CHAPTER 4
And now I saw in my dream how the road which Blanchaille and Joyce followed took them past a great township on the edge of the city. Perhaps this was the township in which Blanchaille’s friend Miranda had died, but if so he gave no indication of it. And outside this township, beside the usual scrolls of barbed wire so ornate they took on the look of some lean and spiky sculpture, the priest and his housekeeper saw police vans and Saracen armoured cars crowded in at the gates and armed policemen in positions on the roofs of the houses and in trees and on any high vantage point, training their guns on the township.
And then I saw a short, stocky man with a sub-machine gun under his arm step forward and introduce himself to the two travellers as Colonel Schlagter. This Schlagter was a burly capable-looking man, but that he was under some strain was clearly apparent from the tight grip he kept on the black machine gun, jabbing it at them and demanding to know their business.
‘We are on a journey,’ Blanchaille explained, indicating the suitcases.
Schlagter jerked his thumb at Joyce. ‘Does this girl have a permit to be here? No one is allowed without a permit. Why is she outside? Why is she not inside with the others?’
‘She’s with me. She’s my servant,’ Blanchaille explained.
‘O.K., in that case she can help you.’ Schlagter turned to Joyce. ‘I hope you got strong arms, my girl. There’s lots of work for you here. Now both of you listen to me. This is the position. I’m commandeering you in terms of the State of Emergency, which gives me the right under the regulations to commandeer any civilians who in the opinion of the military commander or senior police officer on the scene may contribute to the safety of the State.’
‘But what has happened? There’s been trouble here, hasn’t there?’ Blanchaille demanded. ‘I thought the townships were peaceful.’
Now this was a telling point because one of the proudest boasts of the Regime at that time was of the peace to be found in the townships. Full-page advertisements appeared in international newspapers: they showed happy scenes, a group of children playing soccer; a roomful of smiling women taking sewing lessons; a crowded beer hall full of happy customers, and over the photographs the headline: YOU ARE LOOKING AT A RIOT IN A SOUTH AFRICAN TOWNSHIP. Trudy Yssel’s Department of Communications ran this campaign with great success.
‘The townships are peaceful. Don’t you bother about that,’ Schlagter snapped. ‘Come along with me please.’
He led them into the township where before the huge and fortified police station a bleak sight met their eyes. In the dust there lay scores of people, very still, with just an edge of clothing, a corner of a dress, the tip of a headscarf lifting in the gentle breeze which carried on it the unmistakable heavy smell of meat and blood. Joyce put down the suitcase and drew close to Blanchaille, seizing his wrist in her terrible grip.
‘Where have you brought Joyce? I believed in Father and where has he brought me?’
‘We must do as he says,’ Blanchaille whispered.
‘We are caught here. Stuck forever,’ Joyce replied.
‘Less talk, more work my girl.’ Schlagter indicated the fallen people in a matter-of-fact way, lifting his arms and drawing with his two forefingers an imaginary circle around them. ‘The people you see here are guilty of attacking the police. Believing themselves to be in great danger my men, after several warnings, returned fire. Just in time, I can tell you. The Saracens held their fire. They were not called or the damage would have been far greater, particularly to peaceful people in their houses. I’m proud to say these officers contained the charge with rifle fire and well-directed barrages from their sub-machine guns, even though this is a comparatively new weapon, extremely light and portable but inclined to jam when fired in haste due to the palm-release mechanism which must be squeezed simultaneously with the trigger. It takes some time to get the knack of it. But it’s no more than a teething problem, I can assure you. Now these casualties must be removed. You have a free hand. You and the girl will be covered throughout the operation so there’s no cause for alarm’ — this last was directed at Joyce who had begun sobbing. ‘To your right you will see the front stoep of the police station which at the time of the murderous attack was occupied by only four black constables. Lay out the people there in orderly rows to facilitate counting and identification. Any problems, call on me.’
Priest and servant wandered among the fallen people, men, women and children tumbled into heaps or sprawled alone. Blanchaille noticed the remnants of clothing, several old shoes, a petticoat and even an old kitchen chair scattered about. Most of the people had been shot recently for they were warm still and bled profusely. He’d never realised how much blood the human body could contain and how the violent perforations of heavy, close-range fire will make the blood gush and spread. And then, stranger still, there were others who showed no signs of blood, or wounds, not even a single puncture. But there was blood enough, soaking into the dust, making a pungent sticky mud which Blanchaille and Joyce stirred up still further with their feet, though they tried to be as careful as possible. The policemen from their vantage points sighted down their rifles.
‘If we pick them up together that will be easier,’ Blanchaille said.
‘Do your own work yourself,’ Joyce retorted.
Blanchaille began lifting the body of a young man, seizing his left arm and his right leg and carrying him across the stoep, hearing the blood drip as he shuffled across the open space. The man was a terrible weight. ‘I cannot do it myself, nor can you. We must help one another.’
Joyce didn’t even bother to look at him. She grabbed hold of the ankle of a plump woman with a gaping wound in her chest and simply dragged her across the ground in a slew of pebbles and dust. Blanchaille heard the woman’s head bang on the edge of the wooden stoep as she hauled her on to the bare boards.
‘Heads all the same way!’ Schlagter yelled.
After that Blanchaille followed Joyce’s example, seized a leg or an arm and turning his head away hauled the body to the stoep. Only the children he carried.