Daddy Long Legs (11 page)

Daddy Long Legs was back. And he had just claimed his latest victim. Little Kobus van Jaarsveld was missing.

And so ... like fat black flies to a corpse ... the South African media flocked to Hope. In the branded trucks they came. In the OB (outside broadcast) units they came. In cars. Planes. And even trains. In their hordes they came. The newspapers. The radio stations. The TV channels. The SABC was there. And e-tv. With their competing international pseudo-CNN news channels, they came. To get the story. To get the ratings. All the newspapers. Well, most of them. Those that could afford a representative. And of course, the Internet news sites. The bloggers. The tweeters. They all came. To Hope. For the news story of the year. Daddy Long Legs is back. Did you hear? Can you believe it? Daddy Long Legs is back. Special documentaries were planned.
Special Assignment
planned a two-hour special.
Third Degree
managed a coup. The father of the very first Daddy Long Legs victim, Paul Walters, had agreed to appear on their very own two-hour special. Not to be outdone, M-Net’s
Carte Blanche
tracked down one of the original detectives who had worked on the case in the eighties, Klaas Haasbroek, as well as the psychologist who had written the original psychological analysis of the Hope killer.

In their hordes, like a plague of locusts, they came. Despite the best efforts by the SAPS, they came. Although the SAPS had made hurried efforts to expedite the investigation by sending its foremost expert on serial murders to the town of Hope, to the media they presented a different reality. In an effort to contain the media explosion, they played down reports of the famous serial killer’s resurgence.

During the press conference, Mthethwa warned that it was premature to jump to conclusions. There was no real evidence that Daddy Long Legs had returned. Yes, little Kobus van Jaarsveld had mysteriously disappeared. Yes, the Hope Gazette had received a very sick and twisted nursery rhyme. But no, that was hardly enough evidence to make the basis for as damaging an insinuation that one of South Africa’s most vicious serial killers had indeed returned to haunt the town of Hope. Of course, the media delegates were no fools. And, despite the SAPS’s objections to the contrary, everyone felt that there was something authentic and frightening to the recent developments. Only the SABC, state-owned, carried the government’s objections. All the other channels, radio stations and publications delivered the sensational news. Daddy Long Legs was back. An enterprising journalist from the Johannesburg newspaper,
The Star
, had overheard a group of Coloured children chanting a made-up rhyme. And thus was born the most creative headline of the week.

Knick Knack Paddy Whack, Daddy Long Legs is back.

In a tragic aside, (so many, so terribly many tragic asides) Daddy Long legs claimed his second victim two days after Kobus van Jaarsveld disappeared. But it wasn’t a little boy. It was Jolene van Staden, the mother of Gerhardt van Staden. The little boy who had become the seventh victim of Daddy Long Legs. The little boy who had been the policeman’s son. Jolene didn’t die by the heartless hand of Daddy Long Legs. She took her own life. The second Daddy Long Legs related suicide.

On the Thursday morning after little Kobus disappeared, she got up as usual. She prepared breakfast and she and her husband sat at the kitchen table, and as usual, ate in silence, without even a word between them. This was how it had been ever since the light of her heart, little Gerhardt jnr., had been wrenched from their lives. As usual, after breakfast, Gerhardt sr., had made hurried and muted excuses. To escape the dreary house with its dead memories. To escape his dreary wife with the dead eyes. His shift at the police station only started in an hour. But he would rather spend time at work than at home. Truth be told, he would rather be anywhere than home. After he had walked through the front gate (he walked to work), Jolene had calmly walked to the bedroom. From the sock drawer she lifted Gerhardt’s personal handgun. A Remington 1911 R1 Limited Edition. It was kind of appropriate, she thought, as she sat on the edge of the neatly made bed. She said a final prayer. Asked the Lord’s forgiveness (with just a hint of suppressed Calvinistic resentment). And then, in her no-fuss manner, she put the gun to her temple and squeezed the trigger. The .45 calibre bullet pulverised her skull, devoured her brain tissue and lodged itself in the inner curve of her left-side skull. She was dead before her tired body hit the floor.

And that, as they say on TV, son ... was that. Daddy Long Legs was back. And Hope was burning.

‘So, baby,’ Kyled turned to the girl behind the bar counter, ‘when are you and I getting together?’ He gave her an exaggerated wink. She blushed a deep red and averted her gaze. Although Kyle had been flirting with her all afternoon, she was still embarrassed by the not-entirely-unwelcome attention from the handsome stranger.

Kyle chuckled and gave her a beaming smile that made her legs weak. ‘I tell you what, baby, gimme another one of these,’ he said, indicating his Johnny Walker. ‘And put it on his tab.’ He pointed at a drunken Coloured man sleeping on the floor.

‘He doesn’t have a tab,’ the girl said with great protest.

‘Well then, put it on mine, dammit.’ Kyle pointed an imperious finger into the air.

‘You don’t have a tab either.’ By now she was giggling again.

‘Well then, I’ll pay cash darnit, and give you a massive tip.’ Kyle leaned over the counter, pointing at her. ‘How does that sound?’

She rose and grabbing a new glass from underneath the counter, shoved it under the suspended Johnny Walker bottle, squeezing out a double. All the time, she chewed on her lips, trying to stifle a smile. Kyle watched her throughout, giving her his best lascivious, dirty-old-man leer. She dropped a few blocks of ice into the drink and plopped it in front of Kyle. She laughed as he blew her a sloppy kiss. ‘You!’ She held out her hand. ‘Twenty bucks.’

‘What?’ He threw his arms up in the air. ‘Daylight robbery!’

‘That’s the same price you’ve been paying all
morning
,’ she said with indignation, her hands on her hips, shaking her head as if to say,
hellooooooo
.
He threw her a fifty. ‘Keep twenty for the next one and take ten for yourself.’ The girl opened the cash register and deposited the money. ‘Thank you,’ she said demurely, smiling.

Kyle took a long swig from the glass and looked at his surroundings. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. ‘Oh yes, siree,’ he said to himself.

Less than twenty four hours earlier Kyle had been charging out of Hope like a madman, tyres screeching. More than anything else, he wanted to get away. To escape. After seeing the disturbing headline on the
Hope Gazette,
his world had literally come crashing down. A thousand dark memories and images had flooded his fragile mind. A world he had – thankfully – left behind suddenly loomed large and gross before him. It was too much. Only about fifty kilometres away, he finally came to his senses. He had pulled off to the side of the road and had sat, for about half an hour. Allowing loose thoughts to flitter through his troubled mind. And then. It had been a simple and quiet decision. He would run no more. Almost two decades before, the moment he had turned eighteen, he had fled from Hope. Now, after a failed marriage and a rapidly imploding career, he was still fleeing. If he was ever to gain peace and certainty, he would have to stop running. The time had come.

Kyle had turned back. Back to Hope. This time, instead of booking himself into the same guesthouse, he had rented a room in the Royal Hotel, situated at the heart of Hope’s business area. Just as well, because a few hours later every conceivable space in Hope had been occupied by the media. His decision had been partly driven by the availability downstairs of the hotel’s bar, the Horse and Hound.

And now? Well, here he was. In the fabulous Horse and Hound. Fabulous only, because well, if you were expecting
ye olde
English pub, cosy and wood-panelled, peppered with witty conversation, well then, the name was (in keeping with the name Royal Hotel itself) fabulously ironic. The Horse and Hound was dingy, dreary and run-down. It was long and narrow with tiny glazed windows, high up on the wall, running the length of the room. The barroom counter itself also extended the full length of the room. There was barely enough space between the bar counter and the wall to fit in four little tables, each with four bar stools. ‘Oh yes, it’s a dive,’ Kyle said loudly, toasting the glazed windows.

He plonked the glass down on the counter. ‘Listen,
sugarpop
, you guys stock Camel Filters?’ The girl shook her head. He pointed a lazy finger at her. ‘Now why is uncle Kyle not surprised?’ He got up from the stool and lurched drunkenly, grabbing onto the counter to steady himself. ‘I tell you what, you take care of that bugger,’ he said pointing at the empty glass, ‘while I go and get me a pack of Arab donkeys.’ He reeled towards the entrance, then stopped. ‘Pssst.’ He winked at her in conspiracy. ‘Put it on his tab,’ he said with a grin, pointing at the drunken man sleeping on the floor. The Coloured girl rolled her eyes in exaggerated exasperation, staring up at the ceiling.

Outside, the afternoon sun hit Kyle like a blast furnace. He staggered slightly, falling against the whitewashed walls of the Royal Hotel. ‘Oops.’ Several passersby stared at him with looks that combined interest with disdain. Kyle steadied himself and performed an elaborate stage bow. A group of Coloured men in overalls clapped. Kyle blew the group elaborate kisses. ‘Thank you, thank you, I love you all. Be sure to catch my next show.’

‘Kyle Devlin! You piece of shit.’ It came from behind him.

Kyle’s temper peaked in a flash. He steeled himself as he turned around. Ready for a confrontation. Ready for the old contempt. The old condemnation. Ready for some country bumpkin
cunt
reminding him of the past again. He faced his accuser. Just in time for a bear hug.

‘Hey you old coot. I can’t believe it’s you, man.’

Bewildered, Kyle flailed about helplessly, returning the hug with one arm. ‘Uhh ...’

The tall, lanky man released Kyle and looked at him with intent. Kyle was faced with a shock of red hair and a friendly, beaming face spattered with a constellation of red freckles. For a moment he stared in confusion and then ... as if he had seen the man only yesterday, it rushed back to him. ‘Holy shit, son.’ He grabbed Brendan Freely’s hands. ‘Holy shit, man. How you doing?’ This time it was Kyle who grabbed his old friend in a bear hug. Brendan laughed loudly. Wrapped in Kyle’s clasp, the two men stumbled towards the road.

‘Hey, careful there, Romeo,’ Brendan said, steadying Kyle. He gently released Kyle’s grip.

‘Man, it’s so good to see you.’ Kyle punched him on the shoulder.

‘Same here, dude.’ Brendan stared in shocked surprise at Kyle. ‘It’s been like, what? Twenty years? What are you doing here?’ Kyle was about to answer when Brendan’s features contorted into a pained expression. ‘Oh shit, man,’ he said, hand in front of his face. ‘Sorry. What an idiot I am. I heard about ... erm ...’ His shoulders sagged. ‘I’m so sorry man.’

Kyle slapped him playfully on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He was about to say something dismissive then thought better of it. ‘You know what it was like. It’s better this way.’ For a moment the two men stood awkwardly in the heaving sun. Then Kyle grabbed Brendan. ‘Hey Fritz, you’re acting like my mother died. Come join me for a drink.’ Kyle pointed expansively at the Royal Hotel.

‘Aw, my bru, I wish I could. But I still gotta make Kimberley before the end of the business day.’

Kyle gave him a playful slap in the face. ‘End of the business day. Listen to you. All grown up and everything.’ During their school days, Brendan had been one of a handful of boys who had regularly smoked marijuana, known locally (and derogatively) as
dagga.
Kyle could hardly remember the amount of times Brendan had been stoned at school, slipping away during break for a quick
zol,
a joint. And here he was now.

‘I tell you what ... how long you still in town?’

Kyle scratched his head. ‘Shit, I don’t know, dude. But it’s probably going to be a while. I dunno.’

‘Okay, I’m in town later this week.’ He handed Kyle his business card. ‘Here. Send me your number and we’ll hook up.’

Kyle studied the business card. ‘Cool, man.’

‘Schweeeet, my bru.’ Brendan grabbed Kyle’s neck. ‘Take care of yourself, you hear.’

Kyle nodded. ‘Consider it done.’

‘You know what you should do in the meantime?’

‘Hmmm? Get my life in order. Invent a cure for boredom?’

‘Hahaha. No dude. You should look up Odette. She still lives here.’

There it was. One name. Two syllables. Buried deep in the past. Kyle hadn’t heard that name in almost twenty years. Hadn’t thought of her in almost as long. Now, a whole universe of memories came flooding back. The pretty girl with the huge almond eyes. The woman that had almost become his wife.

They had been friends throughout high school. There had been a special bond. Yes. Deeper than just friendship. Everyone saw it. Everyone commented on it. But as these things often turn out, they had never crossed that barrier. Due to a dozen inexplicable circumstances, they had always been just a word away from consummating the unspoken thing between them. Either she had been with someone. Or he had been with someone. It had been like this throughout their school days. A crazy, unsynchronised comedy of errors. And then, just before the very last exam, during their Matric year, Brendan had approached him. This very same Brendan. And he had read a poem, he himself had composed. A poem about a little girl’s undeclared love for a little boy. Standing there, that day, Kyle had felt his world being torn in two. He had worked hard during his Standard nine (Grade eleven) year. And it had paid off. Kyle had applied for and was awarded a bursary at the AAA school of Advertising in Johannesburg. He had also spent the entire Matric year, working at the local OK Supermarket. And saving like crazy. Saving for his great escape from Hope. Saving to go to Johannesburg.

And now this. Now this confession. She had finally done what he should have done a long time ago. She had done the manly thing. She had made the declaration that finally made the thing between them real. But why now? Of all the times she could have chosen, why now?

Kyle had written the exam in a daze, hardly caring for the paper. Then, immediately afterwards, he had rushed to her home. But she wasn’t there. Her mother, a sickly old woman at best, had suddenly taken sick. And although Hope had its own hospital, Odette’s mother had been rushed to Kimberley. For more than an hour, Kyle had sat outside Odette’s house. Marvelling at the cruel hand of fate. Wondering at this unsynchronised comedy of errors that had been Kyle and Odette. That was the Thursday. By Monday, Kyle had to be in Johannesburg. His manager at the local OK had organised him a transfer of sorts, a referral to the Turffontein branch. It was the only way he was going to be able to survive in Johannesburg. The following day, Friday, Kyle boarded the train to Johannesburg. He never saw or heard from Odette again.

During the first few years in Johannesburg he had thought often of her. He had massively underestimated the challenges of living in the big city. And, alone and isolated in a sea of anonymity, Kyle often wondered if he hadn’t made a big mistake by not pursuing this thing that could have been between them. A few years later, barely six months before he met Angelique, he had finally built up the courage to phone her. With trepidation he had dialled her number ... and waited. And then she had answered. His momentary elation had quickly turned to crushing dismay. ‘Hello,’ she had said, ‘Mrs Nienaber speaking.’ Her maiden name had been Odendaal. Kyle knew the name Nienaber well. A wealthy farmer from the district. She had married his son, Cornelius. And that, as they say on TV, son ... was that. Without saying a word, Kyle had ended the call.

‘Hey man, are you listening?’ Brendan was waving his hand in front of Kyle’s face.

Kyle snapped out of his reverie. ‘Yeah.’ He looked around dazed. Suddenly feeling sober. ‘Yeah?’

‘You’re not married, are you?’

Kyle shook his head. ‘No, not anymore.’

‘Well then, look her up. She’s divorced. You two used to be tight, didn’t you? She’s got the florist down the street. Took it over from her mom.’

‘Yeah.’ Kyle stared in the direction Brendan was pointing. ‘I’ll do that.’

‘Okay. Don’t forget to send me your number. We’ll get together soon.’

Kyle smiled. ‘Cool. That will be kick-ass.’

Brendan walked away, then turned. ‘By the way, I saw you on TV. That ad thing. Kiff, dude. I was telling my wife, hey, I know this guy. He’s famous.’

Kyle laughed. ‘Famous? Yeah right. See you, man.

‘Check you later,’ Brendan shouted as he strutted off into the distance. For a moment, Kyle stood impassively. Not knowing whether it was elation or fear that he felt. Then, remembering the cigarettes, he slowly ambled across the street to the OK Supermarket. The very same one that had ‘launched’ his career all those years ago. He was about to enter when –

‘Well, if it isn’t the devil himself.’

The words froze Kyle in place. What was it with this place? Was this official re-union day? He slowly turned around, expecting another old friend. What he saw mystified him.

Standing before him was a stocky man with thinning hair and the ever-present moustache so cultivated in small towns across South Africa. His slacks were too tight for him and he wore his short-sleeve shirt tucked into his pants. A canvas belt was strung through the loops of his slacks. ‘Sorry, dude, are you talking to me?’

The man pointed a meaty finger at Kyle. ‘Of course I’m talking to you, you scumbag coward.’

Okay, wait. A scumbag. And a coward? Kyle felt his temper ignite. ‘Listen hick, I think you got the wrong –’ And then, for the third time that day, he felt the past rushing in on him. Like a jackhammer, it pounded his skull and made stars dance in front of his eyes. Kyle shook his head slowly. ‘Dirk Engelman.’ He spoke each word purposefully, laying specific emphasis on the ‘Engel’.