The Serpentine Road

by Mendelson, Paul

  He looks up, around. He is completely alone: a near-naked white man, bloated by a drenched Kevlar vest – a life-saving present – and a dead black girl, so strong when alive yet, in death, almost nothing more than a shadow made real. He closes his eyes and mourns for her, mourns for the history which binds them.

  De Vries has no superstitions about death, believes the human body to be a receptacle of life no more sacred than that of any living thing which might have roamed the planet for thousands of years. He unfastens the bum-bag from her belt, wonders whether to leave her body at the roadside. He looks around, bends low and pulls the body by its hands towards the canal, pitches the light, insignificant form over the edge and rolls it into the water. Within a few seconds, and without seeming to surface, the corpse is gone.

  He pulls himself back up, stumbles unsteadily to the road. At the junction, he unfastens his vest, rolls it under his arm, and walks – under cover of the dark, overhanging hedges and trees weighed down low with oncoming water – back up his street to his house. He sees no one, observes no movement to suggest human scrutiny.

  He closes the front gates, re-bolts his front door, throws down the vest. As he approaches the staircase, he sees the knife. It is, maybe, thirty centimetres long, shaped like a pick, tapering to the point with a double-sided blade. He touches the point to his forefinger, realizes that he has punctured the skin. A tiny drop of blood appears. He wipes it away on his saturated pajama trousers, climbs the staircase heavily.

  In his bedroom, he dries himself, dresses in old clothes, switches on every light and looks around. In the bathroom, there is an old built-in cupboard. At the very top are two narrow louvered doors, long since ignored. He sees that they are open. He studies the doors closely, the bath and cabinets, the flooring. There is not a mark to be seen. No visual evidence that anyone had ever been there. He drags a chair from his bedroom into the bathroom, stands on top of it, peers inside. Behind dusty, untouched sheets, there is a tiny space, a threadbare towel flattened like an animal’s nest in long grass. There, he now knows, she waited.

  He unzips the small plastic bag which had been attached to her belt. It contains two tiny picks, thin rectangles of rigid rubber, hand-coiled wires and two small nine-volt batteries, a folding compact multi-tool, a narrow sharpening stone, a strapless digital watch; tools of an accomplished burglar, simple enablers of a higher, fatal cause.

  He lies down on his bed, utterly spent, brain spinning, still panting twenty minutes after he has stopped all physical exertion. He hears the rain, the air in his chest, and feels every beat of his heart. He thinks of the girl moving across the country, a silhouette so dark it is invisible in the shadows; a girl beneath the water, swept away by the onset of winter.

  For the next six hours he lies there, unmoving, unable to close his eyes.

  ‘I would think,’ John Marantz says, standing over him as he sits by the fire, drinking red wine, ‘that your overwhelming emotion should be relief. She killed six men – but not you.’

  ‘I was lucky.’ He looks up at Marantz. ‘And your friend Basson gave me the vest.’

  ‘Not my friend.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Marantz sits down, glances out of the tall windows of his living room, which overlook the Southern Suburbs. Everything is out of focus in the grey unending drizzle.

  ‘I went to him because I wanted to help you. Do you regret that?’

  ‘Not right now.’

  ‘But later . . . ?’

  ‘What was the cost to you, John?’

  ‘Cost?’

  ‘Price. Men like Eric Basson don’t do anyone favours. They do it for a price, to be owed something by someone who might help them in future. What did you promise him?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then you’re the lucky one. The more I try for information, the more compromised I become.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You know things about me you shouldn’t . . .’

  ‘And you, me.’

  ‘But it doesn’t matter about you, does it? I’m trying to hold on to the last vestige of honesty in the whole damn system, and all the time, I am undermined, because now I owe you something. I owe Eric Basson.’

  ‘You don’t owe me.’

  ‘But I owe Basson and, probably, so do you.’

  Marantz draws breath to speak, suddenly says nothing; he looks down silently.

  After a moment, he says: ‘Basson told me that he was part of Vlakplaas; that he was a repository of secrets from the old days, the war that was fought.’

  ‘I knew about Vlakplaas,’ De Vries says. ‘I have some of my own sources. My mother always told me: being an adult, it’s all about compromise. I just didn’t think it would turn out to be every one of my ideals.’

  ‘That’s our choice of business.’

  ‘Perhaps . . .’

  ‘That the end always justifies the means.’

  ‘Does it, though? Can it? The end always justifies the means?’

  ‘That,’ Marantz says sadly, ‘depends on the end.’

  De Vries sits in the Interview Room alone. In a few moments, he will be joined by Nkosi. Classon, maybe even Thulani, will sit behind the one-way mirror in the observation booth. No one is expecting anything of him, not even himself. Major Mabena is on his way with a personal instruction from the Police Ministry and the top of the top brass, ordering his release into Mabena’s custody and his return to Pretoria. Thulani has capitulated, as he must. De Vries has less than two hours.

  Nkosi limps into the room, cuffed, his face bruised and scratched from the pursuit on the oil rig, and sits heavily on the iron chair across the desk from De Vries. His two guards stand to the side against the wall, but they do not leave the room.

  ‘In two hours you are to be released into the custody of Major Mabena. I imagine you are relieved?’

  Nkosi says nothing, head bowed, breathing steady.

  ‘I have an offer for you, Lieutenant. Listen carefully because my time and yours is running out. We know your connection to the Marikana Mine incident, your previous identities and operations, and what you consider to be your continuing employment. But, I hope you appreciate that now it is different for you. Your bosses don’t want you back to reward you, change you, move you on. They want you to silence you, because you can provide the final link back to them which proves the conspiracy. How do people like them silence a man?’

  He discerns no reaction from Nkosi, as if the man is in a trance, meditating. He realizes that this is his training: an enemy combatant on hostile territory, saying nothing.

  ‘You’ve read about a place called Vlakplaas? That was where the Apartheid Nationalist government established a centre for state-sponsored terrorism against your people. That farm was a charnel house, a place of interrogation and torture, of mind-control. When its existence became known, it was condemned around the world. And now the ANC have power, have been in government for twenty-one years, and what do you people do? You create your own Vlakplaas and they make you work there. You want to be part of that?’

  Nkosi looks at him.

  ‘You know nothing about me.’

  De Vries is startled at the sound of his voice, surprised that he has spoken one word.

  ‘What should I know?’

  Nkosi stares at him. A few seconds run into hundreds, but his gaze never leaves De Vries. He says slowly, quietly: ‘When you first met me at Taryn Holt’s house you asked who thought they were in charge. You told me that you were in charge. That’s what you do not understand. You control nothing. You are nothing.’

  ‘But you are?’

  ‘I am a soldier.’

  ‘You wear the badge of the SAPS, Lieutenant. Not for much longer.’

  ‘You people never fought. You basked in absolute power and never accepted what we have known from the beginning. It is a war. It always was, and it always will be.’

  Nkosi folds his arms, bows his head. De Vries knows that the conversation is over. Nkosi h
as loyalty to a cause which, in 2015, he misunderstands. He nods to the two guards, watches them lift Nkosi under his arms, drag him away.

  To police during war, he reflects, is always harder. The value of life declines; those who have nothing to lose risk more.

  * * *

  At 4 p.m., De Vries finds himself standing behind General Sempiwe Thulani’s desk, next to Norman Classon and Brigadier David Wertner. Thulani is seated in his raised position facing a tall, thin black officer in full uniform. Thulani is reading. When he has finished, he looks up at his guest.

  ‘In response to these direct orders from the minister, Lieutenant Nkosi will be released into your custody upon your departure from this building. You will be responsible for him from that moment.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You will return with my written objection to his release from the custody of the Western Cape Province. You will present this to the Police Minister. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Furthermore, if this man, in whatever guise, re-enters the Western Cape Province, he will be arrested and detained on sight.’

  ‘That would not be in the interest of inter-departmental co-operation, sir.’

  Thulani rises.

  ‘Do you know what, Major Mabena? I do not care a fuck what your department – whatever that might be – thinks. That is what will happen. You have information on me; I have information on you, and the ministry and the people who work for it. So, let us be completely clear on this. Distance is your best defence.’

  Mabena smiles insolently.

  ‘Whatever you say, sir.’

  ‘I say, and I expect the meaning of my words to be conveyed to your superiors – whoever they may be.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You assure me that Sergeant Thwala is on his way home?’

  ‘As I have stated, we located and rescued SAPS Sergeant Ben Thwala. Those holding him have been detained.’

  Thulani turns to De Vries, who says: ‘I spoke to him on his cellphone from the plane. He said that the main door had been closed and that passengers had been told to turn off their handsets.’

  ‘Perhaps we should wait for the Sergeant’s arrival?’

  ‘I, too, have a schedule, General. It has been set by the Minister himself.’

  ‘If Sergeant Thwala does not step off that plane in perfect health, you will be held responsible, Major.’ Thulani stands. ‘Now, get the fuck out of my office, and never come back.’

  Mabena salutes, turns smartly and leaves the room. De Vries is reminded of Julius Mngomezulu, at large elsewhere now, spinning on the spot and clacking his heels.

  Classon begins to move away. Thulani is muttering to Wertner. De Vries follows Classon from the room. When they exit the ante-room, reach the corridor, Classon says: ‘You want me, Vaughn?’

  ‘No.’

  He strides away down the corridor.

  From the far end of the main foyer, De Vries watches Mabena and two other men escort Nkosi away. He follows them, watches Nkosi and his guards enter a police van and slowly drive away. A few moments later, Mabena gets into the driver’s seat of a saloon car and moves towards the exit of the underground car park. De Vries moves to his own vehicle, starts the engine, drives towards the exit, allowing two other cars to insulate him from Mabena’s rear mirror.

  Mabena turns out of the headquarters and heads to the Nelson Mandela Boulevard, the freeway which leads to the airport and the Southern Suburbs. De Vries expects Mabena to fork left for the main N2 highway but, at the back of his mind, he is suspicious that Mabena has separated from Nkosi and his colleagues, that he is driving a private car on his own. At Settlers Way, Mabena forks right onto the M3 freeway to the Southern Suburbs. De Vries nods to himself. He is almost certain where Mabena is headed.

  De Vries overtakes Mabena, speeds past the University and Newlands Forest. He sits with the rest of the traffic in the ubiquitous queues at the junctions and then powers up Edinburgh Drive and turns off into Bishopscourt. He positions himself across the road from the impressive entrance, hidden from the cameras. He waits little more than three minutes before Mabena’s car arrives, indicates right and turns into the gates to Bheka Bhekifa’s mansion. De Vries takes four photographs on his cell phone. Twenty minutes later, having listened only to the smacking of sporadic but substantial drops hitting his car roof, his front and back views obscured by sodden leaves and small, fallen twigs, he takes six further pictures of Mabena leaving the property. He does not know what can be seen in these pictures, less still what he is even doing recording such information. When Mabena turns onto the road and accelerates, De Vries follows him. After twenty-five minutes, he turns off the N2 onto the airport slip-road; De Vries drops back, but continues driving towards the terminal, badges the security guard at the special-access gate, and parks up directly outside the arrivals terminal. Officers will meet Thwala when he appears through security, but De Vries wants to see him; however immoral the process taken to retrieve him, at least he is alive.

  General Thulani’s heavy head pulls his neck muscles taught as he tilts it back, stretching sore muscles. He feels emasculated by the events of the afternoon, betrayed that he is not party to the secrets of the high command of whom – he knows now mistakenly – he believed to be part.

  He sits up straight, faces David Wertner.

  ‘After all this, De Vries has proven loyal to me, and useful to us. He seems able to solve crimes others might be . . . reluctant to bring to conclusion.’

  ‘Is it worth the risk?’

  Thulani smiles thinly.

  ‘We know we do not like De Vries. Part of me despises him, but he has two traits I do admire: he wants the SAPS to be respected, and he wants to find justice for the victim. I think there are many in government, many in our own service, who might, for whatever reason, decide to compromise that goal and, if their view prevails, then what becomes of the SAPS? What becomes of our country?’

  ‘If needs be,’ Wertner says, ‘De Vries can be controlled. I have sufficient material to bring his character into question.’

  Thulani draws himself up.

  ‘Listen to me. De Vries is to be left alone. Officially, he is not to be monitored, he is not to be publicly challenged – even here within this building. Keep him off your list right now. There may be scrutiny and we do not want it to reflect badly on us. Leave Brigadier du Toit to run his department and be seen to focus on other matters.’

  ‘Be seen . . . ?’

  ‘Be seen.’ Thulani stares at Wertner, wonders if his discretion is at the cost of plain comprehension. ‘Those are my words. You hear them clearly? Those are your orders.’

  Wertner continues to look puzzled. Thulani sighs.

  ‘What you may do privately is up to you. For now, we are seen to be the leaders of men, to applaud any action which roots out corruption and exposes government interference and illegality.’

  ‘Mngomezulu?’

  ‘Beware, Colonel. There are many more like him. I expect you to ensure that there are no more snakes in my office.’

  Thulani hauls himself out of his high chair.

  ‘I am thinking of the men and women who look forward to the weekend. I have not looked forward to a weekend in a very long time. The crime never stops, the meetings and the forms, they never end. This weekend, I have only time to prepare my presentation and reflect that, perhaps, some of my thoughts have been re-aligned.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Thulani flicks his right hand.

  ‘You spend too much time eavesdropping and spying. You should listen more openly.’

  ‘I am doing my job.’

  ‘Do it well, Colonel. We have challenged the hierarchy. The time will come when we must be certain who is our friend and who is our enemy. That is, I think you will agree, a basic tenet of war.’

  ‘Don’t even think about it, Vaughn. You’re pissed, the roads are treacherous.’

  De Vries looks up at John Marantz.


  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Do me a favour. You can’t go back home. Not yet. Not now. I’ll open another bottle. Have some. Spend the night in the guest room.’

  De Vries’s head nods until his chin hits his chest; his eyes half close.

  ‘One glass. I’ll have one glass. I will drink to the health of my officer, the redoubtable Sergeant Thwala.’

  ‘Redoubtable?’

  ‘I don’t know where that came from . . .’

  ‘An education? A long, long time ago . . .’

  Marantz walks to his kitchen, unscrews another bottle of Merlot, pours a generous measure.

  ‘I feel happier with you back on wine. You’re more predictable.’

  ‘That’s bad.’

  Marantz sits opposite him, across the broad, low coffee table. The fire crackles.

  ‘What happens to Nkosi now?’

  ‘Who knows . . . ? My bet is that he will disappear. But, if not, he’ll become someone else, move somewhere else. He’s back with his own now.’

  ‘At least everyone knows. You found him. You caught him.’

  De Vries shrugs drunkenly.

  ‘Everyone knows?’

  ‘You can tell everyone. There are websites, newspapers, television shows.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘No. Probably not. I’ve never considered provocation a positive tactic. Threat, now that’s a different matter. You hold the evidence; you hold that threat.’

  The wind blows back the blue smoke from Marantz’s open fire. They both watch it ooze into the living area, then recoil against the chimney breast and meander high up to the ceiling, suddenly cut off mid-way by another gust which sucks the cloud back inside the fire and up, out, into the damp mountainside night air.

  ‘I made the worst mistake of my life,’ De Vries says blankly.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I stayed quiet, in ’94, when Nel was like a rabid dog. I should have spoken out.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t,’ Marantz says. ‘A man like Nel – the man you described. He would have come after you, after Suzanne, after your baby . . .’