Dead at Daybreak

by Deon Meyer

  “Yes.”

  “Yesterday you slept as you did on each of the previous six days. And I lay and felt sorry for myself and moaned at the nurses about the fact that this hospital’s affirmative action is so far behind schedule that there are only thin white nurses on duty with unpinchably flat bottoms.”

  “Six days?”

  “Today’s Thursday. You’ve been here a week.”

  Amazement.

  “What happened?”

  “Bester Brits is alive—can you believe it? They say it’s a miracle. The bullet missed his brain stem and exited from the back of the neck, almost exactly like the bullet of twenty years ago. What do you think the chances are of that happening? And he’s going to make it. Only just, like you—evidently you whiteys are too soft.”

  “And Hope?”

  His mother replied: “She comes every day, twice, three times. She’ll probably come again a bit later.”

  “She’s not…”

  “She was very shocked. She spent a night here for observation.”

  He digested the information.

  “Vergottini?”

  “In custody,” Tiny said. “And when Speckle Venter’s fractured skull and various other bits of bone have healed, he’ll be behind bars, too.”

  He looked at Tiny, at the eyebrow ridges that were still swollen, at the lopsided bandage, at the unnaturally thick bundle under his arm. “And you?”

  “Ear almost torn off, seven broken ribs, concussion,” Tiny said.

  Van Heerden could only stare.

  “He’s strong, that one. Strongest I’ve ever fought against. It was hell, I’ve got to hand it to him. Merciless, an animal, he has more hate than I have, he’s got murder in him. I was scared, I tell you. He had my head in a vise and he banged it against the wall and when I felt his strength and saw those crazy eyes I thought, This is how I’m going to die, but he’s slow, too many muscles, too many steroids, too little wind, but fuck, he’s strong,” and he touched the bandage round his head and looked round guiltily. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “You two talk,” she said smiling. “I’m going outside.” She closed the door softly behind her.

  Mpayipheli looked at the door.

  “And then?”

  Tiny turned back, shifted something under the dressing gown, his mouth pursing with pain. “Strong. Held my head with one hand and with the other took hold of my ear and tore. God, Van Heerden, what kind of a human are you to want to tear off another’s ear? I kicked, because of the terrible fucking pain, I kicked him with my knee, with everything I had, and got loose somehow and knew that the only way to walk away alive was to stay clear of him. At some stage we went over the table and I grabbed one of the legs and I hit him against the head, hard enough to break the wood, and he bled like a pig and shook his whole body like a wet dog, and, when he came at me for more, I tell you, I was frightened because no one can keep standing after such a blow, but he wanted more, his hatred is so enormous, and then I had to dodge and hit and dodge and hit. I’ve never been so tired, Van Heerden, I tell you, he kept coming, his whole face a bloody mess. I hit him with everything I had and he would spit, teeth and red gob, and he would come…”

  Mpayipheli got up slowly. “Need some of your water first.” He shuffled to the jug and the glass on the table, poured the liquid into the glass, ice cubes falling, water splashing on the table.

  “Ah,” he said. “Fortunately they’ll think you’re the messy one.” He emptied the glass in one gulp, refilled it, and walked back to the chair.

  “Want some?”

  Van Heerden nodded. Tiny held the glass for him, helped him drink.

  “I hope you’re allowed to drink. Might leak out of a hole somewhere.”

  He swallowed the ice-cold water. It tasted sweet, fresh, delicious.

  “He hit me a few more times, swinging blows that you could see coming a mile off, but I was too tired to duck. I know now what a tree feels like when you hit it with an axe: it goes right through you, you feel it here.” He put a fingertip on his forehead.

  “He fell eventually, forward, like a blind man who doesn’t know where the floor is. I can’t tell you how pleased I was because I was finished, completely finished. I collapsed on my knees. I wanted to come and help you, but nothing wanted to work, it was like swimming in treacle, head not thinking, so I rested.”

  He took a sip of water.

  “I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t just walk through that door and say, Okay, boys, the boss is over and out and we’re taking charge. And then I thought, It can’t be that door. What about the other one, outside, the big one? and I went out to the car, slowly. Odd, my ear wasn’t so bad then. It was the ribs that were screaming, big black spots in front of my eyes. I don’t know how long it took me to the Benz, and then I knew there was no time and I took another firearm out of the back and I drove and I looked for the door and I couldn’t find it because everything was so confusing. So I made my own.”

  Mpayipheli swallowed the last of the ice water, got up to fetch some more, and sat down again.

  “And then you shot the lot. There was only one left for me and it was just as well because the first shots went completely wide.”

  The door opened and the blond nurse came in.

  “He must rest,” she said.

  “And I must do all the talking,” said Tiny. “Nothing will ever change in this country.”

  Late afternoon. He was alone in the room. A thick brown envelope with his name on it lay next to the bed. Slowly he wriggled his left hand out from under the blankets. He saw that his forearm was red and swollen just below the puncture where the drip entered. He moved his right hand over slowly, touching the wounds in the chest and shoulder, a burning, sharp as fire, but he managed to reach the envelope. He lay back, let the pain subside slightly, and tore the envelope open with difficulty.

  A note on top. “You owe me a honeymoon. And a huge favor for the document. Pleased that you’re recovering. Destroy when read. Please.”

  Signed by Mat Joubert.

  He looked at the document, typewritten A4 pages, stapled together in the top left-hand corner.

  Transcription of interrogation of Michael Venter, also known as Gerhardus Basson.

  Sunday, July 16, 11:45, Groote Schuur Hospital.

  Present: Superintendent Mat Joubert, Superintendent Leon Petersen.

  He turned over the first page.

  Q: Superintendents Mat Joubert and Leon Petersen in interrogation of suspect Michael Venter, also known as Gerhardus Basson, in the investigation of the murders of Rupert de Jager, aka Johannes Jacobus Smit, and John Arthur Schlebusch, aka Bushy Schlebusch, aka… er… Jonathan Archer, and attempted murder of Colonel Bester Brits of the South African Defence Force. The interrogation is being taped and the suspect has been so informed. Official permission from Dr. Laetitia Schultz has been obtained. The doctor has already certified that the suspect is not under the influence of any medicine or drug that could affect his comprehension or consciousness.

  Q: Could you please give your full name and surname for the record?

  A: Fuck you.

  Q: Are you Michael Venter, who is also in possession of a forged South African identity document in the name of Gerhardus Basson?

  A: Fuck you.

  Q: The charges against you have already been read to you. Do you understand them?

  A: Fuck you. I’m not saying another word.

  Q: Your rights as a suspect in this investigation have already been read to you. Do you understand them?

  A: (No reply.)

  Q: Let the record show that the suspect did not respond to the question. You have the right to have a legal representative present during this interrogation.

  A: (No reply.)

  Q: Let the record show that the suspect did not respond to the question. You are aware of the fact that this interrogation is being taped and that anything you might say during it may be used as evidence in a court of law.

  A: (
No reply.)

  Q: Let the record show that the suspect did not respond to the question. Mr. Venter, can you recall where you were on the night of September thirtieth last year?

  A: (No reply.)

  Q: Let the record show that the suspect did not respond to the question. Were you in, or near, the home of one Rupert de Jager, also known as Johannes Jacobus Smit, on Moreletta Street, Durbanville?

  A: (No reply.)

  Q: Let the record show that the suspect did not respond to the question. Were you…

  Q: We’re wasting our time, Mat.

  Q: I know.

  A: Fucking right, you’re wasting your time. Fucking cunts.

  Q: Will you answer further questions?

  A: (No reply.)

  The transcript of the first interrogation ended.

  Transcription of interrogation of James Vergottini, also known as Peter Miller.

  Sunday, July 16, 14:30, Interrogation Room, Murder and Robbery, Bellville South.

  Present: Superintendent Mat Joubert, Superintendent Leon Petersen.

  Q: Superintendents Mat Joubert and Leon Petersen in interrogation of suspect James Vergottini, also known as Peter Miller, in the investigation of the murder of Rupert de Jager, aka Johannes Jacobus Smit, and John Arthur Schlebusch, aka Bushy Schlebusch, aka Jonathan Archer, and attempted murder of Colonel Bester Brits of the South African Defence Force. The interrogation is being taped and the suspect has already been advised of this as well as of his rights.

  Q: Could you please state your full name and surname for the record.

  A: James Vergottini.

  Q: You are also in possession of a forged South African identity document in the name of Peter Miller?

  A: Yes.

  Q: The charges against you have already been read to you. Do you understand them?

  A: Yes, but I had nothing to do —

  Q: We’ll get to that in a moment, Mr. Vergottini. Your rights as a suspect in this investigation have already been read to you. Do you understand them?

  A: Yes.

  Q: You have the right to have a legal representative present during this interrogation, but you have already waived that right.

  A: Yes.

  Q: You are aware that the interrogation is being taped and that anything you may say during it may be used as evidence in a court of law.

  A: Yes.

  Q: Mr. Vergottini, where were you on the evening of September thirtieth last year?

  A: At home.

  Q: And where is that?

  A: 112 Mimi Coertse Drive, Centurion.

  Q: Near Pretoria.

  A: Yes.

  Q: Can someone confirm that?

  A: Listen, can’t I take this whole thing from the beginning?

  Q: Mr. Vergottini, can anyone confirm that you were at home that evening?

  A: My wife.

  Q: You’re married?

  A: Yes.

  Q: Under which name?

  A: Miller. Please, I’ll tell you everything I know. I had nothing to do with Rupert’s death. It’s a long story, but I swear it was Speckle and Bushy.

  Q: Venter and Schlebusch?

  A: Yes, but I hadn’t seen them in years. It was only when the picture appeared in Beeld—

  Q: When last did you see them?

  A: Last year.

  Q: But you said you were with them in ’seventy-six?

  A: That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You must understand the whole thing. The whole story.

  Q: Tell us, Mr. Vergottini.

  A: I don’t know what you know. Where shall I start?

  Q: Assume that we know nothing.

  A: It was in 1976. That’s where it all started…

  58.

  There were eight of us in the squad and Bushy was squad sergeant…”

  “A total of nine?”

  “No, eight, with Bushy. We had a —”

  “What year are you talking about?”

  “’Seventy-six.”

  “You were all Recces?”

  “Yes. Bushy had already completed a year and then he signed for another two. He wanted to turn PF, but he said he’d have to see first because they took a stripe away in ’seventy-five because he was in a fight in a bar…”

  “PF?” Petersen asked.

  “Permanent Force.”

  “And the rest of you?”

  “We were only troops, doing our military service. We were the first intake to do two years. Clinton Manley complained about it—he wanted to go to university, he already had a rugby scholarship to the University of Stellenbosch. We had —”

  “Who were the other members of the squad?”

  “Bushy, Manley, Rupert, Speckle, Red, Gerry de —”

  “Red?”

  “Verster, he came from Johannesburg…”

  “Did he have another name?”

  “Yes… um… um… I can’t remember, he was just Red.”

  “Carry on.”

  “Gerry de Beer, have I mentioned him? Koos van Rensburg—wait, let me count, Bushy, Speckle, Rupert, Clinton, Red, Koos, Gerry. And me. Eight.”

  “Good.”

  “We had a supply route, in the north, between Mavinga and wherever the Unita bases were—ammunition, food, sometimes a few documents in an attaché case. Every six weeks or so we were back in Katima Mulilo. It was hot and dry and we walked or rode at night. It was rough, in the dark, you couldn’t see a thing, and when the moon shone everything was gray and then suddenly shots rang out or you saw something coming and you lay in ambush and then it was LPs or goats…”

  “LPs?”

  “Local populace… or even Portuguese from the mines in the north who were still trying to get through. Sometimes it was Swapos and contact and then you wondered if you were going to die when the bullets hit the ground next to you or sang over your head and you lay behind a shrub. But the Swapos avoided us, they were on their way to South West, they lay low. It was only when we met virtually face-to-face…

  “Our nerves were shot. I didn’t realize it then, only later, after weeks in the bush. The whole time you knew anything could happen in that darkness, later land mines as well, and you slept badly during the day and you ate badly, and sometimes the water holes were dry and it was only tension all day, all night, even if Bushy and Speckle pretended they liked it. They never stopped saying they wanted to shoot more Swapos, they were looking for more contact, but the tension got to them as well in the end. It was tension that caused the whole mess with the Parabats.”

  “The Parabats?”

  “We were two weeks away from fourteen days’ leave when we came back from a drop in Angola at night, on foot, and Bushy indicated that we should fall flat. We saw them coming through a dry riverbed—only the shadows and the rifle barrels, you couldn’t see much more than that—twelve of them, spread out, the way Swapos did, and Bushy told us to form an ambush. We took up our positions—we had practiced it over and over again, each one knew what to do, where to lie. We knew we had to wait for Bushy to shoot first. They came up, not even knowing about us. Then Bushy shot and we all fired and they fell and screamed and I knew this was what Bushy had been waiting for, a dozen kaffirs. You must forgive me, but that’s all they spoke about—they were the biggest racists I’ve ever known, Bushy and Speckle. We all were, at that time. They taught us…”

  “Carry on,” said Leon Petersen.

  “We mowed them down, they didn’t stand a chance, and when everything was quiet we heard one of them calling, in Afrikaans, ‘Help me, Ma, help me,’ and then I heard Clinton Manley saying, ‘Oh, my God,’ and we knew something was wrong. Bushy got up and signed to us and we crept closer, and when we came to the first one we saw the dog tags, and he was a Parabat from Bloemfontein. No one had told us they would be there. Ten were dead, fucked-up dead, shot to pieces. One was dying—he was the one who shouted—and one was still alive, shot through both legs, but he would’ve made it.”

  “Would’ve made it?”

  “
Speckle shot him. But it wasn’t that simple. You can imagine. We stood next to the Parabat and he knew we were Recces and he asked, over and over again, ‘Why did you shoot us?’ And then he moaned with pain and we were shit-scared because it was a major fuckup, jeez, we had killed our own people—do you know what it feels like? We were all panicky. I think it was Red who asked what we were going to do now, but no one answered him, we were in such deep trouble, and the guy on the ground was hysterical: ‘Why did you shoot us?’ And he moaned, and on and on. Jeez, all I wanted to do was run, I wanted to get away, and Bushy simply stood there, as white as a sheet, he didn’t know what to do, either, and then Speckle came up and he shot the guy in the head and Gerry de Beer said, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ and Speckle said, ‘What the fuck do you want us to do?’ He wasn’t calm, Speckle, he was just as scared as the rest of us, you could hear it, you could see it, Christ, it was bad, but then it was quiet, dead quiet, and Red threw up and so did Clinton Manley, and the rest of us stood there among ten dead Parabats and we all knew no one would ever talk about it. We all knew before I said it—I mean, it was an accident, it was genuinely a helluva accident, what could we do?—and then I said we’d never talk about it.”

  Silence.

  “Mr. Vergottini?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Take your time, Mr. Vergottini.”

  “I’d rather you called me Peter. It’s the name I’m used to.”

  “Take your time.”

  “I’m okay. We buried them. The ground was hard and we didn’t want to bury them in the riverbed because in the rainy season… We worked until two o’clock the following afternoon, covering their heads first. I don’t think we could handle the eyes and the faces. They were our guys. Our people. We picked up every cartridge case, covered every spot of blood, buried everyone. And then we went on. Without speaking. Speckle in the lead. I’ll never forget it: suddenly Speckle was in the lead, Bushy behind him. Speckle was the new leader without a word being said. For two days we walked, night and day, without a word being said, everyone’s head busy with only one thing, and when we reached the camp, Lieutenant Brits was waiting and he wanted to see us…”