Free The Disappeared by Vernon William Baumann

door with its welcome escape.
    ‘Stop,
Lindiwe!’ The softness was gone from the old woman’s voice. This was a direct
command. Lindiwe stopped, halfway towards the roof-housing. She felt unable to
resist the effortless authority in the voice. She whirled around.
    ‘How do
you-’
    ‘Stop all
of this now.’ The tone in the old woman’s voice was hard and uncompromising.
Lindiwe felt like she was back at St. Mary’s. A young sixth-grader in awe of
the authority of the nuns. ‘It’s gone far enough. Others have hurt you and you
have hurt yourself.’ The old woman fixed Lindiwe with a stare that made her
weak at the knees. ‘But now it must stop.’
     The glow
from a nearby skyscraper – the old run-down Carlton Centre – with its loud neon
sign, lit up the night sky around the old woman’s head. It looked almost like a-
    ‘It’s time
for the hurt to stop.’
    Lindiwe
stared in barely-suppressed awe at the buxom old woman who now sat on the ledge
that Lindiwe had occupied only seconds before. There was a silence as Lindiwe
tried to make sense of it all. The background din of downtown Johannesburg
remained undiminished. Somewhere a couple’s drunken argument reached a hysterical
summit. Glass shattered. Someone laughed in triumph.
    ‘Who are
you?’ Lindiwe expected to hear something enigmatic and profound. An obscure
quotation from the Bible. At the very least she anticipated some answer
straight out of a Hollywood movie or a fantasy novel; a confirmation of
Guardian Angels, Destinies, Chosen Ones ...
    ‘I am
Estelle van Deventer from number nine Marula Street, in a little town called Bishop.
Ever heard of it?’ It was almost laughable. Angels didn’t have physical addresses.
Angels didn’t wear floral dresses that belonged in a thrift shop. But most of
all ... angels didn’t call her by name. The old woman picked up her Bible and
rested it on her lap. ‘I have been watching you for a long time, Lindiwe.’
    Lindiwe
turned from the old woman; a maelstrom of emotions ripping through her.
Finally, her bluster was depleted. She began crying softly. ‘I lost my-’
    ‘I know.’
    Lindiwe
should have been surprised. How could the woman know about that? About the dark
endless silence of a stillbirth. And yet – for some reason – she wasn’t
surprised at all.
    ‘Stop
blaming yourself.’ The old woman’s voice had softened to a mere whisper. ‘She
was never meant for this world.’
    Lindiwe
wanted to ask her how the hell she knew this. How could she possibly know what
the cruel God in her black leather-bound book had intended for the child that
never was. And how in God’s name had she known it was a girl? But
instead she just cried softly. Behind her there was the shuffle of shoes on
concrete. She felt arms around her; unbelievably strong arms that enfolded her
in an impenetrable cocoon of safety. Lindiwe turned and grabbed the old white
woman. Returning her embrace with fierce passion. She cried for an eternity, soaking
the woman’s dress. When there were no more tears – and the sorrow inside her
was sated – the old woman placed a hand under Lindiwe’s chin and lifter her
head until their eyes were level.
    ‘Tonight is
my last night here.’ The woman smoothed Lindiwe’s hair against her head. ‘It is
your last night also. You are coming with me.’
    Lindiwe
nodded passively. She was once again the young idealistic girl that sat at her
mother’s feet while she cleaned the vegetables. She was once again the young
girl who wanted to become President of the country – the girl who didn’t know
sorrow, violation, addiction and loss.
    The old woman
took her hand and led her down the stairwell to the street below. There an
ancient white Toyota Hilux bakkie waited. The woman opened the passenger
door for Lindiwe who climbed in obediently. With a demonic grating the old
woman manoeuvred the gear lever – attached to the steering column – into first
gear. And so they departed; away from