A SONG IN THE MORNING (44 page)

"Save your strength."

Jack found the hole that he had cut in the fence. He found his handkerchief. They slithered through. Jack, in his life, had never known such agony as when Jeez worked him through the wire and over the lower tumbler strand. He thought they should have been going faster, he knew he was incapable of greater speed. They crossed the road at the bottom of the valley between Magazine and Skanskop, and they climbed again. They climbed over the stone hard earth and the broken rock, and through the matted thorn scrub.

Against the clean night sky were the ordered plateau lines of the old fort's ramparts.

They looked down.

Jack gazed down the south face of the Skanskop slope to the road and the place where he had parked the Renault.

The triumph was bolted in his gut, the words were blocked in his throat. He could see the Renault. The Renault was illuminated by the lights of a jeep. There were many lights, many jeeps and transport lorries for moving troops. The lights of the vehicles shone on to the hillside where it fell to the road. He heard the rising drone of engines to his right, and to his left, and away behind him. His eyes squeezed shut.

The voice grated in his ear.

"You bastards took your time, and now you've blown it."

"It was the best . . . "

Jeez snapped. "Bloody awful best, and after I've been sitting there thirteen fucking months. Bastards."

"Who are the bastards?"

"Your crowd."

"What's my crowd?"

Teeth bared, "The team."

"What team?"

"Where's the back-up?"

"There's just me, me alone." Still leaning on Jeez's shoulder.

"Where's Colonel Basil?"

"Never heard of him."

"Lennie, Adrian, Henry."

"Don't know them."

"Who sent you?"

"I sent myself."

Jeez looked up at him, searched his face. Didn't understand, couldn't split the mist.

"So who are you?"

"I'm Jack."

"And who the hell's Jack, when he's at home?"

"He's your son."

Jack hung on his father's neck. Jeez buried his face in his son's shoulder. And around them, far beneath them, was the tightening circle of lights.

* * *

They had come off the motorway, they were close to their parents' home.

After Jan had thrown the grenades at Local, and the S.A.A.F. recruiting office, and the creeper-covered fence of S.A.D.F. H.Q., and after he had fired a whole magazine of pistol shots at the sentry box at the bottom of Potgieterstraat, Ros had taken a circular route to Johannesburg. Not a word was spoken. Ros's knuckles were white on the wheel all the way. Their nerves were stretched like wire. They expected every moment the flail of the siren in pursuit, the road block in their path. The number plates were mud-smeared. She did not think that the sentries would have noted her number plate, they'd have been lying in the dirt and shielding their heads from the shrapnel and the pistol bullets. She had driven fifty kilometres out of her way, across to the east before doubling back through Bapsfontein and Kempton Park and Edenvale. She hadn't been followed, there had been no road blocks. They had heard one explosion. Jan had said it was the main charge going against the wall, and then they had finished with their diversion, and he had wound up the passenger window. They had heard nothing more.

Now the radio was on in the car.

The midnight news bulletin. A bland English accent.

". . . English service of the S.A.B.C. Good evening. In the last ten minutes police headquarters in Pretoria has announced that the area to the south of the capital between Verwoerdburg and Valhalla has been declared an emergency military zone. All persons travelling through that area until further notice are subject to S.A.D.F. and police control.

Residents in the area are advised to stay in their homes throughout the hours of darkness . . . "

"They made it," Jan squealed. "They're running."

" . . . Late this evening it was reported that explosions and firing were heard in the area of the S.A.D.F. headquarters on Potgieterstraat in the capital, but as yet there is no official police confirmation of these reports.

"In London a demonstration by an estimated two thousand people outside the South African embassy was broken up by police after violence . . . "

Jan switched off the radio.

"It didn't say he made it," Ros said bleakly. "It just said he was being hunted."

"Wrong, not a military zone unless he's taken his father out."

She drove on. She held the wheel lightly with one hand.

The fingers of her other hand played listlessly with the shape of the crucifix at her neck. She wanted only to be home. She wanted to tie the yellow scarf in the window of her bedroom.

"Did you love him, Ros?"

She turned the car into the driveway of her parents' home.

She parked beside her father's BMW.

"You're best to go straight to bed, Jan, or you'll be sleeping right through your classes in the morning."

* • *

All Pretoria had heard the gunfire and the explosions.

Frikkie de Kok had heard them.

Pretoria is a valley city. The gunfire and the explosions on the southern hills were cradled above the community by the northern slopes. Distant gunfire and muffled explosions, and the city was an armed camp and the sounds were insufficient to disturb the celebration between himself and his assistant. Right that they should take some beers in the Harlequins bar after the assistant had performed well at dawn. A celebration for the two of them in the corner by the window going on long after the field floodlights had been switched off, away from the talk at the bar.

When it came to be time to gohome, the bar closed, the hangman did not know whether the gunfire and explosions were part of an army night exercise or the result of a terrorist attack.

At his front gate he waved his assistant goodnight. He came up the path. The porch light showed him that Hermione had been weeding in the evening after he had gone to the match. A fine woman, the rock of a fine family. He let himself inside, moved quietly into the darkened hall.

He could hear Hermione snoring softly. Down the corridor he could see the edge of light Under his boys' bedroom door. He thought they would be int erested to know the score of the match, and how the Springbok who played for Defence had performed. Fine boys, with a fine future. Boys such as his would survive whatever. He pushed gently at the door.

The flicker of a frown played at his forehead. Erasmus was curled in his bed, asleep and facing the wall and avoiding the light that was between the beds. Dawie's bed was empty, the coverlet not pulled back. He was annoyed. Dawie had been working so hard, and there was talk of a university scholarship, and all the school exams were important, and the boy should have been in his bed. He would tell Dawie of his displeasure, perhaps he was too soft on the boy . . .

He went into the living room.

He saw the white sheets of paper on his desk. He went to them. He picked them up, and recognised, the papers that had come that morning from the school, the entry forms for university application. The envelope was beside the papers.

The boy was normally so tidy. His leg brushed against an obstruction. He glanced down and made out the black leather, wide-built attache case with which he went to work.

The lock catch of the black leather case was unfastened. He cursed himself for his own carelessness in leaving the bag unlocked. He was as careless as his Dawie - heh, that was rich - father and son as careless each other. The smile extinguished. So fast developing, the picture in his mind.

His Dawie skimming through the university entrance form, and his Dawie seeing the bag that had never been opened in his presence, and his Dawie succumbing to curiosity, and his Dawie feeling for the lock and finding it unfastened, and his Dawie opening the case that carried the tools of the hangman's trade.

Chilled, Frikkie de Kok stood for a moment motionless.

He lifted back the flap of the black case. The ropes were coiled neatly in see-through cellophane bags. To count them he did not have to lift them out. New ropes, drawn from the prison store that day, signed for that afternoon. He loved his boy, and he did not know how his boy would react on finding that his father was the executioner in Pretoria Central.

There were four ropes. When he had brought his case home there had been five ropes. The ropes he would use at first light on Thursday. Only, because he loved his Dawie, Frikkie de Kok had never summoned the courage to tell his boy what work he did for the state . . .

He thought that he knew where to look.

Frikkie de Kok went to the window. He stared out onto his back garden. The ceiling lights of the living room threw shadows across the lawn. The lights groped as far as the old pear tree from which the autumn frosts had stripped the leaves.

Cold, shivering now, the hangman saw the slowly revolving shape.

• * •

The colonel stood beside the stolen Renault car. Above him the bleak outline of the hillside. With him was an army brigadier. Between the palms of his hand the colonel held a warming beaker of coffee. Technically the military had been called in to aid the civil power, in practice they had taken control, and the colonel was outranked and deferential, and damned tired because he'd not slept, and he had left his office at a quarter past two in the morning for the drive to Pretoria. He had no place in the cordon line. He could not have stayed away, could not have borne it in John Vorster Square with only the telephone and the telex machine to feed him the news.

The brigadier munched at a sandwich.

". . .1 tell you this, we were pretty poor getting the act into place. The operations room had us under sustained attack at Defence Headquarters, so we lost critical minutes.

I'll kick someone's arse for that. It's why we've only got two of them up there for definite, but those two are bottled, and anyway there's a blood trail so they're not going anywhere."

"Which ones, which two?"

"A sentry on Magasyn had an image intensifier on them when they came off the hill. Can't be sure, not through that thing, but he reckons they are both White. There was only one man came into Maximum Security and he was White . . . "

"So the other is Carew." The colonel heaved his relief.

"What'll you do?"

"It's what they're going to do. If one of them's hurt he'll need the medics. When they're cold enough and hungry enough and hurt enough, they have to come down. They've nowhere to go."

"I'd like them alive."

The brigadier smiled sardonically. "So you can put them back inside, hang them?"

"It's no help to me to have them dead."

"They have a rifle and they have an automatic shotgun, and I'm not having my men shot up by desperate men who are going to end on the rope anyway. If they shoot first, they're dead. If they don't shoot, they'll live. It's pretty simple."

"Would you allow me to broadcast that to them?"

The brigadier snapped his fingers, brought his adjutant hurrying. He asked for a loudhailer.

"You can tell them that if they don't shoot first they will not be harmed." The brigadier's voice dropped, "Then they'll be able to meet the hangman on another morning."

The colonel drank from his beaker and stared again up at the silent hillside. Around him were quiet voices, the occasional clatter of weapons being checked. There was the low throb of running engines. The crackle of brief radio messages. If there were only two on the hillside then he knew those two were James Carew and his son.

The loudhailer was handed to him.

* * *

The dawn was coming.

The blast of the message had slipped away, dispersed amongst the surrounding hills.

A mauve streak in the east.

They had talked through the night. They had met as strangers, and during the dark hours, in faintest starlight, they had lurched through understanding towards friendship.

Jeez sat with his arms gathered round his knees as if to find warmth for himself against the cold on the Skanskop. Near to freezing on the hillside and he wore only his prison tunic and cotton trousers and his thin prison shoes. Jack lay prone beside him, sometimes twisted by the agony in his leg, sometimes able to rest in relief between the spasms of pain.

They were together, it was as if they had never been apart.

They talked of Hilda Perry and her life with Sam and the house in Churchill Close, and Jeez seemed pleased at what he heard. They talked of Jack's job and Jeez chuckled at the stories of the blaster George Hawkins. They talked of the Foreign Office and of the man called Jimmy Sandham, and Jeez spat into the dew damp earth. They talked of a girl called Ros van Niekerk and of her brother with a club foot, and Jeez heard his son through. When the pain came to Jack then Jeez held his hand. When the pain spurted then Jeez's fingers clenched over his son's fist.

They could see the lights of the vehicles around the base of the Skanskop, a mesmerising cage of lights. When they were not talking they could hear the idling engines of the trucks and jeeps.

"You won't be afraid?"

Jack shook his head. Enough light seeping onto the hilltop for Jeez to see his son's face. Through the night he had talked to his son and he had not known his son's face. Jack gazed at the face of his father. A thin pinched face, stubble on the chin, short back and sides where there was hair to cut. Jack thought he saw a love in his father's face.

"Not having been a talking man, Jack, not any of my life, it's hard for me, to say what I want to say to you . . . To say thank you, that's not enough. Just crap to say thank you.

I'll tell it better if I say what you've given me . . ."

Jack watched his father's head, clearer against the sky.

"It won't be by them, that's rich to me. It'll be in our time, not at the time they'd open my cell up, the time they've decided. Because it'll be us, by ourselves, who decide the time, that's bloody fantastic to me. Free hands and free arms and free legs. No pinions on my ankles, no hood over my face, that's wonderful for me. Yesterday I couldn't have imagined how wonderful. You understand me, Jack?"