Roots of Outrage. John Davis Gordon

      He looked at her, his eyes full of tears.

      ‘Do you believe that?’ she whispered.

      He took a deep breath, then he shook his head. ‘No.’

      She cried: ‘Believe it, darling! Believe it! For your sake and mine!’ She turned abruptly and walked through the door. She closed it behind her with a bang.

      He heard her sob once. Then there was the sound of her high heels down the corridor.

      He stood there. And with all his breaking heart he wanted to run after her, to seize her arid make her come back. Drag her back. But, oh God, he did not believe this was the end. And he needed time to think, about what she had said – about a thousand things. Think. About what today meant. What Krombrink meant. What she had meant. He stood there, his eyes full of tears; then he turned to the double bed and sat down and held his face.

      He heard her car start, and he sobbed out loud.

18

      He woke up before dawn, and he thought his heart would break. He swung out of bed, slammed on the shower and stood under cold jets, trying to knock the pain out of himself. He pulled on his tracksuit and set out into the first light, to think.

      He climbed along the mountain paths, then down into the valley to their waterfall. He sat on the big flat rock where they had made love so often, and it seemed he could almost hear her splashing in the water, almost see her long black hair floating and her golden body glistening, almost hear her laughter, almost feel her satiny nakedness. When he could bear it no longer he climbed up to the very top of the mountain.

      Spread out below him was the vast mauveness of South Africa, so beautiful, so quiet, and so bloody cruel, so mindless. And way over there Patti Gandhi was doing something about it, doing God knows what, but putting her freedom and life on the line for what she believed in. He admired her and loved her and, oh God, he was frightened about what could happen to her, and he despised himself for not having her guts …

      It was midday when he came down from the mountain. He knew what he had to do: there was only one way he could live with himself, and with her – and that was to play the Afrikaner bastards at their own bloody game. No way could he turn his back on her, let her walk away into the lions’ den alone …

      In the early afternoon he drove across the border back into South Africa. His heart was knocking like a criminal’s. But the young policeman showed no interest in him beyond a polite ‘Goeie dag’ and the routine question, ‘Iets om te verklaar?’ Anything to declare? But as he walked out of the immigration post he imagined the man reaching for the telephone. Driving through the beautiful afternoon, he tried to shut his mind to his fear and just think about her. And when the bushveld began to give way to the rolling grassland of the highveld, and the industrial satellites of Johannesburg began to loom up on the skyline, it was unthinkable that he wouldn’t see her again. All he cared about was her and, oh, he hated this land which made it illegal to live happily ever after with her. He had to get to a phone. He saw a filling station and pulled in. He rammed his coins into the callbox and dialled.

      ‘Hullo,’ she said.

      He closed his eyes in relief. She hadn’t been arrested. She was still in the land of the living. What he wanted to say was ‘I love you’, but he said: ‘Is that Mrs Lambert?’

      There was a silence. He heard her breathing. Then she said softly: ‘You’ve got the wrong number.’ She hung up.

      He walked back to the car happily.

      It was not until he was winding his way through downtown Johannesburg that he was sure he was being followed. He had first seen the blue Ford about fifty miles back. Three men in it. At a set of traffic lights, where he would normally turn left to the Indian quarter, he carried straight on, towards Hillbrow, and the car followed him. His knocking heart sank.

      The car tailed him all the way across town. As it pulled up behind him in front of The Parsonage, he was shaking.

      The men got out and came towards him. The first said, in a heavy Afrikaans accent: ‘We’re police. Will you come with us to the station, please.’

      His heart was pounding. ‘What on earth for?’

      ‘You either come voluntarily or we arrest you.’

      ‘On what bloody charge?!’

      ‘The Terrorism Act.’

      He stared, white with fear. ‘What bullshit …’ he whispered.

      A policeman drove his car to Marshall Square. He went with the other two. His ears felt blocked, his mind was racing. The cars parked in the yard. One man stayed behind: he went with the other two.

      They entered the same back door he had used last time he was here. The same elevator, with only one button. Nobody spoke. The top floor. The long corridor, neon lights. The security gate. A row of doors. Into an office, where they took his passport, and then his fingerprints.

      ‘Why are you taking my fingerprints?’ He tried to control his shaking hands.

      ‘Routine.’

      ‘But I’m not a fucking criminal!’

      The man said nothing. He gripped Mahoney’s fingers and rolled the tips one by one onto the pad. The other detective took the form and walked out of the room. ‘Kom.’

      They walked back along the corridor. Into the lair of Colonel Krombrink, who sat behind his desk.

      ‘Good afternoon.’

      At the window lolled the same detective as last time.

      ‘Colonel, am I under arrest?’

      ‘Not yet.’

      Not yet? ‘Then why am I here? And why was I fingerprinted?’

      Krombrink said quietly: ‘Sit down.’

      Oh Jesus, he hated the bastards! And he was scared of them. ‘If I’m to answer questions I’m entitled to a lawyer. In which case he will answer them for me!’

      ‘Mr Mahoney, you know as well as I do that you can be detained for ninety days to answer questions – without access to a lawyer. What have you got to hide, that you Want a lawyer?’

      ‘Nothing!’ And he hated the bastards so much it felt like the truth.

      The colonel smiled. ‘Nothing we don’t know already? So sit down, please.’

      ‘Oh Jesus …’

      The colonel clasped his hands. ‘I’m not going to beat about the bush, Mr Mahoney. You have broken the law. And broken God’s law: the Immorality Act …’

      Mahoney closed his eyes, but in relief. If that’s all they had on him … But he had to deny it. The colonel went on: ‘We know all about you and that Indian, Patti Gandhi. We can give you dates, places, times. And you’ve just come back from another dirty night in Swaziland. Don’t waste our time denying it.’

      ‘I do deny it …’

      Krombrink shook his head in sadness. ‘And you a law student.’ He looked at him. ‘You’re going to go to jail, Mr Mahoney. And when you come out you’ll never be allowed to practise law; not with a criminal record like that, man.’

      The Immorality Act … So they weren’t going to try to use him as an informer? He said: ‘This is crazy.’

      The colonel said: ‘What we find crazy is that a man from a good family like you, with your education, should want to consort with a non-European!’ He looked at him with disgust; then his eyes narrowed. ‘And a communist. A terrorist.’ Mahoney felt himself go ashen. Krombrink let it hang. ‘Contravening the Immorality Act is only one