Читать книгу Roots of Outrage - John Davis Gordon - Страница 31

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!’

‘Right,’ the colonel said. ‘They only ever found merchandise samples.’ He spread his hands. ‘If we were going to frame somebody, surely we would frame Miss Gandhi, who we know is ANC.’

Mahoney stared, Ms mind fumbling, an awful thought dawning on him that perhaps the bastard was telling the truth. He looked so convincing.

The colonel said: ‘So, who put the explosives in your car? Miss Gandhi, who knew she was likely to be searched on the border? Or you? Or both?’

Mahoney rasped desperately: ‘Neither of us!’

The colonel sat back. Then he said thoughtfully: ‘When you went on these lovers’ jaunts, were both your cars parked in the same place?’

Lovers’ jaunts. ‘Yes.’

‘But Miss Gandhi wasn’t in your company the whole time?’

‘You’re suggesting that she sneaked out and put the explosives in my car? Bullshit. You put them in my car!’

‘But she had the opportunity to instruct her ANC friends to hide explosives in your car while your back was turned?’

Mahoney glared at him. The man was offering him an escape route. And, oh God, the cleverness of the swine, planting the doubt in his mind! All he wanted was to get out of there and find out the truth. Yes, he was prepared to make bargains. But play it cool … ‘I don’t believe she did it.’

‘You don’t believe she would expose you to the death penalty?’

The words struck dread in his breast. No, he did not believe Patti would do that, but they had planted the doubt and, oh God, he would do anything to get out of there, out of South Africa. ‘That’s right, I don’t.’

‘So you did it?’ He suddenly became angry: ‘Got, man, admit it!’

It shocked him all over again – the suspicion was suddenly back on him. ‘I deny it! You planted that stuff on me!’

The colonel sneered. ‘Why d’you think she wouldn’t do that? Because she loves you? And, are you in love with her?’

Relief that the suspicion was shifting back to her. What did they want to hear? Yes, so he wouldn’t betray her and hang himself. No, so he would betray her? He tried to think fast. ‘I don’t know now.’ Doubt was what the bastard wanted to hear.

Krombrink took a breath of satisfaction. And proceeded to poison the hook. ‘Do you know what Miss Gandhi does on the nights you don’t visit her for the purpose of contravening the Immorality Act?’ He studied a typewritten page.

Mahoney’s heart gave a pump of black jealousy. Oh, that poisonous doubt again. ‘She has numerous business meetings.’

The colonel nodded over his file, reading. ‘Ja, some business meetings also … and other types of meetings?’

Mahoney wanted to snatch the page from him. He said grimly: ‘Friends.’

Colonel Krombrink did not look up, running his finger down the page. ‘Friends, ja … boyfriends?’

Oh Jesus … ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

‘Would you be angry if you found out she was sleeping around?’

‘Yes.’ That’s what the bastard wanted to hear. And he was jealous already.

‘And you would be disgusted if in addition she placed those explosives in your car so you unwittingly took the risk of smuggling them across the border on her behalf?’ He added: ‘Exposing you to the gallows.’

Mahoney closed his eyes. He almost believed the bastard now. ‘Yes.’

‘Yes.’ The colonel nodded. ‘And what would you do about it?’

Thank God the man was at last getting to the point of this torture. ‘I’m not sure, I’ve never been in this position.’

The colonel leant forward and said softly: ‘Mr Mahoney, that girl is sleeping with two men apart from you.’

It was a shock, even though he had known it was coming, even though he didn’t believe it. He stared; the colonel went on: ‘And one of them, Mr Mahoney, is a kaffir, hey.’

Mahoney blinked. It was intended as a sickening blow, and it was. He had to bite his tongue to remind himself it was lies. The colonel looked at him:

‘The kaffir is called Amos. The other is a white called Michael. Both are ANC. Communists. And terrorists. Mr Mahoney, the explosives in your car ended up on Lilliesleaf Farm. And we’re sure that these two men used them. To blow up Johannesburg station. And other jobs.’ He paused. ‘The men who’re screwing Miss Gandhi, for whom you now stand in risk of the gallows.’

If this was for real it was mind-blowing. This wasn’t true! ‘Have you arrested these two guys?’

‘They weren’t on the farm when we raided. But we’re working on it.’ He paused. ‘Evidence, Mr Mahoney. We need evidence, and I do not fabricate evidence, contrary to what you think. Remember that, when you accuse me of planting traces of explosives in your car.’

Oh God, God.

‘Do you see,’ Krombrink demanded gently, ‘that you were used? As an expendable pawn – to be hanged if you were caught.’

It was mind-blowing. He did not believe it. And he did not know what to believe.

Krombrink continued: ‘Doing the dangerous dirty work for Miss Gandhi’s other lovers? The men she fucks.’ The colonel went on softly: ‘Mr Mahoney, we have enough evidence to hang you …’

Mind-blowing … He hung on his words, like he was meant to, desperate for reprieve.

Krombrink said quietly: ‘Are you going to go to the gallows for those two guys? And for Miss Gandhi?’

Oh God, of course not. And he wanted to roar with outrage that the bastard was terrifying him. He rasped: ‘No.’

‘But how’re you going to escape those gallows?’

Oh, he knew how he was going to escape them – get to the border and run like hell! And he didn’t care that the man was lying – run like hell and never come back!

Krombrink sat back again, in deep thought. Then he said: ‘Mr Mahoney, speaking personally – and not for my superiors – I do not believe you are a terrorist. An ANC sympathizer, definitely. But not a terrorist, in the normal sense of the word.’ (Oh God, the relief. The veritable rush of gratitude. Just like he was meant to feel.) ‘But we have this evidence. And I can assure you that any court will convict you on this evidence.’

Mahoney stared at him, desperate for his deal, his mercy.

‘Mr Mahoney, the only way to escape evidence like this –’ he tapped the file – ‘is to prove that you’re the victim of a terrible, cynical plot by these people.’ He held his eye. ‘I am prepared to give you a chance to do that.’

Mahoney closed his eyes in relief. He wanted to gush his gratitude. ‘And how do I do that?’

Colonel Krombrink nodded solemnly. ‘Only by cooperating completely with us. Doing exactly as we say Reporting absolutely everything to us.’ Then his eyes took on a steely glare. ‘And not only will you prove your innocence but we will make a break into these communist cells. Do you agree to cooperate?’

Oh yes, yes, he agreed. ‘Okay,’ he said.

Colonel Krombrink studied him, assessing. Then gave a judgement: ‘Okay.’ He sat up. ‘We’ll get you to sign a statement to that effect.’ (Mahoney wanted to whoop for joy.) ‘And another statement. Our insurance, hey, that you don’t cheat us.’ He shrugged. ‘Not important to you, really, in your circumstances, just a Cautioned Statement admitting to contravening the Immorality Act on various occasions with Patti Gandhi.’

The Immorality Act was peanuts compared to that cell for ninety days! Absolutely nothing compared to those gallows!

‘And a third statement. Summarising how you wrote the story for this Gandhi woman at Lilliesleaf Farm, how you often went to neighbouring countries together, et cetera.’

‘And that I knew nothing about the farm being an ANC base? Nor about explosives? Nor did Miss Gandhi?’

‘Not to your knowledge, no.’

‘And if I refuse to sign?’

Krombrink sighed. ‘Mr Mahoney, everything you’ve said has been tape-recorded, we’ve got the evidence against you if we want to use it. But you’re much more valuable working with us than hanging by your neck until SAFFAS – they’re the prison’s contract undertakers – take you away to an unmarked grave.’

Mahoney’s face was ashen, his heart knocking.

‘Okay, I’ll sign.’

Krombrink gave him a small reasonable smile; then clasped his hands together. ‘I personally will be your handler – you will report to me. You will receive all reasonable expenses incurred. Of course, we will retain your passport. But, of course, you will be given it back if and when you need it to travel with Miss Gandhi to somewhere like Swaziland again, provided I approve.’

He heard himself blurt: ‘Why can’t I have it back now?!’

Krombrink smiled. ‘We’re not fools, Mr Mahoney. You must realize you’re on a kind of unofficial bail. Now,’ he hunched forward, ‘remember I explained to you about the snake that laid the eggs? It’s those eggs you’re going to help us find …’