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Captain. The voice was remote.
Whats the matter, Benny?
Im okay, Captain. Slightly more expression. Probably something I ate.
Or drank, Joubert thought but said nothing.
Griessels face disappeared. Joubert lit another cigarette. He forced himself to concentrate on the work in front of him. Dossiers about death. An elderly couple in Durbanville. An unknown black body next to the train tracks in Kuilsriver. A woman in Belhar murdered with a screwdriver by her drunken husband.
Then he heard someone clearing his throat. Bart de Wit stood in front of his desk. Joubert wondered how he managed to move like a cat over the tiled floor. He saw that de Wit wasnt smiling. His face was serious.
Ive got news, Captain. Good news.
* * *
Joubert ground the gears of the Sierra and drove jerkily through the afternoon traffic. He wished he could express the astonishment and indignation that clung to him like a too tight piece of clothing.
De Wit had told him he had to see the psychologist.
Your file has been referred.
The passive form. Too scared to say: I referred your file, Captain, because you are a loser. And I, Bart de Wit, dont need losers. I want to get rid of you. And if I cant do it with the medical report, Ill do it in this way. Lets dig around in your head, Captain. Lets thrust a spoon into the stew of your head and stir it a little. Stand back, folks, because it might be dangerous. This man in front of you is slightly . . . off. Not all there. Mentally unbalanced. On the surface he looks normal. Somewhat overweight, somewhat untidy, but normal. But inside his head its something else, ladies and gentlemen. Inside that skull a few circuits have shorted.
Your file has been referred. There are appointments available hed checked the green filethis afternoon at sixteen-thirty, tomorrow at oh nine hundred, fourteen hundred
This afternoon, Mat Joubert had said hurriedly.
De Wit had looked up from the file, somewhat surprised, appraisingly. Well arrange it.
And now he was on his way. Because somewhere in a gray office with a couch for his patients, a bespectacled psychologist had had insight into his file. Had begun setting up the scorecard of Freud or Jung or whomsoever. What have we here? The death of his wife? Minus twenty. Disciplinary hearing? Minus twenty. And the slump in his work. Minus forty. He could have done something about that. Grand total minus eighty. Bring him in.
Well keep an eye on the situation, Captain. See whether the therapy helps. A covert threat, concealed. But obviously de Wits trump card.
Perhaps it was a good thing. God knows, his head had been muddled. Had been? Could one really judge the state of ones own mind? How normal was he at Macassar when hed looked at the burnt remains of the three, could hear their voices in his ears? The high, shrill, primal scream that the spirit utters when it reluctantly has to leave the body, the volume intensified by the screaming of flesh in the agony of death by fire, every pain receptor swamped by the intense heat.
Was that normal?
Was it normal to wonder then, for the umpteenth time, whether you shouldnt take the trouble to join the dead? Wasnt it better to have control over the when and the how? Was it wrong to be afraid of that unexpected moment when the mind realized it had a nanosecond left in the world? Afraid. Terrified.
And now de Wit was holding a sword above his muddled head. Let the psychologist fix the circuitry or . . .
He stopped in front of a tower block on the Foreshore. Sixteenth floor. Dr. H. Nortier. That was all he knew. He took the elevator.
Joubert was pleased that there was no one else in the waiting room.
It was different from what hed expected. There was a couch and two chairs, comfortable
Whats the matter, Benny?
Im okay, Captain. Slightly more expression. Probably something I ate.
Or drank, Joubert thought but said nothing.
Griessels face disappeared. Joubert lit another cigarette. He forced himself to concentrate on the work in front of him. Dossiers about death. An elderly couple in Durbanville. An unknown black body next to the train tracks in Kuilsriver. A woman in Belhar murdered with a screwdriver by her drunken husband.
Then he heard someone clearing his throat. Bart de Wit stood in front of his desk. Joubert wondered how he managed to move like a cat over the tiled floor. He saw that de Wit wasnt smiling. His face was serious.
Ive got news, Captain. Good news.
* * *
Joubert ground the gears of the Sierra and drove jerkily through the afternoon traffic. He wished he could express the astonishment and indignation that clung to him like a too tight piece of clothing.
De Wit had told him he had to see the psychologist.
Your file has been referred.
The passive form. Too scared to say: I referred your file, Captain, because you are a loser. And I, Bart de Wit, dont need losers. I want to get rid of you. And if I cant do it with the medical report, Ill do it in this way. Lets dig around in your head, Captain. Lets thrust a spoon into the stew of your head and stir it a little. Stand back, folks, because it might be dangerous. This man in front of you is slightly . . . off. Not all there. Mentally unbalanced. On the surface he looks normal. Somewhat overweight, somewhat untidy, but normal. But inside his head its something else, ladies and gentlemen. Inside that skull a few circuits have shorted.
Your file has been referred. There are appointments available hed checked the green filethis afternoon at sixteen-thirty, tomorrow at oh nine hundred, fourteen hundred
This afternoon, Mat Joubert had said hurriedly.
De Wit had looked up from the file, somewhat surprised, appraisingly. Well arrange it.
And now he was on his way. Because somewhere in a gray office with a couch for his patients, a bespectacled psychologist had had insight into his file. Had begun setting up the scorecard of Freud or Jung or whomsoever. What have we here? The death of his wife? Minus twenty. Disciplinary hearing? Minus twenty. And the slump in his work. Minus forty. He could have done something about that. Grand total minus eighty. Bring him in.
Well keep an eye on the situation, Captain. See whether the therapy helps. A covert threat, concealed. But obviously de Wits trump card.
Perhaps it was a good thing. God knows, his head had been muddled. Had been? Could one really judge the state of ones own mind? How normal was he at Macassar when hed looked at the burnt remains of the three, could hear their voices in his ears? The high, shrill, primal scream that the spirit utters when it reluctantly has to leave the body, the volume intensified by the screaming of flesh in the agony of death by fire, every pain receptor swamped by the intense heat.
Was that normal?
Was it normal to wonder then, for the umpteenth time, whether you shouldnt take the trouble to join the dead? Wasnt it better to have control over the when and the how? Was it wrong to be afraid of that unexpected moment when the mind realized it had a nanosecond left in the world? Afraid. Terrified.
And now de Wit was holding a sword above his muddled head. Let the psychologist fix the circuitry or . . .
He stopped in front of a tower block on the Foreshore. Sixteenth floor. Dr. H. Nortier. That was all he knew. He took the elevator.
Joubert was pleased that there was no one else in the waiting room.
It was different from what hed expected. There was a couch and two chairs, comfortable
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