by Deon Meyer
A silence that stretched and stretched.
“She said to him: ‘You know I’m yours.’ I stood here—she didn’t know—I stood here and I heard her saying, ‘All yours.’” The last words were a cry again; the voice jumped an octave, uncomprehending.
“‘You know. Like last night,’ she said. And I hit her and she ran. To the bathroom at first . . .”
He looked up, pleading. “I don’t even know who he was.” He got no reaction.
“What am I going to do?”
In the passage: he standing, the man half-lying, half-sitting against the wall; the revolver hung against his leg; someone outside called Captain, Captain, silence again, only the wind and the rain and the sobs, now soft and even, the man’s eyes on the firearm.
An awareness of a possibility, of a way out, a comfort; consider, count the cost, the future.
A slow decision.
“Will you go out?”
Yes, because he knew the yearning, the decision, he knew the darkness; turned round, toward the door; opened it, cries outside, Captain, jesus you’re okay, what’s the fucker doing; the sound of the shot inside; he didn’t move, simply stood there, his head bowed until they realized and ran past him, through the door.
“The sentence was suspended.”
He looked squarely at Hanna Nortier. She had wanted to ask. She had wanted to know. She wanted to sail the soul of Mat Joubert like an unknown sea, map the contours of the Coast of the Dead, describe the landmarks, name them. Ask me, Doc, ask me. I’ll tell you how close to it I was that night, back at home, to blowing my brains all over the living room carpet with a service pistol. I could see and feel the release of my friend in Parow, touch it, with my service pistol in my hand, my thumb on the safety catch, on my way to Lara.
Willy Theal had hammered on the door. Mat, dear boy, dear boy. The thin arm around his shoulders. They stood on the front veranda, his head against Theal’s chest, the pistol pointing to the ground, the moment past, the intensity lost.
Ask me, Doc.
Hanna Nortier evaded his gaze, wrote in the fucking file, which he wanted to grab and read, aloud, let’s see what the clever Doc thinks . . .
“And the petition?” She spoke softly again, like the previous times, her gaiety gone, dissipated by the black cloud that was Mat Joubert, the world’s only intelligent black cloud, who cast shadows wherever it went, who blotted out the sun, quenched laughter.
“They thought the punishment wasn’t severe enough. Van der Vyver, the sergeant at the house in Parow. He said I’d endanger lives again. He told the others. He was right. They went to Theal. My commanding officer. But Theal said I’d be okay, they were in too much of a hurry. Then they drew up a petition, took it as far as the assistant district commissioner, who had known my father and stopped the whole thing and said loyalty kept the force together. My father. Gave me from the grave what he couldn’t give me in life. It’s ironic, isn’t it, Hanna?”
He used her name for the first time, without respect. She could’ve dropped it today. She could’ve discussed other things today, this and that, because he was getting his act together. I’m busy getting my act together, Hanna, and now you’re fucking with my head. Doc, I’ll be fine, I promise you, tomorrow evening my head will be just fine . . .
She blew her nose and only then did he see the wetness in her eyes and he half rose from his deep chair.
“Life is ironical,” she said, her voice under control. “That’s enough for today.”
Then he knew that he had touched her and wondered how, and he wondered what it meant.
Janek Milos opened the door and Benny Griessel knew he had his man.
“It’s your nose,” Griessel said.
Milos turned and ran into the house. Griessel swore and sprang after him, hoping that he would catch him quickly, because after a hundred meters, or less, he wouldn’t have a hope.
Milos shut doors as far as he went, but the back door was locked and in his feverish haste he couldn’t get the key to turn. Griessel struck the man’s back with his shoulder, forcing him against the door. The wood splintered, breath woofed out of the man’s mouth. Griessel was on him, his knee against the man’s back, forcing him to the ground. He jerked his arm back and twisted it toward his neck. Handcuffs on the right hand. Click. Found the other hand. Click.
“Hello, sweetheart,” said Griessel and kissed Janek Milos on the back of his bald head.
“If you don’t sue the Argus, I will,” said Margaret Wallace’s mother over the telephone, her voice shrill with agitation.
“Why, Mom?”
“I don’t want to tell you. It’s horrible the way they lie.”
“What is it, Mother?”
“It’ll upset you.”
“Mother, please.”
“They say . . . Heavens, my dear, it’s a pack of lies. It’s just that I’m so . . . so . . .”
“Mother!” A desperate order.
“They say Jimmy was with another woman. The day he died.”
“You must be fucking joking,” said the Brigadier, who was pacing to and fro in the parade room. “The minister is shitting his pants and you tell me the thing still doesn’t make sense. You tell me there’s forty thousand rand in the priest’s trailer and it’s just fine because he banks on a Saturday. You think the church is the answer and relatives have never heard of it.” He stopped and glared at de Wit and Joubert. “You must be fucking joking.”
They stared at the floor.
“Have you any idea of the pressure? The General is too scared to answer his telephone and I had to flee my office because the press are camped out in the street. And the bastards are everywhere. Here, at the gate, a uniform virtually had to save me from the vultures and you tell me the thing doesn’t make sense.” He started pacing again, his arms swinging. His face was scarlet, the veins in his neck swollen. “The minister says we’re the laughingstock overseas. We simple Boers are so stupid they have to send us a clairvoyant. Whose idea was that? You have a list of names the motherfucker wants to kill and they’re still dying like flies. And now you look so grateful that the names on the list are coming to an end.”
He took a kick at a chair. It fell over backwards, hit the wall, sprang back, clattered over the floor, and lay there.
“Doesn’t anyone have anything to say?”
“Brigadier,” said de Wit, his smile sickly and askew.
“Don’t you Brigadier me. Never in my forty years in the force have I come across such a sorry bunch of asshole dumb policemen. You couldn’t catch a dead locust in a jam jar, if you ask me. What else do you want the motherfucker to do? Walk in here and mount his goddamn Mauser against the wall and say Catch me, please? By this time all the policemen in the province are here to help. What else must we do? Get Gauteng’s as well? What about the army? Let’s call them in as well, tanks and bombers and the fucking navy. Let’s not play games here. Let’s make real cunts of ourselves. Let’s phone the Chinese. They’ve got clairvoyants for Africa. And the Japanese. And we get Hollywood to come and film you because only their cameras are still missing.”
Another chair tumbled, clattered.
“Jesus Christ.”
They stared at the floor. De Wit, Joubert, Petersen, O’Grady, Snyman, and Vos.
The Brigadier’s hands made signs but he seemed incapable of further speech.
The door opened. Heads turned. Griessel came in.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said proudly, “meet Sweetheart,” and taking the man by his shirt, pulled him into the room.
39.
January 17, 19:17. Interrogation of suspect, SAP two slash one slash nine five slash fourteen, Murder and Robbery, Bellville South. Investigating officer: Detective Sergeant Benjamin Griessel. Observers: Colonel Bart de Wit, Captain Mat Joubert, Captain Gerry . . . uh . . .”
“Gerbrand.”
“Captain Gerbrand Vos. First question to suspect. Full name.”
“Janek Wachlaff Milos.”
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sp; “Nationality?”
“Eskimo. You can hear that. I speak fluent Eskimoose.”
“Nationality?”
“South African.”
“Identity number?”
“Five nine zero five five one two seven zero zero one.”
“Address.”
“Seventeen Iris Avenue, Pinelands.”
“You are aware of your right to have a legal representative present. If you don’t have a legal representative, or cannot afford one, the State will appoint such a legal representative. At any time during the proceedings you may ask the State to appoint an alternative legal representative, upon which the case before a magistrate of the district court or a higher court . . .”
“Spare me. I don’t need an attorney.”
“You’re going to need an advocate. We’re hitting you with armed robbery, Wachlaff.”
“It was a toy gun.”
“Pistol.”
“Whatever.”
“Do you admit that you’re undergoing this interrogation of your own free will, without any pressure or encouragement by the South African Police . . .”
“South African Police Service.”
“Sorry, Colonel. Without any pressure or encouragement from the South African Police Service?”
“Yes.”
“Where did your name originate?”
“Good old Eskimo name.”
“You’re a funny one, Wachlaff.”
“My father was Polish, okay?”
“Is your mother Afrikaans?”
Silence.
“Will you speak? For the sake of the tape recording.”
“Yes, she was. What has that to do with anything?”
“Profession?”
“Housewife.”
“No, yours.”
“Makeup artist. Freelance.”
“Not very successful?”
“Not my fault. Blame the SABC. The more they dub, the more we die of hunger.”
“So you decided to rob a few banks.”
“Only Premier. The other one was to send him the message.”
“For the record, the accused is referring to Captain Mat Joubert. Why Premier, Wachlaff?”
“They owe me.”
“They owe you?”
“I wouldn’t have taken more than forty-five thousand rand. That’s what they owe me.”
“Why?”
“My house.”
“Your house?”
“They approved the loan. No problem, Mr. Milos. We’re happy to assist, Mr. Milos. Just sign here, Mr. Milos, we’ll let you have it at a quarter percent less.”
“And?”
“Then they withdrew the loan. Because their assessor hadn’t seen the structural defect until I told them about it.”
“Structural defect?”
“The entire back of the house is fucking slowly sinking into the sand but the contract says the seller is not responsible and I had already signed. ‘We’re sorry, Mr. Milos, but there’s not enough security for the loan. No, it would be overcapitalizing to have the defect repaired, Mr. Milos. We’re transferring the loan to overdraft facilities. Do look at paragraph so-and-so, subparagraph this-and-that, the interest is just slightly higher.’ And then the SAB fucking C downsized and what could I do? Phone Murder and Robbery?”
“Then you began to rob banks?”
“I looked for work.”
“With no success.”
“No, sir, I was snowed under by offers. Twentieth Century Fox, MGM, Warner. They stood in line. But I really don’t want to be a millionaire at thirty-two.”
“You are funny and sarcastic, Wachlaff.”
“You try looking for work with your white skin, pal. ‘What experience do you have, sir? Makeup? We’ll phone you, sir. We’re actually busy with affirmative action right now.’”
“Then you started robbing banks.”
“Then I went and took back what they owed me.”
“It’s known as armed robbery, Wachlaff.”
“My name is Janek. It wasn’t a weapon. It was a toy.”
“Do you admit that you robbed branches of Premier Bank of January 2 and 7 of seven thousand rand and fifteen thousand rand respectively? And that on January 11 you attempted to rob the bank’s branch in Milnerton? And that on January 16 you robbed a BANKSA branch in Somerset West of three thousand rand? Each time by threatening the employees with a firearm?”
“You saw the fucking gun. It’s a toy.”
“Can you prove that the toy pistol is the same one you used during the armed robberies?”
“No. But hell . . .”
“Yes?”
“I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I was polite and civilized, up to the moment you started fucking around with the Mauser thing.”
“What Mauser thing, Wachlaff?”
“My fucking name is Janek. You know very well which Mauser thing I’m talking about. The guy who’s wiping out the whole Peninsula.”
“What do you know about the Mauser thing?”
“What I and the rest of South Africa read in the newspapers.”
“Where do you keep your Mauser?”
“Listen, I’m prepared to cooperate but I’m not prepared to listen to shit.”
“You started the Mauser thing when you mentioned it in Milnerton. I quote from the statement of Miss Rosa Wassermann. ‘And then he said: Seems like I should’ve brought my Mauser.’”
“The fat bitch wouldn’t cooperate. I wanted to give her a fright.”
“There are twelve detectives busy searching your house at this moment. If they find the Mauser . . .”
“They won’t find anything.”
“Why, Wachlaff? Have you hidden it somewhere else?”
“I don’t have a fucking Mauser. How many times must I repeat it? I wouldn’t even know how to get hold of one. I bought a toy gun that looks like the real thing and I never took it out of my pocket because I was afraid people would see that it was a toy. Okay, okay, I admit I stole the money. But it wasn’t robbery. And it wasn’t theft. It was my money that I took back. I would’ve returned BANKSA’s money but I had to get it from Premier first. Okay? You can’t force me to admit something I didn’t do.”
“Where’s the money, Wachlaff?”
“Janek.”
“Where’s the money, Janek?”
“It’s my money.”
“Where is it?”
“Fuck you all. I’m going to jail in any case and when I get out Premier is still going to screw me for the money. Plus fucking interest. So what’s the use?”
“The judge will regard it in a very positive light if you return the money, Janek.”
“It’s my money.”
“Where is your money, Janek?”
(Silence)
“Janek?”
“In the ceiling. Under the hot water tank.”
They had a conference in de Wit’s office, the commanding officer now a member of the team, a frail camaraderie created by the Brigadier’s tirade.
Joubert’s mouth was dry and tasted of old cigarettes. In the interrogation room he had discarded his resolution of three a day—simply to get rid of the intense hunger and the headache that throbbed behind his temples. He had kept up with Griessel, one cigarette after the other, and he wanted another one now but de Wit’s sign stopped him. I PREFER NOT TO SMOKE.
They went through the dossiers line by line, bit by bit, studied the shapes of the puzzle, the holes bigger than the small pieces that fitted. They started from the beginning, built theories that others demolished with one question, shuffled again, built, broke down, until they realized the core simply wasn’t there, the angles and corners still made no sense.
At eleven-fifteen they decided to wait for Basie Louw to return after he had traced Ingrid Johanna Coetzee.
Perhaps the new day would bring a new perspective.
Joubert drove home, tired in body and soul, hungry, thirsty. The events of the day ran through his head.
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sp; A car was parked at his gate.
He stopped in front of the garage, got out, and walked to the car. A BMW, he saw by the light of the streetlamp.
A movement on his veranda.
His hand reached for his service pistol, instinct took over. The Z88 was in his hand, adrenaline pumped, the tiredness was gone, the mind clear.
“You bastard.”
He recognized the voice.
Margaret Wallace walked purposefully toward him, taking no notice of the pistol. “You bastard.”
He walked to meet her. His mind was having trouble fitting her into the scheme of things. He saw she wasn’t armed. Then she was on him, hitting his chest with both hands.
“You never told me.” She hit him again. He retreated, dumbfounded, the firearm in the way when he wanted to ward off her blows. Her hands were clenched, clumsy against his chest. “You never told me, you bastard.”
“What . . .” he said and tried to catch her hands, but they hammered on his chest. He saw her contorted face, the dignity gone, filled with hate and pain.
“I had a right to know. Who are you to keep it from me? Who are you?”
He managed to catch her right hand, then her left. “What are you talking about?”
“You know, you bastard.” She struggled to free herself, bit the hand holding hers. He dropped her hands with a cry of pain, tried to get away from her.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The rest of the world does. The rest of the world knows. You tell the newspapers but you don’t tell me. What kind of a man are you?”
She hit him again. A blow caught him on the lip and he felt the warm blood running into his mouth.
“Please,” he said, a cry that stopped her. “Just tell me what you’re talking about.”
“You knew Jimmy was with another woman,” she said, and then she cried, her fists in front of her as if she wanted to defend herself. “You knew. You. You with your sad story of your wife. To think I felt sorry for you, you bastard. To think I felt pity for you. You don’t deserve it. What kind of a man are you?” Her fists dropped, hopelessly, exhausted. Her pain overwhelmed the words.
“I . . . I . . .”