The Monster's Daughter (31 page)

“I shoot you dead,” a young milk-beard said, his voice breaking in a comic falsetto.

Flippie wanted to burst out laughing, imagining a five-year-old with a gun, but then he saw the raw fear in Prudence's eyes, their baby clutched to her breast. He froze, slowly lifting his hands in the air.

“You Phillip Morgan?” It was an older man. The one in charge.

“Yes, sir. What is going on?”

“I ask the questions, okay?”

The other policemen snickered. Flippie turned his head to see the man and was greeted with a blow to his temple.

“Stand still!” The young policeman hit him again in the small of his back. Pain pulsated through his spine. Flippie's legs gave way and he fell to his knees.

Two men lifted Flippie to his feet. They dragged him outside. He tried to tell Prudence to go to Zweli, but he had trouble speaking, her
silhouette in the doorway of their house the last thing he remembered before the police threw him into the back of a van.

Rubber. The smell shot straight up into his sinuses with the last molecules of oxygen. He tasted it, trying to chew at the thick membrane that stretched tight over his nose and mouth. Flippie's eyes darted from one corner of the fluorescent-lit room to the other. Asbestos walls, like those of his childhood schoolroom. Linoleum floors. Even a blackboard to complete the picture.

Flippie's eyes watered, the pressure building until he was sure they would explode in a gelatinous mess down his cheeks. A tall man in a blue uniform stepped in front of him. He gave a nod and suddenly the tentacle released its grip. Air gushed into Flippie's raw lungs.

“You ready now, hey?”

Flippie tried to answer, but spasmodic coughs interrupted him. The force of a
tonfa
blow sent his chair toppling to the side. He tried to stop his fall, but his hands were bound to the chair. His head made contact with the floor. Softening up. That's what the men who took him called it. His skin throbbed, pain coursed through his nerves.

“Get him up, Peaches.”

A big pair of hands wrapped around Flippie's shoulders and the world was turned right-side-up again. The two white policemen looked down at him.

“Shall we go another round, Boss? Work him a little more?” It was the big one, Peaches. He had reddish-blond hair and skin as smooth as a baby's. He held the piece of inner tube between his hands, a human face worn into the rubber.

“
Nee, Baas
. Please.” Flippie struggled to let his voice be heard. He was tired, so tired. “I'll tell you anything. Please,
Baas
.”

Peaches looked at the tall man for confirmation.

The tall man pulled up a chair in front of Flippie. “Stay close, Peaches, we'll see if he means what he says.” He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, his legs spread wide. “These things, they are distasteful to me, see?”

Flippie had trouble focusing his eyes. Blood ran from a gash in his temple and his eyelids were almost swollen shut.

“I was brought up in a good Christian house, where we were taught right and wrong, see? I attend church, I'm a deacon.”

“Ja, Baas.”

“What do you know?” The tall man stood up.

“Niks, Baas.”

“You're right you know nothing. God-fearing men like me are being forced to choose between right and wrong, good and evil. And you know what side I will always choose, Phillip? I will stand on the side of good. Of God. Just like my father did and his father, since all the way back when He gave us this land. We are being threatened by the Communists, and it is my job to eliminate that threat, see? And I know you know things that will help me do that.”

Flippie stared ahead of him. There had to be something he could tell the man. One thing that wouldn't matter so much, that wouldn't compromise the others. His mind felt thick and slow, the pain in his side the only thing that kept him alert.

“You are going to help us do that, Phillip.”

“I don't know how,
Baas
.”

The tall man sighed. “You're educated. A lawyer,
ja
? You help all those ANC buddies of yours keep out of jail. We've been watching you for a long time, see? I'm sure Peaches will appreciate the overtime to help you remember. Maybe we'll even get your wife a free stay in our lovely hotel. Will that help your memory?”

“She doesn't know anything,
Baas
. Please.”

A smile ghosted on the man's lips. “Then I'm sure we understand each other. Start by telling me who was at that meeting tonight.”

There was nothing striking about Dean Kritzinger. He was of average build, average height, with average sandy hair and average hazel eyes. His face was soft and pasty white, and he carried a few extra pounds around, but that didn't matter to Tessa as she sat with him at John Vorster Square police station, waiting for Flippie's release. What mattered was that Dean embodied the only hope she had known in a long time. Dean's own people saw him as a traitor for offering up
his evenings and weekends to go into the townships and help blacks find their loved ones, disappeared behind the veil of police custody. Before Flippie's arrest, Tessa had only known Dean as a lawyer-friend of Flippie's, and he knew her as Lilly Maartens, the name that was now printed in her ID book, a friend to the cause. But something had changed. Tessa wasn't sure what to call it, but she welcomed it. She admired Dean, felt safe with him. His talk of marriage and family after only a few weeks didn't feel rushed to her. For the first time, it felt right.

The door of the charge office opened. A young uniformed officer stepped aside as Flippie limped out. He had a nasty gash on his forehead, which would probably be the only visible sign of the police's interrogation methods. Many men had told their stories to Dean. Of electrodes attached to their genitals, of being drowned and revived, their burned fingertips a testament to what they had been through. Tessa reached out to Flippie, but Dean held her back, his eyes dashing to the uniformed men scrutinizing them.

“Can we go?” There was an urgency in Flippie's voice, his eyes darting back to the officer at the door. Tessa and Dean flanked Flippie as they walked into the bright summer day. Flippie sat rigid in the backseat of the car, staring out the window, his hands clasped in his lap.

“You're safe now, Flippie.” Tessa turned in her seat, touching his knee. Flippie looked blankly at her for a moment before turning his head away again.

“Give Phillip a little time to catch his breath, Lilly,” Dean said quietly.

“I'm sorry.” Tessa had arrived in Johannesburg with only the clothes on her back, not sure if Flippie would even want to see her. He didn't hesitate when she asked him for help. He sold the Chevy, helped her with new identity documents, a new life. They had become closer than when they were children. But she knew that something irreparable had happened in that police station, driving a wedge between them. Between him and the rest of the world.

Prudence came running as soon as they pulled up to Dean's house, carrying little Jacob in her arms. Flippie looked at the two of them as if they were a mirage that would slip away if he blinked. He stepped forward and wiped the tears off Prudence's face.

“It's good to have you back, my friend,” Dean said, putting his hand on Flippie's shoulder.

“They broke me, Dean,” Flippie said quietly. He grasped Prudence's hand, his head low. Prudence looked pleadingly at Tessa. Tessa touched her arm.

Flippie looked strangely at her. “You're wearing a ring.” It sounded like an accusation.

“We have some good news,” Tessa said.

“Yes.” Dean looked uncomfortable. “I know this is sudden, but Lilly has done me the honor of consenting to be my wife.”

Flippie shot Tessa a recriminating look. “Congratulations,” he said to Dean, forcing a smile.

After lunch, Tessa found Flippie alone in the living room, his face silent and vague.

“I made Malva pudding,” Tessa said. “Your favorite.”

Flippie turned toward her in slow motion. “Does he know about you?”

Tessa tensed up. She shook her head.

“Don't you think you should tell him?”

Tessa looked back at the kitchen where Dean was doing dishes. She sank onto the sofa next to Flippie, talking in hushed tones. “He doesn't even know my real name.”

Flippie stared at his hands, slender fingers laced tightly into each other. “He doesn't deserve you lying to him.”

Tessa felt something desperate well up in her. “We're happy. Can't that be enough?”

“He'll find out eventually, Tessa. What do you think is going to happen then?”

“He loves me.”

Flippie shook his head. “What about children? What if they're like you? Do you even remember what our life was like? Do you want your children to be treated like that too? Life is hard enough without that to deal with.”

“They could be like Dean.”

“What happens, then? You'll see your children grow old and die.” Flippie sank back, the small bit of fight suddenly out of him.

“I want what you have, Flippie.” Tessa realized how much she resented
Flippie for being normal. She swallowed back her anger. “Everybody has a right to happiness, to family. Why not me?”

Flippie looked at her, his features cracked by bitterness. “I sometimes wish Jacob had never been born.”

His words were like a punch in the stomach. “You don't mean that,” Tessa said.

“I love Prudence. I love my son, God knows, but if I think of what lies ahead, that he might one day be thrown into a van and be at the mercy of this government … it's too much to bear, Tessa.” Flippie broke down, his thin body melting, his shoulders shaking, his face wet against her dress. “I soiled myself, Tessa. In front of them. Like a baby. I was so scared. I told them everything. I betrayed everyone, all I stood for.”

“I promise you, Flippie, I'll always be there for Jacob. I'll protect him like he's my own, no matter what.” Tessa looked up. Dean stood in the doorway, a look of concern on his face. She pushed her doubts aside. They would be all right. They just had to be. Life couldn't be worth living if it only held misery.

The sound of someone knocking sent Alet's heart racing. She lay sprawled on Tilly's couch, an uncomfortable crick in her neck. She opened her eyes as another salvo of knocks hammered the window.

“Tilly?” No answer. Alet tried to untangle herself from the decorative pillows, stumbling off the couch to open the door.

Maria stood on the doorstep, tray in hand. “
Môre
. Breakfast?”

“For
Mies
Tilly?”

“No, for you.
Mies
Tilly, she told me to bring it.”

“She's not here?”

“She left early.”

Alet took the tray from Maria and set it down on the coffee table. She found her cell on the floor and tried calling Tilly, but almost instantaneously, a phone rang in the bedroom. “Dammit.” She sank back onto the couch, checking for voice mails. There was a message from Theo. Alet slurped down coffee as she listened.

Tilly's car was parked on the curb in front of Trudie's house, the front door open. A must-and-mothball smell permeated the house. The disorder on the dining-room table and china on the floor seemed offensive, and the kitchen was even worse off. Drawers sprawled open. The entire contents of the pantry were on the kitchen table, every container open, some of the food spilling out. A massacre of clothes was strewn over the floor in Trudie's bedroom, open shoe and hatboxes piled on the bed, their lids flung haphazardly across the room.

Alet found Tilly in a rocking chair on the closed-in
stoep
between potted houseplants and piles of old magazines. Her legs were pulled to
her chest as she rocked the chair with a bobbing of her head. The air on the
stoep
hung stale and dead.

“Tilly? You all right?”

Tilly didn't look up. “He made a mess,” she said simply.

“What's that?”

“Your Sergeant Mathebe.”

“I don't think he—”

“I have to clean it all up now.” Tilly spat the words. “What was he looking for?”

“It's a murder investigation, Till.”

Tilly's lips trembled. She cupped her hand over her mouth and bowed her head. Chestnut curls fell forward, obscuring her face. Alet felt helpless. She sat down on the weathered wicker chair opposite Tilly, her hands sandwiched between her thighs. Sunlight inched around the corner of the house and fell through the window, warming her back. Outside, the thermometer was already climbing above the 40°C mark, the heat forcing every living thing into submission.

Alet noticed a framed photograph on the windowsill. Tilly followed her gaze.

“It's me and
Ma
.”

Alet picked up the frame, studying Trudie holding toddler Tilly in the house's front yard. Tilly wore a yellow jumper, her wispy hair adorned with a matching yellow bow. Trudie looked young and radiant in the early-morning light, her hair, the same chestnut as Tilly's, tied in a loose knot on her head. Alet had rarely seen Trudie without her dark glasses. She put the frame down. “Do you have any of these with your dad?”

Tilly shook her head. “He died before I was born.”

“How?”

“Accident.
Ma
never really talked about it.” Tears glossed Tilly's eyes. “I should have been here for her, asked her about all these things. Instead I—”

Alet leaned across and put her hand on Tilly's, not sure what to say.

“Most of the people who will come to the funeral will offer condolences and talk about how good she was, and they'll be relieved that they don't have to deal with her anymore.” Tilly's voice faltered. “She was mean and reclusive, but she didn't deserve to die like that.”