Dead Before Dying: A Novel

by Deon Meyer

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I . . .”

  “Why did you have to tell the newspapers?”

  “I didn’t tell the . . .”

  “Don’t lie to me, you bastard.” She came at him again.

  He yelled at her: “I didn’t tell the newspapers. It was someone else, dammit. I didn’t tell you because . . . because . . .” Jesus! Because he knew what it felt like and he had been sorry for her in her yellow pinafore and her grief. She didn’t know what it was like—the messenger of Death, the bringer of the bad news . . .

  “Because I didn’t want to hurt you . . . more.”

  “Hurt me? You didn’t want to hurt me? And now? Now I’m not hurt, you stupid bastard? Do you know what it feels like? Do you know?” They were standing on the lawn, where the dew sparkled like diamonds in the streetlight. His house was dark, the street quiet. Her voice carried.

  “Yes, I know,” he said softly.

  “Rubbish,” she said with renewed anger.

  “I know.” Softly, so softly.

  “Rubbish, you bastard. You don’t know. You can’t know.”

  It wasn’t the long day, the exhaustion and his raw nerves after hope and the severe reprimand of the Brigadier and the murder and his painful session with Hanna Nortier. It was the yearning inside him to let it all out, twenty-six months’ worth of a witches’ brew that wanted to boil over, the pleading of his soul to be cleansed, to lance the abscess, filled with the pus that was straining against the septic skin. He made a cut with the scalpel with a light-headedness, an emotion between anger and panic, between relief and fear.

  “I know!” he yelled. “I know.” He walked over to her, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed. “I know, just as you do. More, much more. I know it all.” He leaned toward her, wanted to snarl at her, wanted to punish her. “I know it. I wanted to keep it from you. Did you say good-bye? When your husband left that morning. Did you say good-bye? I didn’t. I never even said good-bye. She was simply gone. I woke up and she was gone. Simply gone.”

  He heard his words echoing against the wall of his house, then heard only his breathing, too fast, in, out, gasping, and he saw ahead of him the abyss that he would have to cross now. He saw its deep darkness and he was frightened. God, he had to get across it like a high-wire artist, and there was no safety net. The fear began in a small way, somewhere in his belly, and then it increased, hugely. It drove him back. He closed his eyes. He knew his hands were shaking but he put out a tentative foot and felt for the wire that stretched ahead of him. He couldn’t turn back now.

  “She was just gone.” His voice was low but he knew she could hear the fear.

  Breathe.

  “Sometimes in the middle of the night I would reach out to touch her shoulder or her hip. It was always so warm.”

  He sighed deeply.

  “It was my . . . my . . . haven in the dark, to know that she was there. She could fall asleep so easily. I never knew. She worked for the drug squad. SANAB. I asked her what she did for them. Then she laughed and said she was undercover. But at what? She wasn’t allowed to tell. Not even me. And then she slept like a child with a harmless secret. Maybe there was something I missed. If I’d paid more attention. If I’d only asked more questions, if I wasn’t so busy scheming myself and hadn’t been so deeply impressed with my own search.”

  His derisory laugh was aimed at himself, a sob. It gave him the courage to take the next step even if the long, thin wire was swaying over the abyss.

  “I thought that if I only played drug games for SANAB I would also be able to sleep. So superior. During the night, next to Lara, I tossed and turned and I was so superior.”

  Margaret Wallace stretched out her hand to him, let it rest on his forearm. For a moment it was a lifebelt. Then he drew his arm away. He had to reach the other side on his own, that he knew. He suppressed the emotion, the self-pity, the weeping.

  “I was so self-satisfied.” As if it explained why he didn’t deserve her hand.

  “It’s so strange,” he said, almost with amazement. “We only live inside our own heads. Like prisoners. Even if our eyes look outward, we live just here, inside this bony skull. We actually know nothing. We live with other people, every day, and we think we know because we can see. And we think they know, because they can see. But nobody knows. I was so satisfied, in my own head, with my own task, so important. So clean.”

  He grimaced in the dark but he didn’t realize it. His hands were still shaking, hanging next to his body, his eyes were still closed.

  “That’s the problem, when you can’t get out of your own head. You think you’re so clean. Because Silva was so dirty. We think in terms of black and white. Silva was a killer, dirty and black as sin. And I was the clean, white light of justice. And they encouraged me. Get him. They made me even cleaner. Get Silva for the girls, the two women he had thrown away on a rubbish tip like so much human garbage. Get him for the cop of Murder and Robbery with the hole in the forehead. Get him for the drugs, for his invulnerability, for his dirty, black soul.”

  Joubert looked back and saw that he had made progress on the thin wire.

  He took a longer step.

  “It’s against the law to plant microphones. We’re not allowed to. But if you’re clean, you have power. I rented the stuff in Voortrekker Road from the big private eye with the red face and I drove to Clifton and I waited, that morning, until it was safe. Such a beautiful morning, without wind or cloud, in Silva’s flat, which overlooked the sea. There was a telescope on the balcony. Everything was so white. And expensive. I was scared, I have to admit. I hurried. You make comparisons while you plant the small microphones. You think about where you live and you look at the stuff that money can buy. One at the telescope, one in the small bar, one near the bed, one in the telephone. And two hundred fifty rand of my own money for the supervisor of the building to put the receiver and the recorder in the cellar’s electricity box.”

  He didn’t look ahead because he knew instinctively that the wire was going to sway, the cable ahead of him become threadlike and impassable, and now he wanted to turn back. He walked faster, killed his fear with words.

  “Lara didn’t come home that night. I phoned SANAB. They said she was working. What kind of work? ‘You know we can’t tell you.’ It’s my wife. ‘She’s undercover, Joubert. You know how it works.’ Then I walked through the house and I smelled her, saw the magazines in the living room and in front of her bed. And I thought about my scheming, about the microphones and the recorder, and I wondered if the little tape was turning. I slept badly—it was a long night and a long morning. Then I drove to Clifton again and I walked down the stairs and in the cellar it was dark.”

  He wanted to shout because the wire below him shook, swung. He wanted to fall. He saw the abyss, below him now—his arms swung and grabbed for balance, his whole body was shaking. He no longer knew whether he was speaking or whether someone could hear him. All he had to do was finish.

  He had unlocked the electricity cupboard in the dark, put on the earphones, and wound the tape back. PLAY. He leaned his head against the metal edge of the cupboard and he heard the noises on the tape. His head wanted to create images of it—he was the white light of justice. Silva was black. He heard a door opening, closing. So, what do you think? Silva.

  It’s lovely. What music do you have?

  He jerked upright, his head banging against the ridge of the electricity cupboard. God, it was Lara. Was it?

  What would you like to hear?

  Rhythm.

  Shuffling, rock music, earsplittingly loud, inaudible voices, music. Minutes, minutes, minutes passed. The tension in his shoulders and neck. What was happening up there? He couldn’t hear. Lara laughing between two short cuts, carefree. Silva, ooh baby, Lara laughing, music. He fast-forwarded the tape, small bits at a time, the lyrics, the rhythm his guide, silence between cuts. Twenty, thirty minutes later on the tape: the music changed, slower, softer. He played
the tape back, found the cutoff point of the rock music: sudden, deadly silence, a shuffle. Ice tinkling in a glass. Silva uh, slow music, louder, then softer, silence, creak, he knew it, bed, Silva’s bed, big bed, white, great body, baby, you can dance but can you love, ice in the glass, tink, tink, don’t drink too much baby, I want those tits show me more show it all, baby.

  Watch me. His Lara, he saw his Lara, he knew his Lara, knew the huskiness of her voice, the slurring of her tongue. He wanted to stop her. Not for him, my Lara, not for him. Jesus, baby, your body, hot bod get that out, baby, yes, yes, come here . . . Lara laughing: There’s lots of time. Silva: Now, baby, no, now, c’mon, baby. Lara’s laugh. Silence. The bed, the bed sounds, sounds. Ah, good, take it, yes, take it, jeez, good, now, uhm, jeez, baby, uhm, uhm, jeez, you’re alive, baby, uhm. It was his, his, his noises, his Lara, his Lara. He wanted to tear off the earphones, run up the stairs, stop it. But this was last night, not now. The voices on the tape. Uhm, uhm, uhm. His cell, his icy cell. Yes, move me, yes ride me, yes, baby, jeezus, uhm, jeezus, uhm, jeezus, yes, baby, I’m there, I’m there, oh, uhm, come, baby, come baby, uhm, uhm. Faster and faster. His Lara, he knew his Lara, knew her, knew her, knew her. The music had stopped. Only the breathing remained—slower, slower, quiet, even, quiet. Sounds, the noise of the bed. Silence. A crackling noise.

  . . . are you going?

  Sleep.

  Come back.

  In a moment.

  What are you doing? An exclamation, worried.

  Checking something out.

  Silence.

  Let’s have a look.

  What are you doing . . . That’s mine. Frightened. His Lara.

  What have we here?

  The bed creaked sharply. That’s mine. His Lara.

  It was too easy, baby. I knew it was too easy.

  Dully, the sound of Silva’s fist. Thud!

  Ah. His Lara. A small sound. Ah.

  You bitch, you were going to shoot me, you think I’m stupid, bitch, who do you work for, you think I’m stupid? It was too easy, never trust an easy fuck, baby, you’re going to die.

  You’re crazy, Silva, I always carry it with me, you know what the world is like, Silva, please.

  Never trust an easy fuck, my mother taught me, you’re a plant, baby. You think I’m stupid, you came on too strong, you think if I drink I’m stupid, baby? Who sent you?

  You’re mad, Silva, I don’t know why you, ah . . .

  I’m going to fucking kill you, bitch, who sent you, not that it matters, I’m sending you back, look at me, baby, you’ve fucked your last fuck, look at me . . .

  No, Silva, please . . .

  . . . look at me . . .

  . . . please, please . . .

  The shot tore through him, tore through him, tore through his flesh and his blood and his soul and tumbled him down, his life, his life was falling, tumbling, he, down, with all the broken pieces, the remains, tape clicking, the yellow light dead, the tape turning, shirrrrr, back, to the beginning, his body jerked, jerked, jerked, and now he stood on the lawn and he shivered because the cold was so deep and Margaret Wallace was holding him, the tape that stopped and turned, the yellow light, a door opening, steps, So, what do you think? It’s lovely. What music do you have? Margaret Wallace who held him, more and more tightly to stop the spasms, shaking with him, the two of them drowning, weeping, among the shrubs in his garden.

  40.

  They found her at the river, at the same place as the others, and they went in and he pulled a gun and they shot him.” They were drinking his coffee—dark, strong, sweet coffee—and he looked at Margaret Wallace across the kitchen table.

  “And you?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, there’s a blank there. Somewhere. And then I was sitting on the beach and people were walking past and staring at me and I got up, went back to the private detective, and I threw his stuff at him and I hit him and I walked out and I kept on walking, down Voortrekker Road, and I walked home and then they came and they told me and I couldn’t tell them that I knew. That was a bad part: I couldn’t tell them . . . They stayed with me for the night.”

  Coffee, cigarette.

  “I didn’t cry then. This is the first time.”

  The truth of it came over him. “This is the first time I’ve cried for her.”

  So they sat in silence, in the late night, until the coffee was finished and she got up.

  “The children . . .”

  He nodded and saw her to her car. She looked at him but found no words. She switched on the engine and the lights, touched his hand once, and then drove down the road. He watched the rear lights disappearing and stood on the pavement, empty. The abscess had been lanced; the wound was bleeding, scarlet, clean. The blood ran in a stream, a flowing stream, through him, and he looked up at the stars, now burning brightly. He went into his house, switched off the lights, walked to his room in the dark, took off his shirt and tie, his shoes and socks and his trousers, and lay down on the bed and thought about Lara, all the doors in his head open. Lara, Lara, Lara. Until daylight glowed behind the curtains.

  Then he got up, drew a deep, hot bath, got in, and waited for the cold to be driven out. He washed every inch and crevice of his big body with great seriousness, using a great deal of sudsy lather. Then he rinsed off and dried himself until his skin was red. He put on clean, freshly ironed clothes—white shirt, gray flannels, striped tie, navy blazer. He walked to the kitchen, took out brush and polish, shined his shoes, and put them on. He locked the front door, got into the car, and switched on the windshield wipers to remove the dew. He drove his usual route.

  At Murder and Robbery Mavis greeted him as he walked past. He smiled vaguely, walked up the steps, down the passage to his office, sat down. Reality was unreal, slightly out of focus.

  His fingers massaged his temples, rubbed his eyes.

  Mauser.

  He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. The palms of his hands pressed against his eyes, his tired eyes. He looked for concentration, looked for focus. Basie Louw. When was he going to phone?

  There was nothing more he could do. Only wait. No, he must do something. Had to do something.

  Wallace, Wilson, Ferreira, MacDonald, Nienaber, Coetzee.

  And Oberholzer.

  Phone her parents about Coetzee, the church.

  Slow, almost subconscious movements.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Oberholzer, it’s Joubert here from Murder and Robbery in the Cape.”

  “Good morning.”

  “I still have a few questions, Mrs. Oberholzer.”

  “It’s about the Mauser murders.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Oberholzer.”

  “We recognized the names, the next day.”

  He felt guilty. He should’ve told them.

  “You must be phoning about the man yesterday. The minister.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Oberholzer.”

  “I looked through her letters. There’s nothing.”

  “Nothing about his church?”

  “No.”

  Dead-end street. “Thank you, Mrs. Oberholzer.”

  “It was an accident. The whole thing. We know it was an accident.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Oberholzer.”

  “Very well then.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and then he remembered the other question that he’d tucked into his head somewhere and not asked yet. Leave it, maybe it was a dead end, too. He asked it in any case, dutifully, in passing.

  “Just one more thing. Where did she work before Petrogas?”

  “Sea, sea, sea.”

  He didn’t catch it.

  “A college.”

  “CCC?” Grasping.

  “Cape Commercial College. They offered business courses. I don’t know whether they’re still in existence. Carrie said they were too stingy, so she left.”

  Cape Commercial College. He tasted the name, wanted to slot it in somewhere, somewhere it wanted to fit, but he couldn’t identify the sp
ace.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Oberholzer.”

  “Good-bye.” Stiff, as the whole conversation had been. They were inimical toward him, the disbeliever who wanted to change their perspective of accident and tragedy.

  Cape Commercial College.

  His thoughts darted in all directions looking for a connection. He said the name again, aloud, rolled his shoulders a few times to loosen the stiffness. His thoughts were a jumble, he lit a cigarette, sank back into his chair, tried to organize his thoughts. Start from the beginning. Think through Wallace, Wilson, Ferreira, MacDonald, Nienaber, Coetzee. He found nothing. He was making a mistake. He was tired. There was nothing, it was his imagination.

  A bright moment of insight—it was there. Desperately he took out his notebook, paged through it. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  He got up, stretched, killed the Winston, and walked down the quiet passage, still too early for the others. He wanted to go to the tearoom for something hot and sweet—and remembered, in the passage. He halted, breath held, too frightened to hope, too scared to think. There had been certificates against the wall of James J. Wallace’s office but—idiot—he hadn’t looked at them properly. He turned and hurried to his office and before he could pick up the telephone he remembered what Gail Ferreira had said about her husband, Ferdy: “He always said he had to work for himself. But he was useless. He went on a course once to learn to start his own business but nothing . . .”

  His heart knocked against his chest wall, almost daunted.

  In Nienaber’s study, against the wall: CAPE COMMERCIAL COLLEGE BUSINESS SCHOOL—This is to certify that O. S. Nienaber completed the course in Small Business Management.

  He put out his hand for the telephone. It rang.

  “Joubert,” he said, but he was barely listening. His thoughts were a maelstrom.

  “This is Margaret Wallace.”

  He was astonished by the coincidence. “Why did you call?” he asked excitedly, tactlessly.

  “To say I’m dreadfully sorry.” Her voice still bore the night’s scars.

  “I’ve found something,” he said because he didn’t want to discuss that now. “Your husband. Did he do a course? A business course, at Cape Commercial College?”