Blood at Bay. Sue Rabie

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СКАЧАТЬ had phoned, asking for his rates. She had accepted his prices and faxed him an order number and an invoice of the items he was to pick up from a machinist somewhere in the industrial district south of Durban. There were two separate consignments, she had instructed, and he would be able to deliver them on consecutive days. Good, David had thought at the time. The way his nights were going he didn’t think he could stay awake behind the wheel for two trips on the same day.

      “And you can’t hire a driver?” Julian asked.

      David wished he could. “They’re too expensive at the moment,” he told his uncle. “I’m doing my own driving until I can afford to expand.”

      “I hope you’re not overdoing it,” Julian commented. “You sound tired.”

      “Just not sleeping well, that’s all.”

      “Well then, that makes it easier to ask you this favour.”

      “What favour?”

      “I’ve bought a yacht.”

      David raised an eyebrow. “Congratulations,” he said politely.

      “It’s not a new yacht,” Julian went on without changing his tone. “In fact, she’s quite old and needs a lot of work before we can sail in her.”

      “We?” David echoed.

      “Your aunt and I,” Julian clarified. “We’re going to sail around the world.”

      David stifled a disbelieving grunt. His aunt, Ann Harper, was not a yachtie. She was a Joburg socialite, accustomed to her fully serviced designer home, her hairstylists, nailstylists and personal trainer. “That should be exciting,” he said carefully, wondering if Julian knew what he was letting himself in for.

      “Hmm,” Julian grunted. “It will be, once she’s been refitted.”

      “The boat?”

      “Yes. She’s a fifty-five-foot Mikado schooner. She’s seaworthy and she’s got her certificates and papers that prove it, but the previous owners were, well, somewhat neglectful.”

      “Oh?” David asked.

      “I’ve hired contractors in Durban to refit the cabins and saloon so your aunt will be more comfortable, but I need someone down there to oversee it all. Someone who can take care of things and make sure the contractors aren’t slacking off.”

      “I see,” David replied, shutting his eyes as he tried to come up with an excuse as to why he couldn’t help.

      “This would be good for you,” Julian told him. “You’ll sleep better after you’ve had some fresh sea air and sunshine.”

      “Yes?” David replied with a trace of irony, thinking that was just what he needed, but not while he ran after carpenters and upholsterers and painters on his uncle’s new yacht.

      “Good, then, I’ll have the boat’s papers couriered down to you.”

      “Hold on—” David started saying.

      “And the spare keys to the cabins and engine,” Julian went on. “I’ve also taken the liberty of getting you membership at the Royal Natal Yacht Club so you can use their facilities.”

      David suppressed the sudden urge to put down the phone. “I didn’t mean—”

      “The contractors start on Tuesday. I’m faxing you the list of things that need doing.”

      David turned in disbelief as his fax machine burped to life. How had Julian known the number?

      “Thank you, David. I really mean it. With you there looking after things I know the work will get done.”

      David sighed. So that’s why Julian Harper was so successful. He knew exactly which strings to pull. “I’ll try,” he said with weary resignation. “But I’m not guaranteeing anything.”

      “I won’t hold any setback against you, and, don’t worry, I’ll make it worth your while.”

      “I don’t need payment—” David said, frowning as he was drowned out again.

      “I’ll get in touch with you soon,” Julian said, ending the call before David could say anything more.

      CHAPTER TWO

      The sound of the morning traffic was distant, the air in the apartment stagnant. David put on the radio and waited for the weather report. He listened vacantly as scattered showers were predicted around Pietermaritzburg. Then he wandered into the kitchen to make another cup of coffee. He stood on his balcony, drinking it as he stared out over the cityscape. The view of the harbour was obscured by a haze of early-morning mist that promised a warm spring day. He thought about the yacht Julian Harper wanted him to babysit and then remembered the nightmares of drowning that had plagued him. Coincidence? He hoped so.

      He went back inside, washed the cup and went to get dressed. He still felt tired and wasn’t looking forward to the trip to Dalton, but at least work would take his mind off the dreams. He grabbed a jacket just in case it did start showering and then went downstairs to the garages where he kept his second-hand Land Rover and the new Mercedes Sprinter delivery van.

      His flat was on the second floor of a duplex apartment block that had been built in the sixties. The brown brick building was a little worn around the edges, but the low rates and location suited him. One of the reasons he had bought it was for the double garage assigned to each apartment. The Mercedes van just fitted, although technically he wasn’t allowed to keep a work vehicle there. But, so far, his neighbour hadn’t objected.

      By the time David had picked up the parts waiting at the specialist machinist in the city and driven out to the Umvoti Mill he was feeling decidedly better. The trip hadn’t been a long one, only an hour and a half from Durban, and the traffic had been obliging. He had driven through Pietermaritzburg to New Hanover, then past the turn-off to Schroeders and Ravensworth and on to Dalton. The rolling emerald green of the sugarcane fields contrasted with the brilliant royal-blue sky above, but the tranquil country portrait was slightly marred by the muddy town.

      Dalton’s main road was a dead end: a row of old buildings that had seen better days opposite a web of railway lines that ran through the town. There was a bank, a butchery, a grocery store, a general dealer and the obligatory post office. A modern bridge linked the main road to the rest of the town where a cash-and-carry and the one and only hotel-cum-bar waited wearily for Friday-afternoon paydays.

      David turned back from the main road and found the Fawnleas, Seven Oaks turn-off. This road led him past the farmers’ hall and rugby club and through the main residential area of town. There were houses on either side – some municipal and clearly built in the fifties, and others larger, more recently built, but still a little grubby. It was no wonder. Huge cane trucks with their double-cargo trailers barrelled down the road, shedding mud and cane sticks. They made for the Dalton Union Co-Op Mill, the huge edifice dominating the town limits as it spewed smoke and soot into the air.

      David started comparing Dalton to Boston, where he had lived before. This town was bigger, with more people, but it was also caught up in that small-town mentality, where most folk knew what their neighbours were up to. He thought of May, СКАЧАТЬ