Devil's Peak (16 page)

* * *

Thobela made a noise of frustration in his deep voice as he rose from the hotel bed in one sudden movement. He had lain down at about three o’clock with the curtains drawn to shut out the sun, closed his eyes and lay listening to the beat of his heart. His head buzzed from too little sleep and his limbs felt like lead. Weary. With deliberate breathing he tried to drain the tension from his body. He sent his thoughts away from the present, sent them to the peaceful waters of the Cata River, to the mist that rolled like wraiths over the round hills of the farm . . . to realize only moments later that his thoughts had jumped away and were pumping other information through his consciousness to the rhythm of the pulse in his temples.
Pretorius reaching for the weapon in his wardrobe.
Eternity in the moments before he reached the man, and the alarm wailing, wailing, to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
A heavy woman towering above a little girl and the billiard cue rising and falling, rising and falling with demonic purpose and the blood spattering from the child’s head and he knew that was his problem—the woman, the woman. He had never executed a woman. His war was against men, always had been. In the name of the Struggle, seventeen times. Sixteen in the cities of Europe, one in Chicago: men, traitors, assassins, enemies, condemned to death in the committee rooms of the Cold War, and he was the one sent to carry out the sentence. Now two in the name of the New War. Animals. But male.
Was there honor in the execution of a woman?
The more he forced his thoughts elsewhere, the more they scurried back, until he rose up with that deep sound and plucked aside the curtains. There was movement outside, bright sunlight and color. He looked over the canal and the entrance to the Waterfront. Laborers streamed on foot towards the city center, to the taxi ranks in Adderley Street. Black and colored, in the brightly colored overalls of manual laborers. They moved with purpose, hasty to start the weekend, somewhere at a home or a shebeen. With family. Or friends.
His family was dead. He wanted to jerk open the window and scream: Fuck you all, my family is dead!
He drew a deep breath, placed his palms on the cool windowsill and let his head hang. He must get some sleep; he could not go on like this.
He turned back to the room. The bedspread was rumpled. He pulled it straight, smoothing it with his big hands, pulling and stretching it till it was level. He puffed up the pillows and laid them tidily down, one beside the other. Then he sat on the bed and picked up the telephone directory from the bedside drawer, found the number and rang Boss Man Madikiza at the Yellow Rose.
“This is Tiny. The one who was looking for John Khoza, you remember?”
“I remember, my brother.” The uproar of the nightclub was already audible in the background this late afternoon.
“Heard anything?”
“Haiziko. Nothing.”
“Keep your ear to the ground.”
“It is there all the time.”
He got up and opened the wardrobe. The stack of clean clothes on the top shelf was very low, the piles of folded dirty laundry were high—socks, underwear, trousers and shirts, each in their own separate pile.
He took the two small plastic holders of detergent and softener from his case, and sorted the washing into small bundles. The ritual was twenty years old, from the time in Europe when he had learned to live out of a suitcase. To be in control, orderly and organized. Because the call could come at any time. In those days he had made a game of it, the sorting of clothes according to color had made him smile, because that was apartheid—the whites here, the blacks there, the mixed colors in their own pile; each group afraid that another group’s color would stain them. He had always washed the black bundle first, because “here blacks come first.’
He did that now, just from habit. Pressed and rubbed the material in the soapy water—rinse once, then again, twist the clothes in long worms to squeeze out the water—until his muscles bulged. Hung them out. Next the colored clothes, and the whites could wait till last.
Next morning he would ring reception and ask for an ironing board and iron and do the part he enjoyed the most—ironing the shirts and trousers with a hissing, hot iron till they could be hung on hangers in the wardrobe with perfect flat surfaces and sharp creases.
He draped the last white shirt over the chair and then stood indecisively in the center of the room.
He could not stay here.
He needed to pass the time until he could attempt sleep again. And he must think through this matter of the woman.
He picked up his wallet, pushed it in his trouser pocket, took the key card for his room and went out the door, down the stairs and outside. He walked around the corner to Dock Road, where the people were still walking to their weekend. He fell in behind a group of five colored men and kept pace with them up Coen Steytler. He eavesdropped on their conversation, following the easy, directionless talk with close attention all the way to Adderley.

* * *

It was not André Marais’s fault that Operation Woollies descended into total chaos. She acted out her role as a lonely, middle-aged woman skillfully and with vague, careful interest as the man began to chat with her between the wine racks and the snack displays.
Later she would think that she had expected an older man. This one was barely thirty: tallish, slightly plump, with a dark, five o’clock shadow. His choice of clothes was strange—the style of his checked jacket was out of date, the green shirt just a shade too bright, brown shoes unpolished. “Harmless” was the word on her tongue, but she knew appearance counted for nothing when it came to crime.
He asked her, in English with an Afrikaans accent, if she knew where the filter coffee was, and she replied that she thought it was that way.
With a shy smile he told her he was addicted to filter coffee and she replied that usually she bought instant as she could not afford expensive coffee. He said he couldn’t manage without a good cup of filter coffee in the morning, charmingly apologetic, as if it were sinful. “Italian Blend,” he said.
Oddly, she explained to Griessel later, at that moment she quite liked him. There was a vulnerability to him, a humanity that found an echo in herself.
Their trolleys were side by side, hers with ten or twelve items, his empty. “Oh?” she said, fairly certain he was not the one they were looking for. She wanted to get rid of him.
“Yes, it’s very strong,” he said. “It keeps me alert when I am on the Flying Squad.”
She felt her guts contract, because she knew he was lying. She knew policemen, she could spot them a mile away and he was not one, she knew.
“Are you a policeman?” she asked, trying to sound impressed.
“Captain Johan Reyneke,” he said, putting out a rather feminine hand and smiling through prominent front teeth. “What is your name?”
“André,” she said, and felt her heart beat faster. Captains did not do Flying Squad—he must have a reason for lying.
“André,” he repeated, as if to memorize it.
“My mother wanted to use her father’s name, and then she only had daughters.” She used her standard explanation, although there was no question in his voice. With difficulty she kept her voice level.
“Oh, I like that. It’s different. What work do you do, André?”
“Oh, admin, nothing exciting.”
“And your husband?”
She looked into his eyes and lied. “I am divorced,” she said, and looked down, as if she were ashamed.
“Never mind,” he said, “I’m divorced too. My children live in Johannesburg.”
She was going to say her children were out of the house already, part of the fabrication she and Griessel had discussed, but there was a voice from behind, a woman’s voice, quite shrill. “André?”
She glanced over her shoulder and recognized the woman, Molly, couldn’t recall her surname. She was the mother of one of her son’s school friends, one of those over-eager, terribly involved parents. Oh God, she thought, not now.
“Hi,” said André Marais, glancing at the man and seeing his eyes narrow, and she pulled a face, trying to communicate to him that she would rather not have this interruption.
“How are you, André? What are you doing here? What a coincidence.” Molly came up to her, basket in hand, before she realized that the two trolleys so close together meant something. She read the body language of the man and the woman and put two and two together. “Oh, sorry, I hope I didn’t interrupt something.”
André knew she had to get rid of the woman, because she could see in the clenching of Reyneke’s hands that he was tense. The whole affair was on a knifepoint and she wanted to say: “Yes, you are interrupting something” or “Just go away.” But before she could find the right words, Molly’s face cleared and she said: “Oh, you must be working together—are you also in the police?” and she held out her hand to Reyneke. “I’m Molly Green. Are you on an operation or something?”
Time stood still for André Marais. She could see the outstretched hand, which Reyneke ignored, his eyes moving from one woman to the other in slow motion; she could actually see the gears working in his brain. Then he bumped his trolley forward in her direction and he shouted something at her as the trolley collided with her and she lost her balance.
Molly screamed incoherently.
André staggered against the wine rack, bottles fell and smashed on the floor. She fell on her bottom, arms windmilling for balance, then she grabbed at her handbag, got her fingers on it and searched for her service pistol while her head told her she must warn Griessel. Her other hand was on the little microphone that she held to her mouth and said, “It’s him, it’s him!”
Reyneke was beside her and jerked the pistol from her hand. She tried to rise, but her sandals slipped in the wine and she fell back with her elbow on a glass shard. She felt a sharp pain. Twisting her body sideways she saw which way he ran. “Main entrance!” she shouted, but realizing her head was turned away from the microphone, she grabbed it again. “Main entrance, stop him!” she screamed. “He has my firearm!” Then she saw the blood pouring from her arm in a thick stream. When she lifted up her arm to inspect it she saw it was cut to the bone.

* * *

Griessel and Cliffy leapt up and ran when they heard Molly Green scream over the radio. Cliffy missed the turn, bumping against a table where two men were eating sushi. “Sorry, sorry,” he said and saw Griessel ahead, Z88 in hand, saw the faces of bystanders and heard cries here and there. They raced, shoes slapping on the floor. He heard Marais’s voice on the microphone: “Main entrance, stop him!”
Griessel arrived at the wide door of Woolworths, service pistol gripped in both hands and aimed at something inside the store, but Cliffy was trying to brake and he slipped on the smooth floor. Just before he collided with Griessel, he spotted the suspect, jacket flapping, big pistol in his hand, who stopped ten paces away from them, also battling not to slip.
But Cliffy and Griessel were in a pile on the ground. A shot went off and a bullet whined away somewhere.
Cliffy heard Griessel curse, heard high, shrill screams around them. “Sorry, Benny, sorry,” he said, looking around and seeing the suspect had turned around and headed for the escalator. Cupido and Keyter, pistols in hand, were coming down the other one, but it was in fact the ascending escalator. For an instant it was extremely funny, like a scene from an old Charlie Chaplin film: the two policemen leaping furiously down the steps, but not making much progress. On their faces, the oddest expressions of frustration, seriousness, purposefulness—and the sure knowledge that they were making complete idiots of themselves.
Griessel had sprung up and set off after the suspect. Cliffy got to his feet and followed, up the escalator with big leaps to the top. Griessel had turned right and spotted the fugitive on the way to the exit on the second level. He heard Griessel shout, glanced back. Griessel could see the fear on the man’s face and then he stopped and aimed his pistol at Griessel. The shot rang out and something plucked at Cliffy, knocked him off his feet and threw him against Men’s Suits: Formal. He knew he was hit somewhere in the chest, he was entangled in trousers and jackets, looking down at the hole near his heart. He was going to die, thought Cliffy Mketsu, he was shot in the heart. He couldn’t die now. Griessel must help. He rolled over. He felt heavy. But light-headed. He moved garments with his right arm; the left was without feeling. He saw Griessel tackle the fugitive. A male mannequin in beachwear tottered and fell. A garish sunhat flew through the air in an elegant arch, a display of T-shirts collapsed. He saw Griessel’s right hand rise and fall. Griessel was beating him with his pistol. He could see the blood spray from here. Up and down went Griessel’s hand. It would make Benny feel better; he needed to release that rage. Hit him, Benny, hit him—he’s the bastard who shot me.

* * *

Thobela Mpayipheli was waiting for the traffic lights on the corner of Adderley and Riebeeck Street when he heard a voice at his elbow.
“Why djoo look so se-ed?”
A street child stood there, hands on lean, boyish hips. Ten, eleven years old?
“Do I look sad?”
“Djy lyk like the ket stole the dairy. Gimme sum money for bred.”
“What’s your name?”
“What’s
djor
name?”
“Thobela.”
“Gimme sum money for bred, Thobela.”
“First tell me your name.”
“Moses.”
“What are you going to do with the money?”
“What did I say it was for?”
Then there was another one, smaller, thinner, in outsize clothes, nose running. Without thinking Thobela took out his handkerchief.
“Five rand,” said the little one, holding out his hand.
“Fokkof, Randall, I saw him first.”
He wanted to wipe Randall’s nose but the boy jumped back. “Don’ touch me,” said the child.
“I want to wipe your nose.”
“What for?”
It was a good question.
“Djy gonna give us money?” asked Moses.
“When did you last eat?”
“Less see, what month is this?”
In the dusk of the late afternoon another skinny figure appeared, a girl with a bush of frizzy tangled hair. She said nothing, just stood with outstretched hand, the other holding the edges of a large, tattered man’s jacket together.
“Agh, fock,” said Moses. “I had this under control.”
“Are you related?” asked Thobela.
“How would
we
know?” said Moses, and the other two giggled.
“Do you want to eat?”
“Jee-zas,” said Moses. “Just my luck. A fokken’ stupid darkie.”
“You swear a lot.”
“I’m a street kid, for fuck’s sake.”
He looked at the trio. Grimy, barefoot. Bright, living eyes. “I’m going to the Spur. Do you want to come?”
Dumbstruck.
“Well?”
“Are you a pervert?” asked Moses with narrowed eyes.
“No, I’m hungry.”
The girl jabbed an elbow in Moses’s ribs and made big eyes at him.
“The Spur will throw us out,” said Randall.
“I’ll say you are my children.”
For a moment all three were quiet and then Moses laughed, a chuckling sound rising through the scales. “Our daddy.”
Thobela began to walk. “Are you coming?”
It was ten or twelve paces further on that the girl’s small hand clasped a finger of his right hand and stayed there, all the way to the Spur Steak Ranch in Strand Street.