Devil's Peak

He studied the map. His finger traced Hannes Louw Drive where it crossed the N1. If he parked north of the freeway, using the narrow strip of veld and parkland . . . That was the long, slow option, but it could be done.

In the case in which Colin Pretorius stands accused of child molestation and rape, an eleven- year-old boy yesterday testified how the accused called him to his office three years ago and showed him material of a pornographic nature. The accused locked the door and later began to fondle himself and encouraged the boy to do the same.

His next problem would be getting into the house. The front was too visible, he would have to get in the back where the concrete wall hid him from the neighbors. There were the burglar bars. The security contract meant an alarm. And a panic button.

The woman, whose name may not be made public, testified that her five-year-old son?s symptoms of stress, which included acute aggression, bedwetting and lack of concentration, obliged his parents to consult a child psychologist. In therapy the boy revealed the molestation over a period of three months by Pretorius, owner of a crcche.

There were two alternatives. Wait for Pretorius to come home. Or try to gain entry. The first option was too unpredictable, too hard to control. The second was difficult, but not impossible.

He paid for his cold drink. He was not hungry. He felt too much anticipation, a vague tension, a sharpening of his senses. He fetched his pickup from the parking area and left.

During his arrest, police seized Pretorius?s computer, CD-ROM material and videos. Inspector Dries Luyt of the Domestic Violence Unit told the court the quantity and nature of the child pornography found was the ?worst this unit has yet seen.?

He flowed with the traffic.

He thought of being with Pakamile, the week before his death, in the mountain landscape of Mpumalanga beyond Amersfoort. On their motorbikes together with the six other students in the bright morning sun, between the pretty wooden houses, his son?s eyes fixed on the instructor who spoke to them with such fervor.

?The greatest enemy of the motorbike rider is target fixation. It?s in our blood. The connection between eyes and brain unfortunately works this way: if you look at a pothole or a rock, you will ride into it. Make sure you never look directly at the obstruction. Fighter pilots are trained to look ninety degrees away from the target the moment they press the missile-firing buttons. Once you have spotted an obstacle in the road, you know it?s there. Search for the way around it; keep your eyes on the line to safety. You and your motorbike will follow automatically.?

He had sat there thinking this was not just a lesson in motorbike riding?life worked like that too. Even if you only realized it late or nearly too late. Sometimes you never did see the rocks. Like when he came back after the war. Battle ready, cocked, primed for the New South Africa. Ready to use his training, his skills and experience. An alumnus of the KGB university, graduate of the Stasi sniper school, veteran of seventeen eliminations in the cities of Europe.

Nobody wanted him.

Except for Orlando Arendse, that is. For six years he protected drug routes and collected drug debts, until he began to notice the rocks and potholes, until he needed to choose a safer line in order not to smash himself on the rocks.

And now?

He parked beside Hendrik Verwoerd Drive, high up against the bump of the Tygerberg, where you can see the Cape stretched out in front of you as far as Table Mountain, glittering in the night.

He sat for a moment, but did not see the view.

Perhaps the motorcycle instructor was wrong: avoiding the obstacles of life was not enough. How does a child choose a line through all the sickness, all the terrible traps? Maybe life needed someone to clear away the obstacles.

* * *

When Griessel returned to the flat with both hands full of Pick and Pay bags, Dr. Barkhuizen was standing at his door, hand raised to knock.

?I came to see if you were okay.?

Later they sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, drinking instant coffee from brand new floral mugs, and Griessel told him about the beer advertisement. The doctor said that was just the beginning. He would begin seeing what had been invisible before. The whole world would conspire to taunt him, the universe encourage him to have just one little swallow, just one glass. ?The brain is a fantastic organ, Benny. It seems to have a life of its own, one that we are unaware of. When you drink long enough, it begins to like that chemical balance. So when you stop, it makes plans to restore the balance. It?s like a factory of cunning thoughts lodged somewhere, which pumps the best ones through to your conscious state. ?Ach, it?s just a beer.? ?What harm can one little drink do?? Another very effective one is the, ?I deserve it, I have suffered for a week now and I deserve a small one.? Or, even worse, the, ?I have to have a drink now, or I will lose all control.? ?

?How the fuck do you fight it??

?You phone me.?

?I can?t do that every time . . .?

?Yes, you can. Any time, night or day.?

?It can?t go on like this forever, can it??

?It won?t, Benny. I will teach you the techniques to tame the beast.?

?Oh.?

?The other thing I wanted to talk about was those voices.?

* * *

He sat in the deep night-shadows of neglected shrubs, in the parkthat bordered on Simone Street. The binoculars were directed at Pretorius?s home, three hundred meters down Chantelle Street.

A white suburb at night. Fort Blanc. No children playing outside. Locked doors, garages and security gates that opened with electronic remote controls, the blue flicker of television screens in living rooms. The streets were silent, apart from the white Toyota Tazz of Cobra Security that patrolled at random, or an occupant coming home