by Deon Meyer
“Everyone thinks you’re good. They tell you. ‘Fuck it, Benny, you’re the best. Jissis, pal, you’re red hot.’ And you want to believe it, because you can see they are right, but there is this little voice inside you that says you are just a Parow Arrow who was never really good at anything. An average little guy. And sooner or later they will catch you out. One day they will expose you and the world will laugh because you thought you were something.
“So, before it happens, you have to expose yourself. Destroy yourself. Because if you do it yourself, then you at least have a sort of control over it.”
There was a noise behind, almost a laugh. “Fucking tragic.”
44.
He fell asleep at the table. She saw it coming. Carlos’s tongue began to drag more and more. He switched over to Spanish, as if she understood every word.
He leaned heavily on his place mat, eyes struggling to focus on her.
The scene played out as if she had no part in it, as if it were happening in another space and time. He had a stupid smile on his face. He mumbled.
He lowered his head interminably slowly to the tabletop. He put his palms flat on the surface. He said one last, incomprehensible word and then his breath came deep and easy. She knew she couldn’t leave him like that. If his body relaxed he would fall.
She rose and came around behind him. She put her hands under his arms, entwining the fingers of her hands with his. Lifted him. He was as heavy as lead, dead weight. He made a sound and gave her a fright, not knowing if he was deeply enough asleep. She stood like that, feeling she couldn’t hold him. Then she dragged him, step by step, over to the big couch. She fell back into a sitting position with Carlos on top of her.
He spoke, clear as crystal. Her body jerked. She sat still a moment, realizing he was not conscious. She rolled him over her with great effort, so that he lay askew on the couch. She squirmed out from under him and stood beside the couch, breath racing, perspiration sprung out on her skin, needing badly to sit to give her legs time to recover from their trembling.
She forced herself to continue. First she called a taxi, so they could arrive sooner; she didn’t know how much time she would have.
She made sure the plastic container of pills was in her handbag. She took the dog and the syringe and went down the stairs to the garage.
The BMW was locked. She swore. Went up again. She couldn’t find the keys. Panic overcame her and she was conscious of how her hands shook while she searched. Until she thought to look in Carlos’s trouser pocket and there they were.
Back to the garage. She pressed the button on the key and the electronic beep was sudden and shrill in the bare space. She opened the door. She shoved the toy dog under the passenger seat. Taking the syringe, she put her thumb on the depressor and aimed the point at the backrest of the rear seat. Her hand shook badly. She made a noise of frustration and put her left hand on her right wrist to stabilize it. She must get this part right. She squeezed the syringe quickly and jerked it from right to left. The dark red jet hit the material. Fine drops spattered back onto her arms and face.
She inspected her handiwork. It didn’t look right. It didn’t look real.
Her heart thumped. There was nothing she could do. She climbed out looking back one last time. She had forgotten nothing. Shut the door.
There were still a couple of drops in the syringe. She must get them on the dress. And put the garment somewhere in his cupboard.
He weighed up the policeman’s words. He assumed the man was trying to explain why he had become corrupt. Why he was doing what he was doing.
“How did they find you?” he asked later, beyond the turnoff to Humansdrop.
“Who?”
“Sangrenegra. How did you come to work for them?”
“I don’t work for Sangrenegra.”
“Who do you work for, then?”
“I work for the SAPS.”
“Not at the moment.”
It took a while for Griessel to grasp what he had said. He repeated that ironic laugh. “You think I’m crooked. You think that’s what I meant when I said . . .”
“What else?”
“I drink, that’s what I do. I booze my fucking life away. My wife and children and my job and myself. I never took a cent from anyone. I never needed to. Alcohol is efficient enough if you want to fuck yourself up.”
“Then why are we driving this way — why am I not in a cell in Port Elizabeth?”
It burst out and he heard the rage and the fear in the man’s voice: “Because they’ve got my daughter. The brother of Carlos Sangrenegra took my daughter. And if I don’t deliver you to them, they will . . .”
Griessel said no more.
Thobela had all the pieces of the jigsaw now and he didn’t like the picture they made.
“What is her name?”
“Carla.”
“How old is she?”
Griessel took a long time answering, as if he wanted to ponder the meaning of the conversation. “Eighteen.”
He realized the white man had hope, and he knew he would have, too, if he were in the same position. Because there was nothing else you could do.
“I will help you,” he said.
“I don’t need your help.”
“You do.”
Griessel did not respond.
“Do you really believe they will say, ‘Thank you very much, here is your daughter, you may leave?’”
Silence.
“It’s your decision, policeman. I can help you. But it’s your decision.”
Eleven minutes past seven in the morning he hammered on her door, as she knew he would. She opened up and he rushed in and grabbed her arm and shook her.
“Why you do that? Why?” The pressure of his fingers hurt her and she slapped him against the head with her left hand, as hard as she could.
“Bitch!” Carlos screamed and let go of her arm and hit her over the eye with his fist. She nearly fell, but regained her balance.
“You cunt,” she screamed as loud as she could and hit out at him with her fist. He jerked his head out of the way and smacked her on the ear with an open hand. It sounded like a cannon shot in her head. She hit back, this time striking his cheekbone with her fist.
“Bitch!” he shouted again in a shrill voice. He grabbed her hands and pulled her off her feet. The back of her head hit the carpet and for a moment she was dizzy. She blinked her eyes; he was on top of her now. “Fucking bitch.” He slapped her against the head again. She got a hand loose and scratched at him.
He grabbed her wrist and glared at her. “You like, bitch, Carlos see you like this.”
He pinned her down with both hands above her head. “Now you will like even more,” he said and grabbed her nightie at the bosom and jerked. The garment tore.
“Are you going to fuck me good?” she said. “Because it will be the first time, you cunt.”
He slapped her again and she tasted blood in her mouth.
“You can’t fuck. You are the world’s worst fuck!”
“Shut up, bitch!”
She spat at him, spat blood and saliva on his face and shirt. He grabbed her breast and squeezed until she shrieked in pain. “You like that, whore? You like that?”
“Yes. At least I can feel you now.”
Squeezed again. She screamed.
“Why you drug me? Why? You steal my moneys! Why?”
“I drugged you because you are such a shit lover. That’s why.”
“First, I will fuck you. Then we will find the moneys.”
“Help me!” she shouted.
He pressed a hand over her mouth.
“Shut the fuck up.”
She bit the soft part of his palm. He yelled and hit out at her again. She jerked her head away, screaming with all her might. “Help me, please, help me!”
One of her hands came free; she struggled and punched, scratched and screamed. A man’s voice came from somewhere outside, or down the corridor, she couldn’t be sure.
“What’s going on?”
Carlos heard. He bumped her with both hands on her chest. He stood up. He was out of breath. There was a swelling on his cheek.
“I will come back,” he said.
“Promise me you will fuck me good, Carlos. Just promise me that, you shitless cunt.” She lay on the ground, naked, bleeding and gasping. “Just once.”
“I will kill you,” he said and stumbled towards the door. Opened it. “You take my moneys. I will kill you.” Then he was gone.
Beyond Plettenberg Bay he asked Griessel: “Where must you take me?”
“I will know when we get to George. They will phone again.”
She examined herself in the mirror before calling the police. She was bleeding. The left side of her face was red. It had begun to swell. There was a cut over her eyes. There were dark red finger marks on her breasts.
It looked perfect.
She took her cell phone and sat down on the couch. She looked up the number she had saved in the phone yesterday. Her fingers worked precisely. She looked down at the phone. She was rock steady.
She dropped her head, trying to feel the pain, the humiliation, the anger, hate and fear. She took a deep breath and let it out tremulously. Only a single tear at first, then another and another. Until she was crying properly. Then she pressed the call button.
It rang seven times. “South African Police Services, Caledon Square. How can we help you?”
The policeman’s phone rang while they were stopped at yet another traffic light in Knysna.
Griessel spoke quietly, swallowing his words, and Thobela could not hear what he said. The conversation lasted less than a minute.
“They want us to keep driving,” he said at last.
“Where to?”
“Swellendam.”
“Is that where they are?”
“I don’t know.”
“I need to stretch my legs.”
“Get out of town first.”
“Do you think I want to escape, Griessel? Do you think I will run away from this situation?”
“I think nothing.”
“They have your daughter because I killed Sangrenegra. It’s my responsibility to fix it.”
“How can you do that?”
“We’ll see.”
Griessel ruminated on that, then said, “Stop when you like.”
Seventy kilometers on, on the long sweeping curves the N2 makes between George and Mossel Bay, something dropped onto the front seat beside Thobela. When he looked down, the assegai lay there. The blade was dull in the lights of the instrument panel.
45.
First came police in uniform and she was hysterically crying and screaming: “He’s got my child, he’s got my child!” They got the information out of her and tried to calm her down.
More policemen arrived. They sent for an ambulance for her. Suddenly her flat was full of people. She wept uncontrollably. A first-aid man was cleaning her face while a black detective questioned her. He introduced himself as Timothy Ngubane. He sat beside her and she told her story between sobs while he wrote in his notebook and said earnestly: “We will find her, ma’am.” Then he called out orders and then there were fewer people around.
Later the two from Social Services arrived, and then a large man with a Western Province cap. He showed no sympathy. He asked her to repeat her story. He did not take notes. There came a moment in the conversation when she realized he didn’t believe her. He had a way of looking at her with a faint smile that only lasted a moment. Her heart went cold. Why wouldn’t he believe her?
When she had finished he stood up and said: “I am going to leave two men here with you. Outside your door.”
She looked at him in inquiry.
“We don’t want anything to happen to you, do we?”
“But didn’t you arrest Carlos?”
“We did.” The faint smile again, like someone sharing a secret.
She wanted to phone Vanessa to hear how Sonia was and she wanted to get away from here. Away from all the people and the fuss, away from the gnawing tension, because it was not over yet.
Another detective. His hair was too long and ruffled. “My name is Benny Griessel,” he said, and he held out his hand and she took it and looked into his eyes and looked away again because of the intensity in them. As if he saw everything. He took her out onto the balcony, and asked her questions in a gentle voice, with a compassion she wanted to embrace. But she couldn’t look him in the eye.
They turned off the N2 and drove into Swellendam. There was a filling station deep in the town, past a museum and guesthouses and restaurants with small-town Afrikaans names, deserted at this late hour.
When Griessel got out Thobela saw the Z88 was not in his hand. He got out too. His legs were stiff and there were cramps in the muscles of his shoulders. He stretched his limbs, feeling the depth of his fatigue, his red, burning eyes.
Griessel had the Nissan filled up. Then he came to stand next to Thobela, not speaking, just looking at him. The white man looked rough. Shadows around the eyes, deep lines in his face.
“The night is too long,” he said to Griessel.
The detective nodded. “It’s nearly over.”
Thobela nodded back.
“I want you to know we got Khoza and Ramphele,” said Griessel.
“Where?”
“They were arrested yesterday evening in Midrand.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because no matter what happens tonight, I will make sure they don’t get away again.”
She lay on her bed and told herself she must suppress the urge to go and lie with the detective who was asleep on her couch, because it would be for all the wrong reasons.
Griessel’s cell phone rang and he answered and said, “Yes” and “Yes” and “Six kilometers” and “Yes” and “Okay.”
Then Thobela heard him say: “I want to hear her voice.”
Silence on the street in Swellendam. “Carla,” said Griessel. Thobela felt a hand squeeze his heart because of the awful emotion in the white man’s voice when he said: “Daddy is coming to fetch you, you hear? Daddy is coming.”
She needed to be held. She wanted him to hold her because she was afraid. Afraid of Carlos and of the detective in the rugby cap and afraid that the whole scheme was going to collapse in on her. Afraid that Griessel would see through her with those eyes of his, that he would expose her with that energy of his. It wasn’t right, because she wanted to lie with him to make him blind.
She must not do that.
She got up.
“Infanta,” said Griessel. “Six kilometers outside town the road to Infanta turns off. There will be a car there. They will drive behind us from there.”
They got back into the Nissan, Thobela in front and Griessel behind.
“Infanta,” he heard the man say, as if the name made no sense to him.
On the instrument panel the numbers of the LCD display of the clock glowed yellow. 03:41.
He drove out of town, back to the N2.
“Turn right. Towards Cape Town.”
Over a bridge. Breede River, the signboard read. Then he spotted the road sign. Malgas. Infanta.
“This one,” said Griessel.
He put the left indicator on. Gravel road. He saw the vehicle parked there, chunky in the lights of the Nissan. A Mitsubishi Pajero. Two men stood beside it. Each with a firearm, shading eyes from the headlights with their free hands. He stopped.
Only one man approached. Thobela wound his window down.
The man did not look at him, but at Griessel. “Is this the killer?”
“Yes.”
The man was clean-shaven, including his head. There was just a small tassel of hair below his lip. He looked at Thobela. “You die tonight.”
Thobela looked back, into his eyes.
“You the father?” Shaven Head asked Griessel and he said: “Yes.”
The man smirked. “Your daughter has a nice lit
tle cunt.”
Griessel made a noise behind him and Thobela thought: not now, don’t do anything now.
Shaven Head laughed. Then he said: “Hokay. You ride straight. We will be somewhere behind you. First, we will look if you brought some friends. Now go.”
They were in control, he realized. Didn’t even look for weapons, because they knew they held the trump card.
Thobela pulled away. He wondered what was going on in Griessel’s head.
The two detectives from Witness Protection were carrying shotguns when they came to collect her.
She packed a suitcase. They accompanied her down in the lift and they all got in the car and drove away.
The house was in Boston, old and quite shabby, but the windows had burglar proofing and there was a security gate at the front door.
They showed her around the house. The master bedroom was where she could “make herself at home,” there were groceries in the kitchen, the bathroom had towels. There was television in the sitting room and piles of magazines on the coffee table, old issues of Sports Illustrated, FHM and a few copies of Huisgenoot.
“That’s how they bring in the drugs,” said Griessel when they had been on the gravel road for half an hour.
Thobela said nothing. His mind was on their destination. He had seen the weapons of the two in the Pajero. New stuff, hand carbines, he guessed they were Heckler & Koch, family of the G36. Costly. Efficient.
“Infanta and Witsand. Every fucker with a ski boat goes there to fish,” said Griessel. “They are bringing the stuff in small boats. Probably off ships . . .”
So that was how the detective was keeping his mind occupied. He didn’t want to think of his child. He didn’t want to imagine what they had done to his daughter.
“Do you know how many there are?” asked Thobela.
“No.”
“You will want to reload your Z88.”
“I only fired one shot. In your house.”
“Every round will count, Griessel.”
She was in the sitting room when there was a knock on the door. The two detectives first looked through the peephole and then opened the series of locks on the front door.
She heard heavy steps and then the big man with the Western Province rugby cap stood there and he said: “You and I must talk.”
