A Lonely Place To Die: Yudel Gordan Stories, #1

By Wessel Ebersohn

The South African highveld, 1977

"They were coming for him as he had known they would. He could see the headlights on the track far below where the first truck had stopped at the donga and the second truck still struggled up the incline. Behind him was the spur that went all the way to the crest of the hill and, just beyond the crest, the barbed-wire fence. He knew that beyond the fence there was nothing like you had on this side – no hill, no farmlands, no distant plain – nothing at all."

Muskiet Lesoro, terrified and schizophrenic, is accused of the murder of the local member of parliament's son. Farmworkers and family all agree that he had enough motive to murder the violent and racist young man. Like the victim, Lesoro also had an undeniable tendency towards violence. Only one matter raises doubt in the mind of eccentric prison psychiatrist Yudel Gordon: this was a poisoning and, in his view, Lesoro was no poisoner. Someone else, someone with greater control and the ability to plan must be guilty of the crime.

To discover the truth, Yudel travels to the country town where the crime was committed. He finds a society in which the truth is a carefully guarded secret and the townspeople, the people of the nearby black township, and the priests and brothers of a hillside monastery: all live in fear.

Yudel finds his own life at risk as he asks the questions no one else has dared ask. A night time flight through as burning field of maize brings him face to face with the reality he has been seeking. The solution is not one he would have chosen, had there been a choice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gold City Publishers
• Release date: Mar 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9780639760629

Book preview

For my children and grandchildren, who are such fine people.

The characters in this novel are all products of the writer’s imagination. They are not intended to resemble any person, living or dead. Some incidents have been inspired by actual events, but none are based on historical accounts.

Published in 2023 by Gold City Publishing

© Copyright Wessel Ebersohn (1977)

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be preproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronically or digitally, including photocopying and recording or be stored in any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the author. For permission, use the contact form on www.wesselebersohn.com.

ISBN 978-0-6397-6062-9 (e-pub)

First published by Victor Gollancz Limited, London.

Praise for Wessel Ebersohn's Work

This is a tightly written thriller about the murder of the son of a prominent South African politician. . . The ending is, as it should be in all good thrillers, quite a surprise. – The Star on A Lonely Place to Die

There are strong overtones of Faulkner and American southern gothic as Ebersohn, brilliantly evoking South African plantation society, lays bare a family’s secret of incest, rape and haunting guilt. - Washington Post on A Lonely Place to Die

This is one of those rare books that can be read on two levels, either as a gripping suspense story set against an exotic background or as a powerful indictment of a repressive, fear-ridden society. - San Diego Books on Divide the Night

The South African Highveld, 1977

They were coming for him as he had known they would. He could see the headlights on the track far below where the first truck had stopped at the donga and the second truck still struggled up the incline. Behind him was the spur that went all the way up to the crest of the hill and, just beyond the crest, the barbed-wire fence. He knew that beyond the fence there was nothing like you had on this side - no hill, no farmlands, no distant plain - nothing at all.

Muskiet Lesoro worked his way across the hillside at a scramble, his bare feet stumbling on the loose stones hidden in the grass. His feet were hard and broadened, the skin dry as leather, accustomed to the stones and thorns of the veld, feeling nothing. Turning his head, he saw that the second truck had also stopped, its headlights illuminating the one in front where three figures were visible on the edge of the donga, pausing a moment on the lip and then plunging down the steep slope into the darkness. In a few seconds they would be coming up the other side after him and they would have torches.

He feared the torches. It was the heat from the beams of light that frightened him most. He knew that if the beams once touched him his skin would burn up like paper. He just had to stay well enough ahead of them, keep a spur or a line of trees, some protection between himself and them, then it would be all right.

Ahead, just beyond his range of vision, was the fence. He would be trapped against the emptiness beyond unless he could find a way past them. Looking back down the hillside, its surface was smooth and bare, the grass never more than ankle deep, with no place at all to hide himself.

He moved on up the slope, going directly away from them and towards the fence. The night sky was dark and low, its underside touching the hill somewhere up near the crest. Even before he reached the fence he might find himself wedged between it and the hillside, held fast, unable to move. He glanced upwards and saw it, opaque like the surface of a lake from below, swooping down upon him. It brushed against the top of his head, warm and soft as a woollen blanket. He ducked underneath, not slowing his stride, hearing the air rushing through his open mouth like steam from a train and feeling the painful expansion of his chest at every breath.

To his right the ground fell away steeply into a gully running down the side of the spur. Lesoro stopped long enough to look back. Above the donga he could see the lights from the torches as his pursuers worked their way up the hillside, the red-hot beams sweeping slowly back and forth, singeing the dry grass.

There were more of them now. He could no longer see the trucks, but all of them could not have come in only two trucks. The lights from the torches covered the whole length of the hill in an unbroken chain of light, moving evenly upwards, without pause or hesitation. Slipping past them would be an impossibility. He turned into the gully and allowed the steepness of the incline to carry him forward, his head rubbing once against the soft underside of the sky and then breaking free. His movement was fast, his legs absorbing the jolting of his full weight as he plunged downwards out of sight of the torches and the men who carried them. Despite the darkness he could see the grass slopes on either side, smooth except for a few scattered rocks. Underfoot the grass was more even than it had been on the open hillside, his feet landing heavily, but surely at every stride. They would never catch him now. None of them could run in the veld on a dark night as he could. Their shoes could never mould themselves to the irregularities of the ground as his feet did. They needed the daylight. And they tired fast. Below him was the pine forest, darker than the hills, spreading its welcoming shelter down the length of the valley. He knew that if he once reached it he would be safe. He could hide among the trees and they would never find him there. As his confidence grew his stride lengthened, his feet sure in the darkness, carrying him forward and downward faster and faster, the pines and safety rising up to meet him. He was so far down the gully now that even if they were on the spur the lights of their torches would never be able to reach him. He had only to keep going...

The fence lifted itself up out of the darkness and rushed at him. He threw himself to his right, falling full length and digging his fingers into the ground in an effort to halt his passage. He rolled over a few times, his body stiffening, then he steadied himself, sliding face downward, his fingers slowly anchoring him. Finally he lay still, the fence towering above him. He got slowly to his hands and knees and looked in the direction where the forest had been. There was nothing. He should have known that it would be a trick. He should have expected the fence. The image of the valley, the forest and the hills on the far side were all gone now. He knew that they had put them there to mislead him, to make him feel safe. He should have known that there was no escape. They had wanted to lift him up, give him a momentary taste of freedom, before they crushed him.

Muskiet Lesoro crawled a few paces up the slope and rolled over onto his side, drawing his knees up high and burying his face between them. He could feel the underside of the sky, as soft and yielding as cotton wool, drop down upon him, pressing close around his body, forcing itself into his ears and eyes and up his nostrils, cutting out the air, all sight, all knowledge, everything. He knew only that if he opened his eyes now there would be nothing. Even the fence itself would be gone.

It was a long time before he felt the beams of the torches, scalding hot against the skin of his back.

The two policemen stopped halfway down the gully, the beams of their electric torches on the small man's motionless body. It's him, Sarel. He's not even running.

We'll fuck him up good before we take him back. That's the only way to work with his type.

ONE

The office was cold. A message had come up that the boiler had broken down and would not be repaired until a part had been ordered from Germany and old man Williamson had refused permission for it to be flown out. The old sod is inhuman, Yudel thought. Doesn't he get cold too?

On top of that Yudel had mislaid the shopping list his wife had given him at breakfast. See if you can pick up those few things for me on the way home at lunch time, she had said. He could 'phone her, but the thought of speaking to Rosa at that moment displeased him. It's not always the case though, he told himself. Almost always, perhaps.

Then old man Williamson had asked for an inventory of all the furniture and equipment in the section. It was an annual requirement, but Anne Jones, the other psychologist and his junior, was pregnant and threatening to miscarry, and the student had returned to university for the new term. That left him and Williamson. More exactly, that left him.

Jackson, the cleaner, came in with his tea, backing into the room so that he could bump open the door with his buttocks while carrying the tray. A thought flashed, unsolicited, through Yudel's mind. Jackson, can you read? he asked.

Yes, boss.

What standard did you complete at school?

Standard two, Jackson said modestly. A few scattered white teeth, interspersed with empty spaces, flashed in the old man's face, showing the pleasure he felt at Yudel's sudden interest in him.

Yudel considered the possibilities. Then the disadvantages came crowding in. What would Jackson make of the word electroencephalogram when he got to it? Or the word straitjacket for that matter? He looked absently at the grinning face. Standard two, huh?

Yes, boss.

That's very interesting, Jackson. Thanks for the tea.

Something else, boss?

No . . . no, there's nothing else. Thanks again.

Jackson went out slowly, using his hands to open the door this time and looking disappointed. He would have liked to put his reading skills to use. Yudel drank the tea. It was weak, cold and had too much milk in it. For Christ's sake, he thought.

The 'phone chirped, its shrill whistle going right through him and causing him to spill the last of the tea. Some meddlesome so-and so had turned the ringing volume up high. What the hell had whoever-it-was been doing in his office anyway? The civil service made you want to puke sometimes. He returned the ringing volume to normal as he answered the 'phone. Gordon, he said. It had almost come out – Gordon, for Christ's sake, but his brain's occasionally alert censoring system edited out the last three words.

Yudel? Freek here. What sort of day are you having? His friend's voice sounded cheerful and confident as always.

Never better, Yudel said grimly, mopping up the tea with his handkerchief.

You very busy? Yudel turned over in his mind a number of possible evasions. I'd like you to go and look at a prisoner for me...if you can fit it in.

I'll see what I can manage, Yudel said. He was already getting out of the chair and reaching for his jacket.

I'd appreciate it. It's not that urgent though.

I'll see what I can do about getting over there this morning.

Thanks, Yudel. I really appreciate that.

That's okay. You can do something for me sometime.

Are you going to be long, Mr Gordon? The clerk in charge of the carpool asked.

An hour or two.

I'll tell you why I ask – because Doctor Williamson said he wants a car just after lunch. He said I must see that he gets it.

And this is the last car, I suppose?

That's right.

I'll be back in time, Yudel said.

"Please. I don't like to bother you, but you know Doctor Williamson.''

I know him, Yudel assured him.

The clerk fidgeted with the hinge of his glasses. And you will be back in time?

If you give me the keys now, so I can get going.

The clerk took them out of a glass-fronted box on the wall, stopping to read the registration number, engraved on a plastic tag, an action that seemed superfluous in so far as there was only one key in the box. This is it, he said, handing it over.

Thanks.

You very busy at the moment?

It was unbelievable how everyone was so interested in that subject this morning. Pretty busy, Yudel lied evenly.

Must be the time of the year, the clerk said. I read once that madness has a lot to do with the weather.

That so? Yudel had the key in his hand and was backing towards the door.

Sun spots and that sort of thing as well.

Not impossible.

You'll be back in time, won't you? the clerk called after him as he went down the passage.

Not impossible, Yudel muttered to himself.

The car was an old pool vehicle due to be auctioned within the next six months. In the Department of Prisons that meant that it had been used by dozens of drivers over a period of about ten years, all of them afflicted with varying degrees of unconcern for department property. It started at the eleventh attempt and choked off when he tried to pull away. Then it started at the third attempt and he let the engine run for a while before trying to pull away again. The engine coughed a few times as it took the strain, and then, finally, Yudel was moving. He looked at his watch. The time was twelve o'clock and the drive to the cells would take twenty minutes and the same time back...old man Williamson might just have his car in time.

The cells behind Vlakfontein police station were a stopover point. No one stayed in them for more than a few days. Prisoners remained a night or a few hours and were either released, some after sobering up, others after having the charges against them dropped, or sent on to more permanent places of detention.

The whole stream of transgressors against the system, from forgers to sodomites, the men and women who had lived according to their own rules, trickled through them, passing a few numb and fearful hours and moving on to make way for the next batch. In his years in the department Yudel had interviewed them all, a wealthy middle-aged man on a fraud charge, waiting for his wife or attorney to arrive with the bail; a young man accused of assault and disturbing the peace; a political activist, arrested under the Terrorism Act, idealistic but afraid of pain and shortly to betray his comrades; a dozen black factory workers picked up without their passes...Yudel's only concern was with their mental health. Whether they were fit to stand trial or whether they fell on the far side of the thin line that separates the consciously culpable from the happily insane. Yudel had often wondered about their eventual destinies. Might the activist eventually surrender to the temptations of security and a good income, somehow rationalizing past ideals? Would the arsonist escape sentence on a technicality and settle down, becoming a pillar of the Church and a city councillor and set no more fires? Was it possible that the rapist could serve his sentence and then find a woman able to contain his inordinate passions? And the blacks, picked up without their passes – might one of them be so embittered by his experience that the future would see him pass through these cells again, this time on the way to execution?

A poisoner was a rarity. Everywhere crimes of violence were preferred by killers – probably because they were more satisfying, Yudel thought. Lesoro was the first poisoner he would be interviewing in years. One of only a few he had dealt with in the whole of his career. He was looking forward to meeting him with the enthusiasm of the true professional for an unusual case, something like a country-town motor mechanic enjoying the rare opportunity to tune the engine of an Aston Martin.

The courtyard between the cells was long and empty, except for two black policemen at the far end, leaning against a wall and talking softly in Sotho. Its surface had been tarred in places and cemented in others as it had grown down the years with the addition of extra cells, giving it an untidy patchwork appearance, made more pronounced by the older parts being worn and cracked. On either side the unpainted grey of the plaster was interrupted only by the brown enamelled steel doors of the cells. Number three. Maximum number of prisoners – five. Number four. Maximum number of prisoners – nine. As he passed them Yudel absorbed the lettering on the doors unconsciously. One of the policemen, noticing him for the first time, came away from the wall. Hullo, Mr Gordon, he said in English.

Good morning.

Long time not see the boss.

I've been very busy, Yudel said. By this time he was getting used to the idea.

The policeman clucked sympathetically. To his satisfaction Yudel did not feel even a twinge of guilt. Number seventeen? the policeman asked.

That's right.

He's a bad one.

Seventeen. Maximum number of prisoners – three, the lettering on the door said.

His name is Lesoro?

Muskiet Lesoro, the policeman said. "His mama called him Muskiet because the mosquitoes bite her too badly the night he was born.''

I see.

The policeman turned the key and the door swung heavily outwards on hinges worn smooth by much use. Yudel stepped into the semi-darkness of the cell. I'll wait here, Mr Gordon, he heard the policeman say. The door closed and he heard the key turned and withdrawn.

The only light in the cell came from two barred windows, high up on the wall opposite him. Apart from the steel bars, cemented into the wall, a heavy wire grille was fastened onto the outside, forming a second line of defence against would-be escapers. The walls and floor of the cell were unpainted grey cement like the outside of the building, discoloured in patches by occasional contact with unwashed bodies, greasy heads and urine. There were no fittings of any sort. The only gesture in the direction of comfort was a number of coir mattresses along the walls, each covered by a blanket that had originally been grey but had since become a smooth oily grey-black.

In a far corner, directly below one of the windows, a small black man got quickly to his feet and started uncertainly towards the door. Seeing it close behind the newcomer, he had taken half a step back before stopping again.

Good morning, Yudel said in Afrikaans. It was the only language through which they might be able to communicate. He regretted again his ignorance of African languages, making mental recognition of the fact that he should do something about it.

With his back to the light from the window, the other man was little more than a silhouette, his features and the expression of his face invisible. It was clear only that he was short and slight and wearing a tattered blue overall and nothing on his feet. His hands were held high, defensively, in front of his face, the fingers spread wide and the palms facing outwards. He was stooping slightly forward. His attitude was somehow reminiscent of a wild animal, alerted by danger and poised for flight. Yudel could see the light from the window reflected off his scalp through the close-cropped black hair. He made no answer to the greeting, retreating further as Yudel moved slowly closer to him.

Yudel could still not see his face, but, across the three or four paces that separated them, he could feel the physical tension in the other man. For a moment he wondered if he might not be in some danger, but rational thinking took control, telling him that the man was unarmed, that poisoners were never violent and that, failing all else, he could surely defend himself until the policeman got the door of the cell open. He looks crazy to me, Freek had said. Go along and tell me if he's certifiable.

With an effort of will Yudel started closing the gap between them. He felt a slight involuntary twitch of his shoulders as the tension within him grew. Then Muskiet moved, suddenly and unexpectedly, with his head bowed and his arms wrapped protectively around it. He turned towards the corner furthest from Yudel and pressed himself into it, dropping to his haunches and squatting low behind drawn-up knees, huddling in a position that was almost catatonic in its determination to cut out everything – all consciousness, all experience and all that threatened him.

Yudel waited until he seemed to have quietened, then he moved slowly and evenly forward, careful to do nothing sudden. He spoke softly and simply so that he would be understood. I am your friend, he said. I want you to talk to me. I am your friend. I want to help you. Reaching out a hand and laying it gently across the narrow shoulders, he was surprised at how lean and fragile the little man's body seemed.

With a sudden jerk Muskiet's head came up and Yudel was looking straight into his eyes. Only with an effort of will did he stop himself from recoiling. He did not see the high, exceptionally broad cheekbones, the flaring nostrils, the shallow forehead, nor the half-open panting mouth. He saw nothing but the eyes. He had seen eyes like those only once before and that had been on a climb in the Magaliesberg hills when he had accidentally driven a lone baboon into a blind canyon. He had seen the eyes of the trapped and terrified creature from no more than ten paces, blazing wild and naked straight into his, and he had retreated before them, all the time unable to avert his own eyes for even a moment. He had not believed that he would ever see such eyes in the face of a human being.

TWO

An hour after he left the police station Yudel pushed open the door of his and his wife’s apartment and turned straight into the passage that led to the bedrooms. From the dining room he could hear the sound of his wife's voice;