The Prey by Tony Park Read Free Book Online Page A

invective and turned the rifle broadside and pushed it into his back. Chris fell again. An order was barked in front of him and Chris heard his guard take a step back. Words were exchanged in Portuguese.
    ‘Here, let me help you.’
    Chris flinched as he felt fingers at his neck. The man who had just spoken English was untying the string that bound the hood to his neck. Chris forced himself to kneel still as the hessian was drawn up, the coarse weave scratching his nose so that he wanted to sneeze. He looked up, blinking. It was almost totally dark, but a candle was set in a carved-out alcove on the side wall. The man who had freed him from the bag was silhouetted, his face hidden in the darkness.
    ‘Welcome to my mine.’ The man laughed, then slapped Chris on the shoulder with a big hand and enough force to almost knock him sideways.
    ‘The others, you …’
    The man held up a hand. ‘You were stupid to come into our mine with an armed guard who chose to shoot first and ask questions later. The body of Fernando should have been enough of a warning to you to come no further.’
    Chris spat fibres from his mouth. ‘You should have left him out by the shaft or somewhere where we could have found him.’
    The man nodded, conceding the point. ‘We would have moved him in time for the arrival of the next shift. You caught us by surprise; we knew you were coming, but not what time.’
    ‘You knew? Themba Tshabalala, the man your pirate killed, wanted to finish work in time to go with his wife to the church, to organise his baby’s christening. That’s why we chose the early shift.’
    The man nodded. ‘Regrettable, but unavoidable, I am afraid. But I am being rude. I have not introduced myself. You may call me Wellington Shumba. Down here, I am the mine boss – not your Mister Cameron McMurtrie. And you are Christiaan Loubser, manager of environmental services.’
    Chris blinked again. He didn’t know how this man knew his name and his job. Chris looked around but could see no more than a few metres. He saw shadows moving and caught the occasional sweat-glistened arm or torso passing by. He smelled sweat and burning gas and heard the clang of tools on rock and the squeaking and grinding of ore being processed by hand.
    He’d heard about how the
zama zamas
processed ore underground but had never witnessed it. As his eyes began to adjust to the dark, he could make out a man sitting in front of a homemade miniature ball mill. It was made from a steel camping gas cylinder that had a hole cut into it and a trap door fitted to the opening. The bottle was laid on its side and fitted with welded rods at either end that were then laid in a cradle. To one end was added a crank so that the operator could wind the cylinder, allowing heavy steel balls inside to crush the ore dropped into the cylinder. The ball mill above ground acted exactly the same way, except it was massive and driven by a motor. The man turning the mill glanced at Chris, the boredom plain on his face and his escape from it visible from his red eyes. The hot air was laden with the smell of marijuana.
    ‘Keep working,’ Wellington barked at the man operating the mill, before walking away a few metres, further down the tunnel. Chris squinted and saw Wellington had sat down behind what looked like a camping table. He was almost completely swallowed by the darkness now, just a voice. ‘Stay where you are, Christiaan. But you may sit instead of kneeling if you wish. Make yourself comfortable.’
    ‘What are you going to do with me?’ Chris asked. He moved so he was sitting with his knees hugged to his chest. The man said nothing in reply and Chris’s imagination filled the void with a dozen hellish scenarios. He thought of Themba and Paulo again – the blood and the brains. The silence stretched out; Chris could hear his own heart beating.
    ‘I need your expertise,’ the mine boss’s voice reached through the quiet. ‘I’m losing men – more than usual