The Disappeared (9 page)

How do you
kill an hour in a dead town?

Minki dipped
her bowl under the running water. She ran the sponge along the curve of the ceramic
dish. Detergent surged between her fingers as she squeezed the sponge. She
rinsed the soap-studded bowl under the water and used a dishtowel to dry the
bowl. Finally she placed the bowl in the cupboard where she had found it. Now
Minki repeated the same process for the spoon. She deliberately took her time.
She didn’t want to turn around.

Her father was
sitting at the kitchen table behind her.

She didn’t dare
to turn around.

He had
returned from whatever he was doing in his study and was now sitting at the
round breakfast table made from pine wood. He hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t
even acknowledged Minki’s presence. While she had been eating he had walked in –
in that same lifeless daze. He had simply walked up to the table and sat down. Now
he was staring at a point on the yellow surface of the kitchen table. And Minki
was afraid to turn around. She was afraid to look at him.

She placed the
spoon in the drawer, in the little compartment with all the other spoons.

She could hear
him breathing. It was slow. Forced. Careful. As if every breath was a conscious
effort. Minki could feel – hear – her heart beat. She shifted the large kettle,
moving the angular metallic container aimlessly from one spot to another. She
opened the drawer again. Haphazardly she pushed the cutlery rack with its
various compartments around the inside of the drawer. She closed the drawer
again.

Please just
leave. Please.

She took the moist
dishcloth and hung it on its peg above the double basins.

Please.

Minki grabbed
the edge of the counter top with both hands. She held on tight.

Behind her
there was the scrape of a chair being pushed across the tiled floor. And then
silence. Minki waited, too afraid to breathe. Silence. And then the shuffle of
feet. She could feel her father’s presence right behind her. And ... that same
mechanical breathing. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up in a wave of dread.
A cold chill flushed through her skin.

‘Minki.’

She inhaled
sharply. Her knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip on the countertop
edge. She refused to turn around. And all the time ... the dark unnatural
breathing behind her. The hoarse rasping was like sandpaper in her ears. She
was trying so hard but she couldn’t take it anymore. She was going to scream.
She knew it.

And then it
stopped. And there was nothing. Nothing at all.

Minki
swallowed hard. She daren’t turn around. She was afraid of what she would see.
What
if ...

Finally. She
spun around.

He wasn’t
there. Her father was gone. She was alone in the kitchen.

Her father was
gone. And she would never see him again.

Lindiwe stood
in front of the Bishop Police Station with its stark white walls, exaggerated
colonial design and the angular blue light suspended above the entrance. The
light bore the legend POLICE in white letters. The station looked like it may
have been a residential house in a bygone era. A low brick wall surrounded the
property, bordered by a flowerbed and a neat little lawn. A paved walkway led
up to the entrance. The station was adjacent to a large parking lot with a high
brick wall and a sturdy barred gate. Inside the lot Lindiwe could see a white
police van and two other civilian vehicles.

Where is
she? Oh God where is my gogo?

She took a
deep breath. The events of the morning had instilled in her a heady mix of
dread, fear and confusion. Her mental relapse at the bottle store

(
good ole
Cullies
)

had only
darkened her mood. She shuddered as she recalled the intensity of her cravings.
It had shocked her; rattled her to the deepest core of her being. Was she
really that weak? Did six months really mean that little? How could it be? She
felt like crying. Thank God for ...

Lindiwe
realised she hadn’t bothered to get his name. The cute guy with the long blond
hair and the boyish smile. Their meeting had been short. But the momentary
distraction he had offered was precious. She wished she could thank him again.
But it didn’t really matter did it? She would never see him again. As she
entered the police station she wondered what he was doing in a place like
Bishop ... on a morning like this.

The interior
of the police station was typical of police stations across the country. Drab.
Dreary. And brutishly functional. Whatever grand intentions the original
planners had for the outside of the station were sadly contrasted by its
interior. On her right against the wall was a long wooden bench. Above it the
wall was covered with various posters. ONLY STUPID PEOPLE DO DRUGS one said.
Another featured photographs of all the main narcotics with descriptions
underneath. KNOW YOUR ENEMY, big black letters proclaimed. Yet another poster
was a copy of the Official Service Charter. The most striking poster featured a
close-up of a woman’s badly beaten face. Lindiwe recognised the logo of POWA:
People Opposing Women Abuse. The headline read: DO YOU FEEL LIKE A MAN NOW?

All the walls
were painted in the same sickly withered-lettuce green.
Baby-puke
green
as Miss Lilly used to say. Three fluorescent lights on the ceiling bathed the interior
in harsh electric light only serving to highlight the room’s stark features. The
only aspect of the station that appealed to Lindiwe was the floor. It was
composed of little rectangular blocks of dark wood. It was constantly polished.
A ceaseless activity that accounted for its pristine gloss. Lindiwe knew that for
the station commander – Inspector Coetzee – it was a source of pride ... and a matter
of duty. It was the same Inspector Coetzee who was now standing behind the long
counter opposite the wall with all the posters.

Inspector Jan
Coetzee was a burly man in his early fifties with thinning close-cropped hair
and a huge walrus moustache. He was dressed in the blue uniform of the national
police force. When Lindiwe entered he was bent over the counter writing in an
A4 notepad attached to a clipboard. He was utterly engrossed in the effort. A
huge frown furrowed his forehead.

Lindiwe liked Inspector
Jan Coetzee. He was a good and conscientious police officer who believed fervently
in the moral imperative of his profession. He was also a good man outside of
his duties. When
gogo
had first introduced her to the residents of
Bishop, Lindiwe had encountered the usual blend of hypocrisy and bigotry. Whether
it was because she was black or an ex-alcoholic she couldn’t always say. But
the huge salt-of-the-earth policeman had welcomed her instantly and without
reservation. On occasion he had even driven her all the way to Bethlehem to
attend her AA meetings.
Gogo
had told her that many years ago he had had
his own bout with the bottle after the death of his wife. Whatever the case, he
had become someone she could not only trust but also look up to.

Lindiwe
approached the counter and stood before him. She saw now that he appeared more
than merely absorbed. There was a deep concern visible on his face that she had
never seen before. She was about to speak when he looked up.

‘Lindi.’ He
looked surprised to see her. Lindiwe noticed something else too. A troubled and
severely disturbed distractedness. ‘What are you doing here this time of the
morning?’

‘Inspector ...
I ... ‘ A dozen half-formed thoughts and unfinished sentences clogged her mind.
Where does one begin to describe a day that made absolutely no sense? ‘Inspector,
I’m worried. Gogo ... Mrs Van Deventer ... I don’t know ... she’s gone, Inspector.’
Lindiwe wrung her hands anxiously. Her eyes danced between a dozen points on
the floor the wall behind Coetzee with its cluttered bulletin board and his
face. ‘Gogo is gone. She’s disappeared.’

‘Gone.’ It
wasn’t a question but a statement. His voice sounded strangely vacuous and far away.
Darkness flashed across his face and his frown deepened. Lindiwe wasn’t sure
exactly what reaction she expected from Inspector Coetzee but she was
nevertheless taken aback. His eyes dropped to the report he had been writing.
When he looked up again Lindiwe noticed a nervous tension in his face and a
tightness around his eyes. He looked beyond her. There was complete silence as
the big commanding officer stared into the dark pit of his thoughts.

‘Inspector?’

He snapped
back and for a second looked at Lindiwe as if for the very first time. ‘Lindiwe.
Please, you must forgive me. It’s been – ‘ He cleared his throat for a moment
appearing extremely awkward. Then – in a visible effort – Lindiwe saw the Inspector
gathering himself into a point of focus. ‘Alright now, let’s start again.’ The Inspector
was all duty and procedure once again. It was the policeman that she had always
known: Inspector Jan Coetzee. Station commander of Bishop Police Station. Lindiwe
relaxed slightly. ‘You said that Estelle – Mrs van Deventer – has disappeared.
Disappeared?’

Lindiwe
nodded. ‘Yes.’ She could hear the strain in her own voice.

‘Now please,
you must bear with me.’ He leaned forward. ‘Lindi, are you sure?’

Lindiwe
exploded. All the tension. All the confusion. All the dread erupted into a single
hot jet of emotion. ‘What do you mean am I sure? Of course I’m sure. I looked
everywhere, the whole fucking house. She’s not there. I looked. I looked! And
no! I have NOT been drinking. Her bed’s not even made. She’s gone! Why don’t
you believe me?’ Lindi stopped. She was shocked at herself. Tears flowed hot across
her cheeks.

‘Relax,
meisie
.
Just relax.’ Coetzee spoke softly, a quiet tenderness in his voice. As usual he
spoke slowly. Choosing each awkward word carefully in the language that wasn’t
his mother tongue. ‘I believe you. It’s not that I
don’t
believe you or
think that you – ‘ He glanced at his report. He pulled two big thumbs through
his eyes massaging them slowly roughly. ‘My girl, I am asking you because, you
see,
I
need to be sure.’ Lindiwe could now see that cogs and gears were
moving inside his head. His eyes flitted back and forth as the machinery in his
head computed what she could already see on his face. He was deciding whether
to tell her something ...  something important. ‘Lindi, she’s not the only one.’
He looked at her piercingly. There was a sharpness in his eyes. ‘I’m not sure
...  but I think ... she’s not the only one ... who has disappeared.’

Lindiwe
stared, dumbfounded.

‘You see, my
girl, the reason why I ask you if you’re sure ... is because I have to be sure.
You understand?’ Lindiwe nodded mutely. Coetzee released a pent-up breath then
managed a wan smile. She smiled back uncertainly. ‘Okay, good. Now tell me,
Lindi, when did you realise ...
gogo
was gone?’

Lindiwe briefly
told Inspector Coetzee all the events of that morning since she had woken up
from her fitful slumber. Feeling silly and not a bit paranoid Lindiwe chose to
omit the strange inexplicable incident with the dogs. At the same time for
reasons she couldn’t quite understand, she also decided not to tell the Inspector
about the young man she met in front of the bottle store.

‘I see. And
she left no message of whatever nature. Nothing?’ Lindiwe shook her head. ‘And
of course, she would not be the sort of person to leave her premises without
notifying you in one way or other. I mean, she has never done this before? Am I
correct, Lindi?’ She nodded. The Inspector ruminated worriedly while stroking
his mammoth moustache. ‘And you don’t think she departed for Bethlehem with
Miss Lily ... for their um ... monthly shopping expedition?’

‘Her
bakkie
was still standing in the driveway,’ Lindiwe said referring to the old white Toyota
Hilux pick-up truck. Miss Lily didn’t drive. As a result their trips to Bethlehem
always happened in the Hilux. Everybody knew this.

‘Yes, I see.’
Coetzee nodded to himself. ‘Okay, Lindi, tell me. Do you know if she is maybe
at Miss Lily’s house? Maybe Miss Lily had an emergency and Mrs van Deventer
went there to ... ah ... assist her, maybe? Did you look for her there?’
Lindiwe shook her head. She had to admit that she hadn’t yet taken the effort
to go to Miss Lily’s house. She also didn’t want to say it – admit it to
herself – that she believed that going there would be pointless and a wasted
effort. She didn’t want to admit the dark but solid conviction inside her that
gogo
was gone and that she would never see her again.

‘Okay. Now
Lindi, I want you to do me a favour. It will help me really very much. Okay? I
want you to go to Miss Lily’s house and look there for her. Then I want you to
come and tell me what you found. Okay? In the meantime, I will make a turn at
her house and see what I can find out. I just need to finalise some paperwork
over here then I’ll take the van and have a look-see. How does that sound?’

Lindiwe nodded
fighting against the tears that threatened to overwhelm her. ‘Thank you Inspector
Coetzee. Thank you.’ She grabbed one of his beefy hands and squeezed it. ‘I
really appreciate it.’

‘It’s a huge
pleasure, my girl. Really.’

Lindiwe waved
at Coetzee and walked towards the exit.

‘Lindiwe?’ She
turned to the policeman behind the counter. He was staring at her intently. ‘How
are you doing? Are you coping?’ The question sent a hot flush of embarrassment
through her face. Lindiwe always felt this way whenever anybody made any kind
of reference to her addiction. Even after all this time it was a matter of
great shame for her. The events of the morning thus far didn’t help much. She
remembered the episode in front of the bottle store. The plunge into the dark