James Mcclure - The Sunday Hangman

“Quite something,” remarked Willie, very dryly.

“Don’t worry; I’ll think of it.”

Kramer got behind the wheel of the Land-Rover and noted that the sun, which had shone so brightly in his eyes, had touched the edge of the ridge. It would be dark soon. He started up and drove hard to the gate. Incredibly, as he turned away from one of the most regrettable things he’d ever done, he flinched with regret at not having accepted that open invitation. And part of his body said yes, it agreed with him.

The stones rattled loudly against the Land-Rover’s steel plating. Willie was asking him a question, so he leaned over to hear it.

“Was-was his daughter around?”

“Too right, man! Do you know her?”

“Er-not-not really. I’ve seen her a few times.”

“Then you should get in there,” Kramer shouted back, but not loud enough for their passengers to hear him. “Christ, I’ve never seen anything so eager for it! Wants to give it to you on a plate. I nearly got raped, man, and I’m an old granddad compared to you!”

Willie was gripping the crash bar, really coming to life at last. “But she’s only fifteen!”

“Doesn’t matter to her, I can tell you. So why should it matter to you? I think that Jackson kid was bloody lucky to get out of that barn still able to walk. He should complain!”

“You’ve heard about that? I only-”

“Ja; Piet told me last night. But seriously, Willie, my friend, if ever you feel the urge, and the old man’s not around, you have a go and you’ll see what I mean. In the few minutes I was in there, she made sure I saw everything.”

“No! Honest?”

“Honest, a real little nympho. No wonder he’s keeping her away from the barbecue these days.”

This outburst seemed to flush a sickness from Kramer’s soul, but the space it left was immediately taken by a choking self-disgust. He eased up on the throttle, got a Lucky into his mouth, and offered one to Willie.

“Actually, it’s nothing to make jokes about.”

“Uh huh?” Willie said-and not for the first time; he’d made several unconscious imitations already.

“It’s a kind of illness, and has maybe got something to do with having no ma. Or the effect on her when she died. It’s also a fact that kids these days are definitely different, and those boarding schools were pretty wild even in my own day. Did you ever go to one?”

“No, I was always stuck in the boys’ home.”

Kramer flinched again, very tender all round. “The really terrible thing is that she’s got mixed up with someone there who should be locked up.”

“Bloody hell,” said Willie, puffing out his smoke in a flurried blast. “That explains it! Everyone was wondering why that what’s-his-name bloke got the sack. Usually they stay, but one minute he was a house father in the hostel, next minute he was gone, vanished completely from Brandspruit.”

“Who knows?”

“But she was really like that? Willing?”

“In heat,” said Kramer, smiling for an opposite effect. “Shall I tell you what it reminds me of now? Of a time when I had to go through the loony bin in Trekkersburg and some inmates there held up their dresses as I passed. That’s not sex, man. Agreed?”

“Ja, agreed. I like mine hot but not-er-what shall we say?”

Kramer let it die there. Emotionally spent, his mind achieved a new clarity, and he applied himself to the problem of finding the right thumbscrew. Willie drew on his cigarette thoughtfully.

Dust billowed behind them.

“Can I say-” Willie began.

“Go right ahead, providing it’s the case we’re both back on.”

“Not finding anything might also have something to do with me saying the notes were too posh in comparison, and we could be looking for too much.”

“For the last time, man!” This pigheaded quibbling by a credulous bloody teenager, who wouldn’t notice a subtle nuance if you stuck it up his nose, was more than any grown man could be expected to tolerate. Kramer was about to let rip, when he realized how very true this was.

“Blasphemy-do you know that’s what you’re talking?”

“I don’t care, sir. I’ve got to say what I believe.”

“In that case,” replied Kramer, looking up at the great white stone passing high above them on the left, “if you are prepared to be as principled in public, then I think we’re ready to roll, Willie, my lad.”

Never having been one to mix easily, Willie Boshoff felt daunted by the prospect of intruding into so much close-knit fellowship, but he was determined to carry out the Lieutenant’s weird plan. And, as he skirted the games rigged up on the lawn for the barbecue party, his resolve was strengthened by the thought of at last getting out of Witklip. It seemed only just that the Lieutenant would help him with his transfer; he had, after all, been very impressed by the scale drawing, and had now taken to talking to him man-to-man-not only that, but he’d entrusted him with a delicate, possibly even dangerous mission. If the mission was a success, then SAP 13408 was as good as on his way.

Willie paused in the gloaming to straighten his tunic and press his hair down neatly. He wondered if the Lieutenant was in position yet, and where he had chosen to hide himself.

Then Willie walked on, approaching the steps which led up to the verandah and the public bar. How different life seemed now, all thanks to the big fellow who’d not appealed to him in the slightest at the beginning, but who had become one of the best blokes he had been privileged to know. Nothing worried the bastard; he did what he liked, when he liked, and sod them all. If he knew about him pinching the magazine, he’d just laugh; he’d not expect something dreadful to happen, and he would be right. Nothing had. A lovely bit of goose, that; pity she lived in England-he could do her right now. This was it.

Willie pushed open the bar door, took in a blur of faces and voices, and made for the counter.

“Hey, look who’s here!” Karl de Bruin said with a laugh, slapping him on the back. “Wonders will never cease! What’ll you have, son? A lager?”

“Ta, Mr. de Bruin-that’s kind, man.”

Samson, the Zulu barman who always wore his clip-on-bow tie upside down, brought a lager up from the shelf underneath. As he jerked the cap off, he said softly, “Boss is not back yet, young chief.”

“Really?” Willie’s mouth went a little dry.

“Long time he has been gone,” Samson added, keeping the froth from coming over the top. “The party begins very soon.”

De Bruin clinked his glass against Willie’s and they drank. It tasted very good, especially when you hadn’t stopped since early morning for anything. Perhaps the Land-Rover, which was a real heap, had broken down.

“Of course, you would have been even more welcome pitching up before the work was done,” de Bruin joshed him. “Us blokes have only just finished the obstacle course for the over-tens. Gysbert made some lovely fish out of bean tins for the magnet pool-did you see them?”

“Er-no. I’ll catch up on that later.”

“You’re coming tonight?” asked Swanepoel.

“Ja. Ja, I think I am.”

“I see; when the cat’s away …?”

Swanepoel’s witticism won an undeservedly loud laugh.

“You mean when the.…” Willie lost track of that. He had just realized that Jonkers and Ferreira were now both absent at the same time.

“Go on,” Swanepoel encouraged him. “I don’t mind what you call that fat little bastard.”

“Easy, man, easy,” said de Bruin.

George van der Heever and one or two others joined the half-circle; they nodded to Willie in a friendly way, making him feel very welcome. The whole idea of the mission seemed-no, he was under orders: it wasn’t his job to think.