Daddy Long Legs (4 page)

Kyle is a young boy again.

He awakes in the middle of the night. Something has disturbed his slumber. But he doesn’t know what. He groggily climbs out of bed. And knuckles sleepy eyes.

The night is moon beautiful. Cool and clear. And yet something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong.

Little Kyle opens the door to his bedroom and peers into the corridor. With growing fear he steps into the dark corridor. At the end of the hallway is a door. Slightly ajar. He takes a step towards this door. And another.

With each step his fear widens.

And another.

Until his terror is a huge gaping hole.

And another.

A terrifying chasm that is about to swallow him whole.

He takes another step.

Something is terribly
terribly
wrong.

And another.

There was something beyond the door. Something his egg-shell childhood mind knew on some primordial level to be wrong. So terribly wrong.

He takes another step. His hand is on the door handle.

A phone is ringing.

He twists the handle.

A phone is ringing.

And opens the door.

Kyle fell from the couch and crashed drunkenly onto the floor. His cell phone was ringing.

‘Shit.’ He reached out and grabbed the phone, vibrating on the table. And looked at the display. It was Lindsey. His P.A. at Davis Corke. Kyle sighed laboriously and shoved the phone under one of cushions of the couch. ‘Leave me alone,’ he said to himself. A few moments later the phone stopped ringing.

Kyle sat on the floor, his back against the expensive designer couch. He stared listlessly at the wood laminated floor. Several bottles of Heineken beer littered the space around him. On the glass-top table before him, a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s stood amongst two empty glasses and an ashtray overflowing with ash and cigarette stubs. Next to the ashtray was a rolled-up hundred rand note, lying amidst a splash of white powder. Kyle leaned forward and took the rolled-up note between thumb and forefinger. He held it to his nose as he snorted some of the powder. Leaving an even empty streak down the heap of powder. He sat back, rubbing his nostril. From a packet lying at his feet he extracted a cigarette. And lit it. Staring up at the night sky through the large French doors that lead to the sprawling garden outside.

It was a night just like tonight, he thought to himself. ‘’Twas a night not unlike tonight,’ he said aloud. Laughing sardonically at his attempt at humour. Yes. It was a night not unlike tonight when his world first fell apart.

Kyle looked for the TV remote. He flicked on the TV and watched without interest at the flashing images on the large plasma screen TV.

When was it exactly? Almost two months ago? Had it been that long?

Even in his drunken stupor Kyle could remember the night as if it had happened yesterday. He had been sitting in almost exactly the same position, watching CNN. When the phone had rung. It was a private number. Identity withheld. Usually he never answered calls like that. But on that specific night something had prompted him to take the call. It was a man on the other end. His voice unknown to Kyle. And yet, the sound of it had sent a cold chill down his spine. He had found something about the voice to be deeply disturbing. But these thoughts soon vanished from his mind when he listened to what the caller had to say.

‘Good evening, Kyle,’ the voice had said. ‘Where is your wife tonight?’

Just like that. A simple greeting. And then an even simpler question. ‘Who is this?’ Kyle had asked. But there had been no response. And the caller disconnected the call. Kyle had thrown the phone down in irritation. Who the hell was trying to mess with him? And what kind of sad person derived pleasure from such a call. He tried to dismiss the call and forget about it. He tried to watch TV. And yet. The call kept nagging at him. Bugging him.

‘Who was that?’ He said aloud. And then ... not because of the call ... he tried to convince himself ... not because of the call ... he phoned his wife. She was working late. Again. Her agency had been involved in more than one pitch over the last few weeks. And she was working late again. He had dialled her cell phone. But it was on voicemail. He decided to leave it. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t focus on the bland report on global warming on the TV screen. So then ... not because of that call ... he decided to phone his wife’s work number. Clare – her personal assistant – had answered. After the customary greetings and social enquiries he had asked Clare if he could speak to Angelique. There was a moment of silence.

‘Kyle, are you alright?’

‘Yes, Clare,’ he said with slight irritation. ‘I just want to speak to Angelique.’

Another moment of silence.

‘Kyle, she’s meeting you at
Le Jardin
.’
Le Jardin
was the premier French restaurant in Sandton.

Kyle felt his stomach sink. He had made no such arrangement with Angelique. He quickly recovered. ‘Oh shit. Of course. Damn, thanks for reminding me, Clare.’

‘Really, Kyle,’ Clare said laughing, ‘How could you forget?’

Kyle made perfunctory apologies then hung up. His heart was beating hard. A nausea was welling up in his throat. Without a second’s hesitation, he grabbed his car keys and headed for the garage. After a mad dash through the busy streets of Bryanston and Sandton, he pulled up in front of the restaurant. Ignoring the entreaties of the
maitre d’
, he charged into the restaurant. Just in time to find his wife of three years – the absolute love of his life – exchanging a tender kiss with James Burton, co-founder of the Magic Carpet Factory. And one of the industry’s most powerful players.

Kyle stood before their table. While a shocked Angelique Devlin stared dumbfounded at her husband. ‘Angelique? What are you doing?’

Angelique opened her mouth, about to speak. But it was too late. Kyle violently grabbed James Burton and punched him in his face, sending the ad executive sprawling across the table. Glass shattered. Cutlery bounced on the floor. Somewhere a woman screamed. ‘Kyle,’ Angelique shouted. ‘How could you?’

‘How could I, Angelique?’ He pointed an accusing finger at her. ‘How the fuck could
you
?’ He had given her a murderous stare and exited, pushing restaurant staff out of his way.

For the next week, Kyle had lodged in a small guesthouse close to Davis Corke. Fuming. He had thrown himself into his work and refused to take any calls from Angelique. Even when she had turned up at work, he had managed to avoid her by taking an early lunch.

However, in the course of that week, his burning love for his wife had triumphed. And by that weekend, he had made a momentous decision. He had decided to forgive her. To put everything behind him. And move on.

That night he left work early and returned to his house. And waited for her. But she never arrived. Eventually he phoned her. Expecting obsequiousness. And pleas for forgiveness. Whatever the case, he loved her. And wanted his wife back.

Angelique did apologise. But not in the way he expected. ‘I’m sorry Kyle,’ Angelique said coolly and calmly. ‘I want to be with James. I’ve decided. We want to get married.’ He had been shocked into silence. Feeling his whole entire world implode. ‘I’m sorry Kyle. But I can’t ignore my feelings. Please forgive me.’ She had then reminded him of their promise. To always be truthful and honest with each other. She then informed him that she would be moving out. And seeking a divorce. And then she had killed the call.

This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang. But with a whimper.

That night Kyle had cried until no more tears would come.

A few weeks later, he heard someone at work mention his wife’s name. The person had whispered something about a rumour. In a catatonic rage, Kyle had accosted the junior account executive. Throwing him bodily against a wall and nearly strangling him. ‘What are you saying?’ Kyle screamed at the terrified youngster. ‘What the hell are you saying?’

And then it came out. How could such few words bring such unbearable agony? There was a rumour. Angelique was pregnant. With Burton’s child.

And there it was.

The final insult. The final nail in the coffin.

Despite repeated attempts over the years, they had never been able to bear a child. Again and again they had tried. But nothing. Eventually they had sought help. And with it came a crushing finality. Kyle was infertile.

And there it was.

Kyle had suggested adoption. Angelique had agreed. Without much enthusiasm. But things had never gone any further. And they had left it there. And never discussed it again. He should have known. Now she was bearing another man’s child. Her future. Her destiny. Would be forged by another man. She would grow old with another. And love and cherish the offspring of another. The thought was too much to bear.

And that was when Kyle went off the rails. Good and proper.

He neglected his work. His hygiene. His friends. Everything. Except for a traumatic incident in his childhood, this was the most devastating setback he had ever suffered.

In a fit of self-loathing, he had taken leave and booked himself into a sleazy Hillbrow hotel for almost two weeks. Doing all the drugs and booze that he could possibly cram into his body. At the end of his binge, he returned to his home. And his work. But things were never the same again. Something precious and brittle had snapped within his psyche. The old Kyle had died. And someone cynical and bitter had taken his place.

Now, as Kyle sat amongst the rubble of his life, smoking a quiet cigarette in a dirty and dishevelled mansion in Bryanston, Kyle recalled that terrible night at the restaurant when his life had shattered into a million little irreparable pieces.

He thought again of the call that had initiated everything. And wondered who it had been. Who had thought it worthwhile to curse him that night with the knowledge that would end everything he had ever treasured. It had to be the same person that sent him the photographs.

Kyle looked towards the corner of the large and spacious lounge. Lying there was a manila envelope that bore only his name and surname. Delivered at the agency. By an unknown person. Inside were several black and white glossy photographs. Taken with a long distance lens. It showed the window of a house? A hotel? And beyond, a half naked Angelique in the passionate embrace of James
fucking
Burton. It had been delivered a few days before the divorce papers had arrived.

In an attempt at self-hate, Kyle had often imagined the two lovers together. But nothing in his imagination could possibly sting like the photographs.

Who would do something like that? And why? Had he not suffered enough? As if it wasn’t enough that his life was falling apart, somebody had to amuse themselves by screwing with him.

And he knew who it was. He knew exactly who it was. It had the unmistakeable touch of Charles Baker. It was subtle. But obvious. Baker had finally avenged himself. Kyle had humiliated him publicly all those years ago. And now Baker had his revenge. And there wasn’t a single thing Kyle could do about it. He didn’t know who he hated most; Charles Baker or James Burton. Fuckit!

Kyle looked up at the ceiling and let out a long and piercing howl of utter agony. And then he cried.

Outside, the leafy and tree-decked street was empty. Almost.

Within the darkness afforded by the many trees that lined the street, a man was standing motionless.

Alone. Watching.

Hope came into being at the exact halfway point of the nineteenth century. Although it gained relative historical importance during the second Anglo-Boer War of 1899-1902, it quickly congealed into the essential economic drudgery of small town South Africa and never achieved any kind of prominence again.

Until the advent of Daddy Long Legs.

The little town of Hope, and the province of the Northern Cape in general, is characterised by the cultural crucible of two very distinct peoples: the Afrikaners from essentially Protestant European descent; and the ethnic group collectively known as the Coloureds.

The Coloured people developed a very rich and distinct culture over time and adopted the language of their European fathers, which eventually became the language of Afrikaans, spoken throughout South Africa.

A consideration of the nature and history of this group is important in that Hope is shaped and influenced by the Coloured people. Specifically the people that chose to call themselves the Griqua.

Johannes Boonzaayer was a glorious son of the Griqua people. As a gifted child, he had been inspired by the notable figure of Sol Plaatjie, himself a Griqua and one of the founders of the African National Congress. Johannes Boonzaayer worked assiduously throughout his school career and as a young man dedicated himself to completing a medical degree at the Fort Hare University (which Plaatjie himself had attended). This was in sharp contrast to most of his male Griqua contemporaries who instead dedicated themselves to the assiduous consumption of alcohol. Upon completion of his degree, Boonzaayer decided to move back to Hope, the town of his youth, to dedicate himself to the health and upliftment of the people of Steynbrug township. He married a like-minded woman in the person of Katrina Olifant and soon after she fell pregnant with what would become their only child. This was due to a particularly difficult labour which even the skills of Doctor Boonzaayer could not assuage. As a result of injuries sustained during this mammoth episode, Katrina was unfortunately left sterile. It didn’t matter however, for the son borne of this hurt became the pride and joy of the young couple.

It wasn’t long before the intelligence and scholarly aptitudes of the elder Boonzaayer was observed in his son, named Benny, after Katrina’s grandfather. He began reading long before he attended school and soon learned English as a second language. He quickly came to the attention of some of the local magistrates. Following the efforts of a particularly liberal Administrator of the Cape Province (and no doubt spurred on by P.W. Botha’s efforts to ingratiate himself with the local Coloured population) the young Boonzaayer was allowed to attend the whites-only primary school in Hope. Thus sparing him the ravages of ‘Bantu Education’. In a short while, Benny Boonzaayer had become the shining hope of an entire community of Coloureds.

On the 2
nd
of November, 1987, these hopes were forever crushed when little Benny Boonzaayer disappeared after attending piano lessons with the local musical maestro, Arnold Havenga.

Arnold Havenga’s home was in the south-eastern residential area of Hope. In order to reach his township home to the north of town (Johannes Boonzaayer may have been a prosperous doctor and his son may have attended the white primary school, but under the Group Areas Act, he was nonetheless forced to live in the designated ‘Coloured’ area) little Benny Boonzaayer would usually walk along Church and Wide Streets, running through the heart of the town. On this particular day, however, Benny chose to cut along Erasmus Street which brought him to the local high school. The idea was to slip through a well-worn hole in the fence and then take a more direct route to his home in Steynbrug. Benny never arrived at the school grounds. A group of children who had been playing in the dusty section next to the school sporting grounds swore on their mothers’ graves that they never spotted the well-known boy. Whatever the case, Benny Boonzaayer was never seen again.

Alive or otherwise.

For, unbeknownst to the detectives and the terrified residents of Hope, something fundamental had happened in the life of the serial killer known as Daddy Long Legs. Something had changed. Or was beginning to change. And with this, the vicious killer himself too would begin to change. It was an event so profound that even a ruthless and heartless killer as Daddy Long Legs would be altered by it. Although no-one could possibly know it at the time, it was the beginning of the end of his murderous rampage. Whatever terrible thing it was that happened in the life of Daddy Long Legs, it would lead to a fundamental change in the way he operated. It would lead to the eventual cessation of all murders. And it would – some twenty years later – lead inexorably and directly to a new series of murders, even more rapacious and cruel than before. 

There would be only two more victims before Daddy Long Legs disappeared from history. But to those who studied the case in the years to follow, the change in the modus operandi happened with the disappearance of Benny Boonzaayer. The body of the little Coloured boy was never discovered. Neither were the bodies of the killer’s last two victims.

Doctor Johannes Boonzaayer – and the Hope community at large – knew by nightfall that little Benny had become the latest victim of Daddy Long Legs. The consequences were severe – and immediate. Realising that the light of his life had been consumed by a twisted mind, Doctor Boonzaayer suffered a nervous breakdown. Although he made a full recovery, he was never the same after that. Listless and unfocused, the good doctor tried to resume his thriving practice. But it was pointless. His spirit had been broken. And something darker had entered his life. Alcohol. When a minor procedure almost resulted in the death of a patient, Boonzaayer gave up all pretence of normality. And closed his practice for good. Immersed in a daily haze of alcoholism, he shut out the world and regressed at a steady rate. A few months later Katrina left him and returned to her family in Kimberley. Just over a year after the disappearance of his son, the former doctor could be found slumped outside the Coloured liquor store, begging cents from his former patients.

In one fell swoop, Daddy Long Legs had crushed the hopes and aspirations of an entire Coloured community.  

Within a year, he would take his last two victims.

And then. Disappear ...