The Serpentine Road (33 page)

‘Mine is kept very safely. I made it a point that Kobus Nel should know that.’

‘The victims were violently stabbed in their sleep,’ De Vries says. ‘That doesn’t sound like the work of a professional killer.’

‘From what I hear, the preparation is certainly of a professional nature; the execution itself – if you’ll excuse the phrase – less recognizably so. But perhaps that is intended. Misdirection is everywhere.’

‘When do I get to see him?’

‘I would advise soon.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Why not?’

‘You’re not concerned that you might not see the morning?’

De Vries says nothing; the truth he has suppressed sounds frightening spoken aloud.

‘Tomorrow,’ he says quietly.

‘I anticipated that. Your meeting is set for 1 p.m. I have the address for you.’

Basson reaches under the table, produces a tightly wrapped package.

‘My second gift.’

De Vries gauges its weight. It is light, yet it feels substantial.

‘As we won’t meet again, I wish you good luck.’

Vaughn nods, turns around, walks across the room, lets himself out.

When he sees it on the passenger seat of his car, just as he is about to exit the vehicle, it is as if he has not noticed it before. He opens the cardboard box in which it sits, takes it out and turns it over, so that the picture faces him. The wooden woman’s eyes watch him as he scrutinizes her. It is almost photorealistic yet, close up, there are clear marks from Dazuluka Cele’s brushes. The carving in the painting seems old, heavy with profound meaning. The crack is a line of longitude, bisecting her face and her body, making her seem ancient and, to him at least, calm. De Vries has no interest in art beyond that which brings him pleasure in the moment; he finds the prospect of seeing the same picture on the same wall every day strangely static and unoriginal. He opens the door, cradles the picture, walks to his house. He finds a hammer and nails, climbs the staircase to his bedroom and hangs the painting on the pillar between the two tall bow windows which overlook the garden and, further way, the edge of Devil’s Peak. He stands between his bed and the picture, looks back and becomes aware that she will look at him, watch over him, as he sleeps.

* * *

He does not sleep, can’t find a comfortable position. At first he hears the rain, the low rumble of thunder in the distance, so rare in Cape Town. When it seems to stop, he hears dripping and, later, silence. In the early hours he is alert to the tiniest sound, scrutinizes his interpretation until he is reassured. He turns repeatedly, sits on the edge of his bed, seeking some relief. He wonders whether he should have accepted Marantz’s offer of his dog, Flynn, for the night, but knows that if he had barked, it would have scared him rigid.

He has been plagued by the four murders; he forces his eyes open when the image of Mike de Groot’s contorted face will not leave the inside of his eyelids. Within a second of waking from a fitful doze, the image of de Groot floods his synapses, steals the breath from him. At 5.30 a.m., he pads downstairs to the kitchen, checks the alarm is active, substitutes his planned mug of Rooibos tea for a large whisky; he pours, drains the glass, pours again. He wonders whether to tell Mitchell Smith about de Groot, or whether to spare him. He can’t see any way to help the man; he prays that whoever it is will stop with the men who entered that cursed township dwelling all those years ago. He and Smith were spectators only, unable to prevent what occurred. Yet, somehow, when he thinks of that night, he always feels guilty anew.

He looks around the darkened kitchen, feels afraid of the exposed windows, turns back up the stairs to his bedroom, walking uneasily, and slumps on the bed.

At 7 a.m., he rolls off his mattress: aching, drained, depressed – relieved.

De Vries drives across Kloof Nek, the highest pass over the Mountain, and looks over on Camps Bay. On his side of the Mountain, the sky is all dark clouds and dank, heavy air, but here, it is sunny and hot. Out at sea, however many kilometre away it is, the horizon is black. The respite may be short. He waits at the junction to turn, smiles at layer after layer of houses covering the mountainside. Thirty years ago, you could have bought land here for nothing. It was considered a windblown, sun-blasted suburb with a pretty white beach abutting sea so cold your ankles burned with pain just paddling. Now, every square metre has been built on. The main palm-lined drag on the beach consists of boutique hotels, over-priced bars, slick restaurants; at night, neon lights, thumping music, beautiful people driving their supercars at a snail’s pace, acknowledging imaginary friends like desperate politicians.

He turns right atop the Nek, weaves downhill through Umbrella Pines towards the Glen, then turns again, to climb above Clifton Beaches – four perfect little beaches of white sand and blue water, watched over by apartments and mansions, just as, he imagines, in Monaco. He continues to climb, up to the highest level above the ocean, to the biggest, most vulgar architecture in Cape Town, to the grandest residences of plastic surgeons, celebrity advocates and their mutual criminal clients.

He pulls up in front of ornate iron gates. A security guard appears through a small door, asks for identity. He shows it, watches the gates open inwards.

He drives slowly into a courtyard, roofs of terracotta tiles cover parking spaces on three sides. He is guided under cover next to the latest model Bentley GT. He gets out, turns to find an escort of two guards. They walk in silence to an archway through a wall, leading to a comfortable sitting room. At the far end, he sees what appears to be a funicular railway station. He has left his weapon at home, but they pass a detector wand over and around him, check his shoes, gesture for him to sit in the smartly upholstered closed carriage. It jolts slightly as it begins to rise steeply over the roof of the covered courtyard, up the side of the rocky mountain. Twisting himself around, he catches a glimpse of the dramatic vista of the Twelve Apostles – twelve peaks down the Table Mountain range – Camps Bay, the coast road, the ocean unending. He is taken aback by the security Nel employs, but he is not surprised by the funicular railway. Several mansions here boast them, rising from the High Road up and into the mountain where, sometimes, it seems as if the owners have blasted their way through sheer rock to find their own safe havens.

At the top, he is led up some broad stone steps to a plateau, sees a wide, perfectly flat lush green lawn, bounded by mature trees, ahead of an enormous Tuscan villa, all terracotta tiles, verdigris copper and white columns. He is taken to the side of the house where, in a kidney shaped swimming pool, amidst loungers and parasols, backed by an ornate pool house, he sees Kobus Nel reclining in the shallows. The guard backs off. As De Vries approaches, he notices that the girl entwined with Nel is naked.

‘You were thinking,’ Nel’s deep, coarse voice booms. ‘Did I do the right thing staying in the SAPS for twenty years, or should I have followed Kobus Nel?’

‘No.’

Nel laughs quietly. ‘I think you were.’

De Vries approaches the water, sees Nel is also naked, notes that his physique is just as he remembers: squat and muscular, thick neck, broad head. It is accentuated by the effect of the water: Nel is big above the waterline, shrunken beneath. De Vries sees bright, distorted tattoos on the man’s arms, thick gold jewelry on his wrist, around his neck.

Nel dismisses the woman; she totters towards the pool house and disappears.

‘You want to talk to me?’

De Vries nods.

‘Join me.’

Vaughn steps from one foot to the other.

‘I’m fine here.’

Nel stares at him.

‘It’s Sunday. Maybe the last day of summer. I’m not having a conversation with me here and you there. Get in the pool.’

De Vries expects power games; he knows that he is here to extract information and that it will cost. He looks around to see a suited white man behind him.

‘My man will take your clothes.’

He undresses slowly.

‘What is it?’ Nel’s voice is sharper now. ‘You unsure about your sexuality . . . Or maybe you don’t want to get your equipment wet?’

‘I’ve been searched thoroughly.’

‘Well, I’m not getting out. Fuck, man. Too nice a day for clothes.’

Vaughn swallows, takes off his tie, his shirt – finds the guard waiting to take it all from him – and removes his shoes, socks, trousers and underpants. He walks towards the pool, looks down beyond his pink belly, white thighs, and sees steps down into the water; he takes them and walks, warm water waist high, towards Nel.

‘It’s the South African way . . . Kobus Nel.’ He holds out his hand. De Vries knows that only capitulation will buy him answers, takes it, shakes. ‘Thing about the water,’ Nel says. ‘Everybody’s dick looks small.’ He laughs loudly.

‘Beer?’

De Vries nods.

‘What a fucking waste,’ Nel says. ‘Look at you, man. Nothing more than twenty-fucking-one years older than when we last met. What have you got? What have you achieved?’

‘Nothing like you.’

‘No. Nothing.’ He looks into the distance, into thousands of miles of sky above the ocean. ‘Old Eric Basson: he’s a clever fucker, isn’t he? All those years with our last true government and he keeps all that information locked away. No one dares to challenge him.’

‘Not even you . . .’

‘We have an understanding.’

‘Is that what you call it?’

Nel ignores him, his smile locked.

‘He must like you. Be thankful.’

‘I really don’t care.’

‘No pleasantries,Vaughn?’

De Vries braces himself, takes a deep breath.

‘In January 1994, seven of us went to Khayelitsha. Innocent people died, and I did what you wanted: I said nothing. Now, four of them are dead. All over the country. You know that?’

Nel smiles.

‘I know what is worth knowing.’

‘You trying to seal up history? Make sure nothing ever comes back?’

Nel looks beyond him. De Vries hears footsteps. Two bottles of beer arrive. Nel has swallowed half of his before De Vries is served his own.

The servant moves away.

Nel says: ‘You suffer pangs of guilt? That a few
kaffirs
were collateral damage? You must have been fucking useless in the army.’

‘All your men, murdered in their beds, one after the other . . .’

‘I don’t care, De Vries. And neither should you. Crime is everywhere now and you people can’t do anything about it. But, it’s our fault. We knew these people couldn’t run a country, keep control. They’re fucking
kak
, man. All of them. Look at that corrupt, self-enriching, wife-collecting cunt Zuma; that fat little shit Malema. The only thing I wonder about him is how he fits his fat
kaffir
arse in the narrow little driver’s seat of his Ferrari.’ He laughs hoarsely. ‘At least Ramaphosa had the guts to make the call to shoot the striking Marikana miners. At least he had balls. But the rest of them . . . They keep people like you there as trophies to show the world there might still be some hope of law and order, when we all know that’s shit.’

‘There’s law and order where I am concerned.’

Nel sneers at him.

‘Unless you’re coerced.’

‘That was a long time ago.’

‘Fuck, yes.’

‘We’re making progress . . .’

Nel’s laugh is a bark.

‘Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? I own thirty fucking businesses around this country. Every single fucking time I deal with the government, the councils, the civil servants, it’s
crook
. Money changes hands. There’s no rule, or statute or law, it’s just fucking cash, every time.’

‘That says something about you, then.’

‘You think I’m going to wait while these people fuck me about? In 1994 we had three choices: we could get the fuck out of here before they destroyed our country; we could bow down to them and be thankful for what they gave us; or we could stay and play the game by our rules.’ He gestures around his compound. ‘Guess what I did? I have a plane, a yacht, hard currency in Europe, a fucking private army if it comes to it.’

De Vries shakes his head slowly, feels that any hope of conversation, of answers, or even hints of answers, is long gone.

‘We built this fucking country. Everything good is down to us. Just because there are more of them doesn’t mean we had to give it back. You look at what they do in Africa: every time you give them something, they fuck it up. So, I’m staking my claim to my land, and they can come fight me for it, ’cos the fight never ends, not if you’re a South African.’

‘You tell your staff that?’

Nel laughs.

‘There’s a rule around here. No fucking black faces. No coloureds. They work in the background. I see them, they’re fired. Everything works here because there’s order. Educated white guys tell them what to do. That’s how it worked for centuries. That’s how it’s going to stay.’

De Vries is tired. Nel’s speeches remind him how many years it is since he left the army and joined the SAPS. He wonders where that time has gone; what, in twenty years, has he actually achieved?

‘Keep your head down, De Vries. You might be all right.’

De Vries squints at him, cannot read anything from his broad face. Is he telling him he is safe? He tries one more time.

‘Whoever it is, is working north to south, now west, travelling down through the country . . .’

‘I know,’ Nel says. ‘I know all about it. You come here just to talk about that?’

He laughs, tosses his empty bottle sideways, watches it roll across the lawn, and turns back to De Vries.

‘You always were fucking boring. You know that?’

De Vries feels old and bellicose, body aching, deteriorating. He thinks of Kobus Nel, taut and driven, impenetrable; he knows that he has gained nothing from their meeting, yet feels that he has lost something. As he freewheels down Kloof Nek Road back into town, his mood is irritated by the trite and mundane: bad driving, unsafe vehicles smoking, swerving across the sharp curves. He engages a low gear, cuts across the road into a side street, continues his descent through suburbia until he reaches a café with a parking space directly outside. He enters the space forwards, mounts the pavement, and thumps down again into place. He sees a car guard amble towards him. He gets out, fixes him with a stare.