Just a Dead Man

by Margaret von Klemperer

  “Where are you taking me? What are you doing? Are you going to kill me? What have I done to you? All I wanted to do was help my friend, Daniel? Take me home … please!” My voice quavered. Had Adam picked up my call, and could he hear anything? I had no way of knowing.

  “Shut up – stupid, interfering bitch.” Mchunu swung back towards me, the gun pointing at my head again. His eyes in his meaty face looked bloodshot, feral, at odds with the charcoal wool jacket and immaculate, open-necked white shirt. I noticed a tremor in the hand that held the gun. This man was afraid, and that only increased my own fear. A frightened man is a doubly dangerous man.

  “Why have you taken me, Mr Mchunu? Where are we going? Busi – were you involved in your brother’s killing? Why?” I couldn’t think of anything else to say, but I had to try to keep talking, get some kind of response from them, and let Adam know who I was with. There was no way I could tell him where we were. If I suddenly shouted out the street name, my captors would figure out what I was trying to do, and that could only lead to disaster. But was Adam even hearing me?

  “Shut the fuck up!” Mchunu lowered his hand, between the front seats, the gun again pointing at my stomach. If he fired, the bullet might well hit my cellphone though I had no expectations that it could save me. At that moment, Busi caught a glimpse of a gap in the traffic and pulled out, into it, accelerating away with a squeal of expensive rubber. We were on the move again.

  “Where are we going?” I asked again. I didn’t think anyone was hearing me on my phone, but suddenly, I wanted to know, for myself.

  Perhaps it was because the car was moving again, but suddenly Mchunu seemed calmer. The hand holding the gun had relaxed a little, the barrel lowered towards the floor. I had no doubt he could fire it in seconds, but at least it was no longer pointing directly at me.

  By now, the last of the afternoon light was fading. Cars had their headlights on; streetlamps cast pools of blue-whiteness over the road around us. As far as I could see, we were heading for the national road, which meant we could aim south towards Durban and the coast or north towards the Midlands and, eventually, Johannesburg. Occasionally, Mchunu gave angry instructions to Busi, who had not spoken since we had left the house. When we reached the interchange, he directed her south, down the N3.

  I felt terrified, nauseous, and for some reason, overwhelmingly tired. I could no longer think of anything to say. Surreptitiously, I ended the call on my phone, and when Mchunu was turned briefly to look ahead, attempted to redial. Maybe no one answered; maybe it had gone to voicemail, but it was the only action I could take to save myself.

  Forcing myself to concentrate, I asked Mchunu if he was taking me to Durban, and what he was going to do with me. At first he ignored me, but then he swung round, the gun pointed once more at my face.

  “You have been a nuisance to me, Mrs Marsh. Perhaps I need to teach you a lesson.”

  “Why? What have I done? Mr Ndzoyiya’s body was found near my house, but that wasn’t my fault.”

  “You interfered. It was … convenient … for me that your little Zimbabwean friend was arrested and charged. He was going to be in the neighbourhood, and he had been in contact with Ndzoyiya. What more could we ask for? We would have found a way to let the cops know he was there, of course, but it was even better – a real bonus – that it was he who actually found the body. More than I had hoped for. Once the cops knew there was a hint of a connection between Moyo and Ndzoyiya, they would jump at it as a motive. And Moyo had got himself into some trouble in Joburg – it was perfect. The police wouldn’t have even bothered to investigate anyone else, and even if Moyo had been found not guilty, it would have all been too late for any other proper investigation. No evidence, no nothing. But then you came along, with your clever, clever recollection of Flash Funerals. You made a mistake there, Mrs Marsh, a big mistake. I don’t like people getting in my way – and I don’t like silly white women threatening me.”

  “I didn’t threaten you!” But I remembered my stupid phone call, and my big mouth. If I hadn’t mentioned Flash Funerals, I wouldn’t be in this mess now. Still, I had to keep talking. “What had Mr Ndzoyiya done to you? I can’t believe you killed him … had him killed … because you disagreed over memorials to victims of a war fought nearly a hundred years ago.”

  He gave a harsh laugh. “No, Mrs Marsh. Oh no! But he was getting in my way. There’s more at stake in Pondoland than some statue. There’s money to be made, real money.” He said no more, turning his attention to Busi and telling her sharply to speed up. She had been driving in the slow lane, and Mchunu suddenly swung the gun round to point it at her face. She gave a soft moan, and pulled nervously to the right. For a moment I wondered again what her involvement in all this was – she seemed almost as terrified as I was. Did Mchunu have some kind of hold over her?

  We continued on down the freeway for probably half an hour: I lost track of time. I had ended my call again – there seemed no point in keeping the phone on when no one was talking and I could think of nothing more to say. I noticed Mchunu looking in the wing mirror, watching the lights behind us. Cars passed us, and we passed others, though Busi seemed to be a nervous driver, and even after Mchunu growled at her again, telling her to speed up, she made little effort to do so. As we approached the off-ramp that would lead to the old road down through the Tala Valley towards the rural area of Umbumbulu and eventually to the South Coast, he told her gruffly to take it. My heart sank. At least on the freeway our journey had some semblance of normality and there were other cars around us. But once on the empty back roads, anything could happen, and there would be no one there to see it. This was a death sentence.

  As we swung off to the left, up the incline of the off-ramp, I caught the reflection of headlights coming up fast behind us. Suddenly the car seemed filled with brightness. Mchunu spun round, but not to look at me with those burning eyes. This time he stared into the dazzle behind, and I risked a glance round for a second. There were vehicles behind us, and as I looked, blue flashing lamps appeared above bright headlights, in a glittering kaleidoscope. I looked back into the car, momentarily blinded. Busi was swerving and braking, probably as unsighted by the light as I was. Mchunu turned back, the gun to her head, shouting at her.

  The car swerved again and bucked, the nose tilting sharply down as it ran off the tarred slip road onto grass, gathering speed. Suddenly, we slammed, passenger side first, into something hard and unyielding, the impact filling the air with a horrible grating sound and the hiss of an inflating airbag. Unbalanced, I slid off the seat, landing hard in the footwell, and then we were stationary. The engine was still running and there was a confused cacophony of shouts, and a sudden, deafening siren.

  I was out of the car. I still do not know if I opened the door, or if it flew open on impact, but I remember rolling out onto a surface that felt cold and hard, though there was grass under my palms. The ground’s chill penetrated the knees of my jeans, and for a second I caught the bitter scent of some plant that had been crushed by our passage. But it was quickly overwhelmed by a smell of petrol, metal, exhaust fumes. Out of the car, I was desperate to put as much distance as I could between myself and that black, evil-eyed gun. I was afraid that if I stood, Mchunu would see me. I began to crawl away, until the sound of a gunshot, a terrible, high-pitched scream, and then another shot rose above the general mayhem. I froze, sobbing. I could feel urine running down my legs inside my jeans. In that moment I knew sheer panic, much worse than when Thabo Mchunu had appeared by my side outside my front door. There was no reasoning it away, no making decisions.

  Face down, I lay on the damp ground, only vaguely aware of confusion, noise and bright lights. Eventually, after an hour, or a minute, I heard a voice shouting, “She’s here, over here!” and a hand came down on my shoulder, a torch shining into my face.

  “Mrs Marsh … Laura! Are you okay? You’re safe now.” The voice was Thembinkosi Dhlomo’s. Never in my life have I been so grateful to see someone,
even my old nemesis. “I’m okay,” I whispered, but my legs didn’t seem to agree. I grabbed his arm to try to lever myself upright.

  “Take it easy. Are you hurt?”

  “No. No, I’m fine. But … the shot. Who was shot?”

  A couple of gunshots and a car crash had not changed things so much that the sergeant was about to start answering my questions. He helped me to my feet, and led me towards a fence. He presumably thought I could lean on that rather than on him. But before we even reached the fence, Adam had quickly made his way over the grass, at first just a dark shape against the brightly lit scene of the crumpled BMW and the two police cars that had been following it.

  He nodded to the sergeant and said something I couldn’t catch. Dhlomo moved away, towards the crash as Adam held me steadily, his dark, shadowed eyes searching my face.

  “Okay, Laura, sit down.” He led me to a boulder and I subsided onto it, suddenly all too aware of my wet jeans. “Now. Are you all right? He didn’t do anything to you? You’re safe now.” He crouched down in front of me, his hands on mine. He took my right hand and turned it over, looking at the blood.

  “It’s nothing. He just knocked the scar.” I suddenly remembered my phone. It must have fallen from my hand when the car hit the barrier. “My phone. It’s in the car. I must call Mike.” I got to my feet and started back the way I had come.

  “No, Laura, don’t go there.” His voice had a sense of urgency about it, and I turned to look at him. “What happened? Who was shot?” He put his hand on my arm again and called across to the sergeant. “Is Laura’s phone there? Try on the floor at the back.”

  Adam led me back to my seat on the boulder. I noticed for the first time that he was wearing latex gloves. “Who was shot?” I asked again. “Was it Busi?”

  “Yes, it was. She’s alive, but she’s badly hurt. The ambulance is on its way … I can hear it.” He turned his head, and I too heard a siren’s wail, coming to a crescendo as, red lights blazing, an ambulance came up the off-ramp behind us and drew to a halt.

  “Did Mchunu shoot her?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry, Laura. We’ve got him.” He paused. “You were brave, getting a call through to me. How did you do it without him seeing?”

  I tried to explain, but my mind wasn’t working sequentially and my words stumbled over each other. Adam nodded. “Just after your first call came through, we got another, from Michael. He had gone home to fetch something, and found the gate open, the remote on the ground and the dog locked in the house and going crazy. He knew something had happened to you.”

  “God – I must phone him. He’ll be desperate. Where is he? Is he still at home?”

  “It’s all right. He’s there, with your parents. We’ll call him now.” He pulled out his own phone and scrolled down the list of names. After a moment, he spoke. “Dr Anderson? Inspector Pillay here. Laura’s fine. I’m with her now.” He passed me the phone.

  I have no idea what I said to my father. I was crying now, and shaking, but I spoke to both him and Mike, and finally to my mother. It was her voice that calmed me down the most. As I was talking, the sergeant came over with my phone in hand. He spoke to Adam who got to his feet, his hand still resting on my shoulder. When I had finished, he took his phone back and said something to my mother. He then turned to me.

  “Right, Laura. I’m going to send you back to town in the ambulance. I know Busi Dhlamini will be in it too, but that can’t be helped. I want you checked over, and I want you away from here. Okay? I have to go now, but the sergeant will help you. I’ll come and see you tomorrow.” With that, he was gone, and Sergeant Dhlomo took my arm and led me, cautiously, to the waiting ambulance.

  35

  I DON’T HAVE A LINEAR memory of that trip back to town: just isolated moments, like strange, still photographs. Two paramedics working over the silent form of Busi Dhlamini. There was blood on the stretcher where she lay, and an oxygen mask over her face. I remember the plump young policewoman who deliberately placed herself between me and Busi. But the thing that bothered me most was my wet jeans. I could smell my urine over the metallic blood and disinfectant odour in the ambulance. The policewoman spoke briefly to one of the paramedics and then reached up to a shelf above my head, bringing down a blanket, which she placed over my lap. I remember her saying, “Don’t worry: no one will notice. No one cares,” and patting my hand. But other than that, the journey is a blank.

  I do remember coming home. My father fetched me. He was a familiar face at Casualty, and the sister-in-charge was with him, waiting for the ambulance when we came in. After I had assured him that I was unhurt, he took me straight home. As we got out of his car, I saw Mike, his face white, standing by the door. For a moment he was a child again, throwing himself into my arms, tears running down his cheeks.

  Once indoors, I began to try to tell them about the kidnapping, but the whole episode seemed unreal. Not something that had happened to me. I asked whether Rory knew, and my father said they had decided not to contact him until they knew more. He could do nothing, except worry. After they had spoken to me at the crash scene, Dad had phoned him and given him a version of events. I phoned him then, suddenly almost too tired to explain myself, but trying to reassure him that all was fine – or getting there, at least. My father then took control, handing me a mug of tea, insisting it was sweetened, which made it bordering on the undrinkable, but I was past caring. Then my mother took me to the bathroom and ran a deep, hot bath. She removed my clothes: a couple of weeks later she would give them back to me one Sunday, washed and ironed. Slowly the hot water began to thaw my knotted muscles, making me feel almost human again. I had no idea of the time, but she brought me my pyjamas and dressing gown, and I went back to the living room. The studio, with its uncurtained expanses of glass reflecting us back from the impenetrable dark, was too exposed. I wanted to remain hidden from anyone, anything, out there looking in. Grumpy planted himself firmly at my feet, obviously forgiving me for inexplicably shutting him into the house.

  I asked Mike for his side of the story. He explained that he and Stephen had come home to fetch some CDs for the party. As soon as Stephen drove in the gate, Mike knew something was wrong. We never leave the gate open, and we never, ever, leave Grumpy in the house: he has a fine, carpeted kennel for when we aren’t home. And when Mike saw the remote control for the gate lying on the edge of the flower bed, he panicked. He tried my phone but it was engaged: it must have been when I was trying to alert Adam. He then called the police, and got through to Sergeant Dhlomo who assured him someone was coming, and told him to phone his grandparents and ask them to come over. The police came quickly, a woman sergeant and a constable, who explained that Inspector Pillay was tracking my phone and that he would keep them informed. They had stayed until everyone knew I was unharmed and on my way home.

  Mike’s white face told me how horrible the ordeal had been for him, waiting and afraid. From the kidnapping to the hospital had only been a period of a few hours: it was nine o’clock now. But they had been very long hours for us all. Eventually, my father insisted, over my objections, on giving me an injection of something and making me go to bed. He and Mum were staying the night. To my surprise, though it was probably due to whatever my father had shot into me, I slept.

  When I managed to crawl out of bed the next morning, I felt like an old woman, stiff and aching. Dad explained that it was the result of shock and the adrenaline that had been pumping through my system – not that it was much comfort. My clothes felt like a cage around my body, setting nerve ends jangling wherever they touched me, even though I was wearing my softest jeans and a baggy sweater. Mum made us breakfast, and I had a longer and more sensible conversation with Rory. Life had to go on.

  It was late afternoon before I heard anything further from Adam. Mum and Dad had gone home, insisting that if I was concerned, they would return, any time. But I knew I needed to regain control. Dad had taken me aside and suggested I go for trauma counselling, that
talking about yesterday would help me to get it out of my system. I promised I would, if I felt I wasn’t coping. But right then, I could think of nothing worse. I just wanted the whole situation to go away.

  Mike twice offered to make me a cup of coffee during the morning, and spent the rest of the time hovering over me. But by lunchtime his solicitude had worn off, and I had to produce lunch for us. And then he retreated to his room and his computer. He seemed fine.

  I was wandering restlessly around my studio, unable to settle to anything and doing a bit of desultory tidying up, when the doorbell rang. It was Adam. Mike popped his head round the corner, and when I told him who it was, he came to join me, obviously interested in what the police had to say.

  Adam looked exhausted. He hadn’t yet been home, and I felt almost guilty that I had enjoyed a solid, drug-induced eight hours with my family dancing attendance while he had been working. He sat down heavily on the studio sofa and Mike, excelling as a shining example of a considerate teenager, went off, unasked, to make more coffee.

  My first question was about Busi Dhlamini. In the horror that had played itself out yesterday, despite having initiated what happened, she had seemed to be an unwilling participant, nervous when she came into my house and frightened as she drove the car. The sight of her still, bloody body in the ambulance had not been far from my mind all day.

  “She’s still unconscious, but off the critical list. She was shot in the neck, but the bullet seems to have missed anything vital. Obviously we need to talk to her as soon as possible.”