on the wheel.
‘Lights,’ Ness said, without inflection.
There was a faint red glow up ahead. In this black wilderness, they would be able to see even the tail-lights of a car from a long way off. They were gaining quickly.
They went into a shallow dip and lost the lights, but as the road rose on the other side, the glow was much bigger, and Tom realized it didn’t come from car lights – it came from a fire.
There was a short drop into De Rust and they could see a building ablaze. Before his mind had even worked out the geography, Tom’s gut told him it was the guesthouse.
17
IT SEEMED DE Rust had no fire department. But it had plenty of people who were apparently well qualified to stand on the wide sidewalk in their PJs and gape at a house burning down.
‘Water!’ Tom yelled, as he scrambled out of the car. ‘Water!’ His original intention – to rush into the blaze – was snuffed out instantly: the heat was a physical wall that bounced him back and kept him at bay with the rubberneckers. The fire was a raging, living thing that roared and screamed and cracked wooden fire-knuckles in its blazing fury as it consumed the clapboard house. Tom could feel the air around him bulge and sway as the flames sucked greedily at the oxygen-rich sky; it was as if they might decide at any moment to escape the confines of the guesthouse and tear hungrily up the main street, leaving blackened homes and residents in their hungry wake. The little wooden wagon on the front porch was blazing like a prop in a John Wayne film.
‘There are people in there!’ he yelled. ‘Where’s the fire crew?’
An elderly man in a T-shirt and baggy Y-fronts held up his palms expressively. ‘No firemen here, baas.’
‘What about water?’
‘No water here,’ he replied sadly.
‘Did anyone get out?’
The old man shrugged. ‘No one, baas.’
‘Fuck!’
Tom was vaguely aware of heads turning towards him disapprovingly. His language had offended, while the fire that was incinerating six people provoked only interest. ‘Fuck you all!’ He shouldered his way past them and ran round to the back of the house. ‘Pam! Paul!’ The names of the other members of the team died on his lips. He’d hoped to see a way in to them, or a way out for them, but the fire at the back burned even more fiercely. If they weren’t out already, they weren’t getting out now.
In the backyard a large brown dog barked hysterically as sparks floated down around it. It was straining at the end of a chain attached to a stake driven into the ground not twenty feet from the back porch, crazy with terror and pain as bits of debris caught and smoked in its shaggy coat.
Tom ran to the dog, intending to release the chain from its collar but it went for him, and he felt sharp teeth sink into his left hand. He yanked himself free and scooted away from the animal, which came after him in a frenzy of flashing teeth and self-defence, yelping in surprise as its tether yanked it backwards off its feet and it landed on its side, scrabbling for purchase.
Tom stood out of range, nursing his bloody hand, already thinking of the rabies shots he’d need, and wishing the dog dead, while knowing he’d have to try again.
A tall, skinny boy with a pudding-bowl haircut was suddenly beside him. The kid was maybe seventeen, with a prominent Adam’s apple, flaming acne and a bicycle. He spoke quickly in Afrikaans, then read on Tom’s confused face that English was called for. ‘We’ll go to the stake, ja? Behind this, ja?’ He tapped the bicycle.
Without thinking it through, Tom followed the boy back towards the flames.
The dog came at them with renewed vigour, but every time it launched itself at them, the boy parried with the bicycle, knocking it back, sometimes clear off its feet. Tom thought, This is nuts. Why are we trying to release a fucking mad dog? But the plan was in action now – a plan that meant he could save something, even if it was only a dog – so he ducked his head away from the heat and kept close behind the boy as the dog hurled, snarled and yelped.
They reached the iron stake and Tom grabbed it. It was hot enough to make him howl and leave a layer of skin behind. In a fury of anger, pain and helplessness, he kicked at the stake with his heel while all the time he could hear the boy covering his back with the bicycle. The stake finally popped free of the sun-baked earth. The dog was skulking warily now, having taken a few good blows from the bike. It wasn’t crazy then, thought Tom. It had the sense to back off when it was beaten.
Tom and the boy retreated slowly. A chunk of burning wood popped off the house and fell in a shower of sparks near to the dog, and it turned tail and ran, the chain and stake clanking along the asphalt behind it.
‘Jesus.’ Tom sank to the high kerb and the boy sat beside him, staring at his bicycle and coughing into his fist.
