the kneeling man, then he swung his right leg and his whole body into a
flying kick that took Akkers cleanly under the chin and snapped his head
back.
He went over backwards and lay still and quiet, and David stood over
him, sobbing and gasping for breath.
For purposes of sentence Mr. justice Barnard of the Transvaal division
of the Supreme Court took into consideration four previous convictions,
two under the wildlife conservation act, one for aggravated assault, and
the fourth for assault with intent to do grievous bodily harm.
He found Johan Akkers guilty of twelve counts under the Wildlife
Conservation Act, but considered these as one when sentencing him to
three years at hard labour without option of a fine, and confiscation of
firearms and motor vehicles used in commission of these offences.
He found him guilty of one count of aggravated assault, and sentenced
him to three years at hard labour without option.
The prosecutor altered one charge from attempted murder to assault with
intent to do grievous bodily harm. He was found guilty as charged on
this count, and the sentence was five years imprisonment without option.
On the final charge of murder he was found guilty and justice Barnard
said in open court; In considering sentence of death on this charge, I
was obliged to take into account the fact that the accused was acting
like an animal in a trap, and I am satisfied that there was no element
of premeditation The sentence was eighteen years imprisonment, and all
sentences were to run consecutively. They were all confirmed on appeal.
As Conrad Berg said from his hospital bed with one heavily plastered leg
in traction, and a glass of Old Buck gin in his hand, Well, for the next
twenty-eight years we don't have to worry about that bastard, I beg your
pardon, Mrs. Morgan. Twenty-nine years, dear, Jane Berg corrected him
firmly.
In July the American edition of A Place of Our Oven was published, and
it dropped immediately into that hungry and bottomless pool of
indifference wherein so many good books drown. It left not a sign, not
a ripple of its passing.
Bobby Dugan, Debra's new literary agent in America, wrote to say how
sorry he was, and how disappointed.
He had expected at least some sort of critical notice to be taken of the
publication.
David took it as a personal and direct insult. He ranted and stormed
about the estate for a week, and it seemed that at one stage he might
actually journey to America to commit a physical violence upon that
country, a sort of one-man Vietnam in reverse.
They must be stupid, he protested. It's the finest book ever written.
Oh, David! Debra protested modestly.
It is! And I'd love to go over there and rub their noses in it, and
Debra imagined the doors of editorial offices all over New York being
kicked open, and literary reviewers fleeing panic-stricken, jumping out
of skyscraper-windows or locking themselves in the women's toilets to
evade David's wrath.
David, my darling, you are wonderful for me, she giggled with delight,
