Blood at Bay. Sue Rabie

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      Sue Rabie

      To Louise Elizabeth Mary and Ian Albert Nicholaas

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

      ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

      Many thanks go to Louise Rabie, Roger Sheppard, Jenny-lea Blanks and Stewart Bradford for their invaluable assistance with this work. My gratitude to John Phipson for his translation services and Peter Waldron, production manager at the Dalton Union Co-Operative Limited for the tour and details into the workings of a sugar mill. Thanks also to Janita Holtzhausen, my editor at Human & Rousseau, whose faith in my abilities is so encouraging. To the Royal Natal Yacht Club where I spent many weekends of research, my appreciation.

      A big thank you to Ann and her husband Lars Melin, owner and skipper of Farewell, the fifty-five-foot Mikado schooner I was able to explore at leisure and upon which Sea Scout is based …

      Sorry I sank her in the end.

      CHAPTER ONE

      Dreams can’t kill you, or hurt you, or make you bleed; yet he woke up gasping for air with the taste of blood in his mouth.

      Darkness. Huge and blue. He was drowning, the ocean rushing into his mouth, claws reaching for him from below. And someone, something was pulling him deeper.

      He opened his mouth to yell, only to have saltwater rush down his throat.

      When David Roth awoke fully, he was choking. He struggled to catch his breath as the burn of the ocean in his lungs slowly faded.

      A dream. It was just a dream. He tried to remember what it had been about, to hold on to the vestiges of the nightmare. But it was just like the last time, the memory and images already gone. All that was left was a faint wisp of terror. Someone drowning him? Something pulling him under?

      No. There had been no real claws; there wasn’t really something coming for him.

      “Damn,” he cursed. His voice came out as a croak and he had to clear his throat. “Get a grip.” His lip smarted and he pressed his tongue to where he had bitten it. The dreams had woken him several times in the last month, and he had been tormented, not by them, but rather by his waking from them, by his unsettled surfacing from an unknown fear.

      “They’re just dreams,” he tried telling himself as he scrabbled in the bedside drawer for the pills. The doctor had prescribed Donormyl for insomnia – one before bed – and Seredyn for anxiety – take one as needed. Right, he mused. Big help they had been.

      He pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t want to go back to sleep, to have another nightmare. He got up, glancing around his bedroom as if the ocean might surge in again, as if the thing reaching for him were still there. Darkness and deep shadows, but other than that the flat was quiet. David eased his breath out. He was disappointed with himself, annoyed at his irrational terror.

      He wandered into the lounge. The sofa hid nothing behind it; the shelves and wall units were bare, except for books and photo frames. The dining-room table in the smaller section of the L-shaped room was its usual heaped mess of receipt books and boxes of invoices. The computer in the corner resolved itself into a stand and not the hideous thing his imagination had envisioned in the darkness.

      Beyond the sliding doors and the balcony, Durban glimmered in the bay. The humid air was slightly salty on his tongue as it wafted through the window. Above the tallest buildings the night sky was an orange haze, the thin clouds reflecting the city lights below.

      He turned back to the lounge. The digital clock glowed four minutes past two. He had gone to sleep at ten o’clock, but it seemed only a moment ago that he had closed his eyes. He felt worse than before he had taken the sleeping pills. His mouth was dry, and there was a sharp taste on his tongue. It was the residue of the tablets, the chemicals lurking in his system. He looked at the pills still in his palm. They weren’t helping him; they were making things worse. He went back to the bedroom and threw them away in the en suite bathroom’s bin.

      He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His face was drawn and pale and his normally clear blue eyes were red from lack of sleep. His straight brown hair was slick with sweat and wisps stuck to his forehead. Shave, he told himself as he stepped into the shower, you’ll feel better. He took his own advice.

      He didn’t sleep after that, not even after he had washed the tang of the pills out of his system and his anxiety levels had subsided to a semblance of normality. He hadn’t eaten anything since lunchtime the previous day – another reason why he hadn’t slept well. He went through to the kitchen after his shower, feeling for the light switch before entering the room. Pathetic, he told himself, thinking monsters were prowling in the shadows.

      There wasn’t much in the fridge. The leftover pizza was soggy, the salad was limp and the garlic bread he had left unsealed was as hard as rock. A half-bottle of Coke promised vague relief. He took it and went to the cupboard for a glass. Empty. The sink was full of dirty glasses, mugs and plates from a busy week. He drank from the container instead. The Coke was flat, but he didn’t mind. Anything was better than the taste of medicine in his system. He finished it and tossed the plastic bottle into the bin. He would have to take out the rubbish soon, he noted, and clean the fridge too. Well, he told himself, you might as well do it now. You’re not going to get back to sleep tonight.

      By half past five he had cleaned the kitchen, gone through the fridge and washed the dishes. He made himself toast and a cup of coffee and sat down in front of the TV. It didn’t hold his gaze for long and by the end of the third epic stretch of advertisements his attention had shifted to the state of the rest of his flat. His new company’s books were piled on the dining-room table, jackets lying over sofas, old magazines on chairs.

      The coffee boost caught him and the tidy-up session lasted until half past six. He was actually relieved when the phone call came at seven o’clock, because there was nothing left to do to keep his mind off the nightmares.

      It was Julian Harper, his uncle from Johannesburg, married to David’s late mother’s sister. Apart from a brother who farmed in the Cape, he was David’s closest relative. He was also one of the few family members who still spoke to David. Julian had been David’s lawyer when his daughter Janey had died. He had represented David at the trial and had also assisted him with his parole. David greeted him warmly and asked after him.

      “Good,” Julian Harper told him. “Leading a life of sloth and luxury.”

      David didn’t believe it. Julian wasn’t just a lawyer; he was a businessman. A shrewd one at that. He was in the courts less often than he was off on some mystery holiday. In fact, David had often wondered whether Julian practised law for justice or to use it for his own means, to get around the red tape.

      “Someone told me you were down in Durban now, running a transport company?” Julian asked.

      “I’ve only just started the business,” David told him. “I got another client yesterday.”

      “Great,” Julian encouraged. “Who?”

      “It’s a small job. A delivery of machine parts to СКАЧАТЬ