Деон Мейер - Cobra

‘He’s aggressive, Doc.’

‘With Carla?’

‘I’ll lock the fucker up if he ever tries that .’

‘You mean on the field?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s his job, Benny.’

Griessel just shook his head.

‘Why are you here?’ asked Doc.

‘Because my colleagues think I’m drinking again.’

‘What gives them that idea?’

‘Last night I slept in my office. Not for very long either. So I looked really bad today.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Last week there were two nights I slept in the office.’

‘From pressure of work?’

‘No, Doc.’

‘Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or must I drag it out of you?’

Griessel sighed.

‘It’s Alexa,’ said Doc Barkhuizen with certainty. He had advised strongly against Griessel’s relationship with her – he said two dodgy alcoholics together spelled trouble, ‘and if one is an artiste as well, then you have the recipe for a big mess’.

‘Alexa is one hundred and fifty days sober, Doc.’

‘But?’

‘I’ve moved in.’

‘With her?’

‘Yes, Doc.’

‘Christ, Benny. When?’

‘Three weeks ago.’

‘And?’

‘And it’s difficult, Doc. Not to do with drink, I swear. We . . . it’s easier, she understands the craving, Doc, we help each other.’

‘You know I think that’s a crock of shit. But go on.’

All the way here he had considered how he would lie; at the beginning of his rehabilitation Barkhuizen had caught him out every time – he knew all the sly evasions of an alcoholic so well. Griessel decided on half-truths, that was the safest. And now he couldn’t find the right words. ‘ Jissis , Doc . . .’

‘Do you have trouble with commitment, Benny? Or are you still missing Anna?’

‘No, Doc. It’s just . . . I suppose it’s the commitment, sort of . . .’

‘Sort of?’

‘Doc, I got used to being on my own. For two years. Coming and going as I chose. If I wanted to drink orange juice out of the bottle in the morning, if I wanted to play bass guitar in the evening, if I just wanted to do fokkol . . .’

‘So what possessed you to go and move in with her? Wait, don’t tell me. It was her idea.’

‘Yes, Doc.’

‘And you felt too bad to say no.’

‘No, Doc, I wanted to.’

‘And now you’re sleeping at the office so you can be alone for a while?’

‘That’s more or less . . .’

‘ Jissis , Griessel, you’re a moron.’

‘Yes, Doc.’

‘Did you give up your flat?’

‘Yes, Doc.’

‘A moronic ape.’

‘Yes, Doc.’

‘You know what the right thing to do is.’

‘No, Doc.’

‘You know, but you don’t want to know. You have to sit down and talk to her. Tell her you need your space. And then she’s going to feel threatened and insecure, because she is an artiste. And she will wonder whether you really love her. And she is going to cry, and resort to drink, and you will feel responsible. That’s the problem. You don’t want to face up to all those things. You’ve never been very good with conflict.’

‘ Fok , Doc.’

‘So tell me, how long did you think you could continue sleeping at the office before it caused complications?’

Griessel stared at the floor.

‘You didn’t think, did you?’

‘No, Doc.’

‘Why are you here, Benny? You knew exactly what I would say.’

‘My CO told me to come.’

‘Did you tell him you haven’t been drinking?’

‘I tried, but . . .’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know, Doc.’

‘You will have to do something .’

‘Alexa is going to Johannesburg tomorrow, until Thursday. I’ll think about it, Doc. When she comes back . . .’

Doc Barkhuizen looked at Benny from under his bushy eyebrows. Then he said:‘You know that we are personally responsible for ninety-five per cent of the trouble in our lives.’

‘Yes, Doc.’

‘Do you want me to phone your CO?’

‘Please, Doc.’

‘OK. And don’t worry, I’ll be discreet.’

His cellphone rang as he walked outside with Barkhuizen. An unknown number. He answered while Doc locked up the surgery. The wind was icy.

‘Captain, it’s Jeanette Louw.’

‘Hello,’ said Griessel, still unsure of how to address her.

‘I have spoken to the next of kin about your request. It’s going to be difficult. They have already notified family members, and some of them are already on their way to the Cape to support them, and for the funerals.’

‘I understand completely,’ he said.

‘They say they’ll try, but they can’t guarantee it won’t reach the media.’

‘It’ll give us a bit of time,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much.’

‘Captain, they are doing it because they want to help catch the murderers.’

He didn’t react.

‘You are going to catch them, Captain?’

‘I will do my absolute best.’

She remained silent for a long time, before she said: ‘If there is anything that I can do. Anything . . .’

11

Griessel drove away, looking back in the rear-view mirror at the skinny, slightly bowed shape of Doc Barkhuizen standing under the street light. He felt a huge compassion for the man, for the generous heart hidden behind the strict, infl exible facade.

His sins weighed heavily on him.

Doc was the one person he did not want to lie to. It was a sacred relationship, the one with your AA sponsor, if you truly wanted to quit drinking. It was the cornerstone of rehabilitation, in the end, it was your only lifebuoy in the stormy sea of alcoholic thirst. If you couldn’t trust one another, you were basically fucked. For the past few years, Doc had been the one constant in his life, the one he shared everything with.

Until today.

That’s why unease stirred down in his gut: once you began telling half-truths and concealing the Big Problem, you quickly slid down the slippery slope of relapse. He knew. He had been there.

If he couldn’t speak about the actual problem, why wasn’t he at least honest about the other things that haunted him?

Because Doc would say: ‘You know what to do.’

And Doc would be right.

He would say to Doc: ‘I’m afraid Alexa will catch me out, I’m afraid that she will see through me some time or other. And then she will drop me. And though I’m looking for some room, I don’t want that . Because I love her, she’s actually all that I have. So, it worries me a lot, Doc.’

He would at least be able to explain where the problem began, where the origin was. It was back when he met Alexa. He had been involved in the investigation into the murder of her husband. He was the one who recognised her as the former singing sensation, it filled him with nostalgia and admiration and a bittersweet longing. And then he was sympathetic about her drinking and he told her he was also an alcoholic. He was the one who believed from the beginning that she was innocent, he was the one who unravelled the whole mess, and the one who took her flowers afterwards in hospital and talked with her about music.

And then she thought he was brilliant.

He tried to tell her, several times, in different ways, that she was wrong. But he hadn’t made a very good job of it, half blinded as he was by who she was, her musical talent and her Story, and her determination to get back on her feet again. And her sensuality – fok weet , despite the damage, despite the years, she was a sexy, beautiful woman. And then he went and fell in love with her. And when you are in love, you put your best foot forward, you hide who you really are. And she only heard what she wanted to hear.