Fury

2

2

Angela was freezing by the time they stopped in front of a house in Waterkloof. She wished she’d taken a jacket when she left home, a thin dress really didn’t provide enough insulation against the wind-chill factor from being on the back of a bike. The houses in the affluent suburb were mansions with incredible views of the city. The gate opened, and they rode up the long gravel driveway that wound around a fountain with a happy, fat cherub pissing water into a lily-filled pond.

Looking him up and down as she got off the bike, Angela realised there was a lot more to Andre than just a hot biker. The boy had money, and judging by the house, he had lots of it.

“Is this your place?” she asked once she managed to get the oversized helmet off her head.

“Something like that,” he mumbled

Angela tried to get the blood flowing through her arms by rubbing them.

“You’ll warm up once we get inside,” he said, but his voice was anything but warm.

Something was different about him. The flirtatious glint had left his eyes and been replaced by a shifty look as he glanced down the driveway, back towards the quiet street.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he answered, turned away and walked towards the front door. “Let’s get inside.”

“You don’t regret bringing me home, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” he said without looking at her. His back impenetrable and his shoulders hunched. What had she done wrong? She asked herself as she stared at his back in confusion. Had she not held on tight enough while they rode?

A tall black man in an expensive, tailored, suit opened the front door. It wasn’t the kind of suit you’d find at Edgars or Truworths or even Woolworths. Her confusion turned into a tight ball of fear in the pit of her stomach. There was something very wrong with the picture developing in front of her. The man in the suit greeted Andre with an air of superiority and slapped him on his back.

“Good job,” the man said staring at her. “She’ll do nicely.” His accent was English, not Downton Abbey English, but more Football hooligan English.

“She’s got the whole innocent girl-next-door thing going on,” Andre said looking her up and down. “As requested.” His top lip curled up into a snarl.

She turned away from them, towards the gate, and started to run.

She ran for her life.

“Angela,” Andre shouted. “There’s nowhere to run. The gate is locked, and the street is deserted. Nobody’s going to hear you scream and even if they did, they wouldn’t care. They would simply close their windows and pretend they didn’t hear you. You’re on your own. No one is coming to rescue you.”

Her legs stopped working, and she fell on her hands and knees. Gravel bit into her skin.

“This can’t be happening,” she whispered. The enormity of what Andre had said slammed into her gut. She could hear her mother's voice warning her about the bad men out there, who would do horrible things to her if they had the chance, and they would only have that chance if she was a stupid, silly little girl. Andre was one of those men, and she’d been a stupid, silly girl who had trusted his easy smile.

Whatever they had planned for her was not going to be pleasant. She wondered what the chances of coming out of it alive were. Probably slim to none. There was a chance, though, she tried to convince herself. She tried to hold onto hope. Instinct told her she was probably going to die badly, although there were apparently worse fates than death. Maybe they would r**e her and sell her into slavery. She’d heard that human trafficking was big business in South Africa. Maybe she would get out alive if she kept her wits about her. Angela wasn’t sure life as a s*x slave to some warlord in central Africa or the Middle East was a life worth living.

She made a decision about how she was going to react. Tears trickled down her cheeks as she stood up and brushed the gravel off her hands and knees. Angela turned to face them, adjusted her shoulders and walked tall and straight. She walked the way her mother had been trying to get her to for years. Her mother would have been proud. It was the longest walk she’d ever taken. Standing in front of them, her body shook with fear, a fear she’d hoped she would never know.

“So,” she said in a voice she didn’t recognise. “Should we get on with it?”

They laughed.

Angela stared at them, each in turn, and didn’t say anything else. She promised herself no matter what they did to her, from that point on, she would remain silent. She would not give them the power they wanted over her. She would not scream or beg for her life.

“Come on in, my little brave one,” the man in the suit said. He stood aside for her, and she walked past him into the dark house.