The Disappeared (13 page)

What in
God’s name had happened?

Next to some
of the inscriptions Coetzee saw the word ‘ambulance’. One call – from the
Burger house – reported ‘insects in mouth’. A big question mark was scratched
into the paper next to it. Near the end of the page Coetzee saw the entry that
disturbed him the most. Unlike the other entries this one was written in a script
that was large and laborious. Like a child learning to write. The writer had
obviously applied great pressure. The words were etched into the page. At the
end of the entry, the paper was torn. What disturbed Coetzee was that the last
word was unfinished ... the incomplete letter petered into a long scrawl that
ran off the page. Coetzee looked down. The pen lay at his feet. The inscription
read: OH JESUS OH HEL
–

What in God’s
name?

Coetzee’s hand
was shaking as he picked up the pen. What had happened? Where were his
officers? And what the hell had hit the citizens of Bishop in the early hours
of the morning? And why had no-one contacted him?
What was going on here?

He grabbed the
black telephone on the counter and dialled the mayor’s number. Each digit
beeped a different tone in the telephone’s handset. But at the end of the sequence
there was nothing. No engaged tone. No error tone. Nothing. Just silence. He
slammed the phone down. Lifted the handset and dialled again. Same thing. Then
he dialled Vladislavic’s number. Silence.

Then he saw
the poster. It was a fax. Came through the previous day. He lifted the flimsy
paper and stared at the lettering and the scratchy image. WANTED: JOSHUA PAUL
KINGSLEY. Coetzee absently scanned the page. It was a bulletin from Westville
Reformatory. This surprised Coetzee. Not only was Westville more than 600km
away, but reformatories rarely released bulletins concerning escapees. He
looked further down. Convicted for armed robbery. Accessory to murder. It was
serious enough. But even then ...

Coetzee
dropped the faxed bulletin on the counter top and pushed it from his mind.
Right now he had far bigger problems than troublesome teens.

Of course he
didn’t realise the troublesome teen was less than a hundred metres from the
police station at that very moment.

Coetzee consulted
the duty log again and dialled the first number at the top of the list. With no
success. What in God’s name was wrong with the phones? He threw the handset
down and cursed loudly and vehemently. Two of his officers were gone. Half of
Bishop had suddenly panicked in the early morning hours – apparently without
reason –

(
insects in
my mouth
)

and he didn’t
have the slightest idea what had happened. Coetzee was at a loss. He understood
the law. He was intimately acquainted with the dark spectrum of the human soul.
Bloody hell. He could do routine police work in his sleep. But nothing –
nothing! – in his thirty years of experience had prepared him for this. He had
come to the little enclave of Bishop to escape the demands and corrosions of
city life. He came here to forget and to wind down. To await the retirement in
a place where he was least likely to have his brains shot out – whether by his
own hand or that of another. He hadn’t come here for this.

For a brief moment
Coetzee considered bringing in help from outside – from Bethlehem,
Bloemfontein, maybe even Johannesburg – but he immediately dismissed the idea. This
was his precinct and his responsibility. These were his officers. And the
residents of Bishop looked to
him
for guidance and protection. Coetzee
made up his mind. For now he would take care of things himself. Get to the deep
dark bottom of this strange well on his own. And only when he had exhausted his
options would he bring in the big boys. He was after all the police chief and
this was
his
town. Yes. He would keep everything under cover until he
had discovered exactly what the
bliksem
was going on here.

He walked to
the communications room at the back of the station. The bulky radio transmitter
stood like a silent indictment on the sturdy table.

OH JESUS OH
HEL
–

He grabbed the
microphone stand, flipped a switch and spoke into it. And waited.

Nothing. Only
static. He tried again. Same thing. Coetzee rapidly flicked through all the frequencies
with the same result. Nothing.

Coetzee
slammed the stand down on the table and walked out of the room. In the main
service area, the log book lay as he had left it. On its pages the terrifying
inscriptions from the night before glared up at him. He slammed it shut.

He stood
looking at the rough surface of the service counter. Confused. Worried. Scared.
A thousand thoughts ran through his head. Official protocols. Emergency
procedures. Disaster strategies. His mind was everywhere. And nowhere. He couldn’t
focus on anything. He found himself nervously grabbing the pen and haphazardly
opening the log book. He was losing it. He shoved the logbook aside and threw
the pen down on to the floor.

‘Focus! God
dammit!’

Coetzee tried
to control his breathing. Taking deep measured breaths. He needed to focus his
mind. And his intentions. He had to take control. He needed to calm down. And
he knew exactly how.

He continued
his rhythmic breathing as he walked to his office. There was only one thing in
the world mind-numbing enough to calm down even the most hysterical of people.
Paperwork. From the top drawer of his large desk he extracted his official
report book. He returned to the main service area and picked up the Bic pen
from the floor. Taking a deep breath he began the laborious and perfunctory
task of writing a report on the morning’s events. The repetitive task had the
desired effect. The cold disquiet still lingered in his chest but after a few
minutes of scribbling he found that calm and focus had returned to his mood. As
the report progressed, he began cataloguing his next course of action. It was
at this time that Lindiwe walked into the police station. To report another
missing person.

The world was
falling apart around him.

God help us
all.

I tell you, in that night
there shall be two in one bed; the one shall be taken, and the other shall be
left behind.

                        Mark,
23:13

Josh stared
at himself in the warped mirror. It was dirty and cloudy. It was made from
aluminium – not glass. This was to keep inmates from breaking off shards and
stabbing each other. There were twelve of these mirrors arranged along the
wall. Each above a stainless steel basin. Each mirror was bolted at eight
points with pop rivets. This was to keep inmates from
tearing
off
– as opposed to breaking off – shards and stabbing each other. You had to love
life at Westville Reformatory for Boys.

Josh stared
at himself and gathered his resolve.

It was now
or never.

In a week
he would be transferred to Krugersdorp prison. Or maybe even Johannesburg
Central. The famed and dreaded
Sun City
. It was now or never. Willems
was already watching him with a hawk’s eye and every day it was getting tighter.
By the end of the week the focus on him would be vice-like. If he couldn’t do
it now, all was lost. Especially – if by lost – you meant twenty years in a violent
and overcrowded South African prison.

Duke had
once told him about a short stint in Sun City – easily the most overcrowded
prison in the country.

His first
night. The cells are so packed with bodies that prisoners have to share the
thin coarse mattresses and the lice-infested blankets. You can’t sleep without
feeling the stink-ass breath of another prisoner on your neck – or your face. Is
what Duke said. His first night. And a motherfucker big Zulu sidles up to him
and gently caresses his arm. ‘You’re such a beautiful white boy,’ he says. He presses
closer. Duke said he could smell the sourness of the Zulu’s erection. Duke’s
words. ‘I want to see my naked black skin against your white skin,’ the he
says.

 Holy shit!
Duke said he fought the guy off. Joshua didn’t believe him. He remembered that first
night after Duke got out. He was sleeping on Lizzie’s couch. He was having
nightmares. Joshua had never seen anyone have nightmares like that. Duke was
tossing and turning and moaning in his sleep. His neck whipped back and forth.
And he twitched horribly and violently. Like a dying animal. And then he cried
in his sleep. Wailed like a little helpless baby. Just cried and cried. And
never once woke up.

More than
anything else, Josh wanted to avoid prison.

In the
modern South Africa being a white man in prison was like being a minority
within a minority. That’s the God honest truth. Your ass was virtually cooked
before you even entered the prison gates. It wasn’t a matter of racism. It was
something far more simple – and primordial. The unalterable instinct that – in
times of peril – you were safer with your own kind. The other problem was that
prisons were controlled by gangs. If you didn’t belong to a gang – well – you
could just as well change your surname to BITCH. Josh had never wanted a career
in crime enough to even want to be part of a gang. So prison just wasn’t an
option.

It was now or
never.

Joshua
thought about Davey ... and his mother. He knew they wouldn’t understand. How
could they. Growing up in Brixton was tough. Sure it was. Davey had enough
experience of the rough kids on their block to know a thing or two about tough
times. You didn’t attend school at Fulton Primary without having at least a few
encounters with the rough gems of their neighbourhood. Even if you were as
gentle and soft a boy as Davey. Yeah. Davey had his fair share of that kinda
shit.

 Josh
remembered one particular little bully. What was his name, again? Boof. Yeah,
Boof
.
A short stout little shit with a vicious streak. He couldn’t stand Davey – the clever
little boy with the refined manners. For about a year he targeted Davey.
Tortured him daily on the playground with its painted tractor tyres. One
evening Davey came home with bruises ... cradling the little pathetic bag with
the crushed cookies that their mom had given him that morning. That was it. Joshua
had enough. He was two grades below Davey, and his classroom was across the
street from his older brother’s classes. But he didn’t care. He was going to do
something about this sonofabitch!

During
break he made a run for their playground. Davey was sitting with his friends. Boof
was holding court with his thugs on the other end of the play area. It didn’t
stop Josh though. He walked up to Boof.

‘Hey you.
You stop beating up my brother. You hear?’ The crowd of boys looked at little
Joshua with surprise. There was a moment of silence. Confused silence. Then
they broke out in loud crude laughter. Boof
approached him.

‘I tell you
what. First I’m going to kick your arse. And then ... I’m going to beat up your
little sissy boy brother.’ Then as an afterthought. ‘You hear!’ The crowd of
boys laughed again. Some of them now joined their leader. In a matter of
seconds Joshua was completely surrounded. In the meantime Davey – who had seen
his brother enter the playground – took up a timid position a few paces behind
Josh.

Josh
motioned for his brother to move back. ‘Davey, stay out of this,’ he said. He
acted undaunted. But a throbbing fear was growing in him. He faced Davey’s
tormentor. ‘The next time you decide to beat him up,’ Josh swallowed hard. ‘The
next time ... you do that ... you’re going to have to go through me first.’

The gang of
cronies laughed hard. Boof
laughed the hardest of all. He clenched his
fists. Josh noticed he had a missing tooth. He took a step towards Josh. ‘I
think I’m going to take you up on that offer, you little piece of shit.’ The
curse word hung like a fart in the air. Josh wasn’t used to this kind of
language. Their mom would kill them if they even dared to say ‘damn’. This boy
was from
way
over the railway track. ‘
Common
,’ as their mom would
say. That was sure. Josh’s heart bounced madly in his chest.

‘You leave
him alone, you hear.’ Josh tried to muster as much bravado as a seven-year old
kid – scared out of his mind – could manage.

   One of
Boof’s cronies snapped his thumb in Josh’s face. ‘Hey what’s this?’

It was an
obvious distraction.

The next
moment Boof
was all over him. There was the rank smell of sweat and the
crude smoky odour of someone who rarely saw the inside of a shower. The earth
did cartwheels. And then the much bigger boy had Josh in an iron grip. The wall
of boys behind them broke into a chorus of cheers and shouts. Boof
had
his arm around Josh’s head; he felt his one ear explode with pain. He threw
Josh down on the littered dirt. He was on top of him. Josh felt his neck strain
with the pressure of the older boy’s unrelenting grip. In the claustrophobic
closeness of wrestling, Josh saw the world as a nauseous kaleidoscope.

Flesh. Dirt.
Sky.

Dirt. Sky.
Flesh.

Instead of
seeing, he smelt and heard the world around him. Shouts and sweat; panting and
the sour stench of unwashed skin. Josh was strong for his age ... but right now
he was in a bad place. If he didn’t do something quickly it was going to end
badly for him. And Davey. He felt his strength slip away.

He tried to
grab the much bigger boy. Tried to grab his arm. But his grip slipped,
lubricated by sweat and skin. He was starting to lose the battle. The end was
near.

It was now or
never.

Pinned down
by the bigger boy, Joshua felt the paralysis of defeat set in. He felt panic
starting to sap his strength.

It was now ...
or never.

Underneath
his weight. Pinned down. Joshua focused all his strength. Focused all his
might. For one last effort. One ... last ... desperate ... shot.

He
slackened his entire body. Let it go. Let it all go. Tricking the older boy.
Fooling him. Luring him into a false sense of victory. Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting for
him take the bait. Waiting. For him to loosen his grip.

And relax.

And then.

He felt the
squat bully loosen up. And he pounced.

 It was a
simple blow. Straightforward stuff. He was in a difficult position. He couldn’t
muster all his strength. But he didn’t need to. The punch landed exactly where
he aimed. Exactly. Mother....

Boof’s nose
exploded. Exploded in an exquisite bomb of blood.

It was
beautiful. Oh ... it was very beautiful. So beautiful it completely justified
the ass-whipping Joshua received afterwards ... courtesy of six little angry
boys. Boof didn’t join in. He was out for the count. Huddled against one of the
tractor tyres. Bawling his eyes out. He didn’t come to school for the rest of
the week ... and half of the next. When he did, everybody could swear there was
something different about his face. Maybe it was a broken nose. Maybe it was a
family who spent too much money on booze to worry about ‘
the little shit’s
nose
’. Maybe it was both. Josh didn’t care. Although Boof still harassed his
brother ... it was always verbal from that point onwards. Never physical –
never again.

A few years
later – while Davey was browsing through the local library – Boof rushed up to
him. In the years that had followed that incident Josh and Davey had grown up
fast and solid. At that time they were both big for their ages. When Boof stood
before Davey he was at least three heads shorter. Boof was effervescent and
gushing with admiration. ‘Hi Davey,’ he said, greeting Davey as though he
wanted his autograph. Davey was too shocked ... and soft-hearted to take
advantage of the situation. If it had been Josh ... holy shit! If it had been
Josh ... he would have pulled the little fucker’s tongue through his arsehole.
Yeah! That’s exactly what he would have done.

So yeah.
Davey knew tough times. He knew rough characters – like Boof. But shit man.
Fulton Primary was nothing like Westville. Boof was nothing like Rico. And
Westville was nothing like Sun City. Davey just wouldn’t understand what Josh
now needed to do.

It was now or
never.

Rico. Josh
thought about his arch enemy and the encounter that was soon to follow. He
swung the duffel bag from his shoulder and placed it at his feet. Earlier that
morning – after shower – he had paid one of the younger boys to smuggle it out
for him and stash it in one of the cubicles. Right now it contained everything
Josh needed for his cross-country trip. Josh stared hard at himself in the
aluminium mirror. He waited. He had asked the same boy to bring Rico to the
bathrooms with a made-up story. In less than half an hour the trade classes
would begin.

It was now or
never.

On his
second day at Westville Joshua had assaulted the warden. On his first day – out
of pure necessity – he assaulted the local tough guy. That tough guy being
Rico.

On that
morning – three years ago – thick clouds had clung to the sky like gray turds. They
sat in the back of the police sedan; Josh. His investigating officer. And the
social worker. They drove through the forbidding gates of Westville. Along the
winding dirt road flanked by a three-metre fence on both sides. Barbed wire
garlanded the top of the sturdy fences. It had rained the previous evening and
the dirt road was potholed with dirty puddles of water. The sedan pitched and
rolled on the uneven road as they drove towards the gatehouse that marked the
entrance to the reformatory’s premises. Warden Willems was waiting for them.
With his long neck small head and thin limbs he was a stick man with an
over-sized green Correctional Services uniform. He greeted Joshua warmly. Holding
on to his hand for just a little too long. When he let go his fingers trailed
lovingly along Joshua’s palm.

‘Well,
welcome to my humble little institution, Joshua.’ He laughed that same
fart-meets-choke laugh that Joshua would hear the next day in his office. ‘Well
then, let’s get the boy settled in, shall we? Then tomorrow we can do a little
orientation and give our new friend a proper Westville welcome.’ He smiled in a
grotesque approximation of warmth. To Josh his smile looked like two slithering
wet eels. Fucking on his face. The social worker – Mrs Lillie Van der Merwe –
accompanied Joshua to his sleeping quarters while the policeman sorted out some
final administrative matters. She helped Joshua unpack his few belongings. When
they were finished she reached for his hand. ‘Please take care of yourself,
Josh. You don’t belong in a place like this.’ Then she left. And Joshua was
alone.

The dorm
was a long room with high barred windows. Bunk beds were arranged on both sides
in an orderly manner. It reminded Josh of the military barracks pictured in a
hundred Hollywood movies. Ten minutes later he had his first encounter with
Rico.

‘Howzit
dude!’ Josh was staring through the window. The loud and cheery voice made him
spin around. Before him was a tall boy with a wiry bony frame. He had a huge
protruding nose with a sunken chin and thin badly bleached hair. Behind him
were three other boys. ‘Welcome man. You’re gonna love it here.’ He walked
towards Josh with an outstretched hand and a huge smile pulled over crooked
teeth. There was an airy cheerfulness to his words. But Josh was cautious and
guarded. He stiffened as the boy approached. Underneath the sprightly words.
Behind the rubber smile. There was cold menace.

 The boy
turned to the others behind him. ‘Hey Spook, looks like our new friend’s gonna
be bunking with you.’ He turned to Joshua again. He was close now. Josh could
see a dark piece of something stuck between his teeth. ‘That’s excellent dude.
By the way, my name is Rico.’ He grabbed Joshua’s hand.