The civil servant had brought the first briefing papers of the day. The Minister of Justice smiled.
"The State President? He's in great form. I was with him yesterday, firm as they come."
"No question of clemency?"
"I'm surprised you ask."
"Because of the overnight telegrams . . . Washington, the Vatican, the Speaker of the European Parliament in Strasbourg, the Security Council, the Secretary General of the Commonwealth. They all came in overnight."
"A formality. But you have missed one."
"Those are all the cables, sir."
"What about the United Kingdom? No word from Her Britannic Majesty's ratbag."
"I noted that," the civil servant said. "No message has come from the United Kingdom."
The Minister of Justice clapped his hands. "Did you see the opinion poll from the Free State. We are going to win that by-election, because I was photographed at the grave of Gerhardt Prinsloo, and because the Pritchard Five will hang."
"But curious that the United Kingdom is silent."
• * •
Jack stood with Jan below the wide climbing steps leading to the rearing stone hulk of the Vortrekker Monument.
Jan spoke savagely of this edifice to Afrikaner power and mythology.
As if it were something evil, a national monument to privilege and superiority. He showed Jack, with an angry pointing finger, the carved relief of trekker wagons that formed a laager around the monument, and the great hewn corner statues of the Boer leaders with their rifles, and the bronze of the trekker woman and her children. Jack thought the boy's intensity was unreal, just a drug to give him courage. For himself, he didn't listen. He stood with his back to the monument and looked across the valley to the south side slopes of Magazine Hill.
There was a wire fence at the floor of the valley, at the bottom of the hill. The ground on the slope was rough, half cleared, cut by a stone vehicle track. To the right side, as he looked, of Magazine Hill, was the sweep of the Johannesburg motorway, the Ben Schoeman Highway, that would come round behind the hill on which the Voortrekker Monument had been built. To the left side of Magazine Hill was a separate fenced area, which his plans told him was the army's firing range. Directly ahead, the crown of Magazine Hill was covered with tall and heavy pine trees, rich green, and he could see buildings in the shelter of the trees.
He made his estimates.
He tried to judge the distance from the floor of the valley to the crown of Magazine Hill. He tried to see where he could lie up if he were ahead of schedule, over which ground he could hurry if he was late.
He thought it could not be more than two hundred yards from the crown down the hidden tree-covered slope to the walls of Beverly Hills.
He turned his back on Magazine Hill and walked to the far side of the Voortrekker Monument to see down below where the car would be left. It was a hell of a distance to come back. More than a mile. His own thought. . . that in the chaos after the attack he and Jeez would be better on the scrub hills on foot than immediately into a car, but a hell of a way for all that.
In the line between Magazine Hill and the Ben Schoeman Highway was another stony outcrop. He saw the summit of it had been shaped.
"What's that?"
"Skanskopfort. Built to protect Pretoria, historic monument, colonial cannons and that crap."
"Lived in?"
Jan shook his head. "It's just a museum, and an army store."
Jack walked again to the steps. He stood in the morning sunlight. He gazed again on the slope of Magazine Hill, the slope that he would climb that evening.
They went to Ros's car. Jan drove back to Pretoria.
* * *
In two heaps, Jack's possessions were laid out on the floor.
In one heap was his suitcase and his coat. He had told Jan to dump them from Ros's car, once they were on the way back to Johannesburg. The other heap was what he would take with him that night. There was the metal tube, and the prepared Cordtex equivalent and safety fuse lengths, and the two charges for the windows, and the shotgun and the ammunition, and the wire cutters, and the rope and the bent metal hook that was lashed to it, all to be carried up Magazine Hill.
The bedroom door opened.
Ros had taken the ribbon from her hair. She had washed the make-up from her cheeks and her eyes and from her lips.
She was ice calm, pale, matter of fact.
"Lose yourself, Jan."
Jan looked at her, blinking, not understanding.
"Just get rid of yourself. Lose yourself."
"What for?"
"Because I tell you to."
"Where to?"
"Go and check the other car, make sure it isn't being watched, walk the streets, anywhere."
Ros came to Jan and took his arm and kissed him on the cheek and led him to the door. She opened the door and pushed him out through it.
She closed the door. She came to Jack. She reached for his hand. She might have been leading a child. She led him into the bedroom. He thought she might have been crying while he had been at the Voortrekker Monument and looking over Magazine Hill. She did not look into his face. She was clumsy with her fingers as she unbuttoned his shirt, slid it away across his shoulders to let it fall from his arms. She knelt in front of him and lifted away his shoes and peeled off his socks. She reached up to unfasten his belt and to ease down the zipper. She was kneeling as she pushed her light sweater up and over her head. Jack stood in his nakedness and watched her. He knew he loved her. He loved every part of her scrubbed clean body. She stood to step out of her skirt. She drove her pants down to below her knees.
Jack reached for her, he felt the loveliness of her. She stepped back from him. A slow sad smile. She took his hand, she took him to the bed.
She broke. She pushed him hard down onto the bed. She came down onto him. She was sobbing her heart to him.
She tore at the skin on his back with her nails. She hurt him as she bathed him in her tears. She was stretching apart over him, reaching for him, guiding him, driving onto him.
"You cruel bastard, Jack, for coming into my life . . . for going out of it."
18
She lay beside him, and her cheek rested on the centre of his chest.
She could feel the steady rhythm of his heart in her ear.
She thought he was at peace. With her fingers, with her nails, she made shapes and patterns amongst the hairs of his chest. She formed the letters of his name, she wrote amongst the hairs of her love for him. The curtains in the room had been open when she had taken him to the bed. She could see that the skies were darkening now over Pretoria, and she could sense the thickening of the traffic on the streets below the window. She hated the coming of the evening. She felt a safety with this man as they lay against each other, damp warm and loving safety. There was a safety when his arm was around her, his hand over her breast. She knew that she could not hold him in the bed, she had seen the way that a few minutes before he had shifted his hand from her stomach to look down at the face of his watch before returning his hand to the place of pleasure and comfort. She knew that when the hour hand had trickled and the minute hand had rushed that he would leave her. She acknowledged that on this evening, on this last evening, that she played the role of second best. She accepted that she was secondary to the work of the evening that would start when he leaned across her, kissed her, pushed her back onto the pillow, and left her bed. She thought that she had helped him. Her friends had told her that the first time was awful. Ros van Niekerk, happy in her moist heat, safe with a man's hand over her breast and with his fingers over the flatness of her stomach, thought it was not at all awful. He hadn't used anything, she hadn't used anything. Not an act of gratification, not an occasion when adults who knew their minds discussed the merits of pills and coils, a time for soft urgent loving between two young people who would part when the hand of a watch had run its hour. She thought she did not care about the consequences of his not having used anything, of her not h
aving used anything.
His hand moved.
She felt the aloneness of the skin on her stomach. She felt his fingers climbing the slow length of her body, and brushing the nipple of her breast. She opened her eyes. She saw that he looked at his watch. She hated the watch.
"How long?"
"Just a few minutes."
"I can't keep you?"
"You knew you couldn't."
"To have found something precious, and to lose it . . ."
"Something wonderful to remember, Ros."
Jack kissed her, closed her eyes with his kisses. With his tongue he ran over the nostrils and the fresh lips of his girl.
So calm. As if when he left her he would go for an evening walk, a stroll that was without danger.
She clung to him. Her arms were around his neck, her breasts were forced against the jutted strength of his jaw.
"Please, no hurting yourself, Ros."
She thought that if she cried she would weaken him. She thought that to weaken him was to further endanger him.
And that was absurd because there could not be more danger than where he was going. She choked on the tears, she squeezed the wetness from her eyes.
"Trying."
"Great girl."
"How long?"
"Less than a few minutes."
"Will I ever see you again . . . " She faltered.
"Remember the brilliance, Ros, of being loved, and remember the brilliance that you gave me with your love."
He looked again at his watch. She felt him start to move.
And, God, she didn't want him to go. And, God, she was without the power to stop his going. She rolled away from him. She lay on her back and the bed sheet hid her knees. She laid her arm over her eyes, so that she would not see the moment of his going from her bed, from her side.
"It was only for you, Jack."
"I know that."
"Because I love my country."
"That's my guilt, that I've made you fight what you love."
"My country, Jack, that's more than a rabble of politicians."
"Ros, my country's politicians, and the bastard desk men, they ditched my father and left him to hang. But I, too, can still love my country."
"And I love my brother. And I hate his cause, because his cause is bombs and guns. His way is killing and loathing and fear. His way takes us to ruin, destroys the country that I love, and will destroy the brother that I love . . . How long?"
He kissed her. As if they both knew it would be for the last time. He snapped off the bed. He went to his clothes, he started to dress. She lay in the darkness, her eyes under her arm. She heard the movement of his body. She could not let her eyes see him. She felt his hands on her head, lifting her head. She felt the cold of the chain on her neck, on the skin above her breasts. She opened her eyes. She saw the gold chain, she lifted the crucifix of gold to see it better.
"Wear it and remember."
"I won't forget you, Jack, not ever."
She watched him go out through the door.
She heard his desultory conversation with Jan in the living room. She heard him speak aloud as he went through his check list of the items he would carry up Magazine Hill, and down Magazine Hill, to the gaol.
She was numbed. Too unhappy, now, for tears. She swung her legs off the bed.
As she dressed she heard Jack talking to Jan. They had moved on to the list of street places at which the grenades would be thrown, where the pistol shots were to be fired.
Her fingers played with the crucifix. She thought she would wear it for the rest of her life, for the ever of her life. She had promised that in the morning she would be at her office desk, and Jan had promised that he would be in the lecture theatre at Wits. At home, in the top drawer of her wardrobe, there was a yellow silk scarf. She thought that when she was again in her room, that night, when she was back with her parents and everything familiar, she would leave her curtains open and she would tie the yellow scarf to the handle of the window, and she would allow the light from beside her bed to be thrown against the yellow scarf and to be seen outside her window. It was important to her that the yellow scarf should be seen, should be her beacon to save him. Her fingers were tight on the edges of the crucifix.
When she was dressed she went into the living room.
Sitting on the floor with the street map of Pretoria spread out in front of him, Jan looked up at her. He was grinning, amused. She blushed.
"Bit bourgeois, Ros, handing out home comforts to the troops before the battle."
She ignored her brother. "Can I do anything, Jack?"
"Have you a nail file, metal?"
"Yes."
"Please, would you take the serial number off the shotgun."
"Aren't you going to take it with you, to the border?"
"Just in case I get separated from it," Jack said easily.
"You'll need it all the way to the border."
"Wouldn't want it to fall into the wrong hands, come back to you."
It was insane to be thinking about the border. Jack passed her up the shotgun, and he pointed to the serial number.
She took it into the bedroom where she had left her handbag.
She would remember him for ever, as she had seen him in her bed, because she would never see him again.
* * •
The assistant dropped Frikkie de Kok off home.
Pretty damned stupid when he thought about it, that he should have an armed escort every time he went to Pretoria Central and an armed escort back from Pretoria Central, but nothing when he took Hermione shopping nor when he took his boys to the Loftus Versfeld for rugby.
It had gone pretty well, a pretty damned good day's work.
The assistant had done him proud. Right from the start in the morning, right from the time his assistant had picked him up, he had told him to take his time, not to get himself rushed, just to go through the procedure the way he had seen Frikkie do it. It had been fine because it was only one man. The assistant had executed his first man. Not that he had officially executed the man, not that it went into the paperwork that he had done it, but the arrangement had been made with the governor. The governor could not really have put the spoke in, because the governor had to accept that if a man was booked for hanging on a Tuesday or a Thursday and Frikkie de Kok happened to have the influenza or he had ricked his back in the garden, then the man still had to go. Frikkie de Kok with influenza or a bad back shouldn't be a reason for a stay of execution. And the time came when an assistant had to prove himself, show that he could manage the work himself, and pretty damn well he'd done for a first time. Frikkie had been behind him, ready to lend a hand if he was needed, and he hadn't been.
All right, his assistant had been a little clumsy when they brought the fellow into preparation, but who wouldn't have been, on his first time with the responsibility. A little aggressive with the pinions, a little rough moving the fellow onto the centre of the trap, a little hard when he had hooded him, a very little bit fierce when he had ringed the fellow's neck with the noose. Little things, not grounds for complaint. Little things to be pointed out over a beer. No trouble with the drop. The assistant had made his calculations to the inch and to the pound, just right the drop had been.
Frikkie de Kok had shaken his assistant's hand while the rope still shivered, while a young creep on compulsory attendance was in the corner throwing up over his uniform
. . . Just Frikkie de Kok's view, and privately held, but it wasn't right to have youngsters in the hanging gaol, not the youngsters who had joined the prison service as an alternative to conscription into the army and service in the "operational area". The hanging gaol should be for professionals, not for shirkers. Just his opinion.
Afterwards he and his assistant had stayed all day in Maximum Security, because Thursday was a multiple, five on the trap. Thursday took preparation. Six was the most he could do, but that was a hell of a business even with a good assistant. Two and three and four
at a time were pretty much all right, but fives and sixes were hard on everyone present. When he was busy round the trap he never looked at the spectators. Too much on his mind with the pinions and the hoods and the feet being right and the noose, but he could hear them. He could hear his audience gasping, willing him to go faster. Stood to reason that fives and sixes couldn't be as fast as hanging one man alone. Frikkie de Kok, as he always said to his assistant, would never hurry.
To hurry was the fastest way to a fiasco. So, they had stayed at the gaol all day, and they had made their preparations, and because he had a combined condemns weight of 325
kilos on the trap he had gone down underneath and checked each single bolt and screw of the trap. It paid to be careful in Frikkie de Kok's job. A good day's work, and after his tea his assistant was coming back to collect him, and there would be a good evening's entertainment at the Harlequins, a floodlit Cup match. He was thinking of his shower, and of getting out of his suit, as he pushed open his front garden gate. He was thinking of the match as he came up the path, and how the second team flank forward would cope, because he was replacing the injured first choice.
He opened his front door. He could see into the living room. His two boys, singlets and shorts, red cheeks and sweat, pumping iron on his living room carpet. So they shared the weights. Beautiful to Frikkie de Kok to see his boys working on the weights. And beautiful for him to hear that his Hermione was in the kitchen making his tea.
Beautiful also to be going to the Harlequins for a match.
And beautiful to know that he had a quiet day to follow before his waking before dawn on Thursday.
He thought he could smell a meat pie from the kitchen, and he thought the Harlequins would beat Defence, and he thought he would make a hell of a fine job of dropping five on Thursday morning.
* * *
The colonel listened intently.
Sometimes it was a good line from London. That evening it was a poor line. He was listening on an open line to the brigadier who headed security police operations throughout Western Europe. Major Hannes Swart enjoyed a particular autonomy in London, but nominally he reported to the brigadier.
A SONG IN THE MORNING Page 31
