Brutal Legacy
Page 1
“Searing, heart-breaking, triumphant: Brutal Legacy is for anyone who’s been punched in the face by someone they loved and then stood up again. It’s for every mother who has run, and every sister who has picked up the pieces. This book is for every friend who hasn’t fled, and for every co-worker who didn’t know what to do; it’s for every brother who’s cried and for the children who have watched.
“In her beautiful book, Tracy Going reminds us that strength is hard won and courage lies with us all in glorious abundance once we find it. Every South African should read it.”
– SISONKE MSIMANG, AUTHOR OF Always Another Country
Brutal Legacy
A memoir
Tracy Going
This book is based on my memory and events as I recall them; however, a few names have been changed to protect the privacy of the people involved.
First published by MFBooks Joburg, an imprint of Jacana Media (Pty) Ltd, in 2018
10 Orange Street
Sunnyside
Auckland Park 2092
South Africa
+2711 628 3200
www.jacana.co.za
© Tracy Going, 2018
All rights reserved.
d-PDF 978-1-928420-17-0
ePUB 978-1-928420-18-7
mobi file 978-1-928420-19-4
Cover design by publicide
Job no. 003160
See a complete list of Jacana titles at www.jacana.co.za
To Chase, Ashleigh and David,
for all the broken bits
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Photographic Insert
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
My final words
Acknowledgements
Prologue
“He murdered her.”
“Who? Who murdered who?”
“Oscar. He murdered his girlfriend, Reeva Steenkamp,” I repeat.
“What happened?” My husband is still half asleep.
I set my coffee cup aside, adjust my glasses and read the story out loud.
“But it says he thought she was an intruder?”
“He murdered her.”
“Really, you were there? You know what happened?” he snaps, now fully awake.
“He murdered her … I know.”
It is Valentine’s Day 2013.
There had been mutterings that “Oscar’s not who you think he is …” Former girlfriends telling stories, friends sharing details of wild times, tales of debauchery. We’d all witnessed his tantrum on the track, the display of bad sportsmanship broadcast across the world when he lost to Brazilian sprinter Alan Oliveira in the 200-metre final at the Paralympics.
And now he’s killed Reeva.
Shot her. Four times.
Oscar Pistorius – the Blade Runner, the man who brought the nation together as he sprinted across the track in his Cheetahs, his prosthetic legs, shaped into those of the fastest animal on earth, dressed in the yellow and green of our country – has slain his girlfriend. The man who we’d cheered as he raised his arm in victory, the tattoo on his left shoulder visible, engraved for all of us to see, “I do not run like a man who is running aimlessly,” had fired his weapon and, it seemed, not aimlessly.
We’d forgiven him his previous transgressions. We’d let it go that he had a temper, that he always wanted to win, that he was reckless. But not this time. Not for murder.
And, like millions of others, I am going to demand atonement for this heinous crime.
I’ll follow his trial and make sure he doesn’t get away with it. And I do, but as it all plays out, I fall apart.
My life has been crumbling around me for a while, but when I immerse myself in the vague truths, the endless denial, the self-serving lies and the dank deception that emerge during Oscar’s court case I am transported back into the opacity of my own past and am left teetering.
As I sit in front of the television, watching for hours, days, weeks and then months, I am unable to pull myself away. And when I’m not watching the trial as it plays out in real time, I record it and view it later, deep into the night, sleep stolen from me as I pause, play and rewind.
It seems the blood of my own hurts is steadily seeping through the bandages of my life and the stains are spreading. I realise that time has only bought distance, that forgetting has not been enough. So, as my wounds suppurate, I take on this murderous matter and, ultimately, it becomes ‘Me versus Oscar’.
‘Me versus The System.’
And I do not let go.
I follow the testimony of Michelle Burger, the neighbour who had heard a woman’s screams, gunshots and then nothing.
I feel her anguish when she is belittled before the court.
“Miss Burger, do you want to be addressed as Miss Burger or Mrs Johnson?” asks the defence advocate.
“My title is Doctor … but you’re welcome to call me whatever you like,” she says.
“Madam,” snorts the defence without missing a beat, entirely dismissing who she is, “am I right that at least we know one thing about the context of your testimony and it is this … that you stand there believing that Oscar Pistorius lies and that he lied at the bail application?”
His tone suggests that nothing could be more ridiculous or outrageous.
“Your honour, I can only tell you what I heard that night and so I tell it to the court,” she replies earnestly.
“Did you understand my question?”
And he repeats that question again and again and again, as though she were a simple, silly woman.
At some point Dr Michelle Burger finally accedes that she hadn’t used the words “fear-stricken, petrified” in her original statement. The fear-stricken, petrified screams of a woman.
I admire her for sticking to her testimony despite all the attempts to discredit her, suggesting that she is lying or exaggerating before the court. I am disappointed that she doesn’t want to be identified on camera. I want to see, know who this courageous woman is. I want to apologise for the way she is being treated.
As the court case continues, I throw myself into the timelines of events and try to piece together what I think really happened. I analyse the contents of the cellphone messages and, alone in front of my TV screen, I dissect them for hours on end. I see the pattern of how Reeva had been placating Oscar and I believe I understand why she had pandered to his moods.
I follow the commentary of the panellists as they deliver their expert opinion between court sessions. I hang onto all their thoughts and opinions, but it is psychologist Leonard Carr, in particular, whom I want to hear. He had been my psychologist during my civil trial, when I needed expert opinion, and as I listen to his measured, insightful responses on TV, I realise that he really understands; he understands the pattern of control, the abuse, the power. I regret that I hadn’t really known it all those years ago. As I watch him, I wish I had trusted him
more, been more open to his perceptive thoughts and qualified opinions. Perhaps my healing would have been easier.
So, as I negotiate freedom from my own flashbacks and work to regain control of my life, to find enthusiasm for another tomorrow, I am relieved when it is finally all over, when the verdict is passed.
Then comes the sentencing.
It is outrageous.
Reeva is another woman murdered. Like so many. So many raped and discarded, left for dead, a naked body lying in the open veld. Another woman beaten, bruised and battered. Choked and strangled. Groped on the street. Harassed. Threatened. Another pleading voice not heard. Reeva was murdered in life and now she is being denied in death.
If a convicted murderer, in a matter like this, with the entire world watching, is to spend less than a year incarcerated for his crime, what does that mean for the rest of us?
Why, as women, should we even bother?
What is the point?
Oscar’s court case and its outcome tear at the last of my tenuously woven veneer. Listening to the various testimonies and evidence brought before the court, and thinking of Reeva’s pain, her bewilderment, and imagining her last, desperate, dying moments, drag me into a choking darkness. I see danger in simple, everyday matters. Just standing beside my husband in the lounge becomes a moment fraught with fear when I realise how he could simply take my head and ram it through the window if he chooses. I know I am being irrational, but I am unable to help myself. My sense of self has disintegrated and, as simple living overwhelms me, I struggle to get through the day without collapsing in a heap and crying for hours.
I am in my car one evening, completely overcome, my head hard against the steering wheel, my sobs punching through me, when my friend Karen calls. I tell her that I don’t want to any more, that I can’t carry on, that nothing matters any longer.
But for her it does. I matter.
She knows of a remarkable woman, a psychiatrist, who quickly takes me in. But in order for her to help me, I have to remember and I have to tell. In the beginning, it is hard to talk, to reopen old wounds, to pick at crusted scabs, but slowly, as I turn trauma into narrative, I am able to give my story shape. It is through telling that I can ultimately take control of my own life, make sense of it and even try to understand why.
And slowly I journey back into the light to find a new understanding of my worth.
It’s been four long years and only now do I feel I can put my story behind me.
This is the last chapter.
And then I will close the book.
One
“You’re not allowed here,” I warned him.
“I. Don’t. Give. A. Fuck.”
Those were his words as he lumbered toward me with that loose, loping gait of a tall man. One who has spent a lifetime trying to shorten his stride so that others can keep abreast. He was not a man who could be quiet. His hands were lashing at the air, his shoulders twisting like shifting puzzle pieces. I was trying to put the pieces together, trying to make them fit, not quite certain how. My hands were still suspended, fixed in mid-flick, adjourned, a deferred gesture indicating that he may not enter, when I pressed the remote and soundlessly closed the garage door.
Perhaps he heard my silence because suddenly he calmed, the tension draining from him as his shoulders dropped. He ran his fingers through his tousled fringe and looked down at me with such tenderness.
“I’m so sorry for what I’ve put you through,” he said, tilting his head. “Is there any chance of us getting back together?”
I was quiet.
“Please give me another chance.”
I said nothing as I absorbed his now familiar words.
“Don’t make me beg … But I’m asking you to give me another chance.”
His voice a little harder, more determined. He was looking down at his feet.
I watched him. I wanted to see the truth in his eyes. I wanted to see whether I could believe him, whether I could trust that this time he truly meant what he said. I wanted to see my pain reflected there. But I couldn’t. He was still looking away.
Then suddenly something deep inside me shifted.
I was no longer lost in his dark, brown eyes with their thick, solemn brows. I no longer saw the definition of his chiselled jaw, his high cheekbones or the endearingly flattened tip of his broad nose. As his words melted and morphed, and the last five months moulded as one, his boyish nonchalance, his charm, dissipated.
All I could see were the lies, his disappearing for days without warning, the screaming, the threats, the terror, the hostage-holding, the keeping me up all night, the dragging me through the house by my hair, the choking, the doors locked around me, the phones disconnected, the isolation, the fear and the uncertainty.
I realised that it was never going to change. Never.
As I stood there in my own stillness, I knew that I had been holding onto something that never existed. I finally understood that this could no longer be my journey. I could no longer give credence and value to his distorted perspective.
Was there any chance of us being together? No, there wasn’t.
There would never be. Not any more.
It was finally over.
“No, I don’t think so,” I said softly, trying to find my voice.
I didn’t want to anger him.
It took a moment for my words to register, then his face contorted in fury and his rage erupted in a deadly torrent of vile.
“You bitch! You fucking cunt,” he screamed. “Give me the fucking air tickets.”
He’d bought two air tickets for me and my son to go away for a few days. It was supposed to be a healing getaway, to win me over after the night he’d driven me straight into my garage wall, shouting, “Tonight you’re going to die!”
It was an admission of guilt, a bartering for forgiveness, but I had preferred to accept it as a selfless and thoughtful expression of love and apology. He had also sent a bouquet of flowers, which had long since lost their allure and been discarded. The tickets were on my bedside table.
“I’ll get them,” I said quickly.
It was a short distance to my bedroom, but I moved slowly. I put one foot before the other and trod deliberately away from him. It was only once I was in my bedroom, out of sight, that I rushed forward and reached for the tickets. As I did so I snatched at the remote panic button alongside. I’d recently installed the alarm system and kept the panic button poised and ready just in case. I grabbed it and pressed down frantically, counting, one … two … three.
Not breathing. Four.
I hoped it was long enough to activate the signal, but not long enough to raise his suspicion.
I tossed the panic button aside and bounded back across the room, to the doorway, making up time before slipping back out into the passage. I was still trying to catch my breath as I glided back towards him, eyes lowered. The tickets were in my left hand, carefully caught between thumb and index finger, and I was holding them up high, presenting them ahead of me like a floating, paper peace offering.
But he was having none of it.
He was in the hallway shuffling from one foot to another, immersed in a private dance of rage, as he fuelled his own fury. Somehow, I met his rhythm, instinctively mirroring him, rocking ever so slightly from one side to the other, trying to make myself part of his harmony, trying to placate him, to send out a silent signal that I was not a threat and that I meant no harm. But it was a hollow synchronicity.
As my three-metre journey came to an end I didn’t need to look at him, to meet his eyes, to know that his huge, rough hands were splaying and fisting, that his jaw was clenched tight, his teeth grinding. But I lifted my head anyhow and as our eyes locked I saw the shine. I saw how his pupils had brightened with the icy glow of anticipation.
“Please don’t,” I said, my words nearly silent.
Please don’t hit me.
But he did.
He slammed his right fist into my eye.
He was over me, his face so close to mine that I could feel his spit on my cheek as it sprayed.
“You need your fucking face, don’t you?”
I felt the cold glass. A shard from the shattered coffee table, and he was holding it tight against my cheek.
Oh my God! He wants to cut me. Cut my face.
It took everything I had to twist myself from his grip.
And then I ran.
It was my own dance of survival as I dodged him, the broken furniture, and my dog Garp.
I made it past the veranda, back out into the garden, before he caught up and I felt his hands slam down on my back and shoulders. He threw me to the ground and Garp moved in to protect me. I was caught, tied up in a frenzy of my flailing arms, his kicking feet, and a black furry body with a wagging tail. It was impossible to fend off the blows and recoil from wet dog licks at the same time. So I tucked my head in deep, curled up small and hugged myself tight. I left Garp to his nuzzling and him to his heaving, kicking and grunting as I drew my arms in to shield me. Each time I gave in to a strike from his foot I was grateful that he was wearing his brown suede and not his usual heavy, leather boots.