by Jon Zackon
A confrontation with Koos looked a certainty. And I had no idea of how to deal with it.
Then Marty really kicked me in the gut. “Koos spotted your car, by the way. Little old Anglia? He was driving past and saw it was parked outside Fazal’s house. What the fuck were you doing there, Danny? Jesus! Koos is really fed up with you.”
Chapter 18
GORDON Clare gave me an exasperated look. “Danny,” he said, “I think you need a holiday, I really do. I haven’t spoken to a single person about you and Koos van Blatter, or you and Fazal, or you and anybody else.”
“What about the editor, sir?”
“He not here. He’s at a conference in Pretoria and won’t be back until tomorrow. Are you satisfied now?”
The truth dawned slowly. Marty knew nothing and had simply been teasing me. Which gave me something new to worry about – had my response given anything away? If so, would he have seized on it? A more realistic question would have been how would Marty the social sniper – a description of him invented by Harland – not have seized on it, and gone straight to tell Koos?
I glumly thanked Gordon and left him in peace.
***
Fazal was back at his desk. But it was hardly like old times. He sat in silence and wouldn’t meet my gaze when I tried to greet him.
“You have to talk about it, Fazal,” I implored. “It’s the only way to end this.”
But end what? I was still fishing. Needless to say, he shrugged and turned away without saying anything.
Gordon came in and tried to speak to him. Fazal looked pained and gave the occasional monosyllabic answer.
I followed Gordon back to his office.
“That guy is in a bad way,” I said. “You can see something bad has happened to him.”
“Please Danny, what do you want me to do? Unless he talks we’re at a loss.”
Around five o’clock Fazal edged his way out the office, passing Conrad on his way in.
“What’s up with him?” said Conrad.
I’d had an opportunity to speak to Ruth and fluffed it. Now I had a chance to unburden myself to Conrad. I couldn’t do it, partly because I feared what he would be bound to say – where’s the evidence, Danny?
It was Friday evening, but for once I didn’t go for a drink with the boys. Two nights earlier Neal Smythe had handed me the annual report on Durban docks. There was quite a bit or research to do and I could see at least five stories to extract from it. It all had to be done by Sunday evening for Monday’s paper. I didn’t want to come in on Sunday, so I decided to work until it was finished. I cut myself off from the rest of the world and began bashing it out, ruing that I couldn’t type any faster.
Conrad brought me a Coke from the canteen. The temperature must have been up in the eighties so the icy drink was welcome.
“Christ, it’s clammy,” he said and then, “Jesus, it’s hot.”
“Thought I saw rain on the windows.”
“Yeah. It’s a fine drizzle. Scotch mist. The humidity in here’s close to saturation point.”
I wiped sweat from my forehead and went on typing, but it was slow going.
***
At half past midnight Neal and Conrad went home, leaving me alone in the reporters’ room. An hour later I finished writing the last of the stories. I put the carbon copies in my drawer, pinned all the top copies together and placed them in a file, which I then left on Gordon Clare’s desk.
With my jacket slung over my arm I caught the lift to the ground floor. A machine room worker greeted me as I passed through the lobby. He’d be here until at least four, I thought, so what did I have to complain about?
The hot, damp air really hit me as I went out through the swing doors and into the street. The pavement and cars were wet and glistening, but it was no longer raining. I’d parked around the corner and started walking in that direction.
Behind me, a friendly voice said, “Working late tonight, hey Danny?”
The sweat turned cold on my skin.
I turned round and said, “Hello, Koos.”
“Howzit going, Danny baby?”
“OK, Koos. What are you doing in our neck of the woods?”
“Thought I’d come and see you, pal. Something I thought needed sorting out.”
Koos had been standing behind a car. Now he walked slowly towards me. He was immaculately dressed, as usual. His hand knitted maroon tie, done up in a Windsor knot, went well with his summer-weight sports jacket. He kept his left hand in his jacket pocket, which was a relief – he obviously wasn’t gripping a revolver. I knew he was carrying one, though, because of the bulge of the holster under his heart.
“You see, Danny, I’ve been speaking to Marty and he says you’ve been speaking about me. Behind my back. You know, man, that’s not nice, is it?”
His expression changed from friendly concern to a not so friendly leer. His gold tooth caught the half-light from a nearby street lamp.
“Hang on a minute, Koos. Everyone’s been talking about you. Not just me. How many cops in this city have shot two runaway robbers?”
“You’re right, Danny. You know, perhaps I’m being a bit sensitive. Look, I’ll tell you what, kerel, why don’t we go for a drink and talk about it, hey? My car’s just around the corner – it’s parked two cars away from yours. I know places in this burg where you can drink all night, every night. Good places, ja? Let’s say we go to one for a drink.”
Nothing on this earth would have induced me to get in a car alone with Koos. Is that what he’d done with Fazal? Well, I’m not suicidal, I decided.
“I don’t think so, Koos.”
“You don’t trust me, Danny?”
“Come on, that’s jumping to a conclusion.”
“No it’s not, you fucking little punk.” He said this without raising his voice. Nor had the half-smile left his face. “Man, I know you don’t trust me and in my book that makes you a dangerous individual. If you are not my friend, Danny, you must be my enemy.”
In a single movement he took his hand out of his pocket and lashed out at me. He was holding a knife – the knife, in all probability. That he missed me by a long way was surely deliberate, but he still made me leap back in fright.
And frightening me was his obvious aim.
In the same level tones he continued, “Now I think you should come with me to my car if you don’t want me to hurt you.”
I took another step back; he took one forwards. My thoughts reeled. What should I do? Shout for help? From whom? The police? He was the fucking police!
“Look, Koos, put the knife away? Let’s talk about this like civilised people.”
“You’re just trying to fuck me about, Danny, and I’m growing tired of it.”
I was close to being trapped. I couldn’t run back into The Messenger building. The automatic lift doors were too old and slow. And climbing flights of stairs could prove futile. Too easy to take a false step. In any case all the offices were empty, so there’d be no one there to help me. As for the machine room, it must have been the noisiest place in the city at this time of night. I could yell my head off down there and fail to get a response. So submit and get in the car? Not an option. Fight back? Don’t be crazy. He’s armed with a revolver, which he’s already used to take at least two lives. The least he’ll do if I stand my ground is cut me with the knife.
There was only one thing for it. I honestly couldn’t think of any other way out. I turned and ran.
After ten or twelve yards I slowed and looked back. Koos was grinning broadly. Then he took off after me.
I got to a corner, sprinting hard, ran down a side street and turned into Pine Street. I was surprised at how deserted it was. The drizzle was back, cooling my skin. It seemed to be getting heavier. I dragged my jacket on, which made it a little easier to run.
The occasional glance back showed me that Koos was neither gaining nor losing ground. I could have gone a bit faster bu
t felt I had to keep something in reserve. After all, how long was this ludicrous chase going to go on for?
I took the first right and headed for the docks. A left and another right, and there, on the other side of the road, was the old building that housed Frankie’s.
I’d be safe there, lost among the members. Quite a few would recognise me. Frankie would greet me with open arms. He’d done it before.
I bounded up the steps leading to the entrance and tried to push my way in. The doors wouldn’t budge. Then I saw it – a notice headed Durban Municipal Corporation. And below that I caught the words, “Closed by Order of …” and “In breach of Liquor Licensing Regulations …”
Oh, Frankie, what a hopeless flake you are!
Koos arrived at the foot of the steps. He stood looking up at me. The knife, which had disappeared as he ran, was back in his hand. He was cackling. Sort of through his nose. An ugly, hateful sound.
“The game’s up, Danny, as the Engelse mense say.” Cackle, cackle. “Why don’t you save us both a lot of trouble, hey? My car’s not far away. Just back there.”
I ran my hands over my pockets. There was nothing on me in the way of protection, unless …
I felt a notebook in my inside breast pocket that I kept for addresses and phone numbers. Too small. But in my left hand jacket pocket my fingers wrapped themselves around a new shorthand book. It was long and thick.
“Is that what you did with Fazal, Koos? Take him for a ride?”
He started to giggle. Then his demeanour changed.
“I saw your car parked outside his house. What were you doing in there, Danny? Is he your bum boy?”
I didn’t answer.
“Or are you two cunts cooking something up? Maybe a plan to get me, hey?”
As he spoke his temper began to rise.
“Let me tell you something, you little prick,” he began to shout. “You can’t touch me. I’m too fucking smart for the likes of you.”
He took a deep breath and shook his head. “Jesus, you make me so fucking mad, Danny. I ought to take you apart right now. With my bare hands.”
Suddenly I could see the rage in his eyes. Oh, shit. It was time to move.
I leapt the first four steps, landing on my left foot before taking the bottom four steps to land on my right. As I hit the ground I jammed the shorthand book on to the knife with my left hand and shoved Koos in the chest with my right. The book and the knife skittered into the road as we both went sprawling. But I was prepared for what had happened and was quickly up and running.
Koos recovered the knife, ran a hand through his hair as he collected himself, then set off in pursuit.
“Got man,” he cried, “if you thought you were in trouble before that was nothing. I’m going to make you pay in blood, Danny. You are dead meat!”
I didn’t think Koos would shoot me in the street. People lived in some of these buildings and it was difficult to believe there would be no witnesses. Also, if he did kill me right now he’d have to prove I was running away from a crime scene. But it was only minutes since I’d left The Messenger offices. No time for a “crime scene.”
In any case, shooting African suspects was one thing in apartheid South Africa, shooting Europeans quite another. I felt that if and when he did kill me it would be a private event, one that would allow him to dispose of my corpse in utter secrecy.
For much the same reasons I didn’t think he’d stab me in the street. The knife was a frightener to force me into his car. On the other hand, my actions had definitely enraged him. I could hear him muttering and swearing incoherently. Would Ivan Leitener have described this as part of a narcissistic rage?
I wheeled back into Pine Street, running in the road rather than on the pavement, so that I would be more visible to any witnesses.
West Street, where there would be traffic and people, was only a block away, but was out of the question. It could be crawling with Koos’s cop pals. There was even an outside chance that he’d have tipped some of them off to look out for me. But this meant I couldn’t go home either because I’d have to cross West Street to get there. A shame, as old James the night watchman would certainly have protected me.
What about the hospital? Good idea. I could run straight into the safety of the casualty department. Except … what if Ruthie was there? What if she were to react in a more than friendly way towards me? I dared not take that chance. Hopefully, Koos knew nothing of her and that’s the way I wanted to keep it.
My brain swam. What was left for me? I was sure I could run faster than him – and naked terror could make me go faster still. There was also the question of stamina. Koos was smaller than me and he was one of those guys who were naturally fit. But he smoked. Well, we both did, but while I got through ten or fifteen a day he chain-smoked. I’d seen him use one fag to light his next at the poker table.
So I decided to outrun him. But in which direction? For once, that was an easy decision.
It began to rain hard as I found myself in a maze of small roads around Marine Parade Street. I turned right, ran between two seafront hotels, crossed the street, found an opening in the railings and felt my feet sinking into soft, energy sapping sand. South Beach!
Koos seemed to be making ground on me but then the sand slowed him as well.
I’d forgotten about the pair of groynes between South Beach and North Beach. They forced me back to the road near the Beach Hotel. Shit, what a waste of effort, I thought. I was sweating profusely as I ran along the concrete apron that separated the hotel from the sand. I thought of going inside, but what if reception was deserted, or didn’t appreciate strangers running in while being chased by the cops?
I ran past the groynes and leapt off the road once again at a point where the beach broadened considerably. I struggled for fifty yards through sand towards the water until at last I hit the damp, compacted area between the high and low tide marks. Now I could speed up, heading north. Over two miles of sand lay ahead of me until North Beach ended at the mouth of the Umgeni River.
On my left were the hotels and apartment blocks of The Golden Mile, brightly lit and inviting – but, like the Beach Hotel, not to be relied upon as safe havens from a mad detective. I would have to outrun Koos.
A stiff breeze blew in my face, cooling the sweat on my brow and getting into the far reaches of my wet shirt. My lungs were beginning to hurt, so I tried to get into an easy, steady rhythm. I had no idea how far I would have to go.
The forced run had to be hard on Koos as well, I thought. I glanced back. He was a good twenty yards away – and he was laughing.
I nearly came to a stop out of dismay. He was laughing! Then I realised – this was his favourite game. Cat and mouse. His rage had dissipated and he was having the time of his life, even if it looked like he was losing for once.
And maybe that’s why he was laughing. It was a final act of bravado aimed at unnerving me. Because I was sure that his lungs were hurting as much as mine.
On we ran, up North Beach. I could see an end in the distance to the long line of hotels. After that there was just a wall of darkness.
Every now and then I had to look round, which was proving a tiring manoeuvre. But a necessary one.
Puff, puff, grind, grind. Oh, my aching lungs! My teeth and gums began to ache. My feet felt raw. My shoes were filled with sand but I couldn’t afford to stop and remove them. I was running out of steam. Koos was going to catch me, rape me and strangle me, collect his car, drive down to the beach before dawn, drag my body to the road, load it into the boot and drive to a dark place to bury it. No one would ever know what had happened to me. I would simply disappear. People would attest to the fact that I’d been overwrought lately – yes, a suicide risk.
No! Fuck it! Fuck the pain! Run faster!
I looked back. Koos was kneeling on the sand clutching his revolver in both hands. I zigzagged feebly and heard a bullet whine past my ear. The visibility was poor. He was
looking into near blackness. A second shot missed by a mile. I was now at least thirty yards ahead of him.
I stopped with my hands on my knees. I wanted to shout at him, to rage and swear. But nothing came out. I was too puffed.
Koos began to scrabble around in the sand, presumably trying to pick up his spent cartridges. Was his gun the sort that spewed out cartridges? I had no idea. Perhaps he was throwing up, or having a coughing fit.
And then I heard the voices. Male voices. Singing! Slightly distorted by the thick sea air.
“So Long, It’s Been Good to Know You …” they sang. Young, robust voices – and oh, so welcome.
I screwed my eyes and saw, a few hundred yards ahead, a line of tents.
I was safe.
And Koos must have realised it. He’d given up the chase.
I walked the last few yards to the tiny encampment, slower and slower, desperately trying to recover some composure.
“Hey, guys, I’m from The Messenger,” I said. “We heard you were on the beach and thought you might make a story.”
“You’re rather late,” said a man in uniform, obviously a Scoutmaster. “Or is it early? We’re packing up and leaving at dawn.”
It was no longer raining and around a measly fire sat a circle of twelve and thirteen year olds, some looking puzzled by my sudden appearance.
“Germiston, isn’t it?” I said taking out a propelling pencil and the little book I used for addresses.
“No, we’re from Benoni,” said the adult. “You look as if you could do with a drink.”
It must have been ten minutes before Koos drooped by. His clothes were soggy and he looked a mess. He coughed a few times.
As I sat sipping a mug of tea he came up, ruffled my hair, and said, “Well played, Danny, But you know, I never lose twice in a row.” Then he turned and started walking in the direction of the nearest streetlights, at least half a mile back.
