Roots of Outrage

17

He was still shaking when they got back to town. But what else could he have said? He had stood up to the bastard as much as anybody would dare: they were trying to bully him into being an informer, but that didn’t mean they had something on him – if they knew about his criminal relationship with Patti they would have nailed him long ago; if they’d known he was using the cottage his feet wouldn’t have touched the ground this afternoon. But, Jesus, he was angry: at the system that gave them such power, at the laws that made him a criminal for being in love. And, by God yes, he was angry at himself for being afraid of the bastards. By God yes, he was afraid …

He stopped at the Rosebank Hotel. He hurried to the public telephone and feverishly dialled Patti’s number.

‘Gandhi Garments,’ she said. Mahoney closed his eyes in relief: she hadn’t been arrested.

‘May I speak to Mr Jackson, please?’

‘I’m afraid you have the wrong number.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ He hung up and looked at his watch. It was a long five minutes waiting for her to get to the public telephones in the Fox Street post office. He dialled the first number: engaged. He cursed and dialled the next box.

‘Hullo?’

He said: ‘Don’t go anywhere near the cottage. It’s been raided, I’ve just come from there. Got that?’

There was a stunned silence. Then: ‘Yes.’

‘Did you leave anything in the cottage that’s identifiable?’

Short pause. ‘Don’t think so.’

Thank God. ‘So we’ve got to do some fast thinking. And the only safe place to do it is Swaziland. Meet me there on Friday night. At the hotel. Okay?’

No hesitation. ‘Okay. But shouldn’t we make it tonight?’

‘No, they’re watching me, and going to Swaziland mid-week would be unusual. Just go about your normal business.’

He hurried back to the car. He drove feverishly back to the Drum offices. He sat down at his typewriter, put paper into the machine and threw open his notebook. He pressed his trembling fingers to his eyes.

It was six o’clock when he crossed the border into Swaziland, his heart knocking. But the beetle-browed Afrikaner constable showed no interest. And, oh, the relief of driving across into the hilly land of the Swazis where there was no apartheid … And, oh God, he didn’t want to live in that land back there anymore. It was dark when he wound up the dirt road to the Mountain Arms. He ordered dinner to be served in their room at eight o’clock. He got a beer and went to sit on the verandah to wait for her.

And he waited. And waited. By the time the dinner gong rang he knew she had been arrested at the border. When the dinner hour was half over he telephoned her apartment. No reply. And he could bear the suspense no longer: he got in his car to drive back towards the border in case she had broken down. And, oh, the relief when he saw headlights coming up the road and identified her car. He stopped. She pulled up alongside him. He flung open her door and clutched her tight.

They sat at the table in their room, the food untouched. Her face was gaunt.

‘Well? Did you know?’ he asked.

She took a deep, tense breath. She said to her wine glass: ‘And, are you? Going to be an informer?’

He stared at her. ‘God! Inform on you? Would I have told you what Krombrink said if I intended that?’

She sipped from her glass. ‘But if I was not involved? Would you inform on the ANC?’

He closed his eyes. ‘Oh God, this is what this country does to you. Suspicions …’

‘Exactly,’ she said quietly. ‘Because in South Africa you’re either on one side or the other. The police ensure that: if you don’t give them information you’re the enemy. An accomplice. So – would you inform on the ANC?’

Mahoney took a deep breath. ‘I’m a journalist, and journalists don’t reveal their sources.’

‘But supposing you knew that a bomb had been planted in a supermarket? Would you tell the police?’

‘What the hell are you trying to do, Patti? Test me?’

‘To prove something to you. Please answer the question.’

‘The answer is, of course I would report it to the police! I don’t want innocent women and children blown up.’

‘And if it was a military installation? Would you report that?’

Mahoney glared at her.

‘Hypothetical questions … The answer, in principle, is No. Because this is a police state and any smack taken at it is fair. So, what does that prove to you?’

‘But supposing innocent soldiers just doing their national service get blown up too?’

He looked at her grimly. ‘Let me make one thing abundantly clear, Patti. I also want to see this government thrown out, and I accept that violence is probably inevitable. But violence should be confined to soldiers fighting each other – not killing civilians in supermarkets with urban terrorism. I want nothing to do with killing people. But yes, military installations are legitimate targets. Now cut out this hypothetical crap and answer my question: did you know the farm was the ANC’s headquarters? And did you know about the explosives and arms?’

She looked at her drink. ‘No. Does that satisfy you?’

He looked at her. ‘No it doesn’t.’ He took a breath. ‘Patti, if you knew, you were playing with fire – we could both be under arrest now on charges of treason. And that’s the gallows, Patti. I had a right to know about the risks we were taking.’

‘And you consider I was reckless? With your life?’

‘And your own. Which is just as important to me!’

‘Reckless? Irresponsible? Because you had the “right to know”? And, if you had known? Would you have dropped me like a hot potato?’

‘I’d have had the opportunity to find us a safer place!’

‘Where, pray? Do you think I didn’t rack my brains – so that you wouldn’t drop me. Where could two people of different colour find a love-nest in this country – if I enter any white house I stick out like a sore thumb. If you enter any non-white house you do the same. We’d have been busted in a week!’ She glared at him defensively. ‘And the cottage was almost a mile from the main house – and there’s a fence. The cottage had nothing to do with it, except the same owner. And as for your “right”, you have no right to know what’s going on in the flat next door, let alone the neighbours’ distant farmhouse, just because you do your fucking in the neighbourhood. And as for being reckless, I was the opposite! I checked the situation out and I was convinced it was as safe as anywhere in this God-forsaken police state! God – at first even you didn’t know where the place was!’ She smouldered at him, ‘You certainly had no “need” to know what was going on and that’s the cardinal principle of –’ She stopped.

‘Of what?’

She took a deep breath. ‘Haven’t you read any spy-thrillers? In the cloak-and-dagger business the agents are only told as much as they need to know – so if they’re caught they can’t spill all the beans.’ She looked at him grimly. ‘All you need to know for our relationship is that, like you, I also want to get rid of apartheid. But, no, I don’t approve of blowing up people in supermarkets either. But, yes, military installations and the like are legitimate targets.’ She paused. ‘And I have to make something very clear, Luke. If we’re going to continue our relationship, all you’ll ever know about me is as much as you need to know. And I’ll answer no other questions outside of those parameters.’ Her dark eyes grim. ‘I love you, Luke. I didn’t mean that to happen, I intended it to be just a fun thing, but then I fell in love with you. Now the only condition upon which I can continue is the need to know.’ She took a tense breath. ‘You must decide whether you can live with that.’

‘Live with that?’ He waved a hand. ‘How can any man live with not knowing whether his lover’s going to be arrested for treason? Whether she’s going to jail or the goddamn gallows!’ He frowned angrily. ‘Well I do need to know, Patti. Know what I’m up against!’

‘Plenty of people have lived with not knowing what risks their loved-ones are taking – in the French underground during the war. The Irish Republican Army. All the wives of men in the CIA and KGB and MI5.’

He closed his eyes in exasperation. ‘Patti, you’re fighting against the might of the Afrikaner government. Against BOSS. Against detention without trial. Against the Group Areas Act and the Immorality Act which makes you a subject of suspicion because of your colour – you’re not like a Frenchman in World War II who had the natural camouflage of his skin. You’re conspicuous, Patti! As if you’re wearing the uniform of the enemy! And I’m conspicuous, the moment I step out of my area.’ He glared at her. ‘You have no camouflage, Patti – if they can’t prove anything against you they lock you up without trial. And now your whole underground has just been busted. Realize that you’re on very thin ice indeed, and underneath it is very deep shit. And you expect me not to want to know? I do need to know!’

She put her hands to her face. ‘Oh, it will never work …’ Then she sobbed.

He began to get up. ‘Patti …?’

She sobbed into her hands. ‘Please don’t …’ She took a deep breath; then raised her head. The tears were running down her face. She whispered: ‘Us, darling Luke – we can’t work. I knew it all along. And I tried.’ Her lip trembled; then she swept her hand through her hair resolutely. ‘I really tried, but it all got out of control. And my heart’ she banged her breast – ‘ruled my head!’

Mahoney put out his hand.

She held up a palm. ‘Please let me finish … It’s my fault because I knew we couldn’t get away with it – I knew sooner or later we’d be found out and go to jail. But …’ Two tears brimmed down her cheeks. ‘But honest to God I didn’t think there was any danger of you being dragged into this other business. But now, of course, you want to know what’s happening, for your own sanity. But, it doesn’t work like that, darling.’ She shook her head. ‘I can tell you nothing. Because the police will be on to you, Luke. And if you don’t tell them voluntarily you’ll eventually tell them involuntarily. So the less you know, the better. That’s the way the system works, darling. And that’s why we can’t work, Luke. Because there’ll be nothing but tension, and anxiety and naked, solid fear … and suspicions.’ She stared at him, then she dropped her face in her hands again. ‘Oh God, wasn’t the Immorality Act enough to live with?’

‘Patti …’ Mahoney stretched out his hand and she got up impulsively holding her face. She walked to the window and dropped her forehead against the frame and sobbed. ‘Patti …’ Mahoney took her in his arms. He held her tight and whispered: ‘Yes, it can work.’

She rested her forehead against his shoulder and took a trembling breath; she whispered fiercely: ‘There’s only one way it could possibly work, darling Luke. And I’ve just proved that can’t either. And there’s no way I’m going to put you through it – or us.’

‘What have you just proved?’

She turned out of his arms, her face wet. ‘So the only thing to do is to quit. Now. Tonight.’

He stared at her, his knocking heart breaking.

‘What is the way that won’t work?’

She tried to wipe the tears off her face. She said resolutely: ‘We have only two options. The obvious one is to quit, right now. Quit, and never see each other again.’ Her mouth trembled.

‘And the other one?’

She closed her eyes. ‘That you play the bastards at their own bloody game. Become an informer. But feed them disinformation.’

He stared at her. Outside the night insects were crick-cricking. ‘False information?’

‘And I’m not going to allow that. I’m not going to put you through that – or me: It would be highly dangerous – I love you too much. And it would be terribly unfair on both of us. Because …’ She shook her head at him. ‘Because you’re not the type, Luke.’

‘Not the type?’

She blurted: ‘To be an activist! A spy, if you like.’ She looked at him tremulously. ‘And that’s not a criticism – very few people are. You’re too straight, Luke. And I wouldn’t put you through that torment even if you were willing. And so –’ she tossed back her hair – And so the only thing is to stop this crazy affair right now.’

Mahoney stared, his heart breaking. And there was no way he could accept that. No way could he let her walk out of his life, never see her again. And no way could they go back to the old ways either – he could not face any more of that subterfuge, he was sick of that drama, sick of South Africa and its sick laws – it was clear as day what he had to do about it. He crossed the room and took her in his arms.

‘There is a way, Patti.’ He wanted to laugh it. ‘And that is to get married, and never go back to goddamn South Africa.’ There – it was as simple and as complicated as that. He held her tight. ‘Just get married. Tomorrow. And live happily ever after – right here in Swaziland. Or in Botswana – I can get a job anywhere, and you’ve got your business.’

She had gone stock still. She slowly lifted back her head. Then she closed her eyes and burst into tears. She dropped her forehead onto his shoulder and she sobbed and sobbed. ‘Oh God why is life such a pig?!’ She banged her forehead against him. ‘A pig – pig – pig!’

‘Patti?’ He tried to lift her head and she clutched him tighter and cried: ‘Of course I want to marry you! And that’s why life’s a pig! Because how the hell can we live happily ever after in a country which forbids it?!’

‘But we’re not going to live in South Africa –’

She banged her forehead against his shoulder and cried: ‘Like hell we’re not! I refuse to run away! I want to live happily ever after right there, as is my basic human right! I refuse to let those bastards terrorize me! I refuse to be made a refugee!’ She turned abruptly out of his arms. She swept her hand through her hair and turned to face him. She said tremulously: ‘And that’s the whole crux of the matter, Luke. I love you but I can’t marry you – because I have to stay and fight.’ She looked at him, her eyes brimming. ‘And so it must end, darling Luke. It is just too dangerous. We’ve been blown wide open – we got away with it today by the skin of our teeth.’ She shook her locks at him. ‘We knew it had to end someday – and that day has come. Tonight. Not tomorrow, not next week, not after waiting to see how the land lies. Tonight. I’m going to go and get a hotel in town. I simply could not bear to sleep in your arms knowing I was saying goodbye forever in the morning.’

He could not believe this was happening. He started towards her, to say he knew not what, and she put her hand out on his chest, her eyes bright. He whispered: ‘This is your whole life you’re dealing with! You’re going back into the lions’ den!’

‘The struggle is my life, darling Luke. And the lions’ den is where it’s happening.’

‘For God’s sake, Patti, we’ve got the whole world to live in.’

She took a deep breath, then put her finger on his lips. ‘Goodbye, darling Luke.’

She turned to her overnight bag. She picked it up. She put her hand on the doorknob and opened it. She looked back at him, her face streaked with tears. She whispered: ‘It’s over, darling. Believe that.’

He looked at her, his eyes full of tears.

‘Do you believe that?’ she whispered.

He took a deep breath, then he shook his head. ‘No.’

She cried: ‘Believe it, darling! Believe it! For your sake and mine!’ She turned abruptly and walked through the door. She closed it behind her with a bang.

He heard her sob once. Then there was the sound of her high heels down the corridor.

He stood there. And with all his breaking heart he wanted to run after her, to seize her arid make her come back. Drag her back. But, oh God, he did not believe this was the end. And he needed time to think, about what she had said – about a thousand things. Think. About what today meant. What Krombrink meant. What she had meant. He stood there, his eyes full of tears; then he turned to the double bed and sat down and held his face.

He heard her car start, and he sobbed out loud.

18

He woke up before dawn, and he thought his heart would break. He swung out of bed, slammed on the shower and stood under cold jets, trying to knock the pain out of himself. He pulled on his tracksuit and set out into the first light, to think.

He climbed along the mountain paths, then down into the valley to their waterfall. He sat on the big flat rock where they had made love so often, and it seemed he could almost hear her splashing in the water, almost see her long black hair floating and her golden body glistening, almost hear her laughter, almost feel her satiny nakedness. When he could bear it no longer he climbed up to the very top of the mountain.

Spread out below him was the vast mauveness of South Africa, so beautiful, so quiet, and so bloody cruel, so mindless. And way over there Patti Gandhi was doing something about it, doing God knows what, but putting her freedom and life on the line for what she believed in. He admired her and loved her and, oh God, he was frightened about what could happen to her, and he despised himself for not having her guts …

It was midday when he came down from the mountain. He knew what he had to do: there was only one way he could live with himself, and with her – and that was to play the Afrikaner bastards at their own bloody game. No way could he turn his back on her, let her walk away into the lions’ den alone …

In the early afternoon he drove across the border back into South Africa. His heart was knocking like a criminal’s. But the young policeman showed no interest in him beyond a polite ‘Goeie dag’ and the routine question, ‘Iets om te verklaar?’ Anything to declare? But as he walked out of the immigration post he imagined the man reaching for the telephone. Driving through the beautiful afternoon, he tried to shut his mind to his fear and just think about her. And when the bushveld began to give way to the rolling grassland of the highveld, and the industrial satellites of Johannesburg began to loom up on the skyline, it was unthinkable that he wouldn’t see her again. All he cared about was her and, oh, he hated this land which made it illegal to live happily ever after with her. He had to get to a phone. He saw a filling station and pulled in. He rammed his coins into the callbox and dialled.

‘Hullo,’ she said.

He closed his eyes in relief. She hadn’t been arrested. She was still in the land of the living. What he wanted to say was ‘I love you’, but he said: ‘Is that Mrs Lambert?’

There was a silence. He heard her breathing. Then she said softly: ‘You’ve got the wrong number.’ She hung up.

He walked back to the car happily.

It was not until he was winding his way through downtown Johannesburg that he was sure he was being followed. He had first seen the blue Ford about fifty miles back. Three men in it. At a set of traffic lights, where he would normally turn left to the Indian quarter, he carried straight on, towards Hillbrow, and the car followed him. His knocking heart sank.

The car tailed him all the way across town. As it pulled up behind him in front of The Parsonage, he was shaking.

The men got out and came towards him. The first said, in a heavy Afrikaans accent: ‘We’re police. Will you come with us to the station, please.’

His heart was pounding. ‘What on earth for?’

‘You either come voluntarily or we arrest you.’

‘On what bloody charge?!’

‘The Terrorism Act.’

He stared, white with fear. ‘What bullshit …’ he whispered.

A policeman drove his car to Marshall Square. He went with the other two. His ears felt blocked, his mind was racing. The cars parked in the yard. One man stayed behind: he went with the other two.

They entered the same back door he had used last time he was here. The same elevator, with only one button. Nobody spoke. The top floor. The long corridor, neon lights. The security gate. A row of doors. Into an office, where they took his passport, and then his fingerprints.

‘Why are you taking my fingerprints?’ He tried to control his shaking hands.

‘Routine.’

‘But I’m not a fucking criminal!’

The man said nothing. He gripped Mahoney’s fingers and rolled the tips one by one onto the pad. The other detective took the form and walked out of the room. ‘Kom.’

They walked back along the corridor. Into the lair of Colonel Krombrink, who sat behind his desk.

‘Good afternoon.’

At the window lolled the same detective as last time.

‘Colonel, am I under arrest?’

‘Not yet.’

Not yet? ‘Then why am I here? And why was I fingerprinted?’

Krombrink said quietly: ‘Sit down.’

Oh Jesus, he hated the bastards! And he was scared of them. ‘If I’m to answer questions I’m entitled to a lawyer. In which case he will answer them for me!’

‘Mr Mahoney, you know as well as I do that you can be detained for ninety days to answer questions – without access to a lawyer. What have you got to hide, that you Want a lawyer?’

‘Nothing!’ And he hated the bastards so much it felt like the truth.

The colonel smiled. ‘Nothing we don’t know already? So sit down, please.’

‘Oh Jesus …’

The colonel clasped his hands. ‘I’m not going to beat about the bush, Mr Mahoney. You have broken the law. And broken God’s law: the Immorality Act …’

Mahoney closed his eyes, but in relief. If that’s all they had on him … But he had to deny it. The colonel went on: ‘We know all about you and that Indian, Patti Gandhi. We can give you dates, places, times. And you’ve just come back from another dirty night in Swaziland. Don’t waste our time denying it.’

‘I do deny it …’

Krombrink shook his head in sadness. ‘And you a law student.’ He looked at him. ‘You’re going to go to jail, Mr Mahoney. And when you come out you’ll never be allowed to practise law; not with a criminal record like that, man.’

The Immorality Act … So they weren’t going to try to use him as an informer? He said: ‘This is crazy.’

The colonel said: ‘What we find crazy is that a man from a good family like you, with your education, should want to consort with a non-European!’ He looked at him with disgust; then his eyes narrowed. ‘And a communist. A terrorist.’ Mahoney felt himself go ashen. Krombrink let it hang. ‘Contravening the Immorality Act is only one of the charges, Mr Mahoney.’

Mahoney desperately tried to think straight. ‘She’s not a communist! Or a terrorist! What preposterous charges do you think you’ve got against me?’

The colonel smiled. So did the detective at the window: he muttered something under his breath. The colonel said quietly: ‘Preposterous? That’s a big word.’ He paused. ‘Contravening the Suppression of Communism Act?’

‘But I’m a fucking capitalist! And so is Patti Gandhi!’

The colonel smiled. ‘And how about the Terrorism Act?’

Mahoney’s ears were ringing. Sick in his guts, with fear, with anger. ‘Neither of us is a terrorist!’

Colonel Krombrink smiled widely. ‘“Us”? You make it sound like you’re a couple. But the Immorality Act’s the least of your worries, hey? Because the Terrorism Act isn’t jail. It’s the gallows in Pretoria.’

Mahoney’s ears were ringing, his heart pounding. ‘For doing what?’

Colonel Krombrink smiled. ‘The men we arrested at Lilliesleaf Farm all face the gallows.’

Mahoney felt the vomit turn in his guts. ‘I’d never been to Lilliesleaf Farm before last Wednesday.’