Dead Before Dying

“I’ll write down my home address. At what time does the opera start? Eight o’clock?”

He nodded.

“I’ll be ready by seven-thirty.”

“Thank you.” Why did he thank her? Because he was so grateful that his stomach muscles were clenching.

“How’s the investigation going?”

He didn't react immediately, first had to accommodate the change of gears.

“Well. Very well. We’re close.”

“Tell me.”

“There was another murder this morning. The pastor of a tent church in Kraaifontein. They . . . we found money in his trailer. I think it could be the motive. And then it’s just a question of time.”

“I’m so pleased for you,” she said sincerely and tidied the file. Her words moved into another tempo. She looked straight ahead. Gently she said: “I want you to tell me about the disciplinary inquiry.”

* * *

He did not want to think about it.

It was four months after the death of Lara Joubert.

But he didn't tell her that. Let her work it out on her own.

She had changed from personal to professional too quickly. He wasn'’t ready. He had expected a slower landing and now he had to think back, open the doors and hear the voices, the blackness of his feelings then, the dark, a flawless black night, pitch-black, the incredible weight, the feverish dreams as thick as molasses, while seconds ago his heart had been as light as a feather, a bird in flight.

He closed his eyes.

He did not want to think about it.

Reluctantly he searched for the images in his mind.

Blackness.

He had been in bed. Winter.

The images. Slowly. Tiredly it flowed back, uneven and confused. It was late at night, in his bed, he remembered, slowly recalled even the taste in his mouth, the weight of the blankets, the dream world, visiting his wife in the realm of the dead, her laugh, her sounds,

uhm, uhm, uhm, uhm,

a telephone ringing Captain Joubert to Parow cold and wet northwest wind.

A house with cement walls and a garden gate and a path between flowerbeds and a small fountain in the center of the lawn; the blue lights turning in the street; the neighbors in their dressing gowns against the cold, curious, staring; the uniform who told him the man was inside, he had shot his wife and he wouldn't come out; the neighbors had heard the sound of the shots and went and knocked and then he shot at them and shouted at them and said that tonight he was going to blast them all to hell and gone; a neighbor’s cheek was bleeding from the glass slivers of the front room’s window.

He went to stand in front of the door; the sergeant of Murder and Robbery had shouted, No Captain, not in front of the door; the book says stand against the wall; but Joubert’s book was covered in soot. I’m unarmed, I’m coming in, and I put my service pistol down on the slate stoop and I opened the door and walked in; no, Captain, jesus god, he’s fucking crazy.

He had closed the door behind him, the wind audible in the house.

“Are you mad?” The big .375 Magnum pointing at him, the man in the passage virtually insane, terror-stricken. “I’m going to kill the lot of you.”

He remained where he was and looked at the man; his eyes were unblinking, he waited for the lead to penetrate his brain and let the curtain fall. “You’re mad, go away.” The man’s mouth spat saliva, his eyes were those of an animal, the big revolver shook. He didn't move, simply stood there, gazed, uninvolved.

“Where is she?” His own voice emotionless.

“In the kitchen. The whore. She’s dead, the whore. I killed her. Tonight I’m going to kill you all.” The weapon was aimed straight at him again; the man’s breathing was ragged, his chest heaved, his body shook.

“Why?”

A sound— a sob and a cry and disgust, intermingled; the weapon dropped a few millimeters; the man’s eyes closed, opened.

“Kill . . .”

The wind and showers of rain against the windows, on the corrugated iron roof; light scurrying across the walls, the shadows of windblown shrubs. The man’s body tipped up to the wall, the revolver still held high, his shoulder against the wall; then the sound, another one, long drawn, a wailing; the man sank down to the floor; his legs were bent, his eyes unseeing; a bundle, crouching, sitting, arm on one knee; the grip on the firearm loose, a sound like the wind, as comfortless as his own soul.

Breathing slowed.

“What could I do?”

Weeping. “What could I do? She didn't want me anymore. What could I do?”

Shoulders shaking, spasms.

“She’s mine.” Like a child. A high whimpering voice.

A silence that stretched and stretched.

“She said to him: ‘You know I’m yours.’ I stood here— she didn't know— I stood here and I heard her saying, ‘All yours.’ ” The last words were a cry again; the voice jumped an octave, uncomprehending.

“ ‘You know. Like last night,’ she said. And I hit her and she ran. To the bathroom at first . . .”

He looked up, pleading. “I don’t even know who he was.” He got no reaction.

“What am I going to do?”

In the passage: he standing, the man half-lying, half-sitting against the wall; the revolver hung against his leg; someone outside called Captain, Captain, silence again, only the wind and the rain and the sobs, now soft and even, the man’s eyes on the firearm.

An awareness of a possibility, of a way out, a comfort; consider, count the cost, the future.

A slow decision.

“Will you go out?”

Yes, because he knew the yearning, the decision, he knew the darkness; turned round, toward the door; opened it, cries outside, Captain, jesus you’re okay, what’s the fucker doing; the sound of the shot inside; he didn't move, simply stood there, his head bowed until they realized and ran past him, through the door.

“The sentence was suspended.”

He looked squarely at Hanna Nortier. She had wanted to ask. She had wanted to know. She wanted to sail the soul of Mat Joubert like an unknown sea, map the contours of the Coast of the Dead, describe the landmarks, name them. Ask me, Doc, ask me. I’ll tell you how close to it I was that night, back at home, to blowing my brains all over the living room carpet with a service pistol. I could see and feel the release of my friend in Parow, touch it, with my service pistol in my hand, my thumb on the safety catch, on my way to Lara.

Willy Theal had hammered on the door. Mat, dear boy, dear boy. The thin arm around his shoulders. They stood on the front veranda, his head against Theal’s chest, the pistol pointing to the ground, the moment past, the intensity lost.

Ask me, Doc.

Hanna Nortier evaded his gaze, wrote in the fucking file, which he wanted to grab and read, aloud, let’s see what the clever Doc thinks . . .

“And the petition?” She spoke softly again, like the previous times, her gaiety gone, dissipated by the black cloud that was Mat Joubert, the world’s only intelligent black cloud, who cast shadows wherever it went, who blotted out the sun, quenched laughter.