Jigsaw Lovers (31 page)

Smith had no idea what he was going to do. He had been ostracised by all of their mutual friends. It seemed to him that everyone he knew had taken Catherine’s side. It was hardly surprising when he considered the way the newspapers had sensationalised the story.

They had revelled in the details of his sexual exploits and the lies and deceptions he had told Catherine. What horrified him more than anything was the accuracy of the information they had. It was as though he had been under the magnifying glass for the entire time he was with Diana. It was now obvious, even to Smith, that he had been entrapped, and that Diana must have been an active party in the whole scheme.

At the same time Catherine was portrayed as a wronged and caring mother who only wanted to protect her children from the terrible events that their father’s actions had occasioned. She was shown as putting her responsibilities to her family before any personal gratification. She was held up as a role model for family values who had been cruelly betrayed by her self-seeking adulterous husband.

By contrast the press had turned Smith into a figure of fun. They pointed out the age difference between him and Diana and ridiculed his physique and behaviour. There were comments from people who preferred to remain anonymous, who claimed he was always sexually harassing themand making lewd comments to the female members of the Bank’s staff. It wasn’t long before speculation began that he might also be a child molester and that his very own children could have suffered at his hands.

Although there was no truth in these wilder accusations, it didn’t matter. People believed them to be true. In a very short space of time he had become a pariah. He no longer had anywhere to live; his wife had left him, taking the two children he adored with her; he had no money, and no job. He was totally destitute.

Mysteriously, a million rand plus the correct amount of interest, was repaid to the Bank.

One morning a messenger had delivered a br
iefcase to the new manager that contained the sum in cash. The accompanying typewritten note merely stated, ‘
I NO LONGER HAVE NEED OF THIS. PLEASE CREDIT AND THEN CLOSE MY ACCOUNT
’. It was signed Diana Johnston. The signature matched that of the specimens that the Bank had on file for her.

As a consequence the Bank decided to drop the fraud charges against Smith, but refused to reinstate him, and continued to press with their claims for the outstanding balances on the various credit facilities he had previously enjoyed.

In the months that followed Smith tried unsuccessfully to find employment. Initially, somewhat optimistically, he tried the other banks, but they wouldn’t even see him. He tried to find work outside of the banking world; every day he looked through the newspaper and answered numerous adverts for a variety of positions, but he was either too old, over qualified or lacking relevant experience. On the rare occasion when he managed to get as far as having an interview, he was eventually recognised and politely turned down. It seemed that everyone remembered the ‘Bonk Manager’.

He was given notice to vacate his house as it was to be repossessed. Prior to this his car had been reclaimed, and the electricity and telephone disconnected. He had began to sell pieces of the furniture in order that he have money for food, and increasingly, alcohol. The day before he was evicted he sold everything that wa
s left as a job lot to a second-hand shop. His entire worldly possessions were now contained in one suitcase and a holdall. These consisted of clothes and a photograph of Catherine and the children.

As he walked the streets of Cape Town in search of work, he became aware of how many people there were like him, hanging around on street corners, sitting under the trees, some with notices and begging bowls, others with little children. What chance did he have of surviving in this totally alien environment? What had he done to deserve this fate?

The first three nights he stayed in a bed and breakfast, but he soon realised that what little money he had would not last very long, at the rate he was spending. Each day he walked the streets in search of work, but to no avail. He began to recognise others like himself, and one morning without realising it found he was in conversation with one of them.

‘Hope it doesn’t rain again,’ the man said by way of greeting, looking up at a grey overcast sky.

Smith nodded his agreement. It wasn’t very pleasant being on the streets in the wet.

‘You haven’t been at this long.’ He eyed Smith’s relatively clean clothes. ‘What happened? Lose your job?’ he asked.

‘That’s right.’

‘Have some of this.’ He offered a bottle of sweet sherry. Smith took a swig and handed it back.

‘My name’s Ron,’ he said holding out a dirtyhand.

‘John,’ answered Smith as they shook.

Ron was looking at Smith curiously. ‘You look familiar. Why’s that? Where have I seen you before?’ he asked.

‘I was all over the papers a couple of months back,’ Smith said with indifference. He no longer cared what people thought.

‘You’re that bank manager. The one with the girlfriend and the million rand.’ Recognition was complete. Even here Smith couldn’t escape from his past.

‘That’s right, and it all happened just over there.’ The alcohol in the fortified sherry was beginning to take effect. He pointed to the apartment block in which he had enjoyed so many happy hours. He hadn’t realised then, what a high price those times were going to cost him. He had lost everything he had held dear and believed in. If someone had told him six months ago that he would be sharing a bottle of sherry with a hobo in the park, he would have laughed at them.

‘And now nobody wants to know you,’ commented Ron draining the bottle. ‘Have you got any money?’

‘A little. I’ve been trying to find work, but no luck.’

‘Let’s go buy another bottle and I’ll teach you how to survive,’ said Ron.

Ten minutes later Smith had handed over more of his remaining precious money for three bottles of sherry. He looked on aghast as Ron virtually drained one in ten seconds. It seemed like he emptied the bottle in one enormous gulp.

‘Drink up,’ he said. ‘It’ll keep the cold out.’ He then proceeded to open the second bottle and take a swig.

They ambled back to the park and sat in the sun. Ron told Smith of various ways to make money. Every now and again he would collect cardboard boxes, and take them to the recycling depot. A full supermarket trolley would almost be enough for a bottle. Occasionally an opportunity might arise to do some gardening, or some other odd job, but generally it seemed he benefited most from the charity of others. Most days a hot meal could be had from the charity kitchen on the Grande Parade, and the Salvation Army would provide a roof over his head at night. Rather than carry all his possessions around all the time, find a man-hole cover and store them in the drain below during the day.

In return for this advice Smith parted with some more money for two more bottles, but by this time he was feeling much better for the intake of the first bottle.

‘He’s been on the streets for four weeks now.’ James was reporting to Hamilton on Smith’s new life style. ‘He seems to have settled in quite well. An old hand has taken him under his wing and shown him the basics of surviving.’

‘Is that so?’ Hamilton commented thoughtfully, as he flicked through the photographs James had handed him.

‘They spend all their time together.’

‘I like this shot,’ Hamilton laughed. He was looking at a picture of Smith sitting outside the Bank, begging bowl in hand. ‘I never thought he had a sense of humour.’

‘I don’t think he realised what he was doing. He was extremely drunk that day. As per your suggestion I’ve had our people give him small amounts of money, on a regular basis. It all gets spent on alcohol. He’s rarely sober.’ James spoke dispassionately.

‘Good. Increase the amounts so he can drink more.’

‘What’s going on here. What’s he doing with this drain?’

‘He keeps his possessions in there during the day and collects them in the evening,’ answered James.

‘Quite resourceful. It strikes me that he seems to be enjoying life far too much. Let’s change that. Have them removed tomorrow.’

‘What a nice idea. I also think its about time Mr Smith learnt to stand on his own two feet,’ added James.

‘Not yet. We’ll let the friendship develop, then we’ll get rid of his friend, and bring matters to a conclusion.’

‘I think we should do that quite soon now. We still want him reasonably lucid for the final encounter.’

‘Were you able to make the necessary arrangements?’ asked Hamilton.

‘Yes. I found two people who can do exactly what you requested.’ It had been a most unusual request, but James’s contacts had eventually managed to provide him with the names of two specialists in the particular field he was interested in.

‘That’s excellent. We’ll do it whenever you think the time is right.’

During the next month Smith slid rapidly down the path to becoming a chronic alcoholic. James saw to it that he always had just enough money to buy one more drink. He and Ron shuffled around the streets by day, unaware that they were being constantly monitored. In the evenings they headed for the hostel where they slept in an inebriated haze.

It happened so quickly, one evening, that they were both taken completely by surprise. Four men appeared from nowhere, and set upon Ron.

Smith was unable to help his friend in the fight that took place between the two of them and the four others. He himself escaped with a few bruises, but the assailants gathered around Ron and beat him to the ground, before running off without trace, as quickly as they had arrived, into the night. Ron was left lying face down in the gutter. As Smith turned him over he recoiled in horror. Blood covered the front of his chest, his eyes stared blankly from their sockets. A knife handle protruded from the neck, its blade buried deep in Ron’s throat.

Even in his drunken stupor panic seized him. He looked up. Two people were running down the street towards him. He had Ron’s blood all over him. They would suspect him of committing murder.

He didn’t know where the car came from. It screeched to a halt beside him. The back passenger door opened. Inside were two men.

‘We saw what happened. Jump in, we’ll help you,’ said one of them.

Without another thought, Smith climbed into the back seat and closed the door behind him. The car pulled off.

‘Here, have a drink. You probably need it after that.’ The man in the passenger seat passed back an open bottle of beer.

‘Thanks.’ Smith swallowed a large mouthful. It tasted a little strange.

Then his vision became blurred, sounds distorted. He felt himself falling, falling, falling. He was unconscious in less than five seconds.

‘I’m always amazed by how quickly that stuff works,’ the driver said looking in his rear-view mirror.

Smith woke up to find himself in completely strange surroundings. The walls and the ceiling were painted white. There was nothing on them. There were recessed lights in the ceiling. The floor was tiled with white tiles. He was lying naked on a bed, on crisp white linen sheets. He had been cleaned.

He sat up and looked around. The movement caused him to feel slightly dizzy; his head ached and his mouth was extremely dry. On the small table beside the bed was a bottle of whisky and a jug of water. He took a long swig on the whisky and tried to remember what had happened. He recalled his friend bleeding and the headlights of a car, getting into the car, and then nothing.

To his left and right there were doors. The one to the left had no handle. That on the right led to a bathroom. There was one window but that was shuttered from the outside.

He drank more whisky. He began to feel light-headed. The room started to change. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at the floor beneath his feet. It seemed as though it were liquid. The tiles began to swirl gently and pulsate. His feet sunk into them. He could see colours that hadn’t been there a moment before.

He tried to take another swig of the whisky but his hand had difficulty gripping the bottle. It fell to the floor. Smith could see it falling slowly but it was still too fast for him to catch. As it impacted with the floor he saw it shatter into a thousand different pieces. He watched as the pieces exploded outwards, different sizes, different shapes, reflecting a myriad of different colours, which shot laser-like across his vision. He was able to follow each and every piece of glass as it travelled through the air, twisting, turning and tumbling, and then look back and concentrate on the globules of amber liquid that were also flying in all directions. He heard each piece land with a tinkle on the floor’s surface that momentarily turned solid as they struck before returning to its liquid state.

He lay back and felt himself dissolve, first into the mattress, then into the tiled floor, and eventually into the earth below.

When he recovered consciousness there was no mess on the floor; the whisky bottle was untouched on the table. He must have been dreaming. He sat up and reached for the bottle. Remembering his dream, he looked at the top, the seal was intact. He unscrewed the cap, sniffed and, convinced that it was what the label stated, took first a small sip and then a deep gulp. It tasted like whisky. He drank some more. He tried to stand but suddenly his legs were no longer responsive. It was then that he heard her voice.