Devil's Peak: A Novel

by Deon Meyer

  “Sale at Checkers, so I took four.”

  Or: “I traded with a Jew for nine inches of boere sausages. Don’t be afraid, he’s bald.” He would think of something new every time and even when he was less ingenious and more banal she would laugh. Every time. Their sex was always joyous, cheerful, until her orgasm made her serious. Afterwards they would hold each other and she would say, “I love you, Benny.”

  Pissed away, systematically, like everything.

  He yearned. Where were the days, Lord, could he ever get them back? He wondered what she did when the desire was on her? What had she done the past two or three years? Did she see to herself? Or was there . . . ?

  Panic. What if there was someone? Jissis, he would fucking shoot him. Nobody touched his Anna.

  He looked at his hands, clenched fists, white knuckles. Slowly, slowly, the doctor had said he would make emotional leaps, anxiety . . . He must slow down.

  He unclenched his fists and drew the magazines closer.

  Car. Margaret Joubert had brought him men’s magazines but cars were not his scene. Nor was Popular Mechanics. There was a sketch of a futuristic airplane on the cover. The cover story read, New York to London in 30 Minutes?

  “Who cares,” he said.

  His scene was drinking, but they don’t publish magazines for that.

  He switched off the light. It would be a long night.

  The woman at the Internet café in Long Street had a row of earrings all down the edge of her ear and a shiny object through her nostril. Thobela thought she would have been prettier without it.

  “I don’t know how to use these things,” he said.

  “It’s twenty rand an hour,” she said, as if that would disqualify him straight away.

  “I need someone to teach me,” he said patiently, refreshed after his afternoon nap.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I heard you can read newspapers. And see what they wrote last year too.”

  “Archives. They call them Internet archives.”

  “Aaah . . .” he said. “Would you show me?”

  “We don’t really do training.”

  “I will pay.”

  He could see the synapses fire behind her pale green eyes: the potential to make good money out of a dumb black, but also the possibility that it could be slow, frustrating work.

  “Two hundred rand an hour, but you will have to wait until my shift is over.”

  “Fifty,” he said. “I will wait.”

  He had taken her unawares, but she recovered well. “A hundred, take it or leave it.”

  “A hundred and you buy the coffee.”

  She put out a hand and smiled. “Deal. My name is Simone.”

  He saw there was another shiny object on her tongue.

  Viljoen. He was not tall, barely half a head taller than she was. He was not very handsome, and wore a copper bracelet on his wrist and a thin gold chain around his neck that she never much liked. It was not that he was poor — he just had no interest in money. The Free State sun had bleached his eight-year-old 464 pickup until you would be hard pressed to name the original color. Day after day it stood in the parking lot of the Schoemans Park Golf Club while he coached golf, or sold golf balls in the pro shop or played a round or two with the more important members.

  He was a professional golfer. In theory. He had only lasted three months on the Sunshine Tour before his money ran out because he could not putt under pressure. He got the shakes, “the yips,” he called them. He would set up the putt and walk away and line up and set himself up again but always putted too short. Nerves had destroyed him.

  “He became the resident pro at Schoemans Park. I found him that night on the eighteenth green with a bottle in his hand. It was weird. It was like we recognized each other. We were the same kind. Sort of on the sidelines. When you are in a hostel, you feel it quickly — that you don’t quite belong. Nobody says anything, everyone is nice to each other and you socialize and laugh and worry together about exams, but you are not really ‘in.’

  “But Viljoen saw it. He knew it, because he was like that too.

  “We began to talk. It was just so . . . natural, from the beginning. When I had to go in, he asked me what I was doing afterwards, and I said I had to catch a lift back to the hostel, so I couldn’t do anything and he said he would take me.

  “So when everyone had gone, he asked me if I would caddy for him, because he wanted to play a bit of golf. I think he was a little drunk. I said you can’t play golf in the dark, and he said that’s what everyone thinks, but he would show me.”

  The Bloemfontein summer night . . . She could smell the mown grass, hear the night sounds, and see the half moon. She could remember the way the light from the clubhouse verandah reflected off Viljoen’s tanned skin. She could see his broad shoulders and his odd smile and the expression in his eyes and that aura about him, that terrible solitariness he carried around with him. The noise of the golf club striking the ball and the way it flew into the darkness and him saying: “Come, caddy, don’t let the roar of the crowd distract you.” His voice was gentle, self-mocking. Before every shot they would drink from the bottle of semi-sweet white wine still cold from the fridge. “I don’t get the yips at night,” he said, and he made his putts, long and short. In the dark he made the ball roll on perfect lines, over the humps in the greens, till it fell clattering into the hole. On the fairway of the sixth hole he kissed her, but by then she already knew she liked him too much and it was okay, absolutely okay.

  “He played nine holes in the dark and in that time I fell in love,” was all she told the minister. She seemed to want to preserve the memories of that night, as if they would fade if she took them out of the dark and held them up to the light.

  In the sand bunker beside the ninth hole they sat and he filled in his scorecard and announced he had a 33.

  So much — she teased him.

  So little — he laughed. A muted sound, sort of feminine. He kissed her again. Slowly and carefully, like he was taking care to do it right. With the same care he stretched her out and undressed her, folding each piece of clothing and putting it down on the grass above. He had knelt over her and kissed her, from her neck to her ankles, with an expression on his face of absolute wonder: that he had been granted this privilege, this magical opportunity. Eventually he went into her and there was intensity in his eyes of huge emotion and his rhythm increased, his urgency grew and grew and he lost himself in her.

  She had to drag herself back to this present, where the minister waited with apparent patience for her to break the silence.

  She wondered why memories were so closely linked to scent, because she could smell him now, here — deodorant and sweat and semen and grass and sand.

  “At the ninth hole he made me pregnant,” she said, and reached out a hand for the tissues.

  14.

  Barkhuizen, the doctor with the thick spectacles, his long hair in a cheeky plait this time, came around again the next morning after Griessel had swallowed his breakfast without enthusiasm or appetite.

  “I’m glad you’re eating,” he said. “How do you feel?”

  Griessel made a gesture that said it didn’t matter.

  “Finding it hard to eat?”

  He nodded.

  “Are you nauseous?”

  “A bit.”

  The doctor shone a light in his eyes.

  “Headache?”

  “Yes.”

  He put a stethoscope to his chest and listened, finger on Griessel’s pulse.

  “I have found you a place to stay.”

  Griessel said nothing.

  “You have a heart like a horse, my friend.” He took the stethoscope away, put it in the pocket of his white coat and sat down. “It’s not much. Bachelor flat in Gardens, kitchen and living room below, wooden stairs up to a bedroom. Shower, basin and toilet. One two per month. The building is old but clean.”

  Griessel looked away to the opposite wall. />
  “Do you want it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How’s that, Benny?”

  “Just now I was angry, Doc. Now I don’t give a fuck.”

  “Angry with whom?”

  “Everyone. My wife. Myself. You.”

  “Don’t forget it’s a process of mourning you are going through because your friend the bottle is dead. The first reaction is anger at someone because of that. There are people who get stuck in the anger stage for years. You can hear them at the AA, going off at everyone and everything, shouting and swearing. But it doesn’t help. Then there is the depression. That goes hand in hand with withdrawal. And the listlessness and fatigue. You have to get through it; you have to come out the other side of withdrawal, past the rage to resignation and acceptance. You must go on with your life.”

  “What fucking life?”

  “The one you must make for yourself. You have to find something to replace drink. You need leisure, a hobby, exercise. But first one day at a time, Benny. And we have just been talking about tomorrow.”

  “I have fuck-all. I’ve got suitcases of clothes, that’s all.”

  “Your wife is having a bed delivered to the flat, if you want the place.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “I did. She wants to help, Benny.”

  “Why hasn’t she been here?”

  “She said she believed too easily last time. She said this time she must stick to her decision. She will only see you when you are completely dry. I think that is the right thing.”

  “You have all worked this out fucking beautifully, haven’t you?”

  “The Rooi Komplot, the great conspiracy. Everyone is against you. Against you and your bottle. It’s hard, I know, but you’re a tough guy, Benny. You can take it.”

  Griessel just stared at him.

  “Let’s talk about your medication,” said Barkhuizen. “The stuff I want to prescribe . . .”

  “Why do you do it, Doc?”

  “Because the drugs will help you.”

  “No, Doc, why do you get involved? How old are you?”

  “Sixty-nine.”

  “Fuck, Doc, that’s retirement age.”

  Barkhuizen smiled and the eyes screwed up behind the thick lenses. “I have a beach house at Witsand. We were retired there for three months. By then the garden was lovely and the house was right and the neighbors met. Then I began to want the bottle. I realized that was not what I should do.”

  “So you came back.”

  “To make life difficult for people like you.”

  Griessel watched him for a long time. Then he said: “The medication, Doc.”

  “Naltrexone. The trade name is ReVia, don’t ask me why. It works. It makes withdrawal easier and there are no serious contraindications, as long as you stick to the prescription. But there is a condition. You must see me once a week for the first three months and you must go to the AA regularly. That is not negotiable. It’s an all-or-nothing proposition.”

  “I’ll take it.” He had no hesitation.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, Doc, I am certain. But I want to tell you something, so you know what you are letting yourself in for,” he said, and he tapped an index finger on his temple.

  “Tell me, then.”

  “It’s about the screaming, Doc. I want to know if the medication will help for the screaming.”

  The minister’s children came to say goodnight. They knocked softly on the door and he hesitated at first. “Excuse me, please,” he said to her and then called, “Come in.” Two teenage boys disguised their curiosity about her with great difficulty. The older one was maybe seventeen. He was tall, like his father, and his youthful body was strong. His lightning glance assessed her chest measurement and her legs as she sat there. He spotted the tissue in her hand and there was an attentiveness about him that she recognized.

  “G’night, Dad,” they said one after another and kissed him.

  “Night, boys. Sleep well.”

  “G’night, ma’am,” said the younger one.

  “G’night,” said the other, and when his back was turned to his father, he looked into her eyes with undisguised interest. She knew he saw her hurt instinctively and the opportunities that offered, like a dog on a blood spoor.

  She was annoyed. “Goodnight,” she said and turned her eyes away, unavailable.

  They closed the door behind them.

  “Richard will be head boy next year,” said the minister with a certain pride.

  “You have these two boys?” A mechanical question.

  “They are a handful,” he said.

  “I can imagine.”

  “Do you need anything? More tea?”

  “I should go and powder my nose.”

  “Of course. Down the passage, second door on the left.”

  She stood up. Smoothed down her skirt, front and back. “Excuse me,” she said as she opened the door and walked down the passage. She found the toilet, switched on the light and sat down to urinate.

  She was still annoyed with the boy. She was always aware that she gave off a scent that said to men, “Try me.” Some combination of her appearance and her personality, as if they knew . . . But even here? This little twerp. A minister’s son?

  She became conscious of the loud noise of her urine stream in the stillness of the house.

  Didn’t these people play music? Watch television?

  She was sick of it. She didn’t want to smell like that anymore. She wanted to smell like the woman of this house, the faithful wife: an I-want-to-love-you woman. She had always wanted to.

  She finished, wiped, flushed, opened the door and put off the light. She walked back to the study. The minister was not there. She stood in front of the bookshelf, looking at the bookends packed thick and thin beside each other — some old and hardbacked and others new and bright; all about God or the Bible.

  So many books. Why did they have to write so much about God? Why was it necessary? Why couldn’t He just come down and say, “Here I am, don’t worry.”

  Then He could explain to her why He had given her this scent. Not just the scent, but the weakness and the trouble. And why He had never tested Missus Fucking Prude here with her sensible frock and able hands? Why was she spared? Why did she get a dependable carthorse for a husband? What would she do if the elders of the church came sniffing around her with those hungry eyes that said, “My brain is in my penis”?

  Probably catch her breath in righteous indignation and hand out tracts all round. The scene playing out in her head made her laugh out loud, just one short, unladylike laugh. She put her hand over her mouth, but too late. The minister was standing behind her.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She nodded and kept her back turned until she had control.

  The extent of it nearly overwhelmed Thobela.

  The girl with the earrings first gave him a basic lesson on the workings of the Internet, and then she let him click the mouse on the screen. He battled because the coordination between his hand and the mouse and the little arrow on the screen was clumsy. He improved steadily, however. She showed him connections and Web addresses, boxes he could type words in and the big “Back” arrow if he got lost.

  When at last she was satisfied he could manage on his own and he had solemnly handed over the agreed amount, he began his search.

  “Die Burger and IOL have the best online archives,” she said, and wrote down the www-references for him. He typed in his key words and systematically refined his search. Then came the flood.

  At least 40 per cent of all cases of child rape can be ascribed to the myth that it cures AIDS.

  People who exploit children for sex in many parts of the world are more likely to be local residents looking for a “good-luck charm” or a cure for AIDS than a pedophile or sexual tourist, rights activists told a UN conference on Thursday.

  Thousands of schoolgirls in South Africa and the Western Cape are daily
exposed to sexual violence and harassment at schools.

  From April 1997 to March this year, 1,124 children who had been physically and sexually abused were treated by the TygerBear Social Welfare Unit for Traumatized Children at Tygerberg Hospital. This is only children who were brought to the hospital: the actual number is much greater.

  Sexual molestation and the abuse of young children is reaching epidemic proportions in Valhalla Park, Bonteheuwel and Mitchells Plain. A spokesperson reports that 945 cases of sexual molestation and child abuse have been reported to their office.

  Children as young as three years old watch social workers at the TygerBear Unit of the Tygerberg Hospital with wary eyes. Barely out of nappies, these victims of sexual assault have already learned that adults are not to be trusted.

  The two domestic violence units on the Peninsula are working on more than 3,200 cases, of which the majority are complaints of serious sexual and other crimes against children.

  Of every 100 cases of child abuse in the Western Cape, only 15 are reported to the police, and in 83 per cent of these cases the offender is known to the child.

  Once an offender has been diagnosed as a “confirmed pedophile,” there will always be a chance that he will express his pedophilic tendencies again, said Professor David Ackerman, clinical psychologist at the University of Cape Town.

  One report after another, a never-ending stream of crimes against children. Murder, rape, maltreatment, harassment, assault, abuse. After an hour he had had enough, but he forced himself to continue.

  A three-year-old girl was locked in a cage while her grandparents allegedly sexually assaulted her and failed to provide for even her most basic needs, Mpumalanga police said on Wednesday. Sergeant Anelda Fischer said police recently received a tip-off from a traveling pastor that a child was being incarcerated in a compound outside White River.

  Fischer said that when police went to investigate they found the girl had already been removed from the cage. However, she said there was evidence the child had been battered with sticks or other weapons and had been sexually assaulted. It also seemed the child had no clothes of her own and had to beg naked for food. She slept on bits of plastic in the cage.