The October Killings (17 page)

Through it all, no one had noticed young Michael, watching from the darkness, too far away to draw his father's attention, but close enough so that he would miss nothing.

As for Matthew Baloyi, he had not been seen around the farm since the evening his bicycle had been destroyed. What remained of the bicycle had found its way to the farm's rubbish dump.

Samuel's body healed, but his soul did not. A little less than two years later he went into the tobacco shed, knotted a rope around his neck, tied it to a beam and kicked away the drum he had been standing on. He did it one evening when his father and brothers were still in the bottom lands at other end of the farm. No one ever suggested that Samuel Bishop's death was a cry for help. He was simply killing himself.

At the sight of his body, his two elder brothers and his father shed real tears. Whatever they felt about their own role in his death, the agonized release of emotion in all of them was real. Michael too had bowed his head and wiped at his eyes. He knew what was expected. When the others had cut down the body and left the barn to call the police, for a long time he had stood over the physical remains of his brother. Now there was no wiping of his eyes.

After Samuel died, the piano lessons tapered off. Even the boys' father realized that the farm no longer had a player worth listening to. The older boys with their crude thumping and Michael's mechanical pressing of the keys could not satisfy even the least discriminating listener. In the last year of his life, he allowed the lessons to stop altogether.

By the time Bishop's murder startled the community, the killing of farmers by the forces of liberation, as some believed, along the northeastern border where the Bishops farmed, were no longer unusual. Guerrillas would slip over the Mozambican border, do their business and be back the same night.

Unlike other farm killings, Bishop had not been blown to bits by a landmine or sliced up by a volley of AK-47 bullets. He had been garrotted, and the apparent murder weapon, a length of heavy iron fencing wire, covered in blood, was still conveniently around his neck. If any of the officers noticed that the cut around his neck was much thinner than the cut fence wire would have made, none of them ever reported it. Nor did anyone notice that the wire that produced the low C was no longer present in the family piano. The day Bishop died was October 22, the same date on which Samuel had died. Bishop had outlived Samuel by exactly three years.

Michael's brothers all testified that they had seen a worker near the farm who had been beaten, then dismissed by their father, just a month before. There were always such workers, and finding one to pin the murder on was not difficult. The court found mitigating circumstances and shocked the farming community by not imposing the death sentence. The worker, whom the court saw as obviously guilty, was sentenced to life in prison.

Michael was just fifteen and his older brothers twenty and twenty-two. The older boys decided that they knew only farm life and would go on working the farm and that Michael should finish his schooling. Both had already found the undemanding country girls they wanted to marry and who were happy to marry them.

The morning after the farm worker had been sentenced, Michael's brothers found that he was gone and that his bed had not been slept in that night. A missing person report was made at the local police station, but he was never found. His brothers never saw him again. In fact, there was no record anywhere of Michael Bishop until he walked into the ANC headquarters in Lusaka five years later.

19

Wednesday, October 19

A weary Abigail drove to the office. The night just past had been another bad one. It had taken three hours and two more calls to security before she left the shower and went back to bed. She slept in short spells for perhaps a quarter of what was left of the night.

Commuter traffic into the city center was not heavy by the standards of bigger cities. It took Abigail, on average, some thirty minutes from the time she got into her car until she drove into the Department of Justice parking garage.

It was a time enough for reflection and informal planning of the day's activities. It was short enough not to frustrate her with the thought that she would be wasting her day. It was also a good time to make an early morning call on the car's mobile. She got Robert at the first attempt. “You are coming home tonight?” She still needed reassurance.

“Yes, I'm coming home tonight. What's wrong? Has something else happened?”

“No. I just want you home.”

“I'll be there. Are you sure nothing has happened?”

“I'm sure. Just come … please come.”

*   *   *

A woman was sitting opposite Johanna when Abigail came in. As soon as she stepped into the office, Johanna rose quickly, wringing her hands, followed somewhat uncertainly by the visitor.

Johanna's hands released each other for long enough for her to gesture quickly in the direction of the other woman. “This is Mrs. Lourens.” The words seemed to chase one another out of her mouth. “Mr. Lourens was arrested yesterday. He's gone. Mrs. Lourens doesn't know where he's being held.”

Abigail reached out both hands to the white woman. Leon Lourens's wife was a slender woman in her late thirties, pretty but showing the signs of living with too little money. There were lines around her eyes and across her forehead caused by worry. She had made no effort to color her hair to hide the gray that had already replaced most of the original brown. Her shoes had been worn too long and she was wearing her best dress, a knee-length cotton frock printed with yellow daisies. She was holding her white patent leather bag in both hands. Seeing Abigail's gesture, she immediately put down her bag, and took the offered hands in hers. “Mrs. Bukula?” she asked.

“Abigail,” Abigail said.

“I'm Susanna Lourens.” Her voice was soft and restrained, the voice of someone not used to asserting herself. “I'm sorry. I didn't know who else to come to. Leon told me about you. I know he came to see you.”

“Come into my office,” Abigail said, now holding Susanna by the arm. Over her shoulder, she added, “Johanna, you'd better come too.”

Abigail led Susanna to the same chairs at the window where she had sat with Leon three days before. “Leon was arrested?”

“He moved us to his mother's house until this thing is over, but he went back to his workshop every day … to work.” Abigail could see that Susanna was studying her face, no doubt looking for some sign of hope. “The neighbors said a policeman came and took him away. They arrested him.”

“For what?”

“The neighbors didn't know. They stayed inside and just watched from the windows.”

“All they saw was the police taking him away?”

“Yes, a policeman took him away.”

“One policeman?”

“Yes. The neighbors said there was just one.”

“Was the policeman a white man?” Abigail asked. Tell me no, she thought. Tell me the policeman was black.

“Yes, he was a white man.” This did not seem important to Susanna though. She hurried on. “I'm sure they will tell you why they arrested him.”

“Have you called the police?”

“All the police stations in Pretoria. They all say they didn't arrest him. But, if you phone them, they'll tell you the truth.”

“Was he handcuffed?”

“Yes, I think they said he was handcuffed.”

“Did the neighbors tell you about the vehicle they took him away in? Was it a police van?”

“No. I think they took him in an ordinary car.”

Abigail did not know how much of what she was feeling showed on her face, but she saw the sudden widening of Susanna's eyes.

“Oh, God. Oh please, God. You think it was
not
the police.”

“We'll find out if it was the police. I don't know for sure.”

“But you don't think it was?”

“I don't know. I really don't know.” But the other woman's eyes held the plea for the truth. Allow me that dignity, they seemed to be saying. “No, I don't think it was the police.”

“Oh, Lord.” She had been sitting upright on the edge of her seat. Now she sank back, like an inflatable toy from which the air had been leaking.

Johanna, whose eyes had opened so wide that the whites showed all the way round the irises, was already getting up. “Shall I try to find out if anyone knows where he is?”

“Yes,” Abigail said. “Immediately, do nothing else.”

“But the conference…” Johanna started.

“Do this first.” Johanna opened her mouth to add something, but Abigail had already turned back to Susanna. “Listen, I don't know for sure.”

Susanna had been doing her own thinking. “Leon told me you said the government was not doing this.” Abigail did not reply. “You did say that?”

There was no avoiding Susanna. She was a woman in real danger of losing her mate of almost twenty years. “I don't know who is doing it,” Abigail said.

“But you don't believe it's the government?”

“No.”

“But if it was those people who have been killing the others, it wouldn't have been a white man who came, would it? There wouldn't be a white man doing that, would there.” Again Abigail was too slow to answer. “Oh, Lord,” Susanna said. “Oh please, Lord. Oh please, Lord Jesus.”

20

The grandmotherly woman who Abigail had seen in the prison parking area walked slowly along the gravel path into the pleasant gardens of Magnolia Dell. She was carrying a galvanized iron bucket of the sort used in South African prisons. She was early, so there was no need to hurry. Besides, her feet hurt. The work she did in a private hospital kept her on her feet for most of every day and her feet were rarely free of pain these days.

Annette van Jaarsveld found the bench where they had said it would be. You had to watch out for it as you came around a bend in the path. It was set back and partly obscured by the shrubbery.

She sat down to wait. The place was ideal. It was Friday morning and she had passed no one on the path. The only sounds were made by the traffic on Queen Wilhelmina Drive. Almost as a reflex her right hand again dug into a deep pocket in her skirt to ensure that the envelope was still there. She maneuvered the skirt until the pocket was between her knees, then clamped them together so that she could feel the presence of the money. It had been collected among her husband's supporters. There were not many of them now, but those who remained were more passionate than ever.

She had only ten minutes to wait before the man that she expected came down the path from the opposite direction. She heard the sound of his leather-clad feet well before he came into view. As they had agreed, he was not in his prison warder uniform. The gray slacks and blue shirt that he was wearing were as inconspicuous as she could have hoped.

He stopped as soon as he saw her and looked down the path in both directions before he came to join her. He sat down next to her, his hands shaking as he reached for the bucket. The bastard, she thought. He doesn't even remember the password.

Then he did remember. “Have you got the bucket for the eggs?” he asked, his voice as unsteady as his hands.

She passed him the bucket without saying anything.

“And the eggs?”

She took the envelope from her skirt, but did not offer it to him. “Remember two things. Number one, this is the first five thousand, as we agreed.” The man nodded. “The other thing is this—my husband has many friends on the outside who feel just the way he does. If he does not receive this by tomorrow afternoon five o'clock or if anyone else finds out about this, you and your eldest son will be dead in a week.”

The warder tried to retain a little dignity. “Are you threatening me?” The effect was ruined by a quaver that had crept into his voice.

“Yes, my friend, I am threatening you,” she said, speaking as softly as before. “And if you want to go on living and you want your five-year-old to go on living, you will pay attention to my threat.” His eyes were on the envelope that held the money. She held it away from him for a moment longer before suddenly extending the hand that held it.

The warder slipped it into an inside pocket and rose, the bucket in one hand. “I'll go now,” he said.

“Good-bye, my friend,” Annette van Jaarsveld said.

In a moment he was out of sight, the sound of his footfalls on the pathway fading quickly. Then even that was gone.

No wonder they could be dominated for so long, the woman on the bench thought. If it had not been for the outside world interfering, we would still have been running our country. Ten thousand rand for his soul. They have no character and no standards.

Then she thought briefly about her own people who had been part of the negotiations that had brought some measure of peace to the country. Sellouts, she thought. They are no better. But Marinus was different. He was a rock. He was still true to his people.

*   *   *

Abigail spent the better part of the day visiting four of the sites of Michael Bishop's hiding places. Jones Ndlovu's maps were less than accurate, the lines wavered a little with his unsteady hand, but the essential details were there.

She found the place where the first one should have been, a few hundred meters from the main access to OR Tambo Airport, the country's main link with the outside world. Ndlovu had described a decrepit wooden shed of indeterminate age, but now a gleaming steel hangar stood on the spot. As Abigail watched, a bright new, smaller commercial airliner was being towed into the hangar.

Her second stop was at a rundown block of just six apartments in the Johannesburg suburb of Yeoville. There she spoke to five of the residents and all swore that they had never once seen a white person so much as visit the place, not since they had been living there.

After that, she visited a culvert that allowed flood water from a nearby seasonal stream to pass under a suburban street to a broader concrete watercourse. Early summer rains had filled the stream to the point where no one, no matter how immune to physical discomfort, could have spent ten minutes, let alone a night.