He was just settling down to a game of rugby on the TV when the doorbell rang. He set down his can of Castle, arranged his face into one of deep mourning and went to answer it. He expected it was one of Elsie’s friends, bringing him a pot of hot food or even a cake. He shuffled some newspapers out of the way, kicked an odd shoe into touch, and went to answer.
For a moment he didn’t recognise the man standing on the step. Mockingly, the man took off his cap and gave a little humorous bow:
“Morning, baas. Ek soek werk baas.”
Very funny. He struggled to remember his name. Something African, biblical?
They had found Elsie’s body in the boot of her old Morris. The car had sat in the airport car park for several weeks, until someone noticed the flies buzzing around the boot and decided to investigate. In that heat, she was hardly attractive and they advised him not to look at her. They brought her wedding ring and empty bag to him, and he identified them as hers. They also found her ID card and driving licence in the glove box of the car.
Oh, my God, my God. He had bent over in his grief, sobbing into his hands. What did they want with my poor Elsie? She was my life.
The newspapers had been full of it. Poor Piet, devastated by Elsie’s disappearance, breaking down when he finally got the news. Murdered white woman in her fifties. Her husband devastated by loss. They published pictures of their wedding day, a happy midsummer day in the garden, showing Elsie carefree and happy. Piet received letters from all over the country, some to his amusement containing marriage offers.
He had got away with it. You just needed careful planning. Everyone knew that people got carjacked regularly. Maybe this one had gone wrong. Maybe they had shot her to keep her quiet and then decided to dump the body in the car and abandon it. Anything was possible in this new South Africa of ours. Crime everywhere.
“I’ve come for the rest of the money, Mr Piet. You’ve got your life insurance now. I want my share.”
“But I paid you. I gave you R20 000. That was the deal.”
“That was a down payment, my bru. I’m back for the next instalment.”
Piet was outraged. He had been so careful to cover his tracks. He had waited two long years after taking out life insurance in her name. He had bought a policy for himself too. After all, who would look after the other if one of them should unfortunately die, he told her. He had played the long game. Not like that idiot who came to South Africa on his honeymoon and had his wife killed. Or the girl who had her boyfriend killed when he took up with someone else.
The man (oh what was his name?) was leaning insolently against the doorpost, smiling for God’s sake. These bloody people had become so cheeky.
“Voetsak man! Bugger off! I never said you could share the money. I’ll call the cops if you don’t go away.”
Over the man’s shoulder, Piet saw Mrs van Vuuren, from across the road, pulling into her drive, and waved. She got out of her car and came over.
Smiling, the man straightened up and strolled down the path, standing to one side as Mrs van Vuuren bustled up to the front door. He raised a hand as he turned out of the gate.
“I’ll see you later, Mr Piet. In a couple of days like you said, nè.”
Mrs van Vuuren gazed after him in some distaste.
“What did he want? These people just come to the door all day asking for money. They’ve got the new government they made such a fuss about. It’s not our fault they’ve made such a gemors of it. Why don’t they do some work for a change?”
“Oh, just money”, said Piet.
After exchanging a few words with Mrs Van Vuuren who promised him a nice bobotie for his supper, he went back to the rugby. He hadn’t missed much it seemed but he picked up his beer and settled down. He had been very careful not to spend too much of the money too soon. But a nice big TV set was essential. To keep his mind off things, he told his visitors. He had so little to live for now. He chuckled as he remembered the hushed tones in which his boss had offered him compassionate leave, “for as long as you need, Piet. We’ll keep your job open, man”.
The next day, when the doorbell rang, he went into the bathroom so the man would think he was out. But on the following day, he caught him as he was getting into his car. This time there was a woman with him, with a small child curled into her back.
“No so fast, Mr Piet. Not so fast! We’ve come for the money. This is my wife, Nandipa. And this, he said, is my son Cyril. Yes, we named him after our great negotiator, Cyril Ramaphosa. Now there is a man who knows how to play his cards right, nè?”
Piet tried to close the car door but the man grabbed it and pulled it open. Piet was finding it hard to control his breathing.
“And I, as I am sure has slipped your mind, am Jonah Makana, the man who rendered you a service for which you now don’t want to pay.”
That was the name. Jonah.
“I am going to the bank”, Piet said, playing for time. Wait here if you like.”
“We don’t mind coming to the bank with you, Meneer Piet.” And opening the back door for his wife, Jonah joined Piet in the front.
Piet realised he had no option. He would have to drive to the bank, then maybe he could lose them somehow. As he drove slowly down the road towards the shopping precinct, he tried to think what to do. He would park the car in the parkade and tell them he would meet them there later. He would even offer to drive them to the township. Well, maybe not. He shuddered when he thought of the reports of what happened to white people in townships. Crime was out of control. Only yesterday he had read of a man who had been carjacked and robbed in broad daylight.
The sun was hot and the glare intense. He drove into the dark mouth of the shopping centre, temporarily blinded as his eyes adjusted. Stopping at the check in point, he pulled out the ticket and put it in the cash tray, where he kept his change, and followed the spiral, looking out for a parking place. It was only when they were out of the car, and he had clicked the control to lock the doors, that he realised he had forgotten the ticket.
“Moenie worry nie”, said Jonah, waving the ticket at him. “I’ll keep this safe for you. You go and get the geld and we’ll wait for you.”
He cursed as he walked into the centre. He was being stupid. He had to outwit these people. Jonah was obviously one of the smarter kind of black. A real skollie, full of tricks. What his pa would have called a clever kaffir, a smooth operator. Nothing Piet couldn’t handle though. He just had to pay them and get rid of them.
He thought back to their first meeting, the evening he had first met Jonah. After his big idea. Waiting until he was sure Elsie was asleep in the room next door, he had slipped out of bed and, pushing the car out of the driveway, drove to a pole dancing joint he had visited from time to time. He knew he was safe as the place was on the other side of the city and he had never bumped into anyone he knew. He also knew that these places were raided from time to time, so he chose a seat near the back exit so he could get out quickly if he had to. He ordered a brandy and coke and sat watching the dancers. One in particular was very sexy and he wondered whether he should get the drinks waiter to take her a note. Nee man, he was here on business not pleasure, tempted though he was.
At the next table was a group of three black men, talking earnestly to each other. He finished his drink and ordered another. There was a burst of laughter from the next table, then two of the men got up, and shaking hands warmly in the double handshake that the blacks used and left. The third man ordered another drink. He caught Piet’s eye and, drink in hand, ambled over to Piet’s table.
“Can I join you”, he said? And sitting down waved at the waiter to bring another brandy and coke for Piet.
Things were falling into place. Too quickly perhaps. He took a gulp of his drink. What did he want to say to this man? He cast his eyes to the dance floor where a girl was rubbing herself against the pole and felt a burst of lust. Down man, he silently addressed himself, plenty of time for that later.
“Ja, well I can see you’re not here for that, nè”, the man said, turning to scrutinise Piet. “So what do you want? What can I do for you?”
Piet told him his plan. With the warmth of the brandy in his belly, he became fluent. Jonah was encouraging, said he understood. An ageing woman with no interest in sex. No problem. He patted him on the back and ordered another round.
“Two thousand”, said Piet tentatively. He had heard this figure bandied around. You could hire a black to do the business for you for a couple of grand.
Jonah leaned back in his chair. “If you want a botched job you find someone else to do it. Maybe pick up one of those out of work people on the side of the road. They’ll do it for that kind of money. They’re desperate. But you know the risks of that. Those are the ones who crack when the cops come around.”
“So what”, asked Piet, feeling a bit light headed from what was now his fifth brandy and coke.
“I’ll do it for 20 thou, man. Not a cent less.”
Well, maybe the man was right. Better to hire a professional. Anyway, he would have plenty of money soon.
And not a cent more, said Piet jovially. And they laughed and shook hands on it, the African way.
“We won’t meet again”, said Jonah. “I need ten thousand up front and ten thousand once it’s done. I’ll send somebody for the money tomorrow.”
In the car afterwards, Piet switched on his cell phone. There was a missed call from Elsie. Shit, he thought. Well he’d just tell her he hadn’t been able to sleep and had gone for a drive. She couldn’t argue with that. Anyway, he thought, she was the one who had moved out of the bedroom and into their son’s old room. She was the one who hadn’t forgiven him when their son died doing his army training all those years ago. As if it was his fault. His blood boiled when he thought of the way she had locked the door against him, refused him his marital rights.
Now these bloody people wanted more money. He had no choice, of course. This man was unscrupulous, grasping for what he could get. Typical. Just typical.
“This is the last you’re getting from me”, he said, glancing into the rearview mirror. He saw that the child had fallen asleep with his head in his mother’s lap. “The very last.” But his mouth was dry. He would have to think of something else in case he decided to continue blackmailing him. Move house or go overseas or something. But what did he know about overseas. Niks! Nothing.
Back at the house, he gave Jonah a wad of notes and watched him counting them. Twenty thousand rands. Double the amount they had agreed. Still it was worth it if the man went away. Feeling sorry for himself, he watched some TV and began working his way through a 6-pack of Castles. Remembering that he had a pack of Camels that he had put away just in case giving up smoking didn’t work, he opened the pack and smoked one or two. It calmed his nerves.
The next morning he woke up with a foul mouth. He would not smoke today he decided. He found the packet and discovered he had smoked nearly all of them. Well, he would just have this last one and that would be it. Inhaling deeply, he decided he must do something about moving house. He’d get an agent in to value it then put in on the market. He decided to try it out on the neighbours. He’d lived here for thirty years; he didn’t want them to start asking questions when they saw a removal van outside his house. Better to give them some warning. Crossing the road, he knocked on Mrs van Vuuren’s door and asked her if she knew of a good house agent.
“Ag nee, Piet”, she said. “You must stay here where we can look after you. This is your home. It’s just the grief speaking.”
Piet put on his best face of despair.
“Ja, I know. But sometimes I think I will never recover from Elsie’s death. Perhaps if I move away …”
“Just come in and have a cup of tea, Piet. I’ve got some of those homemade cookies you like.”
The neighbour on his right also chose to give him sympathy rather than information. The neighbours on the left he had hardly ever spoken to. They had moved in in 1995. They looked Indian to him. He was not prejudiced of course but he hadn’t liked the way Elsie talked to them, making friends with the woman in her sari. They had been very nosey after Elsie died, suspicious, though what they had to go on he didn’t know. The wife had been in her garden when Jonah and Nandipa arrived yesterday.
He would have to look for a house agent himself, and try to keep it all low-key so he could disappear. If he set a low asking price the place should sell. But first he would have to get it cleaned up. He looked around. The place was a tip, empty beer cans and pizza boxes everywhere. The bed sheets were grey and grubby; it hadn’t occurred to him to change them. He didn’t really know where the sheets were kept. He slept mainly in front of the TV anyway. The only tidy room was their son’s room to which Elsie had retreated. The bed she had slept in was neat and made up. There was a framed picture of Jannie on the bedside table, his hair curling down his neck, his soft mouth. How she had cried when they got the news. What had he done to deserve such a son, a boy who didn’t even want to fight for his country, do his army training? Jannie had been a mommy’s boy but Piet had been convinced that the army would make a man of him. Anyway, he had to go like every other white male. So why was this Piet’s fault?
There was also a computer, which Elsie had insisted on having. Piet knew nothing about computers and he despised Elsie for the way she sat there, tikking away. Sometimes the maid used it too, he had noticed, and she and Elsie could sometimes be heard talking softly in her room. He had fired the girl after Elsie died. He hadn’t liked the way she looked at him, as if she knew something. As if Elsie had said something to her. But Elsie couldn’t have known what was going to happen so how could she have confided in anybody? He put the old pizza boxes and beer cans into black plastic bags and put them in the bin, but the place still looked messy. He’d have to find someone to help. He was proud to say he had never cleaned a house in his life . Even in the new South Africa there was still plenty of labour to be found cheap.
The next day he drove back to the shopping centre to have a look around. There were two estate agents and he decided to check them out. One of them, part of a chain, looked too laanie, too fancy and efficient. He had a look at the houses advertised in the window. Hm. Very grand. They sold houses for rich people and they might look down there noses at him, ask awkward questions. He smiled to himself when he remembered that he too was rich now. But still, not the place for a quick sale. The other agency was in the corner under the escalator. There was one woman inside, talking on the phone. This looked more like it. He would come back here when the place was clean.
In the meantime Piet thought he would check out the shops to cheer himself up. He bought himself two shirts from Woolworths and a new pair of jeans. Good quality but nice and ordinary. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Then he sat down at a burger place and had a lekker burger with chips and a big coke. When he had sold the house, he decided, he would stay in a hotel for a while. Maybe a Holiday Inn where he would be inconspicuous while he thought what to do, where to go. There was no rush. He could just chill out, find a nice joint where he could watch the girls dance and maybe buy himself a night of fun, a real old-fashioned jol.
As he was going up the escalator to the parking area, Piet caught sight of a luggage shop. Might as well get himself a couple of suitcases. He would need those. There was a beautiful set in leather and he dithered a bit, wondering if it would look to fancy when he made his getaway. But finally he couldn’t resist it and made the purchase. Not cheap but very classy. Before he left the centre, he bought himself a couple of packs of Camels, just in case.
As he packed the suitcases into the boot of the car, Piet told himself that he would trick that black bastard. Next time he came around for money, the house would be sold and Piet would be gone. He estimated he had a couple of months in hand as Jonah had run out of the first R20 000 in about three months. That gave him time. He felt cheerful for the first time in days as he drove home.
He stopped over at Mrs van Vuuren’s to ask for the loan of her maid, as he remembered to call her, though heaven knows Mrs van Vuuren still referred to her maid as a girl, despite her advancing years. Her husband even flew the old South African flag when there was an international rugby match. He was one of the stubborn ones, didn’t want to change. Who could blame him considering the mess the blacks were making of the country. Piet’s own situation was a case in point, he thought. He had paid generously to get a job done and now the man was back with his hand out. Typical. Give them a hand, his Pa used to say, and they’ll take the whole arm.
As he turned the key to his house, he heard the noise of a vacuum cleaner. Puzzled, he opened the door a crack and peered in.
Piet was horrified. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
Nandipa pushed the vacuum cleaner into the front room, the child keeping step with her all the way, looking up at him with fear in his eyes.
Jonah appeared out of the kitchen. Oh, shit! Why were they back so soon, ruining all his plans. Jonah smiled broadly.
“Dumela, Mr Piet. Good morning. I see you’ve bought yourself some suitcases. You planning to take off somewhere?”
“Ja, well I just thought I might take a little holiday sometime.” Piet hated the fact that his voice was shaking. He had a strange breathless feeling and sat down heavily. What were these people trying to do, give him a heart attack?
“How the hell did you get in?”, he asked, once he had recovered his breathing.
Jonah dangled a set of keys in front of him.
“I guessed your wife wouldn’t be needing these again so I just somer borrowed them. You don’t mind do you?”
Of course, Elsie’s keys had never been found. How could that have slipped his memory. He had been so sure he had got away with it that he had forgotten that the keys had been removed from the car, along with the contents of her bag. The answer to Jonah’s question was, of course, yes, he did mind. He was angry. He had always prided himself on being a strong decisive person who stood down to no-one. And here was this kaffir, half his size, trying to intimidate him. Instinctively, he raised his arm to give him a good klap but thought better of it. He wasn’t looking for more trouble. Also, he realised that he was afraid of this man and that made him feel ashamed.
Piet went down the passage to his bedroom and shut the door after him. He hardly noticed that the bed had been freshly made and his clothes folded neatly on a chair. Glancing at himself in the mirror, he was shocked by what he saw. A paunchy, pasty-faced man with fear in his eyes. He needed a shave and should do something about that big boep. Too many beers and pizzas. But now he needed to decide what to do. If he shot Jonah, would Nandipa go away? If he shot them both, or all three of them, what could he do with the bodies? He crossed to the wardrobe and felt for his gun on the top shelf. It wasn’t there. Maybe he had put it somewhere else. But after ten minutes of ransacking the room and pulling everything out of the cupboards and onto the floor, he realised it had gone. Oh shit, shit and more shit. Legs shaking, he sat down on the bed and tried to think.
He must have fallen asleep. It was evening and he could smell wors and onions cooking. He realised he was hungry and, after having a pee and splashing his face in cold water, he went through to the lounge.
Jonah was watching TV with a big plate of wors, onions and pap on his lap.
“Kom sit, Mr Piet. Nandipa has cleaned your house and cooked us a nice meal. She’ll bring yours now.”
Piet drew the curtains. He was afraid his neighbours might look through the window and see this well dressed black man, stretched out comfortably in front of his TV set. What would they think? Things were out of control. He realised that he was really afraid.
“Sit. Make yourself comfortable,” said Jonah. Nandipa came through with a tray and gave him a plate of food. She even opened a can of Castle for him. She settled the child down on the couch. Piet noticed that she had taken off her overalls and was wearing the skirt and cardigan that Elsie used to wear. The cheek of these people!
“Oh, by the way,” Jonah said casually, his eyes fixed on the latest episode of Isidingo. “I have taken your gun for safekeeping. You are supposed to keep it in a safe. Didn’t you know that? That’s the new law.’ Of course he knew. He and his friends and colleagues had had meetings about it, really worried that they would not have their guns to hand if something happened. After all, with all these break-ins and murders, you never knew when you would need a gun. So Piet had hidden his away in the wardrobe, loaded and ready for use.
“You see how we are looking after you”, Piet continued amiably. Nandipa has cleaned the whole house and I’m looking after your gun. You should think about saying thank you, Piet. It’s only polite.”
Piet mumbled a thank you, then was furious at himself for doing so. These people had invaded his house, taken his gun and appeared to be controlling the television as well. But he knew they had to go sometime so he decided to bide his time until they did, then pack his suitcases and leave at first light. No, first he would have a new set of keys made for the house agent and fit padlocks on the doors so Jonah and Nandipa couldn’t get in next time. That should work. But now he needed a real drink. He got up, belched loudly in what he hoped was an assertive manner, and went to the kitchen to get a bottle of whiskey and a glass. He couldn’t see Nandipa, but she had cleaned up the kitchen nicely.
“Thanks, I’ll have one of those”, said Jonah as he took his glass back into the lounge.
Don’t lose it, thought Piet. The main thing is that I have a plan now. He would call the cops from his hotel, from one of those big cool lekker rooms in the Holiday Inn. Call the cops? Is ek befok? This wasn’t the old days when you could call the cops to take away any black that was annoying you. Jonah might even have contacts in the police. No, he would just lie low for a couple of weeks while he decided what to do, where to go.
“By the way”, said Piet, “we have been reading your wife’s diary. She seems to have been a nice lady, with plenty of reason for complaints against you. Nandipa was very upset. She cried.”
Elsie’s diary? She hadn’t kept a diary had she? Then he remembered the computer. It was probably all in there, that piece of electronic crap. He knew he shouldn’t have let her buy it. He didn’t even know how to switch a computer on and was proud of it. Or he had been. Now he wouldn’t be able to read this diary to see what she had to say about him. What did these people know about his marriage? How dared they snoop around like this? He would need to destroy the computer once they left this evening. There just might be something incriminating, something that could be used against him.
His sense of grievance and hurt returned. He had been as good a husband as any, he told himself. Like any husband, he had had to assert himself from time to time, to give her a bit of a slap when she went off the deep end. Even when he insisted on exercising his marital rights, she had annoyed him. Afterwards, she had got up with a quiet dignity, had a shower. It was she who had removed herself, withdrawn. But he schemed he had been a good husband on the whole, and this was how she had repaid him.
Things were all happening to quickly. He felt confused, unable to think. One minute he had a plan, the next he had to change it again. He looked around at his lounge. The child was asleep on the couch. Nandipa had reappeared and sat watching the TV, her child asleep against her. Jonah was drinking his whiskey, apparently at peace with the world.
Piet went down the corridor for a pee. On his way back, he looked into Elsie’s old room. He couldn’t see her computer but was surprised to see some of his own clothes, carefully folded, on the bed. Opening the wardrobe, he saw his shirts and jackets hung up neatly.
Panicking, he opened his own bedroom door. Nandipa had been busy. There was a cot for the child and a brand new red cover on the bed. Everything was spotless. It was then that a terrible truth began to dawn on him. They would not be going home tonight, or on any other night. They were here to stay. He needed to think what he could do. But he was too shocked to come up with another plan now. He would decide in the morning, sort out this mess.
Back in the lounge, he poured himself another drink and, after a moment’s hesitation, one for Jonah. Remembering the Camels, he opened one of the packs, struck a match and lit a cigarette. Inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs, he remembered his old Pa coughing his way to the grave. He would give up again when this was all over. In the meantime, it would calm his nerves.
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