Eric Thompson had tied Eliot up that morning because he claimed a sack of flour was missing. At the end of a long day of drinking, Eric beat him and when Eliot complained that it was against the law to lay hands on him, Eric tied him to the car by a rope, dragged him to the boundary of his property and left him there. Eliot had managed to stagger to La Rochelle, but collapsed soon after arriving.

‘Pray for him,’ Gideon begged. A muscle twitched sharply in his cheek.

Ginie didn’t tell him she wasn’t one for prayer.

Please, God, she began in her head, do something. Eliot was losing blood fast.

‘Let’s get him to the car,’ said Stephen. ‘I’ll take him to our doctor.’

‘Your white man’s doctor won’t treat him.’

‘I’ll damn well make him.’

Stephen tore down the treacherous road to Umtali, with Eliot and Gideon in the back. Eliot’s gurgled breathing was quieter now. The night was alive with the sounds of the bush; bird noises, insect noises, the crashing of a startled buck. They hadn’t gone far when Gideon said ‘Nkosi’. His tone made Stephen brake sharply and look round.

Eliot was dead.

Without a word, Stephen turned the car around and began the drive back up the hill towards La Rochelle. Gideon started tearing at his hair and keening; a hollow sound that reminded Stephen of the quiet, desperate death-cries of men in the trenches.

He pulled up by the staff quarters. Men and women came pouring out of their houses to help Gideon carry his brother. It was difficult to get him out and one arm clonked hideously against the door of the car. Stephen said goodnight, giving Gideon a hard squeeze on the shoulder.

He presumed they were going bury Eliot as soon as it grew light. The dead had to be buried quickly because of the heat.

Eric received a fine for killing Eliot. When the Courtaulds heard the news, Ginie began to cry and she couldn’t stop.

‘I’d like to kill Eric myself,’ Stephen said grimly. He drove his fist into the wall and paced about the room.

Ginie blew her nose. ‘What can we do?’ she asked, shakily.

‘Absolutely nothing. The police are the farmers’ friends. Eric has the police, the courts and the prisons on his side.’ His fury drained away, leaving him deflated and overcome with hopelessness. He should have known that something like this was coming – he should have expected it, some kind of brutality or bloodshed. In a country where people were so terribly oppressed, periodic eruptions were inevitable. He had been a naïve fool trying to create his own incorruptible Eden, not seeing that it would catch up with him eventually.

His thoughts flew back to the hissing snake coiled around the telephone and Dixon’s warning that he was in danger. Was the prediction coming true?

16 Catherine, Rhodesia, 1950s

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