but her eyes were blind to the wall they faced. She remembered one woman in the cell kept screaming, screaming, a sound that penetrated marrow and bone, a never-ending lament. The red-faced policeman, who opened the cell door and cleared a way through the perspiring bodies to the screaming one with his truncheon, raised the blunt object high above his head.
She was seventeen, on her way home to the thrown-together wooden hut on an overpopulated dune at Khayalitsha, her week?s wages clasped in her handbag, on the way to the buses at the Parade when the mass of demonstrators blocked the road. A seething mass like a noisy pregnant python curling past the town hall, banners waving, whistling, chanting, toyi-toyiing, shouting, a swinging carnival of protest over pay in the clothing industry or something. She had joined in, as they were flowing in her direction, laughing at the young men cavorting like monkeys, and suddenly the police were there, the tear gas, the charge, the water cannon? the python had borne chaos.
They pushed her into the back of a big yellow lorry, pulled her out at the cells with the rest of the horde, shoved them into a cell, too full, nobody could sit and the screaming woman, wailing something about a child, she must go to her sick child, the red-faced white man threatening with the truncheon above his head, shouting, voice lost in the din, the arm dropping, again and again, and terror had overwhelmed Miriam? she needed to escape, she pushed against the others, through the screaming women till she reached the bars, put her hands through them, and there were more policemen shouting, too, faces wild, till someone pulled her back, the lamenting voice suddenly quiet.
She felt the same fear now, in this closed space, the locked door, the locking up without reason, without guilt. She jumped as the door opened. A white woman entered, went to sit opposite her.
?How can I convince you that we want to help Thobela?? Ja-nina Mentz used his first name deliberately.
?You can?t keep me here.? Miriam heard the fear in her own voice.
?Ma?am, these people are misusing him. They are putting him in unnecessary danger. They have lied and misled him. They are not good people.?
?I don'?t believe you. He was Thobela?s friend.?
?He was. Years ago. But he has gone bad. He wants to sell us out. Our country. He wants to hurt us and he is using Thobela.?
She could see uncertainty in Miriam?s face; she would capitalize on it. ?We know Thobela is a good man. We know he was a hero of the Struggle. We know he wouldn'?t have got involved if he knew the whole story. We can sort this out and bring him home safely but we need your help.?
?My help??
?You talked to the media? .?
?She also wanted to help. She was also on Thobela?s side.?
?They are manipulating you, ma?am.?
?And you??
?How will the media be able to bring Thobela home? We can. With your help.?
?There is nothing I can do.?
?Do you expect Thobela to phone??
?Why do you want to know??
?If we could just give him a message.?
Miriam glanced sharply at Janina, at her eyes, her mouth, her hands.
?I don'?t trust you.?
Janina sighed. ?Because I am white??
?Yes. Because you are white.?
Captain Tiger Mazibuko could not get to sleep. He rolled about on the army bed. It was muggy in Kimberley not too hot, still overcast, but the humidity was high and the room poorly ventilated.
What was this hate that he felt for Mpayipheli?
The man was in the Struggle. This man had not sold out his comrades.
Where did this hate come from? It consumed him, it influenced his behavior; he had not treated Little Joe well. He had always had the anger, but it had never before affected his leadership.
Why?
This was just a poor middle-aged man who had a moment of glory a long time ago.
Why?
Outside there was a rumbling that grew louder and louder.
How was he supposed to sleep?
It was the Rooivalks. The windows shook in their frames, the deep bass note of the motors reverberated in his chest. Earlier it had been the trucks, departing one after another with single-minded purpose. Soldiers were being deployed to set up the roadblocks on the dirt and blacktop roads. The net was cast wider to catch a single fish.
He turned over again.
Did it matter where the hate came from? As long as he could control it. Channel it.
