The Top Prisoner of C-Max

by Wessel Ebersohn

  ‘But he couldn’t have known when.’

  ‘I think Member Dongwana, sir. I think he’s scared. They hurt his wife. Maybe they can come back.’

  Yudel leant back in his chair for a moment to consider this new information. ‘Kruger can keep his phone for now,’ he told April. ‘I won’t report it. Just one more thing, Jacky. When you were drafted in here you told me that at least it was a big crime, at least you were not in for a small thing. Do you remember?’

  April looked down at his feet. ‘Not actually, sir.’

  But this was not the time for Yudel to accept that sort of response. ‘Look at me, Jacky.’

  April glanced at him, then looked down.

  ‘Look at me and keep looking at me.’

  April raised his head. His eyes found Yudel’s, flitted away to another part of the room, came back and flitted away again.

  ‘Now, you listen to me. I need the truth from you, the complete truth. I swear to you I will never use it against you and never tell anyone else. But you have to tell me the truth now.’

  The truth was not something April was overly familiar with. In his world you said what you needed to in order to deal with the current situation. But Yudel was looking at him with an intensity that made lying difficult. ‘Sir knows I’ll try to help.’

  ‘When you had sex with the old white man, did you know your friends might kill him?’

  Whatever truth Yudel had needed, April had not imagined that it would have anything to do with him personally. ‘Sir …’ His voice trailed away like the sound of whispering in a blizzard.

  ‘No one will ever know. If you did you don’t need to say anything. Just nod.’

  Truth was one thing, but this kind of truth was like an avalanche descending on him. This time looking at Yudel was impossible. His eyes fixed on the floor in front of him. The movement was almost imperceptible, but it was enough. He nodded once, paused a moment, then nodded again.

  ‘So you knew this was a big crime?’

  April nodded again.

  ‘Was that important to you when you came here?’

  ‘Sir knows.’

  ‘Why was it important?’

  ‘Sir knows, if you in for a small thing, you nobody here.’

  ‘The bigger your crime, the greater your stature here?’ Yudel knew it to be true. The question was directed more at himself than at the frightened man opposite him.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The greater your crime, the more important you are in C-Max.’

  ‘I’m not a big man here, but I’m not rubbish. Sir knows.’

  Yudel did know. ‘Don’t worry about any of this, Jacky. You can go back to your cell and tell Kruger whatever you want. Change my questions and your answers, if you like.’

  ‘Mr Gordon must know I better change my answers.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  April left. Jesus Christ, Yudel thought, can it be that simple, a contest between the contenders for the top position? And could Beloved, a dead and mutilated Beloved, be the prize?

  Winning would not help them, Yudel promised himself. If either achieved what he was aiming at, that man would never return to C-Max to be the top man here. I’ll see to that, Yudel thought. They can depend on it.

  He looked at his watch. The staff would be arriving at Poynton Building. But the minister was often in early. He rose and started for the door. He would try to be there before she arrived.

  Freek Jordaan had given his PA the task of getting him connected to someone who could provide a guard for Beloved until this Oliver Hall matter was dealt with. He had told her to connect him to the commissioner for the Western Cape, failing that to work her way downward until she did find someone.

  The latter part of the instruction had not proven necessary. The commisioner had taken the call on his cellphone, but his voice had sounded strangely hoarse and uneven. ‘Freek, my man,’ he murmured. ‘I understand this is urgent.’

  ‘Commissioner, you don’t sound too good,’ Freek told him.

  He took a while to answer, seeming to marshal his breath before he could speak. ‘I’m in ICU, my man, at Groote Schuur Hospital. Liver’s packing up.’

  ‘God almighty, Raymond,’ Freek said. ‘And they allow you to use your phone there?’

  ‘They don’t know about it. It’s on vibration. I only answer when I’m alone. I can’t handle having no contact. What’s happening?’

  Freek told him.

  ‘Talk to the station commander at Rosebank, Captain Rassool. Tell him this comes from me and to put a man on it. Call me back if you don’t get any joy.’

  Like hell, Freek thought, but he did what the commissioner advised. It took a long time for the phone at Rosebank to be answered. Too long, Freek thought. Eventually a bored-sounding voice answered. ‘Yes, Rosebank.’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Freek roared. ‘Why are you so slow to answer? Where the hell is Captain Rassool?’

  Freek had not identified himself, but the owner of the voice recognised authority when he heard it. Freek had asked three questions. The other man’s brain danced between the three, wondering which one he should start with. Who was he? Why so slow? Where’s the captain? The one about Captain Rassool had come last and was therefore freshest in his mind. ‘The captain’s off this afternoon.’ He stammered slightly, almost adding, please sir, but managed to restrain it. ‘He’s gone to a wedding.’

  ‘Is that why you’re so slow to answer the phone? Because there’s no supervision today? Is that the reason?’

  The real reason was that he had been asleep at his desk, but he was now fully awake and able to respond better. ‘No, sir. I was outside, checking the tyres on our vehicles.’

  Freek showed no interest in tyres or vehicles. ‘Who’s in charge this afternoon?’

  ‘Me, sir. Sergeant Prince.’

  ‘Prince, I’m going to give you an instruction now and you better listen carefully.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the sergeant said. But who the hell are you? he was thinking. It was more than he could do to put the thought into audible words though.

  Freek had no interest in ending the sergeant’s misery, but at some point he had to add more direct authority to his tone of voice. ‘Brigadier General Jordaan here. I’m the deputy commissioner for Gauteng.’ He had not needed to tell the sergeant about the position he held. Freek’s reputation as one who took no nonsense of any kind preceded him everywhere he went. ‘I’ve just been talking to your provincial commissioner who, as you know, is ill. You can take this order as coming from him.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Sergeant Prince was not about to dispute anything.

  Freek told him who Beloved was, where she was working and that she should be guarded and why. ‘Did you get all that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Get onto it then. And report back in half an hour.’

  After a few more ‘yes, sirs’ Prince was at last able to hang up. He got up and went towards the charge office to find someone to guard Beloved. What use was the new South Africa, he wondered, if an old white guy like this deputy commissioner could bawl a man out that way? If things went on this way, he would find someone else to vote for in the next election.

  Despite Sergeant Prince’s resentment at Freek’s authoritarian manner, he tried to carry out the order he had been given. There was not a great deal of enthusiasm in the effort he was making, but he was doing his best to ensure that he could not later be accused of disobeying an order.

  He had looked at the duty roster of his own station and decided that no one could be spared to guard this American woman. After that he had called Rondebosch, where the officer in charge had said that he would like to help, but Prince knew how things were with manpower at the moment and he could not see his way clear to do what his old buddy wanted.

  At Woodstock he spoke to a sergeant who had held the rank much longer than he had and hated the fact that they were equals now. ‘Piss off, Prince,’ he said. ‘Why should I do your dirty work for
you?’

  Diep River’s lieutenant in charge said, all right he would find a man, but Prince should remember that now he owed him one. But when Prince called back to see if a man had been deployed to guard Beloved, the lieutenant told him he was working on it.

  Half an hour later, Prince’s shift came to an end and he took the bus to his home in Lansdowne. Well, I tried, he thought. No one can say I didn’t try. Even that deputy commissioner can’t say I didn’t try. In any case, Diep River said they’ll do it.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  De Doorns – 145 kilometres from the Freedom Foundation

  OLIVER HALL would again have to jump. He had made his way to the back of the train. Up in front they would certainly be looking for him now. There was a scheduled stop in Worcester, maybe half an hour away, but they would have him cornered before then.

  The train had slowed coming down the pass, but it was not yet going slow enough to jump safely. As soon as they hit the flat at the bottom of the pass, it would again be picking up speed. It was not just the speed that was the problem though. In places there were flat stretches next to the tracks, but with the De Doorns siding ahead, there would be signal boxes, and the mountain country meant steep slopes, even ravines. He knew he had to jump while he could choose his spot.

  He was in the last passenger coach now. Behind him was only the guard’s van, where the parcels were carried. From his position he could see the door through which someone coming from the front would have to enter. But waiting for them would not work in his favour if the train was back at normal speed.

  The track flattened at the end of the long, downhill bend. This was it, he told himself. This was the moment they would start picking up speed again.

  And yet the train was still slowing. On the right, well below the tracks, lay the village, a meagre scattering of buildings, little more than a hamlet. Beyond the village the white walls of farmhouses and wineries punctuated the dense rows of vineyards. To the left of the tracks, up the steep side of the valley a haphazard collection of corrugated iron roofs signalled the presence of the shack village that housed a few indigent locals and the foreigners from countries to the north. They had settled along the edge of the valley hoping to find work in the vineyards.

  He heard the squealing of brakes. Instead of gathering speed, the train was now travelling at little more than jogging speed.

  On passenger trains, the doors locked as soon as the train started moving. This time Hall had to jump from a window. He found an empty compartment, then, sitting on the windowsill for a moment, his legs hanging free on the outside, he dropped onto flat ground, almost facing the front. He staggered for a few steps, then righted himself. As a kid, he had jumped trains moving much faster. The train came to a standstill a few hundred metres down the valley. Hall saw no sign of the police. With a jerk it started moving again, still slowly enough for him to catch up and get back on if he chose to. Instead he went down a slope to the shelter of a dense wall of reeds.

  The train stopped again, perhaps a kilometre away. Now he could see policemen, maybe ten of them, moving down the closer side of the train. I’ve still got the instinct, he told himself. Once you’ve got it, it’s there for life.

  As he had done in Beaufort West, he waited until they had searched the train and it was moving again. Hall knew he needed help and the place to find it would be in the shack village. To get there he would have to get clear of the tracks, then cross the highway and the broad, open verge on either side. The train had moved on, but where were the boers now?

  The question was answered for him by four police vehicles appearing from the direction of the tracks and turning towards Worcester, twenty kilometres away. He waited until they were out of sight before strolling across the highway, his hands in his pockets.

  Hall reached the edge of the shacks and entered one of the narrow alleys between them. He was passing through a tangle of dwellings that had been erected from anything that had come to hand. Bricks, stone, planks, rusted sheets of corrugated iron, mud and cardboard were patched together to make shelters to keep out the rain and the cold. Each leant against or stood next to a lavatory made of cement blocks. In the interest of sanitation, they had been built by some government agency. The families that lived there had been left to create their own housing.

  Hall waited in the shelter of a lavatory wall. The shacks closest to him were silent. But further up the slope he could hear the sound of voices. He knew he had to find a woman who lived alone, perhaps with one or two small children, like Dlomo’s woman. The Pregnalato woman had been his first for ten years and he wanted another. And if he had to leave her in the same condition he left Jenny Pregnalato, that was a matter of no importance.

  He wanted more from the woman than sex though. He wanted money and a car, if a car was possible in this place.

  The door of a shack, the fifth or sixth from him, opened and a woman emerged. She was small, lean and wearing a well-used man’s sweater that was too big for her. She closed the door behind her and entered the lavatory. If the shack’s door had a lock, she had not used it. She did not seem to have noticed him.

  The path to her shack was uphill and covered with gravel. Hall crossed the intervening distance, taking each step carefully. There would be a moment, as she entered the relative darkness of the shack, when she would be defenceless.

  The door of the shack gave at the pressure of his hand and he stepped inside. With one hand he held the door ajar, allowing him to see out.

  The shack consisted of a single room. There seemed to be only one sagging bed and that was empty now. From the lavatory he heard the brief sound of rushing water. He withdrew his hand and let the door close until only the smallest crack of daylight was visible. Almost immediately he heard her shuffling steps on the gravel. The shuffling stopped. Through the crack he could see the back of her head.

  In one movement he opened the door and pulled her inside. His body was pressed against hers, one hand clamped round her mouth and the other at her throat. ‘You make no sound,’ he whispered. ‘If you want to live, you make no sound.’ The woman was very thin and stank of unwashed genitals and multiple layers of old sweat. ‘I’ll take my hand away now. Make no sound.’

  First he removed the hand from her mouth, then slowly loosened the grip on her throat. She remained as if frozen in that position. ‘Is anybody else here?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Stand still. If you move or scream, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?’

  She nodded. On closer inspection she looked even smaller. She did not give the impression of being old, but her face was lined and the eyes unnaturally large. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Aids,’ she murmured, so softly that he almost missed it. She knew she was thin enough to make it believable. Please let him believe it, she prayed. Lord, I’m in the middle of my cycle. Don’t let this devil make me pregnant.

  ‘Bitch.’ A blow with his flat hand took her against the side of the head. She fell, landing on hands and knees, but without much impact. She seemed to be too light to land heavily. He litfed her to her feet again. ‘Have you got money? Have you got a car? You better have.’

  ‘I got keys,’ she said.

  ‘Keys?’ He pushed her back onto the bed. Her stink was repulsive, but the thought of the disease was worse.

  ‘My brother’s van.’

  ‘Where is he, your brother?’

  ‘He lives on the other side. He lets me keep a set of keys, in case I need them.’

  ‘Give them to me.’

  The keys were in a cardboard box under the bed. She dragged it out and gave him the keys. ‘It’s a small Datsun van. It’s down on the other side where the road is.’

  ‘And the keys for that door.’ He tilted his head towards the shack’s door.

  She handed him a single key. ‘Are you going to kill me, mister?’

  ‘I should, stinking up the world with that shit disease. Where’s the money?’

  She took a
single note from the box.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s what I got.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘I swear,’ she said. Inwardly she was praying again. Let him rather kill me. I don’t mind dying. I just don’t want to be pregnant, not by him.

  ‘Do you have any men’s clothing?’

  ‘No, I got no man.’

  ‘A knife, a sharp one, like a carving knife?’

  ‘You going to kill me?’

  ‘Do what I tell you and perhaps I wont kill you.’

  ‘The knife’s over there, by the drawer.’

  It was a kitchen knife, clumsy by Hall’s standards. He ran the the padding of his thumb along the blade. At least she had kept it sharpened. It fitted into the holster well. Until he could find a better weapon, it would have to do.

  ‘Turn round.’

  ‘What you going to do?’ He’s going to kill me, she thought. This is where it all ends.

  ‘Turn round.’ As he spun her round, the haft of the knife caught her behind the right ear. She went down again, this time more heavily and she stayed down.

  He tore her thin blanket into strips and used the strips to tie her underneath the bed and to its legs. Then he forced enough of one of the strips into her mouth and down her throat to make death by suffocation a real possibility. He left her there, locked the shack door and slipped the van’s keys into his pocket.

  The little van was at least thirty years old, but it started at the first turn of the starter motor. He eased it down the access road to the highway and stopped there. Away to his left was the place where the police had searched the train, and beyond that was Worcester and the direct route to Cape Town and the Freedom Foundation. By this time the bastards may have a roadblock waiting for me, he thought.

  He turned the van to the right, moving away from the possible roadblock. He knew that to go round them, he would have to find his way to the coastal road. The only way was to go back up the pass. It was a long way round, but by now they knew about Dlomo. They would be waiting for the train in Worcester. And the roadblock was a certainty.