She felt something warm running down her shin. Blood. But this was just a trickle, not the grotesque splashes that had adorned the carpet, the walls, even the ceiling like some horrific modern art fresco in her old room where they’d trapped Pa and Ma and Christo, who must have been waiting, terrified, for the help that never arrived. Annamari had taken one look, turned around and walked out, never to go back into that room again.
She crept forward in the darkness, the shotgun a reassuring weight in her sweating palms. Quiet, quiet. They mustn’t hear her. She must surprise them. She moved more slowly now. Carefully. Watching out for branches and stones that could trip her up again. When had it got so far to the khaya? As a child she’d known the path like the back of her hand. She’d skip along it with Christo, and Rosie would give them some pap and meat. They’d sit on the ground outside Rosie’s room, and she’d squish the stiff porridge in her fingers, making it into a hard little white ball which she’d squelch through the gravy before stuffing it in her mouth, goodness dribbling down her chin. Ma never let her eat pap like that. They had to use a knife and fork, even at a braai. The only exception, Ma said, was for lamb or pork chops. But Rosie used her fingers to eat pap; so did Petrus and James and Dawid and all the others in the khaya, so she and Christo copied them.
She swallowed her memories and focused on the task at hand. Thys might not be there, but she’d show the terrorists that this white woman had the blood of the voortrekkers in her veins. She was a Steyn, after all, and this time... this time the bastards were not going to have it all their own way... this time, this boervrou was armed. And this time, she would kill them.
She stopped. She squinted through the blackness. There. A movement. There was someone there, coming towards her. A man. Just one. She raised the shotgun. He didn’t stop. He moved closer. Her finger tightened on the trigger.
‘Missy Annamari, quickly.’
Petrus. She exhaled and stumbled to him. He turned and she followed him. Silent.
Then she heard it. A cry, quickly muffled.
‘In there,’ Petrus whispered. ‘The door’s locked.’
Another scream; then what sounded like a blow – flesh on flesh. She tiptoed to the window. Damn, she couldn’t see through the thick old lounge curtains she’d given to Pretty. She couldn’t see anything. She listened, straining to hear voices, anything that would give her a clue how many were inside. She hesitated. She didn’t know what to do. Another cry sent her flying to the door. Beauty. Beauty was in there...
She lifted the shotgun, slammed the butt against the lock. The door burst open and she tumbled into the room, raising the shotgun, ready to fire. And froze.
Then she put the shotgun to her shoulder and aimed at the man.
His yellow teeth were bared in a snarl which twisted into a simpering smile as he scrambled to his feet, his shrivelling penis dangling pathetically between his pinky-white legs.
‘You fucking pig,’ she growled.
‘It’s not what it looks like. She asked for it. She’s a fucking whore. She wanted to do it. She begged me to come here tonight. I warned you about her. She’s always been a troublemaker...’
‘Shut up. Now.’
She pointed the shotgun at him, her finger hovering over the trigger. If Beauty wasn’t so close, she’d fire, she’d kill the bastard.
‘Cover her,’ she said.
No one moved. Pretty cowered in the corner, the front of her torn T-shirt a mess of red, one eye swollen shut, blood dripping from her nose and mouth. Beauty lay motionless on the bed.
Annamari reached out and pulled the girl’s faded yellow dress down, hiding her budding breasts and sparsely covered pubis from Stefan Smit’s salacious, snivelling gaze.
‘Don’t move,’ she said, pointing the shotgun directly at his shrunken testes. ‘Don’t move. Don’t you fucking move unless I tell you to. Now. Pick up your filthy pants and get moving. Out of here. No – don’t say a word. Not a fucking word.’
Petrus followed as she prodded Stefan Smit back toward the farm manager’s cottage, the shotgun planted firmly between his skinny shoulder blades. She made him open the door and then shoved him down the passage to the bedroom. She sent Petrus to find something strong to tie him up.
‘And get Magnus,’ she said.
She stood in the doorway and kept the shotgun trained on him.
‘Put your trousers on, you disgusting little man.’
He sat on the edge of the rumpled bed, pulling his dirty khaki pants up over his skinny legs, a half smirk on his face as he eyed her too-short, too-tight pale pink Pep Stores nightie that pulled over her pendulous breasts. She glared back at him and kept the shotgun steady, directed at his genitals.
‘Listen here, Mrs van Zyl. Those kaffirs are lying. I’m a white man, I wouldn’t...’
‘You’re a poor excuse for a white man.’
‘I wasn’t doing anything wrong.’
‘That’s not what it looked like to me.’
‘She wanted it.’
‘Don’t lie to me!’
“Look, I was going to pay her...’
‘Are you crazy? She’s only a child, for heaven’s sake.’
‘No she’s not. What do you take me for? Kaffir girls like her, they start young. She’s a whore. They all are. And she wanted a white man, just like her halfwit mother...’
‘Shut up.’
‘You think she’s so damn innocent, but she’s not. I’ve seen her with your boy. And your husband, he’s fucked her too. I bet he’s fucked her in your bed, and the mother too. I bet they’ve had a threesome in your lovely soft bed.’
‘Shut up. Just shut the fuck up.’ She raised the shotgun to his face, her finger white on the trigger.
‘No missy – no. Don’t.’
She turned her head towards Petrus who was holding out some green electrical wire. Magnus was standing in the passage, looking at her expectantly.
‘Tie his wrists together, and his legs. Then tie him to the bed,’ she said.
After Petrus had trussed Stefan up like a chicken under the sad gaze of his late wife and daughter in the photograph stuck on the wall with yellowing tape, Annamari hoisted the shotgun over her shoulder and sauntered to the bedroom door, resisting the urge to tug down her nightie.
‘Guard him, Magnus. On guard,’ she said. The boerbul looked through the door at the snivelling man and snarled.
As she walked through the kitchen, she heard Stefan Smit’s reedy voice wafting down the passage. ‘Mrs van Zyl, please. I need the toilet.’
‘Pee in your pants, you fucking pervert,’ she said, and stumbled through the door before her shaking legs collapsed under her.
Chapter 8
1991
Annamari sat on the stoep and gazed out towards the mountains. It was another beautiful day with just a hint of the approaching summer in the bleached sky. She wondered – as she did every year – why the sky was so much bluer in summer. Something to do with the sun, maybe. Far in the distance she could see the tractor moving slowly, throwing up a small cloud of dust that obscured the poplars. The rains would come soon, Petrus said. They had to start preparing the fields for planting.
She smiled. Petrus took his new position as farm manager exceptionally seriously. And he was doing a fantastic job. Thys had been right, again. Her husband might not know much about farming, but his suggestion that they offer Petrus the farm manager’s job now that that filthy pig, Stefan Smit, was gone, had been truly inspired.
She wasn’t so sure about his other suggestion. But she’d promised to think it over, and she would. In five minutes. In five minutes she’d get up and walk down the path to Christo’s house. They’d offered it to Petrus, but he’d refused. He wanted to live with his people, in the khaya, as always. It was better that way, he said. He even refused to take the old farm manager’s house, even after it had been scrubbed and painted to remove all traces of the pig. No one wanted to live there, not permanently, but it was providing useful temporary acc
ommodation for the workers now that they were renovating the entire khaya. Another of Thys’ inspired ideas.
‘Those rooms are appalling,’ he’d said after getting back from seeing about repairing the door and ceiling in Pretty’s room. ‘We should at least paint them.’
Annamari never quite figured out exactly how agreeing to paint the farm workers’ rooms had evolved into a decision to build neat little houses for them, complete with kitchenette and indoor bathroom. Nor could she remember when it had been decided to vary the size of the houses, so that families could live comfortably together.
She stood up. It was time. She wished Thys was with her. She hadn’t been into Christo’s house since the murders. The pig had wanted to move in. His insensitivity had left her breathless. They’d barely finished covering the graves before Stefan Smit was at her side, wringing his hands, tremulously suggesting that perhaps it would be better, more appropriate, if he moved in to the bigger, newer house.
‘It’s Christo’s house. It will always be Christo’s house. He built it,’ she’d said, closing her fingers around the key Petrus had brought to her when he locked up after the police had left. She hadn’t gone back to look around. Like the room where they’d found her family’s brutalised bodies, it remained locked. But now... she couldn’t put it off any longer. And, as Thys said, it would be a wonderful tribute to Christo. Oh God, she missed him and Ma and Pa. Even after two years, it didn’t get any easier. Thank God for Thys. He was her rock. So sensible. So caring. Too caring. Too willing to believe in people. He even believed that Mandela and all the other terrorists had changed. He believed everyone, even the worst people, were deserving of compassion. Even a perverted pig like Stefan Smit.
‘Lord forgive me,’ Thys had said, collapsing onto the couch that dreadful day. He’d left the rugby tournament in Johannesburg and rushed back as soon as he got her hysterical, garbled telephone call about a terrorist attack and a rape and Stefan and Magnus standing guard and she didn’t know what to do. Thys somehow managed the long drive home in under four hours.
He’d held her in his arms, so tightly she could barely breathe.
‘Thank you Lord,’ he’d said. ‘I love you liefie. You are such a brave, strong, resourceful, wonderful woman. I’m so proud of you. I should never have left you alone like that. What if it really had been terrorists? Thank the Lord you are safe. I couldn’t live without you – or our boys.’
Then he’d gone down to the farm manager’s house to deal with Stefan.
‘I’ve never done that before. I pray I never get the urge to do that again. It’s just that when Petrus untied him and he ... that smile on his face, like he knew something I didn’t. I couldn’t help it. I nearly broke his jaw,’ he said, rubbing his fist.
‘I wish you had,’ Annamari said.
‘But he’s had terrible tragedy in his life – to lose his wife and child like that – it’s terrible. And then to go through another terrorist attack here...’
‘But he wasn’t here when Ma and Pa and Christo were murdered. He was in Pretoria.’
‘Ja, well it couldn’t have been easy for him, getting back here after visiting his wife and daughter’s graves and then finding them all like that. Maybe that’s why he did what he did to Beauty.’
‘Oh please! You can’t be serious? That man was plain evil.’
‘Annamari! You mustn’t say things like that. We have to forgive. Even when it is difficult. Even when we don’t want to. Anyway, it wasn’t for me to punish him. The Lord will see that he gets what he deserves.’
‘We should have had him arrested,’ Annamari said. She had tried to argue with Thys about this. But he had taken her in his arms and held her close.
‘What’s the point?’ he’d asked. ‘Like Stefan said – who’s going to take the rape of a girl like Beauty seriously? It would just make it worse for her. They’ll make it as humiliating as possible – and then they’ll drop the charges because how can you prove it was rape? She wasn’t hurt.’
‘She was!’
‘I know. I know that. But it’s not a hurt you can see.’
‘But she’s only thirteen!’
‘The police won’t do anything.’
‘But he raped her.’
‘He says he didn’t...’
‘But his pants were down. She was... and look at what he did to Pretty.’
‘The police won’t care. To them, Beauty and Pretty are just kaffirs.’
She hadn’t believed him. Things were changing. They said so on the news, every night. They’d even signed a Peace Accord thing which was supposed to mean that all the fighting and violence would be over. A bit late for Ma and Pa and Christo, but Thys was optimistic about it. He always fought with his father about it. Every time they went to visit the Dominee and Mrs van Zyl at their fancy new house in Kroonstad.
‘It’s a start,’ Thys always said. ‘Things have to start somewhere.’
And she always bit her tongue. She hated arguing with Thys – even if he was wrong this time. She hated the fact that she found herself agreeing with his father.
What about those terrorist organisations that refused to sign the Peace Accord? she wanted to ask. They refused to lay down their arms, they said on the news. The newspaper said there were terrorists all over the place now, they had been allowed to come back into the country and they all had weapons and Die Volksblad said the violence in the townships was getting worse too – and the police couldn’t do anything about it.
But this was different. This wasn’t about politics. This was about Beauty.
She phoned Wynand and he laughed at her. What did she expect him to do? Arrest a white man for fucking a kaffir girl? Hadn’t she heard? PW Botha himself had repealed the Immorality Act years ago, so whites fucking blacks and blacks fucking whites was absolutely okay. And legal. And now with everything FW was doing, it would probably soon be legal for terrorists to kill white folks. She put the phone down.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. Something had to be done. Perhaps Thys was a little bit right – perhaps his latest idea would help.
He’d come up with it when she told him that Rosie had told her that Stefan Smit had been raping Pretty for years before turning his attention to Beauty.
‘Why didn’t Pretty say anything? Why didn’t you?’ she asked Rosie.
‘Do you really think Baas Stefan was doing anything new? It happens all the time. Anyway Pretty was used to it. But when she tried to stop him doing the same thing to Beauty – I thought he was going to kill her. That’s why I ran to get you.’
‘But Beauty is a child. How could he...’
‘Pretty was only thirteen when she had Beauty. That’s why she’s never had any more children. Because she was too small when Beauty was born. She nearly died. They had to take her to the hospital.’
Annamari was stunned. She’d always suspected that Pretty was probably younger than her – and she’d been seventeen when Arno was born – but she’d never really thought about it, not like that.
‘Only thirteen? Oh my word, she was just a child! Who was ... who did it... who made her pregnant?’
‘I don’t know. I heard he was a young white baas. He lived in town. They said he came to the lokshin all the time to sleep with the girls. But when he saw Pretty, he didn’t want any of the others anymore, and then after Beauty was born... well, he stopped visiting. But then others also ... and it wasn’t just the whites. The lokshin girls, they think it’s something they have to do. It’s the only way to get money to feed their children. But Pretty, she didn’t understand. She just did what she was told. I think the other girls took her money. Anyway, Baas Stefan never paid her. He just said he’d fire her if she didn’t let him.’
Annamari wondered if she knew Beauty’s father. She knew almost everyone in Driespruitfontein.
Chapter 9
1991
Annamari hesitated, then pushed the key into the lock. It turned surprisingly easily. Twisting the handle, she pushed the
door open and walked into the gloom. She pulled back the curtains and tiny dust motes danced in the unaccustomed rays of sunlight. It was all exactly as she remembered. Her eyes rested on the neat piles of magazines on the coffee table – Landbouweekblad, Koringfokus, Farmer’s Weekly. Christo had always liked to remain abreast of developments in agriculture...
She walked through to the bedrooms – the rooms, Christo told her when she teased him about building a three-bedroomed house – where his children would sleep, one day. After he found the right girl to marry. He wasn’t in a rush, he was young, there was plenty of time he always said. But time was no match for an AK47.
The bed in the spare room was covered with one of Rosie’s bright, multicoloured crocheted blankets. The cupboards were empty. In Christo’s study, there were papers strewn all over the desk. Odd – Christo had always been so meticulously neat. A ribbon of fax paper curled from the fax machine over the edge of the desk. A new message. She wondered if Christo had ever read it. She opened the cupboards. Books, text books mainly.
The second bathroom. Christo had obviously never used it. Not even a tube of toothpaste in the cabinet. She opened the cold tap; it burbled and rattled and some brownish water spluttered out. The tap coughed and fresh, clean water rushed into the dusty basin. She wiped away the splatter with her hand. The toilet flushed and water gurgled in, refilling the cistern. In the bathroom mirror, a white round face; pale blue eyes fringed by pale lashes; mousy hair scraped back into a ponytail; pale lips; double chin – Annamari looked away.
Then reluctantly down the passage, towards the open door at the end. She tiptoed into her brother’s bedroom. Everything was neat, orderly. Like it should be. She gently, softly, stroked the slight indentation in the blue and grey duvet where he must have sat, probably for the last time. To put on his shoes? To get something from his bedside pedestal? Had he had the slightest inkling of the horror that was awaiting him just a few hundred metres away? She wrenched her eyes away and focused on the cupboard. She pulled the door open, and quickly closed it. She’d ask Petrus to go through Christo’s clothes – take what he wanted, give the rest away.
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