Roots of Outrage

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 of the charges, Mr Mahoney.’

Mahoney desperately tried to think straight. ‘She’s not a communist! Or a terrorist! What preposterous charges do you think you’ve got against me?’

The colonel smiled. So did the detective at the window: he muttered something under his breath. The colonel said quietly: ‘Preposterous? That’s a big word.’ He paused. ‘Contravening the Suppression of Communism Act?’

‘But I’m a fucking capitalist! And so is Patti Gandhi!’

The colonel smiled. ‘And how about the Terrorism Act?’

Mahoney’s ears were ringing. Sick in his guts, with fear, with anger. ‘Neither of us is a terrorist!’

Colonel Krombrink smiled widely. ‘“Us”? You make it sound like you’re a couple. But the Immorality Act’s the least of your worries, hey? Because the Terrorism Act isn’t jail. It’s the gallows in Pretoria.’

Mahoney’s ears were ringing, his heart pounding. ‘For doing what?’

Colonel Krombrink smiled. ‘The men we arrested at Lilliesleaf Farm all face the gallows.’

Mahoney felt the vomit turn in his guts. ‘I’d never been to Lilliesleaf Farm before last Wednesday.’

The colonel sighed. ‘Another charge: attempted extortion.’ He looked at Mahoney grimly.

Mahoney stared at him, absolutely astonished. ‘Extortion?’

‘Blackmail?’ The colonel opened a drawer. He pulled out a folder. He pulled out a photograph and flicked it across to him.

Mahoney stared. It was the photograph of Patti copulating with Sergeant van Rensburg. He could see the stacked pages of his long story. Her secret weapon exposed …

‘That’s a legitimate journalist’s story!’

The colonel tossed across another photograph: Major Kotze with Patti. Krombrink looked at Mahoney with disgust. ‘Legitimate? How can any newspaper – even Drum – publish pictures like that?’

‘But they would publish the story! The pictures are just evidence to prove veracity …’

The colonel held his eye. ‘Then why didn’t you publish it?’

‘Because that was Miss Gandhi’s decision. It’s her story. Told to me in confidence. She would decide whether to publish!’

‘And when was Miss Gandhi going to publish her story?’

Mahoney closed his eyes in fury. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know? Agh, come, Mr Mahoney, you expect us to believe that?’ He smiled. ‘When she wanted – or needed – to blackmail the police, perhaps?’

Mahoney tried to sigh theatrically. ‘I’m just a journalist, and I agreed to write it for her. Miss Gandhi is not a writer – it is an art form, you know.’

‘Oh, I know …’ the colonel said earnestly. The detective smirked. ‘And what did Miss Gandhi give you in exchange for your art form?’

The Immorality Act was the least of his worries. He was about to say ‘Nothing’ then brilliance struck him. ‘A case of brandy.’

‘Brandy?’ The colonel leered. ‘And what else?’