Deon Meyer (48 page)

Something moved outside, close, against the river. She focused on it.

 

 

A single dark animal, square-shaped and strange. Until she looked more closely. A human figure. Two. An embrace. She looked away, took a small step back from the window, a convention. Another anxiety. It was Carina out there. She looked again, indignant. Carina and Wallace. He was kissing Carina next to the water. His hands were on the Rubens curves of her rump, her hands were around his neck. Their mouths were wide open, the tongues deep. Genitals against genitals, the drunkenness a close bond.

 

 

They had to stop. It was her responsibility to make them stop.

 

 

He pulled up her skirt, pulled away the elastic of her panties, and placed his hands on her bare buttocks. He kneaded the softness, the flesh, thrust a finger into the cleft. Her one hand came away from his neck, pushed in between them, etched the cylinder of his cock against his pants, looked for the head with an experienced finger and thumb, rubbed and stroked it. Their mouths were busy. His one hand suddenly reached up, pulled the shirt out of the skirt. While the one hand remained at the back, the other was in front, under the bra. He pushed it up, looked for the nipple, took the whole breast in his hand.

 

 

She looked away, deeply shamed. It was her fault. She looked back, spellbound.

 

 

Carina’s hand looked for his fly, unzipped it. Their mouths were together, the bodies slightly separated, a space created. Her hand slipped into his underpants, gripped him, pulled his cock through his fly. He knew what was coming and let her go, his hands next to his sides. She was on her knees, her tongue on the head of his prick, licking, tongue probing for its small mouth, licking, sucking it all in, sucking strongly, a slurping noise. He bent down. Her hand was jerking up and down. No, he said, his hands against her head. He pulled her up, placed an arm around her shoulders, and steered her away from the river. His lust preceded him, still out of his trousers. Carina gave a brief laugh.

 

 

The scene held her captive. Her disgust and her indignation were slightly diluted by another minor anxiety. Wallace was married. There were children. And Carina Oberholzer knew it. She closed her eyes, waited until she knew they were beyond the window, outside her field of vision. She opened them again, stared at the shadows, now lifeless.

 

 

It was their lack of self-control, of civilized behavior, of small loyalties, that disturbed her so much. And her own inability to look away.

 

 

More movements in the night.

 

 

What were these people doing?

 

 

The spectators were dodging after the couple, drunk, clumsy, wordless, the eyes fixed, the brains switched to a primitive mode.

 

 

MacDonald and Ferreira, Coetzee and Nienaber, Wilson reluctantly in the rear.

 

 

She saw them— clumsy shadows— walking in the direction of Wallace and Carina. MacDonald was staggering. Their inebriation, she knew, was total.

 

 

She drew the curtains quietly and carefully until the moon was completely blotted out. She turned away from the window in the darkness of the room and knew that they had disturbed her peace, she did not want these memories. It was going to take an effort to forget them, sleep now forgotten. She switched on the bed light. She pressed the button for the music again. Let them know she was awake. Let them come to their senses.

 

 

She sat down on the bed.

 

 

What were they doing? They were like children. She got up, opened the curtains of the other window a chink.

 

 

They stood outside the window of a cottage, in the pool of light shining from inside, quiet and intense spectators. It was Carina’s bedroom and she knew what they were looking at even before she saw Ferdy Ferreira, his cock in his hand. She closed the curtain. Nausea rose in her until she struggled to breathe and tasted the vomit. She mustn’t vomit now. She should have walked up earlier and acted firmly. She sat down on the bed again. Let there be an end to their lust. Lord, how primitive humans were. She raised the volume of the music.

 

 

It was the liquor. Liquor wouldn’t be permitted again.

 

 

She picked up the book, sat up against the pillows and tried, with the greatest possible effort, to concentrate. It was going to be so difficult to erase the images. She read half a sentence, still aware of nausea. There were footsteps outside— they were going now, apparently they had had enough.

 

 

MacDonald crashed open the door, saw her lying there, saw her jerking the book away, the fright on her face. “Come on, Hester, let’s fuck.” He pulled Wilson inside as well. MacDonald was on her, threw the book aside. His hand was on the blanket. She cried out in sudden anger, sudden fear. She tried to stop him with her hands, saw the total, wild drunkenness on his red face, smelled the sour stench of his breath. He weighed her down with his big body, his hand held hers above her head. She jerked to and fro, she struggled. His other hand was under her nightgown, pulled it up, bared her breasts. “At least there’s something there, Hester.” She didn’t hear it, she screamed. Her legs wanted to wriggle out from under him, shake the animal off her. He was too heavy, pressed down on her. “Come on, Hester,” he said impatiently. He shifted his body down toward her knees, had to stretch to keep her hands above her head. She wanted to bite him, turned her head to bite the thick wrist. He wrenched her panties down, tore them. “You’re fuckin’ small.” She sank her teeth into hair and skin. He yanked his hands away, smacked her against the side of her head. “Fucking bitch, you bite.” He slapped her again. “No,” Wilson said. The others entered the room. “Me too,” said Ferreira, his prick in his hand. “Jesus, Mac,” said Nienaber. His voice was slurred.

 

 

MacDonald had captured her hands again. A thin stream of blood was running from her nose. Her struggles were weaker, stupefied by the knowledge that was taking shape in her. He opened his pants, forced a knee between her legs. She jerked, wanted to get away, kicked. He weighed her down, his full weight on her. “Open up, Hester.”

 

 

“Mac,” said Wilson, swaying.

 

 

“Fuck off,” said MacDonald and looked back over his shoulder. “Your turn is coming.” He grinned at the audience, forced her legs apart with his hips, his cock searching briefly for the opening and then he thrust it in, pressing inhumanly hard.

 

 

She felt the tearing, no pain to begin with, felt the tissue tearing. Then the pain came. Her consciousness fled, strength flowed out of her. He experienced it as acquiescence, dropped her hands, lifted himself slightly, looked back. “She fucks, too. Just like the other one.”

 

 

Her consciousness came and went. A fire burned down there, a hellish fire, consuming pain.

 

 

He slipped out, swore, pushed in again. “Ha, ha, ha, ha.”

 

 

“Come on, Mac.”

 

 

“In a minute.”

 

 

Orgasm.

 

 

“Ferdy.” MacDonald got up, offered her.

 

 

Coetzee was faster, his pants down to his knees already. He kneeled in front of her, rubbed his hand over her stomach, rubbed her from side to side, pushed himself in, and came suddenly. He stood up, surprised. Ferreira pushed him out of the way, licked Hester Clarke’s breasts with long swipes of his tongue. The saliva left trails on her skin. He licked her stomach, licked downward, licked her pubic hair. His hand jerked up and down between his legs. The yellowish fluid sprayed over her, over the bed.

 

 

“Ollie.” An order from MacDonald. Nienaber grinned, shook his head.

 

 

“Drew. Where’s Drew?”

 

 

Wilson was outside, vomiting against the wall, on the lawn.

 

 

“What are you doing?” Wallace and Carina Oberholzer came stumbling up.

 

 

“You’ve had your fuck. We saw you having your fuck. It’s Drew’s turn,” said MacDonald, his big hand on Wilson’s neck. He pulled, dragged him inside.

 

 

Wilson’s throat wanted to rid itself of more fluid. The words were stuttered between retching noises: “I can’t, I can’t.” MacDonald pushed him into the room, toward the bed.

 

 

The red of the fire was deep, all round her, she floated through the flames, light as a feather, without gravity, the pain an armor.

 

 

“You’re a queer, Drew.” MacDonald hit him against the back of his head. Wilson staggered. “Fuck her.” MacDonald grabbed Wilson’s shirt.

 

 

“Mac, no,” said Wallace. Carina Oberholzer stood in the door, staring.

 

 

“Fuck off, Wallace. We saw you screwing like fucking dogs.”

 

 

He jerked Wilson upright. “Fuck her, queer.” Wilson tried to defend himself with his hands but the knuckles were in his neck. She was lying there. Her eyes were open, wide open— she stared at the ceiling. He couldn’t, he couldn’t. He had trouble with his trousers, managed to undo the belt. He was soft, small, hid it from MacDonald, pressed it unwillingly against her.

 

 

“Put it in, you fucking queer.” MacDonald was at the bed, an eagle eye. Red face under the red hair. Red nose.

 

 

Wilson made the movements, felt his penis slipping in the blood.

 

 

“I want to see you come.”

 

 

He pretended, wanted to survive. MacDonald pushed him from behind. MacDonald’s hands pushed him in and out, up and down. Wilson threw up, couldn’t help it. He vomited again, over her.

 

 

* * *

Joubert got up off his knees.

 

 

She spoke mechanically, her voice dead, her body perfectly quiet in the chair, her gaze nowhere. He wanted her to stop.

 

 

“I was woken by the birds the next morning and the sun shining. Just another day. I just lay there. At first I could only hear. The birds. I couldn’t smell. I couldn’t feel. I lay there for a long time. When I moved it hurt. Then I looked. It wasn’t my body any longer. I no longer knew it. They weren’t my breasts, and my stomach and my legs. I didn’t want to wash it because it wasn’t mine. My body is clean.”

 

 

He went to sit in the chair opposite her. He was very tired.

 

 

“They had all gone. It was so beautiful and so quiet, in the morning. Only the birds.”

 

 

Then she was quiet and he was grateful.

 

 

He sat looking at her for a long time. It was as though she wasn’t really there, he thought.

 

 

Why did he no longer want to touch her?

 

 

She hadn’t finished. “They wanted a blood test, last year. Everyone who was appointed had one. The doctor found it so difficult to tell me, to soften it.”

 

 

He didn’t want to hear it. He knew, he understood immediately, but it was too much.

 

 

“He wanted to draw more blood. He thought it had to be a mistake.” She smiled. Sitting opposite him. He could barely see it but he could hear it in her last words— not a rueful smile but a genuine one.

 

 

“It’s such a funny name. HIV-positive. Positive.” Still the smile, the last word almost a laugh.

 

 

“It was then that I bought the Smith & Wesson.”

 

 

He felt so heavy. He felt the weight pressing him down in the chair. His whole body felt the weight pressing down on him.

 

 

Her smile took a long time to disappear, bit by bit.

 

 

He had to take the pistol from her.

 

 

He remained seated.

 

 

He heard a car stopping outside. He knew. But the expected sounds of doors slamming didn’t come.

 

 

“Your name,” he said and it sounded too loud in the silence.

 

 

He didn’t know whether she had heard him.

 

 

Her fingers clenched the barrel of the Mauser more tightly.

 

 

“They killed Hester Clarke.”

 

 

He didn’t want them, in the car out there, to come inside.

 

 

He didn’t want to ask the questions that now wanted to tumble over his lips. He wanted to leave her here and go away. He also wanted Hester Clarke to be dead.

 

 

But he had to know.

 

 

“When you received my file . . .”

 

 

Now she looked at him. For a long time, a journey to the present. “I didn’t know that it was your investigation.”

 

 

He hadn’t wanted to ask it.

 

 

“I didn’t invite anyone else to the music. I knew by then.”

 

 

He wanted to get away.

 

 

She was still looking at him. The left hand came away from the pistol, the right hand stiffened, a finger through the trigger guard.

 

 

“Will you go outside?”

 

 

He wanted to look at her for the last time. Alone. For a brief moment disappear into a future that might have been different. Then he got up, moved.

 

 

“No,” he said, because she had helped to heal him. He took the Mauser from her hand.

 

 

 

44.

H
e used one of the side doors of the Supreme Court building to evade the press. After the crescendo of the arrest, the case had moved to the center pages and then disappeared. But dates of the court’s sitting had been noted and now the media were back in full cry.

 

 

He heard the voice behind him. “Captain.”

 

 

He waited on the stairs for her to catch up with him.

 

 

“How are you?” he asked.

 

 

“It’s a long process. And you?”