Brutal Legacy

by Tracy Going

  Marie was the only daughter. She and I were close enough in age to spend much time with our heads together, her cropped hair falling forward over cheeks dusted with freckles, as we dressed our Barbie dolls, mostly in gowns that we fashioned ourselves. It was a gentle friendship. Marie was soft and kind and would have done well growing up in town.

  Dirk was much younger than me, and we didn’t spend much time together.

  But otherwise, between ourselves, we hewed a happy childhood from that open veld as we climbed trees, built makeshift treehouses, sprained limbs, and cracked chins.

  We learnt to swim.

  We rode our bikes.

  The bikes would eventually be set aside once we were older and taller, and then we took to 125cc Suzuki scramblers and the disused quarry a few kilometres away. It was there that Jannie, the younger Bezuidenhout brother and my brother, David, would throttle it out, blasting granite deposits as they raced the grey dunes. Lapping each other, trying to be the fastest. Us girls, glittered in the gravelly dust, would scream with delight as we hung on tight on the back with our legs bandied, trying to keep clear of the exhaust and its incinerating touch.

  We learnt to shoot, mostly with our pellet guns and less often with the .22 rifle and its live ammunition. Target practice usually happened at our house. We would place our targets evenly along the knee-high stone wall, just behind the flowerbeds, and pretend it was the boundary to our garden fort. We would lie low and swat the grass from our noses as we leopard-crawled into position. Then, as we nuzzled the gun in our armpits, we’d line up the scope, take aim and fire, careful to avoid the dahlias and geraniums. Our garden was the biggest so it made sense to shoot there, but what was also convenient was that there was never a shortage of targets at our house. We offered an unlimited supply of Lion Lager cans.

  And my father was emptying them, drinking them … fast. As fast as he could. Faster than we could shoot a bull’s-eye through the O of Lion.

  He was often at home and had begun to adopt more flexible working hours as he fell deeper and deeper into the clutches of alcoholism. The binges were now more intense and the time between them less. As he slumped down into his armchair, he had become one with our afternoons. He would sit there in the dark, with the lounge curtains drawn, casting his own shadow. It was only the ash that stirred as it grew steadily and then fell from the glowing tip of his Texan Plain, hung limp in his hand. Until the next beer. Then the brash silence of the suck as the seal was broken, as if the beer was drawing its first air, before exhaling, and burping its decay. My father, with his glazed gaze, sat there staring, completely fixated on the pull. As the afternoon continued, and as his mind dulled in its prelude to oblivion, his bald head would loll forward, until the stupor inevitably yielded and he passed out.

  I was ashamed of my father, the drunk.

  If he wasn’t throwing back the liquid in the lounge, then he’d be seeking comfort and consort in his cans at the golf club. With that came the uncertainty as I lay in my bed and waited for him to return. I would lie there clutching the curtain tight in my small hand. I would pull the fabric down, almost straight, forming a strained sliver, and peer into the blackness, unblinking. It seemed I was always watching and waiting. Sometimes I searched for satellites between the twinkles of light, but mostly the fear in my tummy distracted me.

  Other times I prayed.

  “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild

  Look upon a little child;

  Pity mice, and little me

  Suffer me to come to Thee.

  Please keep my mother safe

  And us.

  Amen”

  When the far-off beams of his car’s lights finally cut through the milky curtain that draped the sky I would look straight ahead into the distance. I would see the flicker of his headlights break between the trees far away and I’d gauge how long he was taking. The longer he took the greater the certainty. Time left hanging was a broken promise of a silent night.

  I would keep my eyes fixed on the beams of light as he weaved up the driveway. Only when he parked would I lose sight of his car and only then would I blink. I’d keep my ears sharp. I’d wait to see how long it took for him to open the car door. I’d wait to see how long it took for him to close the car door. I’d listen to hear how lazy the thud was. Then, ears pricked, I’d follow his stagger up the path. I knew exactly where he’d fall. Just past the flowerbed beneath the thorn tree. I’d hear him pick himself up.

  I would keep my hand balanced tight on the edge of my bed as I held the curtain firm and steady. I would lie there, still and unseen, peeping out. He never made the stairs. They were right outside my window and I would draw back into the darkness as he lay prone. I would want to close my ears as he cursed, but I couldn’t in case he saw the curtain move. His words were distorted and muffled as he collided with the veranda. He would roll over. I would watch him as he tried to focus. He would fix his eyes, unblinking, stare straight ahead and eventually lurch forward. Often he would crawl. Sometimes he would vomit.

  My chest would tighten some more when he spewed his acid. Only then would I carefully slide my curtain closed.

  But somehow he always had enough in him for the fight.

  The beatings usually took place at night. They seldom happened during the day.

  Except one particular Saturday afternoon when he came home early from the golf club. My mother had greeted him in her usual manner, a grand smile on her face, her placatory mask of pretence, pretending he wasn’t raging drunk. But he needed no provocation. He never did.

  As the thumps started, I grabbed my brother and sister and shepherded them into the TV room.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I whispered as we cowered together.

  “We’ll be okay.”

  “I promise.”

  They were only seven. I was two years older. It was my job to keep them safe.

  We waited for the quiet and only when my mother lay sobbing into the pillows in her room did we sneak out. We made sure my father wouldn’t hear us. We made no noise, not a sound, as we squeezed ourselves between the wires of the boundary fence, carefully avoiding the sharpened barbs, to enter into the Badenhorsts’ property. It was only once we were on the other side, on their land, that we dared to raise our voices. We rushed around their veld, a land dense with protea bushes. All those shrubs hanging abundant with massive woolly flowers tinted in murky shades of carmine and pink, and layers of dusty cream. We picked only the finest. We stood tall and ripped at thick, stubborn woody stems to reach for the most voluptuous, most colourful and most beautiful, growing free and wild in our neighbours’ veld.

  And, as we laughed and made a noise and filled our arms, we allowed ourselves to forget.

  This would make my mother feel better. We knew she would be happy and smile too.

  We cleared the stems of their dark green, glossy leaves and filled all the vases we could find. And when there weren’t enough of those, we found jars and pressed them full. We placed them all over the dining room and lounge, infusing the house with a strong, dusty, leathery smell.

  Then we waited.

  She finally appeared, eyes swollen and puffy. She saw the flowers, then she took us one by one over her knee. Each word accompanied by a slap.

  “YOU – WILL – NOT – STEAL –” Four syllables. Four slaps.

  “EVER!” she shouted. Five.

  “Take these back to Mrs Badenhorst now!” Pause. “And you say sorry for stealing her flowers.”

  Mrs Badenhorst seemed a little taken aback by our arrival, but courteously and unquestioningly accepted her flowers back.

  It was two months later that my brother set off a firecracker and flicked a spark that would soon twist into a raging furnace that would take the Badenhorsts’ veld with it. All the proteas would be destroyed, charred and blackened, yet somehow the Badenhorsts continued to welcome us into their home.

  But it was then, that day, as I emptied my arms of my heavy bouquet and rubbed its downy dus
t away, and with tears still drying on my cheeks that I promised myself …

  This will never happen to me.

  I will never be beaten up.

  Never. Ever.

  Seven

  We met neither by accident nor by chance, nor were we introduced. We just knew each other. It was not an intuitive knowing, not some inexplicable familiarity that stretched between searching souls to vibrate deeply and divinely. It was a simple connection. I knew him through work. He was a camera operator in the film industry.

  But that was a long time ago. My life had moved on.

  I was no longer married to the man for whom I was going to keep the home fires burning. My career was flourishing. I was flying on the wings of good fortune, grabbing at stars as I soared past with my five-year-old son tucked tightly under the tips of my wing. I was thirty years old and focused on leveraging the updrafts. I was not floating around aimlessly. I wasn’t looking to find myself, nor was I looking for anyone to whisper to my heart. Not that I didn’t appreciate sweet, soft murmurings, but how would I manage it all? Twenty-four hours in a day didn’t stretch long enough to be an accessible mother, to co-anchor a daily radio show, to present three television programmes and also anchor the late-night TV news – all this in between guest appearances, public events and interviews for glossy magazines. I didn’t think there was a yearning cavity to be filled. In fact, if anyone had asked, I would have said there wasn’t even the faintest fissure for anyone to make an entrance in my life, never mind turn on the light.

  There had, though, been some who’d attempted to flick the switch.

  Being on national television and the biggest commercial radio station in the country brought its own allure and over the years I was flattered to receive letters, cards and messages from viewers and listeners alike. It was not unheard of to walk out after a broadcast and find a bouquet of flowers that had been delivered to reception. I once received a set of diamond earrings but, as thrilling as it was, felt compelled to return them. There were two occasions when I requested security to physically escort two of the more ardent fans from my workplace.

  One morning a large, padded envelope was waiting for me as I arrived at the studio. Enclosed was a pencil portrait of me meticulously etched and shaded by an inmate from Mangaung Maximum Security Prison. I appreciated the drawing, and still have it safely tucked away, but it was admittedly unsettling. My first thoughts had been of how the artist had held that newspaper article, with my picture on the front page, tight in his hand, or possibly alongside a heavily tattooed arm, or maybe positioned close to a shaved chest, as he frowned and focused on the intricacies and nuances of my facial features. I couldn’t help but wonder why he was in a maximum-security prison. What if he was a murderer? His was an uninvited intimacy and an unnerving thought.

  However, I was considerably more unnerved one morning to receive a call at the radio station from a man yet to become a prisoner. My headphones were clamped to my ears, my voice still raw from reading the 07:00 news bulletin. It was the lead story that was so chilling. Yet another woman had been found; dumped, viciously beaten, raped and strangled with her underwear. The murders were escalating and it was apparent that this serial killer was becoming more brazen and more violent.

  I was still shuffling the pages of the bulletin when I saw the red light flashing, indicating that a call was being put through to the studio by the sound engineer. It was a call for me. The caller was softly spoken, perfectly polite, calmly and courteously requesting copies of the news items on the serial killings. I kept my voice even as I responded, explaining that all hard copies were discarded and that I wouldn’t be able to assist him.

  It was only after I put the phone down that I heard Tupac’s ‘Keep Ya Head Up’ bouncing around the studio as Bob, the DJ, competed in volume with his favourite artist. Bob echoing Tupac’s words, assuring us that all we had to do was keep our head up, that things were going to get easier, much brighter.

  I looked over at Bob, my brow knitted tight.

  He swiftly slammed his hand down on the mute button and bawled across the consul, “What?”

  “I’ve just spoken to the serial killer,” I said.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yip.”

  I tried to trace the call, but he had already disappeared, lost amid the complex circuitry of the electronic switchboard. And I had let him get away. It later transpired that he had contacted other radio stations and it had been a quick-thinking newspaper journalist who had lured him to his dramatic capture. He, Moses Sithole, was eventually convicted of thirty-eight brutal murders and sentenced to 2410 years in a maximum-security prison. No thanks to me.

  It seemed our station was particularly popular among prison inmates, with a listenership almost evenly divided between us and an independent talk-radio station. It took a while for me to grasp the concept of prisoners tuning into our voices every morning, sharing our thoughts, our humour, happiness or outrage, generally being part of our conversation, as they sat alone in a bleak, barred cell, or with far too many others, sweaty and congested in an overcrowded room, sharing their morning breath, while our voices cleaved the surrounding din.

  Radio listening is an intimate experience where reality and fantasy intertwine, and it’s often easy for listeners to forget that presenters really are strangers. It was not uncommon for us to receive calls from inmates. There was one particular prisoner who was unwavering in his thinking that I was his friend and that I was obliged to post his bail. He called a number of times and insisted there was a misunderstanding about a car that he allegedly borrowed, a minor oversight that would soon be sorted out if only I’d make that payment. It was disquieting to have to convince him that I would not be the one bailing him out.

  But, mostly, the public had no direct access – except, one unhurried afternoon when I was behind my computer, in my office at home, I received a call from an intrepid, and rather determined Chris. Chris, from Durban, had managed to secure my private number. He had seen me on TV. He had a friend named Rob in Port Elizabeth.

  Rob had recently divorced, and Chris firmly believed that the two of us were meant to be one. Chris was quite adamant and for twenty minutes I heard various versions of, “You don’t understand, I think you’ll be good for each other.”

  Chris was not easily convinced that I wasn’t interested and that Port Elizabeth was a bit far from me in Johannesburg. The conversation did not end well.

  “You’re making a mistake,” he snapped before dropping the line.

  When I got another call, this time from a viewer called Bernard, I was more easily persuaded to flick the curls from my shoulders and meet for dinner. My initial response was to turn down the invitation, but Chris’s insinuation that I was unreasonable and, even worse, ungracious still prickled and Bernard’s repeated “You’ve got nothing to lose” finally won me over. And so it was that, as the sun stroked the day with a last caress, I bravely broke into the brilliant brightness of the Hyde Park shopping centre to meet a distinguished-looking, elegantly attired, white-haired man.

  “Good evening,” he crooned. “I’m Bernard.”

  Bernard was old. Old enough to be my father.

  In fact, he was older … much older.

  I held on to my smile but it was then and there that I decided to decline any further invitations, no matter how convincing. Definitely not. No more.

  Then he called. Him.

  I hadn’t given him a moment’s thought over the years and was surprised to hear his voice.

  “Hullo, do you remember me?”

  “Why, yes, of course I do,” I replied. Graciously.

  He shared how his life had evolved, how he was no longer in the film industry, how he had moved into manufacturing and that he was hoping I’d be able to assist him with a marketing plan for his product. Could I give him an hour of my time? Well, of course I could. It was hardly a sacrifice. Not that I knew anything about the making of ginger beer or of its marketing.

 
We met at a restaurant close to my home. It was a popular meeting place, poised along the grassy slopes of the Craighall Park valley, between properties yet to be subdivided. It was only a matter of time before the green of the neighbourhood corner would surrender to the inevitability of the invading land-use trend of rezoning to commercial property, but as we met the residential noises from the avenue below provided its own muffled tune.

  He had arrived ahead of me. When he stood to welcome me, I realised that I’d forgotten how tall he was. Tall and lean. His shirt was tucked neatly into chino shorts, but being so lanky, he appeared a little ungainly, almost boyishly awkward. His sleeves were casually rolled back to reveal sinuous wrists and big hands that closed easily around mine in greeting. It was an informal and comfortable gesture. I slipped in opposite him as he settled himself back down, his broad shoulders rolling forward as he stretched his legs out loosely before him; languidly, like a wild cat, with the same fluid grace belying its strength and deadliness.

  Time was equally graceful as it stalked the day. It was still early, too early for the lunchtime rush, so we sat, the two of us, alone, cradled on the deck basking in the warm glow of the midday sun. It wouldn’t be long before the day would be overwhelmed by the scorching intensity of February’s summer, an intensity that could only be defeated by a late-afternoon shower, but as we chatted away the air was still breathing, the trees were free of shadow and the clouds were deftly marbling the blue sky above us.

  He told me how he’d read a recent article on me in Fair Lady magazine. Naturally, I was intrigued – not many men read glossy women’s magazines, do they? Clearly I was wrong. It was a thoughtful article, well articulated and well written, that enquired about everything, from my dreams and aspirations, to my thoughts on God, my views on money, my fear of failure, to the identity of my most treasured possession.