Paul Kenyon gave a small nod.
‘Hello, son.’
Nick knew exactly why he’d come here this time. He’d come to ask for information. In a way, that made it easier to visit his dad. Usually, as he sat in the visitor’s chair and looked through the cloudy, spattered glass at the man who’d fathered him, he felt a complex mix of emotions that he sometimes imagined could drive him insane if he didn’t resist them fiercely.
His father had shaped so much of his life, most of it without actually being there, because his mother had divorced him when Nick was two years old. Later on, he’d learned that he’d been spared the regular beatings that the man inflicted on her, and on Paul junior, his oldest son.
Perhaps those early, brutal experiences were why Paul had grown up with a screw loose and a violent streak. Or perhaps it was just the luck of the draw, the genetic lottery. A fifty-fifty chance for both of them. Normal or abnormal. A beater, or a man who’d never raise his hand to a woman.
His father had been a borderline alcoholic, although Nick was pretty certain that in the confinement of prison he couldn’t indulge his drinking habit as fully as he’d used to. This was the reason why Nick kept the almost-unbreakable rule that he stopped after two drinks. He’d exceeded that limit only once – the time he’d lost his first patient – and he had no desire to do it again. His clearest memory of that episode was the crippling hangover he had suffered the following day.
His father was a criminal whose actions had landed him and his son in prison. Paul had received a lighter sentence, but his father had been in for six years already and he’d do another ten at least.
‘What do you want?’ Now a hint of a smile creased the older man’s pallid face. ‘You haven’t come to socialise. Too soon after your last visit. I still have the raisins you brought, and half a packet of washing powder. Still haven’t read two of the books.’
‘I need information, Dad.’
‘I can trade in that. In here, I trade in everything. I’d trade even better, if you brought me money or a knife instead of goddamn raisins.’ His shoulders shook with silent laughter.
‘A man called Abraham Jonas spent some time inside, here at Modderbee. Long ago, before you came here. I need to know where he went when he left. Or better still, get in touch with someone who knows him now.’
His father shrugged. ‘Could take a while to find out. People leave here, they break their ties. That, or they come back again a few months later.’
Nick nodded but said nothing.
‘I’ll try for you,’ his father continued. ‘Abraham Jonas. What was he in for?’
‘Gang activity of some kind, I think. Murder, robbery. I don’t know if he was imprisoned for any of that, but the police suspect him of it now. And he’s murdered since then, almost certainly. Twice.’
And escaped a crash where he should have died, Nick thought.
‘Why do you want to find out about him?’
His dad’s eyes were sharp and interested. Too interested? He didn’t know.
‘He was involved in an accident I attended. He disappeared and there’s been trouble since then. His girlfriend was murdered in hospital.’
His father nodded slowly. Watching him, Nick wondered how much he actually cared. His world had shrunk to a cell-sized space. His regimented routine was punctuated by clanging steel, tasteless food and the chemical flush of toilets; peppered with mindless conversation and unpredictable outbreaks of violence.
‘I’ll ask,’ his dad said.
‘Can you call me later?’
‘I’ll try at one, one-thirty, thereabouts.’
‘You still got enough credit on your phone card?’ Nick asked.
‘Ja, I’ve got about twenty rand left on it. I hardly ever use it.’
Nick looked at his dad again. He could see traces of their physical resemblance. His dad’s eyes were the same deep, clear blue as his own. The shape of his face and hands echoed Nick’s.
Their differences were more than skin-deep.
Nick never knew why he made these visits, once every couple of months for the last few years. It wasn’t love, he didn’t kid himself about that. He didn’t love his father. He’d never known him well enough, and never known him to do anything lovable. What made him keep coming? Was it kindness? Was it his own insecurity, trying to convince himself that visiting his dad made him a better person than the old man was? Did he get a sick sense of triumph seeing him behind bars, after the mess he’d made of Nick’s mother’s life and, probably, Paul’s?
As if reading his mind, his father asked if he’d heard from his brother.’
Nick shook his head. ‘Not really. You?’
His father cupped a hand over his chin and massaged his stubble. Nick recognised the gesture as one that he made sometimes, too.
‘Paul’s never visited me.’
‘Oh.’ Nick wasn’t sure if he believed him.
‘Wouldn’t even know if he’s alive.’
Nick stared at him. He didn’t know if his father was lying or fishing for information.
‘Paul’s still around,’ Nick said.
‘Well, then.’ His dad pushed his chair back and stood up. He moved stiffly. He must be over sixty now. Nick guessed age didn’t matter much in prison, where the time you had left to serve was more important than the number of birthdays you’d celebrated.
Sometimes Nick wondered what the hell his old man would do when he got out of prison. Would he be a reformed character? Somehow he doubted it. If anything mellowed his father, it would be the onset of old age, not the influence of years of incarceration.
‘Keep well,’ Nick stood too. ‘Chat later.’
His dad nodded. Then he put the phone down and walked slowly back towards the steel-barred access door. After a cursory search, a guard opened it and slammed it shut behind him. His father didn’t look back as he walked down the brightly lit passage. He never looked back.
Nick didn’t know whether it was his subconscious filing system at work, or whether it was the sight of his father that reminded him, but as he climbed into his car a troubling memory clicked into place in his mind.
Stronghold Security. The building he’d driven past earlier today in Sandton. That was the new name of the company his dad had started. The one his dad had owned and Paul had worked at before they went to prison back in 2001.
His Jeep was hot from being parked in the direct sunshine, a mini-furnace. The leather seats were blistering. Nick cranked the aircon up as cold as it would go. He needed to turn on his phone. Surely he could risk it for a few minutes, just to check if Rachel had called again. Even if Masondo was still tracking his whereabouts, he was far enough away to run and hide. In any case, the detective was a busy man. Nick hoped he had more important things to do than conduct a coordinated manhunt for a person who, at this stage, was only a suspect.
All the same, he drove away from the prison and over the highway, stopping at a petrol station a couple of streets further down. Only then did he switch his phone on to check for messages.
A heavy-set woman walked out of the garage shop with two plastic grocery bags and an equally chunky toddler in tow. She waddled to the car in front of him and loaded up. He saw bottles of Coke, biscuits, white bread in the bags. A healthy life for all. The driver’s side sagged as she climbed in. Nick drove forward a couple of metres so she could back out.
Then the phone beeped. He had a voice message.
It had been left fifteen minutes ago by Johan.
‘Boykie, just a quick one, because I’m about to get on a plane for Durban. I asked my connection to keep an eye out for that number you asked about, and she just called me again. There’s been new activity on that cellphone. Just for a moment, but it was picked up by a tower in exactly the same area as last time. It’s still in Sandton.’