by Tracy Going
And so I put my home on the market. My ex-husband, Alex, moved in and Wilhemina returned to her private quarters outside.
They became my fortress: Wilhemina on the outside. Alex next door, in the room beside me. My son and my dog, Garp, in my bed, close to me at night. The doors between us and the outside locked, secured.
During the day I guarded myself where I could, but mostly I stayed inside.
Christmas passed quietly and safely. And by the time Alex left in January for his political posting in Europe I felt stronger, more assured, less anxious.
My friend, Robyn, phoned one day and invited me to join her for tea.
“You need to get out.”
She was right.
It had been months since I’d deviated from my schedule and it was about time. I needed to extend my boundaries. So we met at Robyn’s favourite spot, Walnut Grove in Sandton City. She loved high tea and the restaurant, located on a bridge over the walkway, served teas with an array of delicate pastries and dense tarts. We sat at one of the small, round tables that dented the plush carpet and were served by a waiter who’d worked there for decades.
It felt good to be out, to allow myself to let my guard down a little, good to be drinking tea and talking to my friend as a piano tinkled in the background. We had known each other since we were twelve years old. We had been together at boarding school. She knew me well and there was no need for me to defend myself, so we chatted, we laughed and I forgot.
It was the right thing to have done. I was glad she had persuaded me to step beyond the comfort zone I had so painstakingly, so methodically, reinforced over the last while, and my step was nimble as I walked away. But the light fell fast as I stepped into the parking lot. Suddenly the afternoon was drained of all colour. I had parked close to the entrance and I saw it as soon as I neared my car.
C U N T
The word had been etched across my windscreen. Scrawled in capital letters. From one side of the glass to the other.
I rushed forward to rub the obscenity away. But as I touched it I felt its powdery, sticky grit. It had been written in glue.
I scratched at it, but my fingers came away dry.
As the panic rose in my throat, it felt as though there were hands clasped around my neck, choking me in an icy grip. They were his hands.
He’s done this.
I whirled around, scanned the shadows lurking beneath the columns.
Nothing.
I heard car doors slamming, footsteps. I smelt burning tyres and hot petrol. It all seemed so close.
Where is he?
Is he watching me?
How did he know I was here?
My eyes searched the cars, the empty spaces.
But I couldn’t see him.
I crouched low as I fumbled for my keys, slipped the door open and climbed into my car. I locked the doors.
My fingers were numb on the steering wheel. I wiped my hands on my knees and turned the key in the ignition.
Where is the exit?
I have to find the quickest way out, I have to get away, I have to get home!
My child is alone with Wilhemina.
I saw nothing as I sped down William Nicol highway. I focused only on the road ahead as I tried to get some distance between his violence and my self.
It seemed there was no end to his terror.
I’ll phone Sheryl, my lawyer, when I get home.
I’ll move house.
I’ll get rid of my car.
I’ll not let him find me.
Eighteen
“There’s one,” announces my mother excitedly. “There, there! Follow him.”
But I’ve already seen him; his bloodshot eyes squint into the morning sky, his mouth pouts into a sharp whistle, his hand flicks furiously as he directs us into a side street.
“Thank you,” I say, shrugging him off, wanting to cut his inevitable words.
“I look nicely,” he bows slightly, his hands cupped, determined to have his say.
My smile is vague as I hand over the stipulated amount, not concerned whether he is a self-appointed guard to the open lot or not, just grateful that my car is secure and that I am no longer negotiating the unfamiliar, early morning traffic, vehicles crossing erratically around me, closing me in.
Diagonally opposite us is the now-familiar three-storey building. The magistrate’s court in Johannesburg – an enormous, impenetrable massif dominating four city blocks. And despite the sun warming its eastern façade, the brick, carved granite and chiselled stone stand cold and stern. There are rows and rows of identical frosted-glass panes, every single one firmly closed to the day.
It seems so immutable. So solid. So big.
I stay where I am.
“I don’t know if I can do this, Mom.”
“Yes, you can. Yes, you can …” she tutts, taking my arm and guiding me from the dusty gravel to the pavement. Crisp, dry leaves brush at our feet and crackle underfoot as early autumn whispers, reminding us that nothing lasts.
We cross over Fox Street.
We walk up the stairs saying nothing; we pass two bronze statues, weathered green. They look north, standing sentinel on either side of the lofty wooden doors, impassively keeping guard beneath the columns of the grand entrance.
Only one door is open. My mother steps into the dark first. I follow slowly, cautiously, reluctantly.
It is Thursday, 19 March 1998.
The start of my court case. Today I will finally be telling my story.
As we make our way across the marble landing, down into the criminal courts below, I am confident of the minutiae. The details constantly replay in my head, ricocheting and crashing in all directions as I relive again and again what has happened, mostly with exquisite, exhaustive accuracy. As I follow my mother’s quick steps, I am certain of my truth. I have yet to reread the statement I’d made months earlier, but I know that is unnecessary … I can never forget.
Sheryl meets us and once again leads us through the dimness to the prosecutor’s office for a final briefing, this time with Prosecutor No. 3.
Her name is Sandra. She is young and feisty. Her blonde hair hangs shiny and straight, unlayered, onto shoulders that are sure, not yet weighed down by her new, black gown. Her back is ramrod straight, as though reinforced by an impassioned belief in the nobility of her work. Her step had been purposeful when she came to meet me a few weeks earlier, right after I was informed, without much explanation, that Prosecutor No. 2 had been moved to another matter.
“Don’t worry,” she’d said, her glossy lips shining, her smile warm. “It’ll all be fine.”
After a brief interchange, Sandra scuttles into the courtroom to arrange her documents and order her busy mind. She is joined by Investigating Officer No. 2, to whom I have just been introduced.
We are still lingering outside in the passage when the accused and his defence attorney make their entrance. Neither of them walks quietly – perhaps they simply don’t feel the need. As the soles of their shoes strike the floor, their matching lockstep pounds out a forceful rhythm that carves a path through the crowd in the passage. Their arms swing widely, in unison.
I recognise his new attorney immediately. He is a criminal defence attorney. I know him from the society pages in the Sunday newspapers. He has a reputation for being one who prides himself on representing high-profile cases, a man drawn to fame and celebrity like a coiled cobra to a flute.
I had been upset to hear that he had hired a man who ached so to be in the public eye. He had previously warned me to drop the charges “… or I’ll destroy you publicly”, but somehow I had thought he’d be more discreet and choose a more inconspicuous attorney. It is ridiculous really that, despite everything, I still believe he might have another side, that he might be more restrained. I have clearly miscalculated his desperate need to defeat me at all costs. He has very deliberately selected an attorney who makes no apologies for the fact that he doesn’t like to lose.
Beh
ind them is the defence advocate. I do not recognise him.
If circumstances were different I might have admired them as they tramped toward the courtroom, all so swift and sure. The accused and his attorney, head and shoulders above everyone else. But as I stand there with my eyes fixed, I want to flee. I want to get as far away from them as I can, but it is impossible, so I steel myself. I take strength from my surrounds, knowing I am protected among those around me, and I draw myself up a little straighter.
I had carefully selected my outfit the day before: a pale jacket with lightly padded shoulders and slim-fitting trousers. It is one of my newsreader suits, muted, nothing that would compete with the screen or the studio framed behind me. It has been tailored especially for me. I’ve only worn it once before and the fabric is still hard and unyielding as it hides my thinness, but I hope that as I stand tall in my high heels I at least appear confident.
He is in his navy blazer, white shirt, silk tie, chinos and brown suede shoes. It is the same costume, the same disguise he was wearing when he arrived at the police station soon after he’d beaten me up. It is the same outfit he was wearing when he had first appeared in court five months earlier. I remember when he bought it.
He had bought it for my thirtieth birthday party. It was a reason to celebrate and he was my partner.
I had reserved a dining room at a small, boutique hotel close to my home. I’d been considering the venue for months, long before we’d first met. I’d unashamedly wanted my party to be a glitzy affair. And it had been. The hotel, with its mix of urban chic and contemporary lines, opening out into a dark, green garden, was the ideal setting. An extension of my life at the time, dazzling and uncomplicated. He had bought a single-breasted navy jacket and beige chino pants for the occasion. My eyes had been bright when we walked into the dining room together. Him, dashingly elegant in his new ensemble, and me, sleek in tight, black velvet. My hand had rested lightly on his arm, laying claim.
It seems an eternity has passed since those heady days when anything outside of him was an intrusion, when all that mattered was just being with him, back when his shirt collar was still stiffly crisp, edges unfrayed.
But everything has changed. All of it.
He is gone.
I now cradle a firearm beneath my pillow, the catch on safety.
I no longer drive the same car.
And I have moved to another suburb, to a place he doesn’t know.
We have moved to a house three doors away from my son’s school. It is an unsightly place, its brick border unpainted and window frames peeling, but it is in an unknown location, behind heavily trellised burglar bars, security doors that snap shut behind us. I feel safer, and within walking distance to his school, my son, more certain.
But I still live as though I am always being followed, followed by him, by the past he has burdened me with. I am haunted by the frightening uncertainty of my future too. When his fists tore into me, my career stalled and it hasn’t yet recovered, and I am scraping and scrounging as all the unexpected expenses that followed the attack cripple me. Desperation will force me to start a training company for aspiring television presenters and this will become an essential financial lifeline.
But standing there in that passage, waiting for the court session to begin so I can be called to take an oath, it is inconceivable to think how everything in my life has changed. There is so little that is not different.
But it is mainly me that has altered.
I am no longer the same.
And nor will I ever be.
Court reporters and other intent media have filled the back benches by the time my mother, Sheryl and I enter. The front row is where my friends are sitting: Karen, Estie, Robyn and Katherine. Sue, from Fair Lady magazine, who has yet to become my friend and one of my most valiant supporters, is also there.
My mother and Sheryl join them on wooden benches, benches that will soon become harder as the court case trudges on.
My place is alongside Sandra, Prosecutor No. 3, and as I sit down I hold myself away from the edges of the chair, trying not to touch the dirty maroon fabric.
The magistrate’s footsteps are drowned by whispered greetings and the innocent chatter of those who have come to watch.
“May the court rise,” the court orderly calls, disinterested.
It is only after this feeble announcement that quiet eventually settles and everyone stands.
But perhaps it is the magistrate himself who inspires so little notice.
He is flexed forward as he shuffles in through the door, his shoulders dragging him down. I can’t see his eyes, either because he is looking down or the mousy brown waves cupping his face have melded to his forehead and hood them. He looks like he’s spent a lifetime living on the darker side of inside and his pallid face is bleached of any natural hue. He finds his way to his bench. I can see his trousers peeking from below his gown; they are hanging limp and formless. They are a dull, dead brown. So are his shoes.
He takes his seat.
The magistrate nods – at no one in particular.
Sandra shuffles her papers beside me. She stands, hoists her gown from her shoulders and pulls it closed in the middle.
Only then does she read the charges out loud.
The magistrate leans forward from behind his high bench, his face even chalkier.
“You heard the charges against you?” he asks the accused.
“Yes.”
“The first charge is one of malicious damage to property. Do you understand the charges against you? What do you plead?”
“Not guilty.”
He is opposite me, just a few metres away in the accused’s box, almost within reach, with his feet spread wide and hips locked forward. His head is back and his chin lifted high; his neck extends like a thick, hardened rope, flexed tight. His sleeves are pulled taut over his arms as he holds them behind him. It looks as though his hands are cuffed. They aren’t.
His mouth is open, his lips parted. They are hanging slack and cruel.
He’s ugly.
There is a clock on the wall behind him. It is round and white, edged with silver. It seems incongruous in that time-worn teak interior: too new and too shiny, an afterthought, as if too many have asked, “How much longer?”
The hands move round and round.
It is 09:17.
“The second charge is assault with intent to do grievous bodily harm. Do you understand that charge?” the magistrate continues mildly.
“Yes.”
“What do you plead?”
“Not guilty.”
Nineteen
“When you went to the police station and made the first statement, do you agree that you lied?”
“I lied,” I admit.
It is the defence advocate’s very first question to me about my testimony. He is placing up front, on the record of his cross-examination, that I am a confirmed liar.
“Why did you lie?”
“Because the accused threatened to kill me and my child,” I say, my mind replaying the image of him running his hand across his throat, his words running cold down my neck: “… and you have a child.”
I remember how he had grinned, an icy sneer across his face.
“Is that the only reason you lied?” asks the defence, his tone suggesting otherwise.
“I lied out of fear. His last words to me when he left my house that morning were ‘I am going to fuck you over’.”
“Did you not lie so that you can make an insurance claim?”
“No, I never lied because I could make an insurance claim. They would have paid out anyway if I told the truth.”
I lied because I was terrified.
I am going to fuck you over.
It had been light by the time he eventually left that Sunday morning. I had listened from my room as he stalked up and down my passage, repeatedly calling his employee to fetch him. Only once he slammed the door and kicked my dog did I trust that he truly was gone.
A sleepless night being held hostage by him and his violent unpredictability had left me overwhelmed with fear. Having his hands hard around my throat, choking me, robbing me of any power I had over my next breath – the underlying threat that he could kill me when he chose – had left me paralysed and uncertain of what to do next.
It had been late Sunday afternoon, about 16:00, before I finally found the courage to open my door and drive to the police station to make a statement and get a case number. I wrote how I’d carelessly left my handbrake down and that my car had rolled into the wall. It was a weak statement and it wouldn’t have held scrutiny, but his threats hung heavy in my mind, his finger marks lingered on my neck, and I was not going to challenge him.
In the end I’d never claimed from the insurance company. He had offered to pay for the repairs to my car during one of his endless phone calls when he apologised, cajoled, charmed and drew me in as he committed himself to making amends. But he never did honour his undertaking and in the end I had paid.
But I was uncomfortable not having told the truth.
Immediately after my radio show, on the Monday morning, I had made my way back to the police station. I met with the superintendent. I told him all that had happened. I showed him the bruises on my neck. I showed him the marks down my arms.
I told him I lied.
I told him why I lied and I asked his advice.
“Tell the truth,” he said. “Change your statement, but I suggest you also get a restraining order. Although, I must warn you that, in my experience, this is only the beginning,” he had said earnestly, the morning sun clouding behind him.
So I changed my statement.
I tell the court all of this.
I tell how I had made one statement about the car to the police and another to the Family Court for the restraining order.
I have already testified about the night of the Janet Jackson album launch at Insomnia nightclub. Sandra put her questions to me when she led my testimony and I have shared the details of how he drove through the streets of Parkhurst like a maniac, screaming, “Tonight you’re going to die”. I told how he dragged me through my house, how he swore at me and throttled me and kept me up all through the night. I have explained how I was so afraid.