When Time Fails (Silverman Saga Book 2) (12 page)

‘Okay Ma, you’re right. I won’t come down. But...’

Annamari could hear the catch in Arno’s voice and she swallowed the lump in her throat. She hated how much this was hurting him, but what else could she do? There was no alternative. Arno could not, under any circumstances, take Beauty to her matric dance as he’d promised.

They missed each other dreadfully, Arno and Beauty. Annamari knew that. Arno phoned home – reverse charges – every Saturday and after he had spoken to her and to Thys, he always asked if Beauty was around so that he could also say hello. Beauty didn’t often come home from Driespruitfontein Hoërskool for the weekend, but when she did, and she happened to be around when Arno phoned, they would chat for ages until Annamari intervened and warned them that the call was costing a fortune
.

Arno and Beauty had been talking about her matric dance virtually from the first day Thys had dropped her off at the school hostel for the start of her matric year. And Annamari had tried every excuse she could think of to prevent the inevitable but nothing she said had made the slightest difference.

‘It’s too far to travel,’ she’d said.

‘Nonsense,’ Thys said. ‘Arno can fly to Bloemfontein and we can pick him up from there.’

‘It’s too expensive.’

‘Well, then Arno can take the bus to Bloem or Bethlehem. That’s not so bad. Or the train.’

‘That will be exhausting. He’ll be wiped out by the time be gets back to varsity.’

‘He’s young. He’ll survive.’

Now the dance was just a month away. Beauty had shown her a picture of the dress she wanted to wear. Annamari had agreed that it was beautiful; that it would suit Beauty perfectly; and, that Beauty could borrow her electric sewing machine to make it, with her help. What else could she do? What else could she say
?

And then the solution she sought dropped into her lap. She sent a silent prayer of thanks to whoever scheduled the mid-year exams at the University of Pretoria and set down Arno’s vitally important – and difficult – Economics 1A paper for the Monday morning following the weekend of the 1996 Driespruitfontein Hoërskool matric dance; with Marketing 1A to be written that same afternoon.

‘Oh that’s terrible,’ she crooned. ‘You’ll have to study really hard the whole weekend.’

‘But the dance! I promised Bootie I’d take her. I can’t let her down now.’

‘You can’t risk failing your exams. It’s not just that you won’t have time to swot if you come down, you’ll be exhausted. Even if we find the money for flights. It’s just a dance, Arno. This is your entire future we are talking about here.’

Arno argued, but finally he agreed. Annamari offered to tell Beauty when she came to Steynspruit the next weekend – they were going to put the finishing touches to her matric dance dress – but Arno said he would phone her at school immediately. It was the least he could do.

***

Annamari’s stomach lurched when she heard the knock on the back door and saw Beauty standing there. She’d spent the week in an agony of dread, wondering how she was going to face the girl.

‘Can I come in?’ Beauty asked.

Annamari winced. Beauty never asked if she could come in to the house. It was her home, almost.

‘Of course. Of course! How are you? Are you alright? Is everything alright at school...’ Annamari could hear herself babbling. She felt her cheeks grow warm under Beauty’s unblinking blue gaze.

‘It’s okay, MaAnni,’ she said. ‘Arno told me. And it’s fine.’

‘Are you sure? Really?’

‘It would have been fun to go with Arno, of course, but everyone knows he is like my brother – and who goes to their matric dance with their brother? Can I get you some water?’ Beauty asked as Annamari choked. ‘Anyway, Gerhard van Rensburg has asked me so I’m going with him.’

***

On the night of the matric dance, Annamari, Thys, Pretty and Petrus stood proudly outside the Royal Hotel while the entire Driespruitfontein district watched in scandalised amazement as Beauty, looking like an exotic princess, proudly floated down the red carpet into the hotel’s makeshift ballroom on the arm of the Driespruitfontein Hoërskool’s first team rugby captain.

Thys, of course, had been less than enthusiastic when Annamari told him about Beauty’s escort for the dance. ‘I’m worried,’ he said as they curled up together on the couch to watc
h
Noot vir Noo
t
on TV2. ‘I know what rugger buggers like Gerhard van Rensburg are like. I’m sure Gerhard only asked Beauty as a dare, and I bet you anything he’s going to try and get her upstairs so he can be even more of a big deal with his mates. I’ll speak to him at practice this week – I’ll tell him that if he so much as lays a finger on Beauty, I’ll flipping get him dropped from the team.’

‘But you were a rugger bugger,’ Annamari teased. ‘And what about De Wet? You’re doing your best to turn him into a rugger bugger too, aren’t you?’ she said, not without a little bitterness. ‘Isn’t that why you insisted he go to Grey, rather than Driespruitfontein?’

‘Aw come on, Annamari. Don’t be like that. De Wet has real talent. I know he’s my son, but I really do think he could be a Springbok one day, and at Grey, he’s getting the best training and the best chance of being noticed. You know that. Also, De Wet needs the discipline and...Anyway, I’l
l
donne
r
him too if I ever catch him disrespecting any woman,’ Thys muttered before putting his arm around Annamari’s shoulders and settling back to watch the rest of the show.

The next morning, while enjoying her coffee and rusks on th
e
stoe
p
, Annamari called Beauty over, and awkwardly raised Thys’ concerns. The girl stared at Annamari, then offered a tight smile.

‘Ach, MaAnni, tell BabaThys not to worry and to leave Gerhard alone. Really. It’s fine.’

‘Are you sure? Boys like that...’

‘Gerhard is okay. Really. We’re both misfits so...’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Nothing. Really, it’s nothing. Gerhard is nice to me, okay? Ever since I started at Driespruitfontein. He tries to make sure no one gives me a hard time – even the teachers. And he doesn’t want anything from me – certainly not that!’

‘Are you sure? You’re such a beautiful girl and he’s – well, he’s a boy.’

‘Ja, he’s a boy but he’s also gay, okay? Oh my god, I never meant to tell you. He’ll kill me if he finds out. Promise me you won’t tell... promise me you won’t say anything.’

Annamari nodded mutely, too stunned to say anything. She knew Gerhard van Rensburg. There was no way he wa
s
moffi
e
. Tall, good-looking, strong, deep voice, just like his father who – according to Driespruitfontein Hoër legend – had been a notorious rugger bugger in his day. She wondered what Jaco and Santie van Rensburg would do when – if – they ever found out about their son.

‘He just needs a partner who isn’t going to expect anything from him – you know what goes on at the dance – his friends have already booked a couple of rooms. I need a partner so ... we’ll go together and, and ... Ja. It will be fun. We may even go upstairs together – really get people talking!’

‘How do you know... that he’s, he’s... you know?’

Beauty sighed. ‘He told me. And I believe hm. I trust him. He has never been anything but honest with me,’ Beauty said. ‘It’s really not easy for him, you know. I wa
s
charfin
g
him, one day, about how Jolene Minaar – you know, the netball captain – well, she’s always all over him and I asked him why he didn’t just put her out of her misery and ... well, anyway, he told me. I think it was a relief. But he made me swear never to tell anyone, so please, MaAnni, don’t tell BabaThys. Or anyone.’

Annamari nodded. She was still too shocked to say anything.

‘Anyway,’ Beauty continued with a sly little grin, ‘you can’t believe how jealous all the other girls are that he’s asked me to the dance. They really, really hate me now.’

Thys was still sceptical when Annamari told him that Beauty absolutely trusted Gerhard, but she didn’t tell him why. Not when Thys was trying to pull some strings to get Gerhard into the junior Cheetahs squad. As open-minded as Thys was, Annamari wasn’t sure her husband would want to be responsible for
a
moffi
e
being selected for his beloved Free State team.

Annamari and Petrus slowly climbed the stone stairs and hesitantly made their way between the tall pillars that flanked the imposing wooden door.

‘It’ll be okay, Petrus, really. You’ll be fine,’ she said.

Petrus tugged at his blue tie and kept his eyes glued to the floor as they moved into the enormous foyer. Annamari looked around, awed. She had expected the Bloemfontein Supreme Court to be imposing, but this was truly frightening. She felt Petrus falter at her side and took his arm for mutual support.

A police officer directed them to the courtroom where the prosecutor had said he would meet them. But they were early. They’d hardly encountered any traffic on the way, not even on the normally busy road between Bethlehem and Bloemfontein. Thys had suggested that they leave Steynspruit before sunrise to avoid the taxis and heavy trucks that usually ploughed the route. He’d been correct. Of course, it meant that they got to Bloemfontein before the court opened, but she’d packed a flask of coffee and some sandwiches which they shared in the car while they waited.

Now they waited again, on a hard wooden bench in the wide corridor outside the court, not sure what to do next. Petrus sat ramrod straight, his hands clasped between his knees, his black shoes gleaming, even in the dull light. Annamari patted his arm comfortingly, hoping he couldn’t tell how nervous she was.

‘There you are.’

Annamari looked up and saw Captain Motaung barrelling down the wide corridor towards them, beaming.

‘Thank you both for coming,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure who the prosecutor will call first but with your help, we’re going to put him away for a long, long time.’

Annamari nodded. He had said the same thing to her, that first time, almost a year ago.

***

She’d been in the kitchen when Prettycalled to her that a car was coming up the driveway. She made her way out on to the fron
t
stoe
p
and waited as a large black man in a grey suit and brown shoes eased himself out of the car and waddled over to th
e
stoe
p
stairs.

‘Mrs van Zyl? I’m Captain James Motaung of the Bloemfontein Murder and Robbery Unit. I used to be based in Bethlehem. Can I come in and talk to you for a few minutes? It’s about Stefan Smit, also known as Fanie or Stefanus Strydom and a few other names I won’t trouble you with now. ’

Over coffee at the kitchen table, Captain Motaung filled Annamari in on his investigations and how it had taken him almost two years, but he had finally tracked down Stefan Smit to a small, arid farm deep in the Karoo.

‘Your dossier intrigued me,’ he said, helping himself to another rusk which he dunked in his coffee and then popped, whole, into his mouth.

‘How did you get it? I left it with Wynand. Did he give it to you?’

‘No. I rescued it ... look, I know Warrant Officer Vorster and, well, he’s lazy. I hope he’s not a good friend of yours, Mrs Van Zyl and if he is, I apologise, no disrespect to you, but he’s sloppy. I don’t like sloppy police work.’

Annamari shrugged. She absolutely agreed with Captain Motaung, but she didn’t say so. After all, she’d known Wynand Vorster since primary school and everything; and what did she know about this fat black policeman who looked set to devour her week’s supply of rusks in one go?

‘Anyway, I tracked him down, as I said. It really wasn’t all that difficult once I got going ... he’d left a trail of complaints all across the country.’

‘Complaints?’

‘Yes. Oh, not murder or anything. More – excuse me ma’am, but there’s been a lot of complaints from women... girls too. Seems he can’t keep it in his pants, if you know what I mean.’

Annamari gripped the edge of the table and nodded.

‘Ja, but sexual assault is a very difficult thing to prove especially as the women are usually poor and frightened. He was arrested a couple of times – in Beaufort West and Smithfield and Aliwal – but they couldn’t make a case. You know how it is – he said, she said, that kind of thing. Anyway, much as I would love to get the guy for rape... but with your help, this time, we’re going to get him for murder. And there’s no women where he’s going.’

‘He raped Beauty,’ Annamari spluttered. ‘When she was just a child. Here on Steynspruit. I saw him!’

The police officer stared at her. ‘You saw him? Will you swear to that?’

Embarrassed, Annamari told him the story of that dreadful night and how the police – Wynand – hadn’t been interested and how they eventually decided it would be better – for Beauty – not to pursue the matter.

‘How old is she now? Does she still live here? Would she be willing to press charges?’

‘She’s at school, in Driespruitfontein. She’s in matric... I’m not sure if she’d be willing to. She never talks about it and ... well, it could interfere with her studies. It was so long ago... and how do you prove something like that now?’

‘There were no tests done? No photographs? Nothing?’

Annamari shook her head, the old anger and nausea that always threatened to choke her when she remembered that night, rose again.

Captain Motaung was silent for several minutes. Annamari fidgeted. Finally she got up and put the kettle on again. The detective popped a rusk into his mouth. Then another. Then he sighed and he pulled out a pen from his inside jacket pocket. He opened an official-looking form.

‘Okay, let’s presume that a rape charge is probably out of the question, although I’ll speak to the prosecutor about it. But murder is good. Let’s just get him behind bars, shall we?’ And he began to ask questions about her investigations that led her to believe that Stefan Smit was responsible – or at least involved – in her family’s murders. Petrus and other farmworkers who had been on Steynspruit on the night of the murders were also called and asked to give their version of events
.

Then, with his notebook tucked under his arm, and the almost depleted bag of rusks in his hand – Annamari had insisted he take them for the long drive back to Bloemfontein – the detective made his way to his car.

‘I’ll be in touch, Mrs van Zyl,’ he said as her hand disappeared into his. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I have the bastard in custody. And don’t you worry. When we’ve finished with him, the Warmbaths police will also want him. He is going to go away for a long, long time.’

***

Annamari swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. The court orderly took the bible away and she looked up – directly into Stefan Smit’s malevolent milky blue eyes glaring at her from behind a dirty grey fringe. She looked away, bile rising in her throat. He’d aged badly, but she’d know him anywhere. She looked across at the judge, a stern-looking white man who reminded her of her father-in-law, and shuddered. This was not going to be fun.

The prosecutor asked her simple questions, and she answered as frankly and clearly as she could.

‘But then I realised that Stefan Smit – the accused, I mean – well, I realised that he’d been lying to us all those years about his wife and daughter. They weren’t even his wife and daughter and he hadn’t gone to Pretoria to visit their graves the night my family was killed, he was right there on Steynspruit when it happened but he lied about it.’

‘You’re the fokking liar!’

At the sound of Stefan Smit’s hateful voice, she swung around and stared at her accuser in horror, terrified that he was going to leap out of the dock and physically attack her. The judge pounded his gavel and a police officer moved quickly towards the frothing man.

Spittle flying, he continued his tirade: ‘She’s the liar, your honour. She’s the liar. She’s always had it in for me because she knew I could see right through her. She thinks she’s clever but she isn’t. She’s a lying whore – ask anyone in Driespruitfontein, they’ll tell you
.
She’s a fokking whore and a liar. She even lied to th
e
domine
e
about that bastard son of ...’

Annamari swayed and gripped the edge of the witness box. She watched, unseeing, as two police officers grabbed him by his arms and dragged him out of the court. But she knew that she would never, ever stop hearing his ranting accusations: ‘She’s a liar. She’s a liar, a cheat, a whore, a whore, a whore...’