When Time Fails (Silverman Saga Book 2) (11 page)

Annamari jumped out of the Kibbutz Steynspruit minibus and slammed the door. She ran up to the house, wrenched the back door open, stormed into the kitchen and tripped over Steyn’s yellow and red aeroplane, sending it skidding into the wall. Steyn looked up from mashing his toast soldiers into his highchair tray, and howled. Pretty jumped up and hurriedly retrieved the toy. Steyn grasped the plastic plane in his chubby, buttery fingers and beamed at his mother.

Annamari drew in a deep breath and leaned over to kiss his blond curls. ‘Thanks Pretty,’ she said. ‘Sorry Steyntjie – bu
t
jislaai
k
, men can be so bloody stupid and stubborn. Don’t you get like that, you hear?’

Steyn gurgled and tried to feed a toast soldier to the toy. Annamari left Pretty to deal with the mess, went into the lounge, flung herself down on the couch and fumed. She went over it all again. She’d been so sure, so certain. Well almost. She’d had it all planned. How she’d show Wynand the evidence she’d so painstakingly compiled; how he’d praise her for her exemplary detective work. How he’d get on the phone and call for backup. How he’d swoop out of the police station and, sirens blaring,would go off to catch the effing murderer. He wouldn’t have been able to do anything else. Because it was all there in the neat brown folder: the photocopies of the newspaper clippings Ian had faxed through again; the photograph that had been published i
n
Die Transvale
r
. And there was the caption which stated that the man in the photograph was Fanie Strydom who escaped from the attack that had killed Wilhelmina Botha and her daughter, with nothing more serious than a badly cut leg from catching it on the barbed wire fence he’d crawled through to get away from the terrorists. The newspaper clipping was dated Friday, 6 May, 1983. There was absolutely no question about it... even someone a
s
do
f
as Wynand would be able to see that Fanie Strydom was Stefan Smit.

But it was clear that time hadn’t improved Wynand Vorster’s capacity to see past his bulbous nose. He’d been leaning back in his chair in the Bethlehem Central Police Station, his size fourteens propped up on the desk, eating a koeksuster when she walked in. His office was tiny: there was scarcely any room for the two desks and four chairs. Captain James Motaung – according to the sign on the door – had eased his considerable bulk out from behind one desk, nodded at her and left after she asked ‘Wynand, can I speak to you?’

Wynand hauled his boots off the desk and noisily sucked the sticky syrup from his fingers. He gestured to Annamari to sit on the cracked red plastic chair on the other side of his desk. ‘Good riddance,’ he said. ‘Can you believe it that that k..
.
ok
e
outranks me? He says he was in the Qwa Qwa police but I don’t believe him. He was a terrorist – APLA or more probably MK – Umkhonto we Sizwe. That’s why he’s a captain already and I’m... I’ve heard none of us from the old South African Police Force can expect promotion anymore because they’re bringing in these toy cops from the homelands and, even worse, the terrorist armies, and putting them in charge. It’s f...bloody crazy. But ja, what can we do? So, what’s up, Annamari? Been years, hasn’t it? How’s Thys?’

Pleasantries over – Wynand was married with thre
e
laaitie
s
now; his wife was also a police officer – Annamari handed Wynand what Thys had teasingly called her dossier. He put it down on the desk without looking at it.

‘What’s this?’

She swallowed. ‘You remember when my parents were killed?’

‘Ja, of course. We never got the terrs that did it. But once De Klerk took over and released Mandela, catching terrs wasn’t a priority anymore.’

Annamari bit back an angry retort. ‘Wynand, why were you so sure it was terrorists? Did you ever consider that maybe it wasn’t?’ She was proud of how she managed to keep her voice steady, and calm.

Wynand rocked back in his chair and stared at her. He was silent for a while and then he barked out a laugh.

‘You are kidding, right? Of course it was terrs. They cut through the fence, killed the dogs, made their way to the house and shot up your family with an AK47. Then they took your father’s shotgun and left. That’s it. We tried to follow their tracks but...’

‘Did you find any tracks? Where did they go?’

‘What is this, Annamari? We investigated but the terrs were gone. It’s not far to the Lesotho border, as you know.’

‘Wynand please. Listen to me. I don’t think it was terrorists. I think Stefan Smit had something to do with it.’

This time Wynand snorted. Loudly.
‘
Jissi
e
, Annamari, you’ll get yourself into deep shit with accusations like that. I know you never liked Smit – I mean you even accused him of raping tha
t
kaffi
r
girl – but really! Kill your family? That’s really crazy.’

So she showed him the photograph of Stefan Smit with the woman and girl he’d always claimed were his wife and daughter who had been killed in the Pretoria bombing but were not listed as victims of that attack.

‘Ja, so what? That proves nothing,’ Wynand said, his left leg jiggling under the desk.

She showed him the story about terrorists attacking Wilhelmina Botha’s smallholding and killing her and her daughter a couple of weeks before the Pretoria attack. She showed him the newspaper photograph of Fanie Strydom. The photograph that looked exactly like Stefan Smit.

For a second, Wynand hesitated. Then he shook his head and leaned back in his chair again, so far that Annamari expected it to topple. ‘Ja, okay. It looks like Smit. But so what?’

‘Don’t you think it’s a bit of a coincidence that two lots of people he’s been close to have all been killed in terrorist attacks? And both times he barely got a scratch on him.’

‘Annamari, he wasn’t even on Steynspruit when the attack happened. You know that.’

‘He was. Petrus and the others saw him.’

Wynand slammed his chair down and glared at her. ‘Th
e
kaffir
s
will say anything to protect themselves. They helped the terrs – no wait,’ Wynand held up his hand as Annamari tried to protest. ‘I know you don’t think they did, but it’s obvious. They may not have wanted to, but farmworkers always helped the terrs. They had to, even if they didn’t want to. That’s what terrorists did. They terrorised the farmworkers and forced them to work with them.’

Annamari shook her head. She had to make him see the truth.

So she told him about the train and bus service between Driespruitfontein and Pretoria – or rather, the lack of public transport that day. And her conclusion that Stefan couldn’t possibly have gone anywhere beyond Driespruitfontein, let alone all the way to Pretoria as he’d claimed. And he hadn’t been in Driespruitfontein either. He’d been on Steynspruit.

Annamari watched, fascinated, as a blue vein popped out on Wynand’s temple, and his ruddy face darkened. ‘Annamari, are you accusing me of not doing my job? What do you expect me to do about all this?’ He swept his arm over the desk and some of the papers fluttered to the floor.

‘Investigate! Find Stefan Smit or Fanie Strydom or whatever his real name is. Ask him questions, find out what really happened. Get hold of the Warmbaths police... ’

‘You’re nuts. We can barely cope with all the murders and farm attacks now. Do you have any idea how many farm murders there have been this year alone? This is an old case. They are both old cases. And they have nothing to do with each other.’

‘They do. You’ll see. If you’d just investigate...’

‘I told you. We don’t even have enough real cops to cope with current cases anymore. Dozens, hell no, hundreds of white cops – real cops with proper experience – have left the Force. The rest of us can’t cope with the workload and the dark side of the Force is worse than useless. Forget it Annamari. Just go home and forget it.’

She retrieved the papers and – hands shaking – put them back in the brown folder. She clutched it to her chest and started towards the door, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over. Why had she been so damned stupid to think Wynand ... anyone ... would believe her?

‘Hang on. Where’d you think you’re going with that?’ Wynand snapped. ‘That’s police evidence
.
Give it to me.’

Annamari stared at him, shocked. ‘But you said... you said it was nothing...’

‘I’m not going to let you go around stirring up more shit. You’ve done enough already. Give it to me.’ Wynand held out his hand.

Annamari stared at his dirty fingernails for a moment and then slowly put the folder on the desk and stalked out of the office. She squeezed past Captain Motaung who had obviously witnessed her humiliation, and forced herself to walk, head held high, down the corridor – the thunk of her dossier as it landed in Wynand’s file thirteen echoing in her ears.

***

She barely remembered the drive back to Steynspruit. She couldn’t believe Stefan Smit/Fanie Strydom was going to be allowed to get away with murder – five murders, if her suspicions were correct. But what could she do?

She walked back into the kitchen and slammed some utensils on the dresser. Pretty had cleaned up and taken Steyn out to play with the other Steynspruit toddlers. Annamari switched on the kettle and just before it boiled, poured a little water into he
r
oum
a
’s ceramic mixing bowl. Then she added yeast and stirred. In went the salt, sugar, margarine and milk. She didn’t have to measure the ingredients anymore. She knew exactly how much to use. Then she added the flour. Impatient, she forced herself to breathe, to go slowly, adding flour a little at a time. She poked the dough. Too gooey. She added more flour, poked at the dough again. It sprang back at her. It was ready. She turned it out onto the floured table top and punched it. And punched it again. She turned it over and hit it again, and again, and again and again...

‘Ma, are you planning to kill that bread?’

Annamari’s head jerked up and she looked at her oldest son. His blue eyes were twinkling.
‘
Jissi
e
, Ma. What’s got you so riled up that you need your bread therapy again?’

‘Arno! What are you doing here? How did you get here? What’s wrong?’

‘No, Ma. Everything’s fine. We’ve finished the syllabus so they gave us the rest of the day off. I thought you could take me back in the morning.’

Annamari pushed back a tendril of her hair with a floury hand. ‘I suppose so. But why have you come home? How did you get here?’

‘I got a lift with Jacobus. He was going to Viljoenspruit. I need to ask Bootie something.’

Annamari shivered. She had hoped, prayed, that as Arno and Beauty grew up, they’d stop being such good friends. But it hadn’t happened. They still spent every waking minute together when Arno was home. Arno claimed he was helping Beauty with her schoolwork. Annamari insisted that these extra lessons take place at the kitchen table where she could ensure that the only lessons that were being taught and learned were those that were included in the school curriculum. She was not going to allow history to repeat itself. Only this time it would be a thousand, a million times worse.

‘What’s so important that you had to come all the way to speak to Beauty? Why couldn’t it wait for your next weekend home?’

‘Because I need to ask Bootie to go to the matric dance with me and I’ve already left it much too late and...’

‘What!’ The mixing bowl clattered to the floor and shattered. ‘You can’t. You can’t take Beauty to your matric dance. Absolutely not. No!’

It was the worst. The absolute worst.Annamari walked rapidly down the driveway, her eyes fixed on the poplars, trying to obliterate the horrible scene she’d just been forced to precipitate. But Arno’s face, anger and confusion alternating with despair and frustration, his eyes suspiciously brighter than usual, intruded and then, to her eternal shame, Beauty’s stunned expression as she’d bubbled into the kitchen, only to hear Annamari – the woman she looked up to as a role model, the woman she trusted, the woman she probably even loved – shrie
k
in anguished despair: ‘No. Arno no. For the last time, no. I said you cannot take Beauty to the matric dance and that’s final.’

Beauty’s dusky face paled and she turned and ran. Arno took off after her, stopping only to spit: ‘I hope you’re happy now’.

Annamari had collapsed onto Rosie’s old stool, distraught. This wasn’t supposed to have happened. What was she going to do now? How was she going to explain, to make Arno understand that Beauty wasn’t for him, could never be for him? How could she do this without hurting Beauty, who had already been so hurt and damaged through no fault of her own? How could she make Arno and Beauty come to their senses without destroying her marriage, without alienating her son, without hurting Thys whose only flaw was to love her, to believe in her, to trust her.

The vague stitch in her side finally forced her to stop. She learned forward, sweaty palms on her thighs, trying to catch her breath. God she was so unfit. She made her way to a large, flat rock on the side of the road and sank down. She wrapped her arms around herself, hugging her grief and fear to her chest. She closed her eyes, but their faces, Arno’s and Beauty’s, remained sharply in focus. She opened her eyes and blinked. Thys’ angry face glared down at her accusingly, blocking out the sun.

‘What’s the matter with you?’

She closed her eyes again. Opened them. Thys was still there, his brown eyes hard and accusing.

‘What is wrong with you? Why can’t Arno take Beauty to his matric dance? This is 1995, Annamari. I thought you’d put Apartheid behind you. I thought you’d changed. I thought you really believed in what we are doing here. For heaven’s sake, this is Beauty we’re talking about. She’s a wonderful girl; you should be happy Arno has such good taste.’

‘Thys stop! Please, stop. It’s not that.’

‘Then what?’

‘It’s... it’s... it wouldn’t be fair to Beauty,’ she blurted.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Think about it, Thys,’ she improvised. ‘The law may have changed but Driespruitfontein hasn’t. Beauty would be humiliated if she dared to set foot through the front door of the Royal Hotel.’

‘They wouldn’t dare. She’d be with Arno. He’d take care of her.’

‘No, he couldn’t. Not all the time. Think, Thys. What will happen when she goes to the bathroom? I can assure you some of the girls – girls who had probably hoped Arno would invite them to the dance – well, they’d make damn sure she’d know just how unwelcome she was. It will be unpleasant. It will be awkward for everyone. You know it will.’

‘Well, too bad. It’s time the good people of Driespruitfontein got used to the idea that things have changed.’

‘Thys, I agree. You know I do. But do you really think a matric dance is the place to make a political statement. Do you? Remember our matric dance? You wanted to make a statement then too, but you didn’t. Why make Arno and Beauty do what we were too afraid to?’

Thys flushed and Annamari squirmed. That was so totally unfair of her. But she had to get Thys on her side on this issue. As she had before, after Thys had found out that not a single girl in the school had been prepared to go to the matric dance with Alan Silverman – the Jewboy. Not one. Thys had been so angry about it that he’d said Annamari should go with Alan, just to make everyone realise how stupid they were. But she’d refused. She’d said it would be insulting to Alan because everyone would know that she’d only gone with him because Thys was Alan’s friend and everyone knew she and Thys were going steady. She’d turned away so that Thys couldn’t see the relief in her eyes when he finally agreed. Because if she had gone to the dance with Alan – although she doubted that her father would have let her – she’d have had to dance with him, to have his arms around her, and she wasn’t sure that she would have been able to stop herself from melting in to him the way she did when he put his arms around her when they worked on equations or theorems up in his bedroom, or when they sneaked down to the dam, or slipped under the stage in the school hall when it rained.

She wondered if Thys had also seen Alan lurking behind the pillar outside his mother’s shop, watching all his classmates prancing into the Royal Hotel, decked out in their tuxedoes and long dresses, for their matric dance that should have been his dance too. She felt terrible for him. But she also hoped Alan had seen her because she knew she looked pretty in her silvery pink dress with its big puffed sleeves, black velvet belt and swirly skirt that swooshed and swayed, just allowing her pink satin high heeled shoes to peek out as she walked up the red carpet into the hotel on Thys’ arm. Thys had brought her a big, pinky-white orchid which she wore on her wrist.

She’d flicked back her hair, which her mother had helped her to blow wave just like that actress, Farah something or other, fro
m
Charlie’s Angel
s
. As she disappeared through the doors into the foyer, she looked back at Alan, and wondered what he was going to do that night, all by himself. But then she put him out of her mind and let Thys propel her around the dance floor at top speed, till they were all hot and steamy. She tried not to think of Alan as she saw couples sneaking out the ballroom – some heading to the lane at the back of the hotel for some heavy petting, some up to rented rooms for more. The hotel owner feigned ignorance about exactly who had rented the rooms or for what purpose. She knew that at least three of her classmates lost their virginity that night – and she’d smiled and tried hard not to blush when they teased her afterwards because she and Thys still hadn’t done it, not even when doing it that night was as much a rite of passage as the matric dance itself.

She was pretty sure matric dances hadn’t changed much over the years. Which was why she was absolutely determined that there’d be no matric dance temptation for Arno – at least, not with Beauty.

‘Okay, so perhaps the matric dance isn’t the place to drag Driespruitfontein Hoërskool into the post-Apartheid era,’ Thys said and she swallowed her sigh of relief. ‘But Beauty is not going to be held back because Driespruitfontein refuses to move forward.’

‘What do you mean?’ Annamari felt the all too familiar knot of dread rising in her throat. She recognised the gleam in Thys’ eyes – he was having one of his ideas again.

‘Beauty is going to be enrolled at Driespruitfontein Hoërskool next year. Academically, she is more than ready to go into matric. But she also needs to be prepared socially for university.’

‘University?’ Annamari was stunned. ‘You think Beauty will get in to university?’

‘I have absolutely no doubt that she will. She is exceptionally bright – I’d put her on par with Arno. And when you consider how much she’s had to catch up – she has literally crammed almost eleven years of schooling into five years. By the end of this year, she will have completed Grade 11. She’ll find Grade 12 a breeze next year – if she can cope socially and emotionally.’

‘Oh Thys, are you sure? She’s been through so much and it will be really tough for her in a white school.’

‘I’m sure she’ll cope very well. She is a special young woman. But it’s up to her to decide whether she wants to take on the challenge.’

Thys helped Annamari to her feet. Arm in arm they walked back to the house, discussing how best to break the news to Beauty that she could go to Driespruitfontein Hoërskool next year, if she wanted; and how to tell Arno that he would have to find another date for his matric dance.

‘It’s okay, MaAnni. Really, it’s fine,’ Beauty muttered after Annamari had haltingly explained that her only objection to Arno taking her to the dance was to avoid any unpleasantness.

Arno was less sanguine about it. ‘If I can’t go with Bootie, I won’t go at all,’ he said, his eyes glued to Beauty’s pale face.

Annamari’s heart dropped and then soared as Beauty said: ‘You must go, Arno. You know how much you’ve been looking forward to your matric dance. You can take Greta – didn’t you say she had a crush on you?’

Annamari smiled at Beauty, and then her heart lurched as the girl added: ‘And next year, when I’m in matric at Driespruitfontein Hoërskool and they’ve got used to having me around, you can be my date at my matric dance.’