The Top Prisoner of C-Max

by Wessel Ebersohn

  DAVID SEPTEMBER could see the first signs of dawn in the right-hand rear-view mirror. He felt that he was making good time. Traffic had been light and the rig had been running beautifully, helped by a slight following wind. There had been no stoppages for the roadworks that often slowed you down on this road. At this rate, he would reach Cape Town before midnight.

  He thought his passenger would have fallen asleep long before, but Hall was alert and making what seemed to be innocent conversation. ‘You got a family, David?’

  ‘Wife and two kids,’ the driver told him.

  ‘What’s your wife’s name?’

  ‘June. Her name’s June.’

  ‘And the kids?’

  ‘The boy’s Gregory and the girl’s Gloria.’

  ‘Nice names.’

  ‘My kids are still young. I got married late.’

  ‘That’s okay. Better to get married late, but be able to afford it. Right?’ This was the kind of talk that appealed to a working-class conservative like the driver.

  ‘That’s what I say.’ September was nodding in agreement. It was good to talk to a man who felt the same way he did. ‘That’s exactly what I say. Wait till you can afford to give your family a decent life.’

  ‘So your wife’s younger than you.’

  ‘Fifteen years.’

  ‘Nice to have a young woman to sleep with,’ Hall said. Then, seeing the quick glance the other man directed at him, he added, ‘She’s got the strength to look after the kids and so.’

  September looked at Hall again. He was not sure where this was going. ‘I’m really happy with her,’ he said eventually.

  ‘I should’ve waited longer myself,’ Hall said. He was the unsuccessful man, admiring a man who had achieved the life he aspired to. ‘I’m not happy living in Manenberg with my family. I don’t want my kids growing up among the drug dealers and gangsters. I wish I also waited.’

  ‘You gotta get them outa there, Ash, my buddy. I used to live on the flats myself. Now we got a place in Observatory. Collingwood Road. A lot better than living out on the flats.’

  ‘You right. You so right.’

  ‘It’s the best way – for your family’s sake.’

  A signpost told them that only fifty kilometres remained before they would reach Warrenton. It was a distance that interested Hall. He calculated that they would be there in another thirty minutes, just about seven. It was a time that suited him well.

  Climbing a gentle rise, the rig’s Citizens’ Band radio crackled into life. ‘David, you hearing me?’ the man in the control office asked.

  ‘I’m hearing you. Over.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Just past Christiana. What’s the problem? Over.’

  ‘Outside Warrenton the cops are stopping all heavy-duty rigs and checking everything. They looking for vehicles that aren’t roadworthy no more. And passengers that shouldn’t be there. You got no passengers, David?’

  ‘Course not,’ September said. ‘Not company policy.’

  ‘The rig’s okay?’

  ‘Perfect. I checked everything myself. Over.’

  ‘Talk to you later. Out.’

  September’s right foot eased off the accelerator, allowing the rig to coast gently onto the shoulder of the road. He looked across at Hall. ‘Sorry, buddy. Specially leaving you here between towns, but you heard what the man said?’

  ‘Just keep going.’ Something had changed in Hall’s way of speaking. The toadying, submissive tone had been replaced by a sharper edge.

  ‘I can’t, buddy. You heard what the man said. The cops are up the road. I’ll lose my job for certain, if word gets back. Ash, my buddy, I explained all that to you.’

  The rig was moving at no more than walking pace. September felt the steel of the knife blade against his throat and knew immediately what it was. He remembered from school days where the carotid artery was located and knew that was where the knife was pressing. ‘Get moving,’ Hall said. The Cape Coloured speech patterns had disappeared. ‘Keep your foot on the accelerator.’

  September pressed down on the pedal and the rig started picking up speed. ‘I was doing you a favour, man.’ Now he was not dealing with the man who had asked him for a lift. That man had gone and been replaced by an altogether different one.

  ‘I’m going to do you a favour now,’ Hall said. ‘I’m going to let you live if you do what I tell you.’

  ‘This is not going to work.’ September was trying to sound calm. He had heard that, when threatened by an armed criminal, the best thing was to stay calm. ‘When the cops stop us they going to ask me who you are. I know these guys. The companies ask them to report passengers. They going to ask.’

  ‘How much money do you have on you?’

  ‘Not much. Three, four hundred maybe.’

  ‘Do you have a road map?’

  ‘In the cubby hole.’

  ‘Get the money out and put it on the seat.’

  September felt the pressure of the knife against his throat ease slightly as Hall reached into the cubby hole for the map. He had never been more frightened in his life. Although he was barely aware of it, the reason for his fear was more the change in Hall’s way of speaking than the presence of the knife. He thought about his young wife and their children, and took out the money.

  Hall scooped it up with his free hand. He looked at September and understood him perfectly. ‘If you say anything to those cops, your family will never see you again.’

  The traffic cops were thirty kilometres before Warrenton. One of them, wearing a reflective tunic, was out in the middle of the road. A few hundred metres ahead of them a rig, as big as the one September was driving, was braking. While they watched, the cop waved it through.

  ‘They not stopping everybody.’ September sounded hopeful. ‘Maybe they’ll let us through.’

  ‘Don’t slow until they wave to you,’ Hall told him.

  But the officer was already waving them down. ‘I gotta stop now.’ September looked to Hall for confirmation.

  ‘Yes, stop. But remember, I’ve killed before and you mean nothing to me.’

  ‘The cops will get you.’ September would have preferred that his voice had not shaken while he tried so hard to sound tough.

  ‘I’m ready to die,’ Hall told him. ‘Think about whether you are and think about your nice young wife. And do what I tell you. And don’t climb down, no matter what.’

  ‘If they tell me to?’

  ‘You sit. I’ll do the talking.’

  The rig came to a halt at the side of the road. Now the knife was held low, its sharp point pressed into September’s side just above his belt.

  The officer, whose face was so dark it almost disappeared into the night, had been approaching the driver when his eyes fell upon Hall. He came round to the passenger side instead. ‘And you? Is this a passenger transport?’

  Hall leant out of the window to be able to speak to the officer without raising his voice. Altogether he had counted five policemen, but if he kept his voice low, the others were out of earshot. By this time half September’s money was folded into the map. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you can help us with our route.’

  The policeman took the map from him. It unfolded in his hands, revealing the money. After a quick glance in the direction of his colleagues, he slipped the notes into a pocket and handed back the map.

  ‘I’m his brother,’ Hall whispered to the officer. ‘I been in hospital. He’s just giving me a ride home, to my wife.’

  ‘Check the load,’ the policeman said, walking towards the back of the rig. Almost immediately he was back. ‘Load in order. Move along.’ He gave Hall a reassuring nod. The cop was a good fellow who was letting Hall get home to his family for only a miserly one hundred and fifty.

  September released the clutch and the rig moved off, slowly gathering speed. ‘Good man, David,’ Hall said. ‘All you have to do is exactly what I tell you.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN


  Warrenton township – 1 030 kilometres from the Freedom Foundation

  THE WEIGHT of the years had become almost too much for Jenny Preg-na lato to bear. The main effect of the brief moment of joy that Elia Dlomo had brought into her life five years before had been the frustration of returning to the loneliness of other days.

  The drive home in the company minibus that took her from the fast-food outlet at the highway filling station where she had just finished handing over to the day shift took only three or four minutes. The night-shift workers, the men who worked the fuel pumps and the women who served at the takeaway food counter, all lived in the township.

  Every evening one of the petrol attendants, who doubled as a driver, collected the night shift and every morning he took them home. Jenny preferred the night shift because it gave her more time at home with the boy. He slept at her sister’s house, just down the road, and was back every morning in time to share a breakfast of porridge sprinkled with sugar. Milk was a luxury that was occasionally added as a special treat.

  The minibus bumped to a halt on the uneven verge of the road. The staff members, all wearing the uniform of either the filling station or the fast-food brand, climbed down and set off home. Within seconds they were drifting away from each other down the township’s dusty streets. Jenny reached the gate of her home and was surprised that the boy was not outside. Usually he was waiting for her, often sitting on the doorstep.

  She turned the handle and entered. Her cheap cotton curtains had all been drawn and the room was in semi-darkness. She had only a moment to register this and that it was wrong – the curtains were never drawn this time of the morning – when the door closed behind her and a man’s hand was pressed over her mouth, pulling her backwards and against him.

  ‘You make one sound and I’ll kill you and your boy,’ Oliver Hall whispered in her ear. His threat was not necessary. For Jenny, moving was impossible. She had no way of knowing who this was, but in the instant that Hall seized her, she knew that his presence had something to do with Elia or some part of Elia’s life. And how did this man know about the boy and where was her child now?

  Before she could think further about the boy and where he might be, Jenny was flung across the little room, crashing against the opposite wall, the side of her head and shoulder making hard contact. Then she was on the ground and he was standing over her, a dark shadow against the curtained window. Seizing the front of her uniform at the neck, he dragged her off the floor. ‘That’s my girl,’ he told her. ‘Say nothing and you’ll live. Now get the clothes off.’

  Jenny started to get undressed. Just let me live, she thought. Do what you want to, but let me live. What would the child do without me?

  Hall leant against the wall, watching every movement. She stopped with just bra and panties remaining. For the first time she had a clear view of him. ‘You not African,’ she said. ‘You a coloured like me. Why you doing this? I’m a poor woman. I got no money.’ With every word her voice rose. If the boy was coming home and just outside, let him at least be warned that something was wrong. Maybe then he would stop in the doorway, instead of bounding inside in his usual way. Maybe he would have time to turn and run to a neighbour.

  The punch was expertly thrown. It travelled no further than the length of a man’s forearm and landed against her nose. The sound of the bone breaking was a muted snapping and she felt the warmth of blood running into her mouth through the nasal passages. Oh, please God, she prayed. Why is he doing this to me? Please help me, but most of all, please keep my son safe.

  ‘I told you to keep quiet. How’s that nose going to grow on? How’s Elia Dlomo going to like you now?’

  So this did have to do with Elia.

  ‘I told you to do what I tell you. I’m not telling you again. Do you hear me?’

  She nodded. Blood was dripping onto the floor at her feet. She unhooked the bra and slipped off the panties. She was broad in the hips, a fact accentuated by a role of fat that had gathered round them. Her breasts were full and only drooping slightly. Hall reached out with both hands and fondled them briefly.

  ‘You’ve got money. Don’t tell me you’ve got no money. Where’s your money?’

  ‘Over there. There by the tin, next to the sink.’ The blood was making bubbling sounds when she spoke.

  Hall opened the hinged lid of the old biscuit tin, the remains of a company Christmas present a few years before. In it there was a twenty and a ten and some silver. Hall scooped it up and slipped it into a pocket. ‘Don’t tell me this is all there is. Don’t tell me that.’

  ‘True’s God. That’s all.’

  ‘What about the bank account? You’ve got a card?’

  ‘Please leave that. Otherwise I got nothing for the month.’

  ‘Do you want to live? Do you want your boy to live? Where is it?’

  ‘By the pocket by my jacket.’

  He found it in a small, plastic purse. ‘Pin number.’

  ‘Four, double three, one. But there’s not much. Thirty, forty, no more’n that.’ She watched him slip the card into his pocket, then look at her through expressionless eyes. He’s thinking what to do with me, she thought. He’s thinking what to do after he fucks me.

  But Hall had come to her home, knowing what he wanted to do to her. No decisions were needed now. He intended to have no trouble during the rape and he wanted Elia Dlomo to learn the details of what had happened to his woman so the beating should be a thorough one. He had learnt well from Enslin Kruger in the treatment of Penny Dongwana and his plans for this Beloved bitch.

  Circling slowly around her like a boxer looking for an opening, although with hands raised to her damaged nose no effective defence was likely, he stumbled on an uneven patch on the floor. The small size of the room, the movement as he circled her and his own preoccupation with her: all contributed to him lurching towards the closed door of the bedroom. His shoulder no more than brushed it. The latch had long since stopped clicking into place to hold the door closed. Now it moved, opening only enough for Jenny to see a corner of her bed. A child’s foot hung over the edge of the bed, the toes facing downward.

  ‘Elia.’ It was a single note, but this time it was screamed. Before she could scream again the first blows were landing, removing her ability to either breathe or scream.

  From the back door of Jenny Pregnalato’s home, Hall could see the tracks. He could also see the fifty or more flat-bed coaches of the freight train as it came past slowly. The freight, whatever it was, was covered by canvas that was stretched tight and anchored to the floor.

  By Hall’s reckoning there was perhaps thirty metres between himself and the tracks. Boarding the train while it was travelling this speed would not be hard, but first he had to cross the yards of a few cottages, then a short stretch of dry, highveld grass where there was no cover, and finally slip through the wire fence bordering the tracks. While he watched, the train seemed to start gathering speed.

  I can’t stay here, he told himself. Not now. Staying in this place had become impossible. These damn township people were in and out of each other’s houses all the time. It would be impossible to keep them away for long. And so far his face was not known in this place.

  Hall stepped out into the warm, afternoon air. He hesitated only a moment before walking unhurriedly down the space between the back doors of the cottages. Most of the fences had long since collapsed. He stepped over two that were worn down to little over knee height, starting to run only when he reached the open grass. The surface was uneven, but the grass was thin and he reached the railway fence quickly. It was waist high with horizontal support wires that could serve as footholds. Holding onto one of the uprights, he went over easily.

  The train was now moving faster than he could run. He sprinted next to it to make the jump easier. Glancing back, he saw a rail he could use to pull himself up, but it was gaining on him more quickly than he would have liked.

  He timed the jump well, getting the rail in both hands. For a
moment his feet touched the stones that supported the track. The tensing of his muscles as he jerked himself upwards was no more than a reflex.

  Lying flat on the bed of the truck, both hands still on the rail, Hall looked back towards the township. He could see no one who may have watched him leave.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Johannesburg Station – 1 407 kilometres from the Freedom Foundation

  THE FURNITURE in the flat that served as headquarters showed clear signs that the good days were over. Dlomo spent only an hour there, seated on a frayed and discoloured armchair and surrounded by his men. He thanked them for what they had done for him and he told them about this thing he had to do, and that there was no avoiding it. He would come back, but first this had to be done.

  Four of the five members of what was left of Elia Dlomo’s gang were foreigners, all of them in the country illegally. They had left impossibly difficult circumstances in Somalia, Zimbabwe and the Congo to find a better life in Johannesburg. Things had not worked out for any of them.

  When the wave of xenophobia swept through the city’s black communities, they found themselves being attacked by people they had thought of as friends. People who served with them on township chambers of commerce set fire to their tiny convenience stores. People who sat next to them in church led mobs that attacked them. Parents of children that played with their children watched while they were dragged from their dwellings. By the time Dlomo found them, they were ready for what he had to offer. If this country stopped them getting respect, money, liquor, women and cars legally, they were ready to try Elia Dlomo’s way.

  In their years with Dlomo, they discovered that he was ready to risk his life for them. While they were alive, they were valuable to him. Had they thought about it, none would have expected Dlomo to weep for any who were killed by the police. Membership of his clan was for the living. Some of their members had died and others were in jail, but those who were free had found what they were looking for. All were devoted to Dlomo and all had participated in the raid that freed him.