The absurd, wild, fervent hope that help was on its way had taken possession of Willie. If only he could keep Swanepoel talking long enough, the nightmare would suddenly-and very sweetly-come to an end.
“You mustn’t think I haven’t my eye on the clock,” Swanepoel said abruptly. “The law is very particular in these matters.”
“You’re the law? If you’re the law, then what did you charge Ringo Roberts under? Tell me that!”
“Murder.”
A starburst of pain in Willie’s nose made him pause, then he gamely went on: “But that’s where you’re wrong, see? The law decided that the charge should be withdrawn.”
“Ach, not that murder,” Swanepoel said casually, moving away to make a final inspection of the noose.
Willie watched his shape move the rubber washer thing up and down. He also became aware that he had wet himself. This had been a serious offense in the home, and it made him feel very ashamed.
“Which murder?” he demanded angrily.
“My son’s.”
“Who?”
“Anthony Michael.”
“Jesus!”
“I knew you wouldn’t know that, and, for obvious reasons, I don’t mind you hearing it from me now. I like to tell people when I have the chance, which isn’t often. You know, I saw him once, as a matter of fact-I think she brought him for that purpose. Perhaps to see the land of his father, so he’d have it in his mind always, because she was like that. A strange, lonely, beautiful woman, who knew me like no other person has ever done. She also knew what was right. She knew that we were of two cultures, and our lives would run on along separate lines.
All she ever asked in return was that baby, and I gave life. I gave life, I can take life; I am a man!”
Loudly, mockingly, Swanepoel laughed. His insanity was established, but through it ran a steel wire of logic that suddenly snapped taut, choking off the breath.
“Have you a father?” he asked, laying that great hand on Willie’s left shoulder.
Willie shook his head.
“Good! I thought not-it is also something I always try to find out. The father suffers terribly, I can promise you. I suffered even when seeing my man-child, who had been nothing to me but sperm I had spilled, and knowing we would always live apart. Which was nonsense! Nonsense! I had made love-I loved that woman-I had made love, and they killed my love. She went away broken. I’ve never understood why others could not see he was mine. I wondered if the man guessed; I caught him watching me strangely. At times, I’ve been sure that Karl guessed, but he would never say so. Tenderness is not widely accepted; he would expect me to bear the stain of sin. It wasn’t sin. I had to stay on until we were sure it had happened. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she whispered, ‘you must go now. I have part of you for always.’ She crossed herself. I wept. I used to be a proper crybaby!”
Desperately, Willie said, “But Vasari wasn’t murdered!”
Swanepoel grabbed him by the shoulders, dragging him to his feet. “Wasn’t he? What happened to him? Can you tell me that?”
“He-he was hanged.”
“Ah! A subtle difference? I’m glad you have spotted it! You know why?”
Again Willie shook his head, dizzy with fear and nausea.
“Because it is one I use myself,” said Swanepoel, laughing very loudly. “Let’s see the bastards talk their way out of that!”
There wasn’t a sound in the shadow of the pillbox. Kramer circled it, moving in a crouch, absolutely silently. The windows had been bricked up and so, it appeared, had the door.
Then he came upon the thorn tree. It grew right beside the thick wall, branching off asymmetrically, before heaving its canopy over the top. With luck, it would make a prickly but adequate scaling ladder. He bolstered his revolver, reached up, and dragged himself into the lowest fork. Testing each branch carefully, he progressed from there, rising barely six inches at a time, his hands sticky with the tears made by the thorns. He kept pausing to wipe them dry, for fear of doing the butterfingers when the moment came to draw. A dry branch cracked under his testing tug.
He froze.
There wasn’t another sound.
Swanepoel stopped laughing. He pinned Willie hard against the wall. He turned him round and took hold of his wrists.
“So you see, I want them to catch me,” he whispered in Willie’s ear. “I’ve always wanted that, ever since Roberts. He was the only one I hid, because I wasn’t ready then. I didn’t have an impressive enough number. But they were such fools! Such fools! I left the cap as a clue last time; did they find it?”
Blubbering, Willie managed to say, “They’ll-they’ll hang you, too!”
“Of course, Boshoff. How else will I ever know the truth? Ever know what happened to my man-child? They won’t tell me themselves and the books all contradict. The Englishman I respect; he may even, as Karl says, have taught our hangman his skills. But when? How long ago? He has retired-has our man retired also? What of these stories of the white pickax handle? Of the short drops? The drops too long? When that trap opens, just before I die, I will know. Nobody will stop me.”
He brought Willie away from the wall.
“But-oh, Jesus save me! — it-it won’t work with me, Mr. Swanepoel! I did nothing capital! You won’t be able to claim that in court. Make fools of them! Please stop this! Please let me go! I’ll give you anything! I’ve never even been with a woman!”
“It’s best not to, Willie. Hold still while I undo your feet; only beasts should be dragged to their death. You must stop struggling now and show dignity. Walk tall like my boy did; make me proud of you.”
Panting, pouring with a stink of sweat as sweet as rotting flesh, Zondi staggered as far as the truck and could go no farther. The walkie-talkie, which had proved useless because of the high ridge between him and Luthuli’s party, was still clutched in his hand. He tossed it down.
There was no sign of the Lieutenant up at the pillbox.
Zondi looked into the cab of the truck. The open door and the keys in the ignition switch indicated that Swanepoel had abandoned it in a hurry. Perhaps all that theorizing had been too fanciful, too reverent about executions in the way that white people often were, trying to turn killing into pulling teeth. Perhaps it was all over, and there was blood in Boss Boshoff’s mouth.
There was a scrambling noise.
The noose was around Willie’s neck. It was being tightened and the rubber ring drawn down into place. The floor beneath his stockinged feet felt absolutely solid; he couldn’t detect the crack. Just bumpy lines.
“You’re right,” Swanepoel agreed. “It has driven me a little mad. The doubt, I suppose. Still, each time I see it work perfectly, I know it must have been quick for him, providing it was done properly.”
“You don’t need me, too,” Willie whispered, not being able to speak any louder, having curled away in a far corner of his mind. “You don’t need another. You’ve proved it five times.”
“Any scientific experiment requires many repetitions for the result to be of any significance, Willie. I could have performed five flukes. Shall I tell you why you’re different from the others? And more like my son?”
Willie nodded. Another second-anything!
“They gave me no trouble because their guilt would make them yield to what must inevitably happen. But, like Anthony Michael, you do not feel guilt. That is why I want to see if you can still take this like a man. I am going to say goodbye now, then I am going to walk-”
“A prayer! I can’t die without a prayer!”
Swanepoel sighed. “Our Father,” he said.
Kramer looked over the top of the pillbox and saw the top branches of a thorn tree growing inside it. Below that, silvered by the moon, weed. Broken beams, brought down by termites, lying where they had fallen. “Ach, no!” he gasped.