The Top Prisoner of C-Max

by Wessel Ebersohn

Almost immediately the road started climbing into the pass. He pressed hard down on the accelerator, but it had little effect. The little van struggled up the steep gradient, coughing a few times with the effort. He glanced at the dashboard. He was doing no more than forty and had not been able to get out of second. His eyes found the petrol gauge. Fucking bastards, he thought, only a quarter full.

  Worcester – 112 kilometres from the Freedom Foundation

  The surface of the highway between De Doorns and Worcester was excellent, the ride given by the ambulance was perfectly smooth and the driver directed the vehicle with real care. But despite all this, with every movement Elia Dlomo felt spasms of pain that began in his back and coursed down into his legs and up towards his head.

  He had woken enough to be conscious of the pain while they were transferring him from the train to the ambulance. Above him and towards the front of the vehicle he heard the voices of two men. ‘That’s the way it is today. Even a reverend gets stabbed.’

  ‘You can be sure the shit-house who did it wanted his money.’

  ‘There’s no respect any more, not even for the church. I swear that sort will even steal the church collection.’

  I got to get out of here, Dlomo thought. The swine is still moving. I got to move too. I got to or it’s going to be him. I got to.

  He tried to rise, but he seemed to be strapped down. Not that it mattered. He had no strength to fight the restraints.

  Another shaft of pain went through him. He tried to fight it, but a dark cloud that shut out all thought, even all consciousness, overwhelmed him. The last thing he heard was one of the voices saying, ‘Did you see, the reverend even carries a gun? That’s how bad things are, that’s how bad.’

  THIRTY-NINE

  THE DOORS of the Freedom Foundation were still closed when Sergeant Prince entered the complex in which it was located and cruised slowly past. He needed to be able to provide an answer in case that damned brigadier general called again. As far as he could see, there was no guard on the premises. It looked like Diep River’s lieutenant had let him down. What was the point anyway? There was nobody there. What hours did the buggers work?

  By the time he had arrived at work, he decided to avoid Captain Rassool. Talking to him about it was only going to complicate things further. Rassool was a real prick, who had no hesitation in dropping you in it to make himself look good. Prince was not going to give him the chance.

  He found the young constable he was looking for in the staffroom and told him he had an important job for him. The kid was a month out of training school and would do as he was told without question. Prince had plenty of trouble with constables questioning his decisions and he was tired of it. ‘I need you to guard an important overseas visitor,’ he told the constable.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the constable said. His enthusiasm showed in his voice. Prince liked constables who obeyed him readily. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘She, not he. I hear she’s a beautiful woman.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the constable said again, with even greater enthusiasm.

  Transport was a problem. There never seemed to be enough vehicles at the station, so Prince drove him to the Freedom Foundation himself. By the time he dropped the constable off, the front door was open. ‘Her name is Beloved Childe,’ he told the young officer.

  ‘You kidding me, sergeant.’

  ‘No, that’s her name.’

  ‘True’s God?’

  ‘That’s her name, constable. It’s your job to guard her against all dangers.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Prince watched the constable go up the front steps and through the doors of the foundation, a man with a mission. By the time he got back to the office, his phone was ringing. It was the constable. ‘She’s not here. They don’t know if she’s coming in today.’

  ‘Stay at your post,’ Prince told him. ‘She’ll come.’

  By the time Freek called an hour later, he had his response ready. ‘I’ve got a man guarding her personally, sir. We’re taking every precaution.’

  ‘Good man,’ Freek said.

  Waste of bloody time, he thought, after Freek had hung up.

  Yudel spent an hour pacing the corridor outside the minister’s office and another hour, after her PA arrived, in her antechamber. More than once the PA had tried to persuade him to return to his own office where she would call him when the minister arrived.

  Eventually Yudel looked seriously at her and said, ‘This matter is so important that if you forget I cannot think what might be done to you. And I cannot face the thought of being responsible for ruining your life. I’d better stay.’

  When the minister entered, she did her best to justify Yudel’s presence, glancing nervously at him while she explained. ‘He wouldn’t go back to his office. He just sat here. He said he didn’t want me to ruin my life.’

  The minister looked at Yudel. ‘That’s very nice of Mr Gordon. Perhaps, you’d like to come into my office, Mr Gordon. I can give you five minutes.’

  Inside her office with the door closed behind them, the minister remained standing. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I need to fly to Cape Town urgently.’

  She looked quizzically at him, waiting for him to continue.

  At least this one gives you her attention, he thought. ‘You asked me to look after Beloved Childe. Well, she’s in danger now. Oliver Hall is on his way to kill her.’

  The minister’s expression changed to one of annoyance. ‘Mr Gordon, please. I expected more of you than this. You didn’t get your way with the Hall matter and now this—’

  ‘Ma’am,’ Yudel said, ‘give me a moment.’ She did and he used the moment to tell her what he knew, ending with the killing of Jenny Pregnalato.

  ‘And you’re sure of all this?’

  ‘Yes, Madam Minister. I’m sure of it.’

  She was looking searchingly at Yudel. ‘You were against Oliver Hall being released. Are you sure that his release has not affected your judgement?’

  ‘I am sure. I truly am.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘The woman who was killed in Warrenton and the child who was killed with her were the family of Elia Dlomo, an enemy of Hall and also the man who escaped two days ago while being moved to Baviaanspoort.’

  The minister sat down for the first time. ‘My God, is this all true?’

  Yes, Yudel thought, but let me not tell you that I believe Elia Dlomo is on the same errand. Perhaps that is too much for one morning. ‘Not only is it all true. The method used to kill this woman was Hall’s favourite.’

  ‘And what method is that?’ She waved a hand to dismiss the thought. ‘No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.’ Her eyes had never left his. ‘What about all the problems at C-Max and Director Nkabinde having been murdered?’

  ‘The prison is firmly under control now. I believe the entire matter was a diversion to keep our attention away from Beloved. A prisoner by the name of Enslin Kruger is behind it.’

  The look in the minister’s eyes suggested to Yudel that, if possible, she would rather not believe this. She sighed. She was thinking, I hope I never have to explain this at a meeting of the cabinet.

  With an abrupt movement she pointed a finger at Yudel. ‘Yes, go, Yudel – that is your name, if I remember rightly. Contact the Cape Town police, but you go too. And see that nothing happens to that girl.’

  ‘I’ll go immediately.’ Yudel was moving towards the door.

  ‘Are you going alone? Don’t you need …?’ The minister was looking at him and searching for the right word.

  ‘Muscle, ma’am? I’ll ask Brigadier General Freek Jordaan, the one you met, to come with me.’

  ‘I think he’s a friend of yours.’

  ‘We’ve been friends for many years.’

  ‘Good. And will Abigail Bukula go with you?’

  ‘No, ma’am. There’s no reason for her to come. She’s not needed there.’

  Abigail had other plans though. For
the last thirty-six hours, since she had visited Robert in hospital, the image of him in the intensive care unit had been in her mind. Every thought of him was tainted with an insistent strand of guilt. How could she be leaving town while he was severely wounded for doing no more than seeking the truth? But Robert was safe now and Beloved was not.

  If the matter of Oliver Hall and Beloved was altogether compelling, it had become still more so since she had seen his photograph in Robert’s file. Now that Hall was also one of the Mpumalanga suspects, leaving Robert to go to Cape Town seemed a far smaller sin, perhaps no sin at all.

  She called Thandi. The voice of Robert’s young wife sounded surprisingly fresh and relaxed. ‘Abigail.’ She was clearly pleased by the call. ‘He’s much better. He’s been sitting up for a while. They still allow only me to visit him, but he was chatting to me. It’s simply wonderful.’

  ‘He’s a strong boy.’

  Thandi giggled. ‘We both know that, don’t we?’

  I suppose we do, Abigail thought. ‘Listen, I have to go to Cape Town.’

  ‘That’s all right. For how long?’

  ‘I’m not sure, a few days, perhaps just today.’

  ‘Call me when you get back. I think you’ll be able to visit him then.’

  ‘I will. And Thandi?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I like you. You’re a good person.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m glad you do. I was afraid you wouldn’t.’

  And you’re also a damned strange one, Abigail thought.

  FORTY

  Worcester Hospital – 110 kilometres from the Freedom Foundation

  ELIA DLOMO had been awake for almost half an hour. It had taken that long for his head to clear. He was alone in a ward that had one empty bed. He ran his right hand over his body. His left was heavily bandaged where he had used it to defend himself. Other bandaging ran right round his torso and was padded in the area of his right kidney. As he lay still, the only pain he could feel was in his damaged hand.

  A drip had been inserted in his left forearm. The fluid was entering his body slowly, no more than a drop every ten seconds, but the bag was half empty. It had probably been dripping into him for some hours. Had they operated on him? And, if they had, what would be the effect when he tried to move?

  From where he was lying, he could see into a courtyard. The shadow of a roof was already climbing the wall opposite. He made it late afternoon, perhaps three or four o’clock. In the corridor outside the ward, nurses were passing, walking in their purposeful, no-nonsense fashion.

  While he was watching, a shadow fell across the door of the ward and one of the nurses entered. She was a white girl, probably in her early twenties. She wore no make-up. ‘Ah, Reverend Khumalo, you’re awake.’ She smiled at him.

  ‘Hello, sister. What’s the time?’

  ‘You’ve been asleep for hours.’

  ‘Where is this?’

  ‘Worcester. The police brought you here from the train. It’s terrible what that criminal did to you.’

  He placed a hand over the place where the bandages crossed his stomach. ‘Did they operate?’

  ‘You went straight into surgery. Doctor van der Spuy stitched you up. I’m not supposed to say, but he said there was no serious damage. He said you would be on your feet in a few days. He said you’re a strong man and that was lucky.’ For someone who was not supposed to tell him anything, the nurse seemed eager to share everything she knew. ‘He said the last reverend he operated on was not in such good shape as you. I’ll go and tell him that you’re awake.’

  ‘No, don’t bother the doctor.’

  ‘I have to. He said so.’

  ‘Will he come then?’

  ‘I think so. He said there was no serious damage in your body, but your hand will take a long time to heal.’

  ‘Tell him I feel good, very good.’

  ‘He’ll be glad. He’s alone on duty, but he’ll definitely see you when he makes his rounds later.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Now, I have to take your pulse and temperature.’

  Her hands were cool where they touched his face while taking his temperature. The little pads on the tips of her fingers were soft on his wrist as she took his pulse. Her touch reminded him of Jenny’s and the coldness descended on him again.

  Dlomo knew he had to leave and that there may be no time after this. At any moment the police might realise who was in their hospital. It may already be too late.

  He waited for the nurse to leave, then carefully slipped the drip out of the artery. Taking a corner of the sheet between thumb and forefinger, he pressed it on the place where the needle had entered. The tiny wound bled only a little. He drew the sheet aside and rolled onto his side in preparation for getting up. For the first time since he had woken, he felt a quick stab of pain in the region of the wound. Sitting on the bed with his feet on the floor, he waited until the pain was under control. Then he rose carefully and went to the cupboard. Moving hurt, but not so that it was unbearable.

  The clothing he had been wearing was neatly arranged on two clothes hangers, but the jacket and shirt were both torn by the knife thrust and the wound had bled, leaving blood stains on both. On the floor in the bottom of the cupboard his satchel was also present. To his surprise, the Makarov was where he had left it.

  Dlomo got dressed slowly and with difficulty, using only his right hand. He left the bloodied shirt and jacket in the cupboard. Something had to be done about replacing them. The only part of the shirt he kept was the clerical collar. He picked up the satchel and, moving slowly and carefully, stopped in the doorway. In the passage a nurse was pushing a trolley, moving away from him. Without pausing, she rounded a corner and was gone.

  He took a few steps down the passage, stopping at the next ward. From within, the erratic sound of snoring reached him. The blinds were down and the men in both beds seemed to be asleep. In the cupboard he found a shirt that was a little small and had no collar. He struggled into it, pulling the cotton tight to get the buttons into their holes. When he was done, it stretched tightly across shoulders and chest, but it hid the bandaging and carried no blood stains. Then he added the clerical collar and looked at himself in the room’s only mirror. The result looked natural enough. The collar had worked so well that leaving it behind would be foolishness.

  A voice from the nearer bed crackled painfully. ‘That’s my shirt. You got the wrong shirt.’ Without answering, Dlomo turned away, stopping in the doorway to make sure that the passage was empty. ‘Listen, man,’ the voice crackled at him again. Clearly, talking was not easy. ‘That’s my shirt you got.’ Then, seemingly to himself, he mumbled, ‘Where’s that fucking bell?’

  Dlomo walked down the passage as quickly as he could. From the front a nursing assistant, wearing the pink uniform that distinguished them, was carrying a bucket that contained a few scrubbing brushes and cloths. She nodded boredly at Dlomo. ‘How are you, brother?’ Without waiting for an answer, she moved on down the passage.

  He was out of the section. The lifts were ahead. A large 2 painted on the wall told him that he was on the second floor. But the lifts were where he expected anyone following him to look first. The stairs were just beyond the lifts, but they would be the next place to look. Another twenty or thirty metres away a sign indicated the fire escape. Nice people did not use the fire escape. They would think of it last.

  He descended the steel steps of the fire escape, holding onto the banisters and moving even more carefully. Now that discovery seemed to have been averted, he felt the pain in his back and hand more intensely.

  The fire escape ended in a narrow alley. Once on the ground he stopped to look at how much remained of his money. He counted six hundred. That should be enough for a taxi that would take him the rest of the way. At the end of the alley, a car passed in the street. He could just make out the letters ‘ill lat’ in the illuminated signage of what seemed to be a small convenience store. By the time he reached the end of t
he alley, he could see that the sign read ‘8-till-late’.

  Inside the store, a tired-looking man in late middle age was seated behind the till. He looked at Dlomo without speaking. ‘Good evening,’ Dlomo said. ‘I need a taxi.’

  ‘Reverend, you just walked past them. They’re always right out in front of the main door. Were you in for your eyesight?’

  A single cab was parked where the shop assistant said they would be. Dlomo crossed the road and made his way to the front entrance, still moving slowly. The pain in his back was a sharp, repetitive thrust, but not as bad as it had been on the train. He leant against the cab and spoke to the driver. ‘Observatory, Cape Town.’

  ‘Seven hundred and fifty.’

  ‘All I got is six hundred.’

  The driver looked past him. ‘Seven hundred and fifty is the rate.’

  ‘Please, my brother, I got six hundred.’

  ‘They don’t take you home by ambulance?’

  ‘No. They say take a taxi.’

  ‘The bastards. All right, get in.’

  ‘Six hundred is all right?’

  ‘Yes, why the fuck not?’ And I might as well, the driver thought. I’ve been waiting for a fare for two hours now. ‘Sorry, Reverend, I didn’t mean to say it like that. A man gets into bad habits.’

  ‘It’s all right, my brother.’

  Five hours remained before the scheduled time for Abigail’s flight. The drive to the airport took less than an hour. Two earlier flights were booked solid, but she reasoned that if she was at the airport early and there was a cancellation, she could save an hour or two.

  The drive along a highway dotted with clusters of intermittent traffic went by quickly. Only one thought chased itself through her mind. What was he trying to do? He had killed the father, was his ambition to wipe out the entire family?

  After she had booked in at the airport, she registered on the standby list. The girl who took her name looked to be no more than seventeen. ‘This is very important,’ Abigail told her. ‘Please take special care.’ Despite the choice of words, it came out as a command.