The October Killings (10 page)

While Abigail was in the garden with Rosa, Yudel had not been able to speak to the commissioner, but had been put through to his deputy who, after Yudel had let him believe that what was wanted had been approved by the commissioner, had agreed to make the arrangements.

“Another thing,” Yudel said. “I want to go into the cell. I don't want to do this through two sheets of bulletproof glass.”

The commissioner's deputy had agreed to this too. A new psychologist, one of the department's relatively few current recruits, would be there to escort him and his guest to the prisoner he needed to see. There would also be two heavily armed warders with them.

He looked up with a self-satisfied smile in the direction in which he expected to find Abigail. A movement in the garden caught his attention. She was chatting to Rosa, as if they had known each other forever. As he watched, Rosa laid a hand on Abigail's shoulder and the two women seemed to pause in their discussion. Both were smiling warmly.

Women, Yudel thought. What did they talk about when there were no men present? It had always been a mystery to men and always would be. They never divulged the secrets of their gender to the other half of humanity. He had been doing her an important favor—according to her, a life-and-death one. But, instead of waiting to hear the outcome, she had gone outside to discuss recipes or knitting patterns or man trouble or something similar with Rosa. Understanding females was beyond the scope of the male intellect.

If Yudel could have overheard the conversation in the garden, he would have heard Abigail telling Rosa that her thesis had been on crimes against children and how the patterns had changed during and after apartheid. “I wish you could make the time to tell me about it some day,” Rosa said.

“I'd love to,” Abigail said.

“I'd like to read your thesis.”

“I'll have a copy delivered.”

Rosa waved a hand in the direction of the study window. “It looks as if Yudel has finished,” she said. “He has that impatient look he gets when he's done something he thinks is pretty good, but there is no one present to applaud.”

Yudel saw them start toward the house. They've probably exchanged e-mail addresses to expedite the exchange of dream vacation destinations, he thought.

12

For the second time that day, Yudel set out for C-Max. Abigail had left her car in the driveway of his home and was seated in the passenger seat next to him. “Thank you for this,” she said.

Yudel nodded, but drove in silence until they entered the prison complex. “Are you sure you want to meet him again?” he asked eventually.

Abigail was sure that she never wanted to see this man again. She was glad that he was being held in the depths of C-Max with no practical hope of escape. Of all human beings on earth, there were just two Abigail prayed that she would never have to face again. Van Jaarsveld was one of them. She had seen him only briefly and knew what he had done. His actions that night were a continuing nightmare that had been dimmed only slightly by the passage of twenty years. Seeing him again was something that she would never have chosen. But now, since Leon Lourens had entered her office two days before, everything was different. “I'm sure,” she said.

“When we're in front of him, you'd better let me start,” Yudel said.

She nodded.

They had to wait outside the pedestrian gate for almost half an hour before they were let in. A bespectacled man, taller than Yudel and lean, was waiting just inside. He was one of a kind of African man whose age is almost impossible to judge. Even to Abigail he could have been anything between thirty and sixty. The guard who had opened for Yudel and Abigail waved them in his direction. He held out a limp hand to Yudel. “I'm Patrick Lesela,” he said.

Yudel introduced himself and Abigail. The academic, he thought. “You're from UPE, I believe?”

“I've spent some time there, fine institution.”

“And now you're the psychologist for C-Max?” Yudel asked.

“And for Modder B, Central and Zonderwater.” His tone of voice revealed no enthusiasm. He had met Yudel's eyes only momentarily. He averted them as he spoke.

“Alone?”

“Yes. There aren't enough of us.”

They had started toward the inner wall, Abigail walking next to Lesela with Yudel a few steps behind. There was a passivity about Lesela's manner that Yudel found disturbing. “Are you running any sort of rehabilitation program?” Yudel asked, wondering if Lesela knew what the commissioner was planning.

“No. I've been dealing with prisoner complaints.” His head was tilted forward so that he seemed to be looking at a patch on the concrete path a pace or two in front of his feet. He had made no attempt to look back at Yudel as he answered.

“Complaints?”

“Conditions and so on.”

They had practically no psychologists and one of the few spends his days listening to complaints? Yudel wondered about it. “Are you happy with that?” he asked.

Abigail glanced back at Yudel. There was a pleading in her eyes that seemed to ask, Did we come here for this?

“I understand we will soon be implementing the rehabilitation methods of an outside consultant. If I'm not mistaken, you are the consultant. I'm waiting for that.”

So the commissioner had been talking about his new program before even getting Yudel's agreement. I suppose he knew his man, Yudel thought. “My methods are partly based on Zimbardo's prison studies. You're familiar with them, of course?”

Lesela answered in the same flat monotone in which enthusiasm would have been an alien intrusion. “I also agree with that study.”

“Which study?”

“That Zimbalist study.”

Zimbalist? Yudel thought. An academic? Which academy? And they retrenched me for you. And now you are going to be my trusty right hand. This time he was silent though. Abigail had again turned to look briefly at him. The reproach in her eyes was unavoidable.

Before they reached the inner wall they were joined by two armed warders. The group followed the same route Yudel had taken earlier in the day, gate after gate being opened to let them pass, then locked behind them. When they reached the section that had once been death row, Yudel led the way to the catwalk that ran over the top of the cells, with Abigail close behind and Lesela and the warders following. Below them the prisoners, one to a cell, sat on their bunks, paced, read or stood at the cell doors, talking to the man opposite. The walls between them were solid concrete and the ceilings open, but barred.

The man they had come to see was standing in the center of his cell, his feet spread wide and looking up as if expecting them. The light from the fluorescent fittings reflected off the white walls so that the thickset man below in his green prison uniform seemed to be standing in a sea of brightness. He looked older than his sixty-five years. “Marinus van Jaarsveld?” Yudel asked.

“Ja,” he said and then softly, more to himself than to them, “fokken Jood.” But he was not looking at Yudel. His eyes were fixed somewhere further back.

Yudel turned to find that he was almost alone. Considering how well insulated he was from the man in the cell, he felt surprisingly vulnerable. Abigail had stopped as soon as van Jaarsveld had come into view, but she was the focus of his attention. The warders were behind her with Lesela still farther back and barely looking up, as if all of this had nothing to do with him.

“If you've no objection, we'll be coming down,” Yudel told the prisoner.

“Come, then,” he said, his eyes still fixed on Abigail. To Yudel it was the look of a predator studying its prey.

Van Jaarsveld was facing the door when one of the warders opened it. He was above medium height and had once been powerfully built, sloping shoulders ending at long arms with surprisingly delicate hands. A warder entered first, followed by Yudel and Abigail. Lesela and the second warder stayed in the corridor with the door open. Both warders had slipped the revolvers from their holsters.

No one made any movement toward shaking hands. “Thank you for seeing us,” Yudel said.

Van Jaarsveld said nothing. He was again staring at Abigail. His head moved slightly from side to side as if he was clearing the way for some distant memory. He took half a step in her direction. The slow beginnings of a smile were forming around his mouth and eyes.

“Stay where you are,” one of the warders said.

“We have a matter that we want to discuss. We think it may be of importance to you,” Yudel said.

By now the smile was fully formed. It was an expression that suggested that he knew and there was no use denying his knowledge. Yudel glanced at Abigail over his right shoulder. She had stopped a pace behind him, but a little to the side to give herself a clear view of van Jaarsveld. The look on her face showed that whatever vulnerability Yudel had felt when they were up on the catwalk was nothing compared to what she felt now.

“I know you,” the prisoner said to Abigail. His voice had the slightly jeering tone of one who had found them out. “You were in Maseru. You were smaller then, but I remember you. I let you go that time. You were lucky, very lucky that I let you go.”

“You did nothing to let me live.” To Yudel's surprise her voice was strong and even. It was also cold and she was moving forward. “Leon Lourens saved me. You wanted to kill me.”

“You were lucky I was in a good mood.” He was nodding his head for emphasis. “If I'd been a bad mood you and that little wind-arse Lourens would both have been dead. I let you live.”

“Like hell you did. You saved your own life.”

“I was good to you. Not everyone was so lucky.”

Abigail's shoulders shook with a brief convulsion. It passed, leaving her shaken, but still closer to van Jaarsveld.

“Stand back, Miss,” the warder's voice carried the note of command that came with years of authority over other human beings.

“Yes, stand back,” van Jaarsveld jeered. “What did you think you were going to do anyway?”

“Stand back, Miss. Right now,” the warder ordered.

Yudel had her by the arm and was drawing her back. “Lourens was a comrade of yours in those days. We believe he may be in danger.”

The disgust in van Jaarsveld's face was visible. “Leon Lourens was never a comrade of mine. None of those bastards who kissed the ANC arse at that truth and reconciliation thing were comrades of mine. What I stood for then I still stand for now. I was protecting my people. I will not say, the way Lourens and all the rest did, that what I did then was wrong. Events have proven us right. Today the white man has been kicked out everywhere. We have lost our country.”

“Listen,” Yudel said to van Jaarsveld. “We've come here because we are trying to help some of your old comrades, not just Lourens. You may not realize it, but some of the other soldiers that were with you that night when you saw Miss Bukula in Maseru, have been murdered.”

“I may not realize it.” Now he was crowing with the pleasure that comes with superior knowledge. “My little Jew friend, I know as well as you that there are only two of us still alive. And I am in here.” He turned his attention to Abigail. “In five days your little friend Lourens will be dead.” He stopped and looked from Abigail to Yudel and back to Abigail, a look of genuine surprise appearing on his face. “You didn't know? You didn't know that we are all that are left? Do you also not know that they all died on the same day of the year? And that day is only five days away.” He smiled at Abigail. “Lourens is as good as dead,” he said with real satisfaction. “Your own people are doing it. I thought you came here to tell me something. But it looks like you came so that I can tell you something.”

“Perhaps you do know more than we do,” Yudel said. Abigail was looking at him, wondering where he was trying to lead van Jaarsveld. “Perhaps you do know more. Perhaps you can help us. We're not just talking about Lourens's safety. There's your own safety to consider.”

“If you want to do something for me, my little friend, let them give me my freedom on the big day. Broadcast the fact in ANC party circles that I am out of prison. Give them my address too. Then let them come for me. Give me the chance to kill a few more of them to add to my score.”

Abigail had to ask. She hated wanting to know, but she could not stop herself. “How many have you killed?”

“Not enough.” His smile was again directed at her. “Some of them were very special ones.” Now his eyebrows were raised, as if asking her a question.

Yudel was aware that there was something here that he did not understand. Abigail recoiled as if van Jaarsveld had struck her. He looked at van Jaarsveld's self-satisfied face and knew he had to do something to stop his gloating. “What makes you think you're safe? You exercise with the other prisoners. Even criminals have political feelings.”

“I hope one of them tries. I can look after myself. It's a long time since I last killed one of them. In any event, I know who's doing the killing.” He was again looking at Abigail. “And so do you,
meidjie.
And he's not in C-Max. He's not in any prison, even though he's killed far more than me.”

Abigail was staring at him, an antelope trapped in the headlights of a car. It was not that he had used the Afrikaans word for a housemaid when addressing her. Yudel could see that something far deeper than van Jaarsveld's gratuitous insult had affected her. “He's not in any prison,” the old extremist had said.

Out of the corner of her eye Abigail could see Yudel turn to look at her. She had given him only the broadest outline of the story. Without looking at him, she could feel the question: Who is he talking about? “What is this?” Yudel's question was directed at Abigail.

“It's Ficksburg all over again, but on an even bigger scale.”

Yudel also did not understand the reference to one of the South African towns close to the Lesotho border. “You mean Maseru?” he said.