Master of the Game

As though from a distance, he heard Margaret’s voice. ‘Don’t you remember? I – belong – to – you … I love you.’

He shook himself out of his reverie and looked at her. Love. He no longer had any idea what the word meant. Van der Merwe had burned every emotion out of him except hate. He lived on that. It was his elixir, his lifeblood. It was what had kept him alive when he fought the sharks and crossed the reef, and crawled over the mines at the diamond fields of the Namib Desert. Poets wrote about love, and singers sang about it, and perhaps it was real, perhaps it existed. But love was for other men. Not for Jamie McGregor.

‘You’re Salomon van der Merwe’s daughter. You’re carrying his grandchild in your belly. Get out.’

There was nowhere for Margaret to go. She loved her father, and she needed his forgiveness, but she knew he would never – could never – forgive her. He would make her life a living hell. But she had no choice. She had to go to someone.

Margaret left the hotel and walked towards her father’s store. She felt that everyone she passed was staring at her. Some of the men smiled insinuatingly, and she held her head high and walked on. When she reached the store, she hesitated, then stepped inside. The store was deserted. Her father came out from the back.

‘Father …’

‘You!’ The contempt in his voice was a physical slap. He moved closer, and she could smell the whiskey on his breath. ‘I want you to get out of this town. Now. Tonight. You’re never to come near here again. Do you hear me? Never!’ He pulled some bills from his pocket and threw them on the floor. ‘Take them and get out.’

‘I’m carrying your grandchild.’

‘You’re carrying the devil’s child!’ He moved closer to her, and his hands were knotted into fists. ‘Every time people see you strutting around like a whore, they’ll think of my shame. When you’re gone, they’ll forget it.’

She looked at him for a long, lost moment, then turned and blindly stumbled out the door.

‘The money, whore!’ he yelled. ‘You forgot the money!’

There was a cheap boardinghouse at the outskirts of town, and Margaret made her way to it, her mind in a turmoil. When she reached it, she went looking for Mrs Owens, the landlady. Mrs Owens was a plump, pleasant-faced women in her fifties, whose husband had brought her to Klipdrift and abandoned her. A lesser woman would have crumbled, but Mrs Owens was a survivor. She had seen a good many people in trouble in this town, but never anyone in more trouble than the seventeen-year-old girl who stood before her now.

‘You wanted to see me?’

‘Yes. I was wondering if – if perhaps you had a job for me here.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.