Henderson struggles up, kicks de Vries in the stomach, causing him to double up, choke for breath. Henderson then stumbles across the cell-block, finds his pistol, checks it and weaves his way back to de Vries who is now curled up, foetus-like, on the floor. Henderson grabs his collar and drags him towards the cell. At the door, he half picks up de Vries and hauls him inside. He follows him in, turns to lock the cell door, then throws the keys through the bars, until they skid to a stop against two dusty white cabinets by the far wall. Henderson slithers towards de Vries and grabs his hair, forces the gun muzzle into his ear again, hissing, ‘We are going to die together, de Vries, you fucking bastard.’
He drops de Vries’ head on the floor of the cell, gets up and crosses to the little bed. He picks up Joe Pienaar’s rugby shirt and ties it around his neck. The blood has almost stopped flowing. It is not as deep a wound as de Vries had assumed; it is raw, but already healing. Henderson collapses on the bunk. When he sees de Vries stir, he raises the weapon.
‘There is nowhere to go, de Vries. Nowhere for either of us now. I condemned us both.’
They sit in silence for five minutes. De Vries begins to come round and tries to lever himself into a sitting position, to face Henderson. He can hear nothing but the sound of his heart throbbing in his head, most especially in his right ear.
Finally, de Vries says, ‘Why kill them, Trevor?’
‘No questions. No questions!’
De Vries waits ten heartbeats.
‘Why kill your boys?’
‘I never harmed them. I would never harm them. They were mine. I loved them.’
‘So why?’
‘I never killed them. They killed them. That fucking brother killed them.’
De Vries looks up at Henderson, cannot see through his bloodied eyes.
‘What brother?’
‘You know who. You know. You tried to arrest him, but he knew you couldn’t do that. Knew that could never happen.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Why? Why?’ Henderson is screaming quietly now, his hands on his temples. ‘You keep asking why. Because of him.’
De Vries waits, using the time to assess whether he has any strength remaining, whether he can possibly reach the gun, realizing that the keys to the cell are out of reach, knowing that Henderson has no escape plan, no hope, no chance.
‘Who is him, Trevor?’
When he hears nothing, he looks up again and tries to focus on Trevor Henderson. He cannot make out the expression or even the features on the man’s face. His head is bowed, and all he can see is the crown, where his hair is thinning. De Vries waits in silence, until he can hear Henderson’s breath catch and he wonders whether the man is sobbing.
Henderson looks up, muttering, slobbering: ‘Toby . . . wasn’t . . . my . . . real . . . son. He wasn’t mine. I can’t have children, so that . . . bitch . . . she screwed some other poor fuck and took his children. She said over and over again that he wasn’t mine, that he doesn’t belong to me. But he was my son, and I had to have him. And I brought him friends for company, so that we could all be a family . . .’
Now, de Vries hears him crying; wonders whether he can reach him in time to wrest the gun from him, wonders what he would do if he did get it. Suddenly, the crying stops and Henderson lifts his head, focuses on de Vries, and raises the gun shakily.
‘It was my family. They killed my family.’
‘Who killed them,Trevor? We can leave a message here for the police. We can tell them what you tell me. They can catch whoever killed your family.’
Henderson laughs through his nose, his head heavy on his shoulders.
‘The Steinhauers. He gave me my world and then he took it away again.’
‘Nicholas Steinhauer? Marc Steinhauer?’
‘No questions. No questions. The doctors knew what I wanted and they gave it to me. Do you have any idea what it is like to live one life and be denied your true self?’
De Vries watches him, his own head heavy and wracked with pain. He knows that his only chance is if Henderson is more badly injured than he believes and that suddenly he will go down.
‘What doctors?’
‘Doctors. Doctors . . . all of them telling me things.’
‘Was it . . . ?’ De Vries starts. ‘Was it Nicholas Steinhauer?’ He watches Henderson’s bloodied eyes, but he cannot read anything from them or from his silence. Henderson’s head begins to fall and then jolts back up.
‘Come here,’ he says thickly.
De Vries acts – thinks he acts – incapable.
‘Come here, de Vries.’
Vaughn shakes his head.
‘If you come, I will tell you what you want to know.’
Vaughn looks up at Henderson and sees new light in the man’s eyes, new determination, and he knows that his last chance has passed.
‘Why die, Trevor? Why not live and tell your story?’
‘I’ll tell you my story, de Vries . . . if you come here.’
De Vries crawls towards him. His mind searches blankly for options, even for words which might delay what he knows is inevitable. Henderson scrambles towards him, grabs his collar again and pushes the left side of his head against the right side of de Vries’ head, their cold, clammy cheeks touching. Then, he places the muzzle of the gun against his own right ear.
‘One shot.’
De Vries tries to turn his head.
‘You were going to tell me.’
Henderson snorts, teeth gritted, jaw clenched.
‘In hell . . .’ He pushes the pistol into his ear, slowly but forcefully begins to squeeze the trigger.
The explosion echoes around the cell-block, reverberating a million times over from bare wall to floor to ceiling, from bar to bar to bar, out through the anteroom and into the dark corridors, fading and growing as each wave hits itself over and over again.
De Vries is aware of intense heat scalding him, agonizing pain in his ears; he feels blood run out of his eyes and nose and mouth and ears . . . But he is breathing – panting. His head is on the floor, his back sends pulses of agony into his neck, his stomach is throbbing and he is dry-retching, his tongue against the dusty concrete floor.
He pulls himself up and stares back across the room, unable to see at all from one eye, but almost focusing with the other. He hears a lock turn, keys jangle against the iron bars. A man walks towards him. He sees the pale palm of his hand reach for his shoulder.
‘It’s over.’
‘Don?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don?’
‘The man is dead. Ben Thambo will be here. There’ll be an ambulance. Do not move.’
‘What? How . . . ?’
Don February squats down.
‘I came here, found the boy at the doors. He could not open them to escape. He told me and I did what I should not do. I came down alone. I saw you in the cell with that man and I knew I had to take the shot.’
De Vries feels consciousness drifting away from him. He opens his mouth, but he never speaks a word.
PART FOUR
‘To conclude,’ Henrik du Toit pronounces. ‘This has been an exceptionally complicated, disturbing inquiry, with its roots in a terrible crime which shook the entire country seven years ago. However, because of the experience and dedication of the officers leading this inquiry; because of the resources and, above all, because of the structure and freedoms afforded to your Western Cape Special Crimes Department, we have been able to save one young life and resolve many questions which have remained unanswered for so long.’
From the discomfort of his hospital bed,Vaughn de Vries speaks loudly in his empty room. ‘What a smooth bastard cunt.’
He watches du Toit sit and General Thulani rise to field questions which are being shrieked and shouted from the audience of journalists and newspeople. He reaches forward with a grimace, wraps his fingers around the remote control and draws it to him. He finds the red button on the top right-hand side and presses it firm
ly. The foment on the screen implodes.
He sits back, sighing heavily, fumbles for the call button dangling by the bed. He presses it several times.
‘After that shit,’ he announces to himself, ‘I need fucking painkillers.’
Robert Ledham stretches his back, grimaces at the pains shooting down his neck, stares up at the vaulted roof of his garage. He realizes that he has been stooped over the monitor for almost five hours, observing – rarely contributing to – a profound discussion with fellow members of his group. Never has he witnessed so much debate, so much admiration for a concept. None had heard of Trevor Henderson; none had been privy to the world he had created for himself and – if the police were to be believed – a select few others. Some speculate openly on how they would feel in such an alternative world of freedom; more regret that they have not the contacts nor resources to create such a hiding-place for themselves.
Ledham eventually logs off, edges his way back down the stepladder next to his car in the garage proper. He closes the trapdoor and stows the ladder horizontally on the wall, as if he used it only for DIY. He exits the garage and walks slowly back into his house. He relieves himself gratefully in the bathroom, pours himself a glass of cold water from the jug in the fridge and pads down the corridor to his study, which he unlocks and enters. He sits at his desk, his brain spinning, fingers tingling. He knows that the contacts formed by the abduction will add to his group. Together they will seek further opportunities, and soon he will find a girl to bring him pleasure and relief.
He looks down at the half-finished illustration in front of him. All his life, he reflects, his only desire has been to please children, to make them smile . . .
‘I think,’ du Toit tells him, ‘we have all been through enough, especially you and Colonel de Vries, that we can draw a line under certain . . . matters of discipline.’
Don February is sitting in the rectangle of sofas, being offered coffee. He looks up from his cup at du Toit, but he says nothing.
‘What is of utmost importance, now that you have been correctly vindicated of any wrongdoing regarding the shooting of Trevor Henderson, is that we tie up what we can, and accept that there will remain unidentified suspects in this case. We can only hope that, one day, we will find matches to the outstanding evidence identified at the Fineberg olive farm bunker. Technology being what it is, it would not surprise me if we subsequently identify perpetrators but, for now, we require closure. I trust that you agree with us here, Warrant Officer?’
Don nods, then decides that du Toit expects something more from him.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Naturally, you will need to discuss each element of the conclusion with Colonel de Vries but – and I think this could be most valuable to you personally – I look to you to draw everything together in the closing report.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And finally, I want to commend you again on your loyalty to your commanding officer. However, I would be negligent in my duty if I didn’t remind you that Colonel de Vries deliberately ignored my orders and, doubtless, cajoled you – and your colleague, Sergeant Thambo – into supporting him and attempting to obscure his activities. This department has survived this sternest of challenges but, be aware, there are many eyes from above who see much to criticize – and we would do well to resolve to follow procedure and acknowledge chain of command. We fail to do this, and we will lose our remit.’
In the expectant silence, Don February lowers his coffee cup again. He has drunk barely two sips.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I see the powers-that-be consider you at risk, Vaughn,’ John Marantz says, jerking his thumb in the direction of the officer on guard outside de Vries’ hospital room before closing the door.
‘It’s for the protection of the other patients.’
‘Huh?’
‘It’s not to stop people getting in, Johnnie. It’s to stop me getting out.’
‘Society is probably safer with you incarcerated.’
De Vries snorts. ‘There are plenty who believe that.’
Marantz pats him on the shoulder gently; de Vries recoils.
‘You got your man.’
‘I got a man.’
‘You saved the boy,Vaughn. Nothing else matters right now.’
‘You think not?’
‘I brought you some gifts.’ Marantz reaches into a starched paper bag from a smart shop, tips the items onto the foot of the bed. ‘Some reading matter, some fruit – and look, some hand-wash.’
De Vries snatches at the hand-wash bottle, his eyes widening.
‘Fucking Fineberg olive oil hand foam? For fuck’s sake, Johnnie.’
‘But,’ Marantz continues, ‘you really should smell that handwash. Such a lovely soothing scent . . .’
De Vries brings it up to his nose and inhales. He smiles broadly, fiddles with the pump on the top, angles it into his mouth and pushes four times, swallowing the liquid, closing his eyes.
‘You got it past those Nazi nurses.’
‘Thanks to my training.’
‘Single malt?’ de Vries says.
‘The least you deserve . . .’
Don February places his cellphone on de Vries’ desk and shuts his eyes. He feels uneasy sitting in his place, exposed to the smirking glances from the squad room. Now he is privy to information he has no right knowing and he is afraid. He wonders about his contact at Vodacom and whether he can be trusted to keep what he has done a secret. He is sweating and shaking. He attributes this to having shot a man in the head, to sleeping so fitfully that he sits awake and be-suited almost in a trance; to being unable even to begin to explain anything to his impatient, concerned wife. In his turmoil, he decides that his contact would be in far more trouble than himself, if the man concerned were ever to reveal that he had passed on this information. Nonetheless, Don knows now who it was who called Ralph Hopkins late in the evening before their attempted arrest of Marc Steinhauer. The question which defeats him is: who can he tell?
Vaughn de Vries empties his letter box which he finds surprisingly full; limps slowly up the four stone steps to his front door. He feels like a wounded dog who seeks a hidden nook in which to recover, to lick his wounds. Yet, he cannot relax. He lets himself in, throws the mail on the kitchen table and lowers himself gingerly onto the armchair where he used to sit, heading his family of girls, pronouncing on what would happen in his house. He struggles up again, pours himself a glass of water from the tap, sips it, discards it and lets the tap run for almost a minute, until the water runs cold. Then, he takes it back to the table, borrows a cushion from a side chair and lowers himself again.
Not for one moment has he thought of anything but the exchange with Trevor Henderson. He has found himself half asleep murmuring the man’s name, always with a question mark after it. He cannot believe it. He cannot understand how he saw this man, day after day, and did not recognize him to be guilty. It has jolted his belief that he always knows the guilty when he sees them. His mind drifts and he closes his eyes, intent on a precise recollection:
‘That fucking brother killed them . . .’
The brother? He cannot describe him any other way, and there is only one man to whom Marc Steinhauer can be a brother.
‘The Steinhauers. He gave me my world and then he took it away again.’
Steinhauers: Marc Steinhauer was incapable of giving anybody anything. Which of the Steinhauers could have given this? All the time he has known, and now he has heard it. But only he has heard it, only him. He has asked Don February what he heard, and he tells him: only mumbling, stuttering, did not hear a coherent sentence, recalls no single words. So now, only he knows.
He rubs his eyes and then stops; it hurts. He drinks half the glass of water and looks at the mail. There are bills and flyers, and there is one A4 envelope, slick and stiff. He reaches for it, tears open the seal and shakes the expensive paper out onto the table; a fancy law-firm letterhead embosses his eyeline. Before he spins i
t around to face him, he knows what it is. He smiles, closes his eyes, and then he begins to laugh. Latin: Decree Nisi. At first, he thinks that it is a laughter of despair, of having reached the very bottom, but then, as his brain slowly cogitates, he changes his mind. He feels a tiny weight fall from his shoulders, feels his neck begin to relax. He laughs again, for the timing: it is pure, unadulterated mirth.
‘I’ve read your report,Vaughn.’
‘I know what you’re going to say.’
‘It’s what anyone in my position would say.’
De Vries stares at Henrik du Toit. ‘I hear,’ he says wearily, ‘that you stood up for me in front of Thulani. That you stood your ground. You must be pleased you did that now.’
Du Toit blanches. ‘If I had known that you had departed for your field trip, in direct contravention of my order, I might not have been so keen to defend you. I naively assumed that you would do what you said you would do. From your point of view, you were lucky beyond belief. Think of the alternative outcomes for a moment: at the very least, the end of your career.’
‘I think of Joe Pienaar and a desperate, insane man with a gun,’ de Vries says bitterly. ‘I think that any alternative which involved me sitting at my desk would have been utterly shameful.’
‘I—’
‘And so do you, Henrik. So do you. And if you don’t, you fucking should.’
De Vries gets up from the corner of sofas in du Toit’s office and gestures unsteadily around the room. ‘That’s why we fought for this opportunity; that’s why we put up with all this political bullshit because, whilst we are around, there is just a chance we can do things. You think any of that lot would have got off their arses quick enough to save that kid?’
He sits back down, faces his boss. ‘Now listen to me, because right now the drugs have made my thinking very clear. I knew a week ago that Nicholas Steinhauer was behind all of this, and everything in my report confirms that.’
‘That is debatable.’
The First Rule of Survival Page 32
