“Trouble, sir?” he asked.
“What’s Durban got to say?”
“A bit more than we know already. Leon Charles Francis got a year in Doringboom Reformatory for theft-while he was there he received a total of fourteen strokes with the heavy cane.”
“Give here.”
“Six for committing an indecent act and eight for serious assault.”
“I said give here! ”
Kramer snatched the paper away and glared at it. The next paragraph read:
“ HELD ON SUSPICION THREE OCCASIONS SINCE RELEASE. ASSAULTS, TWO GBH. INSUFFICIENT EVIDENCE. PROBABLE CONNECTION WITH SOME GANG. LIVES IT UP.”
And that was all.
“This the best they could do?”
“Well, he’s not what you might call big stuff, sir. Even Trekkersburg has more of them than we can keep tabs on.”
“I suppose so. But this ‘insufficient evidence’ bit shows he’s good at his work.”
“Oh, yes. I wasn’t saying he doesn’t sound a really bad bugger.”
“Well, we know who we mustn’t show this to,” Kramer said, nodding in the direction of Room 18.
“Oh, she was asking for you. Wondering if she can go home now.”
“Not until we get sonny boy. He warned her to keep away from here so there’s no telling what he might do now.”
“What’s the plan then, sir? Take her to the cells?”
“I know a place, leave it to me. By the way, how are you fixed for tonight?”
“Want me to come down to Durban?”
“Actually I need a bloke here in case anyone phones in. You never know.”
Van Niekerk adjusted his tie and outlook. He cleared his throat.
“Fine, sir. I’ll just ring the wife.”
“You do that. When Khumalo comes on, tell him to bring up the stretcher from the library-or you can have a spare bed from the barracks if you prefer.”
“I’ll be all right, sir. Probably have the best sleep in weeks without the kids.”
Kramer wondered about that.
The cottage stood on the fringe of the sewage farm, surrounded by the most verdant vegetation Trekkersburg had to offer outside the Botanical Gardens. Six blue gum trees teetered behind it and strips of pink bark lay strewn on its rusty corrugated iron roof. The setting sun put a blush on the whitewashed walls, glinted off the windows which had glass, and gave the children in the clearing their own leaping shadows to chase.
Mrs Francis peered at the couple waiting in the doorway to discover what brought a big flashy car their way down the rough track. You could tell she liked the look of them.
Then the man recognised Kramer up front in the passenger’s seat and came running out.
“What a pleasure, Mr Kramer,” he said, opening the door for him.
“How’s it, Johannes?”
“Fine! Mary’s here to greet you, too, and the kids!”
Aware of Zondi’s gaze, Kramer attempted a bluff manner but gave in to the children’s teasing. One of their little friends edged his way into the circle to see what manner of white man could cause such excitement.
“Just a minute, I’ve got a visitor for you,” Kramer protested, and he let Mrs Francis out.
The atmosphere changed instantly.
“What does she want here?” Johannes demanded. “She’s from a church? Sorry, we don’t want your charity, madam.”
Mrs Francis’s sudden smile threw him.
“Can’t you recognise your own kind yet?” Kramer chided. “This is Mrs Francis who has come up from Claremont for a few days. I want you to look after her.”
“Of course,” Mary said, pushing her husband aside and taking Mrs Francis by the hand. “Come along with me. We’ll both have some tea before it’s time for the children to come in.”
Without a backward glance, Mrs Francis went. And so did the children.
“No luggage?” Johannes asked thoughtfully.
“None. She came up on the bus to find out about a relative. Maybe she’ll tell you about it later.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“How are things then, Johannes? How’s Katrina?”
“The same.”
“Uhuh.”
“But she likes it better in the hospital now. They give her work to do-she makes baskets for dirty washing.”
“That’s good.”
“You understand my sister, Mr Kramer. Now don’t you worry about this lady you brought. She’ll be safe and sound with us till you want her.”
“Don’t throw her out before Sunday, anyway,” Kramer grinned. “Bye for now.”
Zondi started up and drove off as Kramer’s door slammed shut.
“What was that talk about old Katrina, boss? Have they cured her of killing her babies yet?”
“Hell, no. It’s just that she hasn’t been raped lately. You black buggers are slacking.”
Infanticide and rape, both capital offences, were very much on Moosa’s mind as he waited in his room for Zondi to appear with his next assignment. If the Pillay baby on the other side of the wall did not shut up, he would go round and strangle it. And while he was there, with the voluptuous Mrs Pillay presumably in a dead faint, he would make a night of it.
Gogol banged open the door and confronted him, his fez wildly askew.
“Moosa!”
The Fiend of Trichaard Street cowered against the wall.
“Moosa, you just telling me what damn tricks you are up to! Five Coca Colas and a Pepsi?”
Moosa opened one eye.
“Now don’t you try denying it, man. That’s three people in the shop tonight telling me that you have been sitting in Sammy’s Tea-lounge all afternoon drinking Cokes. With whose money, I ask? Whose money? My money!”
“It wasn’t your money.”
Gogol caught his fez as it fell.
“Wasn’t mine?” he said and giggled nastily. “I tell you that every cent you have in your pocket from now until the day you die is my money.”
“It was expenses, not money.”
“You can call it what you like. I want it, so hand over.”
“Just where do you think I got money from?”
“Why should I care?”
But that stopped Gogol. It made him ponder.
“You spoke about business,” he said at last. “Can it be you have something lined up?”
“Of course.”
“But you had some cash even before you went out today, that is what I am not understanding. There has been nobody in this room I know.”
The Pillay baby shut up.
“Wait a minute, that Zondi’s been here. Am I right?”
Moosa chose to look diplomatically committal. This got the message across but only to bring a hurtful howl of laughter from Gogol.
“You-for them? That kaffir is mad! Now I’ll tell him to his face. What do you know about anything out there? Hiding behind your curtains every time Gershwin Mkize puts his foot on the pavement. You only went out today because Gershwin-”
An idea suddenly occurred to Gogol which weakened his knees and settled him apprehensively on the end of the bed. He looked at Moosa as he had never done before.
“Gershwin Mkize,” he said softly.
“Yes?”
“Last night Zondi was here. Next morning… were you the fellow who?”
Moosa’s face gave nothing away, least of all the fact that his mind was tripping over itself trying to catch up with Gogol. It dawned on him just as Gogol spoke again.
“No, please to say nothing, Moosa. I have respect for your position.”
His wide eyes showed fear, too, and that was even more gratifying.
Durban had never appealed to Kramer. She was not his kind of city. He liked his women to be big and strong and primitive, yes: but also dignified and clean. Durban was a whore.
A cheap whore who sprawled lush, legs agape at the harbour mouth, beside the warm Indian Ocean which was not a sea but a favour that she sold. And they came in their thousands, these people who craved to pleasure their bodies, hurtling down the long roads from the prim, dry veld of the interior. Some died in their eager haste-shredded by shattered windscreens and buried beneath cairns of transistor radios, beach balls, teddy bears, peppermint packets and hand luggage. But most arrived safely to wander nearly naked in the palm-lined streets and be tempted by garish signs which stood out like face paint against dirty-skinned buildings.