Roots of Outrage. John Davis Gordon

      Mahoney wanted to snatch the page from him. He said grimly: ‘Friends.’

      Colonel Krombrink did not look up, running his finger down the page. ‘Friends, ja … boyfriends?’

      Oh Jesus … ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

      ‘Would you be angry if you found out she was sleeping around?’

      ‘Yes.’ That’s what the bastard wanted to hear. And he was jealous already.

      ‘And you would be disgusted if in addition she placed those explosives in your car so you unwittingly took the risk of smuggling them across the border on her behalf?’ He added: ‘Exposing you to the gallows.’

      Mahoney closed his eyes. He almost believed the bastard now. ‘Yes.’

      ‘Yes.’ The colonel nodded. ‘And what would you do about it?’

      Thank God the man was at last getting to the point of this torture. ‘I’m not sure, I’ve never been in this position.’

      The colonel leant forward and said softly: ‘Mr Mahoney, that girl is sleeping with two men apart from you.’

      It was a shock, even though he had known it was coming, even though he didn’t believe it. He stared; the colonel went on: ‘And one of them, Mr Mahoney, is a kaffir, hey.’

      Mahoney blinked. It was intended as a sickening blow, and it was. He had to bite his tongue to remind himself it was lies. The colonel looked at him:

      ‘The kaffir is called Amos. The other is a white called Michael. Both are ANC. Communists. And terrorists. Mr Mahoney, the explosives in your car ended up on Lilliesleaf Farm. And we’re sure that these two men used them. To blow up Johannesburg station. And other jobs.’ He paused. ‘The men who’re screwing Miss Gandhi, for whom you now stand in risk of the gallows.’

      If this was for real it was mind-blowing. This wasn’t true! ‘Have you arrested these two guys?’

      ‘They weren’t on the farm when we raided. But we’re working on it.’ He paused. ‘Evidence, Mr Mahoney. We need evidence, and I do not fabricate evidence, contrary to what you think. Remember that, when you accuse me of planting traces of explosives in your car.’

      Oh God, God.

      ‘Do you see,’ Krombrink demanded gently, ‘that you were used? As an expendable pawn – to be hanged if you were caught.’

      It was mind-blowing. He did not believe it. And he did not know what to believe.

      Krombrink continued: ‘Doing the dangerous dirty work for Miss Gandhi’s other lovers? The men she fucks.’ The colonel went on softly: ‘Mr Mahoney, we have enough evidence to hang you …’

      Mind-blowing … He hung on his words, like he was meant to, desperate for reprieve.

      Krombrink said quietly: ‘Are you going to go to the gallows for those two guys? And for Miss Gandhi?’

      Oh God, of course not. And he wanted to roar with outrage that the bastard was terrifying him. He rasped: ‘No.’

      ‘But how’re you going to escape those gallows?’

      Oh, he knew how he was going to escape them – get to the border and run like hell! And he didn’t care that the man was lying – run like hell and never come back!

      Krombrink sat back again, in deep thought. Then he said: ‘Mr Mahoney, speaking personally – and not for my superiors – I do not believe you are a terrorist. An ANC sympathizer, definitely. But not a terrorist, in the normal sense of the word.’ (Oh God, the relief. The veritable rush of gratitude. Just like he was meant to feel.) ‘But we have this evidence. And I can assure you that any court will convict you on this evidence.’

      Mahoney stared at him, desperate for his deal, his mercy.

      ‘Mr Mahoney, the only way to escape evidence like this –’ he tapped the file – ‘is to prove that you’re the victim of a terrible, cynical plot by these people.’ He held his eye. ‘I am prepared to give you a chance to do that.’

      Mahoney closed his eyes in relief. He wanted to gush his gratitude. ‘And how do I do that?’

      Colonel Krombrink nodded solemnly. ‘Only by cooperating completely with us. Doing exactly as we say Reporting absolutely everything to us.’ Then his eyes took on a steely glare. ‘And not only will you prove your innocence but we will make a break into these communist cells. Do you agree to cooperate?’

      Oh yes, yes, he agreed. ‘Okay,’ he said.

      Colonel Krombrink studied him, assessing. Then gave a judgement: ‘Okay.’ He sat up. ‘We’ll get you to sign a statement to that effect.’ (Mahoney wanted to whoop for joy.) ‘And another statement. Our insurance, hey, that you don’t cheat us.’ He shrugged. ‘Not important to you, really, in your circumstances, just a Cautioned Statement admitting to contravening the Immorality Act on various occasions with Patti Gandhi.’

      The Immorality Act was peanuts compared to that cell for ninety days! Absolutely nothing compared to those gallows!

      ‘And a third statement. Summarising how you wrote the story for this Gandhi woman at Lilliesleaf Farm, how you often went to neighbouring countries together, et cetera.’

      ‘And that I knew nothing about the farm being an ANC base? Nor about explosives? Nor did Miss Gandhi?’

      ‘Not to your knowledge, no.’

      ‘And if I refuse to sign?’

      Krombrink sighed. ‘Mr Mahoney, everything you’ve said has been tape-recorded, we’ve got the evidence against you if we want to use it. But you’re much more valuable working with us than hanging by your neck until SAFFAS – they’re the prison’s contract undertakers – take you away to an unmarked grave.’

      Mahoney’s face was ashen, his heart knocking.

      ‘Okay, I’ll sign.’

      Krombrink gave him a small reasonable smile; then clasped his hands together. ‘I personally will be your handler – you will report to me. You will receive all reasonable expenses incurred. Of course, we will retain your passport. But, of course, you will be given it back if and when you need it to travel with Miss Gandhi to somewhere like Swaziland again, provided I approve.’

      He heard himself blurt: ‘Why can’t I have it back now?!’

      Krombrink smiled. ‘We’re not fools, Mr Mahoney. You must realize you’re on a kind of unofficial bail. Now,’ he hunched forward, ‘remember I explained to you about the snake that laid the eggs? It’s those eggs you’re going to help us find …’

20

      It was unreal. The joy of walking back down the long corridor, his car keys in his hand, Colonel Krombrink escorting him to the security grille, shaking his hand … It was unreal that he even felt grateful to the man – he even almost liked Colonel Krombrink, for Christ’s sake … Then walking out of that dread-filled building into God’s own sweet fresh sunset – and, oh, he loved the world with his whole heart. Driving away up the empty streets was a wonderful feeling. Look at those shop windows, look at the lights …

      And it was unreal that he could now drive to her shop without worrying about being seen, could spend the whole night with her now without being arrested: Krombrink had ordered him to get back together with her – Krombrink would be expecting him to go to her immediately. No car was following him. He drove down Pritchard Street, turned left into Diagonal Street. Carmel Building, the row of Indian shops underneath, the apartments above – it seemed a long, long time since he had been here. And, yes, there were