The Top Prisoner of C-Max

by Wessel Ebersohn

  ‘I had nothing against him. Talk to the man who did it.’

  We both know what happened to him, Yudel thought. ‘You know more than anyone about what’s happening in this prison.’

  ‘More’n you?’

  ‘Yes, more than me.’

  ‘I never thought I’d hear you admit it.’

  ‘Well, I admit it.’

  ‘Maybe I do know.’

  Of course you do, Yudel thought. ‘Nothing moves in these walls that you don’t know about.’

  Kruger smiled, a bitter expression. ‘So you know that now?’

  ‘But why this thing? The only result is a lock-down. What’s the point?’

  Kruger pointed a finger at Yudel. ‘The point is I got power inside and outside this place. That’s the point.’

  Yes, I know about your power on the outside, Yudel thought. And Alfred Dongwana knows. And now your man Hall is on the outside. ‘Let him sit down,’ Yudel told the warders.

  Kruger lowered himself onto the chair, leaning on the edge of the desk for support. ‘I won’t say thank you. You coulda let me sit down when I came in.’

  ‘Well, you’re sitting now. So tell me, are you a tired old man I should’ve shown mercy to or are you a powerful man with power both inside and outside C-Max?’

  ‘You trying to play with me, Gordon.’

  ‘No, I’m not playing with you. You are an old man, but you are also powerful – but only on the inside. I don’t see that you have power on the outside.’

  ‘Gordon, you dunno nothing about nothing.’

  ‘Oliver Hall being free doesn’t give you power.’ Yudel was looking straight into his eyes and he could see Kruger bridling under the pressure of his disbelief. This was a man who needed to have his power acknowledged. Just having it was not enough.

  ‘You think it’s jus’ Oliver Hall. It’s not jus’ Oliver Hall.’

  And Hall’s adventure in Warrenton, Yudel wondered. You know about that, don’t you? ‘What’s Hall going to do anyway? We’ll have him in twenty-four hours.’

  ‘It’s not jus’ Hall.’

  ‘What can Hall or anyone else do?’

  ‘You wait and you gonna see.’

  Yudel doubted that killing Jenny Pregnalato was of interest to Kruger. ‘Hall’s been having his own kind of fun. He’s not attending to your business.’

  ‘You jus’ wait and see. You wait and see.’ The words boiled furiously out of Kruger. Yudel could see how badly the other man needed him to acknowledge his power. ‘None of you should think you safe outside.’

  Yudel thought about that. ‘Beloved Childe,’ he said.

  Kruger laughed out loud. ‘She’s not your kid, Gordon. She’s just a blonde from the States. In any case, it’s too late now.’

  ‘Too late for what?’

  ‘It’s too late now. The dice is rolling.’

  ‘Too late for Beloved?’ Speech had just become more difficult. ‘Are you saying it’s too late for Beloved?’

  ‘What you going to do about anything? You stuck here now. There’s nothing you can do, not while the prison is rioting.’

  Oh my God, Yudel thought. Is that what this is? A diversion to keep me away from Beloved, to stop me even thinking about her? He looked at Kruger and saw an old man, desperate to demonstrate that he was in charge, but undermining his own strategy because he needed Yudel to believe him.

  It almost worked, Yudel realised. Almost, but not quite.

  Yudel tried the number of Abigail’s cellphone, but it was on voicemail. It seemed to be a permanent condition of the cellphones he tried. He called her office and the call was answered by her cheerful PA, Johanna. ‘She’s in court this morning, Mr Gordon. But how are you, Mr Gordon?’

  ‘I’m well,’ Yudel said. ‘Listen, Johanna, I want you to give her a message.’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Gordon. I’ll give her a message, but I probably won’t see her till this afternoon. I think she’ll go straight to the hospital after court. I told her I didn’t think she should come here because—’

  ‘The hospital? Why’s she going to the hospital?’

  ‘She’s visiting her ex. I told her she should be careful because the new wife—’

  ‘What is Robert doing in hospital?’

  ‘It’s because he got shot, Mr Gordon. He’s very sick now. I told Abigail the new wife might not—’

  ‘Johanna.’ Yudel managed to bring enough urgency to his tone for Johanna to stop recounting all she had said.

  ‘Yes, Mr Gordon.’

  ‘Who shot him?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nobody knows. It’s a mystery. They say it was people from Mpumalanga. They shot him three days ago.’

  ‘Christ,’ Yudel said. ‘Why did no one tell me?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Gordon. I didn’t know I had to. It was in the newspapers and on television.’

  It was probably a week since Yudel had last seen a newspaper. ‘I want you to find her in court or hospital or wherever she is and tell her Oliver Hall is on his way to Cape Town and if there’s any way she can warn Beloved she should do it. Will you do that?’

  ‘I’ll ask permission right now.’

  ‘No, don’t ask permission. I don’t want anyone refusing you. Beloved may be in danger.’

  ‘That blonde girl who was staying with Abigail?’

  ‘Yes. Also tell her that Beloved should stay away from the Freedom Foundation if Hall knows that he can find her there.’

  ‘This is very exciting,’ Johanna gushed. ‘Also frightening.’

  ‘More frightening than exciting. Go now and do what I asked you.’

  ‘Who’s Oliver Hall?’

  Everyone seemed to ask that question. ‘Don’t worry about that. Abigail knows.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Johanna, are you on your feet?’

  She looked down at her feet which were neat and little, currently encased in shoes with stiletto heels and little bands around the ankles, the kind some popular psychologists tell us are worn by women searching for a mate. ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Well, get on your feet.’

  Johanna rose uncertainly. ‘I’m on my feet now, Mr Gordon.’

  ‘Then go now. Go immediately. And don’t ask permission.’

  After he had hung up, Yudel tried to call Freek, but could not get through. ‘Yudel, he’s not here and he’s dealing with an emergency they have in the Cape,’ Freek’s PA told him. ‘He’s advising them what to do. I don’t know why. It’s not our jurisdiction.’

  ‘Does it have to do with a criminal called Oliver Hall.’

  ‘Yes, that sounds right.’

  The world had gone more than usually mad, Yudel thought. Oliver Hall on the loose. Elia Dlomo having escaped. And what would his reaction be when he found what Hall had done to his woman? And Beloved seemingly was going about her business, showing no interest in either matter. And now Robert shot. What the hell was that about?

  THIRTY-SIX

  Between Beaufort West and Laingsburg – 403 kilometres from the Freedom Foundation

  THE DINING CAR and the passage adjoining it were empty. That meant that he was probably in one of the compartments. Hall knew that there was always the chance that Dlomo had seen and recognised him. No, he couldn’t have. And yet perhaps he had.

  The knife was back in his right hand. The door opened at the far end of the coach and a man in the uniform of the railway appeared, a conductor. Hall turned side on to hide the knife while he returned it to its holster.

  The conductor was a stocky black man of perhaps thirty. He carried a clipboard. He smiled, his eyes travelling admiringly up and down Hall’s suit. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘You got on in Beaufort West, I think.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You looking for your compartment, sir?’

  Fuck you with your smiling face, your interfering face, Hall thought. ‘Yes, I am. Perhaps you can help me.’ Beyond the conductor, the passage
remained empty. The doors of the compartments were all closed.

  ‘I’m sure you’re in the wrong coach, sir.’

  ‘The wrong coach?’ Hall asked gently. You meddling little bastard, he thought.

  ‘I saw you get on. You were two or three coaches down that way.’ A wave of the hand showed the way he meant. ‘May I ask your name, sir?’

  ‘Ashton. My name is Ashton.’

  The conductor consulted his clipboard. ‘Yes, sir. Here you are, Mr Ashton Hall. I’ll take you to your compartment. Just follow me.’

  Hall looked back one last time, but the passage was still empty. He followed the conductor through the dining car and back to his own compartment where his travelling companion was awake now and sitting on one end of the lower bunk. ‘Up early,’ the other man suggested.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep.’ He sat down on the other end of the bunk and closed his eyes to avoid the need for further conversation. His mind was filled with the image of the man in the clerical collar, the man he thought was Elia Dlomo. Not thought, he told himself. How many times have I seen that ugly face? I know him.

  Approaching De Doorns – 176 kilometres from the Freedom Foundation

  Breakfast had come and gone. Elia Dlomo had not yet slept and he did not expect to be able to sleep, not on this day. The coldness that had enveloped his body earlier was still with him, a thing apart from the temperature of the day. It was twelve hours since he had seen the body being carried from Jenny’s cottage to the ambulance. Hall could not be far ahead. And Hall was running the same risks he was. The boers would be searching for him too.

  The need to wait never rested easily on Dlomo. He slid the compartment door open and stepped into the passage. He wondered if the dining car was open and he could get a drink. Some compartment doors were open and he heard snatches of conversation. He made his way slowly down the passages of the coaches in between. The door of the dining car opened at the turn of the handle, but the tables were empty.

  After almost a thousand kilometres across the desert plateau of the Karoo, the tracks drop a thousand feet down the Hex River Pass into the lush, vine-filled De Doorns Valley. The steepness of the descent and the winding nature of the tracks make it necessary for trains coming out of the Karoo to slow right down.

  Dlomo sat at a window near the centre of the coach. From the window he could see a deep ravine and grey cliffs beyond. Below him and ahead his first view of the valley was a riot of yellows, reds and browns as the vine leaves took on their autumn colours. Dlomo’s life had not been filled with moments of beauty. The foothills of the mountains where the Khumalo family lived and where he had killed Ruth were filled with glorious, steep-sided ravines and covered by grass so brilliantly green that its existence seemed impossible. But he had noticed little of it. Now for one of the few times in his life he appreciated the beauty of a landscape. The sun, penetrating the vine leaves at an angle, seemed to light the valley floor with a living carpet. Somehow the loveliness reached through the ugliness and pain of which almost all his life had consisted, and held him in thrall.

  Perhaps, if it had not been for the vines, he would have heard the movement behind him earlier. Perhaps too he may have felt the wind, only the slightest movement of air, as the coach door opened behind him. Perhaps too his instincts, usually so finely attuned to any change in the atmosphere around him, may have warned him.

  His awareness of the danger was too late for him to avoid the knife entirely. It was almost touching his throat by the time he moved. In that instant Dlomo knew that Hall was upon him and he knew where the danger would be coming from. He slid down in the seat and to his left, taking his carotid away from the direction from which he knew the knife would be coming. Some part of the blade touched his neck, but it was too small a touch to have a serious effect. He was down on his hands and knees, moving into the aisle and turning towards the danger at the same time. Some part of his clothing, probably his jacket, hooked against the seat, slowing him. He felt the knife enter, low down on the right, and this time it went in deep.

  By now he had turned, but Hall was upon him, holding the knife low. Again Dlomo anticipated where the strike would be coming from. He grabbed for Hall’s wrist, but caught the blade instead. He felt it slice through the tendons of his left hand as Hall pulled it back to strike again. His fingers were not reacting to his commands. He used the hand to deflect Hall’s forearm, driving the knife aside. Then he drove a stiff right arm into Hall’s face, the flat of his hand crashing into his assailant’s teeth.

  They were apart, perhaps twice the reach of either of them, and facing each other. Hall was in a crouch, still holding the knife at below waist level. Dlomo knew that he would move to exploit any sign of weakness. And he was fast, too fast for a man whose left hand was not working and who had just been stabbed in the back, maybe in one of the kidneys. He knew his weakness, but he also knew that he dared not let Hall see it. And he knew that Hall would have felt the stiff arm. He had made contact just too low. A bit higher, and with the timing right, the nose would have been shattered and some of the bone may even have entered the brain. Hall would be careful to avoid that now. Dlomo guessed that his next strike would probably be aimed at the damaged left hand, or even the heart.

  Dlomo was right about the direction, but it came much lower. He warded it off with his left and felt the blade enter the palm again, pushing right through until the haft was pressed into the flesh. Without consciously planning the move, he twisted his left hand hard enough to snap the blade. Hall moved back, well out of range this time. Both men knew that without the knife he was much less dangerous. But now there was almost nothing worth keeping of Dlomo’s left hand and the pain in his back was like a spear thrust.

  Dlomo backed towards the coach door. Hall was following, but not so close as to risk further contact with Dlomo’s right hand. Dlomo stopped with his back against the door. The world around him was unsteady now, weaving as if the train was a roller coaster. You bastard, he thought. You’re waiting for the cut to bring me down.

  Hall’s approach stopped as Dlomo reached the door. In that moment Dlomo reached for the push button he knew was there. Hall was again moving in. The sound of the train’s alarm reached Dlomo faintly, from far away.

  He saw Hall turn to hurry down the corridor of the dining hall, and pass through the door at the far end. The coach itself faded around him and he sank to his knees. A voice that he recognised as belonging to one of the conductors spoke close to him. The bland professional tone was gone this time. ‘Reverend,’ the voice said, ‘who did this to you?’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  YUDEL knew he was close to a complete understanding of what Enslin Kruger was doing and he thought he knew where to find the rest of what he needed to know. He had Jacky April brought to the library for April’s protection. He had brought Elia Dlomo to the infirmary just a few days before for the same reason and hoped he was not overdoing it.

  The officers who brought April had been carefully chosen for their discretion. ‘It’s all right, gentlemen,’ Yudel told them. ‘I need you to wait outside.’

  This was in breach of regulations, but then things Mr Gordon did were often in breach of regulations. They glanced at each other before going out and closing the door.

  April had been woken from a sleep that had never slipped far below the surface of consciousness. He looked older than he had a few days before. He tried to smile at Yudel, revealing the gap where Enslin Kruger had his front teeth smashed out. The expression was little more than a ghastly grin of fear.

  ‘Did Kruger have that done to you?’ Yudel asked.

  ‘Sir must know I never saw who did it.’

  Of course not, Yudel thought, but he did not want to subject April to more than he had to. ‘Am I in shit, sir?’ April wanted to know.

  ‘No. I want to ask you a few questions, then you can go back.’

  ‘The others they are looking at me, sir. I’m scared if they find out you want me.’

 
Yudel knew that his fear was real and that the reason for it was real. ‘I’m sorry about that, but when we’re finished here you can go back and tell Enslin Kruger exactly what I asked you and what you answered. I don’t mind him knowing.’

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Yes, I’m serious.’

  ‘Then I’m going to tell Mr Enslin.’

  ‘Good. Now …’ Yudel was searching his face. Somewhere in that mind were clues that April might not realise he possessed. ‘The lady, Beloved. You thought she was involved somehow. Can you think how she might be involved?’

  ‘I just heard Mr Enslin say she must get looked after.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘They going to do something.’

  ‘Are they going to do something for her, or are they going to do something to her?’

  ‘Sir, please. Sir must know I just heard a little bit. I think they going to do something to her, hurt her like.’

  ‘You’re doing well, Jacky. That’s very good.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’m glad, sir.’ The misery in April’s face suggested that the pleasure he felt at helping Yudel was not pervasive.

  ‘Jacky, you told me that attacking Dlomo was not Kruger’s game. And you were right.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But did Kruger help in planning his escape?’

  ‘Maybe, sir.’

  ‘Why maybe? What does that mean?’

  ‘Sir must know, they can kill me.’

  ‘No one will know what you tell me now. That’s why I sent the officers out. We’re alone.’

  ‘But if Sir lets them search Mr Enslin’s cell—’

  ‘Is there a gun?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then I won’t let them search his cell. I promise you that.’

  ‘Mr Enslin’s got a cellphone.’

  ‘Ah.’ Whatever doubts still troubled Yudel were disappearing. ‘And he let Elia Dlomo use it?’

  ‘Mr Gordon must know this is just what I think.’

  ‘And Dlomo used Kruger’s phone to contact his friends to tell them he was being moved?’

  ‘I think so, sir.’