Free The World Beneath by Janice Warman Page B

him.
    “Gordon!” said Mrs. Malherbe. “What are you doing!” Uncharacteristically, she said, “Leave the washing up, Beauty, I’ll do it later. You go to your room.”
    Mr. Malherbe let Beauty go. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Malherbe knew that Joshua was in his hidey-hole, arms around Betsy’s ample neck, face hidden in her fur. He had heard everything; he heard what followed.
    It seemed that Mrs. Malherbe was in a difficult mood herself. This too was unusual. She was normally careful around her husband.
    He could hear her frying bacon, and then breaking eggs into the pan. As they hissed in the fat, she raised her voice to be heard above the noise.
    “So, was it a good trip?” She didn’t sound very friendly.
    Mr. Malherbe grunted. Silence.
    “How’s Charlene?”
    A longer silence, then, “What on earth do you mean?”
    “I just mean, how’s Charlene?”
    “What the
hell
do you mean?”
    “I mean, is she well? Did you have a good trip? I mean, how’s Charlene since you saw her last? I mean, did you enjoy staying with her — again — instead of at the hotel, where they have
never heard of you
?”
    Somebody — Mrs. Malherbe? — put the pan down with a bang.
    There was an odd silence, as if something was happening; what, Joshua couldn’t say. It was a kind of stifled silence, as if there was a struggle going on. Should he come out? But what could he do?
    He stayed where he was. He held Betsy so hard that she squeaked, and then, horrified, let her go. He felt his nose prickle and the tears start. He was tingling all over. He could not bear it; to stay in here while the Master did whatever he was doing to her. To do nothing.
    He remembered what Tsumalo had said to him: “You want me to fix him?” And then: “That’s what they like to think. That we can’t. Do. Anything.”
    He opened the door a crack. Still, he could see nothing. What if he crept out, edged around the dog’s basket, and through the door into the dining room? From there he could — and the box room was just up the stairs —
    The blood-thump of his heart banged in his ears. He could hear nothing else.
    Then he was out, and the dining-room door opened smoothly, and as he squeezed into the hallway, he saw through the crack of the kitchen door that Mrs. Malherbe was bent back over the table. Mr. Malherbe had both hands around her throat. He was leaning his full weight upon her, and one of her hands hung limply over the table’s edge.
    He ran up the stairs two at a time. He hammered with his fists on Tsumalo’s door. “It’s me!” he shouted. “Open the door! It’s Mrs. Malherbe!” One moment too many, and . . .
    The door opened. “Kitchen!” he shouted, and pointed with a trembling hand.
    Without a word, Tsumalo took the stairs, holding the banisters and swinging his good leg down, with Joshua following.
    In the kitchen, Tsumalo pulled Mr. Malherbe off his wife. Holding him by the neck of his shirt with one hand, he punched him hard, once, on the jaw. It was neatly done; Mr. Malherbe, who had not said a word, crumpled to the floor.
    Mrs. Malherbe lay motionless on the table. Tsumalo felt the pulse beneath her jawbone and lowered her carefully to the floor. He put a folded apron under her head. “Get your mother to ring for an ambulance!” he shouted at Joshua.
    Tsumalo was bent over Mrs. Malherbe. He had pulled her up into a kitchen chair. He was trying to wake her. Joshua stood helplessly by the door.
    Beauty was kneeling by the unconscious Mr. Malherbe with a damp cloth in her hand. But she didn’t seem to know what to do with it; or perhaps she was just nervous to touch him.
    “Madam. Wake up, Madam!” Tsumalo felt for her pulse again. “Wake up!” Joshua watched anxiously.
    No one had heard the front door open, but into this melee ran Robert. The call of a siren followed him in. He looked terrified. “Ma!” he shouted.
“What are you doing!”
he screamed at Tsumalo, who glanced at him briefly, then ignored him. Then