Death in Durban

by Jon Zackon

  “Do you want to meet her? I mean properly, this time.”

  I nodded and Steven said, “She only comes home one day a week. We have family get-togethers on Friday nights and sometimes she’s home for one of those. I can let you know.”

  “Shit, do I have to meet the whole family?”

  “Why not? We’re a good bunch. You’ll see.”

  Chapter 5

  THE NEWS editor, Gordon Clare, put me on nights, which suited me fine. I could sleep late, go to the beach before midday, have a swim, lunch on curried lamb at Jake’s, sunbathe, get back to my new, vastly more comfortable flat to shave and shower, and still get to work without being late. I soon realised that four o’clock – shortly before evening conference – was the best time to get into the office.

  The story deadline for the first edition was seven, which could be stretched by thirty or forty minutes for the splash. The execs would pour out of conference around five and start dishing stuff out. So it was possible to cop a lot of Page One space for yourself in those few hours.

  I got my first splash only a fortnight after joining the paper. Not the greatest story – that hardy perennial about when South Africa could expect to get television. Never, if the retrogressive Prime Minister, Hendrik Verwoerd, had his way. My story was based on a vox pop showing our readers wanted it badly. Nothing new there. But I enjoyed seeing my byline in fourteen point type on Page One and went out for a celebratory drink with Conrad Nichols, who’d been on nights for years. Marty Blaine came with us. He was a hard drinking reporter standing in for the paper’s crime correspondent, who was on a sabbatical.

  “So what do you do with your time?” asked Marty.

  “Well, I’m developing a great tan and … er … this Saturday I hope to be going to Greyville.”

  “So you like a bet on the gees, eh? What about cards?”

  Conrad butted in. He spoke slowly, almost in a drawl. “Marty’s the recruitment officer for the meanest poker game in town.”

  “No, no, it’s all very friendly,” said Marty. “A couple of business people, one or two professional types and even a couple of detectives.”

  “Detectives? I’ve never played poker with detectives,” I said.

  “You’d be surprised how sharp they are. Good players. They’re the ones who introduced me to this school.”

  “I’m not really surprised to hear that they’re sharp. They’re supposed to be, aren’t they? What’s the game? Five card draw, no frills?”

  “Exactly. Occasional round of jacks but mostly four rand limit draw. No wild cards or crap like that.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m a terrible player, but I love it. The last time I played it was all still pounds and shillings – that’s how long ago it was.”

  “Don’t worry Danny, nothing much has changed since the rand was introduced. Our game’s the equivalent of the old thirty-two bob limit game. But look, you know what happens with poker schools, there’s always someone dropping out or going out of town, or something. So if there’s a seat, you’re interested, hey?”

  “Count me in. Definitely.”

  Marty was on his third double Scotch while Conrad and I nursed our second glasses of lager.

  “Crime reporting’s really shit on The Messenger,” said Marty, possibly changing the subject to distract attention away from his rapid slide towards drunkenness. “Conrad will tell you. The paper won’t take chances. It’s not like the States, where you can say what you bloody like. I’m hamstrung, man.”

  “It’s true,” said Conrad. “You write up a crime story at night and they gut it. There’s bugger all left by the time it appears in the paper.”

  “They?”

  “The subs. They phone the paper’s lawyer and I can tell you, he is one cautious bastard.”

  “So if crime doesn’t keep you too busy, what does, Marty?”

  “I’m in court most of the time. You know, the guys who are being tried for killing nine cops in Cato Manor last year? I can see it’s really important, but it’s court reporting, not crime reporting. I get bored with it.”

  The killings, as I well knew, had made headlines around the world. The police had been attacked at their station by hundreds of Zulus, long angry at the running of a municipal beerhall, but even more infuriated by the forced removal of some of their people to another township, Kwamashu. The removals were being accomplished using the Verwoerd government’s cynical piece of social engineering, the Group Area’s Act. It was just one of several iniquitous bits of legislation that had led to the Sharpeville Massacre a few months after the Cato Manor riot.

  Marty said he was bored with the case, but I envied him. South Africa was beginning to resemble a tinderbox about to blow. Without meaning to sound too crass, if it was going to happen, as a journalist I wanted to be involved.

  “I’m going on holiday next week,” said Conrad.

  “So?”

  “Well, you’ll have to do the night rounds of the hospital and the police stations, including the one at Cato Manor.”

  “I’ve seen you disappear at night and wondered what you got up to.”

  “You’d better come with me tonight or tomorrow and I’ll show you the ropes. I’ll fix it with Neal.”

  Neal Smythe, in charge of the night news desk, regarded Conrad and me as a team. Neal could be officious. Luckily, Conrad was an agreeable bloke and we got on well from the off.

  “By the way, what happened to you last week? I take it you really were ill,” said Conrad.

  “Shit, it was appalling. I’ve never felt so sick.”

  I told them about my bout with death – well, that’s what I made it sound like – and eventually got round to the lady who undoubtedly saved me.

  “Did you thank her?” asked Marty.

  “Of course. The day I went back to work I gave her a box of chocolates and a bunch of flowers. Funny thing, though, she wasn’t particularly pleased to get them.”

  “Why do you think that was?”

  “Well, perhaps she felt she’d helped me out of the goodness of her heart and didn’t think she needed to be rewarded in any way.”

  “Don’t be so fucking naïve,” said Marty, starting on his fourth double.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “You’re being really naïve, Danny. She’s obviously got a husband or a lover in tow. That’s who she was cooking the stew for. What if he comes home and sees the flowers and the chocs? He’s going to think, hello, the bitch has got a secret fucking admirer. The least she’s going to get out of this is a black eye.”

  My heart sank. “Oh, shit! She’s been so good to me and I’ve earned her a beating. Oh, shit!”

  Marty giggled. “Don’t worry about it, Danny. It’s not so bad. She’s obviously got more brains than you, pal. The fact that she accepted the stuff in the end proves that she could deal with it. I reckon she’s thrown the flowers in the bin and hidden the chocolates at the bottom of her bedside drawer. Problem solved.”

  Conrad was rocking with laughter at my discomfort. Marty hooted. What could I do? I began to laugh along with them.

  Before we went back to the office Marty reminded me about the poker game. I was a bit nervous about it – I couldn’t really afford to lose. But what the hell. I said I still wanted in.

  Chapter 6

  WITH HIS holiday in mind, Conrad took me on his night rounds to show me the ropes. “I’ve got to be careful at Addington Hospital,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Well, you know, nurses and journalists.”

  “You scared of them?”

  He laughed. “I am, yeah. But I’m more scared of Moira. She’s a tough cookie. And she talks to all the nurses.”

  “Oh, is that your girlfriend?”

  “She’s more than that. We’re getting married soon.”

  “Mazel Tov. How come she knows the nurses?”

  “She’s a medical student. Works there – at Addington.�
��

  “Really? Do you know if she knows Ruth Fall?”

  “Of course she knows her. They work together. I’ve met Ruth a few times myself.”

  “Look, Conrad, I haven’t actually met her yet … well, I have sort of, but I don’t really know her and she’s a very attractive girl …”

  “Need some help, huh? Something like a foursome one night? Take in a movie maybe?”

  “That sounds terrific. If nothing else, it’ll give me something to talk about when I meet her properly.”

  “And how is that going to happen? Do you want Moira to do the honours?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I’m friendly with Ruth’s cousin, a guy named Steven Fall. He’s planning to invite me to a family do when he knows she’ll be there.”

  I wound a window down to let cool air blow in my face. We were in a company car, a miserable little Morris Minor used by the reporters and photographers. I don’t think it even had a fan. Conrad was driving and as we drew up outside Cato Manor police station he said, “OK, we’ll leave it until we get back from holiday. There’s an American comedian due at the Eden Roc Hotel soon and Moira’s keen to go. Perhaps you and Ruth can join us.”

  Conrad was about my age. His parents were Danish and he’d been brought to Durban as a baby. He’d been a good sportsman and had done well at school. But he’d spent his time chasing girls at Natal University and flunked his law exams. So he and I had something in common – we were both dropouts.

  His easy manner made him popular with the cops, who greeted him warmly. He introduced me to the duty sergeant and one or two of the Cato Manor regulars. There were also several youngsters, trainees presumably, wandering around.

  Black policemen stood guard over a queue of Africans waiting to be processed. Those in the queue mostly looked worn and ill fed. I guessed they’d fallen foul of the Pass Laws. Apartheid, rather than anything they’d actually done, was busy turning them into criminals.

  I got talking to one white lad, who, like me, came from Jo’burg. He was a large, amiable boy from a half-English half-Afrikaner background. The other cops had nicknamed him Toffee.

  “Ja, they call me Toffee Taylor, the silly buggers,” he laughed. “I’m no toff and I’m not sweet, I promise you.”

  “So you’re a trainee, Toffee?”

  “No, no. I’m a constable. Fully-fledged.”

  “OK. How come you’re not on the beat, then? And as far as I can see, you are not carrying a weapon.”

  “It’s a sad story, Danny. I’m facing a reprimand – I’m on suspension till my hearing next month. Light duty only.”

  “Shit. What happened?”

  “You’re not going to print this?”

  “Nah. Course not. The Messenger doesn’t print good stories.”

  “Ha! Very good, man. Wait till you hear it.” He rubbed his nose vigorously and said, “OK. About two weeks ago I was in the Manor and I apprehended this zott for being in possession of a suspected stolen car and a load of dagga and also for suspected robbery – he had an expensive looking watch in his pocket. I handcuffed him and chained the cuffs to my belt. This is common practice, ja? The chain’s about five feet long. So I was marching him back to the station when I thought, ‘You know, I’ve never killed anyone. What the fuck is it like? Lots of the other blokes back at the station have done it, and they’re always talking about it, so why not me?’ Fucking crazy thinking, hey Danny? But you’ve got to understand, I’m a crazy kind of guy.”

  He laughed loudly before continuing, “So I undo the chain and say, ‘Run Kaffir, run.’ But he’s suspicious and just stands there. So I shout, ‘If you don’t run I’m going to shoot you where you stand!’ What can the poor fucker do? He runs. So now he’s breaking the law. He’s running away from a crime scene and I’m free to shoot him, right? That’s the fucking the law, Danny. They call it justifiable homicide. So I open up with my Sten gun and you know what? I more or less cut him in half. One burst – chug, chug, chug, chug, chug – and I’ve cut the poor bastard in half.”

  “Jesus Christ!” I said. I was shocked on several levels, not only because this boy with a silly nickname had killed his African detainee, not only because of the extraordinarily bloodthirsty way in which he had done it, but also because of the casual way he’d told me about it, as if the man’s life was so utterly worthless. And then there was the reference to “lots of the blokes” being killers. Who were their victims? Toffee hadn’t bothered to say, but like his they could only have been defenceless Africans.

  He grinned broadly. “When I get back to the station I think I’m going to get a pat on the back. Can you believe this? But the sergeant is not very happy with my story. He insists on coming with when we go back in a Black Maria to collect the body, ja? When we get there, he looks at this body and he says, ‘This individual is handcuffed. How can he be running away from a crime scene if he is in handcuffs?’ Of course, the sarge knows very well the guy could still try to run away if he’s cuffed, but it would be difficult. And what he’s really doing is challenging my story. The thing is, what he’s seeing doesn’t tally with my version because I’d already told him this black boy was sprinting away from me. Running is one thing but sprinting … in handcuffs? Shit, Danny, I fucking should have removed those cuffs. Or not said ‘sprinting.’ So I’m in deep shit.”

  It struck me as weird that Toffee’s happy-go-lucky demeanour didn’t change at this point. He certainly didn’t give the impression that he faced being hanged or at the very least chucked in jail for a long stretch, which is what he surely deserved.

  “So what’s going to happen to you, Toffee?” I was burning to know.

  “The sergeant’s a good bloke, Danny. In the end, he’s always on our side. He’s concocted a story for me. I have to learn it off by heart for the hearing next month. It’s about how the boy tried to run away and I panicked because I’m new here and I’m young and I made a terrible mistake and how sorry I am and so on. He says they’ll probably sentence me to two or three months’ suspension on a minor charge, like dereliction or negligence or something. By then I will have been suspended for quite a long time already, so that will be taken into account and with a bit of luck I’ll be back at work inside of a few weeks.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “I’m lucky, hey? I deserve a lot worse, don’t I? But the sergeant says next time he’ll see I go down. And the reprimand is not going to look good on my record. I’ll have to wait a long time for promotion.”

  He was silent for a while. Then he said, “At least I know what it’s like to kill a man.”

  ***

  On the way back to the office Toffee Taylor’s story played on my mind. He’d used truly offensive language in calling his African victim a zott and a Kaffir. In the lexicon of the times these words were about as insulting and demeaning as any South Africa had to offer.

  Why tell me his story? We were strangers, yet he hadn’t hesitated to volunteer it. There was only one explanation, crazy though it sounded. He was bragging. He simply wanted me to know what a big man he was.

  Something else perturbed me greatly. And I could see that it could become a continuing problem – how the hell should I react in the face of such brutally casual racialism? Yes, journalists have to be objective. And I understood that if they wanted stories they had to cooperate with the police. But this man went too far. He was a pig – and I was forced to stand there and take his nefarious humour passively.

  I put this to Conrad as we drove back to the city.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m as tolerant as the next bloke. I don’t like it either, Danny. But what you’ve got to remember is that these police guys are under one hell of a lot of pressure. It’s only a year back since nine of them were butchered in a single night in the Manor. Four white police and five black police. Their pricks were sliced off and shoved in their mouths. Did you know that? How’s that for brutality? And there’s another thing you have to remember. Here
in Durban these aren’t any old blacks the cops have to deal with. These are Zulus. These are people who pride themselves in being the most warlike people on God’s earth. It’s not easy.”

  “Come on, Conrad, that doesn’t give you an excuse to tell some poor bastard to run and then cut him in half with Sten gun bullets.”

  I was really getting angry.

  “And what the hell kind of justice gives police the power of life and death anyway? Justifiable homicide! Do you think they’re fit to handle it? The truth is they are being given permission to act as judge, jury and executioner. No trial. Anyone who runs is automatically guilty in their eyes. For fuck’s sake, I’d also run away – out of fear! It stinks. It just stinks.”

  “That’s not the fault of the cops, Danny. That’s down to the politicians and the judges and white society as a whole. The cops are the ones who have to do the dirty work. Verwoerd and his mob dream up yet another unjust law and the cops have to implement it. Don’t blame them. You’ve also got to think about the newspaper, hey? Yes, Danny, you start fighting with the police and you can no longer do your job effectively. You won’t last, I can assure you.”

  ***

  Back in the office there was a message to phone Marty. “Danny,” he said when I called, “there’s a seat in the game for you if you want. Sunday night. I can pick you up at six thirty. Take my advice, pal, don’t eat too much beforehand.”

  Conrad and I had picked up a snippet on our rounds. A new appointment or something at the hospital. I wrote it up – all two paragraphs – and was delighted when Neal Smythe suggested I take it to the subs. Their room, next door to ours, was the only one in the building that was air-conditioned. It was a blissful twenty degrees cooler in there – a blessing not even the editor enjoyed. I lingered in the coolness among the subs as long as I could but eventually had to leave. As I did so the clammy heat of the Durban night hit me full in the face.

  Chapter 7