BLACK AND WHITE BLOOD

BLACK AND WHITE BLOOD

There is a lovely road that runs from the airport to the hills. It passes through the sparsely populated rural uplands on its way to the capital, built during the colonial era on a high plateau. The countryside surrounding the city for hundreds of miles in all directions is designated rural and farming. Almost all of the land is owned by farmers.

Only the capital and its slums are considered urban. This is where most of the population lives.

The scenery is spectacular, the climate serene and the living conditions despicable.

*

The boy in charge of the cattle saw the dust in the distance thrown up by the vehicle. He left his herd and ran down the hillside towards a group of ramshackle dwellings shouting. ‘Wake up! Wake up! The farmer again. He’s coming!’

Two men came out of one of the ramshackle huts. They stared at the approaching vehicle and then walked quickly into the bush.

The boy’s name was Jabulani. The farmer’s name was Kruger. He was looking for Jabulani’s father, whose name was Paul Delani.

The huts were on Kruger’s land. Land his forefathers had found empty before they settled on it. That’s what they said, anyway.

Paul was in one of the crude buildings. He did not know yet what the farmer wanted. So he was only mildly apprehensive about the Kruger’s sudden appearance. Paul thought it was probably to do with the men who had just left. And he’d had nothing to do with them. He’d ignored them when they were there.

As he watched the approaching truck, he formulated what he’d say. He thought that, if asked, he’d simply tell Kruger that he did not know the men. So he felt that if this was what the farmer wanted, information about the strangers, he would be reasonably safe.

But that wasn’t the case.

Although Paul was not aware of it, Kruger was on his way to get Paul because Paul had killed Kruger’s wife’s pet dog.

Since her baby had died, the dog had been the light of her life. She’d carried it round with her everywhere. A beautiful looking, but snappy and thoroughly spoilt fox terrier called, of all things, Nipper. It was white with a brown head, and she’d named it after the dog listening to a phonograph on her mother’s collection of old black-with-red-labels seventy eight His Master’s Voice records.

Kruger didn’t like the dog much and often referred to it as Shit Head. Of course he said this mainly when his wife was not around.

But now the light had gone out of her life again. A dead baby and a dead dog. Both in the space of a year. What had she done to deserve this? ‘Die Here, please give me back my dog,’ she pleaded in prayer.

And all because Kruger had asked Paul to set a trap for the small buck that were eating the vegetables in his wife’s garden. But the wire snare had trapped Nipper instead of the thieving dik dik or duiker. So Shit Head, or Nipper, if you like, had died an agonizing death meant for a dwarf deer.

*

When Kruger had found his wife’s pet, the dog had been dead for some time. The sick smell of death filled the air.  Bloat was forcing fluids to escape from its bulging eyes, mouth, nose and anus. Flies were buzzing and fighting to get at the putrefying orifices.  When he picked it up, the stench was revolting and maggots covered the underside that had been in contact with the soil.

So much for his wife wondering around the property for several days and nights calling it’s stupid name.

‘Nip! Nip! Nippy, where are you? Nipper, mummy’s waiting. Come on, Nippy, come home to me my baby.’

He put the dog’s body in the back of his truck and drove home to confront his wife with the news. He was anticipating a crisis.

And he got one.

*

Kruger’s wife was in the kitchen. ‘Bad news about the dog, I’m afraid. Caught in a trap.’

They went out to the truck. He pointed at the dog lying in the back, flies swooping and swarming across the lifeless body.

She stared at her darling in disbelief. Then she started to hit Kruger. She struck him on the face and chest with balled fists. ‘You… you…’ She was lost for words. ‘You bastard. You fucking bastard,’ she shouted as she let fly at him.

‘What are we doing here? Why did you bring me to this godforsaken place?’

Why indeed? He had no answer. What were they doing there?

*

Kruger looked at the huts in disgust. ‘These people,’ he thought. ‘No self-respect. Just look at the fucking mess.’

He called out for Paul who had once been one of his farm labourers until he got too old for regular daylong work. But he had to earn his living in order to remain on the farmer’s land. So he looked after the farmer’s wife’s extensive vegetable patch.

Kruger saw an old man come shuffling towards him from one of the shacks. Paul took off his battered hat.

Kruger immediately detected a sullen look. He knew how to read these people. He’d been amongst them all his life. And he was sure that Paul looked both truculent and guilty. He’d done it deliberately. That was obvious from his surly manner.

Times were changing. Things were different now that times had changed. But the changes were not for the better in Kruger’s opinion. Some of his neighbours, and worse still, even some of his relatives, allowed these people to ride in the cab with the owner of the vehicle. But Kruger prided himself on one of the old guard. ‘Get in the back!’ he told Paul. The old man climbed up onto the bakkie and sat on the metal seat over the rear wheel.   

*

When he got back through the automated gates in the perimeter fence, Kruger told Paul to go to the machine shed. Then he went to fetch his wife. He told her to stand by the door. He told Paul to take off his shirt and lean across one of the tractor wheels. He took a sjambok off a hook on the wall.

He had a few practice swings. The animal hide whip made a swishing sound as it cut through the air.

Kruger’s wife stood with her legs slightly apart, watching. He began his work. 

Paul made no sound. The only thing that could be heard was the sjambok in the air as it arched towards the cuts it made in the flesh on the labourer’s back.

After a few minutes, Kruger’s wife shouted, ‘Stop. Stop Jannie. Stop now. That’s enough.’

Kruger stopped. He told Paul to get into the back of the truck. He drove the man back to his hut.

*

Jabulani was staring at Kruger from where he lay on the earth floor of his father’s hut. He was looking under the gap in the door. He saw Kruger grab Paul and pull him off the back of the truck. The old man’s shirt was covered in blood. When Kruger had driven off, the old man put his hat back on his head.

*

Kruger’s sister-in-law lived with them. She was a widow. His brother had been killed when he was still a young man and she’d moved in with Kruger and his new wife.

Kruger found her in the middle of the milking shed one day. She was dressed in denim shorts bleached almost white with a ragged hem. Her blouse was not buttoned, but tied in a knot that showed her underwear. And she was wearing cheap canvas Dunlop tackies.

The milkers stopped smiling as soon has he came back to the shed. He told her to get out of the building. ‘The only females allowed in here are the cows,’ he said.

When she’d gone, he walked up and down the rows of heifers dodging the dung and piss and wagging his finger menacingly at the milkers. He shook his fist at some. They felt his ugly mood and concentrated on squeezing teats and expressing milk into silver pails.

*

Kruger didn’t really like his sister in law. She had the wrong attitude. He thought she was far too familiar with the servants. And the farm labourers. He told her to stop speaking to them when she walked around the farmyard.

‘You never know what they’re thinking. And you know by just looking at them that they have evil things on their minds. I don’t trust them. Any of them. Because they hate us. You can see that written all over their faces. So you don’t have to be Einstein to work that out.’

*

Kruger had once propositioned his sister in law.

It happened only once.

It was as if he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t like the woman, he didn’t respect her, but she had an effect on him. So he wanted to show off to her. His male prowess. He wanted to establish a relationship. Where he could show her what he was made of.

‘Shall we… Well… I was thinking… do you feel like…? Well… You know what I mean, don’t you? A bit of fun, perhaps. You can’t had any for quite a while.’ He laughed. ‘I hope not anyway.’ He laughed again.

He stepped right up next to her. He could see the faint moustache on her lip and a few minute cracks where her makeup was leeching into the surrounding epidermis.

He put his hand around her waste. He pushed his pelvis up against hers so that there was no mistake about what he had in mind.

‘Fok, Jannie,’ she said as she pushed him away. ‘Your brother’s not dead a year and you try to sleep with me? No way man. What do you think I am?’

As the unexpected rebuttal sunk in Kruger felt crushed. Demeaned and affronted. Humiliated, in fact.

‘You ungrateful bitch,’ he muttered as he left the room.

*

A few years before Jabulani would automatically have entered the labour force on Kruger’s farm, he was playing outside the milk shed waiting for one of his brothers to finish milking. But Kruger gave orders to one of the younger milkers, Dixon, to go and look for a missing heifer before he could go home.

Jabulani went with Dixon who was in his late teens. As they walked they chatted and Jabulani was fascinated at the older boy’s attitude. He didn’t like the farmer or anyone in his family. He didn’t like farmers, period. He didn’t like the conditions he lived under, but he had no other options. He didn’t like the government. It had changed little in fifteen years. The signs on the toilets had changed. And on the railway stations platforms. And on the front of the busses. And everyone was allowed to sit on the same benches in the park. But very little else had changed. Very little indeed.

A prominent priest had said the gravy train stopped just long enough for one set of politicians to get off while the others - the new lot - got on.

Well, perhaps some people’s attitudes had changed, but there were not many of them. Most simply masked their innermost thoughts and feelings because they had not changed at all.

Dixon talked about some people that had plans to change things at a faster rate. They would be visiting all the labourers on Kruger’s farm over the next few weeks, he told Jabulani.

*

They found the missing heifer in a field of maze and chased it back onto the dirt road leading to the farmstead. It knew the way and walked in front of them.

They saw a white Japanese car parked just off the track. They both knew it belonged to Kruger’s sister in law. Dixon ran up to the car, gesticulating frantically. He was pointing to the fact that it was unlocked. A very unusual situation. A ladies handbag lay on the front seat. They both looked around. A path led through the reeds down to a dam surrounded by willows.

Jabulani was apprehensive. He beckoned to Dixon to get back to the cow and their mission. Dixon started down the path. Jabulani hesitated for a moment then followed him.

Smith’s sister in law was lying on a blanket. Most of her clothing lay in a neat pile next to her. She was in her underwear.

She was with a man the boys both knew. He was from the work force on the next-door farm. He was completely naked. And it was obvious that he was ready to make love.

Jabulani was terrified. He pulled at Dixon’s shirt and motioned him to leave. Dixon shook his head.

Jabulani crouched down and walked quickly back along the path back towards the car. He looked back once. He saw that Dixon had taken out his penis and was started to masturbate while staring at the couple involved in this frightening situation.

Miscegenation had, until recently, been a serious crime. Jabulani probably didn’t know what that meant, but knew that there would be serious consequences emanating from what they had just seen. Love played no part in the equation. Because he knew intuitively that the social convention was as powerful as ever. The consequences were inevitable, and that the couple they were spying on were fucking across the so-called colour bar. A very dangerous thing to do in this area.

*

Dixon came to see Jabulani the next day. He showed Jabulani a brilliant gold lipstick. He took the cap off and, by twisting the shaft, Dixon made the bright red make-up protrude from the top of the container. Then, by reversing the action, he made it retract. Just like a shiny wet glans moving in and out of a golden prepuce.

Dixon made a mark on his skin with the crimson colouring. Jabulani thought it looked as if Dixon had slashed his skin with a blade revealing the bright flesh beneath. He looked away.

Dixon took Jabulani to a rocky outcrop. He moved some large stones from the front of a small cavity to show Jabulani where he had hidden Kruger’s sister in law’s handbag in amongst the dassie shit.

*

The boy in charge of the cattle saw the dust in the distance. He knew it was Kruger’s vehicle. He ran down the hillside towards the huts shouting. ‘Wake up! Wake up! It’s the farmer. He’s coming!’

*

Kruger stopped his truck and got out. ‘Where’s Jabulani?’ he asked.

Paul took off his hat and went across to speak to the farmer.

He came back and told Jabulani to get into the back of the bakkie.

‘Where’s Dixon?’ Kruger asked the Jabulani.

They drove to a nearby group of crude dwellings and asked for Dixon. Dixon’s parents sent him out to the farmer.

‘Where’s the handbag?’ he asked the boys.

They looked at him blankly and shook their heads. But Kruger knew they were lying. He could see it written all over their faces. He’d lived amongst these people all his life. He could read any one of them like he could read a magazine.

*

When they had driven through the automated gates, Kruger told the boys to wait in the machine shed. He told Dixon to take off his shirt and his trousers and to lean across one of the tractor wheels. He tied the naked boy’s wrists and ankles to the machine’s axles. He told Jabulani to stand next to Dixon.

‘Take your pants off. You’re next,’ he told Jabulani.

‘No. Not there. Closer to him. I want you to feel this too,’ he instructed.

Kruger took a sjambok off its hook. He touched the tip of Jabulani’s foreskin with the whip.

Then he struck Dixon viciously across the buttocks. Once. Twice. And again. And again and again.

Jabulani wet himself.

Dixon was bleeding and screaming. The farmer’s wife came to the door of the shed. She stood there with her legs apart.

‘Fok, Jannie. Be careful. You don’t want to kill him.’

Jabulani told the farmer he would show him where his sister in law’s handbag was hidden.

*

Dixon shot the farmer through his bathroom window. Then they drove the tractor through the front door. Jabulani found the farmer’s wife in the kithen. She was crying without making any noise. He stabbed her in the throat. She slid down onto the floor.

There was no sign of Kruger’s sister in law.

When they left the farm, they each took half the money.

Dixon held a shotgun over his shoulder. Jabulani had a revolver in one hand.

With their free hands, they lifted a large television between them and started walking. Dixon helped Jabualani to carry it away from the burning buildings and up into the hills. 

It was old, very heavy and cumbersome to carry with one hand. They plodded on holding onto the TV and their guns.

After a few miles, Dixon said he was tired, and that they should abandon the trophy.

Jabulani said he would handle it alone. Dixon went off without further comment.

Jabulani managed to manhandle the set down the rocky hillside to a dirt road where he sat on it and waited.

It would have been a long walk home, but a priest gave him a lift in a bakkie. Jabulani loaded the television set into the back and sat alongside the driver who wore a dirty black suit with a soiled white dog collar. He said nothing to Jabulani about the TV.

Jabulani tried to engage the priest in conversation, but he could see that the old man was afraid. He replied in monosyllables.

Eventually Jabulani asked him to turn off the road they were on.

‘To where I live,’ he told the priest. ‘I want

you to take me to my house.’

‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t do that I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘I’m on the way to a meeting. And I can’t be late.’

Jabulani stuck the muzzle of his gun into the priest’s neck. ‘Jou fok! Just do what I tell you.’

*

Jabulani dragged the large lump of old-fashioned electrical equipment into his hut. He placed it on the earth floor in the corner. He stood a wooden chair in the centre of the room and sat down.

He looked at the TV, but there was no picture or sound because there was no power. Nor was there any for miles around. The nearest available electricity would have been the farmhouse he’d just left. Which used, or had used until recently, a diesel generator, and was not connected to an electrical grid anyway.

So the stolen television set would never work.

Jabulani sat in the near dark and stared at his distorted reflection on the screen.

He waited for the police to arrive.

*****

FOOTNOTE

Although he is long dead, and my thanks are therefore futile, I would just the same like to thank Dr Alan Paton, albeit posthumously, for starting a process that eventually completely changed my political perspective.

Anyone who has read his book Cry the Beloved Country will recognize that it is his road to Ixopo in disguise at the beginning of this short story.

*

KICKING AND SCREAMING

WARNING: THIS SHORT STORY CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE AND THEMES THAT MAY OFFEND SOME READERS.

KICKING AND SCREAMING

War against a foreign country only happens when the moneyed classes

think they are going to profit from it.

George Orwell 1903 - 1950

BAD THINGS

Jake had seen some bad things during his tour of duty. But now he was doing his best to forget them.

The plane banked abruptly and Pete woke up.

Jake looked out of the window. Nothing to see but cloud.

‘Well, it’s over now. At last. The day we’ve been waiting for. All our lives. Or so it seems.’

Pete yawned and stretched. His shirt lifted up showing a soldier’s stomach. The result of six months of active service. Rigorous stuff.

‘Right on. We’ll be safe as houses soon. If the pilot gets us down OK.’

Jake nodded. They’d spent a lot of time together during the last six months, but now he realised that he was hoping not to see Pete again after they landed. Not ever.

‘I’m sure you all know that advertising’s misleading.’

Pause.

‘But I’m here today to tell you that our army recruitment stuff’s an outright fucking lie.’

Another pause, to let that sink in.

‘We don’t have any pretty young boys from central casting playing at being men on this training course or at this base.’

Quite a statement barked out by a senior officer on his first day, but Jake soon found out the truth of the statement.

The reality of army life was nothing like that shown in press ads or on the recruiting office posters or in the colour supplements or on TV. No, nothing at all like that. Not in reality.

No glamour.

No young men doing boys own things.

No black faces that were really white faces painted black so that it emphasised the whites of their eyes.

No. The blacks were black and the whites pasty faced.

Learn new skills?

Krap. Nothing you could use afterwards in civilian life.

Adventure?

Lies. Cold as a witch’s tit at night. Long marches with heavy packs all day. Constant crawling about in mud to simulate battle conditions. What a load of bollocks.

Overseas postings?

Yea, with the added bonus that you get shot at.

But it was only when he got to his posting abroad that the true reality really set in.

When Jake realised that Christ they’re shooting at me and it came through loud and clear that the bastards are trying to kill me.

While they were waiting to embark on the trip home, Pete had said, ‘My dad was in the army too, you know. He told me this joke once. He said when he came back from a tour of duty, the first thing he did was fuck my mum. Then he took his boots off.

Not that funny really, and I didn’t like him talking about my mother like that. But it’s probably true, don’t you think?’

Jake didn’t answer then, because he didn’t have an answer.

But he soon found out that it didn’t apply to him.

Well, yes and no, perhaps.

It was true in a way because he and Molly had gone straight to bed. And they didn’t take all their clothes off first. His boots, yes, but not everything. Molly was still a bit shy, that’s why.

But not true because it didn’t happen the way he’d been dreaming about for so long.

She seemed pleased enough to see him. Then came the surprising frenzy of groping and wrestling and even tearing.

No, not her hymen. That was long gone.

Her underwear. And the look on her face when he’d wrenched off her pants.

Then it had all changed. Something happened between them. Something invisible and hard to comprehend.

And it turned everything on its head. Energy ebbed. Interest lapsed. And desire flagged.

His mind had gone back to the camp.

And the heat. And the dust. And the fear. Of being shot at. And killed. Or, worse perhaps, wounded. Badly wounded. An arm. Or a leg. An eye or both. Or a bad wound in the groin and all the implications that had.

He remembered the patrols through the shit hole villages. And the flies. And the terror when a mine went off. As it did one day. And when the body parts fell all around him. And the time it took to collect them. Under fire. And to stuff them into the body bag. Bits of human meat and bone and gore strewn across the road. And spurts of blood marking the mud plastered walls of the mud brick buildings. A soldier crying. And the screaming.

Everyone seemed to be fucking screaming.

Then the dawning realisation that the soldier who had stood on that device had simply disappeared. Forever.

BAD THOUGHTS

So that’s where his mind was when they were in bed. That first time. And so nothing happened.

Even though he’d taken his boots off first.

Unfortunately not much happened later either.

The base doctor said not to worry. It happens to everyone he said. But you’ll get over it. Eventually.

The problem, Jake thought was, how long’s eventually?

He remembered that weekend pass. To the safe, away from it all base on the island. A few hours on a plane and a lifetime away from the heat and fear of their daily routine.

Two patrols each day. Out, of the safe area, so called, in an armoured vehicle.

And then a rectangle around the shit hole village. Up one rutted road. Turn right. Two miles and turn right again. Then right for the last time, hoping, praying that they’re not in anyone’s sights. And that they don’t trigger anything untoward. Just to show the flag.

Or some equally silly rationale thought up by officers.

He remembered the prostitute.

And how embarrassing it had been. For him. But not for Pete, apparently.

How excited he’d been when, sitting in a back ally bar, a tall but youngish girl spoke to them.

‘You soldiers looking for something. One at a time or both together if you like. Me good, clean woman. Here, look at this. Look. Look. Healthy person, me. Good price for two together.’

It was in a language they didn’t understand but it looked like a medical certificate.

‘Probably a forgery, but it’s a novel approach,’ said Pete. ‘She deserves our custom just for her creativity.’

They negotiated for a while and then followed her further into the old quarter and up some narrow stairs. She showed them into a small that was flooded in daylight.

It had the not quite romantic ambiance of being center stage under a spotlight.

Jake saw that Pete had an erection even before they’d taken their clothes off.

‘I’ll go first,’ Pete said, moving towards the bed.

‘You’ll have to bat on a sticky wicket. Could be a bonus. Nice and wet. I’ll bet even cunts dry up in this fucking climate.’

Pete’s penis stuck out in front of him as he went over to the woman who was lying on a bed. He was rubbing it with his hand. He moved his foreskin back slightly revealing a glistening glans.

‘Come on get your gear off,’ he said to her. ‘Give us a look. We want to see what we’re paying for.’

Reluctantly, Jake thought, she removed her underwear.

‘Fucking hell, she’d never get a job as an army barber,’ he said pointing to her shaved pubic area.

Pete leaned towards her, ‘Here, have a suck before we fuck.’

He looked back at Jake and laughed. Presumably, Jake thought, at what he’d said.

‘Just wait until she feels this inside her. They’re not used to cocks like this out here. Their men are all cut. I bet she’ll love me forever once I’ve given it to her.’

Jake kept his underpants on as he watched Pete’s antics over the next few minutes.

Thrusting, groping and groaning. And then a hoarse shout as he climaxed.

‘Come on your turn now. Get that army underwear stuff off and get on with it.’

But Jake found it difficult. He’d never had an audience before.

He felt embarrassed with Pete sitting on the end of the bed delivering a commentary and offering what he presumably thought were helpful comments.

But they weren’t helpful. Because nothing worked.

Even though the woman did her best. But no amount of stroking or pushing or pulling or even sucking had any effect.

‘Too much beer,’ Jake said lamely.

‘Yea, probably. But don’t worry. You’ll be OK next time. Come on, let’s get out of here.’

But the next time it wasn’t OK. Even though it was months later.

And Molly always seemed to be in an unreceptive mood. No matter when he made advances.

He tried kissing her. She turned her head away.

He tied to put his arms around her. She twisted onto the other side of the bed.

He got the message.

She didn’t want intercourse so he came in his hand and wiped it on the sheets.

In the morning he felt hot, hard and vigorous again.

Another rejection, so he came in the shower and watched the semen make delta patterns as it ran down the glass door.

Pete phoned. ‘Got summink to show you. See you down the pub.’

They had a few drinks. Then a few more.

‘Remember how you kicked the fucker?’

‘Wot? Er… well, actually I don’t really.’

‘Sure you did. Complained that you’d hurt your foot. Limped for a couple of days as I remember.’

Jake looked surprised. Then confused.

He was vaguely aware that he’d been present and that bad things had happened.

But now was not the time to dig up those kinds of memories.

He remembered hoping not to see Pete again when they got back.

‘He sure as hell felt that kick. Right in his guts it was.’ Jake looked away.

A well built teenager came over to them. ‘Got a fag for me mate?’

Pete said, ‘Fuck off, you’re not old enough to smoke.’

The kid went back to his friends.

‘D’you remember what Sargent Krik did with that other bastard?’

‘Well, no. Well, I mean yes, I suppose so.’

‘Yea, with that wet blanket. Soon got him singing, didn’t it?’

‘Well… look Pete, cant we talk about something else now? That was all a long time ago. Lots of water’s gone down the gurgler since then.’

Silence. Then Jake tried to make amends.

‘What about that one with the big boobs you were interested in? What’s happened to her? Got her hidden away somewhere, have you?’

But Pete wasn’t quite ready to change the subject just yet.

They had a few more drinks. Then a couple more.

Pete took out a small plastic box.

Inside Jake saw something he knew he didn’t want to see.

‘It’s that rag head’s finger. You gave me a hand, remember. And he gave me his finger. Well, his thumb anyway. So I kept it. Didn’t tell anyone. Brought it back home as a souvenir of what we went through.’

He took a gulp of beer. ‘Smelled for a while. But it was OK once it dried out.’

Then suddenly, ‘Want it? It’s yours if you do. I’m sick of it, if you must know. And you were there too. You helped. So you can have it if you want it.’

‘Fuck off Pete. Why the hell would I want to hang on to something like that.’

Pete put the small Tupperware container back in his pocket.

BAD RESULT

On the way home Pete went down to a public toilet.

Several young thugs were there doing drugs.

The ones dealing took no notice of him, but the effete looking kid who came out of one of the cubicles licked his lips and smiled at him.

Jake marked him as gay. He was right.

As Jake went back up the stairs, the kid shouted after him, ‘ Hey, come back. Feel like a blow job? I’m just in the mood. I’ll do you for nothing. Because you’re so pretty. You’ll never get a better offer.’

Jake went out onto the road. He walked towards the river and turned to cross the bridge.

He stopped to look down into the murky water.

He could remember giving the man a few slaps. He could hear him screaming.

And he screamed even louder when Pete turned the handle.

And the charge went through the wires. Into the man’s genitals.

Molly sat in the coroner’s court with her arms folded, staring straight ahead.

It was a long and convoluted procedure.

It included some complicated reports.

The deceased had been drinking. Blood alcohol levels were at a high level.

It has been verified that he was in The Rose and Crown, a nearby public house.

Video camera images indicated that he left the public house and went into a municipal toilet facility for males in Cannon’s Road. It is not known why he did not use the toilet in the public house.

It is probable, but not certain, that he was involved in some kind of illicit activity. The downstairs public toilet facility is frequented by addicts and gay men.

The images of the victim on the bridge were of poor quality, being out of the optimum range of the nearest video camera. However, it seems that there was either a provoked or an unprovoked attack on the victim.

The suspects were a group of unknown male youths walking in the opposite direction.

The heavy blow to the victim’s neck was probably carried out by one of these persons. It is not know whether there was any provocation or not.

The autopsy report has revealed that the victim was probably alive but unconscious when he was thrown off the bridge.

It is therefore likely that water entered the deceased’s lungs when he was in the river.

The report found that the cause of death was drowning.

The verdict concluded that the killing was done without lawful excuse and in breach of criminal law.

And that was it.

She thought about Jake. She put her hands in her lap. She stared straight ahead.

The courtroom was all but empty. An orderly told her she’d have to leave.

He said he was sorry. But for security reasons he’d have to lock up.

She went outside. It had been raining.

She sat on the wet steps of the court. People looked at her.

What a shame they thought. A young girl like that. Quite pretty too.

She was thinking about Jake. How he’d made her laugh when they were first together. What fun they’d had. And how he’d changed.

She started to cry.

Suddenly the words were coming out of her mouth, ‘Fucking army,’ she screamed. People stared.

What a shame. Drugs probably. Or alcohol, perhaps. Or both. These young people, these days.

She saw a man in uniform coming towards her.

Just then she felt a kick. Deep inside her abdomen.

By the time the policeman got up to her she had worked out that she was pregnant.