?Fritz!? But she couldn?t shut him up.
?Putting you in bed every night when you pass out? Or finding you in a chair in the morning, stinking and you never even remembered what you did? We never had a father. Just some drunkard who lived with us. You don?t know us, Dad. You don?t know anything. You don?t know we hide the liquor away. You don?t know we take money out of your wallet so you can?t buy brandy. You don?t know we can?t bring our friends home because we?re ashamed of our father. We can?t sleep over at our friends because we?re scared you?ll hit Mom when we?re not there. You still think we like to go to the Spur, Dad. You think Charlize Theron is a criminal. You don?t know anything, Dad, and you drink.?
He could no longer hold back the tears and he got up and rushed up the stairs. Griessel and Carla stayed behind and he could not meet her eyes. He sat in his chair and felt shame. He saw the fuck-up he had made of his life. The whole irrevocable fuck-up.
?You
stopped, Dad.?
He said nothing.
?I
you have.?
The unease had driven Thobela up Table Mountain early Sunday morning. He drove to Kirstenbosch and climbed the mountain from behind, up Skeleton Gorge, until he stood on the crest and looked over everything. But it didn?t help.
He pulled and kneaded the emotion, looking for reasons, but none came.
It wasn?t only the woman.
?Oh God,? she had said. He had come from the shrubs and the shadows and in the dark he grabbed the firearm in her hand and gave it a sharp twist, so that she lost her grip. The dogs were barking madly around them, the sheepdog biting at his heels with sharp teeth. He had to kick the animal and Laurens had formed her last word.
?No.?
She had shielded herself with her hands when he lifted the assegai. When the long blade went in, peace had come over her. Just like Colin Pretorius. Release. That was what they wanted. But inside him there was a cry, a shout that said he couldn?t make war on women.
He heard it still, but there was something else. A pressure. Like walls. Like a narrow corridor. He had to get out. Into the open. He must move. Go on.
He walked over the mountain in the direction of Camp?s Bay. He clambered over rocks until the Atlantic Ocean lay far beneath his feet.
Why did he feel this urge now? To fetch his motorbike and have a long, never-ending road stretching ahead. Because he was doing the right thing. He did not doubt anymore. In the Spur with the street children he had found an answer that he hadn?t looked for. It had come to him as if it were sent. The things people did to them. Because they were the easiest targets.
He walked again. The mountain stretched out to the south, making humps you don?t expect. How far could you walk like this, on the crest? As far as Cape Point?
He was doing the right thing, but he wanted to get away.
He was feeling claustrophobic here.
Why? He hadn?t made a mistake yet. He knew that. But something was wrong. The place was too small. He stood still. This was instinct, he realized. To move on. To hit and then disappear. That was how it was, in the old days. Two, three weeks of preparation until you did your job and you got on a plane and were gone. Never two consecutive strikes in the same place: that would be looking for trouble. That left tracks, drew attention. That was poor strategy. But it was already too late, because he had drawn attention. Major attention.
That was why he had to get away. Get in his truck and drive.
28.
He put the kettle on.
?I?ll make the coffee, Dad,? said Carla.
?I want to do it,? he said. Then: ?I don?t even know how you take your coffee.?
?I drink it with milk and without sugar and Fritz takes milk and three sugars.?
?Three??
?Boys,? she said with a shrug.
?Do you have a boyfriend??
?Kind of.?
?Oh??
?There is a guy . . .?
?Is powdered milk okay??
She nodded. ?His name is Sarel and I know he likes me. He?s quite cute. But I don?t want to get too involved now, with the exams and things.?
He could hear Anna?s voice in hers, the intonation and the wisdom. ?That?s smart,? he said.
?Because I want to study next year, Dad.?
