The October Killings Read online

  Bishop himself, Samuel, Michael and the two elder brothers had been out, fixing fences at a pasture they rented from a family where the father had died and all farming had come to a temporary halt. Bishop’s herd of cattle had been growing, and the new calves would mean extra feed. More pasture was essential.

  It was already dark as they arrived at the unlocked cattle gate at the entrance to the farm road that their farm shared with two others. The two younger boys were on the back and the others were in the cab with their father. As the headlights fell on the gate they could see a black boy of perhaps eighteen or nineteen in a gray suit that was a size or two too small for him. He had started to open the gate, having just dismounted from a bicycle that he had obviously spent hours shining. When he saw the truck he swung open the gate and saluted. His white teeth stood out against the darkness of his grinning face and the nocturnal landscape.

  Instead of driving through, Bishop stopped in the open gate and got out. “Who are you?” he demanded in Afrikaans. “And where do you think you’re going?”

  In his response, the boy made three serious mistakes. First, he answered in English and, second, he did not address Bishop in a sufficiently servile manner. Finally he told Bishop what he intended to do instead of begging his permission. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “My name is Matthew Baloyi. I’m going to visit my uncle. He works for Mr. Bishop.”

  Bishop kept advancing on the boy. He continued in Afrikaans. “What’s this English, and what’s this ‘sir’ business? You call me baas if you want to go on breathing.” The anger that underlay Bishop’s devotion to his home language was all the stronger because of his English surname. Surrounded by van Dyks, van der Merwes and van Schalkwyks, he had always felt like an outsider.

  The boy with the bicycle did not expect to be attacked. “Sir … baas, I…” The first blow caught him in the solar plexus and he doubled over like a rag doll. Before he could recover, another blow connected with the side of his head. He went down to his knees and Bishop kicked him, his heavy farm boots digging first into his left side, then his groin.

  Michael had been watching, not showing compassion or even concern. If anything, according to one of the older brothers, his expressionless face showed nothing. Only the eyes seemed to reflect something akin to curiosity.

  Suddenly there was something else to stir up his curiosity. Without warning Samuel appeared, running fast. He threw himself at his father, the boy upsetting the balance of the man. Bishop went down on one knee and his attention shifted from the African boy in the suit to his son.

  Samuel retreated before the blows, dodging and ducking to avoid them. “Catch him, catch him,” his father was screaming. The older boys’ entire lives of obedience to this man had removed any possibility of refusal. They caught Samuel and brought him back to their father. “Hold him. Bring him.” Bishop got back into the truck and his brothers dragged Samuel onto the back. Michael sat quietly, pressed against the cab, offering no opinion and making no movement.

  Bishop pulled away with a jerk, his foot slipping off the clutch. Matthew Baloyi’s bicycle was still where he had dropped it, next to the gate, and Bishop swung the steering wheel toward it, the weight of the truck crushing it and leaving it shattered, the wheels grotesquely buckled. Away to his right on land that had recently been plowed, Michael could just make out a faint white smudge in the darkness. It was a moment before he realized that it was Baloyi. His white shirt was all that was visible. Perhaps he had lost the jacket of his suit.

  The drive to the farm house took only seconds. Samuel showed no resistance as he was stretched over a two-hundred-liter oil drum and held there by his brothers, waiting patiently while his father fetched the sjambok. No one there was later sure how long the beating lasted. What was clear from the police report—and this was the only time Bishop had ever been reported—was that the skin of Samuel’s back was no longer visible under the cuts and the blood.

  A mother from a neighboring farm, alerted by a servant who had run all the way from the Bishop place, had called her husband to investigate. Bishop had only stopped when he arrived. When he reported back to his wife, she had called the police. Their report never got beyond the local police station, but the sergeant had come to the farm and warned Bishop that, if it happened again, he would find himself in court. “He’s your son, man,” he said, “not a dog.”

  Through it all, no one had noticed young Michael, watching from the darkness, too far away to draw his father’s attention, but close enough so that he would miss nothing.

  As for Matthew Baloyi, he had not been seen around the farm since the evening his bicycle had been destroyed. What remained of the bicycle had found its way to the farm’s rubbish dump.

  Samuel’s body healed, but his soul did not. A little less than two years later he went into the tobacco shed, knotted a rope around his neck, tied it to a beam and kicked away the drum he had been standing on. He did it one evening when his father and brothers were still in the bottom lands at other end of the farm. No one ever suggested that Samuel Bishop’s death was a cry for help. He was simply killing himself.

  At the sight of his body, his two elder brothers and his father shed real tears. Whatever they felt about their own role in his death, the agonized release of emotion in all of them was real. Michael too had bowed his head and wiped at his eyes. He knew what was expected. When the others had cut down the body and left the barn to call the police, for a long time he had stood over the physical remains of his brother. Now there was no wiping of his eyes.

  After Samuel died, the piano lessons tapered off. Even the boys’ father realized that the farm no longer had a player worth listening to. The older boys with their crude thumping and Michael’s mechanical pressing of the keys could not satisfy even the least discriminating listener. In the last year of his life, he allowed the lessons to stop altogether.

  By the time Bishop’s murder startled the community, the killing of farmers by the forces of liberation, as some believed, along the northeastern border where the Bishops farmed, were no longer unusual. Guerrillas would slip over the Mozambican border, do their business and be back the same night.

  Unlike other farm killings, Bishop had not been blown to bits by a landmine or sliced up by a volley of AK-47 bullets. He had been garrotted, and the apparent murder weapon, a length of heavy iron fencing wire, covered in blood, was still conveniently around his neck. If any of the officers noticed that the cut around his neck was much thinner than the cut fence wire would have made, none of them ever reported it. Nor did anyone notice that the wire that produced the low C was no longer present in the family piano. The day Bishop died was October 22, the same date on which Samuel had died. Bishop had outlived Samuel by exactly three years.

  Michael’s brothers all testified that they had seen a worker near the farm who had been beaten, then dismissed by their father, just a month before. There were always such workers, and finding one to pin the murder on was not difficult. The court found mitigating circumstances and shocked the farming community by not imposing the death sentence. The worker, whom the court saw as obviously guilty, was sentenced to life in prison.

  Michael was just fifteen and his older brothers twenty and twenty-two. The older boys decided that they knew only farm life and would go on working the farm and that Michael should finish his schooling. Both had already found the undemanding country girls they wanted to marry and who were happy to marry them.

  The morning after the farm worker had been sentenced, Michael’s brothers found that he was gone and that his bed had not been slept in that night. A missing person report was made at the local police station, but he was never found. His brothers never saw him again. In fact, there was no record anywhere of Michael Bishop until he walked into the ANC headquarters in Lusaka five years later.

  19

  Wednesday, October 19

  A weary Abigail drove to the office. The night just past had been another bad one. It had taken three hours and two more calls
to security before she left the shower and went back to bed. She slept in short spells for perhaps a quarter of what was left of the night.

  Commuter traffic into the city center was not heavy by the standards of bigger cities. It took Abigail, on average, some thirty minutes from the time she got into her car until she drove into the Department of Justice parking garage.

  It was a time enough for reflection and informal planning of the day’s activities. It was short enough not to frustrate her with the thought that she would be wasting her day. It was also a good time to make an early morning call on the car’s mobile. She got Robert at the first attempt. “You are coming home tonight?” She still needed reassurance.

  “Yes, I’m coming home tonight. What’s wrong? Has something else happened?”

  “No. I just want you home.”

  “I’ll be there. Are you sure nothing has happened?”

  “I’m sure. Just come … please come.”

  * * *

  A woman was sitting opposite Johanna when Abigail came in. As soon as she stepped into the office, Johanna rose quickly, wringing her hands, followed somewhat uncertainly by the visitor.

  Johanna’s hands released each other for long enough for her to gesture quickly in the direction of the other woman. “This is Mrs. Lourens.” The words seemed to chase one another out of her mouth. “Mr. Lourens was arrested yesterday. He’s gone. Mrs. Lourens doesn’t know where he’s being held.”

  Abigail reached out both hands to the white woman. Leon Lourens’s wife was a slender woman in her late thirties, pretty but showing the signs of living with too little money. There were lines around her eyes and across her forehead caused by worry. She had made no effort to color her hair to hide the gray that had already replaced most of the original brown. Her shoes had been worn too long and she was wearing her best dress, a knee-length cotton frock printed with yellow daisies. She was holding her white patent leather bag in both hands. Seeing Abigail’s gesture, she immediately put down her bag, and took the offered hands in hers. “Mrs. Bukula?” she asked.

  “Abigail,” Abigail said.

  “I’m Susanna Lourens.” Her voice was soft and restrained, the voice of someone not used to asserting herself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to come to. Leon told me about you. I know he came to see you.”

  “Come into my office,” Abigail said, now holding Susanna by the arm. Over her shoulder, she added, “Johanna, you’d better come too.”

  Abigail led Susanna to the same chairs at the window where she had sat with Leon three days before. “Leon was arrested?”

  “He moved us to his mother’s house until this thing is over, but he went back to his workshop every day … to work.” Abigail could see that Susanna was studying her face, no doubt looking for some sign of hope. “The neighbors said a policeman came and took him away. They arrested him.”

  “For what?”

  “The neighbors didn’t know. They stayed inside and just watched from the windows.”

  “All they saw was the police taking him away?”

  “Yes, a policeman took him away.”

  “One policeman?”

  “Yes. The neighbors said there was just one.”

  “Was the policeman a white man?” Abigail asked. Tell me no, she thought. Tell me the policeman was black.

  “Yes, he was a white man.” This did not seem important to Susanna though. She hurried on. “I’m sure they will tell you why they arrested him.”

  “Have you called the police?”

  “All the police stations in Pretoria. They all say they didn’t arrest him. But, if you phone them, they’ll tell you the truth.”

  “Was he handcuffed?”

  “Yes, I think they said he was handcuffed.”

  “Did the neighbors tell you about the vehicle they took him away in? Was it a police van?”

  “No. I think they took him in an ordinary car.”

  Abigail did not know how much of what she was feeling showed on her face, but she saw the sudden widening of Susanna’s eyes.

  “Oh, God. Oh please, God. You think it was not the police.”

  “We’ll find out if it was the police. I don’t know for sure.”

  “But you don’t think it was?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t know.” But the other woman’s eyes held the plea for the truth. Allow me that dignity, they seemed to be saying. “No, I don’t think it was the police.”

  “Oh, Lord.” She had been sitting upright on the edge of her seat. Now she sank back, like an inflatable toy from which the air had been leaking.

  Johanna, whose eyes had opened so wide that the whites showed all the way round the irises, was already getting up. “Shall I try to find out if anyone knows where he is?”

  “Yes,” Abigail said. “Immediately, do nothing else.”

  “But the conference…” Johanna started.

  “Do this first.” Johanna opened her mouth to add something, but Abigail had already turned back to Susanna. “Listen, I don’t know for sure.”

  Susanna had been doing her own thinking. “Leon told me you said the government was not doing this.” Abigail did not reply. “You did say that?”

  There was no avoiding Susanna. She was a woman in real danger of losing her mate of almost twenty years. “I don’t know who is doing it,” Abigail said.

  “But you don’t believe it’s the government?”

  “No.”

  “But if it was those people who have been killing the others, it wouldn’t have been a white man who came, would it? There wouldn’t be a white man doing that, would there.” Again Abigail was too slow to answer. “Oh, Lord,” Susanna said. “Oh please, Lord. Oh please, Lord Jesus.”

  20

  The grandmotherly woman who Abigail had seen in the prison parking area walked slowly along the gravel path into the pleasant gardens of Magnolia Dell. She was carrying a galvanized iron bucket of the sort used in South African prisons. She was early, so there was no need to hurry. Besides, her feet hurt. The work she did in a private hospital kept her on her feet for most of every day and her feet were rarely free of pain these days.

  Annette van Jaarsveld found the bench where they had said it would be. You had to watch out for it as you came around a bend in the path. It was set back and partly obscured by the shrubbery.

  She sat down to wait. The place was ideal. It was Friday morning and she had passed no one on the path. The only sounds were made by the traffic on Queen Wilhelmina Drive. Almost as a reflex her right hand again dug into a deep pocket in her skirt to ensure that the envelope was still there. She maneuvered the skirt until the pocket was between her knees, then clamped them together so that she could feel the presence of the money. It had been collected among her husband’s supporters. There were not many of them now, but those who remained were more passionate than ever.

  She had only ten minutes to wait before the man that she expected came down the path from the opposite direction. She heard the sound of his leather-clad feet well before he came into view. As they had agreed, he was not in his prison warder uniform. The gray slacks and blue shirt that he was wearing were as inconspicuous as she could have hoped.

  He stopped as soon as he saw her and looked down the path in both directions before he came to join her. He sat down next to her, his hands shaking as he reached for the bucket. The bastard, she thought. He doesn’t even remember the password.

  Then he did remember. “Have you got the bucket for the eggs?” he asked, his voice as unsteady as his hands.

  She passed him the bucket without saying anything.

  “And the eggs?”

  She took the envelope from her skirt, but did not offer it to him. “Remember two things. Number one, this is the first five thousand, as we agreed.” The man nodded. “The other thing is this—my husband has many friends on the outside who feel just the way he does. If he does not receive this by tomorrow afternoon five o’clock or if anyone else finds out about this, yo
u and your eldest son will be dead in a week.”

  The warder tried to retain a little dignity. “Are you threatening me?” The effect was ruined by a quaver that had crept into his voice.

  “Yes, my friend, I am threatening you,” she said, speaking as softly as before. “And if you want to go on living and you want your five-year-old to go on living, you will pay attention to my threat.” His eyes were on the envelope that held the money. She held it away from him for a moment longer before suddenly extending the hand that held it.

  The warder slipped it into an inside pocket and rose, the bucket in one hand. “I’ll go now,” he said.

  “Good-bye, my friend,” Annette van Jaarsveld said.

  In a moment he was out of sight, the sound of his footfalls on the pathway fading quickly. Then even that was gone.

  No wonder they could be dominated for so long, the woman on the bench thought. If it had not been for the outside world interfering, we would still have been running our country. Ten thousand rand for his soul. They have no character and no standards.

  Then she thought briefly about her own people who had been part of the negotiations that had brought some measure of peace to the country. Sellouts, she thought. They are no better. But Marinus was different. He was a rock. He was still true to his people.

  * * *

  Abigail spent the better part of the day visiting four of the sites of Michael Bishop’s hiding places. Jones Ndlovu’s maps were less than accurate, the lines wavered a little with his unsteady hand, but the essential details were there.

  She found the place where the first one should have been, a few hundred meters from the main access to OR Tambo Airport, the country’s main link with the outside world. Ndlovu had described a decrepit wooden shed of indeterminate age, but now a gleaming steel hangar stood on the spot. As Abigail watched, a bright new, smaller commercial airliner was being towed into the hangar.