The State Vs Anna Bruwer

ANCHIEN TROSKIE

AS ELBIE LÖTTER

The State Vs

Anna Bruwer

translated by Edwin Hees

KWELA BOOKS

In writing It’s Me, Anna I was able to get rid of a certain anger in myself and commit a (fictitious) murder. At the end of the story Anna has blood on her hands. And then I started to feel guilty. Because I now do have the normal life I desired so intensely as a child. I have a husband who is interested not only in my body; I have two wonderful children. What does the fictitious Anna have? What happened to her after the murder of her stepfather? This question was echoed by many readers of It’s Me, Anna.

After Die besoeker (The visitor) I did research for a new manuscript. I was in fact ready to start writing it. But the question remained in my mind: What had become of Anna? It kept on bothering me. So I put the research I’d done aside and started again on the fictitious Anna. She is not me. But I could have been her – if I had lived out my fantasy.

And now I dedicate this Anna to all the readers of It’s Me, Anna. And especially to those of you who asked the question and prompted me to think of an answer.

Also to Antoinette Louw – because you gave such an excellent portrayal of Anna in the stage version of the novel.

And to Lafras, Chris and Joice – thank you for giving me the space to do what I must do.

The author

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll.

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

– W. E. Henley, Invictus

When we are struck at without a reason, we should strike back again very hard; I am sure we should – so hard as to teach the person who struck us never to do it again.

– Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

1

My legs begin to quiver as I stride up the garden path to the front door. My hands shake as I ring the bell. I hear footsteps. I hear him approaching.

Who’s there?

It is an old man’s voice.

It’s me, Anna. As I cock the pistol.

Me, Anna. As he unlocks the door, opens it.

Me, Anna. As I aim the pistol at him.

Me, Anna. As I shoot and shoot and shootandshootand shootandshoot.

Me, Anna. As the world around me turns red.

I am Anna.

No one will ever do that to me again. He will never be able to do it to anyone else. May God forgive me – and also him.

He falls in front of me. The red vases behind him have been shattered. The sharp smell of urine rises up at me as I watch the dark stain on the leg of his pyjama pants spread. Under normal circumstances I might have felt sorry for him, it occurs to me, but I am enjoying every moment of his humiliation. His discomfort, his fear, the desperation in his eyes. I’m enjoying it.

He turns slowly until he is lying on his back, draws up his legs in a pathetic attempt to hide the shameful stain. Throws up his hands and looks at me, pleading, Please, Anna, please!

I keep the pistol aimed at him. How many times did I ask you that? Please don’t, please, it hurts. Please, please, don’t do it. How many times did you hear Carli ask? Did you listen to us? Did you ever feel sorry for us? Why do you think then I should have any sympathy for you?

I aim, straight at his head, between the eyes. My hand shakes so badly that I have to use my other hand to steady it. All I have to do is pull the trigger again. That’s all. I can even shut my eyes if I want to, because I cannot miss, not from where I’m standing. All I must do is pull the trigger. I tighten my grip on the pistol.

I cannot do it.

I cannot pull the trigger. I cannot even hold the pistol aloft any longer.

I cannot commit murder.

As I lower the weapon, I see my mother. She has appeared in the doorway behind him.

Anna?

How old she has become, is my first thought. I can see it even through my tears. Carli’s death did leave a mark on her, after all.

The woman I love and hate at the same time, in equal parts; that is my second thought. Love because she is my mother. Hate because she had the power to stop him and yet chose not to.

I want to ask her, I want to know how she could have allowed him to defile her daughters. How she could have looked the other way for all those years. But I can’t. I don’t have the strength any longer. I just stand there – overwhelmed. He has once again managed to turn me into a crying, pleading eight-year-old.

He must have realised this; it seems to have given him courage. He tries to stand up.

No, I say, stay on your knees.

He does.

Put your hands behind your head – and keep your fingers linked together.

He does.

I look at my mother. "I don’t want to shoot you. I don’t even want to shoot him. But I will. If either of you tries something, I will. So help me God."

She stands absolutely still, eyes shut.

You have a choice, I say to her. Turn around, go to the bedroom, lock the door. Or stay where you are. I honestly don’t care any more. I raise the pistol again. But don’t try to stop me.

She remains standing, fists clenched at her sides, her mouth pulled tight in fear. But she stands there.

I look down at him again. "Why did you do it? How could you have? Your own daughter?"

He does not answer, just lifts his head towards me. He is no longer frightened, that I can see clearly. Why not? Because I’m crying? Because my mother is there?

Fear, that’s all I want to see. In his eyes, on his face. The same fear that Carli and I felt every time he opened the door of our bedrooms. That’s why I’m here. To smell that fear.

I wish I had the courage to do to you what you did to us. Not sexually, I quickly add, emotionally. If I could, I would have kept you a prisoner for days on end. I would have tortured you slowly, bit by bit. I wish I could. But now I can’t even shoot you. Because, pathetic human being that you are, I feel sorry for you.

You! he spits out the word. You and Carli. You act as if you weren’t willing, as if you were victims. But we know better, don’t we, Anna? You two were asking for it, with your little shorts and skirts, the shirts that barely covered your breasts.

I hear my mother drawing a sharp breath, but do not look at her. I was eight.

He just laughs, with a sneer on his lips.

Did you know? I ask my mother without looking at her.

He is my husband.

We were your children.

She does not argue with that.

He slowly lowers his hands, still sneering. Presses down awkwardly with his palms on the floor tiles in an effort to stand up. Turns his back to me. He knows I don’t have the nerve to pull the trigger. Because he has seen my hands shaking.

You enjoyed it, he says, still on his hands and knees. "You wanted it just as much as I did. Every time I touched you, you were dripping wet. I could feel you were ready for it."

My hands stop shaking.

I do it slowly. Taking my time.

I raise the pistol, indicate with it that my mother must stand to one side, and aim it at the back of his head, more or less between the ears.

You will never do that to anyone ever again.

I pull the trigger. I see him fall forward, hear my mother’s long drawn-out scream.

Never again. I pull the trigger for the last time.

I don’t have to go in there. I don’t have to give myself up. The 9 mm hardly made a sound, thanks to the silencer.

My mother will talk. I know she will. She never stood up for us, never protected us, why would she do so now? She will definitely talk. But: it’s her word against mine.

No, they will catch me anyway. The time for running away, hiding away is over. For ever.

My legs are shaking, I must hold on to the railing to climb the badly lit stairs up to the charge office. Up. To the top.

Am I doing the right thing? Life consists of choices. This is my choice. And my responsibility.

The door is open and I walk in. It’s quiet in the charge office, only one police officer behind the high brown counter. A large woman talking to him in a hoarse voice.

I’m telling you, Jimmy, if you don’t do something to stop him, I will.

Yes, Auntie.

And it’s not going to be pretty, Jimmy, not pretty, I’m telling you.

Yes, Auntie.

The officer looks up briefly as I come up to the counter, then carries on listening to the woman’s tirade.

As she stops to take a breath she glances sideways at me, takes a few horrified steps back. My God, Jimmy, help the woman, she’s bleeding!

Only then does he look properly at me. At my blood-spattered clothes, at my hands covered in drying blood, at the pistol I put down on the counter.

I shot him. Danie du Toit. I had to do it, I had to. For myself. For Carli. I shot him.

Another officer appears behind the counter – he must have been sitting somewhere I could not see – and asks: Address?

I tell him.

He writes it down, slides the slip of paper over to Jimmy. Then he comes round to my side of the counter. He takes me by the arm and leads me through a door. Down a passage, up a set of stairs, into an office right at the end of another passage.

He offers me a chair. I’ll call someone. Sit down, ma’am.

I’m not a ma’am.

He just nods, shuts the door behind him with a firm click.

Alone, I inhale the office smells. Paper, ink, cigarette smoke. Musty smells. Look around the office, deliberately keep moving my eyes – left, right, upwards. Everywhere so that I do not look down and see the blood on my hands.

I suddenly become aware of how tired I am. Eight hours behind the wheel of a car. The time before; the time after. My eyes feel scratchy, like sandpaper, when I blink. And my bladder is hurting. Why didn’t I go to the toilet first? What time is it? Could it already be five o’clock?

At least I’m not shaking so much any more. But my heart is pounding, my breathing is shallow, my eyes want to close out of sheer exhaustion. If only I could sleep, only rest a bit, only empty my bladder. I saw a toilet down the passage, on the door there was a picture of a lady holding an umbrella. Do I dare? I’ll be quick, I’ll be back before anyone misses me.

I stand up slowly, carefully from the chair, as if I can no longer entirely trust my limbs. Hold on to the table for support. Shuffle towards the door. Listen carefully before I open the door: the passage is quiet.

After I’ve emptied my bladder I start shivering again. My body shakes uncontrollably. I stand in front of the basin, staring at the strange woman in the mirror. She looks like me; she is wearing my clothes. But I know it’s not me. That woman in the mirror is another Anna. Maybe she is the real Anna. The one without the mask.

I shut my eyes so that she does not look at me like that. This strange Anna.

I hear the shots again, my mother’s terrified screams. See the blood. She wants to step towards him. No, I stop her, go to your room. I have one bullet left; don’t make me use it on you. I threaten my mother, aim the pistol at her. Until she listens and turns around.

As I bend over him, I slip in the blood that’s flowing out of him. I fall down next to him, feel the dampness seep through my jeans onto my legs. Stick to my hands. I struggle to my knees, press my hand to his throat. No pulse.

He is dead. Thank God.

When I open my eyes, I see the blood on my hands. In the mirror it looks almost black. I suddenly shudder at the sight. Because it’s his blood.

I open the hot tap, look around for soap. Nothing. I let the steaming water run over my hands. See how the water turns red. See the blood wash away. On and on and on.

I jump as a hand falls on my shoulder. I never heard the door open.

You’re not allowed to wash your hands! the police officer says, aghast.

I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.

Superintendent Webber is going to be furious! he says, more to himself than to me. Come.

2

Superintendent Bulldog Webber has just come out of the shower and the towel is still around his waist when the call comes. He dresses quickly, grabs his service pistol and cellphone, bends down to give his sleeping wife a kiss on the forehead and walks to his Toyota Corolla.

Two blocks further on he stops in front of the house. Sunrise is just beginning to colour the sky. He looks for a moment at the garden in front of him, allows his eyes to wander over the flowers and shrubs on the left, the rose garden on the right. There are already two police vehicles in the driveway, as well as the car from forensics.

Thirty-five years of service, he thinks as he climbs out of his car, thirty-five years during which he has earned the nickname Bulldog. Because he can latch on to the scent of his quarry and not let go until the case is solved. Thirty-five years of service, and he still has to prepare himself mentally for each and every murder scene. Because the colour, the feel and the smell of blood nauseate him. He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath.

Of course there will be blood, he says to himself, and yes, it will have that strange metallic smell. There may be more than just blood. But: there inside the house is a human being lying dead. And he is here to find out what led to that. Just that. Not to become involved.

He climbs the steps to the front door. Nods to the other members of the police force, the man and the woman from forensics, the pathologist.

The deceased man is lying right at the front door, on his stomach, slippers on his feet, long pyjama pants, the right leg of the pants wet. The smell of urine mixed with the smell of blood. A short white vest, thin old-man’s arms, the one arm lying along his side, the other bent over his head. He is lying in a pool of blood that has already begun to dry, his blood-smeared face unrecognisably mutilated. Around him and underneath him are shards of red glass, and flowers, as if someone wanted to adorn the corpse, conduct a premature funeral.

Superintendent Webber glances at the table behind the body. Red glass fragments are strewn across the top, a few flowers are still lying there, water is drip-dripping to the floor.

Supe. Inspector Jantjies is standing in the doorway leading to the interior of the house.

Inspector.

Jantjies steps closer, open notebook in his hands, pen poised to write. "Supe, there are eight shots in total. It looks as if the deceased was standing when the first six shots were fired. They hit the red vases behind him. He must then