The Disappeared (42 page)

And now as she
stood on the riverbank, she truly felt like whooping with unbounded joy and the
most delicious
schadenfreude
. Which is exactly what she did. If Jones
and Max had listened more attentively they would surely have heard her.

Jones jumped
up.
The little idiot.
He had caused the engines to die. Yet again. And
that was not good. In fact it was downright disastrous. The Elandsriver was
notorious for its strong currents. Without the engines they were without
control and at the mercy of the currents. Without the engines they were quite
literally screwed. ‘What the hell did you do?’ Jones shouted at Max. ‘You little
idiot. Get away there.’ Jones pushed Max aside and tried the ignition. Nothing.
It was dead. He tried again. Nothing. How was it possible for one person to be
so utterly useless? He turned to the ashen Max. ‘What did you do?’

‘Nothing. It
just died.’

Jones tried
again. Nothing. Shit! Surely not even Max could mess it up this thoroughly.

Suddenly the
boat lurched violently. The current pushed the nose towards the starboard side.
They had now completely lost control and were charging sideways down the river.
Things were not looking good. And then it got worse. They were heading for a
collision with the riverbank. ‘Shit! Hold on.’

The boat
collided with the riverbank in a bone-jarring crash. The force of the collision
threw Jones onto his knees leaving him desperately clinging to the useless
steering wheel. At the same time the impact had sent the boat spinning in the
powerful current. Jones looked over his shoulder. Max was clutching the mooring
bar with all his strength. A look of pure terror clung to his face. Jones
couldn’t believe it. A plan that was so beautiful in its simplicity had become
a nightmare of the worst kind. He realised – suddenly and completely – with the
clarity of a man facing sure death ... that they were doomed. Then. From
somewhere – he couldn’t tell exactly where – he heard a low guttural moan. It
started softly but rose quickly in intensity and pitch.
What the hell was
that?
Jones looked over at Max and immediately identified the source of the
terrible sound. It was Max himself. Clinging with bone-white knuckles Max, was
staring transfixed into the swirling waters of the Elandsriver. His eyes were
wide open. His mouth was wide open. Teeth bared. And he was screaming like some
crazy banshee.
What the hell is wrong with him?
The scream rose and rose
until it became the shriek of a deranged animal. And still Max stared into the
rearing waters as if hypnotised.
For the first time in
so
many
years. In fact for the first time since those terrifying days on the border ...
Jones felt terror. Not the kind of marshmallows-and-tea suburban terror. No.
Real terror. The kind of terror that comprehensively robbed a man of all reason
and will. It was perhaps because of this that Jones never saw the swell that
now engulfed the boat. It washed over the side as the craft dipped under its
weight. And swept Jones off his feet. Swept him over the side, arms flailing
wildly. And into the seething, vortex-mad waters of the river. The cold hit him
like a bus. And forced the oxygen out of his lungs. Acting out of pure instinct
he drew in a last lungful of air. And felt himself being sucked under the
watery mountains of the river’s heaving surface. The violent undercurrents
ripped and tore at his body. He felt himself falling and falling. And falling.
Deeper and deeper. And deeper. The sunlight faded. And darkness sucked him in.
Falling and falling. Deeper and deeper. And deeper and deeper. The
undercurrents pushed and shoved at him. Pushing him deeper into the dark watery
bowels of the river. In his burning chest he could feel his body sucking the
oxygen from his lungs.

It is true to
say that when men reach their end, they see their lives flash before them. But
it is not what one would think. It is not the neat linear narrative of a movie.
No. Instead at the moment of death – or rather moments before death – the
conscious merges with the sub-conscious. The Id fuses with the Ego. And all
things are seen. Through each other. Within each other. Concurrently. And in
proper relation. So that a moment from one’s youth is juxtaposed  ... divided
by ... multiplied by a second occurring just before death. A period spanning
years is compacted impossibly into a pinpoint of a moment and an experience
spanning a few seconds becomes an eternity stretched into a lifetime.

And so. It was
in this way that Gilbert Peter Jones now saw his life in the last few tortured
seconds of his existence. And then with it came a realisation. And like all
realisations of this nature ... it came too late. As he sank into the darkness
of the river depths, Gilbert Peter Jones realised that he had not been a good
person ... at all. As he sank into swirling depths he saw himself exactly for
what he had been. And the fear of God gripped his heart. And a little whimper
escaped his clenched throat.

And as his
tortured body fought against the lack of oxygen ... against the onslaught of
the cold water ... he continued to sink. Deeper and deeper. And deeper. Towards
the darkness he fell. Falling and falling. Falling. And falling. And then. When
his searing lungs could hold it no longer Jones let go. And sucked the water
into his tortured alveoli. The water tore into him. Through him. He fell.

And.

Fell.

And ...

And ...

Until.

The.

Darkness.

Became.

Light.

The brightest
light possibly imaginable. The light that transcendeth all understanding.

And as Gilbert
Jones fell towards the light. And the light infused his entire being. And the
light became his world. As he fell. For the briefest second he thought he could
almost – almost!! – hear the demented screams of Max Theron.

Joshua felt
the afternoon sunlight wash over his face. The sky was still clotted with
clouds and the sunlight was meagre. But it was
still
sunlight after all.
He inhaled deeply as if breathing in the soft light of the filtered sun. Amidst
all the gloom he felt immensely relieved to be outside. To be free again. He
looked over at Lindiwe who was walking next to him. And it was all because of
her. This incredible woman now next to him. He smiled at her. She returned the
smile. Dazzling and exquisite. A bright beautiful island of white in the
hazelnut brown of her face. When he had first tried to embrace her outside the
prison cell she had resisted. Self conscious in front of Coetzee. But now he
walked close to her wanting to feel her body heat. And she let him. They were
walking so close together their arms touched. Every now and then a step would
make him bump into her. Every single touch made his heart quicken. At the same
time Joshua was also aware of Jansen walking slightly behind them. He radiated
undisguised animosity. And even hatred. It puzzled and disturbed Josh. Besides
the obvious distinction that separated them as lawbreaker and law enforcer,
there was no reason for the fervent hatred that Jansen seemed to harbour
against him. But on a much more disturbing level was the open loathing he felt
for Lindiwe. Joshua could handle belligerence in all its forms. He had become a
master at it. But Jansen’s hatred towards her made him worry and fear for her.
And once again he found its source mystifying. The only obvious reason why he
should feel this way towards Lindiwe – Joshua guessed – was because she was
black.
What else could it be?
He had come to know them well. The
policemen who continued to cling to the old ways. Who simply couldn’t accept
that the old South Africa had passed away and would never again be resurrected.
Joshua cast a surreptitious look at the lanky policeman over his shoulder.
Something about him just wasn’t right.

                                                **

Jansen walked
slightly behind Lindiwe and Joshua, keeping himself out of their line of sight.
Yet at the same time giving him a commanding view. He didn’t trust the little
black bitch. And he trusted the prisoner even less. There was something about
him. In the way predator and prey know each other in the wild Jansen
instinctively recognised that the prisoner was somehow on the opposite end of
some kind of spectrum. He couldn’t define that spectrum. But he knew it
existed. Just as he knew the two of them occupied worlds that could never meet
or be reconciled. They were staring at each other from parallel dimensions and
just as surely as night replaced day ... there was a showdown looming. Jansen
had no doubt about this. He guessed that at some level or other the prisoner
knew it too.

At the same
time Jansen suspected there were things the prisoner wasn’t telling them. By
now he was sure the prisoner was in some way connected to their predicament.
Everything was just too neat and co-incidental. And now that the convict had
been magically released ... well, that’s the way they worked. Wasn’t it? Those
from the other side. That’s how they got things done. That’s how they slowly
take over the world. But he was onto him. Jansen guffawed loudly. The sound
drew quick, mystified looks from the prisoner and his bitch. Oh yes he was onto
him.

Jansen
measured his step to ensure he remained slightly behind them. He was going to
have to keep an eye on this one. Damn right. And the moment he did something
... Jansen fingered his gun ... he would be ready.

In front of
him, Lindiwe and Joshua walked in silence. They weren’t holding hands but they
were touching. Every now and then they would steal a lovesick glance at each
other. Smiling shyly. She reached out and squeezed his hand.

It sickened
Jansen. The sight of his white hand clasped in her chestnut grip disgusted him.
It was an affront to decency. To everything he believed in. White and black
were not supposed to mix and that was that. Just like men were not supposed to
mate with beasts. It was an ancient and incontrovertible law. And yet, here
they were.

Like all true
racists, Jansen was driven by this singular primordial fear. It was the dark
impetus that inspired Verwoerd and laid the foundations for the system of
Apartheid. It was also the driving force behind the segregation in the southern
states of America. It was an obsession that occurred wherever white men lived
in close proximity to those of darker skin. It was simple but powerful. The
fear that the white man’s woman would be seduced by the black man ... and
commit that dark and terrifying sin. Miscegenation. And even worse. That the
white woman would be impregnated by black semen. And bear the black man’s
child. Despite all the alleged and ostensible complexity – this was the fear
that lived at the heart of all political systems of segregation and racial oppression.

Now, as Jansen
stared at Lindiwe and Joshua, he smirked in contempt. Maybe they did deserve
each other after all. White trash and black rubbish. He smiled as he marvelled
at his witticism. Damn right. There was only one thing a
kaffir
bitch
was good for. Doing his washing and licking his boots. Although ...

Jansen pulled
back and watched the alluring gyrations of her taut buttocks beneath the floral
print material of her dress. He had to admit – maybe a few brandies strong –
and he could see himself teaching this nigger whore a few lessons. Show her
exactly why the white man was still her boss. No matter what the world said. At
the same time the visuals from that morning’s CCTV footage flashed through his
mind. He felt himself stiffen. He surreptitiously stroked his hardening cock as
he imagined riding her black buttocks from behind. Digging her nigger face into
his come-stained carpet. Hearing her beg her white master for mercy.

Lindiwe turned
around and fixed him with a belligerent stare. It startled Jansen. Almost as if
she sensed the twisted thoughts racing through his mind. Jansen quickly removed
his hand from his rapidly deflating penis. For a brief second he felt the hot
humiliation of the boy who had been caught masturbating by his mother. Lindiwe
turned to Joshua and whispered something in his ear. He now also turned and
looked at Jansen. ‘Is there a fucking problem?’ Jansen asked with contempt. ‘Is
there something you want to say to me, white trash?’ Brief anger flashed in
Joshua’s eyes but he said nothing and returned his gaze to the front.

                                                **

Joshua
swallowed the anger that inflamed his heart.
Son of a bitch. What was his
problem?
These thoughts however quickly vanished the moment Joshua stepped
into The Abbot. And for the first time came face to face with the town’s
remaining residents. He was shocked. Lindiwe had never actually mentioned how
few survivors there were. When he had first entered Bishop, he had estimated
the town’s population to be a couple of thousand people. But now he was staring
at a motley crew of not even twenty people.

Everyone
looked up as Joshua entered the restaurant. The town’s residents fell silent,
studying him intently. Lindiwe stepped forward clearing her throat. ‘Everybody,
this is Joshua. He’s from out of town.’ This last statement sank like a stone
in water. Joshua guessed that by now everyone knew that he was the prisoner
from the Bishop jailhouse. Instead of easing the way, Lindiwe’s obvious
euphemism had the opposite effect. In the corner Josh saw an elderly couple
whisper to each other.

‘He’s from the
jail cells. That’s where he’s from,’ Jansen said. ‘An armed robber and a
murderer. That’s what he really is.’ Jansen’s words triggered a mass of
whispered conversations, exclamations and suspicious looks. Even Moira who was
behind the bar looked at him with a worried expression. Joshua sighed. This was
going to be harder than he thought. Lindiwe looked over at him and squeezed his
hand.