Dead Before Dying

“Mr. Slabbert, the records?”

“Yes, we keep the records . . .”

“May we see them?”

Slabbert returned to reality. “Of course, of course. I’ll show you.” He opened one of his desk drawers, took out a bunch of keys.

“You’ll have to follow me.”

“Where to?”

“Oh, there’s far too much to store here. I have a little warehouse in Maitland.”

They followed him, through the door, past the desks of the administrative personnel, past fourteen women, black and white, at tables on which stood piles and piles of documents.

“There’ll be a photograph as well,” Slabbert said when they were outside.

“Of what?”

“Of the group, with their certificates. But to find it, that’s the problem,” said Slabbert and he sniffed.

42.

The “little” warehouse in Maitland was the size of a Boeing hangar, a dirty, rusted steel construction between a salvage yard and a body shop. Slabbert pushed open the huge wooden sliding door with difficulty and disappeared into the dusk. They heard the click of a switch and then lights flickered and steadied against the high ceiling of the warehouse.

O’Grady turned shit into a three-syllable word. The others simply stared. Piles and piles of brown cartons ran from the front to the back, from side to side, stacked seven meters high, neatly packed on shelves of metal and wood.

“The problem,” Slabbert said when he’d indicated that they must come in, “is that in the beginning we didn't think that it would grow to be so much. Then people started asking for re-marking and records of scores and copies of certificates and we realized we’d have to store everything. But by then there was so much stuff that we only began a filing system in ’92.”

“And before that?” Vos asked anxiously.

“There’s a bit of a problem.”

“Oh?” Joubert said and his heart sank.

“It hasn’t been filed. There are simply not enough hands. Hands cost money. Besides, we seldom get any queries for before ’92.”

“Where would the ’89 records be?” Joubert asked.

“In this row.”

“Where in this row?”

“To be perfectly honest, I have no idea.”

* * *

Bart de Wit radioed for more help, this time only from Murder and Robbery because he wanted to avoid the Brigadier at all costs. The others rolled up their sleeves and started taking down cartons. They developed a system and when the reinforcements arrived, extended it.

Carton after carton was pulled down, opened, passed on. Another team took out the contents, put them on the floor where Joubert, Petersen, Vos, O’Grady, and, later, Griessel, paged feverishly through the documents looking for dates, names, subjects.

“Who’s going to put it all back?” Slabbert asked with a sniff of annoyance.

“Your administrative personnel,” de Wit said with finality.

“Time means money,” Slabbert complained and he took a hand as well, dragging cartons that had been searched into a corner.

Progress was slow because there was no system in the manner in which the material had originally been packed— documentation on computer repair courses lay next to

Introduction to Journalism. Basic Welding

was in a carton with

Painting for Beginners.

De Wit had lunch delivered— Kentucky chicken and Coke— and they ate while they worked, swore, laughed, had serious discussions. One carton after another was checked without a break. The afternoon slowly wound to an end, the cartons slowly became fewer. Just after three they were halfway, with no success. Ties were off, sleeves were rolled up, shirts had become untucked, the firearms in their leather holsters were in a neat row next to the door. There were dust marks on their clothes, arms, and faces. Occasionally a few words were exchanged while time marched inexorably on.

Joubert and Griessel took a break, stood outside in the sun, their bodies stiff. Exhaustion was stalking Joubert again.

“I’m going to ask the Colonel for leave,” Griessel said and sucked on his Gunston. “I want to take my wife and children away for two weeks to see if we can make a fresh start.”

“That’s good, Benny.”

“Perhaps ask for a transfer. To the platteland. Station commander in a village somewhere where all you have to do is lock up the drunks on a Friday night and try to solve a few stock theft cases.”

“Yes,” Joubert said, and wondered how he was going to make a fresh start.

Then they walked back to the hive of activity inside, sat down on the cold cement floor, licked their fingers, and started paging again— Joubert with urgency because he had an impending appointment and he was developing a strong suspicion that he wouldn't be able to make it. He wondered whether there was still time to ask them to exchange the tickets for the following night and whether Hanna Nortier would be available then.

I want to go out. I’m in a rut.

In what kind of a rut could such a woman be stuck, he wondered while his fingers flipped, flipped, flipped and his eyes skimmed. He shifted from one buttock to the other when they put more documents in front of him.

They had started arguing about supper— pizza opposed to fish and chips, anything as long as it wasn'’t chicken. They complained about wives who were going to be annoyed about the long hours again. Couldn't Mavis start phoning and explaining? It was nearly seven o’clock.

Then Benny Griessel shouted triumphantly, “Ferreira, Ferdy,” and held the documents above his head. They all came to a halt, some applauded.

“Wilson, Drew Joseph. They’re here.” The detectives walked toward him. Griessel took out one parcel of documents after the other— each individual’s registration form, assignments, examination papers, score sheets, receipts, letters of inquiry and replies, final score sheets. All stapled together.

“MacDonald, Coetzee, Wallace, Nienaber. They’re all here.”

“Is there a photo?”

Griessel searched.

“No,” he said. “Where’s the box this came out of?”

W. O. Slabbert came steaming up from where he was trying, with great difficulty, to replace the cartons. “The photo will be in one of their parcels.”

Hands grabbed at the stapled documents of the individuals, fingers paged quickly.

“Here,” said Griessel, on whom the gods were now smiling. He got up, stretched, extracted the staple, dropped the other papers to the floor, carefully held on to the photograph. He stared at the faintly yellowed print. Joubert got up, walked to Griessel, tried to peer over his shoulder.

“How young Nienaber looks,” Petersen, next to Griessel, said in surprise.

Joubert held out his hand for the photo. For a moment he thought he’d seen . . .

A black-and-white image. The men stood in a semicircle wearing jackets and ties, each one with a certificate in his hand. Wilson’s eyes were closed at the moment of flash and shutter. MacDonald, his smile wide, towered above the rest. Coetzee serious. Ferdy Ferreira’s shoulders were angled toward the limp, his eyes didn't look at the camera. Wallace’s hands were folded in front of him; there was a space between him and Ferreira, a detachment. Mat Joubert saw nothing of this.