Keepers of the House

by JH Fletcher

  If they’d spotted him getting over …

  The pad of running feet. He froze, hearing the sound of their breathing. If they stopped … They didn’t.

  Relief sighed in his throat, yet he knew the respite was only temporary. They’d be back as soon as they realised they’d missed him. Somehow he had to get back to the football field, to the police. Easily said. After all the twists and turns of the chase, he hadn’t the slightest idea where he was.

  He knew he had to move, even so, and take advantage of the few seconds he’d won. He placed his hands gingerly on top of the sharp-edged fence, for the first time seeing the blood in his palms where the iron had cut him.

  Go septic if I’m not careful. An ironic grimace through bared teeth. If I live long enough.

  Heart pounding, he levered himself up and over. The alley was deserted. He fled back the way he had come and reached the road at the end. Still nothing.

  Which way? He’d no idea where he was. There were too many roads, too many alleys, too many buildings all looking exactly alike.

  He remembered going as a child with an older boy to watch trains. Did kids still collect train numbers? They’d had a quarrel and he’d walked home alone, only to find out when it was too late that he didn’t know the way. He’d never forgotten the feeling: the unfamiliar streets, the people he’d been too scared to approach, the terror of being lost.

  Those youths hadn’t gone home. Any minute one of them might come round the corner …

  Stop it. Stop it.

  The question remained: if he didn’t know where he was, how was he going to get out?

  The smell of burning hit him, and he hesitated in mid-stride. The column of smoke was still rising over to his left. It hadn’t been far from the football field. All he had to do was head that way until he saw something he recognised.

  The panicked child of memory receded. He walked quickly towards the distant column of smoke.

  The pack of youths erupted out of a side street thirty yards away and skidded to a stop with an exultant yell. They flung themselves towards him. Mark turned and fled once more, terror pounding to the frantic rhythm of his feet.

  They’d almost lost him, playing games, and would not make the same mistake again. The football field was too far.

  Fifty yards ahead, a beat-up Valiant came out of a side street and turned towards him. Mark watched it as he pounded down the road, sweat stinging his eyes, breath tearing at his throat. Would the driver help him? Or cut him off?

  The car stopped. Above the sound of his breath, Mark heard the whine of the differential as the driver slammed the car into reverse. It swerved backwards into an alleyway, rear bumper clanging against an overflowing dustbin, hurtled back the way it had come and disappeared around the corner.

  You couldn’t blame him. But if only he had stopped, if only, if …

  Useless thoughts.

  The footsteps of the youths hammered the ground behind him. Mark ran on, going nowhere, yet running all the same because the only alternative was to give up, and that he would not do.

  A bitumen road crossed the one he was on. A few shops. A petrol station. Suddenly hope. He knew where he was. He drove past here every week. The school where he gave the tennis classes was just around the corner. If he could make it.

  He was running flat out now, trying to put as much distance as possible between him and his pursuers.

  Qwele’s house.

  He’d almost passed it before he recognised the building with the tin roof and red-painted walls where he’d been to talk about tennis lessons. He skidded to a stop and looked back along the road. His pursuers were still there, no longer shouting, but running with dogged purpose. He hammered on Qwele’s door, knowing he could run no further.

  If he won’t open to me, I’m dead. If he’s not there, I’m … He hammered again, frantically.

  Come on!

  They were not more than thirty yards away, now.

  A voice behind the closed door. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Mark Forrest. The tennis coach.’ His voice was edged with panic, but he couldn’t help that. ‘Please, Mr Qwele …’

  The latch clicked. The door opened an inch and Mark saw the chain. The teacher’s eyes gleamed in the darkness.

  ‘Mark Forrest? What are you doing here?’

  ‘There’s a bunch of blokes chasing me.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Qwele unclipped the chain, stepped onto the street, and saw the situation at once.

  ‘Get inside. Now!’

  He pushed Mark into the house, closing the door between them.

  Mark leant against the wall, fighting to suck air into his lungs, listening. He could hear Qwele’s voice on the far side of the door and others, low-pitched and surly, answering him.

  Get their hands on me, they’ll kill me.

  The voices stopped. The door opened. Mark braced himself, but Qwele was alone. ‘I’ve sent them away,’ he said.

  Just like that.

  Weakness swamped him. ‘I must thank you …’

  Qwele hadn’t finished with him. ‘Are you mad? What are you thinking of, walking around here in the middle of all this trouble?’

  Mark gestured weakly at his camera. ‘Taking pictures.’

  ‘And for this you risk your life?’

  Qwele was short, plump, gold-rimmed glasses on his stubby nose. He glared up at Mark, all six-foot-four of him, and dominated him completely.

  ‘If you had gone to any other house in the whole of Guguletu, you would be dead by now. You understand that?’

  ‘I know it.’

  Ten years old again, in front of the angry teacher.

  ‘Photographs? Haven’t we seen enough of those?’

  ‘These are different.’ Ten years old or not, Mark would let no one disparage his pictures.

  Qwele regarded him severely over the gold rims. ‘In what way are they different?’

  ‘The cops fired on the crowd. I took some pictures. From the crowd’s side.’

  Eyebrows like elevators. ‘From the crowd? How?’

  Mark explained.

  Qwele watched him, thoughtful now. ‘These pictures, they will come out well?’

  ‘No reason why not.’

  ‘And they show the police firing on the crowd?’

  ‘And the dogs.’

  ‘Wait here.’

  He turned, went into the inner room and closed the door. Mark heard the low murmur of voices. He hadn’t thought of anyone else being in the house. The voices stopped. The door opened.

  Qwele said, ‘There is someone here wishes to meet you.’ He stood aside, and Mark walked into the inner room.

  Even seated, the black man looked huge. He was tall, with massive arms and chest, a shaven head, small, neat ears, eyes almond-shaped, the whites a little yellow. A strong man. Thirty, perhaps a little more. Strong in other ways, too. Outside, Qwele had dominated. Here, this man was in charge.

  He looked at Mark expressionlessly. ‘You have been taking photographs of the police?’

  His voice was deep. He spoke English with the word-by-word precision of the educated African.

  Mark nodded. ‘Right.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My job.’

  ‘Tell me about your job.’

  Here was a man used to handing out orders. No one was going to explain to Mark who he was, that was obvious. All the same, it was Qwele’s house.

  ‘Okay if I sit down, Abraham?’

  Qwele made a fussy gesture of assent, subdued in the other man’s presence. Mark sat, eyes on the other’s face. ‘I’m a journalist.’

  ‘We know about journalists.’ The man tasted the word contemptuously. ‘So many killed. So many injured. Fifty people arrested. Ten necklaced. You keep the score. Like a football match.’

  Bloody know-all.

  ‘Not like any footie match I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘You watch. You take pictures. The police protect you. You never get involved. Exactly like a fo
otball match.’

  Mark remembered his terror, the frantic chase through the blind streets. ‘I wouldn’t have said so, myself.’

  ‘A stupid thing to do. Are you stupid, Mr Forrest?’

  Mark flushed. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why do it, then?’

  ‘I want people to know what it’s like to be in a riot. Really in it. The pictures you usually see, the police are chasing them. My pictures, it’s the police chasing us. You were complaining we don’t get involved. I just did.’

  ‘You will publish these photographs?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The police shooting? The dogs?’

  ‘The lot.’

  ‘The authorities will not like that.’

  ‘What can they do?’

  ‘You saw them shoot into an unarmed crowd and you ask that?’

  ‘They’re careful with the press. They know it’ll come back on them if they try anything with us.’

  The man stood and took two steps to the window. Standing, he was like the side of a house.

  ‘Why did you come here? Why today?’

  ‘To save my neck. That bunch of tsotsis, I don’t reckon they were planning to kiss me, do you?’

  The man had turned so that his back was to the window. His eyes gleamed in the shadow cast by his body. ‘You arrive on the doorstep claiming you were chased by a group of hooligans. Tsotsis, as you call them. Naturally, we believe you. We have the evidence of our eyes, do we not? So we take you in. And all the time …’ The eyes did not move from his face. ‘You know what they say, Mr Forrest. The South African police are everywhere.’

  Mark stared. ‘You’re saying those blokes might have been cops?’

  ‘Chasing you but strangely never catching you. It would be logical, if you happened to be a police spy yourself.’

  Bloody hell!

  ‘You know what happens to police spies, Mr Forrest?’

  Mark tried to laugh, was not sure it came out too well. ‘You’ve got a suspicious mind,’ he said.

  ‘Trust too easily, a man dies.’ A pause. ‘How do I know I can trust you?’

  ‘You don’t.’ He tapped the camera. ‘Except that I ran the risk of taking these pictures so that the rest of the world will know what happened here today.’

  ‘You took them so you’d have a story.’ Still the contempt.

  ‘Of course. That’s my job. But it will do your cause a bit of good, too.’

  ‘What do you know about my cause?’

  ‘It’s obvious. Perhaps I can help you another way, too.’

  ‘Help me? How do you imagine you can do that?’

  ‘Australia is thinking of lifting sanctions.’

  ‘I do not believe you.’ For all the arrogance, there was concern.

  ‘Believe what you like. There’s someone over here right now, looking into things.’ Mark paused deliberately. ‘I could probably get you a meeting, if you like.’

  ‘If he’s here officially, the government will know all about him. A meeting would be impossible.’

  ‘They don’t know anyone’s here. No one knows except you and me.’

  The heavy lips curled. ‘How is that possible?’

  ‘Because this person and I are friends.’

  The man watched Mark steadily for a long time. He said, ‘Comrade Qwele recognised two of the boys who were chasing you, so perhaps you were speaking the truth, after all. But you are still in my hand, Mr Forrest. I am sure you understand that.’

  ‘It won’t help you to kill me.’

  The man bared his teeth. ‘It would mean one white man less.’

  ‘And you would lose your interview.’

  Mark watched as he thought about that.

  ‘Very well. I shall arrange for someone to take you back, in case any more of our comrades are waiting for you outside. As far as this man from Australia is concerned, you will hear from us.’

  ‘I’ve a good mind to place you under arrest.’ Captain Scholtz was furious, pale blue eyes sparking in the thin face. ‘Wandering off like that … Part of my job’s looking after you people. Someone kills you, skollie, I get the blame, heh?’

  ‘Pretty thoughtless of me,’ Mark said.

  ‘How come the blerry kaffirs didn’t get you, anyway?’

  ‘Maybe they decided I’m harmless.’

  ‘You’re white, my mate. That’s all that matters here. What were you doing, anyhow?’

  ‘Poking around.’

  ‘Taking pictures, more like.’

  Scholtz’s eyes sharpened on the camera around Mark’s neck. He stuck out his hand. ‘I’ll take that.’

  Mark placed his hand protectively on the Nikon. ‘Why d’you want it?’

  Scholtz blazed. ‘So we can check it. That’s what blerry for.’

  ‘You’ll have to give me a receipt for it.’

  ‘You think I carry a receipt book to a fokking riot? You’ll get it back when we’ve finished with it.’

  ‘And the film?’

  ‘We’ll have to see, won’t we?’

  He had no choice. Refuse to co-operate and Scholtz would confiscate the camera, too. He handed it over.

  ‘When do I get it back?’

  ‘You can come to headquarters tomorrow.’

  ‘And the film?’ Anxiously.

  ‘Like I told you. We’ll see.’

  Scholtz turned and looked across the deserted square. From the cluster of blue-overalled men around the armoured car came the sound of laughter, the smell of cigarettes.

  He sighed. ‘I wonder if these dumb kaffirs will ever learn,’ he said.

  They were bloody good. Mark sat in the empty office and stared exultantly at the photographs spilled across his desk. The arrogant, capering figures. The profiles of the police, mouths grim, jaws determined. The savour of confrontation.

  He’d managed to catch something more: the abyss between the two sides, the hatred, fear, contempt.

  I hate, therefore I am.

  It was the hardest thing in the world to capture on film but Mark looked at the pictures on the desk and knew that he’d done it.

  Apartheid. It was there in the fluent, capering forms of the demonstrators, the unmoving rigidity of the police.

  They’ll love these, and the rest of them, too: the smoking rifles, the fleeing crowd, the expression on the face of the man shot from behind, as he fell towards Mark’s camera, the dogs.

  It was the truth of what had happened. No selection, no bias. A demonstrator’s view of confrontation.

  He sat back in his chair and looked through the pictures once more. The best work he’d ever done. He still had to write the story, but that wouldn’t take long. As far as possible, he would let the pictures speak for themselves. The important thing was to get them off fast. The cops wouldn’t be happy when they discovered he’d switched films. They would probably come a-calling, looking for the original. He had to get them away before then.

  An hour later, it was done. Now they could do what they liked. He had a bottle of Scotch in his desk, a good journalistic tradition. He wasn’t much of a boozer but reckoned that tonight he had something to celebrate. He poured a generous shot, added ice and slugged half of it in one gulp, excitement beating in his blood.

  He remembered the photograph that Frank Capra had taken, the death of a Republican soldier in the Spanish Civil War. That picture had made Capra famous. These pictures, today, might do the same for him.

  Now for the next item on the agenda, to find out who the mystery black man was. They kept a small photo morgue in the office, so he started digging through it. Half an hour later, he struck gold.

  It was eleven by the time Mark got home. Anna had been waiting, mounting dread in her heart. When she heard the car she was so relieved that she almost burst into tears. She ran to the front door of the cottage and flung it open, catching Mark on the doorstep with his key in his outstretched hand.

  At sight of him, her fear and anguish became fury.

 
‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘At the office. Look, I’m sorry —’

  ‘Sorry? You disappear in the middle of a bloody riot —’ She didn’t swear much, as a rule, but God — ‘And then I hear nothing till bloody midnight, and you say you’re sorry?’

  Her voice was climbing the decibels, like a monkey up a tree.

  Mark said, ‘You want to fight, let’s go indoors, eh?’ He shoved past her into the cottage. She slammed the door and went after him. In the bedroom he was chucking his denim jacket down on the bed. He turned to face her.

  ‘Look, I said I’m sorry. Okay? Now it’s late, I’m just about buggered. Can we leave it for now?’

  He looked exhausted, true enough, but Anna did not feel in the least forgiving. ‘One phone call. That’s all.’

  ‘I told you. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’ve been worried sick.’

  ‘I was going to phone, but I was flat out. I just didn’t get around to it.’

  ‘You forgot.’

  ‘No.’ Irritation was leaking in.

  ‘Didn’t bother.’

  ‘Bloody hell …’ He seized her by the forearms and drew her to him. Even now she resisted, her body shaking yet board-stiff against his. ‘Don’t you understand? If I’d phoned, it would have risked everything.’

  ‘Rubbish!’

  ‘I really am sorry,’ he said.

  He tried to kiss her but she twisted her face away. ‘No!’ she said. ‘That’s too easy.’

  ‘I was wrong. I admit it. But it was one hell of a day. Let me fix us both a drink and I’ll tell you about it.’

  She sat apart from him, pointedly ignoring the drink he’d given her. All the same, she listened as he told her about the photographs he’d taken.

  ‘The best I’ve ever done. Honestly.’

  ‘And afterwards? After the police fired?’

  ‘Then things got tricky.’ He told her of the heart-stopping chase through the township, of the man he had met at Qwele’s house.

  ‘Adam Shongwe. One of the ANC’s young guns. I read about him at the office.’ He hesitated. ‘I think he might like to meet you.’

  ‘How does he know about me?’

  ‘I told him. You want to hear the African point of view, he’s the guy.’

  ‘You say the police took your camera?’

  ‘I’ll get it back. It was the film they wanted, not the camera.’