by Jon Zackon
Another string of expletives. He starts to sob like a small child.
There’s a tall dresser against the wall and an easy chair in front of it. The walls are covered in family photographs and the odd landscape painting. I perch on the arm of the chair and take a good look at Koos. What does a mass killer look like? The answer is like a small boy who feels sorry for himself. Is there nothing in his appearance to suggest he is a monster, a fiend? That’s right – nothing.
His cap must have fallen off when I hit him. I can see how scrawny his neck and face are and he’s gone completely bald and …”
“My God! What’s that?”
On his forehead and face are several hideous black blobs.
“I’ve heard of that,” I shout. “I’ve seen photographs. Kaposi’s sarcoma! AIDS! You’ve fucking well got AIDS, Koos!”
I start to laugh. I can’t help myself. What I’m witnessing is, to my mind, a supreme example of poetic justice.
His response is to turn his face away and curl himself up in a ball.
“You’ve got a terrible death ahead of you, pal,” I say, idly waving the Browning at him. “Sickness, pain, maybe blindness, madness, the fucking lot. Mind you, it’s exactly what you deserve, right?”
Then I realise. There’s an absurd contradiction here. I’ve come to kill him. But he can’t bloody well die twice!
I only have to think for a moment. Then I say, “I want you to suffer, Koos. I think you need to suffer, live out your shitty little life. So why should I kill you and deprive you of months of pain and horror? Hey? Tell me that?”
He curls up even tighter but says nothing.
I’m just warming up. “You know, I read the other day in a Jo’burg paper that ninety-nine per cent of all the AIDS deaths in this country have so far been in the homosexual community. What does the great Durban detective think of that, hey? Imagine if your old buddies had figured you out? There you were, a married man with kids, living one massive lie after another. You are a very queer bloke, Koos, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“Kill me, Danny. Just pull the fucking trigger.”
“I met this psychiatrist once. I told him how you like to shoot black boys up the bum. He said you have a narcissistic personality. Well, he didn’t exactly say that, granted. But you know what, it fits perfectly. If anybody challenges you, you fly into a rage. I’ve seen it myself. But there’s more to it, isn’t there? You get a kick out of killing. You kill for kicks, right? It gives you a buzz. Makes you feel powerful.”
Koos stirs himself. “Don’t be stupid, Danny. They were just vermin. Pieces of shit. I only kill vermin. Fucking shit-loving arsebandits every one of them. I was doing society a fucking big favour.”
“Oh no, Koos. They were just people. Plain, ordinary boys. And you are incapable of doing anyone a favour, let alone society at large. You feel nothing for other people. You refuse to believe they can have any feelings of their own. That’s what the shrink said. But what I really don’t understand, Koos, is why you had to kill Ruth Fall. What had she done to you, hey? She was totally innocent. Why?”
Koos stares at me open-mouthed. Then he giggles, that horrible sound I sometimes hear in my nightmares. I’d hoped never to hear it again.
“Not me, pal,” he says. “I’ve never killed a woman in my life.”
“Of course you killed her …”
More giggling, but softer this time.
Would he lie? And why is it so funny? I’m confused.
“Theo says he is sure you killed her.”
“He’s a fucking liar. Devious prick.”
“If you didn’t, then who did?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Theo found your other farm, you know. The one in Natal, where the bodies are – or were, I should say. He and Louis tidied the place up. Jesus, what a fucking maniac you are.”
I’m getting fed up with the whole scene. In all my dealings with Koos there is always the itchy feeling that he knows more than I do, is keeping something back, and is laughing at me. Even when he is lying on the floor facing death. I just want to make up my mind what to do with him and go.
“I’m not going to kill you, Koos. I’ve decided. I hope you linger for months to come. It’s going to be fucking horrible for you. So here’s my judgment … I, Danny Waterman, sentence you, Koos van Blatter, proven serial killer and depraved human being, to life!”
“Kill me, Danny. Please kill me.”
“Do you remember how you used to say at the poker table, never do what the other guy wants you to do? If he wants you to bet, check. If he wants you to check, bet, and so on. Well, I’ve decided not to do what you want me to do. Who am I to deprive you of an agonising death, Koos?”
“That was just bullshit, Danny. Please! I was just kidding you …”
“So goodbye, pal.”
As I go through the screen door I can hear him raging and swearing.
But I feel troubled. He had little reason to deny killing Ruth, yet that’s what he’s done. Thoughts I’ve harboured for over thirty years are being blown to pieces.
Once outside I turn the collar of my jacket up against the cold. Suddenly I feel famished. With my head swimming from the encounter I stand by Beth’s car nibbling a sandwich I’ve brought with me and drinking Coke.
It strikes me that I haven’t looked around the house or the outhouses. Am I frightened of the horrors I might find? How many corpses are lying around unburied on this property? Surely, I should look. Otherwise, what was the point of bringing the damp cloth?
But I don’t get the chance to make up my mind. In the distance a plume of red dust rises off the road. It’s coming from a vehicle moving at speed towards the farm. As it nears I can see it’s a Range Rover. Is it the police? So what? I’ve done nothing wrong. I pocket the gun and the hammer and stand waiting.
The Range Rover speeds through the gate and veers to a halt in front of me, throwing up dust.
A man with a large belly jumps out. He is bald but has a flowing ginger beard that makes him look like a fugitive from the Boer War. I’ve no idea who he is but suddenly, alarmingly, he reaches into his vehicle and reappears holding a shotgun.
“What have you done with Koos, you cunt?” he says, advancing on me. The shotgun is pointing at my chest.
“Nothing. He’s alive and unharmed in there.” I gesticulate towards the front door.
“Don’t lie to me. Get up the steps!”
He pushes my shoulder with his free hand.
“Just put the gun away,” I say. “I’ve hurt no one and I don’t even know who you are.”
“You really don’t recognise me? Are you stupid, or what?” he laughs, lifting his free hand and scratching his neck.
That’s all it takes. An idle scratch. I stand staring at him in disbelief. The realisation is like a kick in the teeth.
Absurd though it seems, I am looking straight into the slightly demented eyes of Marty Blaine. And I’m sure he wants to kill me.
Chapter 36
MARTY Blaine, world class creep. Did he kill Ruth? Is that what made Koos laugh? That even a tosspot like Marty can run over someone and then drive off? It’s the act of a coward and yes, it’s a possibility. But I’ve no idea what motive he could have had. He blamed me for getting him sacked, but is that a motive for murder?
The point I have to face now is, does Marty have the guts to kill me? If he thinks I might know or even suspect that he murdered Ruth the answer has to be yes.
He already thinks I’ve killed Koos. So what has he got in mind for me? To get me inside the farmhouse, I reckon, then shoot me and place the murder weapon in Koos’s hands. That, presuming Marty did kill Ruth, would make two perfect murders committed by a single creep.
I can’t let that happen. At all costs I must resist going through that screen door. The problem is, he has a shotgun trained on my midriff. In a Hollywood movie I’d dive to the ground, roll over, pull the Browni
ng from my pocket and shoot him. Apart from the fact that I can’t dive or roll, it so happens that after I’d eaten my sandwich I put my gloves back on. What a handicap if I were to try to wrestle the gun out of my pocket!
Marty is on the veranda, still waving the shotgun at me.
“Come on, twat face – get up here!”
“Marty Blaine. It was you, wasn’t it? You killed Ruth Fall.”
“So fucking what? She was a slut, man. And you were and you still are a fucking twat, Waterman.”
He is working himself into a fury as he approaches the screen door. His speech is slightly slurred. From drink, no doubt. “I’m gonna count to three and you’d better start marching towards this door or I’m gonna shoot you where you stand.”
Count to three! I used to use that stunt to get my toddler children to obey. I decide I’m simply not going to take orders from this degenerate oaf. Let him shoot me where I stand. I may even start walking back to the BMW. I don’t really care any longer – as long as Koos is left to suffer I’m satisfied.
While all this is going through my mind Marty gets to the screen door. I don’t think he’s even noticed that I haven’t moved an inch. He pushes the door open with his foot. It’s obvious – he’s desperate to see what’s become of Koos.
He edges inside.
A blast shatters the rural quiet.
Shit! I think he’s fucking shot me. As I look down, there’s a second blast. The ear-splitting noise tells me that this one is definitely from Marty’s gun. Out of the corner of my eye I see the gun go looping through the air to land with a clatter on the veranda.
There are holes in the veranda roof that weren’t there before. Both barrels must have gone off together.
And then a third blast rings out.
There’s no blood on me and I can feel no pain. I’m fine!
Marty is sitting in the doorway. His corpulent mass is wedged unnaturally in the doorframe.
His face has vanished behind a mask of blood.
I count back and stop at three. Three separate shots!
I race to the door, step over Marty, stride through the living room, once again skirting the coffee table, and kick the shotgun out of Koos’s hands.
It goes flying and smacks into the wall behind the settee.
A cartridge that has also been knocked out of Koos’s grasp hits the back of the settee and eventually settles on a cushion, close to a small open box.
I grab the cartridge and put it in the box, where it rejoins six or seven others.
Breathing hard, I slump into the easy chair in front of the dresser.
“Nice work, Koos,” I say. “You just killed your best buddy. Maybe your only buddy. The one person who might have helped you get through what you’ve got coming to you, pal.”
Koos’s expression changes from shock at seeing me to abject despair. “Oh shit, kill me, Danny.” He sounds like he’s choking. “Come on, I beg you.”
“Fat chance.”
My brain is still processing the chaos of the past few minutes. It takes me a while to work it out.
The action was definitely kicked off by Koos. He must have thought it was me at the screen door and perhaps feared I’d come in and hit him again with the hammer. So he’s shot at the figure standing in the doorway, which just happened to be Marty.
As Marty fell he must have involuntarily squeezed the trigger of his gun, loosing off both barrels. The weapon twisted in his grasp and instead of shooting me it blew a hole in the veranda roof.
That must have shocked Koos into firing again.
At that point, having counted the blasts, I realised Koos had emptied his gun and would be sitting inside attempting to reload, hence my haste to get to him first.
Very amusing.
I can see an open cupboard to the left of the settee. The shotgun and box of cartridges must have been in there. Koos has crawled to this cupboard and back to the settee, dragging his smashed-up leg.
I walk to the screen door and inspect the pathetic lump that was Marty.
“He looks pretty dead to me,” I announce. “Is he the one who killed Ruth?”
No reply.
“You know, I really don’t want you to kill yourself, Koos. Where’s a nice safe place to put the cartridges?”
I look round and my eyes settle on the dresser, which is at least eight feet high. I stand on the arm of the easy chair and lob the box on to the top. There is no way a lame Koos can get to it, unless he pulls the whole piece of furniture down. Given his sickly condition I doubt he is strong enough to do that.
Koos has sunk back into a sulk, hiding his face from me and refusing to speak.
“So Koos … you could try drowning yourself in the bath, I suppose. As long as you’re not one of those people with an overriding fear of water which, given your current smelliness, might well be the case, hey? On second thoughts, Koos baby, I don’t think you should be allowed to drown yourself. So I’m going to take all the plugs with me when I go. Agh, you say, what about all the knives in the house? I can’t take all of those, can I? B-u-ut, the answer to that one is, if you want to slash your wrists Koos, that’s OK with me. Go right ahead. It can take a nice long time to bleed to death. Plenty of time to reflect on what a murderous shithouse you’ve been. No sir, whichever way you look at it, Koos, it’s not going to be a happy time for you. Anyway, I’m going now. Try not to starve or cough yourself to death too quickly.”
I’ve decided it’s time to look around the property. I’ve felt all along that I am duty bound to do so if I get the chance. And there’s that bloody damp tea towel that demands to be used. Sure, it’s a frightening prospect but hey, haven’t I just escaped being shot? So stop worrying.
At the back of the room, opposite the screen door, a passage leads to the rest of the house. I enter it and find a dining room on the left, and then the bathroom. The gloves give me good purchase as I rip the plugs out of the bath and the hand basin and pocket them.
I turn to come out of the bathroom and see an office on the other side of the passage. The office Theo told me about. What did he want me to do – burn all the papers? Why? The reason Theo gave, about Koos writing his memoirs, was patent nonsense, which is partly why I still can’t trust him. There has to be a better reason.
On the desk, alongside a word processor, I find a stack of correspondence. Most of it has been sent to Mr Koos van Blatter by Messrs Van Zeeu, Stourmont and Sons, solicitors, of Krugersdorp.
Lying on top of the word processor is a large, unsealed envelope addressed to Van Zeeu, Stourmont and Sons. I glance at the document inside, take in the date of its covering letter, which is January 6th, 1996, and start to laugh.
I’ve got him, I think. I’ve got that bugger. Then I stuff the envelope into my breast pocket.
One of the walls has a built-in cupboard with a strong-looking door that has two locks, one Yale the other mortis. There are keys in both. I use them to open the door and find myself looking into a small gunroom. The Van Blatter armoury consists of three shotguns, a .303 rifle – a relic from one of the World Wars, I guess – and a couple of hand guns. There are boxes and boxes of ammunition, enough for Koos to fight a small war. Should I fetch the box from the top of the dresser and chuck it in here? I decide it’s OK where it is and shut the door, lock it and put both keys in my pocket. I doubt Koos will be able to get past the mortis.
The kitchen is at the end of the passage, past a few bedrooms. It is in a shocking state with piles of unwashed plates and dishes. There are flies everywhere.
I rip out the sink plug and take the opportunity to re-dampen my towel. There’s a bar of carbolic soap lying in a dish. I wipe some soap on to the towel. Now I am ready to go outside.
The back door leads to a flight of steps. I hadn’t realised that the house was on an elevation, but now I can see the ground drops away sharply at the back. The steps are in two flights of ten each, with a small landing halfway up. A handrail guard
s only a few steps at the top.
I descend gingerly. There is a pile of rubbish at the bottom. Some of it is in overflowing bins, some just lying on the ground. A fence marks out a small back garden with a few desultory flowers in untended beds alongside a half-dead stretch of lawn. The only gate is standing open.
Every surface of the fence, the gate and the lower walls is covered in flies. There are thousands of them.
The mealie-field stubble begins ten yards behind the gate. I hurl the keys and the plugs as far as I can into this eerie wilderness.
The smell from the bins hits me. It is appalling. I wrap the towel around my face like a mask, tying it at the back of my neck. The antiseptic aroma of carbolic hides the worst of the effluvium.
There are several doors at ground level, presumably leading to cellars.
But one is markedly different. It is made of steel and set in a steel frame, the sort of door you’d expect to see on a bank strong room.
I hesitate. I stare at the door. What the hell lies behind it? Do I really have to go through it?
I grab the foot-long steel handle, turn it downwards and pull.
As the door swings open the escaping stench reduces the beneficial effects of the carbolic to zero. This is not the mere stink of kitchen garbage. Naïve though I am I know what this smell is. It’s not long since Theo told me about it. It cannot be anything else but the smell of death and putrefaction.
I stand at the door looking in. The room before me is about thirty feet square. At the far end is a human form, held up by the arms. The head droops, the legs are splayed. As my eyes adjust to the light I can see that what I am looking at is a corpse. Only chains are preventing it from slumping to the floor.
It is long dead. The flesh of its feet and hands has disappeared, probably eaten away by rats, leaving only whitened bones. But there is still hair on the head. The sort of short black curls you’d expect to find on an African man.
It is impossible to say at a glance how he died. But it would almost certainly have been a cruel death. On the wall behind him are a couple of sjamboks – rhino tail whips – and what looks like a homemade cat-o’nine-tails, with bits of metal attached to its thong.
