Devil's Peak Read Free Page B

principles of justice for a witness under oath to fabricate a story—”

“Mr. Singh, spare me. What is your question?”

“As it pleases the court, Your Honor. Mr. Mpayipheli, what was the specific purpose of your military training?”

“That was twenty years ago.”

“Answer the question, please.”

“I was trained in counter-espionage activities.”

“Did this include the use of firearms and explosives?”

“Yes.”

“Hand-to-hand combat?”

“Yes.”

“The handling of high-pressure situations?”

“Yes.”

“Elimination and escape.”

“Yes.”

“And at the filling station you say, and I quote: ‘I ducked behind the petrol pump,’ when you heard the shots?”

“The war was over ten years ago. I was not there to fight, I was there to fill up . . .”

“The war was not over for you ten years ago, Mr. Mpayipheli. You took the war to the Cape Flats with your training in death and injury. Let us discuss your role as bodyguard . . .”

The prosecutor’s voice was high and plaintive. “Your Honor, I object in the strongest—”

At that moment Thobela saw the faces of the accused; they were laughing at him.

“Objection sustained. Mr. Singh, that is enough. You have made your point. Do you have any specific questions about the events at the filling station?”

Singh’s shoulders sagged, as if wounded. “As it pleases the court, Your Honor, I have.”

“Then get on with it.”

“Mr. Mpayipheli, did you forget that it was you who attacked the accused when they left the filling station?”

“I did not.”

“You did not forget?”

“Your Honor, the defense . . .”

“Mr. Singh!”

“Your Honor, the accused . . . excuse me, the witness is evading the question.”

“No, Mr. Singh, it is you who are leading the witness.”

“Very well. Mr. Mpayipheli, you say you did not charge at the accused in a threatening manner?”

“I did not.”

“You did not have a wheel spanner or some tool . . .”

“I object, Your Honor, the witness has already answered the question.”

“Mr. Singh . . .”

“I have no further questions for this liar, Your Honor . . .”
    4.

    I think he believed he could make things right. Anything,” she said in the twilit room. The sun had dropped behind the hills of the town and the light entering the room was softer. It made the telling easier, she thought, and wondered why.

“That is the thing that I admired most. That somebody stood up and did something that the rest of us were too afraid to do, even if we wanted to. I never had the guts. I was too scared to fight back. And then I read about him in the papers and I began to wonder: maybe I could also . . .”

She hesitated a fraction and then asked with bated breath: “Do you know about Artemis, Reverend?”

He did not react at first, sitting motionless, tipped slightly forward, engrossed in the story she was telling. Then he blinked, his attention refocused.

“Artemis? Er, yes . . .” he said tentatively.

“The one the papers wrote about.”

“The papers . . .” He seemed embarrassed. “Some things pass me by. Something new every week. I don’t always keep up.”

She was relieved about that. There was an imperceptible shift in their roles—he the small-town minister, she the worldly-wise one, the one in the know. She slipped her foot out of its sandal and folded it under her, shifting to a more comfortable position in the chair. “Let me tell you,” she said with more self-assurance.

He nodded.

“I was in trouble when I read about him for the first time. I was in the Cape. I was . . .” For a fraction of a second she hesitated and wondered if it would upset him. “I was a call girl.”
    * * *
    At half-past eleven that night he was still awake on his hotel bed when someone knocked softly on his door, apologetically.

It was the public prosecutor, her eyes magnified behind the spectacles.

“Sorry,” she said, but she just looked tired.

“Come in.”

She hesitated a moment and he knew why: he was just in his shorts, his body