James Mcclure - The Sunday Hangman

“Bastard,” he muttered, having reminded himself that Jonkers had suddenly fixed up an extra-long weekend off, starting the night before. “Lazy, selfish bloody bastard. What’s he want in Durban?”

The horse clopped forward a few paces, nibbling neatly on the new stalks of grass that stuck out of the burned stubble like green knitting needles. Its warm rub against his inner thighs had a pleasant yet aggravating effect.

That was another thing: after fiddling almost every weekend for himself, Jonkers still expected Willie to create some form of love life in the nearest town, fifty kilometers away. Very funny, if not hilarious. Brandspruit’s only bioscope wasn’t even a building, but a battered 16mm projector owned by the chemist and set up for viewing on Saturday nights in the meeting hall; the bars were-like every bar in the country-for men only, yet neither hotel had ever heard of a ladies’ lounge; and the nearest thing to a milk bar was run for and by bloody coolies. Overrun, you might say, if the matter weren’t so serious. Because if you didn’t own a car, this left you with nowhere to sit with a shy young girl, let alone sweep her off her feet, from Monday to Friday.

Willie sighed.

He knew damn well he was just making excuses. His landlord, Mr. Haagner, the Witklip butcher, had offered him the use of the van any evening he liked. And the lads stationed at Brandspruit had promised him a little goose any night he had to stop over for a court hearing. Even if he was pressed for time, they said, there was a red-haired nympho in the Bantu Affairs office who made short work of anyone in uniform. It was, in fact, just this sort of talk, which excited him and scared him all at the same time, that kept him well away from town except on urgent business. As to why this was, he still wasn’t sure.

With a harumph, the horse raised its head and listened, tipping forward its ears.

Willie looked across the valley to where the road from the south came through a notch in the far ridge; all he saw was a plume of dust left by some vehicle that had already dropped out of sight behind a fold of barren hillside. Then, almost stealthily, he allowed his eyes to sink to the farm that lay almost below that point, and he felt his loins leap. To think that she’d still be in bed, for it was not even eight yet, and that, in a perfect world, he could be in bed with her, coaxing a new awareness. Bringing her slowly, gently into the new day, urging her with small, exquisite thrusts of his body; while in each hand, cupped from behind, those sweet marshmallow breasts would be stirring. Then she would laugh, break free, and come back at him her way, shameless and inquisitive and eager, so hard here, there so soft.…

“Hey,” said Willie, checking himself with a chuckle, and being sure to banish the dangerous fantasy completely.

He clapped the horse on the shoulder and ruffled its mane. His mood had perked up suddenly, and the prospect of a whole weekend without Sergeant Jonkers hovering in the background, over at the hotel, took on a different look. He might even drop in on Ferreira himself for a change-or better still, attend the weekly barbecue, leaving Luthuli to give him a bell if there was trouble. Without Ma Jonkers getting her talc all over you every time she asked for a dance, and without his lordship making you grill his chops for him, a bloke could probably have a very nice time. And if Tommy the merc had returned, there might well be a chance of hearing his gruesome stories at first hand for once.

Again the horse harumphed.

Without his being particularly aware of it, Willie’s gaze had been following a car far below him; a car that had approached swiftly from the south, and was about to enter the last coils of the dirt road into Witklip.

Away in a corner of his mind, he now recognized the vehicle as the orange Chevrolet belonging to the tough CID lieutenant from Trekkersburg; the one whose boy had a limp, yet could strike at a fleeing chicken thief like a bloody black mamba. In an adjacent corner of his mind, he realized that, as acting station commander, he’d better giddy-up and get down there.

But Willie Boshoff just sat and stared, preoccupied by an idle fancy born of height and distance. Like a spark eating up a fuse, the glimmer of the car was turning the road behind it into billowing dust, into powder smoke, as it advanced through each twist and turn, hastening for the wattle-dark village.

“I’ve seen the Lone Ranger,” said Kramer, “but where the hell is his boss?”

Startled by this sudden inquiry, which had been made without warning or preamble, Bantu Constable Goodluck Luthuli placed his eye to the star-shaped hole in the privy door and peered out at him.

“ Hau! ” said Luthuli.

“Well?” Kramer demanded. “You’ve seen me before, so out with it! I haven’t got all bloody day! Christ, now where has this one got to?”

The eye had vanished.

“Luthuli is saluting the officer, sir,” translated Zondi, after some mumbled Zulu from within. “At attention.”

For an instant, Kramer’s high hopes for the day sagged, then he managed to say quite calmly: “For God’s sake tell him I salute him back-and to stand at ease as quickly as possible. Plus, repeat my question.”

Zondi did that.

“He not here, suh,” Luthuli replied in kitchen English. “He go last night on holiday all time to Tuesday next week.”

“The sod!” Kramer snapped.

And the eye, which had returned to the hole, gave a little twinkle.

“Maybe it will be easier like this,” murmured Zondi, showing more tact in his use of Afrikaans than in his suggestion. “Remember what you said about the red herrings last time.”

“Rubbish! I want a few facts on the locals for a quick elimination job, and I reckon he’d have known them off pat. I wonder who he cleared this leave with?”

“We have not informed headquarters of our-”

“Look, man-stop being so bloody reasonable, okay?”

Kramer started back up the path through the weeds to the station house, walking with his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. The sudden departure of the Jonkers couple sounded very like the consequence of a domestic crisis, and he had only himself to thank for that-however, as Zondi said, it wasn’t all that much of a catastrophe, and the day was still young. A comic thought dashed through his mind.

“Who are you smiling at, boss?” asked Zondi, catching up.

“Me,” said Kramer. “Has it occurred to you that Sarge Jonkers might have really got the wind up after our little conversation? That he might be part of all this?”

“Of course.”

They laughed and walked on.

“What shall I do this morning, boss? You will be working in the office, not so?”

“What you like, Mickey. Catch up on some sleep.”

“You will give me a shout?”

“I shouldn’t think it’d be before lunchtime.”

“Okay.”

Tossing him the car keys, Kramer turned and went indoors. It was the work of a minute to sweep everything irrelevant off the office desk into one of the drawers, and another ten seconds saw the cat in the Out tray on its way. In the same time again, he had put a call through to Trekkersburg.

“Morning, Doc,” Kramer said, taking the telephone over to the barred window. “It’s Tromp here. I’m in Witklip, looking for a gallows setup such as you started to describe the other day on the way back from Doringboom. Something about half-inch adjustments? A vertical space at least twenty feet high? Just give me all the details and procedure notes and have them Telex it up to Brandspruit. Thanks, hey? Bye.”

“I suppose you’d like specifications for the hangman as well?” Strydom asked caustically. “It wouldn’t be any trouble. Or are you coping all right in that direction?”