The Sunday Hangman

may not want me to go into.”

“Can’t see it,” said Willie.

“It’s tucked away, Boshoff. Don’t worry, please; all will go off very smoothly, and you will feel no pain.”

“What about the stretch? Is the rope stretched?”

A large hand patted Willie on the knee. “Trust me, Boshoff, trust me. I use a steel cable for linkage-a little refinement of my own, as my procedures cannot be as leisurely. You seem to be showing a much more intelligent attitude tonight. What you said today really upset me. I can’t tell you how much.”

“Is that why you’ve got me here?”

The dark shape walked away, making the floor tremble at each pace, then returned.

“Ja, I suppose it must be, Boshoff-although I couldn’t have done anything about it, if you hadn’t given me an excuse.”

The man was either completely mad or the Lieutenant so terribly wrong that he deserved to die in Willie’s place. Mercifully, there was no reality in any of this-in fact, playing along with Swanepoel was like talking in a dream in which you felt perfectly safe.

“What excuse? What have I done?”

“You know quite well, Boshoff. You must have been that police friend of Tommy McKenzie’s he threatened me with. Deny you decided to step into his shoes, having heard all his stories.”

“And do what?”

“Fornicate with my daughter. Teach her evil, take advantage of a condition that had already caused me enough concern. To commit, in short, Constable Boshoff, a statutory rape.”

“No, I bloody didn’t!”

“Oh?” replied Swanepoel, without any real interest. “Then I shall have to use my alternative charge-in your presence at least. When I came on you in my bedroom, you attacked me: the charge under which you were convicted was one of house-breaking with aggravating circumstances.”

“You’re the judge, too?”

“For the meantime, until this matter comes before a proper court.”

“I don’t understand that,” said Willie. “And you don’t seem to understand that we’re on to you. We know all about everything! Oh, ja, and if you touch me, then the Lieutenant will know for certain who the hangman is!”

Swanepoel laughed; the sound was mocking. “I hope you’re right,” he said. “It’s taken them long enough. Would you like me to be the chaplain now? Five minutes are all you have left.”

The Chev stopped on the road where the track led off up to the truck and, a couple of hundred yards beyond it, the pillbox. If Swanepoel heard its engine, then he would simply suppose it had passed on by.

“Get on the walkie-talkie and tell Goodluck and his lot to drop everything and come down here fast!” Kramer told Zondi, opening his door. “All I’m concentrating on is getting Willie out to begin with, and then we might be able to do with some additional help.”

“I could create a diversion, boss.”

“Mickey, I’m sorry, but you’re not up to it, man. You have already done a fantastic job. Okay?”

Zondi reached over the back of his seat for the radio.

“It would take you,” Kramer said, impatient to go but unable to leave him like this, “five minutes to reach the bloody truck, Mick. Be reasonable!”

He felt a dry palm squeeze his fist briefly.

With his throat constricted so it hurt, Kramer turned and sprinted up the track, keeping on the grass. As he drew near the truck, his hand brought the revolver’s nose up, just in case. But the cab was empty and the back locked, with the great latch snug behind its cleats. He reached a barbed-wire fence and looked for where Swanepoel had passed through with his burden. This wasted time, so he vaulted over before finding out.

“Priorities,” he muttered with conscious grim humor. “Probably hasn’t got the drop right yet-no bloody table to check it against. Hey ho for the Witklip computer.”

The slope leading up to the pillbox, squat and evil against the moon, was treacherous with loose stone. He tripped and went down hard, making one hell of a clatter.

The absurd, wild, fervent hope that help was on its way had taken possession of Willie. If only he could keep Swanepoel talking long enough, the nightmare would suddenly-and very sweetly-come to an end.

“You mustn’t think I haven’t my eye on the clock,” Swanepoel said abruptly. “The law is very particular in these matters.”

“You’re the law? If you’re the law, then what did you charge Ringo Roberts under? Tell me that!”

“Murder.”

A starburst of pain in Willie’s nose made him pause, then he gamely went on: “But that’s where you’re wrong, see? The law decided that the charge should be withdrawn.”

“Ach, not that murder,” Swanepoel said casually, moving away to make a final inspection of the noose.

Willie watched his shape move the rubber washer thing up and down. He also became aware that he had wet himself. This had been a serious offense in the home, and it made him feel very ashamed.

“Which murder?” he demanded angrily.

“My son’s.”

“Who?”

“Anthony Michael.”

“Jesus!”

“I knew you wouldn’t know that, and, for obvious reasons, I don’t mind you hearing it from me now. I like to tell people when I have the chance, which isn’t often. You know, I saw him once, as a matter of fact-I think she brought him for that purpose. Perhaps to see the land of his father, so he’d have it in his mind always, because she was like that. A strange, lonely, beautiful woman, who knew me like no other person has ever done. She also knew what was right. She knew that we were of two cultures, and our lives would run on along separate lines.

All she ever asked in return was that baby, and I gave life. I gave life, I can take life; I am a man!”

Loudly, mockingly, Swanepoel laughed. His insanity was established, but through it ran a steel wire of logic that suddenly snapped taut, choking off the breath.

“Have you a father?” he asked, laying that great hand on Willie’s left shoulder.

Willie shook his head.

“Good! I thought not-it is also something I always try to find out. The father suffers terribly, I can promise you. I suffered even when seeing my man-child, who had been nothing to me but sperm I had spilled, and knowing we would always live apart. Which was nonsense! Nonsense! I had made love-I loved that woman-I had made love, and they killed my love. She went away broken. I’ve never understood why others could not see he was mine. I wondered if the man guessed; I caught him watching me strangely. At times, I’ve been sure that Karl guessed, but he would never say so. Tenderness is not widely accepted; he would expect me to bear the stain of sin. It wasn’t sin. I had to stay on until we were sure it had happened. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she whispered, ‘you must go now. I have part of you for always.’ She crossed herself. I wept. I used to be a proper crybaby!”

Desperately, Willie said, “But Vasari wasn’t murdered!”

Swanepoel grabbed him by the shoulders, dragging him to his feet. “Wasn’t he? What happened to him? Can you tell me that?”

“He-he was hanged.”

“Ah! A subtle difference? I’m glad you have spotted it! You know why?”

Again Willie shook his head, dizzy with fear and nausea.

“Because it is one I use myself,” said Swanepoel, laughing very loudly. “Let’s see the bastards talk their way out of that!”

There wasn’t a sound in the shadow of the pillbox. Kramer circled it, moving in a crouch, absolutely silently. The windows had been bricked up and so, it appeared, had the door.

Then he came upon the thorn tree. It grew right beside the thick wall, branching off asymmetrically, before heaving its canopy over the top. With luck, it would make a prickly but adequate scaling ladder. He bolstered his revolver, reached up, and dragged himself into the lowest fork. Testing each branch carefully, he progressed from there, rising barely six inches at a time, his hands sticky with the tears made by the thorns. He kept pausing to wipe