Roots of Outrage. John Davis Gordon
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like that on such a successful day! Mr Mahoney?’ The colonel took him warmly by the hand. ‘You’re busy, an’ so am I. So will you now excuse me, hey?’
He was still shaking when they got back to town. But what else could he have said? He had stood up to the bastard as much as anybody would dare: they were trying to bully him into being an informer, but that didn’t mean they had something on him – if they knew about his criminal relationship with Patti they would have nailed him long ago; if they’d known he was using the cottage his feet wouldn’t have touched the ground this afternoon. But, Jesus, he was angry: at the system that gave them such power, at the laws that made him a criminal for being in love. And, by God yes, he was angry at himself for being afraid of the bastards. By God yes, he was afraid …
He stopped at the Rosebank Hotel. He hurried to the public telephone and feverishly dialled Patti’s number.
‘Gandhi Garments,’ she said. Mahoney closed his eyes in relief: she hadn’t been arrested.
‘May I speak to Mr Jackson, please?’
‘I’m afraid you have the wrong number.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ He hung up and looked at his watch. It was a long five minutes waiting for her to get to the public telephones in the Fox Street post office. He dialled the first number: engaged. He cursed and dialled the next box.
‘Hullo?’
He said: ‘Don’t go anywhere near the cottage. It’s been raided, I’ve just come from there. Got that?’
There was a stunned silence. Then: ‘Yes.’
‘Did you leave anything in the cottage that’s identifiable?’
Short pause. ‘Don’t think so.’
Thank God. ‘So we’ve got to do some fast thinking. And the only safe place to do it is Swaziland. Meet me there on Friday night. At the hotel. Okay?’
No hesitation. ‘Okay. But shouldn’t we make it tonight?’
‘No, they’re watching me, and going to Swaziland mid-week would be unusual. Just go about your normal business.’
He hurried back to the car. He drove feverishly back to the Drum offices. He sat down at his typewriter, put paper into the machine and threw open his notebook. He pressed his trembling fingers to his eyes.
It was six o’clock when he crossed the border into Swaziland, his heart knocking. But the beetle-browed Afrikaner constable showed no interest. And, oh, the relief of driving across into the hilly land of the Swazis where there was no apartheid … And, oh God, he didn’t want to live in that land back there anymore. It was dark when he wound up the dirt road to the Mountain Arms. He ordered dinner to be served in their room at eight o’clock. He got a beer and went to sit on the verandah to wait for her.
And he waited. And waited. By the time the dinner gong rang he knew she had been arrested at the border. When the dinner hour was half over he telephoned her apartment. No reply. And he could bear the suspense no longer: he got in his car to drive back towards the border in case she had broken down. And, oh, the relief when he saw headlights coming up the road and identified her car. He stopped. She pulled up alongside him. He flung open her door and clutched her tight.
They sat at the table in their room, the food untouched. Her face was gaunt.
‘Well? Did you know?’ he asked.
She took a deep, tense breath. She said to her wine glass: ‘And, are you? Going to be an informer?’
He stared at her. ‘God! Inform on you? Would I have told you what Krombrink said if I intended that?’
She sipped from her glass. ‘But if I was not involved? Would you inform on the ANC?’
He closed his eyes. ‘Oh God, this is what this country does to you. Suspicions …’
‘Exactly,’ she said quietly. ‘Because in South Africa you’re either on one side or the other. The police ensure that: if you don’t give them information you’re the enemy. An accomplice. So – would you inform on the ANC?’
Mahoney took a deep breath. ‘I’m a journalist, and journalists don’t reveal their sources.’
‘But supposing you knew that a bomb had been planted in a supermarket? Would you tell the police?’
‘What the hell are you trying to do, Patti? Test me?’
‘To prove something to you. Please answer the question.’
‘The answer is, of course I would report it to the police! I don’t want innocent women and children blown up.’
‘And if it was a military installation? Would you report that?’
Mahoney glared at her.
‘Hypothetical questions … The answer, in principle, is No. Because this is a police state and any smack taken at it is fair. So, what does that prove to you?’
‘But supposing innocent soldiers just doing their national service get blown up too?’
He looked at her grimly. ‘Let me make one thing abundantly clear, Patti. I also want to see this government thrown out, and I accept that violence is probably inevitable. But violence should be confined to soldiers fighting each other – not killing civilians in supermarkets with urban terrorism. I want nothing to do with killing people. But yes, military installations are legitimate targets. Now cut out this hypothetical crap and answer my question: did you know the farm was the ANC’s headquarters? And did you know about the explosives and arms?’
She looked at her drink. ‘No. Does that satisfy you?’
He looked at her. ‘No it doesn’t.’ He took a breath. ‘Patti, if you knew, you were playing with fire – we could both be under arrest now on charges of treason. And that’s the gallows, Patti. I had a right to know about the risks we were taking.’
‘And you consider I was reckless? With your life?’
‘And your own. Which is just as important to me!’
‘Reckless? Irresponsible? Because you had the “right to know”? And, if you had known? Would you have dropped me like a hot potato?’
‘I’d have had the opportunity to find us a safer place!’
‘Where, pray? Do you think I didn’t rack my brains – so that you wouldn’t drop me. Where could two people of different colour find a love-nest in this country – if I enter any white house I stick out like a sore thumb. If you enter any non-white house you do the same. We’d have been busted in a week!’ She glared at him defensively. ‘And the cottage was almost a mile from the main house – and there’s a fence. The cottage had nothing to do with it, except the same owner. And as for your “right”, you have no right to know what’s going on in the flat next door, let alone the neighbours’ distant farmhouse, just because you do your fucking in the neighbourhood. And as for being reckless, I was the opposite! I checked the situation out and I was convinced it was as safe as anywhere in this God-forsaken police state! God – at first even you didn’t know where the place was!’ She smouldered at him, ‘You certainly had no “need” to know what was going on and that’s the cardinal principle of –’ She stopped.
‘Of what?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Haven’t you read any spy-thrillers? In the cloak-and-dagger business the agents are only told as much as they need to know – so if they’re caught they can’t spill all the beans.’ She looked at him grimly. ‘All you need to know for our relationship is that, like you, I also want to get rid of apartheid.