Roots of Outrage. John Davis Gordon

made her cry? And she made him want to cry, thinking of those fucking hairyback policemen rumbling all over her. He heard himself say: ‘But there’re better journalists than me, Patti.’

      ‘If I phoned up the editor of the Star and told him I had a story for his ears only, would he have come along personally to see me?’

      He tried to think what that august personage would do. ‘No, he’d send one of his reporters.’

      ‘Right. And I wouldn’t know that reporter. And would I like him?’ She smiled. ‘But I do feel I know you, and Gloria says you’re a good guy. And she says you’re studying law – that shows you’re serious, even if Gloria says you’re wild as hell. And,’ her smile widened mischievously, ‘I saw the way you looked at me during the trial. You like me.’

      Oh, there was sexual teasing in that. ‘Yes, I do.’

      She let that admission hang, her eyes bright with amusement, then said: ‘And I like you. That’s why I asked you to do my story.’ She added: ‘Probably as much as you like me, Luke.’

      Mahoney’s heart seemed to turn over. Surely this was an invitation? But he hesitated to blunder in – he wanted to make a good impression.

      She went on: ‘Tell me, what is it you like about me? Apart from my body.’

      Her body … Now he was in no doubt. His heart was hammering. But play it cool… ‘Your mind. And your courage.’

      ‘But you don’t know anything about my mind yet. Except that possibly I’m a hard bitch who’s prepared to screw policemen.’

      Her mind was the last thing on his mind right now – let’s get back to the bit about her body. He said: ‘I saw your mind in action in the trial – you were clever. And you were courageous to make a public issue over that Miss South Africa contest.’

      ‘And how do you like my politics?’

      Oh fuck politics. The conversation, moments ago so promising, was taking an unfortunate turn. ‘All I know about your politics is that you’re against this government – and so am I.’

      ‘But are you really against the government, or are you a typical schizophrenic South African liberal? All talk and no action. Against apartheid, vote for the United Party, but secretly understand why the government’s doing what it is, because in your secret racist heart you’re really scared to give the blacks the vote. Because most of them are so ‘‘primitive’’ and your civilization will be swamped.’

      He wished they could get off this tack. ‘“Schizophrenic”.’ He smiled. ‘“Secret racist heart”: I must use those expressions.’

      ‘Well,’ she smiled, ‘are you?’

      Was he undergoing a test to see if he deserved getting laid? He was determined to pass it. ‘Absolutely not.’ That was only half-true but it felt like a hundred per cent.

      She grinned. ‘Then you’re very much an exception, Luke. Even the Indians are scared of blacks. Well, not only am I anti-government, but I’m a do-er, not just a talker.’ She lifted her wine glass to her sensual mouth, her eyes shining with amusement. ‘Well? Does that worry you?’

      Worry him about what? Right now there was only one thing he wanted her to be a do-er about. Right now he didn’t care if she blew the South African government to Kingdom Come as long as she didn’t involve him. ‘I’m a journalist, Patti, my job is to write what’s happening. I’m shock-proof.’ He added for good measure: ‘And I’m trustworthy.’

      She threw back her lovely head and laughed. It was resonant with sex. ‘Oh Luke … I know what you’re thinking. And I like you …’

      Now you’re talking, Miss Gandhi …

      ‘And I like you …’ he said huskily.

      He was about to cross the room and take her in his arms when she said: ‘Know what I like about you, despite your schizophrenia? Your boyish charm … In fact, your body …’

      His body? And this was definitely it! Luke Mahoney got up out of the armchair with uncool alacrity, put his glass down, and crossed the room. And Patti Gandhi put her glass down, as if to make ready for the assault. Mahoney halted in front of her, she lifted her lovely face and he crushed her smiling mouth to his, devouring her with kisses; then he tried to heave her up to her feet.

      ‘No, Luke!’ she said, grinning.

      No Luke? After that come-on? He stared down at her smiling face.

      ‘I’m sorry, Luke, I’ve led you on.’

      Damn right she had! And he wasn’t taking no for an answer. He dropped to one knee and put his arms around her and she laughed, and stood up. She smiled down at him, holding his hands, and said: ‘Not tonight, Luke. It may surprise you, after all you know about me, but I’m not an easy lay. I like you, Luke, but going to bed with me is not part of our deal yet …’

11

      Not part of the deal yet? When, oh when would it be? And how long was he going to have to wait to get his hands on this story? And on that gorgeous body. He’d undertaken not to telephone her in case her lines were being tapped. It was seven long days later that Gloria Naidoo brought the message.

      He was taken aback at the elaborateness of the arrangements. He could understand why she couldn’t risk him writing the story at home, but wasn’t this taking things too far? As instructed, he left the Drum offices at five o’clock and walked to the public underground parking near the City Hall. On the lowest level he located a blue delivery van. He climbed in and pulled the doors closed. He was in total darkness: the van had no windows. Half a minute later he heard the driver’s door open. The van drove off. It emerged into the rush-hour traffic. About thirty minutes later the vehicle turned onto a dirt track. Not long afterwards it stopped, the rear doors opened and there stood Patti.

      ‘Hi! Sorry about the cloak-and-dagger stuff.’

      He climbed out. She was more beautiful than ever and his loins stirred. ‘Where are we?’

      ‘On a farm belonging to a friend of mine, sorry I can’t tell you where. Come.’ She started leading the way towards a cottage.

      Was this an ANC hide-out? This was stuff tailor-made for a journalist but Jesus Christ he’d better be careful! If the cops knew about this. ‘Patti, is this an ANC safe house?’

      ‘Good Lord, no. Look it’s a real farm. Real cows, real fields.’ In the distance he could make out the roof of a farmhouse through a thicket of trees, perhaps a kilometre away, beyond a fence. ‘The only reason I can’t tell where we are is that I’ve promised the owner I wouldn’t tell a soul. Because it’s illegal – he’s white and I’m Indian.’

      ‘I see. Where is the owner now?’

      ‘He only comes occasionally. You won’t see him, there’s a separate road and entrance he uses, on the other side of the farm.’

      She led him into the living room. There were two armchairs and a dining table with a typewriter on it. Two small bedrooms led off the room – he saw a double bed in one, two iron cots in the other. There was a small kitchen. In the backyard was a small swimming pool surrounded by a wooden fence ‘This was the farm manager’s cottage, but he lives over at the main house now because the owner rarely uses it. He won’t disturb us. I use this place as a weekend retreat. Aren’t I lucky?’

      Wasn’t he lucky? ‘Very …’ And with all his heart he just wanted to take her in his arms and feel those breasts and thighs crushed against him and carry her off to that double bed.

      ‘What can I get you to drink?’ She