The Top Prisoner of C-Max

by Wessel Ebersohn

  The judge had interrupted her to say that it was not her duty to improve the quality of criminal activity in the country.

  ‘I apologise, Your Honour,’ she said, employing the false humility she sometimes used on African men. ‘I was merely suggesting they were making this matter too easy for me. I would prefer something a bit more challenging.’

  ‘That too is no cause for complaint,’ the judge said.

  After the court day she had spent another four hours in her office. It was after eight by the time she got home. The file that Robert had brought her lay on her desk, still unopened. She looked at its cover and the sticker that carried the words ‘Mpumalanga leadership profile’. It was just like Robert to give the file an innocent-sounding title. That would be his idea of a security measure.

  Abigail had always found the mixture of naivety and worldliness that she saw in Robert to be irresistibly attractive. It was one of the reasons she had been so attracted to him in the beginning. She barely admitted to herself that she loved him now as much as she ever had.

  The contents of the file would have nothing to do with naivety. Robert was not one to be stampeded by rumours or gossip. But tonight she was tired and Robert’s file would have to wait.

  Abigail showered. Then, dressed only in a cotton dressing gown, made a cup of chamomile tea and took it to the bedroom. She was going to be up early the next morning and the idea of being asleep by nine was appealing.

  Because she still knew nothing of the contents of Robert’s file, it soon slipped away from her thinking to be replaced by Beloved, this strange girl who had shared her home for a few days. She doubted that she would ever see Beloved again. Like so many idealistic young people from the developed world, Beloved would enjoy her Third World adventure then go back to the safety and security of her own country. It made sense. In her position, at that age, she would have done the same.

  She drank the tea slowly, turned off the light and closed her eyes. She was barely asleep when the surname, Childe, whirled through her unconscious mind, waking her with a start. What was it about this girl? Or was it the girl? She thought she had heard that surname before, long ago. But that made no sense.

  It was only nine-thirty, still early enough to make a few enquiries without waking anyone. The memory of her cellphone held the number of Nathi Lekota, a man who had been a colleague of her father during the years of the liberation struggle. They were both in exile and she had known Lekota since childhood. She had heard that he was now working among former farm labourers who were now unemployed. His number had been given to her by a friend some years before. She hoped that it was still valid.

  Lekota answered at the first ring.

  ‘Uncle Nathi, it’s Abigail.’

  Their last contact had been while Abigail’s parents were still alive and she had been a teenager. It took Lekota a few seconds to bring her to mind. At last he spoke. ‘Abigail Bukula?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me.’

  ‘Abigail Bukula? I hear you’re an important person now.’

  ‘Not so important, Uncle Nathi.’ But Abigail was not one to indulge the African habit of endless niceties before getting down to business. ‘Uncle Nathi,’ and her voice held the urgency within her, ‘was there ever a man by the name of Childe in the struggle? Would you remember that?’

  ‘A lot of men were involved in the struggle, but Childe is easy to remember. He was a white American, the only American in Umkhonto I’m sure.’

  That a white American was part of the armed struggle took a little absorbing. ‘What happened to him? Did he go home?’

  Lekota took a while to answer. ‘No, no. I think he died in Quatro.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Oh, it was a long time ago. I really don’t remember.’ So far Lekota’s answers had come easily. This time the hesitation was clear and she knew he was lying.

  ‘Thanks, Uncle Nathi. Sorry to have bothered you.’ Abigail hung up and took Robert’s file from the table where it lay. She had just picked it up when the lights went down. The national electricity supply company had warned that there could be local and regional blackouts to lighten the load.

  Reading by candle or torchlight was not on Abigail’s agenda. She went back to bed and closed her eyes, hoping to get the long night’s rest she had promised herself. An American by the name of Childe had died in the one camp that the entire movement was now ashamed of. And what was the connection to Beloved? And if there was one, why had she kept it to herself?

  Sleep came some time after eleven and this time it was the telephone that woke her. I should’ve unplugged the damned thing, she thought. How the hell am I going to get any sleep this way? Her eyes fell on the dial of her bedside clock. The power was back on and most of the night had passed in what seemed to be a few moments since she had fallen asleep. ‘Abigail here,’ she said into the mouthpiece.

  ‘Abigail? Is that Abigail?’ It was a young female voice.

  No doubt she’s hearing impaired, Abigail thought. ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘A terrible thing has happened. I didn’t know who else to call.’

  By the distressed tone of the voice it seemed quite possible that a terrible thing had indeed happened. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s Thandi. I couldn’t think who else to phone. Robert said … I hope …’

  Now she had Abigail’s full attention. ‘Is this Thandi, Robert’s wife?’ Her adultery with Robert flashed through her mind as a cause of the call.

  ‘Yes, it’s Thandi. Robert wants me to call you. That’s what he said. I think he wants you.’

  No, this had nothing to do with Robert’s visit. ‘Thandi, for God’s sake, what are you talking about? Tell me what happened.’

  ‘It’s Robert. He wants you. I’ve been with him, but—’

  ‘Jesus, Thandi. Is there something wrong with him?’

  ‘Robert’s in hospital. They shot him. It’s terrible.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The M1 highway outside Johannesburg – 1 395 kilometres from the Freedom Foundation

  THE MINIBUS TAXI dropped Oliver Hall at the filling station, leaving him to walk round to the back where the long-distance rigs took on fuel. The equipment on that side pumped faster through wider nozzles to fill the trucks’ large thanks quickly.

  He stopped at the corner of the building. Two rigs were being filled, one of the drivers sitting on a step on his side of the cab, the other leaning against a pump and talking to the attendant. Another two rigs were parked on the far edge of the property. Their drivers were nowhere to be seen. That probably meant they were at the fast-food counter, dealing with more personal needs. Both trucks were parked with the driver’s side towards the building. If you climbed up on the other side you would be hidden from anyone at the pumps or in the fast-food outlet.

  Hall stopped at the edge of the fast-food counter’s display window. The two drivers were drinking coffee and waiting for their orders. It was impossible to miss them. They were both wearing jeans, sneakers and short-sleeved, open-neck shirts. Hall could see sweat marks on their shirts. Three other people were waiting at the counter, but they were a mother and child and an older white man, who wore thick-lens glasses.

  At a glance, he knew which of the drivers was the one for him. The driver furthest from him was yellow-skinned, had European features and hair that consisted of tight African curls, cut short. The other man, typically African in every way, was doing most of the talking. Hall’s target mostly just listened and nodded, seeming to agree with everything his colleague said.

  A mixer like me, Hall thought. And he’s got loser’s eyes. He can’t say no. He definitely can’t say no to me.

  He waited for the two to leave the counter, Hall’s man carrying a paper bag and the other making a mess of eating a hamburger. Bits of tomato, lettuce, bread roll and hamburger were being sprayed onto the tarmac as he walked. Now that he could see them clearly, he saw that his man dressed neatly and carried himself erect. As the driver settled in be
hind the wheel, Hall climbed up on the other side and knocked softly on the window.

  The driver turned towards him and waved him away. Hall stayed where he was and knocked again. The driver again tried to get rid of him with a wave of the hand. At the third knock he rolled down the window. ‘Look, man. The company doesn’t let me give lifts. I’d give you a lift, but the company—’

  Hall adapted his way of speaking to suit the working-class man he was dealing with. ‘I wouldn’t ask, but I just got outa hospital today and my wife’s in the Cape. And I on’y got twenty rand. Please, brother.’

  ‘Jesus, buddy. If I get caught my job’s gone.’

  ‘I’ll sit on the floor in town, I swear. No one’s gonna see anything. If you don’t help me I dunno what I’ll do, I swear.’

  ‘Christ, what were you in hospital for?’

  I got you, you stupid bum, Hall thought. ‘Hernia, abdominal,’ he said. ‘It hurts to walk. Getting up if you been lying down is murder. I’m scared I’ll tear loose the stitches, if I don’t watch out.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus. You gotta sit on the floor in any town, even small towns. You hear me? If I get reported, my job’s gone. The company—’ He was already opening the door on the passenger side.

  ‘I swear you got nothing to worry about, brother. I’ll be outa sight.’

  ‘Okay. Get in and sit on the floor.’

  Hall slipped in and settled on the floor, his back against the seat and his knees under the dashboard. ‘How’s this?’

  ‘That’s good. That’s okay. Stay like that till we outa town.’ A new thought came to the driver. ‘With your hernia, is it going to be hard to get off the floor? If it is, I can stop and give you a hand.’

  You pathetic little bastard, Hall thought. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘Thanks a lot, but I’ll be okay. I’ll take it slow.’

  The rig rolled smoothly out of the filling station property. The other, driven by the sloppy hamburger eater, was just ahead of them. A few minutes later they went down a long access ramp onto the highway that would take them out of the city towards Cape Town. The other rig gradually drew ahead.

  ‘By the way, my name’s David,’ the driver said. ‘I’m David September.’

  ‘Ashton,’ Hall told him.

  ‘Is that your first name?’

  ‘Yes. Ashton Hall.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Ash, buddy.’

  David glanced at Hall. What he saw was a guy who was down on his luck, fresh out of hospital, whose wife was waiting for him. It was a bastard how tough things were for poor families. He was glad to be helping this Ashton guy.

  From a few hundred metres away Hall, peeping over the dashboard, could see the police vehicles lined up at the side of the road. Officers were carrying yellow traffic cones from a truck. Only a few had been placed so far. David drove past them at an even pace. If it was a roadblock, it was not yet operating. Hall moved enough to see them in the wing mirror. The cones seemed to be in place now and the police were stopping a car, waving it down.

  If that was for me, it’s a bit late now, Hall thought. Thank God most people, specially the cops, are fucking useless.

  By the time Abigail arrived at the hospital, the morning commuter traffic was just starting to flow. It was not yet dense enough to slow her passage. She made the run from her home in Groenkloof to the hospital in Nieuw Muckleneuk, in less than ten minutes, without hurrying.

  The hospital car park was not even half full, but she deliberately stopped some distance from the main building and walked slowly towards the entrance. Her first impulse after Thandi’s call had been to pull on her clothes and run for the car. The impulse had been brief. She had forced herself to shower, dress slowly and walk sedately to the car.

  He’s not yours any more, she reminded herself. No matter what you did with him three nights ago, he’s not yours now. He has a different wife and quite possibly she’s pregnant. She’s the type, but you never were. Maybe you were never meant to be his wife. Maybe your destiny is to be his mistress. It was a brief thought. Fuck that. I’m not going to be anyone’s mistress, not ever, not even Robert’s.

  At the front desk, Abigail was told that Mr Mokoapi was in ICU, but only his wife was allowed. ‘I’m also a wife,’ she told the receptionist, a white girl in her early twenties, who had looked sleepy until that moment. Her eyes widened, but she told Abigail how to get to ICU. Recently the country’s president had received considerable publicity for his traditional, polygamous, Zulu marital arrangements, and the girl may have thought she was faced with the same sort of thing. Could there be more wives coming to visit this gunshot victim?

  The waiting room in ICU was empty except for a short, thick-set woman, dressed entirely in black, who may have been in her seventies. As Abigail entered, the woman scrambled heavily to her feet, using both hands pressed against the arms of the chair to help lift her into a standing position. Not even trying to keep her voice down, she spoke angrily to Abigail in one of the indigenous languages. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t understand you,’ Abigail said. She had grown to adulthood in Western countries during her parents’ exile under the apartheid regime.

  ‘You not Robert wife.’ The woman was doing her best. ‘You not come here.’ As she spoke, she manoeuvred herself in front of the only door to the nurses’station and the ward itself.

  ‘You know who I am?’

  It had not been said challengingly, but the other woman’s chin jutted forward aggressively and she took a step closer. ‘You Abigail. You not Robert wife. My Thandi, she Robert wife.’

  Oh God, is that what this is about? Abigail thought. It would have been emotionally satisfying to say, listen, you old bag, get out of my way or I’ll have you locked up. Instead she said, ‘Ma’am, I am just coming to visit him. I don’t want to steal him from your daughter.’

  But the broad presence of Thandi’s mother was filling the doorway. ‘You not go.’

  Abigail’s patience was wearing thin. ‘Please stand aside.’ A nurse, drawn by the altercation, appeared in the doorway.

  At almost the same moment, the old woman was pushed aside and Thandi appeared, her eyes red-lined and still showing signs of tears. ‘Mama, stop this. Robert wants Abigail.’

  ‘She not wife.’

  ‘Mama, go and sit down.’

  The old woman returned to her chair, still looking at Abigail in a way that suggested she knew a seductress when she saw one. Thandi took Abigail by the hand and led her down the passage. ‘He came out of surgery four hours ago,’ she said. ‘He’s been asking for you.’

  ‘Oh.’ How did you react to that when you were the other woman? Abigail thought.

  Thandi stopped outside the closed door of a ward. She was still holding Abigail’s hand. She turned to face Abigail, standing close. ‘I’ve never really understood what he wants or expects from me. I still don’t. I think you might though.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that.’

  ‘He’s been asking for you ever since he was brought in. I don’t know why. He just wants you.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s personal.’ Abigail tried to reassure this innocent-looking young woman. ‘I think it has to do with why he was shot. I think he wants to make sure I follow up on the matter.’

  ‘I think it is personal. I’m sure it’s personal, but I don’t mind.’ She opened the door and stepped aside for Abigail to enter. ‘He’s conscious. You’d better go in now.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’

  ‘No. He wants you.’

  ‘I think you should come.’

  ‘If he doesn’t live, I want him to have a last chance to talk to you. You go in.’

  If he doesn’t live, Abigail thought. That was a possibility that had not arisen so far. She turned to go, but Thandi still had hold of her hand. ‘Abigail?’

  ‘Yes.’ She almost said, yes, my girl, but managed to edit away the means of address.

  ‘Will you tell me what he really wants? Please tell me. I want to understand him and I
don’t.’

  ‘Of course, I will.’

  Thandi looked relieved. Abigail turned away from her and entered Robert’s private ward. She heard the door close behind her.

  Robert was on his back, a drip feeding into an arm and a bank of equipment measuring his bodily functions. His right shoulder was heavily bandaged. His eyes, which were three-quarters closed, flickered into alertness at the sight of Abigail. ‘Thanks for coming.’ His voice was little more than a croak.

  ‘Hi, cowboy,’ Abigail said. ‘You need someone to keep you out of trouble.’

  ‘You see the lengths I’ll go to, to keep you interested.’

  Christ, he looked awful. The brown of his skin seemed to be overlaid by a film of grey and the whites of his eyes had disappeared entirely into a web of red veins. He gestured for her to come closer, a weak movement of the hand closest to her. Abigail sat down on the chair next to his bed and took his hand in both of hers. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Have you read the file?’ He spoke slowly, seeming to concentrate on every word.

  Until a few hours before, reading his file had been something that could be put off for a convenient time. Now she was ashamed that it lay unopened where he had left it. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I hate myself for not having touched it, but I haven’t.’

  ‘Please read it.’

  ‘Does this have to do with the contents of the file?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘I’ll read it today. I had no idea—’

  He tried to pat her hands, but the effort was feeble. ‘It’s okay. Please just read it.’

  ‘I’ll do it immediately.’

  ‘Thanks.’ The faintest smile crossed his face. ‘The other night was great, wasn’t it?’

  So far there had not been much to tell Thandi. The contents of Robert’s file and what she had done with him three evenings before did not seem to be useful in helping her to understand Robert. ‘It was marvellous,’ Abigail said. ‘Even better than when we were together.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  The M12 highway between Christiana and Warrenton – 1 052 kilometres from the Freedom Foundation