Hertzog took another step forward, now standing on the very edge of the stage. ‘I regret to inform you that under the provisions of the national state of emergency declared earlier this year by State President P.W. Botha, and in terms of Section 29 of the Internal Security Act ... I am detaining everyone in this hall until you give me what I want.’
Thirty eight
A stunned silence reigned in the large hall. All eyes except those of the soldiers were on Hertzog. In the back row someone sobbed quietly.
Mayor Botha snorted loudly. ‘You will not get away with this, Hertzog. I will make it my life’s work to bring you –’
‘Oh shut up, Botha,’ Hertzog said, interrupting the mayor, a look of utter contempt on his face. ‘You disgust me.’
‘What? You –’
‘No, in fact, you sicken me ... to my very core.’ He pointed a finger at Botha. ‘Your own child was taken from you ... by a twisted deviant. And all you can do is lie ... and deceive ... and prevaricate. You care nothing for the terror your son must have suffered. You care nothing for the death of your own child.’ Someone gasped. ‘Yes! I don’t know where your son is, Botha, but everything in my ten years of police experience tells me he’s long dead.’ Someone else began to cry. ‘You.’ He pointed repeatedly at Botha with a shaking finger. ‘You are the direct cause of your son’s death. You killed him.’
‘How dare you? This ... this ...’
‘All this time you’ve been feeding us only lies and deceit. If you had been less concerned with your own position and status ... your son would’ve still been alive.’
‘I ... I ...’ The Mayor looked around, helpless.
‘All of you. All of you.’ Hertzog now turned to the others. ‘Bismarck,’ he said, pointing at the doctor who had been sitting this whole time with his head in his hands. ‘You ... and your brother ... you killed Michelle. You killed her, dammit.’ He fixed both Bismarck brothers with a look of pure disgust.
Alte Bismarck began to sob horribly, a low haunting wail that reverberated across the hall.
‘Yes, you can cry, Mrs Bismarck. Your tears come too late I’m afraid.’ He now turned to the mayor’s wife. ‘And you, oh grand dame of this sick little town,’ Hertzog said, pointing at Carol-Ann Botha. ‘You killed your son. Yes. You are a murderer.’ She looked at Hertzog with a bizarre mixture of fear and disdain. ‘And you, Trudouw. What about you.’ Johann Trudouw averted his eyes, white hot shame burning in his face. ‘You killed your only daughter. You sick son of a bitch, you knew she was next. You sick bastard, you knew. And yet you did nothing. Your wealth and esteem mean more to you.’
Trudouw shook his head, biting his bottom lip into a thin white line. ‘No ... no ... no ...’
Hertzog’s eyes momentarily met those of the pastor. He alone in the hall remained seated, placid and unmoved.
‘All of you, you’re all murderers,’ he said, pointing to the town’s elite. ‘And maybe the rest of you too. In your silence, you have become like them. Cold-blooded murderers.’
Hertzog rushed to the podium. He grabbed the manila envelope. From its interior he extracted a sheaf of glossy A4 photographs. He jumped from the stage.
‘Look,’ he said, shoving the photos into the face of the front row citizens. They all recoiled in horror. ‘Look,’ he said jogging down the front row. Everyone averted their eyes in horror. ‘Look.’ He stopped, holding up the shots for everyone to see. ‘These are the three corpses we discovered on the Bredekamp smallholding. Three mummified corpses.’ Some purposefully averted their eyes while others craned to see. ‘Two died from gunshot wounds to the head. A third died from blunt force trauma. Three corpses. A woman and two men. Once three young people, in their early twenties. Now mummified corpses.’ He shoved the pictures into a nearby woman’s face. She exclaimed loudly. ‘Look. Because these people ... these people whose children have disappeared ... they killed them.’ There were gasps. Several people turned to look at the town’s upper echelon; the Bismarcks, the Bothas, Trudouw. ‘Yes, and there’s another too. Not here tonight. Alistair Rockcliff. He too is a brazen murderer.’ Frenzied whispering once again broke out. ‘But don’t look so smug. Don’t you dare,’ Hertzog said, singling out random people in the crowd. ‘You. And you. And you. You’re all guilty too. Your silence has made you guilty. You’re all guilty.’ Hertzog paused, out of breath.
A deep terrible silence clung to the air.
‘Yes. Twenty years ago, these men committed a vile act. Twenty years ago, they caused the death of these three people. And all of you ... all of you ... you’ve been covering it up ever since.’ He glared at those nearest to him. ‘No wonder half of you chose to blow your own brains away.’ Several people gasped in shock. ‘Yes, you’re shocked. What do you think I must feel?’ He glowered at the people of Coffee. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. I feel disgust. A contempt that I cannot ever recall feeling with such intensity.’ He threw the photographs at a nearby couple. They recoiled in fright.
Hertzog stood, out of breath. For long seconds he said nothing. ‘No-one leaves here tonight until you tell me exactly what happened twenty years ago ... in nineteen-sixty-six. No-one!’
Mayor Botha puffed out his chest. ‘You cannot blackmail us, you sonofabitch. And you cannot intimidate –’
Someone screamed. It was a howl of such tortured pain that half of the hall recoiled in horror. Everyone looked towards the origin of the terrible shriek. It was Alte Bismarck.
‘SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. YOU DIRTY PIECE OF SHIT. SHUUUUUUT UP.’ She jumped over several rows of chairs, her face twisted into a demented mask of hate, her fingernails held out in front of her. A wild demon of rage, tearing at Botha. Taken aback by her fury it took a moment before some of the nearby men grabbed her in order to restrain her insane rage. ‘YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID.’ She screamed and spat, digging at the men who tried to contain her. ‘YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID. WHAT ALL OF YOU DID.’ With a wild look in their eyes, the men managed to bring her under control. She fought and struggled but eventually relented. ‘And you, you pathetic excuse for a husband,’ she said, now directing her fury at her husband. ‘Fucking little boys when you should be protecting your own family. I hate you. I hate you. I HATE ALL OF YOU.’ De Wet Bismarck buried his face even deeper in his hands. Alte looked from face to face, a wild animal. ‘It stops tonight. Everything ... everything stops tonight.’ She pushed the two men aside. ‘Let go of me, dammit.’ Slowly and with great care, shielding their faces, the two men relinquished their hold. Alte Bismarck turned to Hertzog, sniffing loudly, her mascara running thick black tracks under her eyes. ‘I will tell you. I will tell you everything. If they’re all too cowardly ... then I will tell you.’
Major Dawid Bismarck stepped forward and slapped her hard through the face.
Hertzog ran forward. ‘Detain that man.’
The nearest two soldiers detached themselves and seized the station commander. The one soldier forced his rifle around Bismarck’s neck, incapacitating him. ‘You stupid fucking bitch ... don’t you dare. This is not your life. Don’t you fucking dare.’ The last words disappeared in a wheeze as the soldier increased the pressure, throttling Bismarck. His face turned blood red. They dragged him through the crowd and forced him outside.
‘Alte, you have no right to speak for us. Think carefully before you speak. Your words have consequences. Don’t damn yourself –’
Hertzog pointed at Botha. ‘Detain that man as well.’ Two soldiers grabbed the mayor.
He held up his hands and didn’t resist. ‘You will pay for this, you dirty fucking whore,’ he said as they dragged him outside, glaring at Alte Bismarck with pure hate.
‘No.’ Johann Trudouw stood up in the row directly in front of Alte Bismarck. ‘We’ve all paid for this. Too much. And too long.’ He placed a gentle hand on Alte Bismarck’s shoulder. ‘Sit down, Alte. It’s time that I become a man.’ He looked at Hertzog with tears in his eyes. ‘I will tell you, Captain. I will tell you everything we did.’
&n
bsp; Part Three
The Confession and the Barbecue Bloodbath
The Confession
The three young adults stood along the shoulder of the N8 highway, waving at passing cars. Every now and then a motorist whizzing by would honk amiably. Unfortunately, no-one had yet bothered to pick up the boisterous group. The two young men dropped their thumbs as yet another car sped past. The girl, who held a torn piece of cardboard with the word VANDERKLOOF written on it, jumped up and down as the car disappeared into the distance. ‘Whoo-hooo! Thank you, thank you,’ she said, shouting in sing song.
The taller of the two men looked at her. He had long dark hair, falling in uncombed cascades onto his shoulders. He was dressed in bellbottom jeans and a flowing cheesecloth shirt, complemented by a leather vest. His male companion was similarly attired but sported a Rolling Stones t-shirt instead, also with long dishevelled hair. Both sprouted full beards. The girl was dressed in an ankle length dress featuring a floral pattern. Her long blonde locks were held in place by a string of beads, tied around her forehead. Their “uniforms” looked makeshift and casual although in reality they took great care in composing their looks. This was the summer of love after all. And it simply wouldn’t do to go around dressed like a square.
Yes, this was by all accounts a great time to be alive. Flower power ruled. Love was in the air. And, if you were young, the party was non-stop and global. Barely a month before the dashing Robert Kennedy had visited South Africa; the Beatles had just released Paperback Writer; and in the US the Supreme Court had just passed the Miranda Bill, changing law enforcement forever.
The girl turned to the tall youth. ‘Maybe I should give them some enticement to pick us up,’ she said, coquettishly slipping the band of her dress down her shoulder, revealing the curve of her breast. The other male turned his head but couldn’t help staring.
‘Yeah, Susan, maybe not,’ he replied, snorting with exaggerated disgust.
She affected a feigned expression of sorrow and began singing. ‘Oh Ronny, Ronny ... ain’t got no money ... but if your love is sweet I’ll be your honey.’
Despite himself Ronny smiled. He looked at her with affection. ‘You missed your calling,’ he said.
‘What? Singer?’ She turned her left palm up to the heavens and emitted a falsetto, posing in operatic style.
‘No, stripper.’ The three youths laughed. After the laughter had died down Ronny stared at Susan, shaking her head. ‘You and your dumb ideas. Does your aunt even know we’re coming?’
She shook her head, laughing. ‘Nope. But don’t worry. She’s cool. And besides, you must see this little place,’ she said, referring to the resort town of Vanderkloof. ‘It’s adorable.’
‘Yeah, adorably shit-kicking and backward, I’m sure.’
‘Hey,’ Josh said, shouting to get their attention. ‘Here comes another car. And it looks like a bakkie.’
‘Sweet. Get that sign up, Cinnamon,’ Ronny said, talking to Susan. ‘We got ourselves a customer.’
To their delight the bakkie stopped a few yards from their location. They all ran up to the lone driver as he wound down the window. They had all agreed that Susan would do the talking. ‘Hi there,’ she said with saccharine sweetness. ‘Can you give us a ride to Vanderkloof?’
‘Sorry, darling,’ the bleary-eyed young man said, eyeing Susan’s curved figure beneath the flimsy dress. ‘I’m only going to Coffee. But it’s only about seventy kilometres from Vanderkloof.’
The girl looked at her male companions for confirmation. They nodded reluctantly. ‘Okay,’ she said, nodding with enthusiasm. ‘I’ve never been there.’
‘You take the back, sunshine,’ Ronny said to Josh as he and Susan went around the back to climb into the passenger side.
‘Hey, I’m Susan and this is Ronny,’ Susan said as she slid into the front, next to the driver. ‘And that’s Josh,’ she said, pointing at him.
‘Oh, hello,’ the driver said. ‘I’m Wouter.’ He held out his hand. ‘Wouter Bredekamp.’
***
About an hour later the Datsun bakkie pulled into De Beers Street, past the famous giant coffee pot. Wouter Bredekamp pulled up outside the OK Supermarket. ‘Well, here you go. Welcome to Coffee.’
Susan eyed the sinking sun. It was getting late. ‘So, uh, Wouter, you say Vanderkloof is seventy kays away?’ He nodded. ‘So ... where does one stay overnight in Coffee?’
Wouter shrugged. ‘You’re welcome to stay with me. At my place.’
‘What?’ She asked, feigning surprise. ‘At your place?’
‘Sure,’ Wouter said. ‘It’s just a few kilometres down the road. It has a big sign that says “Bredekamp”.’
‘A big sign,’ Susan said, gushing. Ronny shook his head. ‘Oh you’re a sweetums, aren’t you?’ She tweaked his nose with her forefinger.
Wouter smiled, completely charmed. ‘Well, we can go there –’
‘What?’ She placed both hands at her mouth in feigned shock. ‘It’s not nearly dudu time yet, Woutie. Are you a spoilsport, or what?’ Wouter giggled. ‘Goodness, no. First we’re gonna party a bit, or what boys?’ She looked at Ronny next to her and Josh, sitting in the back of the bakkie. She leaned over onto Wouter and looked at him with a coy expression. ‘So what do bad boys do for fun in Coffee, Woutie?’
***
‘We were young. It’s a cliché ... but I guess you could say the world was our oyster.’ Johann Trudouw spoke slowly, his head bowed. His voice was barely above a whisper. Except for his low baritone not a single sound disturbed the silence. Every person in the packed hall stared at him in rapt awe. ‘We had all led privileged lives. We had all come from wealthy homes. We enjoyed every moment of our lives.’ He paused. ‘It was the school holidays ... July,’ he added for clarification. ‘We were all in our last year of school, except for Dawid. Alistair attended school at Michaelhouse in the Eastern Cape. De Wet, Dawid, Lloyd and I attended school at Grey College in Bloemfontein.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It was a great time to be young. We were none of us into that hippie shit ... but it was good to be young. And we felt like we could conquer the world. There was nothing we couldn’t do. There was nothing we couldn’t have. Everything was ours for the taking. We were the masters of our own universe. In only a few months we would write our final exams and then it was off to university. De Wet and I had already applied to Pukke,’ he said, referring to the University of Pretoria. ‘Alistair was going to Rhodes and Lloyd was heading for Stellenbosch. It was the best time of our lives.’ He paused for a long time, staring at the floor. ‘I don’t know what day it was, but we were all back in Coffee for the holidays and we decided to meet up in a little place called the Vineyard ... a little restaurant and bar. We wanted to celebrate. And just unwind ... before the finals. We had only been there for a short while ... when they showed up.’
***
‘So, is this the place, Woutie?’ Wouter Bredekamp nodded, smiling sheepishly. The group stood in front of a quaint little restaurant with ivy-decked windows. The entrance was barred by a pair of large red wooden swing doors. ‘I see a red door and I want it painted black,’ Susan said, singing and laughing at the same time. She stepped forward and boldly shoved the doors aside. The others followed in a more subdued manner.
Inside the long bar was lined with about half a dozen men. Four old-timers sat in the section nearest to the swing doors while a few loners occupied the middle section. At the far end sat a group of youths barely out of their teens.
‘The party’s come to town, boys,’ Susan said, waltzing down the length of the bar, shaking her hips in exaggerated coquettishness. Every single one of the bar patrons turned to look as she strutted towards an empty space at the counter. She slid in next to an elderly drinker with a huge walrus moustache. ‘Hello handsome. What’s your name?’ The elderly man snorted in disgust and turned away from her.
Ronny joined her at the bar. ‘Take it easy, Susan. Not everybody is into love and peace.’
‘Oh come
now, Ronny Roo,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek. ‘These are good country folk. What are you worried about? I bet you they all go to church on Sundays.’
‘That’s not worth nearly as much as you think,’ Ronny said, grumbling.
Susan spotted the group of boys ogling her. ‘Well, hello there, boys.’ She leaned forward and wagged a finger at them. ‘Do your mommies know you’re here?’
One of the boys flicked his hair in disdain. ‘Yeah well, I shot a kudu last week. So ... like I’m not as young as you think,’ Johann Trudouw said.
‘Oooh,’ Susan said, playfully nudging Ronny in the ribs, ‘a big game hunter. Wow. That’s ... really ... something.’ Ronny shook his head while he ordered drinks for the four of them. Susan leaned back onto the bar, resting her elbows on the counter while she surveyed the restaurant on the other side of a wooden screen. ‘I tell you what. One of you big white hunters buy me a drink and I won’t tell anyone.’
The boys exchanged quick glances. A tall dark haired boy was the first to take the bait. He jumped up, almost falling over the others, and walked towards her. ‘So ... uh ... what ... what will it be?’ Dawid Bismarck asked.
‘Something tall dark and handsome,’ she said, cooing. She looked at him for a moment then feigned surprise. ‘Oh, you’re talking about the drink? Hmm.’ She pretended to ruminate deeply on the matter. ‘I want Sex on the Beach, honey.’ Dawid Bismarck blushed deep red. The other boys giggled, hands in front of their mouths. He fumbled in his pockets. Half a dozen coins spilled from his shaking hands.
Ronny pulled Susan towards himself. ‘Jesus, Susan. What the hell do you think you’re doing? They’re just fucking boys.’
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