by Deon Meyer
I understand, he said again.
What do you need, Benny? asked the commissioner, as if they were old friends.
He hesitated before answering. He looked from the politician to the Western Cape chief of police and then he said: The one thing that is no longer available, Commissioner. Time.
And apart from that? His tone said that was not the answer he had wanted.
What Benny is saying is that this sort of case is complicated. The problem is lack of an obvious motive, said Matt Joubert.
Thats right, said Griessel. We dont know why he is doing it.
Why would anyone do it? asked le Grange. Surely its to protect children. Thats obvious.
Motive, said John Afrika, is usually an identifier, Mr. le Grange. If the assegai mans motive is purely to protect children, that identifies him as one of about ten million concerned men in this country. Everyone wants to protect children, but only one is committing murder to do so. What makes him different? Why did he choose this way? That is what we need to know.
There are a few things that would help, said Griessel.
Everyone looked at him.
We need to know if Enver Davids was the first one. As far as we know, he is the first in the Western Cape. But crime against children is everywhere. Perhaps he started somewhere else.
What would that help? asked le Grange.
The first one could be significant. The first one would be personal. Personal vengeance. And then he decides he likes it. Maybe. We must consider it. The second thing that could help is other assegai murders or attacks. Its a unique weapon. The state pathologist says they dont see them anymore. You dont buy a new assegai at the Seven-Eleven. Why did he go to the trouble of getting one? Then there is the question of where he got it. Professor Pagel says Zululand. Could our colleagues in Durban help? Do they know who makes and sells them? Could they ask the questions? And the last thing we can do is draw up a list of all the reported crimes against children in the past eighteen months. Particularly those where the suspects have not been apprehended.
Do you think hes taking revenge? asked Advocate le Grange.
Just another possibility, said Griessel. We must consider them all.
There are hundreds of cases, said the commissioner.
That is why Benny said time is the one thing he needs, said Matt Joubert.
Damn, said le Grange.
Amen, said John Afrika.
* * *
The southeaster was blowing so hard they had to run doubled over to their cars.
You did well in there, Benny, shouted Joubert above the roar of the wind.
So did you. And then: You know, if you drank more, you too could have been an inspector now.
Instead of a senior superintendent that has to deal with all this political shit?
Exactly.
Joubert laughed. Thats one way to look at it.
They reached Griessels car. Im going to look in on Cliffy quickly, he said.
Im coming too. See you there.
* * *
Gently he pushed open the door of the hospital room and saw them sitting therethe woman and two children around the bed, all bathed in the yellow pool of the bedside lamp. Mketsus wife holding his hand, the children on either side, their eyes on their wounded father. And Cliffy lying there with a soft smile, busy telling them something.
Griessel stopped, reluctant to intrude. And something else, a consciousness of loss, of envy, but Cliffy saw him and his smile broadened and he said, Come in, Benny.
* * *
On the threshold of his flat was a small glass vase with a single, unfamiliar red flower. And a small note under the vase, folded twice.
He picked it up, opened the letter and hope welled up in him. Anna?
Welcome to our building. Pop in for tea when you have the time.
At the bottom.
Charmaine. 106.
Fuck. He looked down the passage in the direction of 1
0
6. All was quiet. Somewhere he could hear a television. He unlocked his door quickly and went in, closing it softly. He placed the vase on the breakfast bar. He read the note again, crumpled it up and tossed it in his new rubbish bin. Not the sort of thing he wanted his children to see lying around tomorrow.
His sitting-room suite. He stood back and inspected it. Tried to see it through his childrens eyes. The place looked less barren at least, more homely. He sat down in a chair. Not too bad. He stood up and went and lay down on the couch with a faint stirring of pleasure. He felt weary, felt like closing his eyes.
Long day. The seventh since he had last had a drink.
Seven days. Only a hundred and seventy-three to go.
He thought of the Firemans Arms and his mind cajoling him: just one drink. He thought about Cliffys family. The fucking thing was that he couldnt be sure his family would ever be like that again. Anna and himself and Carla and Fritz. How did you get that back? How did you build that sort of bond?
That made him remember the photo and he got up on impulse to find it. He found it in his briefcase and went and lay down again with the light on. He studied the photo. Benny, Anna, Carla and Fritz.
Eventually he got up, went up to the bedroom and put it on the windowsill above the bed. Then he took a shower. His cell phone rang when he was lathered with soap. He made a wet trail to the bed and answered it. It might be Anna.
Griessel.
Its Cloete, Benny. The Sunday papers are driving me crazy, the liaison officer said.
Well, tell them to go to hell.
I cant. Its my job.
What do those vultures want?
They want to know if Laurens is Artemis.
If
she
is Artemis?
You know, whether it was Artemis that murdered her.
We dont know what the fuckers name is.
Cloete was annoyed. Is it the same murder weapon, Benny?
Yes, its the same murder weapon.
And the same MO?
Yes.
And I can tell them that?
It wont make any difference.
It will make a hell of a difference in
my
life, said Cloete. Because then they will stop fucking phoning me. He put the phone down.
27.
At three minutes to ten he knocked on the door of his own house like some stranger. Anna opened up and then she asked, Are you sober, Benny? and he said, Yes.
Are you sure?
He looked in her eyes to let her know the first yes was enough. She was looking pretty. She had done something with her hair. It was shorter. Her face was made up, lips red and shiny.
She took her time before reacting. Ill get the children. When he lifted a foot to enter, she shut the door in his face. He stood there dumbstruck and then the humiliation descended on him. He lowered his head in case the neighbors were outside and saw him like this. Everyone would know he had been kicked out. This street was like a village.
The door opened and Carla charged at him, threw her arms around his neck and squeezed him saying, Daddy, like she did when she was little. Her hair smelled of strawberries. He held her close and said, My child.
He saw Fritz in the doorway with a rucksack in his hand.
Hi, Dad. Uneasy.
Hello, Fritz.
Bring them back at six, said Anna who stood behind her son.
I will, he said.
She closed the door.
Why was she looking so nice? What was she planning today?
* * *
Carla talked too much, too gaily, and Fritz, sitting in the back, said not a word. In the rear-view mirror, Griessel could see the boy gazing out of the car window expressionlessly. In Fritzs pr
ofile he saw echoes of Annas features. He wondered what Fritz was thinking. About that last night his father had been at home and had hit his mother? How could he fix that? And Carla babbled on about the upcoming Matric Farewell and the intrigues of who had asked whom to go with them, as if she could make a success of the day single-handed.
I thought we might eat at the Spur, he said when Carla stopped for breath.
Okay, she said.
Were not at prep school anymore, said Fritz.
The Spur is a
family
restaurant, stupid, said Carla.
The Spur is for little kids, said Fritz.
Well, you choose, Fritz, said Griessel. Anywhere.
It doesnt matter.
As they walked up the stairs to his flat, he thought it would be awful for the children. This small bare space: Dads penitentiary. He opened up and stood aside so they could enter. Carla disappeared up the stairs straightaway. Fritz stood in the door and surveyed the place.
Cool, he said.
Oh?
Bachelor pad, said his son in answer and went in. Havent you got a TV, Dad?
No, I . . .
Youve got a
sweet
place, Dad, said Carla from the top of the stairs. Then his cell phone rang, he unclipped it from his belt and said, Griessel, and Jamie Keyter said, I thought I should come over to you and report. Where do you live?
He would have to talk to Keyter even though he didnt want him here. He gave directions and said goodbye.
Ill have to do a little work today, he said to the children.
What kind of work?
Its a case. My shift partner is coming round.
What case, Dad? asked Carla.
Its a guy whos stabbing people with an assegai.
Cool, said Fritz.
Artemis? Youre working on the Artemis case? asked Carla in excitement.
Yes, he said, and wondered if he had ever discussed his work with his children before. When he was sober.
Carla dived onto the new couch with the anonymous stains and said: But thats not a guy. The television says its a woman. Artemis. Shes taking revenge on everyone who messes with children.
Its a man, said Griessel, and sat down on one of his new chairs, opposite his son. Fritzs legs hung over the armrest. He had taken a magazine out of his rucksack.
New Age Gaming.
He flipped through it.
Oh, said Carla deflated. Do you know who it is, Dad?
No.
So how do you know its a man?
Its highly improbable that its a woman. Serial killers are usually men. Women almost never use
Charlize Theron was a serial murderer, said Carla.
Who?
She got an Oscar for it.
For the murders?
Dad doesnt know who Charlize Theron is, said Fritz from behind his magazine.
Dad knows, said Carla, and they both looked at him to settle the argument and he knew the time had come to say what he must say, the words he had composed in his head while he drove to Brackenfell that morning.
I am an alcoholic, he said.
Dad . . .
Wait, Carla. There are things we must talk about. Sooner or later. Its no use pretending.
We know youre an alky, said Fritz. We know.
Shut up, said Carla.
What for? Thats all we did and what use was that and now theyre getting divorced and Dad drinks like a fish.
Who says were getting divorced?
Dad, hes talking rubbish . . .
Did your mother say were getting divorced?
She said you could come back when you stop drinking. And we know you cant stop drinking. Fritzs face was hidden behind the magazine again, but he could hear the anger in his sons voice. And the helplessness.
I have stopped.
Its eight days already, said Carla.
Fritz sat motionless behind
NAG.
You dont think I can stop?
Fritz clapped the magazine shut. If you wanted to stop, why didnt you do it long ago? Why? The tears were close. Why did you do all those things, Dad? Why did you hit Mom? Swear at us. Do you think its funny seeing your father like that?
Fritz! But she couldnt shut him up.
Putting you in bed every night when you pass out? Or finding you in a chair in the morning, stinking and you never even remembered what you did? We never had a father. Just some drunkard who lived with us. You dont know us, Dad. You dont know anything. You dont know we hide the liquor away. You dont know we take money out of your wallet so you cant buy brandy. You dont know we cant bring our friends home because were ashamed of our father. We cant sleep over at our friends because were scared youll hit Mom when were not there. You still think we like to go to the Spur, Dad. You think Charlize Theron is a criminal. You dont know anything, Dad, and you drink.
He could no longer hold back the tears and he got up and rushed up the stairs. Griessel and Carla stayed behind and he could not meet her eyes. He sat in his chair and felt shame. He saw the fuck-up he had made of his life. The whole irrevocable fuck-up.
You
have
stopped, Dad.
He said nothing.
I
know
you have.
* * *
The unease had driven Thobela up Table Mountain early Sunday morning. He drove to Kirstenbosch and climbed the mountain from behind, up Skeleton Gorge, until he stood on the crest and looked over everything. But it didnt help.
He pulled and kneaded the emotion, looking for reasons, but none came.
It wasnt only the woman.
Oh God, she had said. He had come from the shrubs and the shadows and in the dark he grabbed the firearm in her hand and gave it a sharp twist, so that she lost her grip. The dogs were barking madly around them, the sheepdog biting at his heels with sharp teeth. He had to kick the animal and Laurens had formed her last word.
No.
She had shielded herself with her hands when he lifted the assegai. When the long blade went in, peace had come over her. Just like Colin Pretorius. Release. That was what they wanted. But inside him there was a cry, a shout that said he couldnt make war on women.
He heard it still, but there was something else. A pressure. Like walls. Like a narrow corridor. He had to get out. Into the open. He must move. Go on.
He walked over the mountain in the direction of Camps Bay. He clambered over rocks until the Atlantic Ocean lay far beneath his feet.
Why did he feel this urge now? To fetch his motorbike and have a long, never-ending road stretching ahead. Because he was doing the right thing. He did not doubt anymore. In the Spur with the street children he had found an answer that he hadnt looked for. It had come to him as if it were sent. The things people did to them. Because they were the easiest targets.
He walked again. The mountain stretched out to the south, making humps you dont expect. How far could you walk like this, on the crest? As far as Cape Point?
He was doing the right thing, but he wanted to get away.
He was feeling claustrophobic here.
Why? He hadnt made a mistake yet. He knew that. But something was wrong. The place was too small. He stood still. This was instinct, he realized. To move on. To hit and then disappear. That was how it was, in the old days. Two, three weeks of preparation until you did your job and you got on a plane and were gone. Never two consecutive strikes in the same place: that would be looking for trouble. That left tracks, drew attention. That was poor strategy. But it was already too late, because he had drawn attention. Major attention.
That was why he had to get away. Get in his truc
k and drive.
28.
He put the kettle on.
Ill make the coffee, Dad, said Carla.
I want to do it, he said. Then: I dont even know how you take your coffee.
