Hold My Hand I'm Dying

by John Gordon Davis

  Mahoney was whistling as he drove his beat-up Vauxhall back to Salisbury. He was always happy when he was going home again at the end of a circuit session. It was like finishing a six-week oral examination. On the whole, he thought, it had gone off pretty well. A couple of clangers when he had had a hangover, but no guilty man had got off the hook. Five out of seven he had expected to swing had swung and the other two had got fifteen years.

  Death Row must be pretty full these days. Mahoney did not keep a record of the number of men he sent to the gallows, but he knew he must have done about two-thirds of the stretcher cases currently awaiting execution in Death Row. Occasionally he read in the newspaper that a man had been hanged and usually he had to think hard to remember the name and the facts. Then: ‘Oh yes, he’s the bloke who chopped up his Auntie to get medicine for the witch-doctor.’ Occasionally he met Solly Berger in the street or in a bar and Solly would say: ‘I gave one of your boys the big jump today, Shadreck something-or-other,’ and Mahoney would say, ‘Shadreck? The name rings a bell, what did he do?’ ‘He’s the chap who set alight his neighbour’s hut and roasted him alive because he wouldn’t join the Party’ or ‘He’s the one who …’ Suzie had grown accustomed to it. But Jackie never got used to it.

  ‘How can you take it so lightly?’ she demanded. ‘How can you sit there quaffing beer and saying casually. “Oh really, did you, how did he take it?” Don’t you feel terrible?—’

  ‘Paddy,’ he said, ‘if I got my bowels in an uproar every time I prosecuted a swinger I’d be a shuddering wreck. I don’t enjoy getting a man sent to the gallows any more than the judge likes sending him there, but I can’t allow myself to feel personally responsible because the law says that murderers and petrol-bombers must hang. I don’t exactly go along and watch the execution you know.’

  ‘But how can you approve of the death sentence, anyway? It’s a barbaric system—’

  ‘Honey, when I was a starry-eyed law student I was also opposed to the death sentence. But let me tell you that usually only the bad boys hang in this country. This country has got the most lenient judges when it comes to murder because they know that murder is almost the national sport among the wogs. They’re always chopping each other up. They pull out their knives and their battle axes and start using them where you and I only get mildly annoyed. Go to a beerdrink, get into an argument over whose mother eats owls or whose rooster laid the hen that’s sitting on the eggs and – crunch. Exit one wog. Try that sort of thing in England or America and you’ll find yourself taking the big jump. But in this country they only get ten or fifteen years because the judge knows they only just dropped out of the trees. You can take it that if a man is sentenced to death here he bloody well deserves it. He’s either planned the killing or he’s done it for motives of robbery or he’s chopped up his granny to give her liver to the witch-doctor for medicine to make him lucky at gambling.’

  ‘But what about petrol-bombers?’ Jackie demanded. ‘Why should they be sentenced to death even when their silly old bomb doesn’t go off and nobody even gets hurt?’

  ‘Because, Paddy,’ Mahoney said patiently, ‘it is necessary to deter others. Petrol bombs are vicious things. How would you like your children to be roasted alive? And the black politicians are encouraging their boys to lob these bombs at anybody who doesn’t belong to their Party. And at the white man to create a reign of terror. They’re so easy to make, you’ve got to put a stop to it. Petrol bombing is about the easiest and the sneakiest and the cruellest and the most cowardly way to kill anybody. That’s why, kid—’

  Bastards. Cowardly bastards. You don’t think the same way as me? Okay – boom! No luck, Charlie, on you and your umfazi and your piccanins. Cowards. But when he was hanged and his body handed over to the relatives to bury the Party organised a big funeral procession and the party thugs chased the men and women out of their houses with sticks and threats to join the mourners and the Party bosses stood around the grave in their fur hats and delivered funeral orations for the brave martyr who had been persecuted to death for his people. And there was usually some long-haired foreign correspondent of some overseas cheese-wrapper to take down the drivel and the next week the United Nations were yapping about ‘this martyr’. And the Party bosses drove away in their plush cars and instructed the Party cells to incite some more martyrs to die.

  Mahoney shook his head. It didn’t take much clairvoyance to realise there was a lamp post marked out for him if the blacks took over the joint by force.

  But Mahoney was happy. The session was over and he was going home. He had no hangover. He was looking forward to his bare house and his huge shoulder-high lawns and his chickens. It was a jolly good house, even if it had no furniture and the creeper grew in through the windows. Rose bushes everywhere. Fifty acres on the outskirts of town and Mahoney paid only one thousand pounds for it. Five years ago, it would have fetched five thousand pounds.

  And he was looking forward to seeing that long-legged red-lipped Miss Jacqueline again, one hundred per cent girl girl girl right down to her chewn fingertips, very soft and fragile underneath even if she was the last word in executive-secretary efficiency with her red-brown hair groomed up on top of her head and her steady heavy eyes. ‘Me ole Myopia’ Mahoney called her. Her high cheek-boned face had an ascetic no-nonsense look. But after work she wore her glorious long red hair loose down to below her shoulders, or sometimes in a plait, and she wore no eyeshadow on her slanty eyelids and her brisk efficiency was gone and she was all shy feminine sparkle and ups and downs and her dark eyes misted with emotion and smouldered with enthusiasms very easily. She made him laugh more than any other woman had done. Always brooding about something of the greatest importance, always demanding his opinion on some obscure subject. A great one for passions, our Long-legs Hot-lips Paddy: one week it’s Mythology, then it’s History of the Arts, then it’s how she’s going to make a million pounds, then it’s Politics, then it’s how she’s going to turn his book into a Nobel Prize-winner. All very undigested, but it was there all right.

  But there was no getting drunk in the sun on Sundays with Paddy, no reckless Sunday afternoon passions hot from the sun and wine, no glorious breasts dipped in wine for him to suck. She sat with him while he got drunk in the sun, but he went to bed by himself afterwards. Which, Mahoney smiled wryly to himself, was a hell of a thing when getting drunk in the sun and taking your woman to bed was the national sport and birthright. What else is there to do on Sundays?

  He was still happy when he pulled up outside the Gatooma Hotel at lunch time and went into the cocktail bar for a beer.

  The Gatooma cocktail bar was rather a smart joint. Nobody, to Mahoney’s knowledge, had ever put up a good reason for Gatooma being just there. It had a police station, a magistrate, a railway station, a hotel, a cinema, and a row of corrugated-iron-roofed general dealers squatting under the Central African sun, and that appeared to be it. Mahoney said that some pioneer’s granny must have suddenly got the hell in with the ox-wagon and announced that she was bloody well going no bloody further. But the Gatooma had glass swing doors, air-conditioning, edge to edge carpeting of rosebud persuasion, comfortable foam-rubber barstools, BOAC and UAT ashtrays, and all the usual trinkets and booze and at night it had subtle concealed lighting. It was smart and neat, and the sort of pub for which you felt you had to put on a jacket and tie. indeed because he was wearing sandals and shorts and a shirt with no buttons Mahoney intended having his beer on the verandah, until he saw that the cocktail bar was filled with sweaty, dusty, brown-legged men in khaki shorts and open-neck shirts. He pushed open the glass door and worked his way up to the bar. He had to shout his order above the noise and across two layers of shoulders. A middle-aged brown-faced farmer next to him grinned at him, khaki bush hat resting on the back of his head.

  Mahoney poured his Lion between jostling elbows. ‘What is it, market day or a lynching—?’

  ‘UDI,’ the farmer grinned. He had a detribalised Cockney accen
t. He threw back his head and shouted: ‘Yahoo—’

  Mahoney lowered his glass. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘The Prime Minister’s giving a nationwide broadcast at one-fifteen. Ain’tch ‘eard, mate? Says everyone’s gotter listen in—’

  ‘Nationwide broadcast?’ Mahoney stared. Then he waved his hand. ‘So what, he’s given nationwide broadcasts before, he isn’t going to declare independence. This is just to tell us that we got to be patient—’

  ‘Says we gotter listen in,’ the farmer crowed, ‘’e ain’t ever tol’ us that before. All employers gotter give their staff time orf to listen in, all the school kids gotter get ‘ome for lunch early so they can listen in. What’s ‘at mean if it ain’t UDI?’

  ‘He wouldn’t dare,’ Mahoney breathed, ‘—it’s suicidal.’

  ‘What’s ‘at?’ The farmer cocked his ear close to Mahoney.

  ‘I said I doubt it,’ Mahoney raised his voice.

  The farmer transferred his glass to his other hand and stuck out his chest.

  ‘I tell yer somep’n mate,’ he grinned, ‘’e is. And if ‘e doesn’t ‘e’ll be out.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Somebody’s gotter stand up ter these British bastards. Lyin’ cheatin’ bastards. I tell yer somep’n—’ he leaned forward again. ‘Was a time when I was proud ter be British. Even voted Labour, I did, back ‘ome. But I tell yer the British Guvment these days—’ he stuck out his lips and made an anal noise: ‘Stink,’ he said.

  Mahoney nodded impatiently.

  ‘Tell me, what do you grow, mate?’

  ‘Terbacco,’ the farmer said, ‘and maize and a bit o’ everything.’

  ‘How you going to sell the stuff if Britain imposes the trade sanctions she’s threatened—?’

  The farmer looked at Mahoney as if he wondered if he had heard right.

  ‘Pah!’ Hostile now. ‘Sanctions? Don’t make me laugh. Sanctions? D’yer really b’lieve that crap about sanctions?’

  Suddenly everybody in the bar was saying ‘Shh – shh – shh—’ and suddenly there was dead silence and everybody was craning forward to listen to the radio on the bar counter and the sober cultured voice of the announcer was saying ‘… announcement by the Prime Minister, the Honourable Ian Douglas Smith.’

  There was a moment’s blank and then the flat Rhodesian accent of the Prime Minister came through sombrely and slowly and loud and clear and there was not even a shuffle in the tiny crowded bar.

  The Prime Minister spoke for a long time. And he ended: ‘I call upon all of you in this historic hour to support me and my Government in the struggle in which we are engaged. I believe that we are a courageous people and history has cast us in a heroic role. To us has been given the privilege of being the first Western nation in the last two decades to have the determination and fortitude to say “so far and no further”.

  ‘We may be a small country, but we are a determined people who have been called upon to play a role of worldwide significance. We Rhodesians have rejected the doctrinaire philosophy of appeasement and surrender. The decision which we have taken today is a refusal by Rhodesians to sell their birthright, and even if we were to surrender, does anyone believe that Rhodesia would be the last target of the Communists and the Afro-Asian bloc?

  ‘We have struck a blow for the preservation of justice, civilisation and Christianity, and in the spirit of this belief we have this day assumed our sovereign independence.

  ‘God bless you all.’

  There was a moment’s silence then a man threw back his head and shouted yahoo! – and the bar was suddenly roaring with shouts and slaps and laughs and handshaking. Yahoo! – Good ole Smithie! – Attaboy Smithie! – God bless Smithie! – and men began to sing and stamp their dusty boots and thump on the bar.

  ‘Give every man a drink!’—a five-pound note slapped down on the counter—’Here’s a toast to Smithie!’ – ‘That’ll teach those Commie bastards!’ – ‘Here’s a toast to Wilson!—’ and the anal noises filled the bar and everybody was laughing.

  Outside in the hot dusty road it was quiet, dead quiet, only the distant noise from the bar. There was nobody on the streets, not a moving vehicle. Mahoney climbed into his old car and started her up. He patted the dashboard.

  ‘Congratulations, honey,’ he said. ‘Your value has just gone up a hundred per cent, dents and all, ‘cos nobody will sell us any cars now. Not that we’d have the foreign exchange to pay for them.’

  He put her into gear and drove off slowly down the quiet street.

  ‘I’m sorry, honey,’ he said, changing gear, ‘on second thoughts you’re almost worthless. There isn’t going to be any juice in the country to run you on. And, boy, do you love petrol—’

  He turned on to the main Salisbury road and he lifted the bottle of cold champagne to his lips.

  ‘Might as well go down with a flourish.’

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Nor had there been any rain in the capital of Salisbury while Mahoney had been away. But the countryside of Mashonaland was green and there were kopjes and gentle hills around Salisbury and the soil upon which the city spreadeagled itself was rich and the big suburban gardens were green and bright and the avenues were thick with trees. After the rains the city would be a gentle purple from the jacaranda trees and a bright scarlet, and the pavements would be trampled mauve and vermilion from the fallen petals. Mahoney grinned when he drove over the last ridge of hills and saw the tall office blocks and flats rising high and white and modern out of the jungle. Salisbury had quite a skyline for a city of only one hundred thousand whites, and out in the big old rambling downs of Highlands and Borrowdale and Umwinsidale it was beautiful and the old homes were gracious. ‘The last bastion of the white Bourbons north of the Limpopo’ the pink journalists were fond of calling it. You could actually walk around downtown all Saturday morning and not see anyone you knew.

  It was four o’clock and he met some of the homeward bound traffic. Cars were hooting gaily like they did on old year’s night. There was not a soldier to be seen. The office men and girls were emerging from the buildings, the black white-sleeved constables were on traffic duty as usual. There’d be some pretty heavy drinking tonight. Not only Friday night but UDI night. The bars would be full of the overseas press types and the jubilant Rhodesians. There’d be a few punch-ups tonight, by God. Rebels versus anybody who didn’t fancy sadza.

  He drove up Jameson Avenue, through the traffic. He was feeling pretty jubilant himself with a bottle of champagne inside him. The constable on point duty recognised him and saluted him and waved him through. The perks of being a Grade Six Crown Counsel in a Revolutionary State, he grinned to himself. He was looking forward to the drinking tonight. He hoped he was around when some of these long-haired overseas pressmen who were infesting every hotel in town rubbed some of the rebels up the wrong way.

  He hesitated at the traffic lights of Jameson and Second Street. He could turn left to Jackie’s house or he could drive straight up Jameson and out of town to his farm. He wanted to turn left to the welcome of Jackie. She didn’t even know he was coming home tonight. She might have another date, but she would break it for him. He hesitated while the traffic lights showed red against him. Why’re you bursting a blood-vessel to see her? he demanded of himself. All the time you’re in Bulawayo you’re brooding about Suzie, so why are you bursting a blood-vessel to get to this doll? You’re still brooding about Suzie even now. If Suzie was in her old flat in Westminster Court – oh, if Suzie was in her old flat in Westminster Court … The homecoming from circuits when Suzie was here – the excitement. The joy as he rode up in the elevator of Westminster Court. Relief to get away from each other when he left town on circuit but the joy of coming back, all forgiven, all forgotten, the dinner and the wine and the love-making—

  So why hurry to Jackie? It’s not responsible behaviour. Jackie’s in love with you – sure, she’ll break her date if she’s got one, because she’s in love with you. It’s not respons
ible to hare around to her place the moment you hit town as if you can’t bear to be apart from her for another minute. What’s the matter with you, why must you always have a woman to hold your hand?

  The traffic lights changed to green and he turned left to Jackie, and drove out to Borrowdale.

  He turned in at the big white gates. A head appeared at an upstairs window, white face, long red hair and a wide red mouth. She peered and then her wide mouth broke into a smile and she waved energetically and she disappeared. She came running out of the house as he climbed out of the car. She ran up to him and grabbed both his hands and pumped them.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi, you big fat slob—’

  She flicked her fingers over his chin.

  ‘Aren’t you shaving till we get One Man One Vote?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Well!’ she flicked her head to get her hair off her face, but it was a nervous movement: ‘Welcome back, come in—’

  ‘Are you doing anything tonight?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m going on the town to listen to the fighting talk with a big fat slob called J. Mahoney – Esquire—’

  He dropped his arms around her and pulled her against him and bit her neck and he dropped his hand to her bottom and squeezed hard.

  ‘Hey,’ she wriggled free, grinning. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘I’m bathed, just let me change—’

  As they drove out to his house she sat apart from him.

  ‘So what d’you think of UDI?’

  ‘I’ll give you the benefit of my learned opinion later. Right now you slide your fat bum closer to me.’

  ‘You’re rude,’ she said, sliding up close to him.

  ‘When’re you going to decide to sleep with me?’

  ‘Golly, you’re so rude—’ She glanced up at him then she stretched and kissed his cheek quickly.

  ‘No,’ she blushed.

  Mahoney changed the subject.

  ‘Have you been out to my house regularly?’