She turned to the minister, leaning her shoulder against the bookshelf, one hand brushing the books, caressingly. ?It must have been hard for my mother when my father was away. She never complained. When she knew he was coming home, she would get the house in order, from one end to the other. Spring-cleaning, she called it. But never herself. Tidy, yes. Clean, but she used less and less make-up. Her clothes became looser, and more dull. She cut her hair short. You know how it is when you live with someone every day?you don?t notice the gradual changes.?
She folded her arms again, embracing herself.
?The thing with the church . . . that must be where it started. He came back from the Border and said we were going to another church. Not the Dutch Reformed Church on the base anymore; we would be going to a church in town, one that met in the primary school hall on Sundays. Clapping hands and falling down and conversions . . . Gerhard and I would have enjoyed it if our father hadn?t been so serious about it. Suddenly we had family devotions at home every day and he prayed long prayers about the demons that were in us. He began to talk of leaving the army, so that he could go and do missionary work, and he walked around with the Bible all day, not the little soldier?s Bible, a big one. It was a vicious circle, because the army was probably understanding at first, but later he began praying for God to drive the demons out of the colonel and the brigadier and said that God would open doors for him.?
She shook her head. ?It must have been hard for my mother, but she did nothing.?
She walked back to her chair. ?Not even when he started with me.?
7.
He drove the pickup to Cape Town, because the motorbike would be too conspicuous. His suitcase was beside him on the passenger seat. From Port Elizabeth to Knysna. He saw the mountains and the forests and wondered, as always, how it had looked a thousand years ago, when there were only Khoi and San and the elephants trumpeted in the dense bush. Beyond George the houses of the wealthy sat like fat ticks against the dunes, silently competing for a better sea view. Big houses, empty all year, to be filled perhaps for a month in December. He thought of Mrs. Ramphele?s corrugated iron shack on the sunburnt flats outside Umtata, five people in two rooms, and he knew the contrasts in this country were too great.
But they could never be great enough to justify the death of a child. He wondered if Khoza or Ramphele had passed this way; if they had driven this road.
Mossel Bay, past Swellendam and over the Breede river, then Caledon and eventually late in the afternoon he came over Sir Lowry?s Pass. The Cape lay spread out far below and the sun shone in his eyes as it hung low over Table Mountain. He felt no joy of homecoming, because the memories this place brought lay heavy on him.
He drove as far as Parow. There was a little hotel on Voortrekker Road that he remembered, the New President, where people stayed who wanted to remain anonymous, regardless of color or creed.
That is where he would begin.
Griessel stood in front of the Serious and Violent Crimes Unit building in Bishop Lavis and considered his options.
He could take the suitcase out of the boot and drag it past Mavis in Reception, around the corner and down the passage to one of the big bathrooms that remained after the old Police College became the new SVC offices. Then he could shower and brush his teeth and scrape off his stubble in the bleached mirror and put on clean clothes. But every fucking policeman in the Peninsula would know within half an hour that Benny Griessel had been turfed out of the house by his wife. That is the way it worked on the Force.
Or he could walk to his office just as he was, smelly and crumpled, and say he had worked through the night, but that story would only maintain the facade temporarily.
There was a bottle of Jack in his desk drawer and three packets of Clorets?two slugs for the nerves, two Clorets for the breath and he was as good as new. Jissis, to feel the thick brown liquid sliding down his throat, all the way to heaven. He slammed the boot shut. Fuck the shower; he knew what he needed.
He walked fast, suddenly light-hearted. Fuck you, Anna. She couldn?t do this; he would see a fucking lawyer, one like Kemp who didn?t take shit from man or beast. He was the fucking breadwinner, drunkard and all; how could she throw him out? He?d paid for that house, every table and chair. He greeted Mavis, turned the corner, up the stairs, feeling in his pocket for the key. His hand was shaking. He got the door open, closed it behind him, walked around the desk, opened the bottom drawer, lifted the criminal procedure handbook and felt the cold glass of the bottle underneath. He took it out and unscrewed the cap. Time for a lubrication, his oil light was burning red. He grinned at his own wit as the door opened and Matt Joubert stood there with an expression of disgust on his face.
?Benny.?
He stood transfixed, with the neck of the bottle fifteen centimeters away from relief.
?Fuck it, Matt.?
Matt closed the door behind him. ?Put that shit down, Benny.?
He did not move, could not believe his bad luck. So fucking close.
?Benny!?
The bottle shook, like his whole body. ?I can?t help it,? he said quietly. He could not look Joubert in the eyes. The senior superintendent came and stood next to him, took the bottle out of his hand. He let it go reluctantly.
?Give me the cap.?
Solemnly he handed it over.
?Sit, Benny.?
He sat down and Joubert banged the bottle down. He leaned his large body against the desk, legs straight and arms folded.
?What is going on with you??
What was the use of answering?
?Now you are an abuser of women and a breakfast drinker??
