Текст книги "Thirteen Hours"

Автор книги: Deon Meyer

Соавторы: Deon Meyer
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'Can't be,' said Cloete, but as a policeman he knew people were capable of anything and he was already considering whether it might be true. Then his face fell. 'Oh man, the press ...'

'Ja,' said Griessel.

'Benny!' All three turned when they heard Vusi Ndabeni's voice. The black detective came jogging down the pavement and reached them, out of breath. 'Where is the Commissioner?'

As one, all three pointed accusing fingers through the glass doors where a doctor had now joined the Mouton conference.

'The other girl – she's still alive, Benny. But they're hunting her down, somewhere in this city. The Commissioner will have to organise more people.'

Without haste, she walked down Marmion Road in the direction of the city. There was an absence in her, an acceptance of her fate. Ahead she saw a car reversing out of a driveway, a small black Peugeot. The driver was a woman. Rachel did not increase her pace, continued to walk towards her, unthreatening. The woman drove to the edge of the street and stopped. She looked left for traffic, then right. She saw Rachel and for an instant made eye contact, then looked away.

'Hi,' said Rachel calmly, but the woman didn't hear her. She stepped forward and softly knocked on the window with the knuckle of her middle finger. The woman turned her head, irritably. Her mouth had a peculiar shape, the corners pulled down strongly. She turned the window down a few centimetres.

'May I use your telephone, please,' said Rachel, without emotion, as though she knew what the answer would be.

The woman looked her up and down, saw the dirty clothes, the grazed chin, hands and knees. 'There's a public telephone at Carlucci's. On Montrose.'

'I'm in real trouble.'

'It's just around the corner,' and the woman looked again for traffic in Marmion Road. 'Just turn right at the next street, and walk two blocks.'

She wound up the window and reversed. As she turned left to drive away she looked once more at Rachel, suspicion and aversion in her face.

Barry studied the map on the hood of the vehicle and said over his phone: 'Look, she could have gone left into Chesterfield, or she could have taken Marmion, but I can't see her. The angle's not good from here.'

'Which one goes down into the city?' The voice was out of breath.

'Marmion.'

'Then keep your focus on Marmion. We're two minutes from the Landy, but you will have to tell us where she is. It's going to take ten minutes to get the cops there. And by then she could be anywhere ...'

Barry took the binoculars and held them to his eyes again. 'Hang on ...'

He followed Strathcona to where it led into Marmion, which was thickly lined with trees. The binoculars stripped the image of perspective, there were too many double storeys and it was too overgrown; only here and there could he see the western pavement and parts of the street surface. He followed the trajectory north towards the city, glanced swiftly at the map. Marmion ended in ... Montrose. She ought to turn left there, if she wanted to reach the city.

Binoculars again. He found Montrose, broad and more visible from here. He followed it west. Nothing. Would she have turned right? East?

'Barry?'

'Yeah?'

'We're at the Landy. We're going to Marmion.'

'OK,' he said, still looking through the binoculars.

He saw her, far and tiny in the lenses, but unmistakable. She crossed the intersection.

'I have her. She's in Montrose ...' He looked down at the map. 'She just crossed Forest, heading east.'

'OK. We're in Glencoe. Now just don't lose her.'

Chapter 13

John Afrika walked out of the glass doors of casualty alone. Apparently, Willie Mouton and the sombre lawyer, Regardt Groenewald, had gone into the hospital. 'Good news, kerels,' said John Afrika as he took his place in the circle. 'Alexa Barnard is out of danger. The damage is not so bad, she's just lost a lot of blood, they're keeping her... Oh, Vusi, morning, what are you doing here?'

'I'm sorry, sir, I know you're busy, but I thought I should come and ask for help ...'

'Don't apologise, Vusi. What can I do?'

'The American girl at the church ... there were two of them, we know that now ...' Vusi Ndabeni took out his notebook from the pocket of his neat jacket, stood up straight and said, 'The victim is Miss Erin Russel. Her friend is Miss Rachel Anderson. They came in with a tour group yesterday. Miss Anderson was seen on Signal Hill at approximately six o'clock this morning, pursued by assailants. Sir, she's an eyewitness, and she's in great danger. We need to find her.'

'Damn,' said John Afrika, but the English expletive seemed ineffective in his mouth.

'Pursued by assailants? What assailants?'

'Apparently five or six young men, some white, some black, the witness says.'

'And who is this witness?'

'A lady by the name of ... Sybil Gravett. She was walking her dog along Signal Hill when Miss Anderson came up to her and asked her for help. She then ran in the direction of Camps Bay after she asked Mrs Gravett to call the police. A few minutes later the young men came running past.'

The Commissioner checked his watch. 'Fuck it, Vusi, that was more than three hours ago ...'

'I know. That's why I need more people, sir.'

'Bliksem.' Afrika rubbed a hand over his jaw. 'I don't have more people. We'll have to get the stations involved.'

'I've already asked the stations, sir. But Caledon Square has to police a union march to Parliament, and Camps Bay has only two vehicles in operation. The SC says they lost one patrol van to theft on New Year's Eve and the other one was crashed ...'

'Neeo bliksem,' Afrika swore before Vusi could finish.

'I've put out another bulletin, sir, but I thought if we could get the chopper, and put some pressure on the SCs ...'

Afrika took out his cell phone. 'Let me see what I can do ... Who the hell is chasing her?'

'I don't know, sir. But they were at a nightclub last night. Van Hunks ...'

'Jissis,' said John Afrika and called a number. 'When are we going to clean out those dens?'

Rachel Anderson walked in through the front door of Carlucci's Quality Food Store, straight up to the counter where a young man in a white apron was busy taking change out of small plastic bags.

'Is there a telephone I can use?' Her voice was expressionless.

'Over there, next to the ATM,' he said and then he looked up. He saw the stains on her clothes, the dried blood on her face and knees. 'Hi... Are you OK?'

'No, I'm not. I need to make an urgent call, please.'

'It's not a card phone. Would you like some change?'

Rachel took the rucksack off her back. 'I've got some.' She went in the direction he had indicated.

He noticed her beauty, despite the state she was in. 'Can I help you with something?' She didn't answer. He watched her with concern.

'Jesus Christ,' Barry said over the cell phone. 'She's just gone into a fucking restaurant or something.' 'Shit. Which one?'

'It's on the corner of Montrose and ... I think it's Upper Orange .. .Yes that's it.'

'We'll be there in two minutes. Just keep looking ...'

'I'm not taking my eyes off the place.'

The ringing of the phone woke Bill Anderson in his house in West Lafayette, Indiana. With his first attempt he knocked off the receiver, so he had to sit up and swing his feet off the bed to reach it.

'What is it?' his wife asked beside him, confused.

'Daddy?' he heard as he picked up the receiver. He lifted it to his ear.

'Baby?'

'Daddy!' said his daughter, Rachel, thirty thousand kilometres away, and she began to cry.

Bill Anderson's guts contracted; suddenly he was wide awake. 'Honey, what's wrong?'

'Erin is dead, Daddy.'

'Oh, my God, baby, what happened?'

'Daddy, you have to help me. They want to kill me too.'

To her left was a large window looking out on Montrose Avenue; in front of her was the deli counter, where three coloured people exchanged looks when they heard her words.

'Honey, are you sure?' her father asked, his voice so terribly near.

'They cut her throat last night, Daddy. I saw it ...' Her voice caught.

'Oh, my God,' said Bill Anderson. 'Where are you?'

'I don't have much time, Daddy. I'm in Cape Town . . . the police, I can't even go to the police ...' She heard the screech of tyres on the road outside. She looked up and out. A new white Land Rover Defender stopped outside. She knew the occupants.

'They're here, Daddy, please help me ...'

'Who's there? Who killed Erin?' her father asked urgently, but she had seen the two men leap out of the Land Rover and run to the main door of the shop. She threw the receiver down and fled through the shop, past the dumbstruck women behind the deli counter, to a white wooden door at the back. She shoved it violently open. As she ran out she heard the man in the apron shout: 'Hey!' She was in a long narrow passage between the building and a high white wall. Along the top of the wall was a long row of broken glass. The only way out was at the end of the passage to the right – another wooden door. She sprinted, the awful terror upon her again.

If that door was locked ...

The soles of her running shoes slapped loudly in the narrow space. She pulled at the door. It wouldn't open. Behind her she heard the deli door open. She looked back. They saw her. She focused on the door in front of her. There was a Yale lock. She turned it. A small, anxious sound exploded from her lips. She jerked the door open. They were too close. She went out and slammed it shut behind her. She saw the street before her, realised the door had a bolt on this side, turned and her fingers worked in haste, it wouldn't budge, she heard them at the lock on the other side. She banged the bolt with the palm of her hand; pain shot up her arm. The bolt slid and the door was barred. They jerked at it from the other side.

'Bitch!' one of them shouted.

She raced down four concrete steps. She was in the street, kept running, left, down the long slope of Upper Orange Street, her eyes searching for a way out, because they were too close, even if they went back through the shop, they were as close as they had been last night, just before they caught Erin.

Bill Anderson rushed down the stairs of his house to his study, with his wife, Jess, at his heels.

'They killed Erin?' she asked. Her voice heavy with fear and worry.

'Honey, we have to stay calm.'

'I am calm, but you have to tell me what's going on.'

Anderson stopped at the bottom where the stairs led into the hallway. He turned and put his hands on his wife's shoulders. 'I don't know what's going on,' he said slowly and calmly. 'Rachel says Erin was killed. She says she's still in Cape Town ... and that she's in danger ...'

'Oh, my God ...'

'If we want to help her at all, we have to stay calm.'

'But what can we do?'

The young man in the apron saw the two men who had chased the girl coming back through Carlucci's Quality Food Store. He shouted again: 'Hey!' and blocked the way to the front door. 'Stop!'

The one in front – white, taut and focused – scarcely looked at him as he raised both hands and shoved the young man in the chest, making him stagger and fall with his back against the counter near the door. Then they were past him, out in the street. He scrambled to his feet, saw them hesitate for a moment on the pavement.

'I'm calling the police,' he shouted, rubbing his back with his hand. They didn't respond, but looked down Upper Orange Street, said something to each other, ran to the Land Rover and jumped in.

The aproned young man turned to the counter, reached for the phone and dialled 10111. The Land Rover turned the corner of Belmont and Upper Orange with squealing tyres, forcing an old green Volkswagen Golf to brake sharply. He realised he should get the registration number. He slammed the phone down, ran outside and a short way down the street. He could see it was a CA number – he thought it was 412 and another four figures, but then the vehicle was too far off. He turned and hurried back to the shop.

On the slope of Devil's Peak, Barry's cell phone rang and he grabbed it. 'Yes!'

'Where did she go, Barry?'

'She went down Upper Orange. What happened?'

'Where is she now, for fuck's sake?'

'I don't know, I thought you could see her.'

'Aren't you fucking watching?'

'Of course I'm fucking watching, but I can't see the whole goddamn street from here ...'

'Jesus! She went down Upper Orange?'

'I saw her, for about ... sixty metres, then she went behind some trees ...'

'Fuck! Keep looking. Don't take your fucking eyes off this street.'

Bill Anderson sat in his study with his elbows on the old desk and the telephone to his ear. It was ringing in the home of his lawyer. His wife, Jess, stood behind him, crying softly, her arms wrapped around herself.

'Is he answering?' she asked.

'It's two o'clock in the morning. Even lawyers are asleep.'

A familiar voice answered at the other end, clearly befuddled with sleep. 'Connelly.'

'Mike, this is Bill. I am truly sorry to call you at this hour, but it's about Rachel. And Erin.'

'Then you don't have to be sorry at all.'

There were four uniformed members of the SAPS on duty at the charge office of the Caledon Square police station – a Captain, a Sergeant and two Constables. The Constable taking the call from Carlucci's Quality Food Store was unaware of Vusi Ndabeni's bulletin and the incident on Lion's Head.

He made notes while the young man described the incident in his shop, then he went over to the Sergeant in the radio control room and they contacted the station patrol vehicles. The Sergeant knew they were all near Parliament where a march was taking place that morning. He gave cursory details of the incident and asked one of the vehicles to investigate. He received a chorus of volunteers. The march was small, peaceful and boring. He chose the vehicle closest to Upper Orange Street. The Constable went back to the charge office desk.

He made sure all the paperwork relating to the call was in order.

Chapter 14

They sat outside a coffee shop on the corner of Shortmarket and Bree Street, five policemen around a table for four. Cloete sat a little apart, beyond the shade of the red umbrella, cigarette between his fingers, talking quietly on his cell phone, pleading for patience from some determined journalist. The rest had their elbows on the table and their heads together.

John Afrika's deep frown showed that his burden of responsibility was weighing heavily on him. 'Benny, it's your show,' he said.

Griessel had known that was coming, it always did. The men at the top wanted to do everything except make the decisions.

'Commissioner, it's important that we utilise the available manpower as efficiently as possible.' He listened to his own words. Why was he always so pompous when he spoke to important people?

Afrika nodded solemnly.

'Our main problem is that we don't know where the Barnard murder took place. We need forensics from the scene. There were exit wounds, there would have to be blood, bullets ... and then we need to place Greyling at the scene ...'

'Geyser,' said Fransman Dekker, still sullen.

He ought to have remembered that, Griessel thought. What was the matter with him today? 'Geyser', he burned it into his memory. 'I'll have them brought in to the station, the man and his wife. We need to talk to them separately. Meanwhile Fransman can go to AfriSound ...' He glanced at Dekker, uncertain whether he had the company name right. Dekker did not react. '... the record company. We need to know about Barnard's day. Where was he last night, and with whom? How late? Why? We have to build this case from the ground up.'

'Amen,' said Afrika. 'I want a rock-solid case.'

'We need a formal statement from Willie Mouton. Fransman?'

'I'll handle it.'

'Did anyone else see or hear Geyser yesterday? Who saw Geyser's wife when she went to Barnard's office?'

'The Big Bang,' said Cloete in disgust, his conversation over. Then his phone rang again. He sighed and turned away.

'As far as Vusi's case is concerned – he needs help, sir, someone to coordinate the stations, someone with authority, someone who can bring more people in from the southern suburbs, Milnerton or Table View ...'

'Table View?' said Dekker. 'That lot couldn't find their own arses with a hand mirror.'

'The chopper can help us in an hour's time. Benny, you'll have to coordinate. Who else is there?' said John Afrika, feeling uncomfortable.

Griessel's voice became quiet and serious. 'Commissioner, this is someone's child out there. They have been hunting her from the early hours of the morning ...'

Afrika avoided the intensity of Griessel's gaze. He knew where this was coming from, he knew the story of Benny's daughter and her abduction, six months ago.

'True,' he said.

'We need feet on the ground. Vehicles, patrols. Vusi, the photo the American boy took – the one of the missing girl – we need prints. Every policeman in the Peninsula ... the Metro people ...' and Griessel wondered what had come of the Field Marshal and his street search.

'The Metro people?' said Dekker. 'Fucking glorified traffic cops...'

John Afrika gave Dekker a stern look. Dekker gazed out at the street.

'It makes no difference,' said Griessel. 'We need all the eyes we can get. I thought we should bring Mat Joubert in to coordinate, sir. He's fairly free at the PT ...'

'No,' said Afrika firmly. He raised his eyebrows. 'You don't know about Joubert yet?' 'What about him?' Griessel's phone rang. He looked at the screen. The number was unfamiliar. 'Excuse me,' he said as he answered, 'Benny Griessel.'

'This is Willie Mouton.' The voice was self-important.

'Mr Mouton,' Griessel said deliberately, so the others would know.

John Afrika nodded. 'I gave him your number,' he said quietly.

Mouton said: 'I phoned Josh Geyser and told him to come to the office, I have something important to say to him. He will be here in ten minutes, if you want to arrest him.'

'Mr Mouton, we would have preferred to bring him in ourselves.' Griessel did his best to disguise his frustration.

'First you complain that I won't cooperate,' said Mouton, touchy now.

Griessel sighed. 'Where is your office?'

'Sixteen Buiten Street. Go through the ground-floor building – our entrance is through the garden at the back. There's a big sign on the wall. Ask for me at reception on the ground floor.'

'We'll be there now.' He ended the call. 'Mouton asked Geyser to come to his office. He'll be there in ten minutes.'

'Jissis,' said Dekker, 'what an idiot.'

'Fransman, I will talk to Geyser, but you have to find the wife ...'

'Melinda?' Cloete still had trouble believing it. 'Pretty Melinda?'

'I'll get their home address from Mouton, then I'll call you. Commissioner, none of this helps Vusi. Is there no one who can help him?'

'Well, it sounds as though the Barnard affair is sorted out. If the case against Geyser is strong enough, lock him up and go and help Vusi. We can tie up the loose ends tomorrow.'

Afrika saw the look on Benny's face and he knew it wasn't the solution he had hoped for.

'OK. We can bring in Mbali Kaleni temporarily until you are free.'

'Mbali Kaleni?' Dekker was taken aback.

'Shit,' said Vusi Ndabeni. Immediately he added: 'I'm sorry ...'

'Nee, o fok,' said Dekker.

'She's clever. And thorough,' said the Commissioner, on the back foot for the first time.

'She's a Zulu,' said Vusi.

'She's a pain in the gat,' said Dekker. 'And she's at Bellville, her SC won't release her.'

'He will,' said John Afrika, in control again. 'She's all I have available, and she's on Benny's mentor list. She can coordinate from Caledon Square – I'll ask them to arrange something for her.'

He saw no relief on Vusi and Fransman Dekker's faces.

'Besides,' said Afrika with finality, 'it's only temporary, until Benny can take over.' As an afterthought he added reproachfully: 'And you should be supporting our efforts to develop more women in the Service.'

Easy and athletic, the young black man jogged through the trees of De Waal Park, from the Molteno Reservoir end to the waiting Land Rover Defender in Upper Orange Street.

'Nothing,' he said as he got in.

'Fuck,' said the young white driver. He pulled away before the door was even properly shut. 'We have to get out of here. He would have called the cops. And he saw the Landy.'

'Well, then we'll have to get our own cops here too.'

The white man took his cell phone out of his breast pocket and passed it to the black man. 'Call them. Make sure they know exactly where she disappeared. And get Barry down here as well. He's no use up the fucking mountain any more. Tell him to go to the restaurant.'

Griessel and Dekker walked to Loop Street together. 'What have you got against Inspector Kaleni?' Griessel asked.

'She's the fat one,' said Dekker, as if that explained everything. Griessel remembered her from last Thursday: short, very fat, with an unattractive face, severe as the sphinx, in a black trouser suit that sat too tight.

'And ...?'

'We were at Bellville together and she irritates the living shit out of everyone. Fucking bra-burning feminist, she thinks she knows everything, sucks up to the SC like you won't believe ...' Dekker stopped. 'I'm this way.' He pointed down the street.

'Come to AfriSound when you're finished.'

Dekker wasn't finished yet: 'She has this moerse irritating habit of appearing out of nowhere, like a fucking bad omen. She sneaks up, quiet as a wet dream, on those little feet and all of a sudden there she is, always smelling of KFC, though you never see her eating the fucking stuff.'

'Does your wife know?'

'Know what?'

'That you have the horny hots for Kaleni?'

Dekker growled something indiscernible and irascible. Then he threw back his head and laughed, a deep bark that echoed off the building across the road.

Griessel thought about fat policemen as he walked to his car, of the late Inspector Tony O'Grady. Fat Englishman, smartass know– it-all, always chewing nougat with his mouth half open. Didn't bath quite as often as he should. Could drink with the best of them, one of the guys, never unpopular. It was because Kaleni was a woman; the detectives weren't ready for that.

Where were the days of Nougat O'Grady?

Then Griessel had been sober, keen and fearless. Always sharp, he could make a parade room of detectives roar with laughter, every fucking Monday morning. The days of Murder and Robbery, of the ascetic Colonel Willie Theal, already three months in his grave now from cancer, of Captain Gerbrand Vos, later Superintendent, with his bright blue eyes, shot dead in front of his house by a Cape Flats syndicate. And Mat Joubert ... which reminded Griessel of what the Commissioner had said. He took out his phone and called.

'Mat Joubert,' said the familiar voice.

'I suggested to the Commissioner that we bring the Senior Superintendent in, because we need help and he says: "Don't you know about Joubert yet?" ...'

'Benny ...' Apologetic.

'What don't I know yet?'

'Where are you?'

'In Loop Street, on my way to arrest a gospel singer for murder.'

'I have to come to the city. I'll buy you coffee when you're finished.'

'To tell me what?'

'Benny ... I'll tell you when I see you. I don't want to do it over the phone.'

Then Griessel knew what it was. His heart sank.

'Jissis, Mat,' he said.

'Benny, I wanted to tell you in person. Call me when you're done.'

Griessel climbed into his car and slammed the door hard. He turned the ignition.

Nothing ever stayed the same.

Everyone went away. Sooner or later.

His daughter. Gone to London. He had stood beside Anna at the airport watching Carla walk away through the guarded door to Boarding. Dragging her suitcase on wheels in one hand and holding her ticket and passport in the other, hurrying off on the Great Adventure, leaving him, leaving them. His emotions threatened to get the better of him, there next to his estranged wife. He wanted to take Anna by the hand and say: 'It's only you and Fritz left, because Carla is gone now, into the grown-up world.' But he didn't dare.

His daughter looked back once just before she disappeared around the corner. She was far away, but he could see the excitement on her face, the expectation, dreaming of what lay in store for her.

And he always stayed behind.

Would he stay behind again tonight? If Anna didn't want him any more? Would he cope with that?

What if she said: 'OK, Benny, you're sober, you can come home again'? What the fuck would he do then? Over the past few weeks he had started wondering more and more about that. Maybe it was a kind of rationalisation, a way of protecting himself from her rejection, but he wasn't sure that it would work – Anna and him together again.

His feelings about it were complicated, he knew that. He still loved Anna. But he suspected he had been able to stop drinking precisely because he was alone, because he no longer took the violence and death home to his family every night, because he didn't walk in the front door and see his wife and children and be stalked by the fear that they too would be found like that, bodies broken, hands rigid in the terrible fear of death.

But that wasn't the whole story.

They had been happy, he and Anna. Once upon a time. Before he began drinking. They had their little family world, just the two of them at first; then came Carla and Fritz and he had played on the carpet with his children and at night he had snuggled up to his wife and they had talked and laughed and made love with heartbreaking ease, carefree, because the future was a predictable Utopia, even though they were poor, even though they owed money on every stick of furniture, and on the car and the house. Then he was promoted to Murder and Robbery, and the future slipped between his fingers, from his grasp, little by little, day by day, so slowly he didn't realise it, so subtly that he got up from a drunken stupor thirteen years later and realised it was all gone.

You could never get it back. That was the fuck-up. You could never go back, that life, those people and those circumstances were gone, just as dead as O'Grady, Theal and Vos. You had to start over, but this time without the naivety, innocence and optimism of before, without the haze of being in love. You were different, you were stuck with the way you were now, with all the knowledge and experience and realism and disillusionment.

He didn't know if he could do it. He didn't know if he had the energy – to go back to where every day was judgement day. Eagle– eyed Anna watching him when he came home at night, where had he been? Did he smell of drink? He would come through the door knowing this, and he would try too hard to prove his sobriety, he would play up to her, he would see her anxiety until she was sure he was sober and then she would relax. It all felt too much for him, a burden he wasn't ready to bear.

Then there was the fact that in the past two or three months, he had begun to enjoy his life in the spartan flat, the visits of his children before his daughter went overseas, when Fritz and Carla sat and chatted with him in his sitting room or a restaurant like three adults, three ... friends, not hamstrung by the rules and regulations of the conventional family. He had begun to enjoy the silence of his home when he opened the door, nobody watching and judging him. He could open the fridge and drink directly, long and deeply, out of the two-litre bottle of orange juice. He could lie on the couch with his shoes on and close his eyes and snooze till seven or eight o'clock and then stroll down to the Engen garage on Annandale and buy a Woollies Food sandwich and a small bottle of ginger beer. Or his favourite, a Dagwood burger at Steers, then home to type an email to Carla with two fingers, a bite and a swallow in between. He could play on his bass guitar and dream impossible dreams. Or he could return the dish to seventy-something Charmaine Watson– Smith at Number 106. 'Oh, Benny, you don't have to thank me, you're my charity. My policeman.' Despite her years her eyes were full of life and her food was so delicious, every time.

Charmaine Watson-Smith who had sent Bella around. And he had taken advantage of Bella and, fuck it, he was an adulterer, but it had been incredible, so terribly good. Everything has a price.

Perhaps Anna knew about Bella. Perhaps Anna was going to tell him tonight that he might well be sober, but he was an unfaithful bastard and she didn't want him any more. He wanted Anna to want him. He needed her approval, he needed her love and her embrace and the safe haven of their home. But he didn't know if that was the right thing for him now.

Jissis, why did life have to be so complicated?

He was in Buiten Street and there was no parking and the present, the reality of it all, felt to him as though someone had switched on a powerful light. He blinked his eyes against its brightness.