Thirteen Hours

given him the wrong impression. Or perhaps it was her face. It was round, like that of a plumper woman.

She was in her late twenties. He could be her father. 'Is this your connection?' She had a menu open and the mouse pointer on an icon. 'Yes.'

'Can I put a shortcut on your desktop?' It took him a while to work that one out. 'Yes, please.'

She clicked and looked and thought and said: 'It looks like you accidentally changed the dial-up number. There's one figure short here.' 'Oh.'

'Do you have the number somewhere?'

'I think so ...' He took the pack of documents and manuals out of the cupboard where he kept them all together in a plastic bag and began to sort through them.

'Here ...' He indicated it with his finger. 'OK. See, the eight is gone, you must have deleted it, it happens quite easily ...' She typed the number in and clicked and suddenly the modem dialled up, making its complaining noises.

'Well, fuck me,' he said in genuine amazement. She laughed. With that mouth. So he asked her if she would like a cup of coffee. Or rooibos tea, like Carla always drank. 'That's all I have.'

'Coffee would be nice, thank you.'

He put on the kettle and she said, 'You're a detective,' and he said, 'What didn't Aunty Charmaine tell you?' and so they fell into conversation. Maybe it was purely because they each had a lonely Monday evening ahead. He had no intentions, God knows, he had taken the coffee to the sitting room knowing that in theory he could be her father, despite the mouth, even though by then he had become aware of her pale faultless skin and her breasts that, like her face, belonged to a fuller woman.

It was polite, slightly stilted conversation, strangers with a need to talk on a Monday night.

Two cups of coffee with sugar and Cremora later, he made his big mistake. Without thinking he picked up the top CD from his stack of four and pushed it into his laptop's CD player, because that was all he had apart from the portable Sony that only worked with earphones.

She said in surprise: 'You like Lize Beekman?' and he said in a moment of honesty: 'Very much.' Something changed in her eyes, as though it made her see him differently.

He had bought the CD after he had heard a Lize Beekman song on the car radio, 'My Suikerbos'. There was something about the singer's voice - compassion, no, vulnerability, or was it the melancholy of the music? He didn't know, but he liked the arrangement, the delicate instrumentation, and he sought out the CD. He listened to it on the Sony, meaning to play through the bass notes in his mind. But the lyrics captured him. Not only the words, the combination of words and music with that voice made him happy, and made him sad. He couldn't remember when last music had made him feel this way, such a yearning for unknown things. And when Bella van Breda asked him if he liked Lize Beekman, it was the first time he could express this to someone. That's why it came out: 'Very much.' With feeling.

Bella said, 'I wish I could sing like that,' and surprisingly, he understood what she meant. He had felt the same yearning, to sing of all the facets of life with the same depth of wisdom and insight and ... acceptance. To sing of the good and the bad, in such lovely melodies. He had never felt that kind of acceptance. Disgust, yes, that had been with him all his life. He could never explain why he felt this constant, low-grade disgust for everything and, above all, for himself.

He said: 'Me too,' and after a long silence, the conversation blossomed. They talked of many things. She told him the story of her life. He talked about his work, the reliable old stories of peculiar arrests, preposterous witnesses and eccentric colleagues. Bella said she would like to open her own business one day and the light of passion, enthusiasm, shone in her eyes. He listened with admiration. She had a dream. He had nothing. Just a fantasy or two. The kind you kept to yourself, the kind he dreamed up while strumming his guitar in the evenings. Like handcuffing Theuns Jordaan to a microphone and telling him 'Now you sing 'Hex- vallei', and not a part or a medley, sing the whole fucking song.' With Anton L'Amour on lead guitar and Benny himself on bass, and they were gonna rock 'n' roll, really kick butt. Or to be able to ask Schalk Joubert just once: 'How the fuck do you play bass guitar like that, like it was plugged into your brain?'

Or maybe to have his own four-piece band again. Singing the old blues, Robert Johnson and John Lee Hooker, or the real old rock 'n' roll - Berry, Domino, Ricky Nelson, early Elvis...

But he said none of this, just listened to her. Round about ten o'clock she got up to go to the bathroom and when she came back he was on his way back from the sink to the sofa and he said: 'More coffee?'

They were so close and her eyes looked away and her mouth had a small, furtive smile that showed she had an idea what was going to happen next, and she didn't mind.

So he kissed her.

And as Benny sat in the bright summer sun in the Tuesday morning traffic, he remembered that it had been without lust at first, more an extension of their conversation. It was full of consolation, longing, a gentle coming together, just like Lize Beekman's music. Two people who needed to be touched.

They kissed for a long time and then they stood and held each other tight. He was again aware that her body was slimmer than he had expected. She stepped back and sat down on the sofa. He thought she was saying it was enough. But she took off her glasses and carefully put them on the floor to one side. Her eyes looked suddenly deep brown, and defenceless. He sat down next to her and kissed her again and the next thing he could remember she was sitting up, taking off her bra and offering him her lovely breasts with shy pride. He sat in the police car remembering how her body felt - soft, warm and welcoming. He remembered the slow intensity. How he was in her, there on the sofa and lifting himself up to look at her and seeing in her eyes the same immense gratitude that he felt in his own heart. Gratitude that she was there, that this had happened, and it was all lovely and gentle and slow.

Fuck it, he thought, how could that be wrong?

His cell phone rang and brought him back to the present: it must be Dekker asking where he was. But the screen read ANNA and his heart lurched.

It was the fall that saved her.

Instinctively, she had sprinted up the steep row of steps that led up out of the street, up the slope of the mountain between two high ivy-covered walls, and then up a narrow twisting footpath. Table Mountain was suddenly a colossus looming over her, steep slopes of rock and fynbos and open stretches. She felt sure she had made a mistake. They would spot her and catch her on the slope. They would grab her and hold her to the ground and slit her throat, like Erin's.

She drove herself up the mountain. She did not look back. The gradient sapped the strength from her thighs, her knees, a slow poison that would paralyse her. Above, to the right, she saw the cable car station, sun glinting off car windscreens, tiny, tiny figures of people, so close, yet so terribly far. If only she could reach them. No, it was too steep, too far, she would never make it.

She saw the fork in the footpath, chose the left one and ran. Forty paces and then a sudden drop, the path unexpectedly falling to a rocky gully that sliced down from high up the mountain. She wasn't prepared for it, her foot landed badly on round pebbles and she fell to the left, downhill. Trying to brake herself with her hands, she banged her shoulder hard and was winded. She rolled over once and lay still, aware that her hands were grazed, that something had struck her chin, but her greatest need was for air, she needed to force it back into her lungs with great, ragged breaths. Her first attempt was a bellowing croak like an animal and she needed to be quiet, they must not hear her. Twice she inhaled hoarsely, then in smaller, quieter breaths. The bank of the stream came into focus and she saw the crevice carved out under the giant rock by centuries of water. Just big enough for her to creep into.

She moved like a snake, over the round river rocks, her bleeding hands held out in front of her, towards the opening. She heard the urgent running steps of her pursuers. How close were they? She realised her rucksack would not fit in. She was running out of time; they would see her. She rose to her knees to tear the rucksack off, but had to stop to loosen the buckle around her belly. She pulled the right then left shoulder straps off, wriggled her body into the hollow and dragged the rucksack after her. Three of them jumped over the dry stream bed three metres away from her, agile, athletic and silent, and she held her burning breath, saw how the blood from her chin dripped on the stones. She lay still, and shut her eyes, as if that would make her invisible to them.

He sat in the traffic with his phone to his ear and said: 'Hello, Anna.' His heart beating in his throat as he thought of last night.

'Benny, we need to talk.'