* * *
That December I worked, pregnant or not. I phoned home and said I would be staying. I wasnt going home to Upington, or with them to Hartenbos. My father was not happy. He drove through to Bloemfontein to come and pray for me. I was petrified he would see that I was pregnant, but he didnt; he was too busy with other things in his head. I told him I would stay in an outside room at Kallie and Colins place, as I was helping them with all the year-end functions, weddings and company dos for employees and there werent so many students to help. I wanted to make good money, so that I would be more financially independent.
That was the last time I saw him. He kissed me on the cheek before he left and that was the closest he ever came to his granddaughter.
Kallie caught me throwing up one morning in January. He had brought my breakfast to the outside room and he stood and watched me vomiting in the toilet. Then he said: Youre preggies, sweetheart, and when I didnt reply he said, What are you going to do?
I told him I was going to have the baby. It was the first time that I really knew it myself. I know its weird, but with Viljoen and my father and everything . . . Until that moment only I knew. It was kind of unreal. Like a dream, and maybe I thought I would wake up, or the baby would just go away on its own or something. I didnt want to think about it, I just wanted to go on.
Then he asked if I would put the baby up for adoption, and I said I dont know but I said I was going to Cape Town at the end of the month, so would they please give me all the shifts they could? So he asked me if I knew what I was doing and I said no, I didnt know what I was doing, because it was all rather new to me.
They saw me off at Hoffman Square, with a present for the baby, a little blue babygro and booties and little shoes and bibs and an envelope for mea Christmas bonus, they said. And they gave me a few names of gay friends they had in Cape Town in case I needed help.
I cried that day, all the way to Colesberg. That was when I felt Sonia kick for the first time, as if to say, thats enough, we must pull ourselves together, we would be okay. Then I knew that I would not give her up.
* * *
Griessel found what he was searching for in the three lab reports. He walked over to Matt Jouberts office and waited for the senior superintendent to finish on the telephone.
The forensic report does not exclude an assegai, Joubert was saying into the instrument, but they are doing more tests, and it will take time. You will have to call back in a day or two. Right. Youre welcome. Thanks. Bye.
He looked up at Griessel. Its good to have you back, Benny. How are you feeling?
Frighteningly sober. What was that about an assegai?
That Enver Davids thing. Suddenly the
Argus
has all these questions. I can see trouble coming.
Griessel put the lab reports down in front of Joubert and said, The bastard is picking them up at Woolworths. Friday afternoons. Look here, I missed it because I didnt know what I was looking for, but Forensics analyzed the trash cans of all three victims and in two of them there are Woolies bags and till slips and in the third one just a till slip, but all three were there, at the one on the Waterfront on the Friday of the murders between . . . er . . . half-past four and seven oclock.
Joubert examined the reports. Its thin, Benny.
I know, but this morning I heard expert witnesses, Matt. Seems to me only old married people like us think a supermarket is a place to buy groceries.
Explain, said Joubert, wondering how long this light would keep burning in Griessels eyes.
* * *
Thobela found a public phone in the Church Street Mall that worked with coins and thumbed through the tattered phone book for the number of the University of Cape Town Psychology Department. He called and asked for Professor David Ackerman.
He is on ward rounds. In what connection is this?
I am researching an article on crimes against children. I have just a few questions.
With which publication are you?
I am freelance.
Professor Ackerman is very busy . . .
I only need a few minutes.
I will have to phone you back, sir.
Im going to be in and outcan I call tomorrow?
To whom am I speaking?
Pakamile, he said. Pakamile Nzuluwazi.
A
t first the Cape was not good to her.
For one, the wind blew for days on end, a storm-strength southeaster. Then they stole her only suitcase at Backpackers in Kloof Nek, where for a hundred rand a night she was sharing a room with five grumbling, superior young German tourists. Flats were scarce and expensive, public transport complicated and unreliable. Once she walked all the way to Sea Point to check out a possible place, but it was a disappointing dump with a broken windowpane and graffiti on the walls.
She stayed in Backpackers for two weeks before she found the attic room in an old block of flats in Belle Ombre Street in Tamboers Kloof. What had once been a boxroom had been converted into a small, livable spacethe bath and toilet were against one wall, the sink and kitchen cupboard against the other; there was a bed and table and an old rickety wardrobe. Another door opened onto the roof, from where she could see the city crescent, the mountain and the sea. At least neat and clean for R680 per month.
Her biggest problem was inside her because she was afraid. Afraid of the birth that drew nearer every day, the care of the baby afterwards, the responsibility; afraid of the anger of her father when she made the call or wrote the letterwhich, she had not yet decided. Above all, afraid of the money running out. Every day she checked her balance at the autobank and compared the balance against the list of the most essential items she would need: cot, baby clothes, nappies, bottles, milk formula, blankets, pan, pot, two-plate stove, mug, plate, knife, fork and spoon, kettle, portable FM-radio. The list continued to grow and her bank balance continued to shrink until she found work as a waitress at a large coffee shop in Long Street. She worked every possible shift that she could, while she could still hide the bump under her breasts.
The numbers on the statements ruled her life. They became an obsession. Six eight zero was the first target of every month, the non-negotiable amount of her rent. It was the low-water mark of her book-keeping and the source of unrest in her dreams at night. She discovered the flea market at Green Point Stadium and haggled over the price of every item. At the second-hand shops in Gardens and in Kloof Street she bought a cot, a bicycle and a red and blue carpet. She painted the cot on the roof with white, lead-free enamel paint, and when she found there was paint left over she gave the old yellowish-green racing bike with narrow tires and dropped handlebars a couple of coats as well.
In a
Cape Ads
that someone left in the coffee shop she found an advertisement for a backpack baby carrier. And she phoned, argued the price down, and had it delivered. It would allow her to ride the bicycle with the baby on her back along the mountain and next to the sea at Mouille Point, where there were swings and climbing frames and a kiddies train.
Every Saturday she took twenty rand to play the Lotto and she would sit by the radio and wait for the winning numbers that she had marked on the card with a ballpoint pen. She fantasized about what she would do with the jackpot money. A house was top of the listone of those modern rebuilt castles on the slopes of the mountain, with automatic garage doors, Persian carpets on the floor and kelims and art on the walls. A huge baby room with seabirds and clouds painted on the ceiling and a heap of bright, multicolored toys on the floor. A Land Rover Discovery with a baby seat. A walk-in wardrobe filled with designer labels and shoes in tidy rows on the floor. An Espresso machine. A double-door fridge in stainless steel.
One afternoon, about three oclock, she was sitting on the roof with a cup of instant coffee when she heard the sounds of sex drifting up from the block of flats below. A womans voice, uh-uh-uh-uh, gradually climbing the scales of ecstasy, every one a little higher, a little louder. In the first minutes the sound was meaningless, just another noise of the city, but she recognized it and was amused at the odd hour. She wondered if she were the only listener, or whether the sound reached other ears. She felt a small sexual stimulus ripple through her body. Followed by envy as the sounds accelerated, faster, louder, higher. The envy grew along with it for all that she did not have, until the shrill orgasm made her get up and bend her arm with the nearly-empty mug back in order to throw it at everything that conspired against her. She didnt aim at any specific target, her rage was too general. Rage against the loneliness, the circumstances, the wasted opportunities.
She did not throw it. She lowered her arm slowly, unwilling to pay for a new mug.
Early in March she could postpone the call no longer. She rode all the way to the Waterfront for a public phone, in case they traced the call. She phoned her mother at the attorneys office where she worked. It was a short conversation.
My God, Christine, where are you?
I dropped out, Mom. Im okay. Ive got a job. I just want to
Where are you? Her voice was tinged with hysteria. The police are looking for you too now. Your father will have a stroke, he phones them in Bloemfontein every day.
Mom, tell him to drop it. Tell him I am sick and tired of his preaching and his religion. I am not in Bloemfontein and he wont find me. I am fine. I am happy. Just leave me alone. I am not a child anymore. She couldnt tell where the anger came from. Had fear unleashed it?
Christine, you cant do this. You know your father. He is furious. We are terribly worried about you. You are our child. Where are you?
Mom, Im going to put the phone down now. Dont worry about me, Mom, I am fine. I will phone you to let you know I am okay. Afterwards she thought she should have said something like, I love you, Mom. But she had just slammed the phone down, got on her bike and ridden away.
She only phoned again when Sonia was a week old, early in June, because then she had a great need to hear her mothers voice.
* * *
Thobela was drinking a Coke at the Wimpy outside tables in St. Georges. He read the front-page article of the
Argus
that speculated about the death of Enver Davids. Sensationalized by an anonymous womans phone call.
Someone had seen him with the assegai. But had not reported him.
He had been too focused. No, he hadnt been thorough enough, not entirely calculated. There had been a witness. He should have known there would be publicity. Media interest. Screaming headlines and speculation and accusations.
Could the killing of child rapist Enver Davids be the work of a female vigilanteand not the South African Police Services, as was previously suspected?
Strange consequences.
Would the police be able to trace the female caller? Would she be able to give them a description of him?
It didnt really matter.
He turned the page. On page three there was an article on a radio stations phone-in opinion poll. Should the death penalty be reinstated? Eighty-seven per cent of listeners had voted yes.
On page two were short reports of the days criminal activity. Three murders in Khayelitsha. A gang-related shooting took a womans life in Blue Downs. A man was wounded in Constantia during a car hijacking. A cash in-transit robbery in Montague Gardens: two security guards in intensive care. A seventy-two-year-old woman raped, assaulted and robbed in her home in Rosebank. A farmer in Limpopo Province gunned down in his shed.
No children today.
A waitress brought his bill. He folded the paper and leaned back in his chair. He watched the people walking down the mall, some purposefully, some strolling. There were stalls, clothes and artworks. The sky was blue above, a dove came down to land on the pavement with its tail and wings spread wide.
It was déjŕ vu, all this, this existence. A hotel room somewhere with his suitcase half unpacked, long days to struggle through, time to wait out before the next assignment. Paris was his place of waiting, another city, another architecture, other languages; but the feeling was the same. The only difference was that in those days his targets had been picked for him in a somber office in East Berlin, and the little stack of documents with photographs and pages of single-spaced typing was delivered to him by courier. His war. His Struggle.
A lifetime ago. The world was a different place, but how easy it was to slip into the old routines againthe state of alertness, the patience, the preparation, planning, the anticipation of the next intense burst of adrenaline.
Here he was again. Back in harness. The circle was complete. It felt as if the intervening period had never existed, as if Miriam and Pakamile were a fantasy, like an advertisement in the middle of a television drama, a disturbing view of aspirations of domestic bliss.
He paid for his cold drink and walked south to the pay phones and called the number again. Is Professor Ackerman available now?
Just a moment.
She put him through. He used the other name again and the cover of freelance journalism. He said he had read an article in the archives of
Die Burger
where the professor stated that a fixated pedophile always reoffended. He wanted to understand what that meant.
The professor sighed and paused a while before he answered. Well, it sort of means what it says, Mr. Nulwazi.
Nzuluwazi.
Im sorry, Im terrible with names. It means the official line is that, statistically, rehabilitation fails to a substantial degree. In other words, even after an extended prison sentence, there is no guarantee that they wont commit the same crime again. There was weariness of life in the mans voice.
The official line.
Yes.
Does that differ from reality?
No.
I get the idea you dont support the official line.
It is not a matter of support. It is a matter of semantics.
Oh?
Can we go off the record here, Mr. Nulwazi?
This time he ignored the pronunciation. Of course.
And you wont quote me?
You have my word.
The professor paused again before he answered, as if weighing the worth of it. The fact of the matter is that I dont believe they
can
be rehabilitated.
Not at all?
Its a terrible disease. And we have yet to find the cure. The problem is that, no matter how much we would like to believe we are getting closer to a solution, there doesnt seem to be one. Still the desperate, despairing weariness. They come out of prison and sooner or later they relapse, and we have more damaged children. And the damage is huge. It is immeasurable. It destroys lives, utterly and completely. It causes trauma you wouldnt believe. And there seem to be more of them every year. God knows, it is either a matter of our society creating more, or that the lawlessness in this country is encouraging them to come out of the woodwork. I dont know . . .
So what you are saying is that they shouldnt be released?
Look, I know it is inhuman to keep them in prison forever. Pedophiles have a tough time in penitentiaries. They are considered the scum of the earth in that world. They are raped and beaten and humiliated. But they serve their sentences and go through the programs and then they come out and they relapse. Some right away, others a year or two or three down the line. I dont know what the answer is, but we will have to find one.
Yes, said Thobela, we will have to find one.