by Ian Patrick
Dippenaar’s non-verbal reaction to his wife suggested to the forensic scientist two things. Firstly that maybe Sannie was not being entirely truthful about the rugby engagement. Secondly that young Dirkie and Kosie did indeed have tastes in music somewhat different from that of their parents.
‘And what about your boys, Fiona? And the dog, Jeremy? I was so hoping to meet them, and also to see Sugar-Bear again,’ said Pauline.
‘Well, Pauline,’ Fiona replied, I have to be truthful. Jeremy and I have no rugby excuses. We invited the boys and they were initially tempted, but they eventually declined in favour of some surfing on South Beach with their friends.’
‘And Sugar Bear pondered the options for a while before he elected to go with them rather than come with us,’ Ryder added. ‘I have to say, though, that I think Nadine’s probably right. I got the sense that both the boys and Sugar-Bear made their decision based on the choice of music they thought we’d be playing. Although Sugar-Bear did notice the boys packing some biltong.’
‘Oh nonsense, Jeremy,’ said Fiona, kicking his foot. ‘You talk such rubbish sometimes.’
The conversation then meandered lazily from children and pets to music. Ryder bore most of the barbs from the teasing in this part of the discussion, but was entirely comfortable with their descriptions of Fleetwood Mac and JJ Cale and Led Zeppelin and Creedence and Lou Reed as musical dinosaurs. What did these people know?
They all chuckled together over some of the weirder names among rock groups before Nyawula’s wife Sibongile then began eliciting peals of laughter from all of them with her descriptions of Zulu names and their meanings, and the contradictions of those names in the light of some actions and behaviour by people she knew. Hence, she explained, she knew a Nomusa who was anything but graceful or kind, and described some of her mean and nasty acts. Then she talked about a Nonhlanhla who had experienced more bad luck than anyone she had ever encountered, a Nozipho who, far from being a bearer of gifts was notorious as the most miserly person in the neighbourhood where she had grown up, and a Sakhile who was the worst builder she had ever known, and whose constructions frequently collapsed.
‘And we also had a Sandile at our wedding, too, don’t forget,’ Nyawula added. ‘He was the fattest guy we’ve ever seen. Seriously, he was as wide as the entire Springbok front row.’ This brought laughs of recognition from Mavis and both the Nyawulas, but no-one else because no-one else had the necessary knowledge of the language.
‘Oh yes. My God, how could I forget that one?’ said Sibongile. ‘Sandile. Shame. Such a nice guy.’
‘What does Sandile mean?’ asked Pillay.
‘We have increased!’ replied Sibongile, to laughs all round.
‘What does your name mean, then, Sibongile?’ asked Koekemoer.
‘Oh. Yes. Well, Koeks, my name means we are thankful or we give thanks.
‘And yours, Sibo? What does yours mean?’ asked Fiona.
‘Ha. Well. Just about the same thing. Sibongiseni means be thankful with us. So Bongi and I are thankful for each other and we also ask people to be thankful with us.’
‘Aaaawwww!’ came the chorus from all of them, in an affectionate mockingly sentimental tone, which produced an embarrassed coyness in Nyawula that none of his colleagues had previously seen.
‘Yissus, Captain,’ said Dippenaar. ‘If you were a white oke I’d say you were blushing right now.’
Which led to more teasing and mirth, a few more exchanges on names and reminiscences, and then a gradual tapering down of the volume and energy. And this moved Pillay into a more sombre mood before she spoke.
‘What does the name Thenjiwe mean, Sibongile?’
‘The trusted one,’ both Nyawulas said at the same time.
‘And Thandiwe?’ added Pillay.
‘She is loved,’ said Mavis, before Sibongile could reply.
There was a long pause as they all digested this.
‘Starting to lose the sun,’ said Cronje.
‘Yep. Maybe time to start wrapping,’ said Ryder, stretching out in the wheelchair.
But before anyone could make a move, a visitor arrived, suddenly, stepping out from behind the flowers. He approached the group sheepishly, and with little confidence.
‘Mr Michael Pullen! What a surprise!’ said Nadine.
All eyes were on the interloper.
‘Sorry. Er - I’m really sorry to intrude. I just thought I’d… Well, I want to just express my apologies. For what happened on Monday. And, er, last Sunday. And… er… well, I saw you all down here. I was up there at the restaurant, and I... Well, I’ve been watching you all for a while and wondered whether… Anyway, I wanted to just say sorry. That’s all.’
He ran out of words and nobody could help him for a few seconds. He was about to turn and walk away when Ryder decided to help out.
‘I see you’re on the Sports page now, Mr Pullen? I liked your piece about Kaizer Chiefs yesterday.’
‘Oh, really? Well, thanks, I… I tried to...’
‘Yes. I thought it showed a good understanding of what the coach is trying to do. No, really. I thought it was a good piece. It’s refreshing to read something by someone who knows what’s been happening with the team in the last couple of years.’
Pullen was still hugely embarrassed, but grateful to Ryder for bailing him out to some extent. Nadine Salm couldn’t help focussing on his breast pocket to see whether he was concealing anything there, and both she and Pauline noticed that he had shaved off his beard. That’s it, thought Nadine. That’s why he looks so different. She locked eyes with Pauline and could see that she had noticed the same change. Pauline also noted that Pullen’s socks matched.
Nyawula was speaking quietly to Sibongile, explaining who Pullen was. The others were either watching quietly or exchanging surreptitious glances as they wondered where Ryder might take this conversation. But Ryder was being genuine. He had no intention of subverting what he had already said.
‘Anyway, thanks,’ said Pullen. ‘And again, I apologise for the piece I wrote on Monday. No excuses. I got it wrong and, well, there it is. Sorry to intrude.’
‘We appreciate you taking the trouble to come over and tell us,’ said Nyawula.
Pullen nodded, coughed nervously, and turned to leave. He took only two paces before five men appeared from behind the flowers and shrubs, all armed. Pullen suddenly had the barrel of a SIG Sauer 9mm SP2022 pressing against his forehead.
Annatjie Koekemoer screamed.
‘Uh-uh!’ said one of the other men, leaning over her where she lay on the blanket and pointing a Smith & Wesson Model 686 into her face, the end of the barrel ending up half an inch from her nose. ‘Shaddup, you!’
Sannie also made to scream and the first man turned from Pullen, grabbed her by the shoulder and thrust his weapon against her right temple, which was enough to freeze her into terrified silence. The remaining three men stepped into the centre of the group, training their guns on all of them, with the third man barking out orders.
‘Stand still. No-one move. Anyone move and we shoot. You move and we are shooting every one of you.’
They’ve got us cold, thought Ryder. Five of them. Not a weapon among any of us. They’ve got us cold.
Nyawula raised both his hands above his head and spoke in a loud commanding voice to everyone, while Sibongile clung to him in desperate, shivering fear.
‘Take it easy, people. Whoa! Nothing’s going to happen here. Take it easy. No-one is going to do anything stupid.’
‘That’s right, wena,’ said the third man. ‘Tell them. Tell them again. No-one is getting killed here unless you try something. We want your phones, your wallets and purses and watches and rings and everything you got in your pockets. One of you is moving then we start shooting all of you. Tell them again, wena!’
Nyawula obliged, quietly and firmly. ‘Slowly, everyone. Do as he says. Don’t do anything...’
Pullen suddenly dropped to his knees, ashen, shivering. His teet
h were chattering. Cronje and his wife, on either side of him, thought he was going to have a heart attack and both instinctively went down on either side of him, taking an arm each and holding him upright on his knees. Nadine and Pauline stood slowly, hands above their heads, expressionless, instinctively moving closer together. Koekemoer and Dippenaar both slowly, hands held above their heads, moved nearer to each of their wives, gently, slowly so as not to distress the robbers and to show their intentions as being merely protective of their wives. Pillay seethed internally with incandescent rage but saw the hopelessness of their situation and gave away nothing in her expression. Mavis was whimpering, quietly, in terror.
Fiona Ryder was staring, shocked, at her husband, her mouth open. Sannie saw her expression first, and then turned to follow her gaze.
‘Oh my God’ said Sannie, ‘Jeremy’s having a stroke!’
All of them, including the five robbers, turned to Look at Ryder, who was squirming and twisting and shuddering in the wheelchair. His mouth was twisted and his head thrust back, his right hand had turned into a claw, every finger stretched at a crazy angle, with sinews in spasm, while his left hand had stretched out sideways from the wheelchair, waving aimlessly in the air, as if he was swimming and trying to do one-handed backstroke. The sounds that emanated from his mouth were horrific, and Sannie screamed again. ‘He’s having a stroke!’
*
Fiona understood just as Sannie screamed the second time. She stepped forward. The fourth man stepped in to stop her.
‘Don’t move,’ he said.
‘Can’t you see? My husband’s disabled. He has cerebral palsy. He’s distressed. I need to calm him down.’
‘He having the stroke?’ said the fifth man, speaking for the first time.
‘No, it’s not a stroke. He’s always like this. He’s just a little excited, that’s all. I just need to calm him down,’ she said, glaring at her husband with eyes wider than he had ever seen them. Her glare was screaming unheard words at him, words that he read clearly as Don’t do this! It’s too dangerous! Let them take what they want and leave. What are you doing, you stupid bastard?
The five thugs relaxed. The third man even laughed.
‘Eish. I’m thinking this guy is dying then she is saying no, he is always like this. This man, lady, he is always like this? He is like this also in the bed with you?’
His companions chuckled. One of them got into the spirit and tried to outdo his companion.
‘Hayi, Mandla. No, this one, he stays in his wheelchair all the time. When they do it, they do it in the wheelchair.’
Mandla responded by walking over to the cerebral palsy patient and pushing on the back of the chair, tilting it slightly backward so that he could peer right into Ryder’s eyes, and then speaking.
‘Hey, wena! Cripple guy! You funny, hey? You look like you doing breakdance there in your wheelchair. You dance for me? I dance good. You think maybe you dance better than me?’
By now all of Nyawula’s team and their partners had realised what Ryder was up to. Pullen was too numb with fear to put anything together. Nyawula worried. His thoughts were racing. Surely it would be better to just let them take the goods and scarper, Jeremy? Don’t take a chance here, man! Pillay, Koekemoer and Dippenaar were thinking exactly the same: Maybe sometimes it’s worth losing the battle, Jeremy. Let’s concentrate on winning the war, man, and let go of this one battle! Don’t do this!
Mandla, enjoying the chuckled response to his wit coming from his companions, couldn’t resist another jibe.
‘You want to dance with me, spastic man?’
It elicited the response he wanted, as the four men all laughed and jeered and the fourth and fifth men now moved closer to their companion to enjoy the twitching and contortions of the man in the chair.
Suddenly Ryder started speaking. A ghastly, garbled sound that shocked everyone into complete immobility.
‘Aaa...doh...doh...ownt...daaa...nnnsss...wwwiiiiiii...aaaassss...hoh….lllllsssss.’
‘What? What you say, spastic man? I’m not hearing so good. Speak up, wena! What you saying to me?’
Ryder cut dead the new round of chuckles elicited by Mandla from his henchmen by suddenly relaxing completely.
‘I said I don’t dance with arseholes,’ said Ryder.
There was half an instant of shocked stasis among the five men before Ryder moved into action. Mandla’s face was still leaning in to him, and his nose received the full brunt of Ryder’s forehead as the detective projected himself upward out of the wheelchair. The lights went out in the thug’s head even before Ryder followed through with the right-hand uppercut that the medics would later tell him fractured Mandla’s jaw in seven places.
Pillay had seen what her partner was planning and she had already calculated that she needed three paces to get to the fourth gunman standing now on the other side of Fiona. The moment Ryder burst into action, she thought, she would take out the guy. Koekemoer and Dippenaar had been thinking similarly, each in relation to the man nearest to themselves.
Ryder had calculated that his three detective colleagues would go for the men closest to each of them, so his attention, after felling Mandla, was now focused on the fifth man. The man was bringing up his gun-hand as Ryder pulled back from the blow to Mandla’s jaw, twisting clockwise, his right elbow swinging with massive force into the man’s right ear. It was the last sound the man would ever hear in that ear, but that was the least of his worries because as he was knocked off balance by the blow Ryder followed through with his left foot and upended the guy. He fell back with his head striking a rocky protrusion in the foliage. The hospital would later record a broken neck. The man would be taking his meals through a straw for quite a while. But it would be recorded as no more serious than a Jefferson fracture without neurological damage and he would eventually, after more than a year of liquid meals, recover to serve his years in prison.
Meanwhile each of Koekemoer and Dippenaar had taken down a man. Koekemoer’s was the most violent of the actions, doubtless because he was still recovering from the shock of seeing his wife at gunpoint. And anyway, as he was so often fond of saying, he also considered himself to be less of a nice man than Dipps is. So he firstly broke the man’s jaw with a right roundhouse that, he would later say, was better than the one Gerrie Coetzee had used on Leon Spinks in 1979. Then, before the man even hit the ground Koekemoer kicked him in the ribs, shattering three of them, one of which penetrated his lung. Then, as the man fell onto his face with his gun hand perched against the rockery, Koekemoer stamped on the arm and snapped it above the elbow in two different places. Then he stood on the other arm and with three quick stomps of his right foot he snapped it in three places. While this was happening, Dippenaar punched his man once in the centre of his forehead. The single punch was enough to send him down and out with no more fuss.
The more theatrical stuff was left to Pillay. Her man saw the writing on the wall before the last of his companions had hit the ground. His reaction was to drop his gun and run. But not before shoving Fiona into Pillay’s path. Both she and Fiona took a tumble and the man darted away up the hill. Pillay cursed with a torrent of words never previously heard by Annetjie and Sannie, and probably never previously heard in Mitchell Park, and as she got to her feet she found herself face to face with Ryder.
‘Fetch him, Navi.’
Pillay looked at her partner in shock.
‘You spend too much time with Sugar-Bear, Jeremy.’ And she was off, heading up the hill, where her quarry was already thirty metres ahead of her. Nyawula now witnessed for the first time what he had heard so often about Pillay’s legendary pace, as she burned her way through the rolling grass and flower-beds like a furious wild dog hunting down a rodent. Spectators, already alerted to the punch-up down in the corner of the park, gathered to watch the diminutive Pillay overhaul her prey at twice his speed before sealing the chase with a spectacular rugby tackle. This took him to the ground but he escaped momentarily, cla
mbered to his feet, and foolishly turned to confront her with a rock that he had managed to pick up. Two extraordinary kicks from Pillay, one very high to the throat that rocked him backward, and the other very low to the testicles that rocked him forward again, were enough. He dropped to his knees, gasping for air and clutching his genitals. She grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, hauled him to his feet and marched him down the hill. To cheers and applause from the watching crowd.
Nyawula asked Cronje to call in the necessary help. Cronje was on it in a flash, giving instructions and snapping out information to those who needed it, and within minutes sirens were heard and blue lights were seen, and crowds milled around, and management figures from the restaurant and the park were there and the participants in the action were hugging and kissing and laughing and crying.
Ryder was hugging Fiona, crushing the air out of her lungs. Nadine was hugging Pauline and kissing each of her cheeks over and over again. Sibongile was crying and hugging her husband. The detectives were high-fiving. Mavis was helping Cronje call in the help they needed.
Cronje’s wife Annelisa captured everyone’s attention for a moment by asking Sibongile a question.
‘Sibongile, can I just ask you one thing?”
‘Yes, Annelisa. What’s that?’
‘That man, Mandla. He was the leader, I think. What does his name mean, Mandla?’
‘Ha. Yes. Good one, that, Annelisa. Mandla. Mandla means power.’
‘Really? That’s interesting. Thanks, Bongi. Power. But not so powerful as Jeremy Ryder, hey?’
Amid the laughter that greeted this, Sibongile caught their attention again and there was a pause in the merriment.
‘Yes, maybe we need to have a Zulu name for Detective Ryder. I think we need to call him Mandlenkosi Ryder from now on.’
‘Really, Bongi?’ said Fiona. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Mandlenkosi. Power of God. The big one. Much more powerful than just plain Mandla.’
