Thirteen Hours (55 page)

In his car, Fransman Dekker took out the list of names
and telephone numbers. Natasha Abader's was first on the list.

What woman can look at you and not think of sex
?

Time to see if she was a bullshitter.

He entered the number in his cell phone.

It's a drug for the soul. I think they have an
emptiness inside here, a hole that is never filled, it might help for a little
while, then in a day or two it starts all over again. I think there's a reason,
I think they don't like themselves
.

His own words, to Alexa Barnard.

He had a wife at home. A good, beautiful, sexy, smart
woman. Crystal. Waiting for him.

He looked at the small green button on his phone.

He thought about Natasha Abader's legs. That bottom.
Her breasts. Small and pert, he knew what they would look like, he could
picture the nipples, particularly. She would be a handful. In every meaning of
the word.

There was something broken inside him. A hurt that had
come a long way with him, that never went away completely; every time it came
back, worse, but the medicine helped less and less.

Some time or other he would have to stop this
nonsense. He loved his wife, for fuck's sake, he couldn't live without Crystal,
she was everything to him. And if she found
out...

How would she find out?

The fever was in him. He pressed the button.

'Hello, Natasha.'

'This is Vusi Ndabeni. The detective from this
morning, at the church.'

'Oh, hi,' said Tiffany October, the pathologist. She
sounded tired.

'You must have had a busy day.'

'They're all busy,' she said.

'I was wondering,' Vusi said, feeling his heart thump
in his chest. 'If you would like ...'

The silence on the line was deafening.

'If you would like to go and have something to eat. Or
drink ...'

'Now?'

'No, I mean, any time, maybe another day ...'

'No,' she said and Vusi's heart plummeted. 'No, now,'
she said. 'Please. A beer. A Windhoek Light and a plate of
slap
chips, that would be
wonderful. After a day like today ...'

He drove down the
Nl,
thinking ahead. He would draw money
at the ABSA autobank at the bottom of Long Street near the offices of the
Receiver. He had given the last of his cash to Mat Joubert for the Steers
burgers he had brought. Then to the bottle store up in Buitengracht, it was
open till eight. He would buy a bottle of Jack and a two-litre Coke and then he
was going to drink himself into a coma.

There's someone else, Benny.

He had asked 'Who?'

And she said: 'It doesn't matter. Benny, I'm so sorry,
it just happened.'

Fuck that. Things don't just happen. You look for
them. She demands that he give up the booze for six months, and then off she
goes looking for a man. He would blow the fucker
moer toe.
He would find out who it was,
he would fucking follow her and shoot the bastard between the eyes. Probably some
or other boy lawyer where she worked, too shit useless to get a girl of his
own, showing off with his BMW and his suits to a policeman's wife. He would
kill the bastard, then we'll see.

He had stood up. 'I'm so sorry, Benny, it just
happened.' He sat down again and just stared at her, waiting for her to say she
wasn't serious. He refused to accept the full impact. They were here so she
could say that, because he had quit drinking, he could come home. But she just
sat there with tears in her fucking eyes, so terribly sorry for herself. There
were a thousand things in his head. He'd nearly died today. He'd fought the
craving to drink for one hundred and fifty-six days, he'd paid maintenance,
he'd looked after them; he'd done everything right. She couldn't do this, she
didn't have the right, Jesus, but her teary eyes had looked back at him with
bewildering finality, until the full weight of all the implications crashed
down on him like a badly built house. He got up and left.

'Benny!' she called after him.

Benny was going to get drunk, that was what he should
have told her, but he just kept walking, out of the fucking restaurant, to his
car, with his torn shirt and unkempt hair, he saw nothing, heard nothing, just
felt this, thing, this anger, it was all for nothing, all for fucking nothing.

He drew R500 and saw how much he had left for the rest
of the month. He thought about Duncan Blake sitting there in the interview room
and saying: 'How much for all of this to go away?'

'I'm not for sale.'

'This is Africa. Everybody is for sale.'

'Not me.'

'Five million.'

'How about ten?'

'Ten can be done.'

And he had laughed. He should have taken the fucking
money. Ten million would buy a lot of booze; ten million and he could have
bought a fucking BMW and smart suits too, and a R150 haircut and whatever it
was Anna saw in the little shit.

He would buy some booze.

His cell phone rang as he walked back to his car. He
didn't look at the screen, just answered.

'Griessel.' Sullen. Brusque.

'Captain, this is Bill Anderson ... Is this a
convenient time?'

His first thought was that someone had taken Rachel
again and he said: 'Yes.'

'Captain, I don't know how to do this. I don't know
how you thank a man for saving your child's life. I don't know how to thank a
man who was willing to put his life on the line, who was willing to be shot at
to save the daughter of someone he's never met. It's not something I have any
training for. But my wife and I want to say thank you. We owe you a debt we can
never repay. We're on our way to South Africa - our plane is leaving in two
hours' time. When we get there, we would like to have the honour of taking you
to dinner. As a gesture, of course, as a small token of our immense gratitude
and appreciation. But right now, I just want to say thank you.'

'I... uh ...
I was just doing my job.' He couldn't think what else
to say. The call had come too suddenly, there was too much going on in his
head.

'No, sir, what
you
did went
way
beyond the call of duty. So
thank you. From Jess, Rachel, and myself. We would like to wish you the very
best, for you and your family. May all your dreams come true.'

He sat in his car in front of the autobank. He thought
about Bill Anderson's words.
May all your dreams come true.
His only dream had been that
Anna would take him back. Now he had fuck all.

Just the dream of getting drunk.

He started the car.

He thought about Fritz's words, his son's dream.
Wet & Orde.

And Carla, who had gone to work in London, because she
wanted to come back and buy a car and go to university, and both of them
dreamed of a sober father.

He turned the car off.

He thought about Bella, and Bella's dream of owning
her own business. Alexa Barnard who said she had dreamed so long of becoming a
singer. Duncan Blake:
Africa took everything I had, all my dreams ...

And Bill Anderson.
May all your dreams come
true.

He opened the cubby hole, took out the cigarettes and
lit one. He thought. Of many things. Lize Beekman's lyrics ran through his
head.
As jy vir liefde omdraai.
If you turn around for love.

He sat like that for a long time while the world raced
past down Long Street. Then he turned around.

Benny Griessel blew the R500 on flowers. He delivered
the first bunch to Mbali Kaleni's ward. They wouldn't allow him in. He wrote
her a message on a card.
You are a brave woman and a good detective.

Then he went to Rachel Anderson and put a bunch of
flowers down on the bed beside her.

'They're beautiful,' she said.

'And so are you.'

'And those?' she asked about the other bunch of
flowers in his arms.

'These are a bribe,' he said.

'Oh?'

'Yes. You see, I have a dream. I'm going to start a
band. And we are going to need a singer. And I happen to know a great singer
who's right here in this hospital,' he said.

'Cool,' she said, and he wondered whether he could
introduce her to Fritz.

From
: Benny Griessel [mailto:
[email protected]
]

Sent
: 16 January 2009 22:01

To
:
[email protected]

Subject
: Today.

Dear Carla

Sorry I am only writing now: My laptop wouldn't
connect with the Internet, it was a lot of trouble, but it's fixed now.

It was a long day and a difficult one. I thought about
you and missed you. But I did meet a famous singer and I was promoted. Your
father is a Captain today
.