end. “I let that little snot-nose lawyer talk me into allowing the murder suspect to receive a visit. Tonight in my office. I think I’m losing my edge.”
“What you are doing is humane, Leon. Compassionate.”
He grunts and replaces the phone on the cradle. Seeing he has to stay at the office until late, he might as well keep busy, he decides, and pulls Anna Bruwer’s dossier towards him.
Him, Bulldog Webber, compassionate!
I lie on the mattress, arms folded under my head, stare at the ceiling. Try to work out how much time has passed since lunchtime. Try to imagine that I am somewhere else. That I can’t hear the shouting and swearing and complaining around me. That I can feel the sun on my skin. That I am not hungry. Not thirsty.
If I get up to drink water, they will want to talk to me again, and I don’t want to be talked to. No, rather stay thirsty.
I close my eyes, see blood, open them again quickly. Don’t think about his body lying there. Don’t think of all the blood. Don’t remember that you slipped in the pool of blood forming next to him, how you ended up in it on all fours. Don’t remember how you stretched out your bloodied hands to his bloodied neck to feel his pulse. Don’t think of his lifeless eyes. Think of something else.
Such as? Such as: Is it possible that one’s sense of smell can become blunted over time? Or does one simply get used to the stench, so that it starts to smell normal? Is it possible that I, who have to shower twice a day, sometimes more often, can actually smell myself and dismiss it as of no importance?
His lifeless eyes . . . No, think of something else!
Will it be better in jail than here in the detention cell? There will surely at least be something to do? They will probably keep me busy? Even try to rehabilitate me?
The clinking sound of keys heralds someone’s arrival. It’s the same constable who brought me here this morning.
“Come,” she says, “you lot have an hour.”
An hour for what? To shower?
She leaves the door open, walks to the outer door, locks it carefully behind her.
An hour: the thought hits me. An hour in the spacious outer enclosure, where you can at least feel the sun on your body. An hour to stand around, because there’s nothing to sit or lie on.
Supper is soup and almost a quarter of a loaf of bread. Dry, no butter. A mug of coffee. I’m dying for coffee. I love coffee, but the smell of this brew revolts me.
I hold out my food to Violet, who seizes it eagerly.
I look up at the little window, see it’s already dark. Shut my ears to the slurping and gulping sounds around me. One feeble little light on the ceiling to dispel the gloom. And not doing a very good job of it. “Do they turn the light off at night?”
Violet stops slurping, burps loudly. “Never ever, darling. That light burns day and night.”
The door squeaks open again, a different face appears. “Bruwer, come with me.”
Why? I want to ask. Where to? But Anna who always remains silent just stands up, follows the woman.
She locks the door behind me. “Hold out your hands.”
“Why?” I ask, despite myself.
“I must handcuff you.”
“Why?” I ask in a fright.
“So that you don’t run away. Hold out your hands in front of you.”
“I won’t run away.” I look down at my hands, see that there is still dried blood under my fingernails.
“Doesn’t matter, I must anyway.” The cold handcuffs slip round my wrists, click shut. “Come.”
I recognise the way to the superintendent’s office. Before she opens the door, I make sure that my mask is firmly in place. He must not see how frightened I am.
But as the door opens, I see the three people whom I love the most. I feel my mask slipping. I keep my eyes cast down while the woman unlocks the handcuffs. I want Marnus to take me in his arms. Want him to be the one to hold me, comfort me. Know it cannot be.
That’s why I go to Auntie Miriam to be taken into her open, waiting arms. I let her head rest on my shoulder, I hold her shaking body tightly against mine. I become the one who comforts.
Uncle Retief’s hand rests heavily on my shoulder. “Anna.”
In that one word I hear so much. Love, acceptance, tolerance. Despite everything.
I turn to him. “I had to do it, Uncle Retief. I could not do otherwise. For Carli, for myself.”
“Shhhh,” he says and holds me tightly to him.
When he lets me go, I can turn to Marnus. Can step into his embrace. Know that this is what I have been waiting for all the time. That this is right, although it is at the same time completely wrong.
“Oh, my child . . .”
It’s Auntie Miriam who leads me to a chair, offers me a sandwich, pours me sweet coffee from a flask. I eat and drink, grateful for their presence. Auntie Miriam looks unhappy and anxious, but she’s pleased that I’m enjoying the food so much. Uncle Retief looks worried. Marnus . . . I don’t know what he is thinking, I’ve never found it easy to read him.
Superintendent Webber stands to one side, next to the lawyer from earlier. It is impossible to tell from their faces what they are thinking. I realise they are wearing the masks of professionalism.
“I want you to do something for me, Anna,” says Uncle Retief.
I nod.
“I want you to trust Joubert as your legal representative.”
I look up quickly at the large man. “I am guilty, Uncle Retief.”
“And that’s the other thing, my child. You must plead not guilty when the trial begins.”
“But I am guilty. I shot him, I wanted to, I had to.”
“Guilt is a relative concept, Anna. And you are a fighter. What has become of your fighting spirit?”
“Did I fight for Carli at the time? For myself?”
Before I can stop myself, my eyes fill with tears. “No, I preferred to run away, to come to live with you and Auntie Miriam, to pretend that nothing had happened. I forgot about Carli, I failed her.”
“You cannot take responsibility for what happened to Carli, Anna!” Auntie Miriam’s voice is sharper than I have ever heard it.
“Who else will take responsibility for Carli?”
Marnus comes to squat in front of me, takes my hands in his. “Please, Anna? Accept Joubert’s help.”
I look for a long time at
