Ripped (128 page)

There
was
no
way
of
seeing
her
from
where
he
was.

If you enjoyed reading
Ripped
by Frederic Lindsay you may be interested in
A Taste For Killing
by Jon Zackon, also published by Endeavour Press.

Extract from A Taste For Killing by Jon Zackon

Chapter 1

1996

THERE ARE better places to be than Johannesburg at the end of August, when seasonal winds whip noxious dust off the old mine dumps. Transvaal topsoil is red, which is true of many gold-bearing regions. But the stuff that makes up the Jo’burg dumps comes from ore prised out of the depths of the earth before being crushed and processed. In the bad old days cyanide was used to help extract the gold. The result is this unnatural, toxic yellow powder that rises into the pale, cloudless sky in plumes from the crowns of enormous piles, which loom above the veldt like old battleships, or unfinished pyramids.

Hopefully, the dumps won’t be there for good. As I drive by I can see men in overalls scurrying about. They work for a new order of reprocessing companies bent on resifting the decades-old residue to retrieve scintillas of gold missed by the original miners.

The poisonous powder is accumulating on my windscreen. I hate the stuff. It gets in the hair and stings the eyes. I spray the windscreen and switch on the wipers. Inevitably, this leaves a smear on the driver’s side.

I’d forgotten how detestable the Transvaal can be at this time of the year. So should I have stayed in the UK? Fly out some other time? No. I’ve waited too long to make this trip as it is.

Jo’burg has changed a lot. It was my home until 1961, when, at the age of twenty-three, I went to work in Durban. Less than six months later I flew to the UK to become a
soutpiel,
a salt prick, the Afrikaans metaphor for those
Japies
and
Rooineks
who live abroad, their souls forever hovering over the Atlantic with their dicks dangling in the sea. No longer belonging anywhere.

During my boyhood Jo’burg was an exciting, pulsating place. The centre, with its great stores and tall buildings, resembled an American city. Now it is rundown and depressing. White businesses have deserted it, decamping to Sandton, a fast-growing shopping area in the northern suburbs, not far from my sister’s house, which is where I am staying right now.

There have been huge changes, too, to the roads. I hardly know where I am. New highways crisscross the city and its environs. It is said that the apartheid government built them for defensive purposes. They all link up neatly on the map but distances are great and if you don’t watch the signs carefully you can end up a long way from where you’re supposed to be.

So on this coldish day I assiduously follow the signs as I swing away from the city on a super-fast highway, driving towards the arid west. If I keep going in this direction I’ll end up in Botswana, in the middle of the Kalahari Desert. Of course, I’m not going anywhere near that far.

I’m on a mission. Self-imposed.

For the purpose of carrying out my plan I have borrowed a BMW from my niece, Beth. From her mother, my sister Penny, I have “borrowed” another crucial item - a Browning. Fully loaded, although I’m not expecting to need more than a couple of bullets at most. I’ve also brought along an old-fashioned ball peen hammer. I have a special purpose in mind for this little item.

Years ago Penny told me that she slept with a pistol under her pillow. It’s not that unusual. In some ways Jo’burg has still got the feel of a mining camp. Everyone throws up their hands in horror at the crime rate. Sure, they are right to do so, what with the carjackings that go on and all the AK47s at large. But come on, the place has always had a monstrous amount of crime, right from the day in 1886 when villains, vagabonds and opportunists began to flood in following the discovery of gold at Langlaagte, a farm close to what is now the city centre.

I waited until Penny and her husband, Abie, set out for work this morning. Then I went into their bedroom and from under my sister’s pillow I lifted the FN Browning HP - I know next to nothing about guns, but that’s what the lettering says it is. If she ever finds out what I’ve done she’ll probably use it on me. The hammer I took from a cupboard in the kitchen. I’m sure no one will miss it and who knows, I might not even bother to bring it back.

National Road 14 will take me close to where I need to go. I have a map to help me. On it a speck known as Van Zeeder’s Kopje, a settlement about fifteen miles off the N14, has been ringed. I suspect that the link road from the highway to the Kopje will prove little better than a farm track. From there I will have to turn north until I come to Van Zeeder’s Plaas. So what do I hope to find at Van Zeeder’s farm, or “
plaas
”? What ties my life to this impossibly remote tract?

At the end of this particular road is a monster. A sadistic, merciless man, who has plagued my waking hours and haunted my sleep for thirty-five years. A serial killer with the blood of scores of men and boys on his hands.

I have cause to believe he may also have murdered the only woman I have ever truly loved. And yet, because of how South Africa is and has been, he has escaped any form of punishment. Which is why I am here – to dispense the very justice he has so earnestly sought to evade.

So help me, when I get to that lonely farmstead, at the end of a long, red-dust road, I am going to destroy the monster or die in the attempt.

I have a long journey ahead of me. After a while my thoughts turn to the events that have led me to my present path. It’s not easy recalling those dreadful times. On the contrary, it’s bloody painful. But doing so will serve a purpose. It will make me angry all over again; killer angry.

In practice, what I hope to be capable of doing is first using the hammer – and then the gun. But I’m the sort of person who rescues spiders with a glass and a piece of cardboard. For years my father, a keen sportsman, teased me for lacking killer instinct. He was always going on about it – and he was right. So self-doubt is an issue. Even though the monster’s crimes fill me with hatred and horror I believe there is no way I can slay him unless I’m angry enough.

There is another little problem I have to overcome – near-paralysing fear.

Yes, I am that scared. The knot of anxiety in my gut proves it. The pain presently advancing down my left arm into my hand proves it. The irregular breathing proves it. You’d think I’d be inured to fears that go back decades. The trouble is, on a scale of one to ten the story that consumes me, that has pursued me so relentlessly for so many years, scores an easy ten for scariness.

And that story, my story, as I go over it in my mind, also began with a long car journey …

Chapter 2

1961

WE DROVE through the night and hit the city before the morning rush hour. It would be wrong to say the trip was uneventful. Travelling through Zululand I came close to falling asleep at the wheel. I was befuddled and desperately trying to shake myself awake when a donkey wandered across the road into our path. I saw it in the headlights as if in a dream, but instinct, I guess, made me swerve violently. Then I was forced to right the car with a second jarring tug the other way. The old Ford Anglia, upright and not known for its road holding qualities, bounced around like a cork in bubbling water and must have been a mere fraction of an inch from rolling.

“Jesus Christ!” cried my passenger, Eric Bergow. “That was close.”

“I thought you were asleep,” I said, trying to sound cool. I changed down and accelerated.

“I saw the whole bloody thing, Danny. Shit, look at my hands. I’m fucking shaking.”

An hour or two later, as we reached the outskirts of Durban, with shafts of light piercing the eastern sky, we were over the fright and already laughing about it.

“You see? That’s why they call them donkeys,” said Eric. More gags and embellishments followed, so even then it was obvious that he was determined never to forget what had happened. It had instantly become a part of our history. The night a bloody donkey nearly wrote us off. I was thankful no blame was attached to my driving. Eric readily admitted I had reacted smartly in a crisis. I didn’t tell him that I’d been fighting not to fall asleep at the time.

We dawdled down West Street towards the seafront. It was already hot and the humidity, something I was not used to, was stifling. I was in a weird mood. Really excited, really apprehensive. Here I was in Durban. Winter playground of the Transvaal masses. South Africa’s Miami. Everyone has a good time in Durban, it’s a known fact. But I wasn’t here to have a good time. Well, not solely. This was where I was going to live and work. And that raised awkward questions – how would I fit in? Was there a future for me here? And worst of all – what if I failed?

We drove up The Parade, a promenade that runs alongside North Beach, with its glittering hotels and skyscraper apartment blocks, known collectively as the Golden Mile. The morning’s first rickshaw boys were already out, prancing and whistling to attract custom. It was all new to me, although Eric professed to know the city well.

But he had his eye on other things.

A leggy girl with a rolled up beach towel under her arm floated across the road.

“Wow! Look at that arse. Stop the car!”

“Stick around, Eric. We’ve only just arrived.”

“It’s eight o’clock and she’s going to the beach already. Amazing. She can only be from Jo’burg.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Absolutely! She’s going to be hungry for love, pal. Hungry for sun, sea and sex.”

The girl turned and saw us staring. She smiled coyly. Definitely not offended by the attention accorded her.

Our hotel was in a street behind The Parade, which meant it was not too expensive. Eric was booked in for a couple of nights and had arranged a lift back to Jo’burg with a friend. I was due to start work later in the week but my accommodation plans were fluid – spend time flat hunting, and if that should fail, move into a seedy old block near the hotel that had a vacancies sign outside.

The rest of the day passed in a bit of a blur. We spent time on the beach but I was short of sleep. After a hamburger lunch I went to our room, lay down and dozed off uneasily, sweat from my forehead dampening my pillow.

That evening we had a party to go to. I showered and dressed in my best suit, three-button Ivy League-style, a light blue shirt with a button-down collar and a narrow striped tie with a narrow gold tiepin. Narrow belt. I looked at myself in the mirror. Straight out of Esquire. Cool.

Going down in the lift a girl smiled and said, “You look smart.” A strong Afrikaner accent.

I turned to face her. She was stunning. A big girl with a flower in her long blonde hair, her cream evening gown baring one smooth, broad shoulder.

“I’m Danny.”

“Etta. How do you do.”

“You look fantastic, Etta. What’s the occasion?”

“It’s my engagement party.”

“That all, hey? Here in the hotel?”

“
Ja
.”

“I wish I could come and dance with you.”

“So do I.”

Several thoughts collided in my brain. It took me a few seconds to reply.

“Er, that might not be a very popular move.”

“I know,” she said with a sigh. “Just wishful thinking,
ja
?”

The lift doors opened and she was gone.

What the hell is happening here, I wondered. Is it the humidity? Does it turn girls’ brains to jelly? In Jo’burg that gorgeous doll wouldn’t have given me the time of day.

***

The party, at the home of a girl called Lola, was jam-packed and Jewish noisy. Eric had found himself a cute little partner. I stood around thinking about the Afrikaner girl. Had I made a mistake? Had I passed up a chance to make some sort of date, however clandestine? I mean, we were staying in the same hotel. I could have asked for her room number. But everything had happened too quickly, I decided, giving myself the benefit of the doubt.

The music was OK but not really to my taste – Eartha Kitt, Johnny Mathis and Frank Sinatra at his most commercial.

A bloke I’d seen talking to Eric came up to me.

“You’re Danny Waterman, aren’t you?” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Steven Fall. Lola’s my cousin.”

At that stage, Steven was a rarity to me – a trueborn Durbanite. By his own reckoning he either knew everyone who counted in the city or he knew someone who knew, etc, etc. He was a serious-minded and soft-spoken youth, but I didn’t hold that against him. I needed to know people, especially ones I could turn to for local knowledge.

“So you are actually coming to work here,” he said. “What do you do?”

“I’m a journalist. A reporter. I start work on Wednesday at The Durban Messenger.”

He seemed impressed. People always are – journalism is said to be a glamorous profession. Then they rationalise about what a precarious way it must be to make a living, and smugly forget all about it.

The party dragged on. Most of the girls were paired up. Eric and his new friend were practising wrestling holds on a sofa. Someone put Sam’s Song on the radiogram. I thanked Lola and left.

***

The hotel corridors were gloomy and airless. I turned a corner disconsolately and there she was. Perhaps she was returning from her parents’ room to her own. She was barefoot, in a gown over her nightclothes. She mouthed the word, “Dannee.”

I walked up to her, took her hand and pulled her gently down the corridor to the third or fourth room, which was mine. With only a slight struggle I extracted the key from my pocket and opened the door. She stepped inside. I followed and close the door behind me. Then we both laughed. We stood facing each other, fell into each other’s arms, fell on my bed, plunged into a brutal kiss, broke away panting and tore at each other’s clothes.

With uncharacteristic presence of mind I opened the bedside drawer and took out a packet of French letters. As I struggled to put one on she pulled me towards her. I just about managed to get the job done when she grabbed my cock and dragged me inside her, crying out at the point of penetration.

The thing about being circumcised, generally speaking, is that you can last longer. After all, the snip comes – kindly forgive the play on words – at the expense of sensation. But then again, ho-hum, there is no stopping outright passion, is there?

In minutes, Etta’s body bowed and she screamed as she climaxed. I followed in an uncontrolled tidal wave of rapture.

Panting like a dog, I threw myself off her. We lay silent for a few minutes, my hand resting on her breast.

She leant over me, kissed me on the lips and said, “
Baie danke
, Danny.” It was Afrikaans for “thank you.”

Then, for the second time in not too many hours, she went from me. No goodbye, no explanation, just a lingering smell of perfume. She was gone and I hadn’t said one word to her. Much to my relief the prophylactic was still in place. I got up and threw it into the toilet, brushed my teeth and went back to bed.

Questions crowded my thoughts. What was she getting herself into? Some sort of arranged marriage? A fiancé she didn’t love? Or a simple need to know something about love-making before marriage and a honeymoon with someone she hoped to care for? Would I ever see her again? How would I respond if I did? With no answers presenting themselves, and the questions multiplying, I gradually drifted into a deep, purifying sleep.