Now I See You

by Holmes, Priscilla; Holmes, Priscilla;

  ‘What’s with Director Mandile?’

  ‘Bitter and twisted,’ said Bea cheerfully. ‘Thinks he’s been passed over for promotion and hates women police officers.’

  ‘Oh great,’ I said. ‘Just my luck.’

  ‘He’s incompetent as well as being embittered,’ Bea said quietly. ‘What a combination. It’s a nightmare, but I love my job, and he’s not going to get to me. Every day I look at him and think, this too shall pass. And hopefully, soon, it will. I don’t trust him, Thabisa. Talking of which –’ she lowered her voice and spoke even more quietly. ‘Mandile has been giving information about you to somebody. That’s how I knew you were arriving today.’

  ‘Who to?

  ‘I don’t know, but he definitely gave your name as the investigating officer on this case. He closed the door of his office, but you know me, I’ve got ears like a hawk, I can hear through thick stone walls. He was discussing you with someone.’

  ‘So what?’ I shrugged. ‘It’s no secret that I’m here.’

  But I tucked that piece of information into the back of my mind. I would think about it later.

  ***

  The hospital was full of screaming children and pensioners in threadbare clothes. They hardly glanced up as we walked by, despite my police uniform and Bea’s startling red outfit.

  Basani Kotulo, a young man in his twenties, lay propped up in bed with a large bandage around his head.

  After perfunctory greetings, I spoke to him in isiXhosa. ‘Ubabonile? – Did you see them?’

  ‘Yes, sisi. I have seen these people in the movies about creatures from other planets. Aliens. They had rubber masks on their heads. They were thin. The tallest one hit me on the head with a gun when I tried to stop them entering the bank.’

  ‘Did they speak?’

  ‘No, sisi, they just hit me.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I fell down. Then later, I heard a gunshot in the bank. Then I saw them leave the bank with the black bags. Like the ones we use for rubbish.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then they disappeared.’

  ‘In what direction?’

  ‘Into the air, sisi. They disappeared like spirits into space. The ground was shaking.’

  I sighed. Basani’s description reminded me vividly of the valley and all its superstitions.

  ‘Come now, Basani, think. They couldn’t just disappear. They are not spirits. Spirits don’t rob banks and shoot people. Spirits don’t hit you over the head with guns.’

  Basani looked at me from under his bandage. ‘Sisi, they are spirits.’ His voice was a stricken monotone.

  ‘No, Basani, they are bad men. Try to remember...’

  The curtains around the bed flipped open. A tall blond man in a white coat, a stethoscope snaking around his neck, stood in front of me. He looked tired out, with dark rings under his eyes ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave,’ he said in a strong Australian accent. ‘This patient isn’t fit to be questioned. He’s concussed. You’ll have to come back later, Police Constable... you are?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Thabisa Tswane, Violent Crimes Unit, Johannesburg, ‘Doing my job,’ I said, flashing my police ID. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Tom Winter, Basani’s doctor,’ he said. He ran kind blue eyes over me and smiled. ‘You’ve got grey eyes,’ he said. Something about his quick shy smile made me take note. It was almost as if we had already met and shared a private joke.

  I was used to this reaction to my eyes. I stared back without expression.

  ‘Please forgive me for being so familiar,’ he continued, undeterred, ‘but it’s so unusual. And so beautiful.’

  ‘When can I come back to question him?’ I asked, trying to ignore the steady, admiring gaze of the doctor. ‘He’s a witness in a murder case.’

  ‘Maybe tomorrow?’ the doctor suggested. ‘Please call me and I’ll see if it’s possible.’

  I gestured to Bea and we left the ward. I felt flushed and annoyed.

  ‘Handsome doctor – I wouldn’t mind him taking my blood pressure,’ Bea said.

  ‘I didn’t notice.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Bea. She almost ran to keep up with me.

  ‘Why don’t people see things for what they are, not a load of fantasy?’ I asked. ‘That guard has no idea. It’s all superstition and spirits, smoke and mirrors.’

  ‘Well, the poor thing has concussion,’ said Bea. ‘And besides, he’s not the only one. It’s the same story wherever these heists have taken place. People say they just vanish into thin air. Those weird alien masks really spook them.’

  ‘Can you buy masks like that easily around here?’ I asked.

  ‘In any toy shop,’ said Bea.

  As we got into the car, Bea asked, ‘Do you want me to come to the valley with you tomorrow when you talk to your grandfather? We've got a four-wheel drive you could ask for.’

  ‘Thanks Bea, that’s very kind, but the four-wheel drive is only part of it. You have to hike the last six kilometres through the mountains. The final bit’s almost abseiling.’

  ‘Oh shit. No offence, but I don’t think I can help you there,’ said Bea. ‘Listen, Thabisa, why don’t you leave your bags with me for now? You can come around and have supper with me tonight and pick them up. Then I’ll drive you back to your place. What about it? We can catch up.’

  ‘Thanks, that’s great,’ I said. ‘It’s so good to see you Bea. Thanks for being supportive about your boss. I’m glad to have a good friend to back me up.’

  ***

  When I arrived at Bea’s cottage, I half-expected a colourful den filled with beads, rainbow throws and lots of cushions, but Bea restricted her outrageous tastes to her wardrobe. Like the office, the vibe in her house was clutter free and organised, with stripped pine floorboards, rugs, bookcases, a comfortable sofa and chairs.

  I could smell garlic in the kitchen. Jazz played over a small sound system. Bea motioned me to the sofa and offered me a glass of Merlot. Then she curled her legs under her in a comfortable, deep armchair and beamed at me.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she said. A heavy striped cat that looked half-wild crept out from behind her chair. It gave me a suspicious glare, and then leapt onto Bea’s lap. Bea stroked it between the ears. ‘This is Rasputin,’ she said. ‘My best mate.’

  ‘He’s gorgeous,’ I said. ‘But what happened to your husband? Graham, wasn’t it? You two seemed so good together. What went wrong?’

  ‘He left. The usual thing – finds a younger version of me, has an affair, I find out, there’s a big drama. I’m better off without him, believe me.’

  Bea sliced her hands through the air for punctuation as she talked, but I could see the hurt behind the humour. ‘So, you see, I had to throw him out, just like all bad rubbish, he had to go. But never mind about me, Thabisa, I really want to hear about you,’ she said, sipping her wine.

  ‘I joined the Serious Crimes Unit when I left Mossel Bay. I was picked by my boss, Commissioner Matatu, a great honour for me. I really enjoy the work. It’s just the love life that isn’t working properly.’ I grimaced, remembering Paul.

  Bea laughed. ‘Whose love life can work in this sort of job?’

  ‘I’ve had a couple of serious relationships, but the guy always disappoints me. You get sucked in, think this time it might just work. Get serious and then, pfff!’ I flicked my fingers, ‘He’s gone. Talk about thin air. My boyfriends do a better vanishing job than any wannabe aliens ever could. I don’t want to get involved again. It’s too much of a hassle. Rather stick to work.’

  ‘Difficult when you look like you do,’ said Bea.

  ‘Come on, Bea, I’m nothing special.’

  ‘Your eyes are something special for a start. The rest of you is pretty good as well – you must have loads of men interested in you.’

  ‘My eyes were a nuisance in the valley. They thought I was a witch.’

  I leaned back in the chair, watching Bea stroke the purr
ing cat. My light grey eyes were a remarkable thing in the valley. They unnerved the older villagers and reinforced the suspicion that I was destined to be a sangoma – a traditional healer. From an early age I learnt that I only had to turn my eyes on them, stand still and stare, to make them scatter and run.

  But it hadn’t worked that way the night they beat me and drove me out of the valley.

  ‘What about the valley?’ asked Bea. ‘Do you go home?’

  ‘I haven’t been home for a very long time,’ I said. ‘My grandfather is still alive, but we have no contact.’

  ‘But why? I thought he’d be proud of you.’

  ‘Quite the opposite. He’s disappointed in me at every level.’

  ‘I suppose he wants you to go home and marry a local boy?’

  ‘A boy? That would be a bonus. He’s more interested in selling me off to old men who make good lobola offers.’

  ‘How does it work, in the valley?’ Bea asked. ‘Doesn’t anything ever change there? Forgive my curiosity, Thabisa, I’ve wanted to ask you before, but it seemed too inquisitive and you were so guarded about your background. I don’t want to pry, I’m really interested.’

  ‘I haven’t been back for ages but I’m sure it’s still the same – no electricity, no running water. The women still carry water up from the river on their heads. Just like it was a hundred years ago.’

  ‘It sounds like the place that time forgot. Surely people must leave, to get married, to get work?’ Bea asked.

  ‘Yes, I guess these days most young men go off to the cities for jobs. They’ll come back twice a year for a week or two to plant mielies in December and harvest in April. And to make babies with their wives. That’s the way it is. The valley is full of children, women and old men.’

  ‘It sounds a bit oppressive to me.’ Bea took another sip of her wine.

  ‘There are lots of places like it in South Africa. Tucked away in the hills and valleys. The young men go up to Gauteng to get work. When they come back they bring modern stuff, like portable radios and CD players. But it’s all still very traditional.’

  Bea leaned forward in the chair. ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like to be part of a place that’s so cut off.’

  ‘It’s different, believe me.’

  ‘How does your grandfather cope financially?’

  ‘Traditional leaders get a government grant. Then there are tributes from the villagers. I send money to him monthly, but he never cashes the cheques.’

  ‘Really? Oh my God, that means he’s seriously upset with you, Thabisa.’

  Bea got up and moved into the kitchen and I followed. ‘Spaghetti bolognaise okay?’ she asked, chopping an onion with speed and precision.

  ‘Great. My favourite. I’ll lay the table.’

  We worked in companionable silence for a few minutes.

  ‘What about the rest of your family? Do you have any contact?’ Bea finally asked.

  ‘You know both my parents are dead. My two uncles as well. My grandfather and I are the only remaining members of the family bloodline.’

  ‘Doesn’t he have other wives? Your grandfather?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s eighty-five, Bea, so it’s unlikely there will be any more children. He’s been a failure at procreation. He had five wives, but only three kids.’ I laughed bitterly. ‘So no pressure on me.’

  ‘Well, you never know, Thabisa, he could still surprise you... stranger things have happened!’ Bea rolled her eyes. We both laughed.

  ‘What about his siblings? Didn’t he have brothers and sisters?’

  ‘Only one, my great-aunt. Mama Elsie Tswane. She left the valley when she was very young, went to live in Jozi, but her husband died in an accident. Now she works in Port Elizabeth. She goes back to the valley regularly; heaven knows how she does it. It’s quite a climb, believe me. She must be well over seventy by now.’

  ‘How long have you been away?

  ‘Fourteen years,’ I said quietly. I was finding the whole conversation painful. ‘I’ve almost forgotten the valley. Jozi is my life now and I love it.’

  This wasn’t strictly true; the valley seemed to be with me a lot of the time. So many things reminded me.

  ‘So when you go back, do you reckon it’ll all be the same? The women doing all the work, like before?’ Bea asked. She spun lettuce, emptied it into a bowl and then picked up a knife to slice tomatoes.

  I laughed. ‘Believe me – nothing will have changed.’ I shook my head. The more I tried to stop thinking about the valley the more it was pushing in on me. ‘Take my word for it, Bea, the last thing you ever want to be is a valley wife. You can forget all the luxuries you take for granted: electricity, running water, hopping into your car and going to Pick ’n Pay if you’ve forgotten to buy milk. The women do all the domestic chores, by hand – on foot.

  ‘And the men?’

  ‘The men herd cattle.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Bea looked shocked.

  ‘Oh no, they also have very important business to attend to. After they’ve done with the herding, they have to go to the chief’s house, drink beer and talk.’

  We looked at each other for a moment. Then we exploded with laughter.

  ‘You’re kidding!’ Bea said.

  ‘No way! The valley’s a man’s world, Bea.’

  ‘Thank God I’ve always been independent.’

  ‘Well, we’ve both made our own way.’

  We smiled at each other; two working women out in the world – a world of jobs and special skills, where we knew the language and knew how to play the game.

  We chatted as Bea swirled pasta, tossed salad and poured more wine, all to the accompaniment of music playing on the FM radio. It was, appropriately, ‘The Flight of the Bumble Bee’. Perfect music for cooking pasta in this cosy cottage kitchen.

  After supper, Bea percolated coffee and we sat and chatted about the old days. The atmosphere was light and we laughed loudly together, resurrecting stories from the past.

  ‘Do you remember that old battle-axe... what was her name? The stores’ manager. Hilda Cloete, wasn’t it? Remember how she only gave out four sheets of toilet paper at a time?’

  Bea stirred whipped cream into her coffee and grinned at me.

  ‘What about those terrible stockings they made us wear at the station?’ I laughed. ‘Bare Beige for black women police officers, to make our legs look whiter.’

  Bea shook her head. ‘And we white ones wore black stockings, can you believe it? What were they thinking?’

  ‘You can still buy Bare Beige at Woollies, if you ever want a pair,’ I laughed.

  ‘Thanks Thabisa, I’ll go first thing in the morning!’

  It was after eleven when Bea drove me home. ‘Bye, sleep well,’ she called as she dropped me off at the Hill Street safe house.

  ‘Thanks for supper,’ I called back.

  The moon told its usual lies, made the ugly, flat-roofed cube of a house tolerable if not beautiful to the forgiving eye. I wondered why all police safe houses were so unattractive. This was no quaint 1820s settler cottage. The house was a one-up, one-down place, filled with heavy dark furniture and a gruesome brown and red carpet.

  I opened the door, stepped inside and froze. It was only a slight noise but it didn’t belong in the cottage. A prickly sensation on my neck told me I wasn’t alone. As I felt for my gun, a figure stepped out of the shadows.

  Black on black.

  In the faint trickle of light from the street I saw he wore a ski-mask and black tracksuit. Before I had time to react he reached, grabbed my shoulder, spun me around and punched me hard in the kidneys. Paralysing pain sliced through me and I fell forward, gasping for breath. Strong hands fastened round my neck, dragging me down the narrow hallway. I fought back, wrestling, kicking and punching, but my attacker was stronger. He dragged me down and straddled my chest. I gasped for air. A voice from a child’s cartoon squawked in my ear.

  ‘I’m warning you, get off this case, Thabisa Tswane,
leave Grahamstown and don’t come back. Otherwise you’ll die. Here’s a taste of what you’ll get.’

  I heard the click of a lighter, and then flames danced on the back of my hand. The pain was intense. I tried to yell but it came out like a cry. I tried to pull my hand away, but the man held on.

  ‘Do you understand what I’m saying? Do you...?’ His squeaky voice hissed in my ear.

  ‘Who are you?’ I whispered.

  Silence.

  Finally he stood. I felt him move past me. I grabbed at his leg, but he kicked my hand away.

  ‘Bitch!’ he shrilled.

  Then he laughed. High pitched and eerie, like a horror movie.

  A door slammed, footsteps sounded, a shot was fired. I heard Bea’s voice shouting: ‘Thabisa, Thabisa... are you alright?’

  I cradled my hand. It throbbed all the way to my elbow, and for a few moments I could do nothing but hold it against my chest and bite my lip.

  Then Bea was kneeling beside me, holding me, crying: ‘Oh my God, Thabisa, what happened? I was checking my messages on my cell phone outside, when this man, this burglar, shot out of your door and fired at the car. Are you okay?’

  I sat up, still cradling my hand. ‘It wasn’t a burglar. He attacked me. He – he knew my name.’

  ‘Oh, shit, Thabisa, we’ll have to report this. I’ll call the station now.’ She was already on her mobile. ‘He’s a lousy shot, whoever he is. He could have killed me but he smashed the windscreen of the car behind me instead.’

  All melted into slow motion, a police siren outside, police radios spluttering and crackling.

  ‘Here she is.’ Bea was standing in front of me, next to a tall man. I glanced up and saw it was the Australian from the hospital. His eyes lit up when he saw me and then his face darkened when he saw my blistered hand and wrist.

  ‘Who did this to you?’ he asked, his voice tight and angry.

  ‘Line of duty,’ I said. ‘I’m fine.’

  Looking at me, not saying a word, he cleaned the burns. Then he took off his gloves and wiped his hand across his forehead.