Dead Before Dying

“They thought the punishment wasn'’t severe enough. Van der Vyver, the sergeant at the house in Parow. He said I’d endanger lives again. He told the others. He was right. They went to Theal. My commanding officer. But Theal said I’d be okay, they were in too much of a hurry. Then they drew up a petition, took it as far as the assistant district commissioner, who had known my father and stopped the whole thing and said loyalty kept the force together. My father. Gave me from the grave what he couldn't give me in life. It’s ironic, isn’t it, Hanna?”

He used her name for the first time, without respect. She could’ve dropped it today. She could’ve discussed other things today, this and that, because he was getting his act together. I’m busy getting my act together, Hanna, and now you’re fucking with my head. Doc, I’ll be fine, I promise you, tomorrow evening my head will be just fine . . .

She blew her nose and only then did he see the wetness in her eyes and he half rose from his deep chair.

“Life is ironical,” she said, her voice under control. “That’s enough for today.”

Then he knew that he had touched her and wondered how, and he wondered what it meant.

* * *

Janek Milos opened the door and Benny Griessel knew he had his man.

“It’s your nose,” Griessel said.

Milos turned and ran into the house. Griessel swore and sprang after him, hoping that he would catch him quickly, because after a hundred meters, or less, he wouldn't have a hope.

Milos shut doors as far as he went, but the back door was locked and in his feverish haste he couldn't get the key to turn. Griessel struck the man’s back with his shoulder, forcing him against the door. The wood splintered, breath woofed out of the man’s mouth. Griessel was on him, his knee against the man’s back, forcing him to the ground. He jerked his arm back and twisted it toward his neck. Handcuffs on the right hand. Click. Found the other hand. Click.

“Hello, sweetheart,” said Griessel and kissed Janek Milos on the back of his bald head.

* * *

“If you don’t sue the

Argus,

I will,” said Margaret Wallace’s mother over the telephone, her voice shrill with agitation.

“Why, Mom?”

“I don’t want to tell you. It’s horrible the way they lie.”

“What is it, Mother?”

“It’ll upset you.”

“Mother, please.”

“They say . . . Heavens, my dear, it’s a pack of lies. It’s just that I’m so . . . so . . .”

“Mother!” A desperate order.

“They say Jimmy was with another woman. The day he died.”

* * *

“You must be fucking joking,” said the Brigadier, who was pacing to and fro in the parade room. “The minister is shitting his pants and you tell me the thing still doesn’t make sense. You tell me there’s forty thousand rand in the priest’s trailer and it’s just fine because he banks on a Saturday. You think the church is the answer and relatives have never heard of it.” He stopped and glared at de Wit and Joubert. “You must be fucking joking.”

They stared at the floor.

“Have you any idea of the pressure? The General is too scared to answer his telephone and I had to flee my office because the press are camped out in the street. And the bastards are everywhere. Here, at the gate, a uniform virtually had to save me from the vultures and you tell me the thing doesn’t make sense.” He started pacing again, his arms swinging. His face was scarlet, the veins in his neck swollen. “The minister says we’re the laughingstock overseas. We simple Boers are so stupid they have to send us a clairvoyant. Whose idea was that? You have a list of names the motherfucker wants to kill and they’re still dying like flies. And now you look so grateful that the names on the list are coming to an end.”

He took a kick at a chair. It fell over backwards, hit the wall, sprang back, clattered over the floor, and lay there.

“Doesn’t anyone have anything to say?”

“Brigadier,” said de Wit, his smile sickly and askew.

“Don’t you Brigadier me. Never in my forty years in the force have I come across such a sorry bunch of asshole dumb policemen. You couldn't catch a dead locust in a jam jar, if you ask me. What else do you want the motherfucker to do? Walk in here and mount his goddamn Mauser against the wall and say Catch me, please? By this time all the policemen in the province are here to help. What else must we do? Get Gauteng’s as well? What about the army? Let’s call them in as well, tanks and bombers and the fucking navy. Let’s not play games here. Let’s make real cunts of ourselves. Let’s phone the Chinese. They’ve got clairvoyants for Africa. And the Japanese. And we get Hollywood to come and film you because only their cameras are still missing.”

Another chair tumbled, clattered.

“Jesus Christ.”

They stared at the floor. De Wit, Joubert, Petersen, O’Grady, Snyman, and Vos.

The Brigadier’s hands made signs but he seemed incapable of further speech.

The door opened. Heads turned. Griessel came in.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said proudly, “meet Sweetheart,” and taking the man by his shirt, pulled him into the room.

39.

January 17, 19:17. Interrogation of suspect, SAP two slash one slash nine five slash fourteen, Murder and Robbery, Bellville South. Investigating officer: Detective Sergeant Benjamin Griessel. Observers: Colonel Bart de Wit, Captain Mat Joubert, Captain Gerry . . . uh . . .”

“Gerbrand.”

“Captain Gerbrand Vos. First question to suspect. Full name.”

“Janek Wachlaff Milos.”

“Nationality?”

“Eskimo. You can hear that. I speak fluent Eskimoose.”

“Nationality?”

“South African.”

“Identity number?”

“Five nine zero five five one two seven zero zero one.”

“Address.”

“Seventeen Iris Avenue, Pinelands.”

“You are aware of your right to have a legal representative present. If you don’t have a legal representative, or cannot afford one, the State will appoint such a legal representative. At any time during the proceedings you may ask the State to appoint an alternative legal representative, upon which the case before a magistrate of the district court or a higher court . . .”

“Spare me. I don’t need an attorney.”

“You’re going to need an advocate. We’re hitting you with armed robbery, Wachlaff.”

“It was a toy gun.”

“Pistol.”

“Whatever.”

“Do you admit that you’re undergoing this interrogation of your own free will, without any pressure or encouragement by the South African Police . . .”

“South African Police Service.”

“Sorry, Colonel. Without any pressure or encouragement from the South African Police Service?”

“Yes.”

“Where did your name originate?”

“Good old Eskimo name.”