Roots of Outrage

‘But I’m a fucking capitalist! And so is Patti Gandhi!’

The colonel smiled. ‘And how about the Terrorism Act?’

Mahoney’s ears were ringing. Sick in his guts, with fear, with anger. ‘Neither of us is a terrorist!’

Colonel Krombrink smiled widely. ‘“Us”? You make it sound like you’re a couple. But the Immorality Act’s the least of your worries, hey? Because the Terrorism Act isn’t jail. It’s the gallows in Pretoria.’

Mahoney’s ears were ringing, his heart pounding. ‘For doing what?’

Colonel Krombrink smiled. ‘The men we arrested at Lilliesleaf Farm all face the gallows.’

Mahoney felt the vomit turn in his guts. ‘I’d never been to Lilliesleaf Farm before last Wednesday.’

The colonel sighed. ‘Another charge: attempted extortion.’ He looked at Mahoney grimly.

Mahoney stared at him, absolutely astonished. ‘Extortion?’

‘Blackmail?’ The colonel opened a drawer. He pulled out a folder. He pulled out a photograph and flicked it across to him.

Mahoney stared. It was the photograph of Patti copulating with Sergeant van Rensburg. He could see the stacked pages of his long story. Her secret weapon exposed …

‘That’s a legitimate journalist’s story!’

The colonel tossed across another photograph: Major Kotze with Patti. Krombrink looked at Mahoney with disgust. ‘Legitimate? How can any newspaper – even Drum – publish pictures like that?’

‘But they would publish the story! The pictures are just evidence to prove veracity …’

The colonel held his eye. ‘Then why didn’t you publish it?’

‘Because that was Miss Gandhi’s decision. It’s her story. Told to me in confidence. She would decide whether to publish!’

‘And when was Miss Gandhi going to publish her story?’

Mahoney closed his eyes in fury. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know? Agh, come, Mr Mahoney, you expect us to believe that?’ He smiled. ‘When she wanted – or needed – to blackmail the police, perhaps?’

Mahoney tried to sigh theatrically. ‘I’m just a journalist, and I agreed to write it for her. Miss Gandhi is not a writer – it is an art form, you know.’

‘Oh, I know …’ the colonel said earnestly. The detective smirked. ‘And what did Miss Gandhi give you in exchange for your art form?’

The Immorality Act was the least of his worries. He was about to say ‘Nothing’ then brilliance struck him. ‘A case of brandy.’

‘Brandy?’ The colonel leered. ‘And what else?’

‘Nothing.’ He added shakily: ‘It is possible to be just friends with a woman, you know. And friendship with a non-European isn’t yet an offence, is it? They haven’t passed the Suppression of Friendship Act yet, have they?’

The colonel smiled. ‘And it was in the name of friendship that you’ve been going out of the country with her?’ He reached for the file, ran his eye down it studiously. ‘Swaziland, Botswana, Mozambique. I can give you dates …’

Outside the country? If that’s all they had against him he could laugh in their faces because there was no Immorality Act outside the country! ‘So what? We’re friends.’

The colonel smiled. ‘And what did you two friends talk about?’

Mahoney forced a shrug. ‘Oh, you know, this and that. Art. Poetry. Literature –’

‘Politics?’

He shrugged. ‘Not really, politics is so … predictable, in this country. So black or white – if you’ll pardon the pun.’

The detective who had taken the fingerprints entered. He placed a sheet of paper in front of Krombrink then withdrew. Krombrink read it expressionlessly. Then he sat back. ‘I like a man who sees the funny side of trouble.’ He slapped the file. ‘And where did you write this story?’

Mahoney’s pulse tripped again. ‘At Drum.’

‘At Drum, hey?’ The colonel flicked his thumb over the pages. ‘A long story. Even you can’t write such a long story in one go, man.’

‘Yes, all of it.’

‘Over how many sessions?’

‘Three or four.’ He shrugged.

‘And what make of typewriter have you got at Drum, hey?’

Oh God, typefaces. ‘A Remington.’

‘Yes,’ the colonel nodded. ‘Not an Olivetti. And this story, Mr Mahoney, was typed with an Olivetti.’

Mahoney fumbled. ‘I might have used somebody else’s typewriter at Drum – I can’t remember.’

‘Yes, you did use somebody else’s, Mr Mahoney. But not at Drum, hey? In fact,’ he smiled, ‘you used the Olivetti we found at Lilliesleaf Farm. In the cottage.’

It was another blow in the guts. He heard his ears ring. ‘That’s impossible.’

The colonel sighed. ‘Experts have compared the typeface of the Olivetti with your so-called story. And they match one hundred per cent.’ He raised his eyebrows pleasantly. ‘And if that’s not enough evidence – which it is – fingerprints were found all over the machine, hey. And those fingerprints – ’ he held up the note the detective had brought in – ‘match yours.’

Mahoney stared, heart pounding. Before he could say anything Colonel Krombrink continued: ‘So you were at Lilliesleaf Farm, Mr Mahoney. Where you wrote the whole –’ he flicked the typescript – ‘long story, over three or four long visits.’ The detective at the window grinned, fixing Mahoney with a cheerful glare. Colonel Krombrink went on: ‘An’ before you come up with some cock an’ bull story, let me advise you that your fingerprints were found on many of these, which we seized in the cottage.’ He waved his hand like a showman and the detective held up a beer bottle triumphantly.

Mahoney’s mind stuttered. And all he could think was – oh God, what about Patti’s fingerprints? He looked desperately at Colonel Krombrink.

‘Got, man, Mr Mahoney, you’re in big trouble, hey? Exactly the same as the guys we arrested red-handed at the farm, hey. Treason …’ He let that hang, then asked earnestly: ‘You know the penalty for treason?’

Mahoney was ashen, dread-filled. ‘You know bloody well I haven’t committed treason!’

The colonel sighed. ‘What I know is that you frequented the underground headquarters of the banned ANC and Communist Party, where the most-wanted terrorists in this country were arrested in possession of thousands of documents planning armed revolution to set up a black communist government supported by Moscow – and caught with a supply of weapons and explosives, hey. And I know that you wrote this –’ he flicked the file – ‘disgusting story for them with the intention of blackmailing the police – and you wrote it on their typewriter in their headquarters, drinking their beer, and that you left the story and pornographic pictures in their possession – we found it buried in a box. An’ I know that this Gandhi woman is a member of the ANC, an’ that she’s your girlfriend, an’ that you went on numerous trips with her to kaffir countries which are known ANC bases where these weapons and explosives come from – an’ you and Miss Gandhi had every opportunity to bring in those explosives and weapons.’

‘Bullshit! You know it is!’

‘And you’re a known troublemaker, always writing –’ he waved his hand in distaste – ‘crap about apartheid.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Treason, Mr Mahoney. And that’s not just the Immorality Act, hey – that’s the gallows, man.’

Mahoney scrambled to his feet and smashed his hand on the desk. ‘You know I had nothing to do with explosives and treason!’

The colonel smiled. ‘You’ll have to convince the judge, not me, Mr Mahoney. And,’ he added, ‘so will Miss Gandhi.’

‘She had nothing to do with that farm!’ Mahoney roared.

The colonel said softly: ‘Sit down, Mr Mahoney. You make the place look untidy.’

Mahoney glared, aghast, shaking. He rasped: ‘I refuse to answer any more ridiculous questions!’

The colonel sat back. ‘Ninety days, Mr Mahoney? We can detain you ninety days for questioning. An’ if we’re not satisfied you’re telling the truth we can detain you another ninety days. An’ so on, indefinitely. Now, be a sensible chap and sit down, hey.’

Mahoney stared, heart pounding. And, oh God, he was terrified. Ninety days and ninety days and ninety days… He slowly sank back into his chair.

The colonel nodded encouragingly. Then hunched forward, hands clasped. ‘Mr Mahoney, where was Miss Gandhi when you were working on the story on Lilliesleaf Farm?’

Mahoney closed his eyes, his mind frantically racing. They’d said nothing about her fingerprints… ‘I don’t know. She wasn’t present.’

‘So you just got in your car and drove out to the farm to write the story because it was your other office, hey? That proves you were one of those terrorists! Good! Thank you!’

Anger rose through the fear. ‘I had no idea the farm was an ANC base! And Miss Gandhi didn’t even know of the farm’s existence – she thought I was writing the story at Drum!’

‘I see.’ The colonel nodded. ‘So how did you come to write it on the farm?’

Oh Jesus. ‘I decided not to write it at Drum in case Drum got raided. The same applied to my apartment. Then I met a guy who rented a cottage outside town but hardly lived there. He offered it to me. I grabbed it. Writers do that, you know – we need to get away to work.’

‘Of course,’ the colonel said, and the other detective snickered. ‘Artists are like that. So?’

‘So this guy said I could use his empty cottage whenever I liked. He took me out there. And, it was ideal.’

‘How kind of him!’ the colonel beamed. ‘And so you rented it?’

‘No. Well, I gave him a case of wine. It was just a favour.’

‘I understand,’ the colonel nodded earnestly. ‘And the Olivetti typewriter?’

‘It was already there.’

‘Ah … So it was absolutely ideal, hey? An’ tell me – what’s this kind guy’s name?’

Mahoney had managed to think this far ahead. ‘Mac’

‘Mac what?’

‘Not sure. I just knew him as Mac, like most MacGregors or Mackintoshes. I did know, but I’ve forgotten.’

‘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

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.