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‘So easy to forget funny names. And where is this Mac now?’
‘I don’t know – I heard he’s left the country.’
‘Oh dear! So we won’t be able to meet him – an’ such a nice guy too! An’ what did he do in this country?’
‘He was looking for a job. But he seemed to have quite a bit of money – always enough to stand his round.’
‘An’ that’s where you met him, of course – in a bar?’
‘Yes. In the Elizabeth Hotel. The so-called Press Bar, opposite the Star. But I ran into him in several other places too.’
‘The Press Bar. So he was looking for a job as a writer?’
‘Yes. He said he’d done some writing – freelance. Recently arrived in Jo’burg. Been all over the world.’ He added: ‘Told me he had this cute cottage, but he really wanted a place in town.’
‘I see. A globe-trotter, hey. Very hard to find him. Pity. An’ what other friends did this friendly Mac have?’
‘I don’t know. I only ever bumped into him alone.’
‘So who told you he’d left the country?’
‘He told me he was thinking of leaving last time I saw him.’
‘An’ what arrangements did you make about the cottage?’
‘None. He’d only said he was thinking of leaving soon. No job. I presumed he would tell me about that when he left.’
‘And Miss Gandhi? She never went to the cottage?’
Oh Jesus, had they found any of her fingerprints? ‘Only once.’
‘Once? And why?’
He waved a shaky hand. ‘Just to … show it to her. We’re friends. We went for a picnic there one Sunday.’
‘A picnic? Agh, how nice.’ Colonel Krornbrink shook his head. ‘Not for the purposes of sexual intercourse, of course.’
Oh God, why not admit it for the sake of credibility, the Immorality Act was peanuts compared to treason. He heard himself say: ‘Perhaps that was my purpose. Even you will admit that Miss Gandhi is extremely attractive. But unfortunately it never happened.’
Colonel Krornbrink burst into a wide grin. ‘Mr Mahoney, I like your cheek, hey. You expect us to believe that?’
And suddenly Mahoney had had enough of terror. He crashed his hand on the desk. ‘I don’t give a shit if you don’t believe me – it’s the truth! Now, are you charging me under the Immorality Act or not? If not, I’m going home!’
The colonel grinned. ‘Mr Mahoney, we’ve got a very nice cell for you, provisionally booked for ninety days. In fact, we took the precaution of putting your name down for the following ninety days too, so don’t worry about accommodation, hey.’
Mahoney stared at him, unnerved. ‘Provisionally’? And, oh God, he wanted to say something, to do something to ingratiate himself.
Colonel Krornbrink said: ‘An’ tell me, Mr Mahoney, as neither you nor Miss Gandhi knew anything about the farm, how come we found your story – her story – buried on the farm?’
Oh Jesus, Jesus … Then he heard himself say: ‘It was stolen.’
‘Stolen?’ Colonel Krombrink looked taken aback for a moment.
Why hadn’t he thought of it before? ‘Yes. When I finally finished the job I put the story in my briefcase. I drove back to town. I stopped to buy milk. I thought I’d locked all the car doors. But when I came out – the briefcase was gone!’
Colonel Krombrink made big eyes. ‘Got, man, you must have been horrified, hey!’
‘Yes. And so was Miss Gandhi. Imagine – the whole story and those pictures of her falling into … wrong hands.’
‘Got, yes, man. How embarrassing! An’ you rewrote the story?’
Mahoney had stumbled ahead to this one. ‘No. Miss Gandhi was so horrified she just wanted to forget the whole thing. And the story was no good without the photographs to prove it was true.’
Colonel Krombrink nodded deeply. ‘And, of course, she had destroyed all the negatives?’ The detective snickered. Colonel Krombrink sat back. ‘Mr Mahoney, you expect us to believe all this crap?’ He shook his head, then looked at his watch. ‘Well, I must go, but we’ve got plenty of time to get to the truth in the next ninety days. Mr Mahoney, we hoped this wouldn’t be necessary.’ He turned to the detective. ‘Put him in the cells.’
Mahoney was aghast. The colonel stood up and straightened his jacket. He put his pen in his pocket, then paused, as if remembering something.
‘Mr Mahoney, do you know who that Indian girl is sleeping with on the nights you don’t visit her for the purposes of contravening the Immorality Act?’
Mahoney stared, his mind stuttering. Colonel Krombrink looked at him over the top of his spectacles, then opened the file again and ran his finger down a page. He shook his head. ‘Got …’ He took off his spectacles. He said sadly: ‘Amazing – that you’re prepared to go to the gallows for a coolie woman like that …’
Mahoney’s mind reeled. He bellowed: ‘Lies!’ The detective grabbed him by the wrist and the colonel walked out of the door.
19 (#ulink_030e94fe-913d-53aa-b8a2-b1a6c5ac18a5)
The worst thing was the not knowing.
Not knowing what’s going on out there, what they’re doing, what they’re thinking, what evidence they’re fabricating, what they’re doing with her. Oh god, what are they doing to her? What is she going to say? Is she going to hang herself with her answers – and you with her? The helplessness, being unable to warn her, to tell her what to say, to tell her to run for her life … And, oh God, the not knowing how long. How long are they going to keep me in this cell? Days? Weeks? Months? When they lock you up you are panic-stricken by the not knowing, frantic, you want to bellow and shake the bars and pound the walls, roar to the sky that they can’t do this to you.
He did not bellow and shake the bars, though he wanted to: he sat on the bunk and clutched his face, desperately fighting panic, taking deep breaths and trying to calm himself. It took a long time for the screaming despair to subside; and then the cold, solid fear set in. The fear of that courtroom, that judge, those gallows. It took a long time for the dread to subside sufficiently to be able to think. He began to pace up and down.
Think … They hadn’t charged him with anything, not even under the Immorality Act – they’d only detained him. Surely to God, if they thought they could hang him they would gleefully add him to their bag of traitors. ‘We hoped this wouldn’t be necessary,’ Krombrink had said. So they were only trying to squeeze more information out of him with talk of ninety days and the gallows. Bullying him for information about Patti – they’d tried to poison his mind against her. So the way out was to play the bastards at their own bloody game, and agree to become an informer – like Patti had said. Agree to any fucking thing, then get the hell out of South Africa. Grab Patti and run like hell, run right off this continent.
In an hour or so they would come for him. Play it cool. Play them at their own bloody game … and say what?
How much are you going to admit?
But they did not come for him in an hour or so.
The sun went down, gleaming on the bars of the small high window, and the panic began to rise up, and he had to fight fiercely to keep it at bay. Think... Think about anything except this cell; Think about what you’re going to say to Krombrink. Think about how you’re going to get the hell out of this country.
Without a passport? Surely they would give him back his passport if he said he was going to be an informer?
And if they didn’t?
Now think calmly. Be calm. They’ll come for you tonight and you’ve got to have thought of everything.
But they did not come for him that night. A black constable brought him some food.
‘I want to see Colonel Krombrink!’
‘Yes, sah.’
As he waited into the night, the sounds of traffic grew less. Occasionally there were shouts from the courtyard below, the slam of a vehicle door, an engine revving. Every time he heard a car’s noise he desperately wanted it to be Colonel Krombrink. Wanted Krombrink to come so he could throw himself on his mercy and beg to be an informer?
He pressed his forehead to the brick wall and tried to get the calm back. No, not mercy! Admit nothing! Play it cool, man. Remember they want you to be an informer, they’re just softening you up in this cell …
Finally nervous tension turned to exhaustion and he threw himself on the bunk. Sleep so you’re on the ball tomorrow … But he could not sleep, his mind a turmoil of screaming claustrophobia and fear and frustration. And through the turmoil there seethed the black poison they had injected, the image of Patti screwing around. He did not believe them, it was just to make him inform on her, to soften him, like this cell. But, oh God, in the long hours of that night there were many times when he did not know what to believe and his heart turned black with jealousy, as it was meant to, and he had to hang on tight.
In the small hours of the morning he fell into an exhausted sleep and woke up gasping, rasping, scrambled up off the bunk and into the wall; for he was standing on the gallows with a row of faceless men, the noose around his neck, then the sudden horrific plunging, the screaming, choking … He leant against the wall, taking deep shuddering breaths, his mind reeling in horror.
He stared at the first light penetrating the high window, trying to remember all the things he had thought and decided, but he felt the panic of not knowing come back and he had to press his forehead against the wall again to control it.
Get the calm back … They’ll come for you soon. You’ve got to be calm.
But they did not come for him. At six o’clock footsteps approached, but it was only a white policeman ordering him to shower. He was led into a bleak ablution section. He let the cold water beat down on his head. He took it as a good sign that he was not given any kind of prison garb.
‘I’ve got clean clothes in my car downstairs.’
‘Your car’s in Pretoria.’
‘In Pretoria? What for?’
‘Forensic tests.’ The door clanged shut.
Forensic tests? But what the hell were they looking for? Explosives? Drugs? Well, they’d find nothing!
And suddenly he felt relieved – the tests on his car accounted for the delay. The tests were done yesterday, the results would be reported this morning. Krombrink would soon send for him to bully him into making a deal. And he would play it cool and finally “let himself be bullied, and this afternoon he would be out and tomorrow he would be gone, gone …
But Colonel Krombrink did not send for him that morning. He could hear the Sunday traffic outside. Out there people were with their families and he wanted to cry out, and he wanted to sob in self pity. He had to restrain himself from beating on the door and bellowing: ‘Colonel Krombrink, where are you?!’ As the long African afternoon wore on, his nerves stretched tighter and tighter. He paced up and down the small cell: three paces up, wall, turn, three paces down, door, turn. Finally the sun began to go down, glinting on the window, and he had to press his forehead against the wall again to stop him bellowing his dread. And, oh God, Colonel Krombrink was the only man who could get him out of here, Colonel Krombrink was his saviour …
He threw himself down on the bunk and held his face.
Get the calm back. Krombrink needs you as much as you need him, remember – you’re no use to him standing on the gallows. He knows he’d be hanging an innocent man, he wants you as an informer … Krombrink will come for you tonight …
But Krombrink did not send for him that night. Mahoney fell into an exhausted, troubled sleep. Monday dawned brilliant red and gold through the high barred window and the world began to come to life out there, and he clutched his face to stop himself bellowing out loud. But he was sure Krombrink would send for him this morning – he wanted him as an informer and the sooner he was sent out into the world the better. But Krombrink did not send for him that Monday, and he thought he would go mad. Tuesday dawned. At midday the policeman brought him the clothes from his bag and Mahoney wanted to shout for joy: his car was back from Pretoria! They were giving him clean clothes to go home in.
‘Now come to the ablutions and wash your old clothes.’
‘When am I seeing Colonel Krombrink?’
No answer. Mahoney wanted to seize the man. Tuesday dragged by and darkness fell and he had to clutch his face to stop himself weeping. He knew what game Krombrink was playing – Krombrink was brain-beating him with fear, with the horror of indefinite incarceration, softening him up so that he would do anything to get out of here. And, oh God, it was working. When he shaved on Wednesday morning his hand trembled so much he cut himself. His eyes were gaunt, with dark shadows. He had to clench his fist to stop himself saying to the policeman, ‘Tell Colonel Krombrink I have a statement to make.’ No, that’s not the way to be cool. Give it one more day. He’ll send for you tomorrow.
But Colonel Krombrink did not send for him on Thursday. Or on Friday. On Saturday, listening to the midday traffic, Mahoney was ready to crack.
It was mid-afternoon when Colonel Krombrink sent for him.
He was bordering on euphoria, bordering on gratitude – as he was meant to feel. He tried to play it cool.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Mahoney, have you had a good rest?’
‘Sure. Not that I needed it.’ He sat and crossed his legs.
‘You look tired. Haven’t you been sleeping?’
‘Like a baby, Colonel. Maybe I’ve been overdoing it on the exercise. Jogging on the spot, press-ups.’
‘I hope you thought while you did it. That bullshit about Mac and the cottage and your briefcase being stolen.’
He managed a frown. ‘It’s the truth!’
The colonel opened a file and withdrew a typewritten sheet. He put on his spectacles and said: ‘Mr Mahoney, we have a new charge against you. The same charge the others face.’
‘What bullshit –’
‘Forensic tests were done on your car. And under the back seat –’ he consulted the report – ‘were found numerous particles of explosives, identical to those found on Lilliesleaf Farm.’ He sat back and took off his spectacles.
Mahoney stared at him, aghast, his heart pounding. Krombrink went on: ‘The evidence at your trial will be that these explosives from Russia usually come wrapped in cheap plastic which often cracks and small crumbs fall out, hey.’ He smiled. ‘The evidence against you now is: one, that you used the cottage on Lilliesleaf Farm; two, that you wrote a story to try to blackmail the police force on a typewriter found on the farm, three, that said story was found buried on the farm which was clearly the underground headquarters of the ANC; four, that Russian-made explosives were found in and around that farmhouse; five, that traces of identical explosives were found in your car.’ He raised his eyebrows, then spread his hands. ‘And, six, that you regularly went to Swaziland and Botswana where we know there are ANC bases with supplies of explosives.’
Mahoney stared, his mind fumbling, his heart white with fear. ‘You’re lying!’ He scrambled to his feet and smashed his fist down on the desk. ‘Ridiculous! You’re lying …’
Colonel Krombrink said quietly: ‘And point number seven: you’re the lover of the notorious Patti Gandhi.’ He raised his eyebrows again. ‘Who is well known to us as an ANC operative.’
Mahoney’s mouth was dry. He smashed his hand down on the desk again and cried: ‘You’re lying! You didn’t find explosives in my car! I’ve never touched explosives in my life!’
The colonel smirked: ‘The gallows, Mr Mahoney …
‘You bastards put the explosives in my car!’
The colonel had not moved. ‘Why would we want to hang an innocent man? That doesn’t suppress terrorism, does it?’ He sighed, then sat up. ‘Mr Mahoney, either you put those explosives in your car on one of your trips with Miss Gandhi, or she did.’ He added: ‘With or without your knowledge.’
Mahoney stared. And, Jesus Christ, the bastard was trying to make him pin the explosives on her, to hang her! He rasped: ‘Patti wouldn’t have anything to do with explosives!’
‘Then you put them in your car?’
‘No! You did!’
‘Why should we waste our time framing people when we’ve got our hands full catching real terrorists – like Miss Gandhi?’
‘To blackmail me into giving information about her! And she’s not a fucking terrorist!’
Krombrink smirked. ‘There’re easier ways of getting information without resorting to the dangerous crime of blackmail. Mr Mahoney, your car was never searched at the borders, was it?’ He tapped the file. ‘They keep records at the borders of cars searched.’
‘No! And if they had they’d have found nothing!’
‘But,’ Krombrink said significantly, ‘they usually search an Indian’s car. Because you know what bladdy crooks they are.’
‘And they never found anything in her car either! Or you’d have hanged her long ago!’
