Read Online The Three by Sarah Lotz - Free Book Online Page B

Always.
    ‘Madam,’ I said, ‘I have to leave. I have to get home.’ I was praying that Busi had decided to collect Susan, my daughter, from crèche early. It was Busi’s day off from the factory, and sometimesshe did this so that they could spend the afternoon together. When I left at five that morning to catch the taxi to the Northern suburbs, Busi was still fast asleep, Susan by her side. I tried to keep that image–Busi and Susan safe together–in my mind. That’s what I concentrated on. I only started to pray later on.
    The madam (her real name is Mrs Clara van der Spuy, but the boss likes me to call her ‘madam’, which made Busi furious) said straight away that she would take me.
    While I collected my bag, I could hear her having a fight with the boss on her cellphone. ‘Johannes doesn’t want me to take you,’ she said to me. ‘But he can go jump. I’d never live with myself if I let you catch a taxi.’
    She didn’t stop talking all the way there, only pausing when I had to interrupt to give her directions. My stress levels were now making me feel physically ill; I could feel the pie that I’d eaten for lunch turning into a stone in my stomach. As we made it onto the N2 highway, I could see black smoke drifting into the air in the distance. Within a few kilometres, I could smell it. ‘I’m sure it’s going to be fine, Angela,’ the madam kept saying. ‘Khayelitsha is a big place, isn’t it?’ She turned on the radio; the newscaster was talking about other plane crashes that had occurred elsewhere in the world. ‘Blerrie terrorists,’ the madam swore. As we approached the Baden Powell road exit, the traffic thickened. We were surrounded by hooting taxis full of frightened faces, people, like me, desperate to get home. Ambulances and fire trucks screamed past us. The madam was beginning to look nervous; she was far out of her comfort zone. The police had set up roadblocks to try and prevent more vehicles getting into the area and I knew I would have to join the crowd and make my way to my section on foot.
    ‘Go home, madam,’ I said, and I could see the relief on her face. I didn’t blame her. It was hell. The air was thick with ash and already the smoke was making my eyes sting.
    I jumped out of the car and ran towards the crowds fighting to get through the barricade they had set up across the road. The people around me were shouting and screaming, and I joined my voice to theirs. ‘
Intombiyam
! My daughter is in there!’ The policewere forced to let us through when an ambulance came racing towards us and needed to get out.
    I ran. I have never run so fast in my whole life, but I didn’t feel tired–the fear pushed me onwards. People would emerge through the smoke, some of them covered in blood, and I’m ashamed to say I did not stop to help them. I concentrated on moving forward although at times it was difficult to see where I was walking. Sometimes that was almost a blessing as I saw… I saw flags stuck into the ground and blue plastic bags covering shapes–shapes that I knew were body parts. Fires raged everywhere and firefighters in masks were busy cordoning off other areas. People were being physically restrained from going in any further. But I was still too far away from the street where I lived–I needed to get closer. The smoke scorched my lungs, made my eyes stream, and every so often there would be a pop as something exploded. My skin was soon bathed in filth. The scene looked completely wrong, and I wondered if I had wandered into an unfamiliar area. I was looking for the top of the church, but it was not there. The smell–like a spit-braai mixed with burning fuel–made me vomit. I dropped to my knees. I knew I couldn’t go any closer if I wanted to carry on breathing.
    It was one of the paramedics who found me. He looked exhausted, his blue overalls soaked with blood. All I could say to him was: ‘My daughter. I need to find my daughter.’
    Why he chose to help