James Mcclure - Snake

“Go on, my pet.”

“Things were going just as normal, and I had this feeling I had been away but was pleased to see everyone again. Only I couldn’t see the hangman and I wanted to ask him how his racing pigeons were coming on. I kept looking for him although work had already piled up for me downstairs-”

“They’d started with the Bantu?”

“Ja, although that didn’t seem funny at the time. Six Bantu and a colored, two rapes and the rest murder-no, one house-breaking with aggravated circumstances. Anyway, I knew there were all those certificates to sign. So I thought maybe he is in the condemned cell in B2, the small one for Europeans. I went there and I could tell which one from the aromas of the steak and eggs the bloke had ordered. You remember? Nearly always steak and eggs and peaches for pudding-hell, I was the one who actually saw all that food go to waste. But here am I outside the cell, and I push the thing back and look in. You know what I see there? A big mirror on the wall and my eye looking back at me. That’s the first thing I see.”

“And that’s what gave you such a big fright?”

“ Ach, no-wait. When I take my head away, I’m not by the cell anymore, I’m back in the shed. Of course, I think, this is where he’ll be. But I’m just there by myself. Then they bring in the white prisoner and I see that it’s Tromp!”

“Who?”

“Tromp Kramer-and I know this even though he’s already got the black hood on. Everything’s quick so I can’t ask about the pigeons and they put him on the trap and Father William says the Amen and he’s hanging-hell, but the bugger kicked hard! And I see… you know how the chain comes over the beam to make different lengths for the rope? You know that chart I showed you, heights and weights and the slack in between? I look up to see if it’s holding because I don’t want him to suffer-that’s rubbish for you, the chain coming loose.”

“Ja-”

“And all of a sudden I see it’s a mamba, not a rope, and that it’s-”

Anneline Strydom laughed fondly, replacing her arm and hugging her husband to her.

“You’re so silly,” she said. “Anyone can see where this dream came from. You don’t need Joseph to tell you it would just break, do you? Trompie jumped, he was all right-and you know how that boy likes his big plates of steak and eggs. Remember that time? I’d made for four?”

He laughed and snuggled up.

Gardiner was doodling. Drawing cartoon faces on thumb-prints he had himself made on the back of an old calendar, and giving them legs. Then he gave them arms and different things to hold, and wrote funny captions beneath each one, like “I never laid a finger on her” and “My alibi is I was out hitchhiking.” He had always liked art, even the watercolors at junior school, which always ran into each other, and his considerable graphic skill had made his specialized branch of police work a wise and rewarding choice.

Gardiner was also waiting. Marais had rung him in high excitement to ask if anything dramatic had been found in the dressing room, and when told it hadn’t, the clown promised to be over in a tick. He apparently had something momentous to impart, once he’d finished writing it out neatly for the lieutenant.

But the wait was getting beyond a joke. Both Gardiner’s dinner and his pretty wife would be stone cold by the time he got home, and he’d been hoping to broach the matter of a fishing trip up the North Coast instead of the visit to the game reserve.

So he finally just locked up and went over to the CID building, noticing the time on the city hall clock and discovering that his watch had lost an hour. This very nearly made him pick up the car and go, but his curiosity, as always, got the better of him. His rank had been well earned.

Marais was asleep, his head resting on folded arms on top of his typewriter. The snoring would have done justice to a bullfrog.

Gardiner saw the sheet of paper in the machine had just been begun, so he picked up what looked like a first draft and found it was, in fact, a formal statement written in an almost illegible hand by one Benjamin “Bix” Harold Johnson. Marais would never learn.

Yet once it was understood that the r’s were really m’s and that a dot served for a the, the thing flowed quite reasonably. Skipping the address, race, and age bit, Gardiner hooked a leg over the desk corner to read the rest.

The gig ended at 12 A.M. sharp and the Club Manager, MONTY STEVENSON, was there to see the Customers didn’t dilly-dally. I observed Stevenson at a table with a person known to me as GILBERT, a Car Salesman. Us boys in the band had been bought drinks by one of the grateful, and so we were entitled to drink them as we had not had time before THEO HILL, who plays the tenor saxophone, and MAC TAYLOR, drums, share a pad and a Volksy.

These two colleagues said good night to me at 12:10 or thereabouts, and went straight out through the front because of some nurses on nights having supper at one. I had promised some of the Staff a lift to the bottom end of town and was waiting for them to finish in the Kitchen. One of them approached me and asked if he could see the cassette Player he heard I had for sale. This Person was an Indian Male by the name of RAMCHUNDER who I call RAM because his first name is too hard to pronounce. The Boss was busy so he did not notice Ramchunder and me sneak into the passage to the dressing rooms. As a nonwhite, Ramchunder was out of bounds in this area, but I wanted to save myself the bother of going back and forward and the others thinking I had gone.

We therefore proceeded quietly to the Second Dressing Room where the Trio keeps its gear like scores and novelty instruments. I observed the Door to the First Dressing Room, in use at the time by the Deceased, SONJA BERGSTROOM, was closed and bolted. It had to be, because it was our old dressing room and if it wasn’t bolted the Door hung open slightly even after you had pushed it hard. This did not strike me in any way as strange as I knew the Deceased must be changing and packing. She was not a friendly type so I didn’t greet her as we passed. In fact, because RAMCHUNDER was with me, we went by almost on tiptoe so there would be no fuss.

There was no light in the Second Dressing Room as the switch had been broken for weeks, so Ramchunder inspected the Player by the light from the Passage. As it still had its “silica gel” packet, he said he would take it straight away if he could have it on installments. At this stage we heard Raised Voices in the Dressing Room next door, one of which I recognized as being that of the Deceased. The other was a Male Voice I did not recognize although I was interested and tried to. RAMCHUNDER then pointed out it would be best if we struck a bargain in the Car because there was a danger of him being seen Out of Bounds by whoever this was.

We then left, taking the Player with us, and as we passed the Door to the First Dressing Room we heard a Laugh that seemed too Hoarse to have been made by the Deceased and she always pretended what a lady she was and prim. Upon reentering the dance and cabaret area, I observed that STEVENSON had still not got rid of GILBERT. The Others were waiting by this time and we all went out the Front Way. The back way is never used because it is blocked by a Freezer in Contravention of Fire Regulations as I have Informed the Manager. As we got to the street, I again heard a Laugh. I turned to see who was laughing and saw STEVENSON in the distance at the entrance to the Club with a Male Figure I did not recognize in a Coat. I cannot be certain the laugh was the same one as had been made in the Dressing Room (First) but I thought the Male Figure could be the same one. I think it was 12:20 or thereabouts because the persons with me wanted to reach their Destination at 12:30 and we made it easily on time. It does usually take Ten Minutes to get the car and go there. That is all I can think of.