Riotous Assembly (16 page)

“Under dureth,” said Mr Jackson. “Then it won’t thtand up.”

“I don’t expect it to,” said the Bishop.

“It can’t,” said Els. “Confessions never do.”

“How wath it forthed out of you?”

“I was made to stand up.”

“You weren’t,” said Els. “I let you sit down.”

“So you did,” said the Bishop.

“Tho it wathn’t made under dureth,” said Mr Jackson.

“I told you just now. It was made in here,” said Els.

“It was partly made under duress,” said the Bishop.

“Don’t listen to him,” said Els. “I know where it was made. It was made in here.”

“Wath it made in here?” asked Mr Jackson.

“Yeth,” said the Bishop, lapsing into legal jargon.

“There you are. I told you it was,” said Els.

“There theemth to be thome confuthion,” said Mr Jackson. “What did you confeth to?”

“Genuflexion with a rubber prick,” said Els hurriedly forestalling lesser crimes.

“Genuflecthion with a what?” Mr Jackson asked.

“He means a rubric, I think,” said the Bishop.

“I don’t. I mean a rubber prick,” said Els indignantly.

“Thoundth a thrange thort of offenth,” said Mr Jackson.

“You’re telling me,” said Els.

“I thought thith wath a capital cathe,” said Mr Jackson.

“It is,” said Els, “I’m enjoying it no end.”

“Genuflecthing ithn’t a crime under Thouth African law.”

“It is with a rubber prick,” said Els.

“There were some other crimes in my confession,” said the Bishop.

“Thuthch ath?”

“Murder,” said the Bishop.

“Lesbianism,” said Els.

“Lethbianithm? Thatth impothible. A man can’t commit lethbianithm. Are you thure you’ve
got the right cathe?”

“Positive,” said Els.

“Would you mind allowing my client to thpeak for himthelf?” Mr Jackson asked Els.

“I’m just trying to help,” said Els aggrieved.

“Now then,” Mr Jackson went on, “ith it true that you have admitted to being a
lethbian?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” said the Bishop.

“And a murderer?”

“It does seem strange, doesn’t it?” said the Bishop.

“It thoundth fantathtic. What elth did you confeth?”

The Bishop hesitated. He did not want Mr Jackson to object to his confession before
it was read out in court. Everything depended on the absurdity of the document and Mr
Jackson did not look like a lawyer who would understand that.

“I think I would prefer the case to go forward as it is,” he said, and excusing himself
on the ground that he was tired, ushered the attorney out of the cell.

“Thee you on the day,” Mr Jackson said cheerily, and left Bottom.

 It was not due to Mr Jackson however, that Jonathan Hazelstone’s confession
never reached the court in its unabridged version. It was thanks rather to the
conscientiousness of Luitenant Verkramp who, eager for praise, had sent a copy of the
confession to BOSS in Pretoria. The head of the Bureau of State Security found the
document on his desk one morning and read the thing through with a growing sense of
disbelief. It wasn’t that he was unused to reading extravagant confessions. After all
the Security Branch existed to manufacture them and he could boast that it had a
reputation in this respect second to none. One hundred and eighty days in solitary
confinement and days of standing up without sleep while being questioned had the
tendency to produce some pretty damning admissions from the suspects, but the
confession that Verkramp had sent him made all previous ones look positively tame.

“The man’s out of his mind,” he said after ploughing through a catalogue of crimes that
included necrophilia, flagellation and liturgy, but it was not certain which man he was
referring to. After a conference with leading members of the Government, BOSS
decided to intervene in the interests of Western civilization incarnate in the
Republic of South Africa and using the powers bestowed on it by Parliament, ordered the
suppression of nine-tenths of the confession. Judge Schalkwyk was to try, convict, and
condemn the prisoner, with no opportunity to appeal, on charges of murdering one
Zulu cook and twenty-one policemen. No other charges were to be preferred and no
evidence prejudicial to State security was to be presented in court. Grumbling
furiously, the old Judge was forced in accordance with South African law to obey. Jonathan
Hazelstone was to be hanged, there must be no miscarriage of justice, but he was after all
to be hanged for a lamb.

 The trial took place in Piemburg and in the very courtroom in which the accused’s
father had made such a great reputation.

“The old order changeth,” Jonathan murmured to his lawyer as he took his seat in the dock.
Mr Jackson was not amused.

“It hardly becometh you to make mockery of my defect,” he said. “Bethideth from what I
have heard you would do better to thay ‘The wortht ith yet to come.’”

Mr Jackson for once was right. The discovery that his confession had been expurgated
came as the real shock of the trial to the Bishop. In the adjournment that followed the
announcement that he was only to be tried for murder, Jonathan consulted with his
attorney.

“I thould plead inthanity. It theemth your only chanth,” was Mr Jackson’s advice.

“But I’m entirely innocent. I had nothing to do with the murder of twenty-one
policemen.”

“I darethay but it ith an unfortunate fact that you have confethed to killing them.”

“I was forced to. Why on earth should I want to murder them?”

“I have no idea,” said Mr Jackson. “My clienth motiveth are alwayth a mythtery to me. The
point ith that the evidenth againtht you theemth pretty concluthive. You had the
opportunity and the weaponth were found in your pothethion. Furthermore you have
admitted in a thigned confethion to having killed them. I thuggetht you change your plea
from not guilty to guilty but inthane.”

“I’m not inthane,” shouted the Bishop.

“I haven’t come here to be inthulted,” said Mr Jackson.

“I’m thorry,” said the Bishop. “I mean I’m sorry.”

“I shall change the plea,” said Mr Jackson finally. “Inthanity it ith.”

“I suppose so,” said the Bishop.

“It’th better than being hanged,” said Mr Jackson. They went back into the
courtroom.

The trial proceeded rapidly. By the end of the afternoon the prosecution’s case had
been presented and Mr Jackson had made no attempt at a reasoned defence. He was relying
on the leniency of the court in the face of the accused’s obvious insanity.

In his summing-up to a jury handpicked from close relatives of the murdered
policemen, Judge Schalkwyk spoke with a brevity and degree of impartiality quite
unusual for him.

“You have heard it said,” he mumbled, though it was certain that thanks to his own
deafness he hadn’t, “by the prosecuting counsel that the accused committed these crimes.
You have seen the accused’s confession with your own eyes, and you have heard the defence
counsel’s plea that his client is insane. Now you may think that there is something to be
said for the hypothesis that a man who murders twenty-one policemen and then signs a
confession saying that he has done so is manifestly not of his right mind. It is my duty
however to point out to you that to plead insanity in the light of the overwhelming
evidence against him is not the action of an insane person. It is a highly rational
action and one that indicates a degree of perception only to be found in an
intelligent and healthy mind. I think therefore that you can disregard the question of
insanity altogether in your deliberations. You need only concern yourselves with the
matter of guilt. There is in my mind no shadow of doubt that the defendant committed the
murders of which he is accused. He possessed, as we have heard from the expert evidence
presented by the prosecution, both the opportunity and the means. He was found in
possession of the murder weapons and in the act of disposing of them. His wallet and
handkerchief were found at the scene of the crime, and he has given no adequate
explanation of how they got there. Finally, he has admitted in a signed confession
that he was responsible for the murders. I think I need say no more. You and I both know
that the defendant is guilty. Now go away and come back and say so.”

The jury filed out of the courtroom. Two minutes later they returned. Their verdict
was unanimous. Jonathan Hazelstone was guilty of murder twenty-one and a quarter times
over.

In passing sentence Judge Schalkwyk allowed himself to depart from the lack of bias he
had shown in his summing-up. He took into account a previous conviction which
concerned a motoring offence. The convicted man had failed to give adequate notice of
intention to make a left-hand turn at an intersection and as the Judge pointed out, this
threatened the very existence of the South African constitution which was based on a
series of consistent moves to the right.

“You are a threat to the values of Western civilization,” said the Judge, “and it is the
duty of this court to stamp Communism out,” and he ordered the prisoner to be taken from
the court and hanged by the neck until he was dead. He was about to leave the courtroom when
Mr Jackson asked to have a word with him in private.

“I would like to draw your Honour’th attention to a privilege which belongth to the
Hazelthtone family,” he gurgled.

“The Hazelstone family doesn’t have any privileges any more, I’m glad to say,” said the
Judge.

“It’th a prerogative of long thtanding. It dateth back to the dayth of Thir
Theophiluth.”

“Long standing, what do you mean? There’s no question of his standing long. He’ll be
hanged shortly.”

“I mean the privilege of being hanged in Piemburg Prithon. It wath conferred on the
family for perpetuity,” Mr Jackson tried to explain.

“Mr Jackson,” the Judge shouted, “you are wasting my time and that of this court, not to
mention that of your client who has little enough left of it as it is. Perpetuity means
the quality of preserving something from oblivion. The quality of the sentence I have
just passed is in intent quite the opposite. I think I need say no more, and I should
advise you to do the same.”

Mr Jackson made one last effort. “Can my client be hanged in Piemburg Prithon?” he
shouted.

“Of course he can,” the Judge yelled. “He has to be. It’s a long-standing privilege of
the Hazelstone family.”

“Thank you,” said Mr Jackson. As the court was cleared Jonathan Hazelstone was taken back
to his cell in a state of numbed shock.

It was with something of the same sense of shock that Governor Schnapps learnt that it
had fallen to him to preside over the first hanging Piemburg Prison had seen for twenty
years. Not that he was in the least squeamish or upset at the thought of having to attend an
execution. He had in his time as a prison officer attended any number of hangings,
mostly unofficial ones carried out by black convicts anxious to escape once and for all
from the regime he had prescribed for them, but none the less hangings and the prospect of
having at least one official execution to his credit filled him with a feeling of
satisfaction. The sense of shock stemmed from quite other considerations.

There was for instance the question of the gallows which had not been used for twenty
years except as a convenient place in which to store odds and ends. Governor Schnapps
inspected Top himself and, from the little of it he could see across the buckets and
garden rollers that were packed inside, came to the conclusion that the scaffold was in no
shape to hang anyone. The same might well be said of the prospective executioners. The old
warder volunteered to advise whoever was chosen as hangman but adamantly refused to
attend the execution in person on the grounds that the Death House was unsafe, and the
Governor’s attempts to persuade one of the other warders to accept the job of
executioner met with no success. No one it seemed was anxious to join Jonathan Hazelstone
on his last walk if this entailed climbing the rickety steps up to Top.

In desperation Governor Schnapps telephoned the official executioner in Pretoria
to ask him if he could come down to Piemburg for the day but the executioner was far too
busy.

“Out of the question,” he told Schnapps, “I’ve got thirty-two customers that day and
besides I never hang singles. I can’t remember when I last did one man. I always do mine
in batches of six at a time and in any case I have my reputation to think of. I hang more
people every year than any other executioner in the world, more than all the other
executioners in the free world put together as a matter of fact, and if it once got about
that I hanged a single man, people would think I was losing my touch.”

As a last resort Governor Schnapps raised the question of privilege with the State
Attorney.

“I can’t see why this man Hazelstone should be privileged,” he said. “Everyone else is
hanged in Pretoria. It seems wrong to me that a fellow who knocks off twenty-one
policemen should be entitled to privileges which are denied to ordinary
common-or-garden murderers.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it,” the State Attorney told him. “Judge
Schalkwyk allowed the privilege to stand and I can’t alter his decision.”

“But how did the Hazelstone family ever get the right to be hanged in Piemburg in the
first place?”

The State Attorney looked up the records.

“It dates from the speech made by Sir Theophilus at the opening of the prison in 1888,” he
told the Governor. “In the course of that speech Sir Theophilus said, and I quote, ‘Capital
punishment and flogging are essential to the peace and tranquillity of Zululand. They
confer upon the native races a sense of the innate superiority of the white man and in
declaring this prison open I should like to say that it is my considered opinion that the
very future of white civilization in this dark continent depends, one might almost say,
hangs, on the frequent use of the scaffold we have been privileged to see here today. It
will be a sad day for this country when the gallows trap falls for the last time and one that
I trust no member of my family will live to see.’ Unquote.”

“All very commendable,” said the Governor, “but I don’t see that it necessarily means
that we have to keep the gallows for the exclusive use of the Hazelstone family.”

The State Attorney picked up another document.

“Now here we have the statement of the late Judge Hazelstone made at the time all
executions were transferred to Pretoria. The Judge was asked what he thought his father
had meant in his speech. His answer was, I quote ‘It’s perfectly obvious. The gallows and
the Hazelstone family stand or fall together. My father believed and rightly believed
that our family should set an example to Zululand. I can think of no finer example than
that of having our own private gallows in Piemburg Prison.’ Unquote. Pretty conclusive,
don’t you think?”

Governor Schnapps had to concede that it was and returned to the prison still faced with
the problem of finding an executioner.

In the end it was Konstabel Els who became the official hangman. The Konstabel was
still happily contemplating how he was going to spend the reward money he had earned
from the capture of Miss Hazelstone and was looking forward to the ceremony in the
police drill hall when he would be presented with the cheque by the Commissioner of
Police. He had decided it was worth the price asked by the taxidermist at the Piemburg
Museum to have Toby stuffed.

“I’m having the Dobermann stuffed,” he announced to Kommandant van Heerden one
day.

“Then I expect you wouldn’t mind earning some pocket money,” said the Kommandant.

“How?” asked Els suspiciously.

“Nothing arduous,” said the Kommandant. “It certainly doesn’t require any effort on
your part. In fact when I come to think of it I wonder you haven’t tried your hand at it
already. I can’t think of a better man for the job.”

“Hm,” said Els who didn’t like the Kommandant’s beguiling tone.

“I’d say you’ve probably got a natural talent for it.”

Els tried to think what dirty jobs needed doing round the police station. “What is it?”
he asked shortly.

“It’s the sort of job you’d really like,” said the Kommandant, “and for once you would
be doing it legally.”

Els tried to think of something he would really like which wasn’t legal. Having it off
with black women seemed the most obvious thing.

“Of course you’d get the usual fee,” continued the Kommandant.

“The usual fee?”

“Twenty-five rand, I think it is,” said the Kommandant, “though it may have gone
up.”

“Hm,” said Els who was beginning to think his ears were deceiving him.

“Not bad for a bit of fun,” said the Kommandant, who knew that Konstabel Els had shot at
least fifteen people in the course of duty and twenty-one for pure pleasure. “Of course
the method would take some getting used to.”

Konstabel Els searched his memory to find some method he hadn’t used. As far as he knew
he’d used every position in the book and a few more besides.

“What method had you in mind?” he inquired.

The Kommandant was getting fed up with Els’ diffidence.

“With a rope round the neck and a ten-foot drop,” he snapped. “That ought to do for a
start.”

Els was appalled. If that was how it was going to start, he hated to think what the
finish would be like.

“Wouldn’t that be a bit dangerous?” he said.

“Of course not. Safe as houses.”

It was not as safe as any house Konstabel Els could think of.

“Of course if you’re scared,” began the Kommandant.

“I’m not scared,” said Els. “If you really want me to do it, I will, but I’m not taking
any responsibility for what will happen to the poor bitch. I mean you can’t drop a woman
ten feet with a rope tied round her neck without doing her some injury, not even a kaffir
woman. And as for stuffing-”

“What the hell are you talking about, Els?” the Kommandant asked. “Who said anything
about women? I’m talking about hanging Jonathan Hazelstone. I’m offering you the job of
hangman and you keep going on like a maniac about women. Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes sir. I am now,” said Els.

“Well, then will you do it or not?”

“Oh yes. I’ll hang him all right. I don’t mind doing that,” and Els had gone off to
practise on the gallows at Piemburg Prison.

“I’m Executioner Els,” he announced grandly to the warder at the gate. “I’m the
official hangman.”

 Left alone in his office Kommandant van Heerden listened to his heart. Ever
since the night he had found himself alone in the garden of Jacaranda House, he had known
that there was something seriously wrong with it.

“It’s all that running about and jumping out of windows,” he said to himself. “Bound to
be bad for a man of my age.” He had visited his doctor several times only to be told that
he needed to take more exercise.

“You must be mad,” the Kommandant told him. “I’ve been running about all over the
place.”

“You’re overweight. That’s the only thing wrong with you,” said the doctor.

“I’ve collapsed twice,” the Kommandant insisted. “Once at Jacaranda House and the
second time in court.”

“Probably bad conscience,” said the doctor cheerfully, and the Kommandant had gone
away in a foul temper to take it out on Luitenant Verkramp.

Kommandant van Heerden’s third seizure came during the ceremony in the drill hall at
which the Commissioner of Police presented the reward to Konstabel Els. The
Kommandant had regretted giving Els the reward as soon as he heard that it would be
presented by the Commissioner before an audience of five hundred and seventy-nine
policemen and their families. The prospect of Els standing up and making a speech of
thanks was not one that Kommandant van Heerden could look forward to with any
enthusiasm.

“Listen, Els,” he said before climbing on to the platform where the Commissioner was
waiting. “You don’t have to say anything more than ‘Thank you very much.’ I don’t want to
listen to a long speech.”

Konstabel Els nodded. He wasn’t given to making speeches, long or short. The two men
entered the hall.

In the event, the evening was worse than even the Kommandant had anticipated. The
Commissioner had just heard of the new honour conferred on Konstabel Els and he had
decided to end his speech by announcing the news to the assembled men.

“And so I call on Konstabel Els to come up and receive his reward,” he said finally,
“or should I say. Executioner Els.”

A wild burst of laughter and applause greeted the remark. “That’s right, call him
Executioner Els,” someone shouted, and another voice yelled, “Kaffir-Killer Els.”

The Commissioner held up his hand for silence as Els scrambled on to the platform.

“We all know what a vital contribution Konstabel Els has made to the solution of the
racial problem in South Africa,” he continued amid laughter. “I think I can honestly say
that there can be few men in the South African Police force who have disposed of more
obstacles to the establishment of a racially pure and truly white South Africa than
Konstabel Els. But I am not referring now to Konstabel Els’ excellence of aim nor to
the sacrifices he has seen fit to make in pursuit of our common dream, a South Africa with
no blacks in it. I speak now of his new duty. Konstabel Els has been chosen to carry out
the duty of hanging the man whom we have to thank for our depleted ranks here tonight.” He
paused and turned to Konstabel Els. “I have great pleasure in presenting you with this
cheque in reward for the capture of a dangerous criminal,” he said shaking Els by the
hand. “Hangman Els, you have done your fellow policemen proud.”

A great round of applause greeted the news of Els’ appointment. Els took the cheque and
turned to go back to his seat.

“Thank God for that,” said the Kommandant out loud, but the next moment there were shouts
of “Speech. Speech. You’ve got to make a speech,” and “Tell us how you’re going to kill the
bastard,” and Els standing awkwardly on the edge of the platform was finally persuaded
to say something.

“Well,” he said hesitantly, when the shouting had died down, “I expect you all want to
know how I’m going to spend the money.” He paused and the Kommandant shut his eyes. “Well,
first of all I’m going to stuff a Dobermann.”

The audience roared its approval, and the Kommandant opened his eyes for a moment to
see how the Commissioner of Police was taking it. The Commissioner was not
laughing.

“It’s a dog, sir,” whispered the Kommandant hurriedly.

“I know it’s a dog. I know what a Dobermann is,” said the Commissioner icily, and
before the Kommandant could explain the true nature of Els’ intentions the Konstabel
had started again.

“It’s a big black one,” said Els, “and it’s been dead a few weeks now, so it’s not going to
be an easy job.”

The audience was delighted. Shouts and the stamping of boots greeted Els’ news.

“Do your men make a habit of stuffing dogs?” asked the Commissioner.

“He’s not using the word in its usual sense, sir,” said the Kommandant
desperately.

“I’m fully aware of that,” said the Commisioner. “I know exactly what he means.”

“I don’t think you do, sir,” the Kommandant began, but Els had started to speak again
and he had to keep quiet.

“It’s sort of stiff,” said Els, “and that’s what makes it difficult to get at its
insides.”

“You’ve got to stop him,” the Commissioner shouted at Kommandant van Heerden, as the
hall erupted with hysterical laughter.

“You don’t understand, sir,” the Kommandant shouted back. “He killed the dog and-”

“I’m not at all surprised. It’s a pity he didn’t kill himself in the process.”

Around them in the hall pandemonium raged. Konstabel Els couldn’t see anything in
what he had said to laugh at.

“You can laugh,” he shouted above the din, “you can bloody laugh, but I bet you haven’t got
a dog with a family tree. My dog had a special tree …” The rest of his sentence was drowned
in the laughter.

“I’m not sitting here listening to any more of this filth,” shouted the
Commissioner.

“If you’d just wait for a moment, sir,” the Kommandant screamed. “I can explain what he
means. He’s going to take the dog to a taxidermist.”

But the Commissioner had already risen from his seat and had left the platform.

“Damned disgusting,” he said to his adjutant as he entered his car. “The fellow’s a
sexual maniac.”