Present Darkness (48 page)

“How come?”

“Police business.” The words kept Davida from getting too close to the messy details of his life. Angela, his ex-wife, had stood outside the locked gate to his secrets too long and eventually walked away.

“I see.” Davida glanced at the sun-flecked lawns, pecked over by an ibis hunting insects. “You come and go as you please while I sit and wait like the maid. Should I start calling you
ma baas
or detective sir, so things between us are clear?”

“It’s not like that,” he said quickly. “I don’t think of you, of us, like that.”

“Thinking is nice but it doesn’t change the weather, Emmanuel. You come to my bed when it suits you, but now, in the daylight, you shut me out.” She made deliberate eye contact. “I’ve been kept in a corner before and I’m not interested.”

“Tell the woman where you were for Christ’s sake,”
the Sergeant Major said.
“Or you’ll have to fight to get into her bed again. I’m not going to spend the rest of my days sleeping with you and the mess inside your head by myself. Cough it up, boyo.”

“I was in Sophiatown last night, drinking with Zweigman, Shabalala and an old friend named Fix Mapela.” Rebekah closed a fist around his finger and squeezed tight. “We drank a lot. Me, especially. Zweigman drove me home. I couldn’t have found my way through the garden to the hut even if I’d tried.”

“Sophiatown. That’s mainly for them.”

“Mainly for blacks, yes,” he said. “But not completely.”

“You drank with Dr Zweigman and Shabalala at the same table?”

“Yes.”

“So there are places in the township where people mix together …” Despite being the secret daughter of a white man and a mixed-race woman, Davida’s upbringing closely approximated that of a privileged European. Sent to a good boarding school where the Queen’s English was taught and the racial divisions reinforced, her world remained sheltered. The thought of races mixing publicly thrilled her.

“When I was growing up, there was a lot more crossover in Sophiatown,” he said. “Now, it’s unusual.”

“Lucky Emmanuel. You ignore all the signs and go wherever you like.” The anger surged back, this time cloaked by a smile. “It must be nice, being a white policeman.”

“We still have to obey the law,” Emmanuel said. “Just not so strictly.”

The child that snuggled on his lap proved Davida was right. Last night’s drunken debauch in the shebeen confirmed it, too. He slipped between worlds, helped by a police ID and a willingness to lie. Davida’s dark skin and mixed-race beauty were extraordinary. Yet the same physical attributes also shrank her possibilities to a list of occupations the government deemed worthy of a non-white woman: maid, teacher, nurse, nanny and factory worker. If there was enough money for university, she could study to become a doctor or lawyer, but that outcome was rare, and she could never work in those capacities in the white world.

“What she said earlier was dead right, soldier,”
the Sergeant Major said.
“You’ll cross over the lines tonight and come home with the smell of cigarettes on your clothes and alcohol buzzing in your head. Meanwhile she’ll be in that little hut with a baby and no place to go. What has a whites only area got to offer her, besides other white men like you? That’s why she’s furious. If you want to keep this girl, even for a little while, you’ll have to give her more than promises.”

“You want to come dancing with me?” he asked, the filter between thought and speech nudged aside by a reckless desire to please.

“What?”

“Dancing. With me, tonight. Do you want to come?”

“Where’s this?” Excitement mixed with apprehension replaced the earlier flare-up of anger.

“A friend’s place,” Emmanuel said. Rebekah chewed a finger with rubbery gums, a prelude to cutting teeth. “A makeshift club, not a house.”

“You sure?” Single, pregnant women kept their lost virginity and their swollen bellies secret. They disappeared from church picnics, socials and youth clubs. Davida was a mother, but still young and full of life and hadn’t danced in over a year.

“I’m sure,” he lied. Leaving the walled compound brought risks. Fatty Mapela’s mood and the atmosphere of the club were impossible to predict in advance. If “dance” were a euphemism for “brothel” they’d leave—straight after he’d talked to Fatty’s temporary husband about the stolen Mercedes.

“The police …” Davida leaned across the table and wiped the corner of Rebekah’s mouth with a napkin, stalling her “yes”.

“Police will be at the dance so the chances of a raid by the immorality squad is close to zero. I’ll take care of any roadblocks between here and there.” Bullshitting the road patrol if they were pulled over meant flipping the ID, dropping Colonel van Niekerk’s name and citing official business. They’d let him pass. The brighter officers might be suspicious, while those operating on a dimmer voltage would try and fail to hide their envy at having a sweet brown girl in their power. They’d let him go, disturbed by their own suspicions and crude fantasies.

“My mother could take care of Rebekah till we get back.” Davida tentatively stroked their daughter’s head, smoothing the silky strands under her palm. Her mother, Lorraine Ellis, called Lolly by her family, lived in the housekeeper’s cottage built flush against the walls of the big house. This arrangement paid tribute to the notion of racial segregation while allowing ease of movement between the cottage and Elliott King’s bedroom.

“Are you certain there won’t be any trouble?” Davida said.

“I’m certain.” A prudent man might calculate the cost of making a mess of this night out but desire outweighed caution. He wanted the chance to take his beautiful girl out dancing like they were an ordinary couple.

“Detective Cooper. Telephone for you.” Mrs Ellis, Davida’s mother, stood in the doorway to the big house, gazing slightly to the right of the table. She refused eye contact, and had done so from the time he turned up at Zweigman’s medical clinic after finding out that he was a father.

He arrived after midnight with nothing to offer but a desire for get close to Davida and their baby. Mrs Ellis gave him a cold face while Davida said nothing at all, just opened the door, lit a candle and held it close to the cradle where Rebekah slept. The child took his breath away. He’d done nothing to deserve such a perfect gift. He turned to Davida to say as much. She kissed him and stopped any discussion of the past or the future. He kissed her back, accepting her act of grace.

“Thanks.” Rebekah kicked her feet in the air while Emmanuel transferred her to Davida’s arms. He drank in the effortless beauty of mother and daughter, their luminescent skin and grey eyes. How long could this impossible situation last …

“Six-thirty tonight,” he said.

“All right.” Face buried against the soft of Rebekah’s neck, Davida turned away to hide a blush.

“You can pick up in the kitchen, Detective.” Mrs Ellis remained polite. “Or in the hallway if you want some privacy.”

The words had a sting. Emmanuel knew that Mrs Ellis believed her bright and beautiful girl was destined for something greater than a hut, an illegitimate child and a secret life with a white man that would ultimately result in heartbreak. She’d experienced first-hand the bittersweet nature of living a lie and of loving against the rules. It hurt to see her daughter repeating the mistakes she’d made.

Emmanuel picked up the kitchen phone, which lay on a table with a view through the window to the porch and bright gardens.

“Cooper,” he said into the speaker. Davida blew bubbles against Rebekah’s cheeks, putting off asking her mother to mind the baby while she went dancing at the illegal club.

“Are you seeing the Shabalala boy, today?” the lawyer Johan Britz said over the barking of dogs. Besides the bodyguards, he kept two Alsatians in his yard and a mongrel bitch with an evil temper in his house for protection.

“In about an hour,” Emmanuel said.

“Try to get the truth out of him, will you? I’ll do my best with what he gave me but it won’t be enough to convince a white jury, not with that girl’s witness statement.”

“Aaron’s father will be with me. That might help.”

“Not good enough, my friend. Either the boy provides a solid alibi or Lieutenant Mason will see him swing. There is no in between.”

The barking continued.

“Hold on a minute …” Britz muffled the speaker with his hand while he settled the mongrel. “Hush, calm down. There’s nobody here but me, Mouse. Take it easy now …”

The barking grew louder and Emmanuel’s hand gripped the telephone tight. Britz’s enemies were legion and now the name Walter Mason had been added to the list.

“Do you still have a guard?” Emmanuel asked.

“Always,” Britz answered. The rap of knuckles hitting wood cut through the canine yaps. “Someone’s at the door. Keep holding. I’ll just be a tick.”

“Wait …” Emmanuel spoke into an empty line. The phone set down on the other end, the lawyer no longer listening. Muffled voices, barking and a loud exclamation came through. He waited. The hangover headache throbbed against his skull.

“Britz …” he spoke loud to compensate for the barking and growls. A door slammed. The barking faded. Mouse, the lawyer’s guard dog was no longer in the room. “Britz pick up. Now.”

No response.

“Pick up, Johan or I’m coming over …”

The receiver crackled and the lawyer said, “Cooper. You still there?”

“
Ja
. Who was at the door?”

Britz’s breath came hard and at short intervals.

“Oscar my son dropped by. Bloody Mouse …” he said of the mongrel bitch. “She went for him, almost took a chunk of thigh. Something’s got to be done with her. It’s the dog pound or the needle.”

He’d do neither. Mouse was vicious and utterly devoted: the perfect combination for a man in need of protection.

“You were saying about Aaron …” Emmanuel relaxed, his fingers uncurling from the telephone’s hard plastic cradle. The fear subsided, but a trace remained like a finger pushed into a wound. Until the connection between Mason and the Brewer case became clear, a part of him would remain alert, waiting for the inevitable attack.

“Shabalala is bright, he understands the consequences of a guilty plea. Why stick to that bullshit story?” Britz asked.

“To protect someone other than himself,” Emmanuel said. Outside the window Davida and her mother stood side by side, talking in low voices. Rebekah stretched out and tore at the flowers of a lavender bush. He’d lie for his girls and do more still to protect them from harm. Who held that power over Aaron?

“Get me a name, Cooper. Get me something,” Britz said and hung up the phone, eager to make peace between Mouse and his son. Emmanuel dropped the receiver onto the cradle. Mrs Ellis leaned close to Davida now, hands spread out in a plea. No doubt asking, “Why take a risk on this policeman?”

Colour brightened Davida’s cheeks. She nodded and looked away. Her mother stroked her arm, murmured soft words.

“I reckon you’ve lost your dance partner, soldier.”
The Sergeant Major read the body language.

“Maybe it’s just as well,”
Emmanuel replied. Britz was safe and Mason remained ignorant of outside involvement in the Brewer case. Yet a feeling of expectation remained, as it had when the squad cleaned rifles and smoked cigarettes between battles.

“I hear it too,”
the Sergeant Major said.
“The silence waiting to break. Mason will come after you, have no doubts. Keep your girls undercover and out of harm’s way, Cooper.”

Davida held Rebekah on the curve of her hip, rocking side to side; the weight of the child both a comfort and a burden. Mrs Ellis stepped closer, rested her forehead against her daughter’s and laced her fingers through strands of her fine, dark hair. She whispered a word, maybe two, in Davida’s ear then took the child from her. Davida smiled and kissed her mother’s cheek.

15.

Emmanuel and Shabalala passed through a grim brick hall reeking of disinfectant and entered a small, equally grim room with bars on a single window. Aaron sat at a table, dressed in the uniform of the juvenile prisoners: long khaki shorts and a tucked in khaki shirt faded by hundreds of trips through the prison laundry. He stood up when Shabalala entered, head bowed in respect.

“My father,” he said.

“Son of my brother,” Shabalala answered in a low, quiet voice. “Sit. Be at ease.”

They sat on opposite sides of the table, both stiff shouldered and uncomfortable in the wooden chairs. Emmanuel closed the door and remained standing. From outside the window came the regimented stomp of prisoners marching in the yard and forming up in rank and file. A whistle trilled. Aaron glanced across the room and frowned in recognition. He said, “My father has brought a white policeman to listen to our private words. How can I be at ease?”

“This man is Detective Sergeant Cooper. He is a friend. He is here to help.”

“A white man and a black man cannot be friends in this country,” Aaron answered with resolve. “It is written in their law books. He is the boss and you are the servant.”