you, here are my numbers.
Stern looked at the card Clare gave him. Nancy picked up her hoe and applied it to the bed she had been working.
Well be sure to, he said walking Clare to her car. He opened the door for her. Well pray for her safety.
16
The Childrens Hospital: a vigilant sentry, it stood between the leafy suburbs and the wind-scoured Cape Flats that fed the hospital with a steady stream of young patients.
Anwar Jacobs had been in Casualty when Clare had called. He was back there now, and it was mayhem. A keening woman, heavily pregnant, was clutching her bleeding son in her lap, the medical officer cutting off his Batmanpyjamas. The boys father split knuckles, his arms folded around a prison-skinny chest shouted that he would kill the nurse if his son died, threatening that in the Bible it said it was an eye for an eye.
Ag, vok of jy, said the mother. Jyt die kind so geslaan, jou mal hond. Jyt my ook geslaan. She pushed up her sleeve and pointed to a bruise. Kyk! Ja, kyk hierso.
The man lunged at the womanas the guards moved in on him. She ducked and, despite her large belly, deftly avoided the blow. She held her little boy in her lap, protecting him. Her bag flew across the floor, spilling its contents.
Clare bent down and picked up a pack of cigarettes, an empty purse, a lipstick and a pale yellow card. She turned it over in her hand; on the front was the logo of the Ministry of Health. A cliniccard. Clare handed it all back to the woman.
Sedate the mother. Remove the father, Anwar Jacobs instructed the medical officer who had come to relieve him. Get Social Work for the child. This is the third time hes been here in as many months.
He turned to Clare. Welcome to tik hell. And those who make the money drink Johnny Walker Blue while taking in the Capes beautiful views. I patch up thesekids and its like sending them back out into the killing fields. You saw that womans antenatal card, shes pregnant again. She and that scum making sure I never run out of patients.
Its the devils merry-go-round, said Clare. Poverty is a goldmine: abalone, cash, drugs, cash, gangs, cash, then the merry circle starts all over again.
They took the lift to the second floor. I was expecting you earlier,said Anwar.
So was I, said Clare. Another case came in this morning.
Another child? asked Anwar.
Missing teenager, said Clare. A cellist. Rosa Wagner. Vanished three weeks ago.
And youre only looking now?
Seems like nobody missed her either.
The doctor pushed open the doors to Intensive Care. The little girl was in a room of her own.
A muted electronic orchestra played along the managedborderline between life and death. Beeps for heart rate, blips for temperature, the accordion wheeze of the oxygen mask. The little girl was curled up on a sheepskin to protect her fragile skin. She was so thin that she seemed hardly human. Though attached to a rehydration drip and oxygen tubes, she seemed less spectral than the previous day.
Jesus Christ, said Clare. The things people do tochildren.
Dont think about it, said Anwar. Think about what we do instead. Just react. Dont analyse. Youll go mad otherwise.
You said you got the test results back.
The preliminary ones, said Anwar. Infections and chronic diseases eliminated.
The IV beeped. Anwar Jacobs replaced the hydration fluids, got it going again. Clare knelt beside the little girl, her tiny translucent face inches fromhers.
Hows she doing, Anwar? She cradled the childs hand in hers.
The girls tenuous breath fluttered in her chest, and Clare thought she felt a faint pressure from her fingers.
Shes alive, said the doctor. What a little fighter she is. All the odds against her. Shes struggled to breathe and her heartbeat was erratic but thats better now, much better.
Anwar Jacobs bent over the child. Clarewatched his deft hands move gently over the little girls body, re-counting the injuries on her back.
Shes got more than twenty-six marks on her back. There are some nasty
Stern looked at the card Clare gave him. Nancy picked up her hoe and applied it to the bed she had been working.
Well be sure to, he said walking Clare to her car. He opened the door for her. Well pray for her safety.
16
The Childrens Hospital: a vigilant sentry, it stood between the leafy suburbs and the wind-scoured Cape Flats that fed the hospital with a steady stream of young patients.
Anwar Jacobs had been in Casualty when Clare had called. He was back there now, and it was mayhem. A keening woman, heavily pregnant, was clutching her bleeding son in her lap, the medical officer cutting off his Batmanpyjamas. The boys father split knuckles, his arms folded around a prison-skinny chest shouted that he would kill the nurse if his son died, threatening that in the Bible it said it was an eye for an eye.
Ag, vok of jy, said the mother. Jyt die kind so geslaan, jou mal hond. Jyt my ook geslaan. She pushed up her sleeve and pointed to a bruise. Kyk! Ja, kyk hierso.
The man lunged at the womanas the guards moved in on him. She ducked and, despite her large belly, deftly avoided the blow. She held her little boy in her lap, protecting him. Her bag flew across the floor, spilling its contents.
Clare bent down and picked up a pack of cigarettes, an empty purse, a lipstick and a pale yellow card. She turned it over in her hand; on the front was the logo of the Ministry of Health. A cliniccard. Clare handed it all back to the woman.
Sedate the mother. Remove the father, Anwar Jacobs instructed the medical officer who had come to relieve him. Get Social Work for the child. This is the third time hes been here in as many months.
He turned to Clare. Welcome to tik hell. And those who make the money drink Johnny Walker Blue while taking in the Capes beautiful views. I patch up thesekids and its like sending them back out into the killing fields. You saw that womans antenatal card, shes pregnant again. She and that scum making sure I never run out of patients.
Its the devils merry-go-round, said Clare. Poverty is a goldmine: abalone, cash, drugs, cash, gangs, cash, then the merry circle starts all over again.
They took the lift to the second floor. I was expecting you earlier,said Anwar.
So was I, said Clare. Another case came in this morning.
Another child? asked Anwar.
Missing teenager, said Clare. A cellist. Rosa Wagner. Vanished three weeks ago.
And youre only looking now?
Seems like nobody missed her either.
The doctor pushed open the doors to Intensive Care. The little girl was in a room of her own.
A muted electronic orchestra played along the managedborderline between life and death. Beeps for heart rate, blips for temperature, the accordion wheeze of the oxygen mask. The little girl was curled up on a sheepskin to protect her fragile skin. She was so thin that she seemed hardly human. Though attached to a rehydration drip and oxygen tubes, she seemed less spectral than the previous day.
Jesus Christ, said Clare. The things people do tochildren.
Dont think about it, said Anwar. Think about what we do instead. Just react. Dont analyse. Youll go mad otherwise.
You said you got the test results back.
The preliminary ones, said Anwar. Infections and chronic diseases eliminated.
The IV beeped. Anwar Jacobs replaced the hydration fluids, got it going again. Clare knelt beside the little girl, her tiny translucent face inches fromhers.
Hows she doing, Anwar? She cradled the childs hand in hers.
The girls tenuous breath fluttered in her chest, and Clare thought she felt a faint pressure from her fingers.
Shes alive, said the doctor. What a little fighter she is. All the odds against her. Shes struggled to breathe and her heartbeat was erratic but thats better now, much better.
Anwar Jacobs bent over the child. Clarewatched his deft hands move gently over the little girls body, re-counting the injuries on her back.
Shes got more than twenty-six marks on her back. There are some nasty
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