by Deon Meyer
Precisely thirteen hours since they had woken Benny Griessel in his flat, around 18:37, he told John Afrika: 'Commissioner, I have to be in Canal Walk by seven o'clock, please, will you excuse me?'
The Commissioner stood up and put a hand on Griessel's shoulder. 'Captain, I just want to say one thing. If there was ever a man who deserved promotion, it's you. I never doubted you would solve this one. Never.'
'Thank you, Commissioner.'
'Let Vusi finish up here. Go and do your thing, we'll talk again tomorrow.'
'Thanks, Benny,' Vusi said from the table where the contents of the file were beginning to swell.
'Pleasure, Vusi,' and then he was out of there in a rush. There was no time to change his shirt, but he could tell Anna the story of how the hole came to be there. Then he remembered he owed his son a phone call. Fritz, who had phoned him with the news that he was quitting school, that their band, Wet & Orde, (with an ampersand), had got a fat gig, that they were 'opening for Gian Groen and Zinkplaat on a tour, Dad, they are talking about twenty-five thousand for a month, that's more than six thousand per out and Griessel had said: 'I'll call you back, things are a bit rough here.'
He got into his car, took his cell phone's hands-free kit out of the cubby hole, plugged it in and drove away to Buitengracht and the Nl.
'Hi, Dad.'
'How's it going, Fritz?'
'No, cool, Dad, cool.'
'Six thousand rand for each ou in the band?'
'Yes, Dad. Awesome, and they pay for our meals and accommodation and everything.'
'That's fantastic,' said Griessel.
'I know. A professional musician doesn't need Matric, Dad, I mean, what for, why must I know about the sex life of the snail? Dad, you and Ma must sign this letter, because I'm only eighteen in December.'
'Bring me the letter, then, Fritz.'
'Really, Dad?'
'Sure. A guy doesn't need more than six thousand a month. Let's see, your flat will cost you about two thousand a month ...'
'No, Dad, I'll still stay at home, so ...'
'But you will pay your mother rent, won't you? For laundry and cleaning and the food?'
'You think I should?'
'I don't know, Fritz - what do you think is the right thing to do?'
'Sure, Dad, that sounds right.'
'And you will need a car. Let's say a payment of about two thousand, plus insurance and petrol and services, three, three and a half...'
'No, Dad, Rohan picked up a Ford Bantam for thirty-two. A guy doesn't need a grand car to start with.'
'Where did he get the thirty-two?'
'From his father.'
'And where are you going to get thirty-two from?'
'I... er ...'
'Well, let's say you save two thousand a month for a car, then that's only fifteen months, a year and a half, then you'll have your Bantam, but we are already at expenses of four thousand, and you haven't bought any clothes, or airtime for your phone, strings for your guitar, razor blades, aftershave, deodorant, or taken a chick out for dinner ...'
'We don't call them "chicks" any more, Dad.' But the first signs of understanding crept into his son's voice and the enthusiasm had begun to wane.
'What do you call them?'
'Girls, Dad.'
'When the tour is over, Fritz, where will the next six thousand a month come from?'
'Something will come up.'
'And if it doesn't?'
'Why do you always have to be so negative, Dad? You don't want me to be happy.'
'How can you be happy if you don't have an income?'
'We're going to make a CD. We're going to take the money from the tour and make a CD and then ...'
'But if you use the money from the tour for a CD, what are you going to live on?'
Silence. 'You never let me do anything. A dude can't even dream.'
'I want you to have everything, my son. That's why I am asking these questions.'
No reaction.
'Will you think it over a little, Fritz?'
'Why do I have to know about the sex life of the snail, Dad?'
'That's a whole other argument. Will you think about it?'
A slow and reluctant 'Yeeeaah, sure.'
'OK, we'll talk again.'
'OK, Dad.'
He smiled to himself in the car on the N1. His boy. Just like he was. Lots of plans.
Then he thought ahead. To Anna. His smile faded. A feeling of anxiety descended on him.
She was sitting outside where she could see the water. A good sign, he thought. He paused a moment in the door of Primi and looked at her. His Anna. Forty-two, but looking good. In the past months she seemed to have thrown off the yoke of her husband's alcoholism, and there was a youthfulness about her again. The white blouse, blue jeans, the little cardigan thrown over her shoulders.
Then she spotted him. He watched her face carefully as he approached her. She smiled but not broadly.
'Hello, Anna.'
'Hello, Benny.'
He kissed her on the cheek. She didn't turn her head away. Good sign.
He pulled out a chair. 'You must excuse the way I look, it's been a crazy day.'
Her eyes went to the hole in his breast pocket. 'What happened?'
'They shot me.' He sat down.
'Lord, Benny.'
Good sign.
'Luckiest break of my life. Only an hour before, I put a Leatherman in my pocket, you know, one of those plier thingies.'
'You could have been killed.'
He shrugged. 'If it's your time, it's your time.' She looked at him, running her gaze over his face. He ached for that moment when she would put out her hand, like in the old days, smooth his ruffled hair, say, 'Benny, this bush ...'
He saw her hand move. She put it down again. 'Benny ...' she said.
'I'm sober,' he said. 'It's been nearly six months.'
'I know. I am very proud of you.'
Good sign. He grinned at her in expectation.
She took a deep breath. 'Benny ... there's only one way to say this. There's someone else, Benny.'
Chapter 50
In his car, Fransman Dekker took out the list of names and telephone numbers. Natasha Abader's was first on the list.
What woman can look at you and not think of sex?
Time to see if she was a bullshitter.
He entered the number in his cell phone.
It's a drug for the soul. I think they have an emptiness inside here, a hole that is never filled, it might help for a little while, then in a day or two it starts all over again. I think there's a reason, I think they don't like themselves.
His own words, to Alexa Barnard.
He had a wife at home. A good, beautiful, sexy, smart woman. Crystal. Waiting for him.
He looked at the small green button on his phone.
He thought about Natasha Abader's legs. That bottom. Her breasts. Small and pert, he knew what they would look like, he could picture the nipples, particularly. She would be a handful. In every meaning of the word.
There was something broken inside him. A hurt that had come a long way with him, that never went away completely; every time it came back, worse, but the medicine helped less and less.
Some time or other he would have to stop this nonsense. He loved his wife, for fuck's sake, he couldn't live without Crystal, she was everything to him. And if she found out...
How would she find out?
The fever was in him. He pressed the button.
'Hello, Natasha.'
'This is Vusi Ndabeni. The detective from this morning, at the church.'
'Oh, hi,' said Tiffany October, the pathologist. She sounded tired.
'You must have had a busy day.'
'They're all busy,' she said.
'I was wondering,' Vusi said, feeling his heart thump in his chest. 'If you would like ...'
The silence on the line was deafening.
'If you would like to go and have something to e
at. Or drink ...'
'Now?'
'No, I mean, any time, maybe another day ...'
'No,' she said and Vusi's heart plummeted. 'No, now,' she said. 'Please. A beer. A Windhoek Light and a plate of slap chips, that would be wonderful. After a day like today ...'
He drove down the Nl, thinking ahead. He would draw money at the ABSA autobank at the bottom of Long Street near the offices of the Receiver. He had given the last of his cash to Mat Joubert for the Steers burgers he had brought. Then to the bottle store up in Buitengracht, it was open till eight. He would buy a bottle of Jack and a two-litre Coke and then he was going to drink himself into a coma.
There's someone else, Benny.
He had asked 'Who?'
And she said: 'It doesn't matter. Benny, I'm so sorry, it just happened.'
Fuck that. Things don't just happen. You look for them. She demands that he give up the booze for six months, and then off she goes looking for a man. He would blow the fucker moer toe. He would find out who it was, he would fucking follow her and shoot the bastard between the eyes. Probably some or other boy lawyer where she worked, too shit useless to get a girl of his own, showing off with his BMW and his suits to a policeman's wife. He would kill the bastard, then we'll see.
He had stood up. 'I'm so sorry, Benny, it just happened.' He sat down again and just stared at her, waiting for her to say she wasn't serious. He refused to accept the full impact. They were here so she could say that, because he had quit drinking, he could come home. But she just sat there with tears in her fucking eyes, so terribly sorry for herself. There were a thousand things in his head. He'd nearly died today. He'd fought the craving to drink for one hundred and fifty-six days, he'd paid maintenance, he'd looked after them; he'd done everything right. She couldn't do this, she didn't have the right, Jesus, but her teary eyes had looked back at him with bewildering finality, until the full weight of all the implications crashed down on him like a badly built house. He got up and left.
'Benny!' she called after him.
Benny was going to get drunk, that was what he should have told her, but he just kept walking, out of the fucking restaurant, to his car, with his torn shirt and unkempt hair, he saw nothing, heard nothing, just felt this, thing, this anger, it was all for nothing, all for fucking nothing.
He drew R500 and saw how much he had left for the rest of the month. He thought about Duncan Blake sitting there in the interview room and saying: 'How much for all of this to go away?'
'I'm not for sale.'
'This is Africa. Everybody is for sale.'
'Not me.'
'Five million.'
'How about ten?'
'Ten can be done.'
And he had laughed. He should have taken the fucking money. Ten million would buy a lot of booze; ten million and he could have bought a fucking BMW and smart suits too, and a R150 haircut and whatever it was Anna saw in the little shit.
He would buy some booze.
His cell phone rang as he walked back to his car. He didn't look at the screen, just answered.
'Griessel.' Sullen. Brusque.
'Captain, this is Bill Anderson ... Is this a convenient time?'
His first thought was that someone had taken Rachel again and he said: 'Yes.'
'Captain, I don't know how to do this. I don't know how you thank a man for saving your child's life. I don't know how to thank a man who was willing to put his life on the line, who was willing to be shot at to save the daughter of someone he's never met. It's not something I have any training for. But my wife and I want to say thank you. We owe you a debt we can never repay. We're on our way to South Africa - our plane is leaving in two hours' time. When we get there, we would like to have the honour of taking you to dinner. As a gesture, of course, as a small token of our immense gratitude and appreciation. But right now, I just want to say thank you.'
'I... uh ... I was just doing my job.' He couldn't think what else to say. The call had come too suddenly, there was too much going on in his head.
'No, sir, what you did went way beyond the call of duty. So thank you. From Jess, Rachel, and myself. We would like to wish you the very best, for you and your family. May all your dreams come true.'
He sat in his car in front of the autobank. He thought about Bill Anderson's words. May all your dreams come true. His only dream had been that Anna would take him back. Now he had fuck all.
Just the dream of getting drunk.
He started the car.
He thought about Fritz's words, his son's dream. Wet & Orde.
And Carla, who had gone to work in London, because she wanted to come back and buy a car and go to university, and both of them dreamed of a sober father.
He turned the car off.
He thought about Bella, and Bella's dream of owning her own business. Alexa Barnard who said she had dreamed so long of becoming a singer. Duncan Blake: Africa took everything I had, all my dreams ...
And Bill Anderson. May all your dreams come true.
He opened the cubby hole, took out the cigarettes and lit one. He thought. Of many things. Lize Beekman's lyrics ran through his head. As jy vir liefde omdraai. If you turn around for love.
He sat like that for a long time while the world raced past down Long Street. Then he turned around.
Benny Griessel blew the R500 on flowers. He delivered the first bunch to Mbali Kaleni's ward. They wouldn't allow him in. He wrote her a message on a card. You are a brave woman and a good detective.
Then he went to Rachel Anderson and put a bunch of flowers down on the bed beside her.
'They're beautiful,' she said.
'And so are you.'
'And those?' she asked about the other bunch of flowers in his arms.
'These are a bribe,' he said.
'Oh?'
'Yes. You see, I have a dream. I'm going to start a band. And we are going to need a singer. And I happen to know a great singer who's right here in this hospital,' he said.
'Cool,' she said, and he wondered whether he could introduce her to Fritz.
Chapter 51
From: Benny Griessel [mailto: [email protected]]
Sent: 16 January 2009 22:01
To: [email protected]
Subject: Today.
Dear Carla
Sorry I am only writing now: My laptop wouldn't connect with the Internet, it was a lot of trouble, but it's fixed now.
It was a long day and a difficult one. I thought about you and missed you. But I did meet a famous singer and I was promoted. Your father is a Captain today.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
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Deon Meyer, Thirteen Hours