walked over to the neutral corner and picked up the object lying there. We could now see, for sure, that it was a roll of canvas. He held the roll up to his chin so that it unrolled. My heart gave an enormous leap. The canvas sheet Captain Smit was holding was covered with dry blood. Borman pulled back in horror but then, as quickly, recovered himself.
‘What’s this, man? I never saw that before in my whole life.’
Captain Smit said nothing but began to roll the canvas up again. I had been terrified, when I climbed into the ring earlier, that I might see signs of Geel Piet’s blood, but the old canvas had been removed and the ring re- covered. The sight of Captain Smit holding part of the old blood-stained canvas brought back the shock I had felt, and without realising it I began to sob. Suddenly a large, hard hand covered my mouth and Gert’s arm came around my shoulder and drew me into him.
Captain Smit put the canvas back in the corner and retrieved the boxing gloves. Klipkop pulled Borman’s arms open and slipped his gloves on. This time the lieutenant made no move to stop Klipkop who laced up the gloves.
‘I don’t know what you talking about, you hear! I swear I was at home the night the Kaffir died. I can prove it! I had to go home because my wife had an asthma attack. Everybody saw I wasn’t at the Kaffir concert. That’s because I was at home, I got called on the telephone, my wife had a bad attack and I had to go home. You’re mad, I’m telling you, you’re mad, I never done it. I never killed the Kaffir!’
Klipkop finished tying Captain Smit’s gloves and he walked to the centre of the ring. ‘No butting, no kicking, fight like a man,’ Klipkop said, and climbed out of the ring leaving Smit and Borman to fight.
Captain Smit started across the ring towards Lieutenant Borman, but Borman held up his glove open-handed. ‘Look. I admit I phoned Pretoria about the Kaffir concert, I admit that. Orright you got me on that. I thought I was right, I done my duty, that’s all. You can’t blame me for that. I done what I thought was right.’
Captain Smit brushed the open glove aside with a left and drove a hard right into the soft spot of gut that spilt over Borman’s belt. The lieutenant doubled up, clasping at his stomach with both hands trying to catch his breath. Smit stood over him waiting. Without warning, Borman suddenly smashed his gloved fist into Captain Smit’s balls. The captain staggered back, grabbing at his genitals, and then he sank to his knees. Borman was on him in a flash, and catching him on the side of the jaw he sent Captain Smit crashing to the canvas. Borman shouted, ‘You Kaffirboetie, you nigger lover, don’t fuck with me you hear, man!’ He kicked Captain Smit in the ribs just as Klipkop, who had climbed back into the ring, reached him and brought his arms around him. But Borman’s blood was up, he was a big man, and he jerked free just as Captain Smit was attempting to rise. He caught Smit another solid blow to the side of the head, putting him back on the canvas. Klipkop tried to hold Lieutenant Borman again.
‘I killed the bastard, you hear!’ Borman shouted. ‘I killed that yellow nigger. He wouldn’t tell me who gave him the letters, who brought the letters in. I caught him red-handed, two letters, man, red-handed! Two fucking letters in his pocket. He wouldn’t tell me. I broke every bone in his face. I jammed the fucking donkey prick up his arse till he shit his entrails, but he wouldn’t tell me! The black bastard wouldn’t talk!’ There were flecks of foam at the corners of Borman’s mouth and he began to sob.
Captain Smit had dragged himself to his feet and stood facing Borman, who was no longer trying to get out of the bear hug Klipkop held him in. Bringing his gloves up, Smit signalled to Borman to come and fight. Klipkop released his grip and Borman rushed at Smit, walking into a straight left from Smit that stopped him in his tracks. Borman charged in again and Captain Smit stopped him again, repeating the straight left into the face. It was obvious that Borman had never been a boxer. A trickle of blood ran from his nose and he brought his arm up to wipe it. A smear of blood covered the top of his arm and he stared down in horror at it. ‘Shit, I’m bleeding!’ he cried. ‘Jesus Christ, I’m bleeding!’
Then Captain Smit stepped up and smashed his glove into Borman’s face. The blow seemed to flatten Borman’s nose and he dropped to the canvas. Covering his face with his gloves, he wailed, ‘Don’t hit me, please don’t hit me!’
Captain Smit signalled to Klipkop to get Borman back onto his feet. Klipkop got his arms under Borman’s armpits but the man refused to get up. The blood from his nose had stained his white shirt and his eyes were wide with terror. Klipkop let him go and he dropped to the ground; then, crawling on all fours towards Captain Smit, Borman held Smit around the legs. ‘Please don’t hit me, Captain. I don’t understand, why you doing this to me? It was only a Kaffir, a dirty stinking yellow man, why you hitting a white man over a Kaffir?’
Captain Smit kicked his legs free of Borman’s embrace. ‘You can’t even fight, you low bastard. You can’t even stand up and fight like man!’ It was the first time Smit had spoken since they’d entered the ring. He turned and extended his hands to Klipkop who unlaced and removed the gloves. Then Smit went over to the neutral corner, picked up the canvas roll and unrolled it beside the sobbing officer. Klipkop grabbed Borman by the legs and Captain Smit grabbed him around the wrists and they lifted him and placed him on the blood-stained canvas and rolled it around him. ‘This Kaffir’s blood will haunt you till you die,’ Captain Smit said. He picked up his shoes and then he and Klipkop climbed from the ring. Klipkop moved over to the wall and reaching for the switch plunged the gymnasium into darkness.
In the darkness from the direction of the swing doors there came a sudden shout, ‘
When I got outside, the tiekiedraai dancing was already going full swing with someone on the Mignon hammering out the Boeremusiek accompanied by the man with the piano accordion and a banjo player. Outside, on the parade ground, warders and their wives stood around the barbecue fires now burnt down to glowing embers, homemade sausages known as boerewors were held over the fires and the sizzle of the fat dropping from the sausage skins made the embers flare in the dark.
Doc and Mrs Boxall were nowhere to be seen. I watched the guy beating the Mignon half to death, thankful he wasn’t using Doc’s Steinway, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. ‘Howzit?’ It was Gert. ‘How you getting home?’ he enquired. ‘Maybe I can borrow the Plymouth and take you all.’ I explained that Mrs Boxall had brought us in her old crock which made a fearful racket and I was doubtful that it had long to live. ‘You know where the professor and that lady is don’t you?’ Not waiting for my reply, he said: ‘I seen them going into the administration building with the brigadier and the Kommandant.’
Gert was amazing like that; he always seemed to know what was going on. ‘Maybe the professor will get a medal or something for the Kaffir concert.’ Then he giggled, ‘Jesus! I hope the brigadier never finds out that Geel Piet was only a broken down old lag.’ He punched me lightly on the shoulder, ‘Sorry man, about shutting your mouth back there.’ I hung my head, the memory of the blood-stained canvas still too sharp in my mind for me to chance looking at him.
‘You did right,’ I said softly.
‘So long, Peekay, I’d better kick the dust,’ Gert said. At last Doc and Mrs Boxall came out. I ran up to them and I could see Mrs Boxall was excited.
‘By Jove, Peekay, miracles will never cease. I do believe we’ve done it!’ she exclaimed.
‘Done what?’ I asked.
‘Have done what?’ she corrected automatically. ‘We have been given permission to start a letter writing service. Isn’t that simply grand news? The brigadier says that every prisoner may send and receive one letter a month. It’s the first time it has happened in South Africa and it’s going on trial for six months.’ She grabbed me by the hand and Doc by the other and we danced around in a circle to the sound of the tiekiedraai music coming from the hall. ‘You’re going to be needed because you speak three African languages as well as English and Afrikaans. Every Sunday morning after church we’ll come out for two hours and take dictation from the prisoners. I say, it’s a real victory for the forces of good. The brigadier was most impressed when I told him that it would be done under the auspices of the Earl of Sandwich Fund,’ she stopped, puffed from the dancing, and then giggled. ‘The Kommandant assured the brigadier that the Earl of Sandwich Fund was a very respected organisation with worldwide contacts and that all the warders’ wives baked for it at the Christmas and Easter show.’ We all started to laugh. Doc finally said, ‘Madam Boxall, you are absoloodle the best. For this I give you eleven out of ten.’
She did a small curtsey. ‘Why thank you, kind sir!’ She gave Doc one of her extra special smiles. We hung around for a while longer just so we wouldn’t seem rude and finally made our way to the car. As we approached we could hear soft grunting sounds and then we saw that a pair of boots was sticking out from under Charlie. Gert got up sheepishly and wiped his grease-blackened hands on the sides of his khaki shorts. He bowed awkwardly to Mrs
