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Annamari hesitated, then pushed the key into the lock. It turned surprisingly easily. Twisting the handle, she pushed the door open and walked into the gloom. She pulled back the curtains and tiny dust motes danced in the unaccustomed rays of sunlight. It was all exactly as she remembered. Her eyes rested on the neat piles of magazines on the coffee table – Landbouweekblad, Koringfokus, Farmer’s Weekly. Christo had always liked to remain abreast of developments in agriculture...
She walked through to the bedrooms – the rooms, Christo told her when she teased him about building a three-bedroomed house – where his children would sleep, one day. After he found the right girl to marry. He wasn’t in a rush, he was young, there was plenty of time he always said. But time was no match for an AK47.
The bed in the spare room was covered with one of Rosie’s bright, multicoloured crocheted blankets. The cupboards were empty. In Christo’s study, there were papers strewn all over the desk. Odd – Christo had always been so meticulously neat. A ribbon of fax paper curled from the fax machine over the edge of the desk. A new message. She wondered if Christo had ever read it. She opened the cupboards. Books, text books mainly.
The second bathroom. Christo had obviously never used it. Not even a tube of toothpaste in the cabinet. She opened the cold tap; it burbled and rattled and some brownish water spluttered out. The tap coughed and fresh, clean water rushed into the dusty basin. She wiped away the splatter with her hand. The toilet flushed and water gurgled in, refilling the cistern. In the bathroom mirror, a white round face; pale blue eyes fringed by pale lashes; mousy hair scraped back into a ponytail; pale lips; double chin – Annamari looked away.
Then reluctantly down the passage, towards the open door at the end. She tiptoed into her brother’s bedroom. Everything was neat, orderly. Like it should be. She gently, softly, stroked the slight indentation in the blue and grey duvet where he must have sat, probably for the last time. To put on his shoes? To get something from his bedside pedestal? Had he had the slightest inkling of the horror that was awaiting him just a few hundred metres away? She wrenched her eyes away and focused on the cupboard. She pulled the door open, and quickly closed it. She’d ask Petrus to go through Christo’s clothes – take what he wanted, give the rest away.
Into the ensuite bathroom: a small bundle of clothing in the laundry basket, a brown and green towel hanging over the rail next to the shower, Colgate shampoo and a cake of blue soap in the shower, a half-empty tube of Aquafresh toothpaste in the mug on the basin along with a red toothbrush. In the cabinet, a razor, Gillette shaving cream, a packet of Panado tablets, some Band Aid plasters, a tube of Dettol antiseptic cream. And a green bottle of Brut aftershave. Her favourite. She’d bought Christo his first bottle for his fourteenth birthday, a joke really. He’d never understood why he used it up so much faster in the holidays when they were both home from school. He obviously continued to use it... had continued to use it.
She stumbled back into the bedroom, blew her nose on the ragged tissue clenched in her sweaty fist. The red pain tearing at the back of her throat reminded her that time didn’t heal anything. Perhaps she’d feel better if they caught the bloody terrorists – but that didn’t seem likely. And even if they did get them, what would it matter? They’d stopped hanging killers. They’d probably get a medal from Mandela.
With a trembling hand, she lifted the top book on the pile next to Christo’s bed: Francois Bloemhof’s Die nag het net een oog. He’d promised to lend it to her when he finished it. Underneath was Andre Brink’s Die Eerste Lewe van Adamastar –she didn’t like Brink, but Christo would read anything. And there, at the bottom of the pile, was Thys’ copy of Wilbur Smith’s Golden Fox. So that was where it had got to. Thys had thought they’d lost it in the confusion when they moved to Steynspruit after the murders. She hugged it. She wondered if Christo had enjoyed it. Or if he’d even had a chance to read it.
Enough.
Outside, tears seeped through her clenched lids. She drank in the warm air while the sun tried to thaw her frozen veins. Petrus and Pretty and the others – they could come and clear everything out. And paint the house. Nice bright colours.
‘Ma, Ma, I’m home.’ Arno, all gangly arms and legs, was rushing down the path from the main house towards her, Beauty hot on his heels.
They panted to a halt at the foot of the stairs.
‘So what do you think, Ma? Will Ma do it, what Pa said?’ Arno asked.
Beauty, beaming with joy, nodded vigorously.
Annamari looked down at the two pairs of bright blue eyes staring anxiously up at her, pleading. And she knew. In that instant, she knew exactly who Pretty’s... she knew who Beauty’s father was.