The Top Prisoner of C-Max (10 page)

‘Jesus, Mr Gordon. Please, man …’

But Yudel was already going back down the passage. He was not interested in what Member Morare had to say.

YUDEL GORDON
left C-Max later than the other daytime staff. He was a disturbed man. He had discussed the insubordination of the warder with the director, and disciplinary action was already being taken. He had no certainty as to how long Beloved had been alone with Hall. The useless so-and-so who had disobeyed his instruction claimed that they were alone for no more than two minutes. The man on the nearest gate said that it was more like ten minutes.

He was away for no more than twenty minutes and by the time he returned, Beloved had left. The fact that she had not waited for him was perhaps the most troubling aspect of the whole matter. Why had she not wanted to see him after her meeting with Hall? Her interest, she said, was in his rehabilitation methods, but they had spent only a few minutes discussing that subject. And now she was running from him. Instead she seemed to have developed the sort of crush on Hall that consumes some foolish women when confronted by the romantic figure of an imprisoned man. Such infatuation is usually reserved for a criminal who will be inside for a long time and from whom the prison walls keep them safe. But this was a woman who had considerable experience of prisons and their inmates.

What had passed between them while they had been alone together? And what would pass between them when he was freed the next day? Sex made fools of everyone at some time, but this was more than just making a foolish mistake.

And then there was Dongwana. They had his movements checked a few times during the day, but he seemed to be at his post in D Block most of the time. He was still a man in a daze, but he had stood up to the questioning by Yudel and the director for half an hour, never once straying from his story that he knew nothing about the reason for the attack on Penny. After it was over, the director had asked Yudel, ‘Do you believe him?’

‘No,’ Yudel said.

‘I don’t either.’ But that was where the matter stood for the moment.

Before Yudel left the office, he had taken one of the homeopathic pills Rosa had told him to take four times a day. He had agreed to take them, not believing they would make a difference, but since starting the course, his blood-sugar reading, which he took twice a week, had been a little lower than before. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but maybe there was something in it.

Rosa had called to ask him to bring home a pizza. She had been in the garden all afternoon, helping the one-day-a-week gardener to plant two new flower beds, and did not want to cook that evening.

The boy behind the counter in the pizza shop was probably no more than seventeen. He was wearing the brightly coloured uniform of the establishment and was suffering from acne. As he smiled at Yudel, he scratched one of the pimples with the tips of his fingers. It dribbled slightly. I hope you’re not going to touch the pizza with that, Yudel thought. He wondered briefly if he should try another outlet, but the boy was smiling at him in the most friendly way possible. ‘What would you like, sir?’ he asked.

‘Tell me, do you wear gloves when handling the pizzas?’

The boy looked surprised, but as he answered he was pulling on a pair of transparent plastic gloves. ‘Always, sir,’ he said.

Good, Yudel thought, but please keep the gloves away from your face while preparing my order.

‘What kind of pizza, sir?’

‘Homeopathic,’ Yudel said.

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

This is the first time I’ve heard that acne affects your hearing, Yudel thought. ‘One homeopathic pizza please,’ he said evenly.

‘I’m sorry, sir. I don’t … er … what kind is that?’

‘One without meat of course,’ Yudel explained patiently. ‘One that has vegetable matter only in the filling.’

‘Oh, a vegetarian pizza.’

‘Isn’t that’s what I said?’ Yudel was tired and in no mood for foolishness.

‘One vegetarian pizza coming up, sir.’

Yudel leant against the counter, watching the boy disappear into the kitchen. The service in town was bloody awful. In fact, it was getting worse by the day.

Freek was also working late that day. He always tried to clear his desk before going home, hating to start a day with a pile of unfinished work waiting for him.

He had one more task for the day and it concerned the young officer who was now standing in the doorway of his office. Freek’s
PA
had long since gone home. ‘You asked for me, sir?’

‘Come in, Moloi. Sit down.’

Lieutenant Moloi was seen by his seniors as a rising star in the Asset Forfeiture Unit. Intelligent, popular and a good strategist, he fitted the section perfectly. Ordinarily, Freek would have had no direct dealings with him, but Moloi’s immediate senior was in hospital, having been wounded in an attempt on his life after seizing the assets of a drug lord. The loss of a mansion, a motor launch, a fleet of luxury cars and assorted diamond jewellery, most of which was worn on the drug lord’s own fingers, had clearly caused some resentment.

‘I’ve got a job for you,’ Freek told him.

‘Yes, sir.’ Lieutenant Moloi gave every indication of being happy with that idea.

‘I need you, as a temporary measure, to take over the running of a business that has been seized.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Moloi looked surprised. Most of the assets the unit had seized were less demanding. You seized them and stored them away. This was the first one that required continuing action on the part of the unit.

Moloi had been chosen for this job after a long discussion with the national commissioner. ‘Why him?’ the national commissioner had asked.

Freek had explained that Moloi had many of the right qualifications. He was young, unmarried, not religious, had grown up in a business family, was a player in ways that the department was not always comfortable with and had a considerable reputation among young female officers. ‘I see,’ the commissioner had said. ‘Maybe he is the right man.’

Freek observed Moloi, who was observing him with at least as much interest. ‘Have you read the memorandum regarding functioning assets that are seized?’

‘Yes, sir. It said that they have to be kept in working order until they are sold.’

‘Correct,’ Freek said. He looked out the window in the direction of the lights of the building across the street. Christ, he thought, is this really my duty?

‘I’ll do my best, sir. What’s the name of the business?’

‘The Gentleman’s Lodge.’

Moloi tried to restrain the grin that had burst onto his features. ‘The general’s joking,’ he suggested.

‘Unfortunately not.’

‘That up-market cat house?’

‘The brothel, yes. Do you have a girlfriend?’

The grin could no longer be resisted. It was covering all of his face. ‘I broke up with her last week.’

Freek wondered about the accuracy of that statement. He could see that if Moloi had not actually broken the relationship already, the events of the last minute had certainly decided the girlfriend’s fate. ‘So, there’s no reason you shouldn’t take it.’

‘None,’ Moloi said, hastily adding, ‘I’m always ready to do my duty no matter what the sacrifice.’

‘Good man,’ Freek said drily.

‘May I ask a question, sir?’

‘Why not?’

‘What do the girls look like?’

Freek sighed. He had already seen them and none were displeasing to the male eye. The Gentlemen’s Lodge charged the sort of prices that they could only get away with if the ladies they employed were exceptional. ‘You’ll see them when you get there. You start tomorrow morning.’

‘I’ll do my duty, sir.’

‘You’ve already told me that, Lieutenant. Good evening.’

Moloi stopped in the doorway. ‘Brigadier General?’

Freek had gone back to packing his briefcase. He looked up. The damned kid looked so pleased with himself he could have won the national lottery. ‘Yes?’

‘Am I permitted to test the staff to see that they have the requisite skills?’

‘Good night, Lieutenant.’

BY EARLY EVENING
, Robert Mokoapi had finished his meeting with the editor of the group’s Sunday newspaper. The meeting had taken place in his downstairs study. Thandi had brought supper to the men, knocking softly then waiting to be invited in, not wanting to disturb them. She did not know what they were talking about and she did not expect Robert to share any part of it with her.

After bringing them supper, Thandi would go upstairs to the bedroom to wait for him. She might read, but most often she would look for a movie or one of her favourite series on television. Everything she did was designed to please him. She had completed her degree in journalism and media science because her father, a country schoolteacher, had told her that this was the course she should take. She had no ambitions in the field she had studied or in any other field, but she was delighted with the result of her studies. They had brought her to Robert’s attention.

She had never expected to be the wife of a man like Robert, and she had never expected to live in a house like this one. The five bedrooms, two studies, both of which Robert used, the two-acre garden, the domestic staff of four, her own 3-series
BMW
, her credit card with a limit of a hundred thousand: none of this had ever been part of her expectation of life. She still had difficulty accepting that it was real. She would have loved Robert anyway, but she loved him all the more because he had given her all of this. On top of everything, he was both a great lover and a good man.

Thandi did not expect Robert to give her explanations as to what he did when he was not with her or where he went or why. Where she had grown to maturity in rural Zululand no self-respecting man explained anything to his wife. Thandi knew that there were women who demanded more of their men, but she was not one of those and did not expect ever to be one. Had Robert chosen to take a second wife, according to tribal custom, he would have had no complaint from her.

From the study, Robert saw his editor’s car drive away and the gates open to let him out. On his desk was the file of clippings from three of his own papers and the private notes of two of his journalists and one photographer. The combined weight of the information in the file was to him deeply disturbing. It was not only clear that in Mpumalanga province one wing of the ruling party was killing opponents from another wing. It also indicated that the killings were being directed from high up within the party. Even more disturbing was the fact that neither he nor the paper’s editor had heard from the lead journalist in forty-eight hours.

To Robert, the entire matter was a betrayal of the country’s revolution. He had told Yudel he wanted to hand the file to someone he could trust, someone with whom it would not just be shelved and forgotten. Yudel had agreed that Abigail was the one, but since the divorce Robert had not once spoken to her. Why he was embarrassed to be in contact with her was something in himself he did not understand. He thought it may have something to do with Thandi. He was certainly not ashamed of his charming young wife. She had accompanied him to lunch with the president, she had been seated next to him when he gave the keynote address at the annual banquet of the Black Management Forum and on a dozen other important occasions since their wedding. And yet she was in his mind when he wanted to talk to Abigail about this altogether unromantic matter.

He reached for the telephone, but stopped with his hand resting on it. Then he withdrew the hand. He had only called her a few times during the divorce proceedings and had never written down the number, yet he knew it as if it had been carved into his memory. He reached for the phone a second time, but by this time he knew that he would not be making the call. Eventually he dropped his hand and sat back in his chair. He heard Thandi upstairs singing softly to herself.

Abigail Bukula was alone. She had been living alone for over a year now. Since the divorce, she had shared her house with only one other person and that was for less than a week. The person was Beloved and the time was coming to an end. Earlier over dinner in a café, Beloved had told her that the time had come for her to be going. She would be at the Freedom Foundation, a Cape Town organisation that provided practical support for former convicts.

Abigail was not entirely sorry. Beloved was good company, but not in every way the sort of company Abigail needed. This evening, as they were finishing dinner, she had allowed two men to pick her up. She had wanted Abigail to make it a foursome, but when that was refused, she had shown no concern at the thought of being outnumbered.

Beloved’s sudden departure would make no real difference to her. Being alone had never been a problem to Abigail. As a child in exile, her parents were often sent away on the movement’s business. During those times, she had lived with other families. Only occasionally had those families been part of the struggle. Wherever she had stayed she had felt that she was alone, and her aloneness had bred a strong self-sufficiency in her, so strong that Robert had complained that she often seemed distant.

This characteristic had been strengthened by returning to Africa with full command of only English out of the eleven national languages. A smattering of Zulu meant that the occasional word jumped out at her when that language was being spoken. Black friends and colleagues politely switched to English when she was in their company. It was all part of the accepting African way, but it also contrived to set her apart. Since her return to the country at about the time of the first democratic elections, she had been meaning, at the very least, to take a course in Zulu, but her case load was always heavy and she had not started.

Since the divorce, Abigail had had three lovers. Two had been black businessmen, riding the wave of the changed business landscape, and one the white manager of a non-governmental organisation. He joked that he was selflessly working to uplift the downtrodden, at an excellent salary provided by a European ecumenical body. With Robert that gave her a total of four lovers in almost forty years on the planet.