by Malla Nunn
“My father,” he said.
“Son of my brother,” Shabalala answered in a low, quiet voice. “Sit. Be at ease.”
They sat on opposite sides of the table, both stiff shouldered and uncomfortable in the wooden chairs. Emmanuel closed the door and remained standing. From outside the window came the regimented stomp of prisoners marching in the yard and forming up in rank and file. A whistle trilled. Aaron glanced across the room and frowned in recognition. He said, “My father has brought a white policeman to listen to our private words. How can I be at ease?”
“This man is Detective Sergeant Cooper. He is a friend. He is here to help.”
“A white man and a black man cannot be friends in this country,” Aaron answered with resolve. “It is written in their law books. He is the boss and you are the servant.”
“My child …” Shock hushed the Zulu detective’s voice. Black men spoke these thoughts in their homes and in quiet groups, but never in front of white people. “I tell you true that this is a different matter.”
“It can never be different.” Aaron remained expressionless. “Surely you understand, my father.”
“That may be so but you are still in prison and in need of help,” Shabalala pointed out. Sunshine fell through the high window and cast a brown haze into the room. The light flattened the dimensions of the furniture and people.
The boy shrugged his broad shoulder. “I told your friend and the other police what I was doing when the principal was beaten. They did not believe me.”
“The principal is dead,” Shabalala said. “The white people who sit in judgement will show you no mercy. They will send you to the hangman.”
Aaron breathed in and out like a fish stuck on the beach. The muscles of his throat contracted but no sounds came from his mouth.
Shabalala leaned forward suddenly, elbows hitting the table with a thud. “Were you with the white man’s daughter?”
“Cassie?” Aaron paled in response. “My father cannot believe this is true.”
“You are young. The young make mistakes.”
“Never with that one,” the Zulu youth said. “She hated us sitting at her parents’ table, using the knives and forks and the toilet. I would not have touched her or her, me.”
Emmanuel caught the rapid play of emotions working across Aaron’s face. He displayed plenty of anger and frustration, but not a hint of sexual attraction or the agony of lust deferred. Aaron simply disliked Cassie.
“Tell me where you where, my son. For your sake and for your mother’s.”
Aaron covered his face with both hands. He kept still and seemed capable of doing little more than drawing in shallow breaths. Cassie had hidden behind her palms and blocked out the world also.
A thought hit Emmanuel. “Did Cassie wear lipstick to the dinner table on Friday night?”
Aaron dropped his hands. A moment later he said, “I saw no lipstick on her.”
“For certain?”
“The principal and his wife were strict. The daughter wore no make-up. Her mother also had a clean face.”
“Thanks.” Emmanuel leaned back against the door, returning the room to the Shabalala men. The footprints that led from the kitchen door to the corner where Cassie had crouched with the lipstick smeared across her hand now made sense. She must have been out in the shed on the night of the assault, already in her make-up and yellow nightdress, with the mattress ready on the floor.
“One name,” Shabalala pressed Aaron. “I do not care if it is a person known to the police or a loose girl in a bad house. There must be one who glimpsed you on the street.”
“I kept to the shadows,” Aaron said. “No-one saw me.”
Chair legs screeched against the concrete floor. Shabalala stood abruptly and looked down at the frightened boy; their physical resemblance was so strong it seemed the Zulu detective might be staring back in time at his younger self.
“I will come again. Maybe then my wife’s child will remember where he was on that night and in whose company. Stay well.” Shabalala turned away from Aaron and said, “We may leave, Sergeant.”
Emmanuel opened the door, intrigued by the sight of the towering Zulu holding onto his temper by a bare thread. They had to leave immediately, that was clear, or Emmanuel feared the table would be broken to firewood and the window cracked by flying debris.
“Go well, my father.” Aaron stood in the hazy brown light, the prison khaki hanging loose on his frame. He appeared smaller than when they’d first entered the room. The knowledge of the murder charge had to weigh heavily on him.
Emmanuel and Shabalala crossed the hall again, the concrete floor hard under the soles of their leather shoes. The smell of disinfectant mixed with the smell of a Sunday lunch of boiled cabbage and stewed meat. Swallows darted back and forth outside the windows. A pair of them came to rest on a mud and grass nest built under the eaves.
“He throws his life away …” Shabalala’s voice hardened with suppressed anger. “For what? Lizzie and I will see him hang from the end of a rope. Still, he sits and lies.”
“Aaron is lying for reasons we don’t understand yet; possibly to protect the reputation of a someone else.”
“The principal’s daughter …”
“I don’t think so. Your son doesn’t like her much, which could be the reason she named him in her statement to begin with.” The new segregation laws were underpinned by the idea that the tide of physical attraction flowed inexorably from black men towards white women, not the other way around. “She wore lipstick on the night her parents were attacked. I saw it. Now the question is, if Aaron wasn’t in the hut with her, who was? That person might have witnessed something we can use.”
They left the hall and crossed the dirt yard to the gates. A group of young prisoners marched in rows behind them, their socks stained with dust and their foreheads slick with sweat. A senior boy gave them orders under a flat, grey sky. A white warden, dark-haired and wearing an earnest expression, approached Emmanuel and Shabalala from a demountable building. He must have been watching from a window, waiting for an opportunity to talk.
“You’ve been to see Shabalala.” A statement addressed to the European male, as custom dictated. “The new boy.”
“That’s right,” Emmanuel answered. “He signed in yesterday afternoon.”
“At 3.10 pm; a direct transfer from the Marshall Square police station. I wasn’t here. It’s recorded in the log book.” The warden’s pink face scrunched in a frown. “I wonder if there is something about the boy that we should know about?”
“Such as?” Emmanuel asked.
“He came with a white lawyer, which is not common at all.” The warden talked fast and low, the words rear-ending into each other like bumper cars at a fairground. “Most of our boys don’t have representation beyond a welfare worker. That set the alarm bells ringing. Then there’s the number of visitors. I said to myself, ‘Wait a moment. This is highly unusual. What’s going on with this boy? Is there some kind of trouble we should know about?” The warden paused and took a breath. “That’s why I came out of the office; to ask about the unusual circumstances.”
“Tell me about the visitors,” Emmanuel said.
“The inmates normally get single visitors or whole family groups coming in together. That’s the usual pattern. Shabalala’s had four visitors in one day, none of them family. You see what I’m saying it’s highly …”
“Unusual. Yes, I understand. Who exactly visited Shabalala?”
“Two natives came this morning, first thing, right when the gates opened. Not on foot or in a township taxi, but in a black car. That got my attention, straight off. Then there’s the two of you detectives, just now. That’s four visitors in four hours.”
“Names and gender of the natives?” Emmanuel cut in before the warden gathered wind for more words. Shabalala stood to the side, absorbing the conversation with a passive expression. Impatience was a luxury afforded exclusively to Europeans.
&nb
sp; “Two men in a black car with a dented fender. They parked at the gate and sat there for ten minutes, waiting for the gates to open for visitors. Both were dressed well. The younger man was a Khumalo from Alexandria township and the older one was a Bakwena from Sophiatown. I asked them what their relationship was to Shabalala and they said they were friends of his father who was in hospital. They went to the main hall and one of our native wardens showed them to the smaller rooms. They stayed about fifteen minutes, I think. Most of our visitors …”
“First names,” Emmanuel jumped in without waiting for an indrawn breath. The warden could evidently talk under water.
“I didn’t ask. They signed the visitor book with only their surnames. Should I have double-checked their passbooks, Detective? They weren’t any trouble. And they came in a car, which means they were a better class of native … if you get my drift.”
“Any physical description you can provide would help our investigation.”
“All right, let’s think.” Another frown gathered as thoughts struggled to gain a foothold in the warden’s mind. “Brown skin and brown eyes for the younger one, white hair and broad shoulders for the older one. Both neat and polite, like I said before.”
Emmanuel guessed the vague physical description meant that both men were good natives; hardly worth a second glance from the authorities. A bell clanged in the background, calling the inmates to lunch.
“I have to go and supervise the native wardens, make sure they’re keeping order during mealtimes,” the white warden said. “Is there something I should know about Shabalala?”
“His lawyer, Johan Britz, is big trouble,” Emmanuel said. “Keep an eye on Shabalala. Make sure the other inmates steer clear of him or Britz will have you and the other prison guards in court for dereliction of duty should anything happen.”
“I’ll let the others know.” The warden tugged his uniform straight, squared his shoulders and set off to the dining hall. The clatter of plates and the low hum of inmates’ voices drifted across the yard.
“We could go back and ask about the visitors.” Emmanuel gave Shabalala the option of banging on Aaron’s gates for a second time.
“No, Sergeant. That boy is truly my son. His mind and his mouth are closed. He will tell us less than the noisy white man.” Shabalala glanced in the direction of the long, ugly dinning hall where Aaron would sit and eat a meal of boiled cabbage and boiled potatoes served with a chunk of boiled meat. “It would be quicker to find the men who came to visit and ask them face to face about their business than to wait for Aaron to speak.”
“If we can find them. Half the people in Sophiatown and Alexandria aren’t listed on any records. There’s still Fatty Mapela’s dance tonight.” Emmanuel opened the driver’s door and spoke over the hood. “Let’s head to the Brewers’ house and search that storage shed.”
*
She lay flat to the concrete floor, desperate to feel the cool of it in the stifling heat. It was Sunday, maybe. Time blurred in the cell. Light followed dark and then around again. She’d lost track of the turnover. Yellow light glowed through the high window, inviting her up and out into the day. Not yet. Not now. Male voices reached into the cell. Glass shattered against the outside wall at regular intervals. The big man was drinking with friends and throwing the empty bottles against the side of the house for fun, for the pleasure of the sound of a thing breaking. The little man, the coward who’d helped kidnap her, and two others whose voices she didn’t recognise, were in the front yard. A car had arrived on the property earlier, followed by the slam of doors, loud greetings, and the slap of hands on shoulders: four good friends reunited and happy to share company. The girl hated their laughter.
She lay still and listened; caught snatches of conversation.
“Five minutes … quick work … then out … we’ll make enough to buy a couple of animals. Maybe a lion or a couple of buffalo.” That was the big man talking up a big plan. He was the boss, the one in control. Of course. Such a greedy person, the girl thought, to want more than a beautiful face, slick hair and a strong body. She would never be obedient or grateful enough to stay his hand.
“… Be prepared for … not easy …” another of the men added a comment and silence settled on the yard. The girl sat up, alert. Footsteps crunched gravel and a bottle clinked.
“Out of the way. Now!” the big man yelled. A gunshot cracked the air, splintering glass and wood. Another shot kicked dirt against the high window, rattling the frame. The girl scuttled across the floor and slid under the iron cot. She pressed a knuckled fist to her mouth to hold back a sob. The big man had rules; so many rules. Screaming was forbidden. So too, cursing and bad language. Signs of weakness were punished.
“Save the bullets,” the little man said. “You might need them tonight.”
“They won’t fight. Wait and see …” the creak of the windmill covered the rest of the big man’s words and gravel from the drive blew against the walls. The girl stayed under the cot, breathing deeply. Fear slowly subsided. She un-clenched her fist and pressed her palms to the cool concrete floor. A metal object with a sharp point pricked her skin. Familiar ridges and shapes teased her fingertips. The girl lifted the item to the light and blew away dust. It was a rusty hair clip with the cushioned ends missing, identical to the dozens she’d lost or mislaid over the years.
Like so many other girls, she thought. Where was the owner of the hairclip now? Gone, buried in the fruit orchard or under the windmill that sang in the wind. And others too, she was sure, all swallowed by the ground and forgotten.
The underside of the cot, a lattice of diamond-shaped wire, loomed close to her face. She gripped the metal till it cut into her palms, causing pain and sharpening her mind. The men laughed in the yard. Bottles clinked. While they laid plans and played with guns, she was safe. After that, the big man’s attention would turn back to her cell. It would be too late then to fly. She tugged at the metal, testing its strength. Pushed vertically against the wall, the underside of the cot could serve as a climbing ladder that could reach up to the window. She was light, scrawny, even. The wire was strong enough to take her weight. Worth a try tonight, while they slept off the booze and the moon sank in the sky.
A bottle smashed against the wall and a door slammed. Footsteps sounded on the gravel driveway and the wooden floors inside the house. The girl scrambled from under the cot and wiped dirt from her clothes and hands. She sat on the edge of the cot with her legs pressed together and the hem of her dress pulled over her knees. Back straight, eyes to the floor and chin tucked in, she held absolutely still, hardly daring to breathe. Every detail was perfect. He couldn’t fault her. Not today. She was all and more than he’d asked for: modest, quiet and obedient. A hand turned the doorknob, testing the lock. The lock held. The footsteps receded, moving in the direction of the stairs.
The girl sat, dazed. A door closed. Car engines coughed to life and a male voice called directions. She held still. The big man might come back to judge the tilt of her head, the lank fall of her hair, the exact placement of her bare feet on the concrete floor. The cars drove off, spitting dirt and gravel from under their wheels. A lump rose in the girl’s throat. Far in the distance, the car engines idled at the gates to the property and then sped away again. Tears ran down her cheeks and splashed onto her hands. He was gone for sure. Everything was perfect and he’d never know. Hours of practice wasted. Hours of worry swept aside as if her hard work didn’t matter, as if she herself mattered nothing to him at all.
The hairclip lay on the floor, rusted and lifeless. The owner had sat on this very cot, waiting for a chance to please the big man and receive a smile, a soft word in exchange for her efforts. The girl knew it. She got to her feet, shook her limbs out. The house was empty. The big man and his friends would be gone a while. They had plans. The time to fly had come.
A long push and the cot slammed against the wall with the high window. She flipped the metal frame and angled it so it leaned against the
wall like a ladder. Slowly, resting the weight of one foot and then the other onto the diamond shaped wires, she climbed. Light refracted through the glass. Her fingers touched the wooden frame. Two more footholds and she could see outside. A lonely dirt road cut through flat, bush country and ended at the gravel drive. Birds sang from the trees, the branches of which were visible at the right edge of the glass. There were no crops or livestock. The expanse of harsh, dry country seemed to go on forever. Finding food and water might be a problem. What did it matter? The big man was stingy with food and water. He gave her just enough to keep her alive until such time as he decided otherwise. She grabbed the lock and turned the metal catch. Rust slowed the movement. She jiggled the mechanism, gaining precious inches. Finally, the two parts of the lock snapped free. Paint flaked from the windowsill and specks of blue dropped to the floor. She pushed the frame out. The wood groaned but stayed fixed. Another push. Still nothing.
“Please …” A pile of earth pushed against the bottom of the frame on the outside, holding it shut. The window was stuck fast. Worse yet, two metal bars were nailed to the wood frame to secure the exit. Breaking the glass wouldn’t free her.
A red-haired child with long pigtails tied with white ribbon streaked across the yard with a sack slung across her shoulder. She was fast, nimble on her feet. The girl banged a fist to the glass.
“Hey you!” she screamed. “Help me! Help me out!”
Dust whirled in the empty yard. Was her vision of the child with the braids and the empty burlap sack real or a long-ago memory of her own childhood?
She climbed down and paced the cell, trying to figure a way out. The big man might let her go. It was possible. If she was good, followed instructions, sat perfectly still and smiled at the right time, then maybe. He must know how hard she worked at being obedient now. A metal point stabbed her foot, sticking into the flesh. She leaned against the wall and checked her arch. The tip of the hairpin pushed into the skin, deeper than it should have for a quick step. Breath caught in her throat. Twice now, the pin had brought news from the dead. She pulled it free. Blood trickled from the wound, and stained the concrete floor; another warning from the other side. The only way out of this cell alive was through the window.