Devil's Peak bg-1

by Deon Meyer

  “All my life I wanted to be a part of them. I wanted to be there at the front. I wanted to throw my spears and keep the short assegai for last. I wanted to smell the gunpowder and the blood. They said the stream in town ran red with blood that day. I wanted to look an Englishman in the eyes and he must lift his bayonet and we must oppose each other as soldiers, each fighting for his cause. I wanted to make war with honor. If his blade was faster than mine, if his strength was greater, then so be it. Then I would die like a man. Like a warrior.”

  He was quiet for a long time. A distance past the turnoff to Bushmans River Mouth he said: “There is no honor anymore. It makes no difference what Struggle you choose.”

  Again silence descended on the car, but it felt to Thobela as if the character of the silence had changed.

  “What happened, that day?” Griessel’s voice came from the back.

  Thobela smiled in the darkness. For many reasons.

  “It was a tremendous battle. The English had cannon and guns. Shrapnel shells. A thousand Xhosa fell. Some of them they found days later, miles away, with bunches of grass pushed into their gaping wounds to stem the bleeding. But it was a close thing. There was time in the battle when the balance began to swing in favor of the Xhosa. The ranks of Nxele were too fast and too many, the English could not reload quickly enough. Time stood still. The battle was on a knife edge. Then the Redcoats got their miracle. His name was Boesak, can you believe it? He was a Khoi big-game hunter turned soldier. He was out on patrol with a hundred and thirty men and they came back, on that day. At just the right time for the English, when the British captain was ready to sound the retreat. Boesak and a hundred and thirty of the best marksmen in the country. And they aimed for the biggest warriors, the Xhosa who fought up front, who ran between the men and urged them on. The heart of the assault. They were shot down one by one, like bulls from the herd. And then it was all over.”

  * * *

  She tried to grind the pills in a flour sifter, but they were too hard.

  She took the breadboard and a teaspoon and crushed the pills—some pieces shot over the floor and she began to panic. She used more pills, pressed. The teaspoon banged on the breadboard.

  Would Carlos hear?

  She wiped the yellow powder off the breadboard into a small dish she had set on one side. Was it fine enough?

  She set the table. She couldn’t find candles or candlesticks so she just put the place mats and cutlery on the table. She called Carlos to come to the table and then she brought out the food: fillet of beef stuffed with smoked oysters, baked potatoes and

  petit pois.

  Carlos couldn’t compliment her enough, although she knew the food wasn’t that special. He was still buttering her up. “You see, conchita, no crew. Just me and you. No problem.”

  She said he must save room for dessert, pears in wine and cinnamon. And she was going to make him real Irish coffee and it was very important to her that he drink it because she had made it the way she had been taught, long ago when she worked for a caterer in Bloemfontein.

  He said he would drink every drop and then they were going to make love, right here on the table.

  * * *

  Somewhere on the N2, fifty kilometers before Port Elizabeth, Griessel made him stop.

  “Do you need a piss?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now’s the time.”

  When they had finished, standing four meters apart, the white man holding his organ in one hand and the pistol in the other, they went on their way.

  At the outskirts of the city they stopped for petrol without getting out of the car.

  When they passed the turnoff to Hankey and the road began to descend down to the Gamtoos Valley, Griessel spoke again: “When I was young I played bass guitar. In a band.”

  Thobela didn’t know if he should respond.

  “I thought that was what I wanted to do.

  “Yesterday night I listened to music my son gave me. When it was finished I lay in the dark and I remembered something. I remembered the day I realized I would never be more than an average bass guitarist.

  “I had finished school, it was December holidays and there was a battle of the bands at Green Point. We went to listen, the guys from my band and me. There was this bassist, short with snow-white hair in one or other of the rock bands that played other people’s songs. Jissis, he was a magician. Standing stock-still, not moving his body in the slightest. He didn’t even look at the neck, just stood there with closed eyes and his fingers flew and the sounds came out like a river. Then I realized where my place was. I saw someone who had been born for bass guitar. Fuck, I could tell we felt the same. The music did the same inside; it opened you up. But feeling and doing are not the same thing. That is the tragedy. You want to be like

  that,

  so fucking casually brilliant, but you don’t have it in you.

  “So I knew I would never be a real bass guitarist, but I wanted to be like that in something. That good. So . . . skillful. In something. I began to wonder how you found it. How did you start to search for the thing you were made for? What if there wasn’t one? What if you were just an average fucker in everything? Born average and living your average life and then you fucking die and no one knows the difference.

  “While I was searching I joined the police, because what I didn’t know is that you know without knowing. Something deep in your head directs you to what you

  can

  do. But it took me a while. Because I didn’t think being a policeman was something you could feel, like music.

  “Also, it doesn’t happen just like that. You have to pay your dues, you have to learn, make your own mistakes. But one day you sit with a case file that makes no sense to any other fucker, and you read the statements and the notes and the reports and it all comes together. And you feel this thing inside. You hear the music of it, you pick up its rhythm deep inside you and you know this is what you were made for.”

  Thobela heard the white man sigh. He wanted to tell him he understood.

  “And then nothing can stop you,” said Griessel. “Nobody. Except yourself.

  “Everyone thinks you’re good. They tell you. ‘Fuck it, Benny, you’re the best. Jissis, pal, you’re red hot.’ And you want to believe it, because you can see they are right, but there is this little voice inside you that says you are just a Parow Arrow who was never really good at anything. An average little guy. And sooner or later they will catch you out. One day they will expose you and the world will laugh because you thought you were something.

  “So, before it happens, you have to expose yourself. Destroy yourself. Because if you do it yourself, then you at least have a sort of control over it.”

  There was a noise behind, almost a laugh. “Fucking tragic.”

  44.

  He fell asleep at the table. She saw it coming. Carlos’s tongue began to drag more and more. He switched over to Spanish, as if she understood every word.

  He leaned heavily on his place mat, eyes struggling to focus on her.

  The scene played out as if she had no part in it, as if it were happening in another space and time. He had a stupid smile on his face. He mumbled.

  He lowered his head interminably slowly to the tabletop. He put his palms flat on the surface. He said one last, incomprehensible word and then his breath came deep and easy. She knew she couldn’t leave him like that. If his body relaxed he would fall.

  She rose and came around behind him. She put her hands under his arms, entwining the fingers of her hands with his. Lifted him. He was as heavy as lead, dead weight. He made a sound and gave her a fright, not knowing if he was deeply enough asleep. She stood like that, feeling she couldn’t hold him. Then she dragged him, step by step, over to the big couch. She fell back into a sitting position with Carlos on top of her.

  He spoke, clear as crystal. Her body jerked. She sat still a moment, realizing he was not conscious. She rolled him over her with great effort, so that he lay askew on the couch. She squirmed out from under him an
d stood beside the couch, breath racing, perspiration sprung out on her skin, needing badly to sit to give her legs time to recover from their trembling.

  She forced herself to continue. First she called a taxi, so they could arrive sooner; she didn’t know how much time she would have.

  She made sure the plastic container of pills was in her handbag. She took the dog and the syringe and went down the stairs to the garage.

  The BMW was locked. She swore. Went up again. She couldn’t find the keys. Panic overcame her and she was conscious of how her hands shook while she searched. Until she thought to look in Carlos’s trouser pocket and there they were.

  Back to the garage. She pressed the button on the key and the electronic beep was sudden and shrill in the bare space. She opened the door. She shoved the toy dog under the passenger seat. Taking the syringe, she put her thumb on the depressor and aimed the point at the backrest of the rear seat. Her hand shook badly. She made a noise of frustration and put her left hand on her right wrist to stabilize it. She must get this part right. She squeezed the syringe quickly and jerked it from right to left. The dark red jet hit the material. Fine drops spattered back onto her arms and face.

  She inspected her handiwork. It didn’t look right. It didn’t look real.

  Her heart thumped. There was nothing she could do. She climbed out looking back one last time. She had forgotten nothing. Shut the door.

  There were still a couple of drops in the syringe. She must get them on the dress. And put the garment somewhere in his cupboard.

  * * *

  He weighed up the policeman’s words. He assumed the man was trying to explain why he had become corrupt. Why he was doing what he was doing.

  “How did they find you?” he asked later, beyond the turnoff to Humansdrop.

  “Who?”

  “Sangrenegra. How did you come to work for them?”

  “I don’t work for Sangrenegra.”

  “Who do you work for, then?”

  “I work for the SAPS.”

  “Not at the moment.”

  It took a while for Griessel to grasp what he had said. He repeated that ironic laugh. “You think I’m crooked. You think that’s what I meant when I said . . .”

  “What else?”

  “I drink, that’s what I do. I booze my fucking life away. My wife and children and my job and myself. I never took a cent from anyone. I never needed to. Alcohol is efficient enough if you want to fuck yourself up.”

  “Then why are we driving this way—why am I not in a cell in Port Elizabeth?”

  It burst out and he heard the rage and the fear in the man’s voice: “Because they’ve got my daughter. The brother of Carlos Sangrenegra took my daughter. And if I don’t deliver you to them, they will . . .”

  Griessel said no more.

  Thobela had all the pieces of the jigsaw now and he didn’t like the picture they made.

  “What is her name?”

  “Carla.”

  “How old is she?”

  Griessel took a long time answering, as if he wanted to ponder the meaning of the conversation. “Eighteen.”

  He realized the white man had hope, and he knew he would have, too, if he were in the same position. Because there was nothing else you could do.

  “I will help you,” he said.

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “You do.”

  Griessel did not respond.

  “Do you really believe they will say, ‘Thank you very much, here is your daughter, you may leave?’ ”

  Silence.

  “It’s your decision, policeman. I can help you. But it’s your decision.”

  * * *

  Eleven minutes past seven in the morning he hammered on her door, as she knew he would. She opened up and he rushed in and grabbed her arm and shook her.

  “Why you do that? Why?” The pressure of his fingers hurt her and she slapped him against the head with her left hand, as hard as she could.

  “Bitch!” Carlos screamed and let go of her arm and hit her over the eye with his fist. She nearly fell, but regained her balance.

  “You cunt,” she screamed as loud as she could and hit out at him with her fist. He jerked his head out of the way and smacked her on the ear with an open hand. It sounded like a cannon shot in her head. She hit back, this time striking his cheekbone with her fist.

  “Bitch!” he shouted again in a shrill voice. He grabbed her hands and pulled her off her feet. The back of her head hit the carpet and for a moment she was dizzy. She blinked her eyes; he was on top of her now. “Fucking bitch.” He slapped her against the head again. She got a hand loose and scratched at him.

  He grabbed her wrist and glared at her. “You like, bitch, Carlos see you like this.”

  He pinned her down with both hands above her head. “Now you will like even more,” he said and grabbed her nightie at the bosom and jerked. The garment tore.

  “Are you going to fuck me good?” she said. “Because it will be the first time, you cunt.”

  He slapped her again and she tasted blood in her mouth.

  “You can’t fuck. You are the world’s worst fuck!”

  “Shut up, bitch!”

  She spat at him, spat blood and saliva on his face and shirt. He grabbed her breast and squeezed until she shrieked in pain. “You like that, whore? You like that?”

  “Yes. At least I can feel you now.”

  Squeezed again. She screamed.

  “Why you drug me? Why? You steal my moneys! Why?”

  “I drugged you because you are such a shit lover. That’s why.”

  “First, I will fuck you. Then we will find the moneys.”

  “Help me!” she shouted.

  He pressed a hand over her mouth.

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  She bit the soft part of his palm. He yelled and hit out at her again. She jerked her head away, screaming with all her might. “Help me, please, help me!”

  One of her hands came free; she struggled and punched, scratched and screamed. A man’s voice came from somewhere outside, or down the corridor, she couldn’t be sure. “What’s going on?”

  Carlos heard. He bumped her with both hands on her chest. He stood up. He was out of breath. There was a swelling on his cheek.

  “I will come back,” he said.

  “Promise me you will fuck me good, Carlos. Just promise me that, you shitless cunt.” She lay on the ground, naked, bleeding and gasping. “Just once.”

  “I will kill you,” he said and stumbled towards the door. Opened it. “You take my moneys. I will kill you.” Then he was gone.

  * * *

  Beyond Plettenberg Bay he asked Griessel: “Where must you take me?”

  “I will know when we get to George. They will phone again.”

  * * *

  She examined herself in the mirror before calling the police. She was bleeding. The left side of her face was red. It had begun to swell. There was a cut over her eyes. There were dark red finger marks on her breasts.

  It looked perfect.

  She took her cell phone and sat down on the couch. She looked up the number she had saved in the phone yesterday. Her fingers worked precisely. She looked down at the phone. She was rock steady.

  She dropped her head, trying to feel the pain, the humiliation, the anger, hate and fear. She took a deep breath and let it out tremulously. Only a single tear at first, then another and another. Until she was crying properly. Then she pressed the call button.

  It rang seven times. “South African Police Services, Caledon Square. How can we help you?”

  * * *

  The policeman’s phone rang while they were stopped at yet another traffic light in Knysna.

  Griessel spoke quietly, swallowing his words, and Thobela could not hear what he said. The conversation lasted less than a minute.

  “They want us to keep driving,” he said at last.

  “Where to?”

  “Swellendam.”

  “Is that where they are?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I need to stretch my legs.”


  “Get out of town first.”

  “Do you think I want to escape, Griessel? Do you think I will run away from this situation?”

  “I think nothing.”