Free Of Cops & Robbers by Mike Nicol

her, but he does. It’s what he likes about her.
    ‘You’re full of piss ’n steam,’ he says.
    She smiles. ‘Always and everso.’ Takes a cellphone from her handbag. ‘We need to put out a press release. I’m going to sayyou’re deeply saddened by this tragic murder …’
    ‘I am.’
    ‘… and regret that the truth will never be tested in court.’
    ‘It’s your scene.’
    ‘And would like to state once again that the allegations are entirely without foundation.’
    Jacob Mkezi drinks. ‘You’re the boss.’
    He catches the sharp cut of her gaze. Hard to see affection in it when she’s doing her job.
    ‘Just so we’re deejaying the same tracks, Jacob. Right?’
    ‘Right.’
    Mellanie’s nails clicking at the BlackBerry keys.
    Clifford Manuel reaches over, touches Jacob Mkezi on the sleeve. ‘What happened with Tol Visagie?’
    Jacob Mkezi says, ‘We’re on safari.’
    ‘Good. Excellent.’ Clifford Manuel finishing his glass. ‘Let me know if you need anything.’
    ‘Where’re you off to?’ says Mellanie.
    ‘Not me, we,’ says Jacob Mkezi. ‘Both of us, you and me.’
    Mellanie sitting back. ‘I said I’d think about it.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘I’ve got a business to run, Jacob. Disappearing for a weekend takes arranging.’
    ‘Fly-in. Five-star. On the Caprivi. What’s to arrange?’
    ‘No, Jacob. You think you can just snap your fingers.’
    He snaps his fingers. ‘I can. Pick you up at four.’
    ‘In three hours’ time?’
    ‘Exciting, né?’
    She stares at him. He holds her eyes until she smiles. ‘You’re something else.’
    ‘Fixed up.’ Jacob Mkezi signals for a waiter to fill their glasses. ‘All I’ve got to do now is buy a toy for my boy.’

THE ICING UNIT, JUNE 1981
    They arrive on the farm separately, the Fisherman from Port Elizabeth in his bakkie, Blondie from Cape Town in his VW Kombi, a sin bin complete with bed, camping fridge, a gas two-burner.
    About an hour before sunset, the Commander and Rictus Grin get there in a police bakkie, unmarked. Haul three men from the back. The men shackled together in ankle chains, handcuffed. They lock them in an outbuilding.
    With sunset the men in the outbuilding start singing. They sing through the night.
    In the still cold night their voices are everywhere, as if the ancestors have arisen to join them.
    In the morning they take the men into the veld. At an old antbear burrow they hand them spades, make them dig.
    ‘A cigarette,’ says one of the prisoners.
    Rictus jams a cigarette between the lips of each prisoner, brings up a match. Says to the Commander, Blondie, the Fisherman , ‘Any of yous want one?’
    They do. The seven men stand smoking, staring across the grasslands.
    When they’re done, the one who asked for the cigarette says, ‘Hey, mlungu, whitey.’
    Blondie raises his eyes, says, ‘You talking to me?’ The man staring at him. Blondie staring back.
    ‘Mlungu.’ The man grinning, squaring himself.
    Blondie hears Rictus shout, ‘Hey, hey, watch it, watch it.’
    Blondie catching the glint in the man’s eyes. Sensing movement behind  him. Sensing the one behind swinging his spade, the strike smacking Blondie across the back.
    He staggers, goes on his knees, takes another blow. He sprawls. Sees through the dust the chained feet circling him. The menslamming down with their spades. He’s got his head covered. He’s curled against the beating.
    He hears the shots, feels the men collapsing over him. Blood everywhere. Gushing. He crawls out, away, lies panting on the hard ground.
    The Commander’s bending over him, saying, ‘You alright? Say something. Christ, man, say something.’ The Commander’s hands examining him. ‘Talk. Say something, Christ, man. We need to hear you.’
    Blondie sitting up against the pain. Drenched in blood. Hurting over his back, his shoulders, his arms, his side. Kidneys, he thinks, closing his eyes, like daggers in his kidneys.
    The Commander saying, ‘It’s not your