What professions were off on Friday nights? Or rather what professions worked on Friday nights? Only bloody policemen, thats allthe rest of the world partied. And murdered.
He climbed out of the bath, walked dripping over to his cases and took out a towel. Anna had placed one neatly on top of the clothes. She had packed carefully for him, as if she cared. But now he rummaged around in the suitcases. He would have to hang the clothes up, or they would be wrinkled.
He had to find a place to stay. For six months.
He listened to the silence in the flat, suddenly aware that he was alone. That he was sober. He chose some clothes and dressed.
Despite her anger, Anna had packed his clothes with care. She would be in the kitchen now, still in her work clothes, clattering pots and pans, radio playing on the table. Carla would be sitting at the dining-room table with her homework books, twisting the point of the pencil in her hair. Fritz would be in front of the television, remote in hand, skipping channels continuously, searching, impatient. Always on the go. He was like that toothings must happen.
Jesus, what had happened to his life?
Pissed away. With the help of Klipdrift and Coke and Jack Daniels.
Alcoholics Anonymous, Step Ten: Continue to take personal inventory and when you are wrong, promptly admit to it.
He sighed deeply. Desire pressed against his ribcage from inside. He did not want to be here. He wanted to go home. He wanted his family back, his wife and his children. He wanted his life back. He would have to start over. He wanted to be like he was beforethe policeman from the Parow station who laughed at life. Could one begin again? Now. At forty-three?
Where would you begin, to start over?
You dont have to be a genius to work that one out. He wasnt sure whether he had said that out loud.
He must buy a newspaper and look for a place in the classified ads, because this fucking flat gave him the heebie-jeebies. But first he must phone. He found Mrs. McAllisters phone directory in a drawer of the cupboard by the phone. He opened it near the front, and slid his finger down the list, turned a page, looked again until he found the number.
He would try one more time. One last fucking time.
He rang the number. It did not ring for long.
Alcoholics Anonymous, good afternoon, said a womans voice.
* * *
By chance Thobela bought the Argus. It was something to do while he ate fish and chips from a cardboard carton, the seagulls waiting like beggars on the railing for alms. He spread the paper open on the table before him. First he read the main article without much interestmore political undercurrents in the Western Cape, allegations of corruption and the usual denials. He dipped the chips in the seafood sauce. That was when he spotted the small column in the right bottom corner.
COPS CALLED INCOMPETENTBABY RAPIST CASE DISMISSED
He read. When he had finished, he pushed the remains to one side. He gazed out over the quiet water of the harbor. Pleasure boats with sunburned tourists on board cruised out in a line to serve cocktails off Llandudno and Clifton when the sun went down. But he was blind to the scene. He sat there staring and motionless for a long time with his big hands framing the article. Then he read it again.
* * *
There was a knock on the study door and the minister said, Come in.
The woman who put her head around the door was in her middle years, her black hair cut short against her head and her nose long and elegant. Sorry to disturb you. I have made some snacks.
The two women summed each other up with a glance. Christine saw false self-assurance, subservience, a slim body hidden by a sensible frock. A busy woman with able hands that only labored in the kitchen. The sort of woman who had sex in order to have children, not for pleasure. A woman who would turn away stiffly if her husbands mouth and tongue slid lower than the small, worn breasts. Christine knew
He climbed out of the bath, walked dripping over to his cases and took out a towel. Anna had placed one neatly on top of the clothes. She had packed carefully for him, as if she cared. But now he rummaged around in the suitcases. He would have to hang the clothes up, or they would be wrinkled.
He had to find a place to stay. For six months.
He listened to the silence in the flat, suddenly aware that he was alone. That he was sober. He chose some clothes and dressed.
Despite her anger, Anna had packed his clothes with care. She would be in the kitchen now, still in her work clothes, clattering pots and pans, radio playing on the table. Carla would be sitting at the dining-room table with her homework books, twisting the point of the pencil in her hair. Fritz would be in front of the television, remote in hand, skipping channels continuously, searching, impatient. Always on the go. He was like that toothings must happen.
Jesus, what had happened to his life?
Pissed away. With the help of Klipdrift and Coke and Jack Daniels.
Alcoholics Anonymous, Step Ten: Continue to take personal inventory and when you are wrong, promptly admit to it.
He sighed deeply. Desire pressed against his ribcage from inside. He did not want to be here. He wanted to go home. He wanted his family back, his wife and his children. He wanted his life back. He would have to start over. He wanted to be like he was beforethe policeman from the Parow station who laughed at life. Could one begin again? Now. At forty-three?
Where would you begin, to start over?
You dont have to be a genius to work that one out. He wasnt sure whether he had said that out loud.
He must buy a newspaper and look for a place in the classified ads, because this fucking flat gave him the heebie-jeebies. But first he must phone. He found Mrs. McAllisters phone directory in a drawer of the cupboard by the phone. He opened it near the front, and slid his finger down the list, turned a page, looked again until he found the number.
He would try one more time. One last fucking time.
He rang the number. It did not ring for long.
Alcoholics Anonymous, good afternoon, said a womans voice.
* * *
By chance Thobela bought the Argus. It was something to do while he ate fish and chips from a cardboard carton, the seagulls waiting like beggars on the railing for alms. He spread the paper open on the table before him. First he read the main article without much interestmore political undercurrents in the Western Cape, allegations of corruption and the usual denials. He dipped the chips in the seafood sauce. That was when he spotted the small column in the right bottom corner.
COPS CALLED INCOMPETENTBABY RAPIST CASE DISMISSED
He read. When he had finished, he pushed the remains to one side. He gazed out over the quiet water of the harbor. Pleasure boats with sunburned tourists on board cruised out in a line to serve cocktails off Llandudno and Clifton when the sun went down. But he was blind to the scene. He sat there staring and motionless for a long time with his big hands framing the article. Then he read it again.
* * *
There was a knock on the study door and the minister said, Come in.
The woman who put her head around the door was in her middle years, her black hair cut short against her head and her nose long and elegant. Sorry to disturb you. I have made some snacks.
The two women summed each other up with a glance. Christine saw false self-assurance, subservience, a slim body hidden by a sensible frock. A busy woman with able hands that only labored in the kitchen. The sort of woman who had sex in order to have children, not for pleasure. A woman who would turn away stiffly if her husbands mouth and tongue slid lower than the small, worn breasts. Christine knew
Similar Books
