Читать книгу My Only Story - Deon Wiggett - Страница 13

It is the opening days of 2019 and the height of summer in Johannesburg. I am sitting upstairs in the loft of our house, half of which is now my office. I no longer work in advertising; I work in my loft as a detective, or a reporter, or something.

From my old office, I brought a desk, two swivel chairs and stationery bought for people with needs different from mine.

My mission brings with it professional marginalisation, and financial complication too. Even as advertising destroys your soul, its comforts keep you hostage. My little catch-a-bullfrog timeout cannot be too drawn out – the pleasant loft does not pay for itself.

Still, I figure, how long could this take? Willem’s trophies are everywhere. His grooming of boys has grown arrogant and careless. Two or three months, that’s it, he’s done! If everything goes according to plan, he is admitted to jail in time for Christmas; I imagine that the wardens make an extra effort with Yuletide’s lunchy slops.

My half of the loft was previously part of Riaan’s neat and exclusive study.

‘See here, in the middle,’ says Riaan, and he gestures and frowns while dividing the room in half with his hand. ‘There is like a force field here. You can’t spread out like you always do.’

‘I really won’t! It is like there is a force field running through the centre of the loft!’ I say, because Riaan is a Trekkie and force fields please him.

My new workplace in the loft is as neat as a new teacher. I am about to start compiling a history of Willem’s life. To catch this bullfrog, I will need to become the world’s foremost expert on him and his pond.

I have a pristine stack of index cards, like a real detective. This is how I will keep track of his trophies. To expose him, I will need to find some other survivors – find myself a couple of brothers. If it is just me, it is my word against his. I will make a claim and he will deny it, and on it will glacially carry as Willem helps himself to every boy he wants. But if there are two or three of us, maybe even four, who all have a similar story …

In my loft, I type ‘Willem Breytenbach’ into Instagram, Facebook and Twitter. I am searching for more trophies: pictures of Willem brandishing young men with a certain look. I want to trace where he has been, and with whom.

Willem loves the beach – just loves it! His body flabs in the African sun as he squints into the camera. I find a creepy picture of him gripping two very young men. He is standing behind them and they are so much smaller that they are easily held in position by one giant arm each. Neither of the boys looks at ease, but they are displayed anyway.

This is not a smoking gun I have managed to ferret out. It is Willem’s profile picture on Facebook.

I will not elaborate on the boys he displays over the seasons, but we meet a rotating cast that all have a certain look: smart, kind, slender and silky smooth. Young men who could look like boys if the room were dark and you took off your glasses.

I have large index cards for Willem and much smaller ones for his potential targets. Every boy who fits the profile gets a card.

I trawl through his social media in a rather unsystematic way. Seeing his picture affects me profoundly; just that little smile of his increases my everything – heart rate, breathing, fear, and also gloom. Even after all these years, my body is afraid of him. Of his sickly smile. It is never good when he smiles.

And so I look at two or three pictures, and the stories that they tell, and then I have to escape my loft and go outside and pace, agitatedly, across the grass.

It is not just his targets I will have to find. It is also the other inhabitants of his scummy pond.

For instance: at one point, he spends loads of time with a good-looking guy in his late twenties – don’t worry, that is way too old for Willem. My favourite photograph from that time shows the two of them posing against Table Mountain. They had gone there to hike. I can picture the scene in an office block earlier that week.

‘I will come fetch you and everything!’ Good-Looking Guy says. ‘You can’t go on like this; you’re flabby and sedentary.’

Possibly not verbatim, but he does convince Willem to come hiking, just this once; who knows, maybe he will even like it.

But in this Instagram picture, they have barely started and there is terror in Willem’s eyes. He can tell already he has made a gigantic mistake. He should not have allowed Good-Looking Guy to talk him into this. His body is starting to respond catastrophically to the exercise. By the time they leave Table Mountain, Willem’s face will be purple-red, his giant T-shirt will be soaked, and he will feel angry and inadequate.

I allow myself to quite enjoy this.

On my index card for Willem, I make a note of the date when he is at Table Mountain. I need to find out the other man’s identity: ‘Good-Looking Guy’ gets an index card.

I find pictures of Willem’s mom and dad. His father is a bit inscrutable to me, but his mother, auntie Stefanie, is the sweetest-looking lady, sporting sensible blouses and kind blue eyes. I sleuth around for a morning, and then ‘Willem Johannes Breytenbach (1934–1993)’ and ‘Stefanie Breytenbach (née Lamprecht) (1936–)’ get an index card each.

I scroll back and back, and a pattern emerges. Young men are paraded and become central to Willem’s life. Some get taken on overseas trips; many get taken to his mother’s house by the beach.

And then, almost overnight, they disappear. Auntie Stefanie remains, sweet and trusting and kind.

If you were looking for a psychopathic trophy, you would notice a young guy I call Zak. He is on the beach with Willem. They are both wearing swim shorts, and Zak has a certain look. I write his name on an index card.

As I work through a decade’s worth of social media, I spot dozens of boys and young men who fit the pattern. Now all I need to do is get some of them to talk to me about an assault so recent that they probably forgot all about it.

I make screen grabs of everything. Willem’s life is taking shape in front of my eyes.

*

A few months into the investigation, I talk to someone who talks to someone who gets me Willem’s home address in Cape Town. It is on Mutley Road in Three Anchor Bay, and I take a look with Google Street View.

I suspect the pictures were taken a long time ago; the property is run-down and unappealing, with a sign from Seeff that reads, ‘THIS PRIME PROPERTY FOR SALE’. A plant in a pot has died between the garage door and a passage to the entrance. The house is painted white, but the passage is a loud apricot dulled by years of dirt.

It stands to reason that Willem and Danie would have bought this prime property and sent renovators into the subprime house.

I want to know where Willem lives, and Google is not showing me. I will have to go see for myself.