Roots of Outrage. John Davis Gordon

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      ‘The Broederbond,’ Luke said. ‘The Brotherhood.’

      ‘Right … Lampposts, Luke. Illumination. And what do we know about the Broederbond? Very little, because it’s a secret society. But what light does the Boer War shed on it? Ah, now we can start making some intelligent deductions. The Broederbond was founded after the Boer War – after Sir Alfred Milner had made his cock-up of trying to turn us into Englishmen. It was founded to fight for Afrikaner dominance. In all walks of life: the Dutch Reformed Church, business, parliament, the civil service, the army, police, judiciary. And it’s grown into a mighty octopus that now controls the whole country – it’s an Afrikaner mafia now, Luke. And it is really they who rule the country – and they will stop at nothing to stay in power. And there’ll be no reform until their power is broken.’

      ‘And how do we do that?’

      ‘How, indeed? Only by the pen, my friend, because they’ve got all the swords – all the generals are Broederbonders. But what does history teach us about Power? “Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Eventually they’ll corrupt themselves out of power. Become decadent.’ Then she rolled over onto her back and gave her creamy smile. ‘And now, about that decadent suggestion of yours …’

      It was a wonderful time. And when the holidays were over and they went back to Umtata and the kids came pouring back to town it got even better: for now their secret was multiplied, a secret to blow a thousand tiny minds, the danger a delicious spice to the delicious forbidden fruit. Luke Mahoney walked to school feeling ten feet tall, a smile in his heart about seeing her surrounded by her bevy of adoring girls, seeing the other boys lusting after her, hearing their lecherous talk, exchanging delicious grins with her, standing in assembly looking at her up there on the staff platform, eyes locked on each other’s, suppressing a grin, his heart bursting with joyous pride – his gorgeous Miss Rousseau, acting history teacher at Umtata High School, centre of the universe… And when she came striding into the classroom in her gym skirt and the muted groan went up from the boys, his bursting heart turned over. And when she began to spin her wonderful tales of history, which he already knew backwards, he just wanted to leap up and applaud, and, oh God, the joy of her legs, her breasts thrusting against her white blouse as she stretched up to write on the blackboard – sometimes, just sometimes, she locked eyes with him for a moment when all heads were down making the notes, and – oh God – the delicious secret.

      When the final bell rang and she set off back to the hostel – his hostel – he went to his father’s law office with his heart singing. After dinner he went to bed, waited, listened, then pulled on his tennis shoes and breathlessly clambered out of the window and dashed across town. Then he walked past the tall hedge of the girls’ hostel, heart knocking, eyes peeled, trying to look like a schoolboy going from God knows where. The towel hanging out her window, the all-clear sign … Then the heart-knocking business of creeping through the hole in the hedge, followed by the dash across the garden to the drainpipe. He crouched in the nasturtiums, seized the pipe and Went shinning up it desperately, hand over hand, every moment expecting a girlish cry from one of the dormitory windows. Then there was the sill and he swung his leg up and Lisa grabbed his ankle, giggling. He heaved himself over, and fell into her arms. And, oh God, the forbidden fruit was all the more delicious for the outrageous danger.

      And so it went. Until the night the drainpipe broke away from the wall. He was about to grab the sill when there was suddenly this creaking sound, and he was clawing at the bricks; then slowly the pipe began to fall away from the wall like a felled tree. Luke Mahoney swooped slowly down through the night, wild-eyed. Oh Christ, how do I talk my way out of this? As he hit the earth with a jarring jolt, his ankle buckled, he crashed onto his side, and the pipe and masonry came crashing down on top of him.

      For an instant he lay there, shocked, in agony; then windows were bursting open, lights flashing on, and he scrambled up and tried to run, and he sprawled. He had sprained his ankle. He lay for another instant, clutching his foot, then he was up again and hobbling frantically. ‘Hey!’ girls shouted. ‘Stop! Thief!’ He hobbled flat-out, grimacing, and he sprawled again. He scrambled to his feet once more, but as he reached the gate the hostel door burst open. Girls barrelled out, clutching hockey sticks. Mahoney staggered desperately through the gate, gasping, and the girls burst out. They sprinted after him, yelling, and the first hockey stick got him. He lurched, then another stick whacked his head and he reeled; then another, then another. Under a rain of hockey sticks he crashed into the hedge, his arms curled up over his head, surrounded by gleeful, swiping girls.

      ‘Good God!’ the head girl gasped. ‘Luke!’

      Luke crouched in the hedge, gasping, his head splitting, looking at the menacing silhouettes of astonished, stick-toting girls. He was about to make a plea for he knew not what when a quiet voice said: ‘Leave him, girls …’ And there was Miss Rousseau, in her dressing gown, arms folded, a sombre smile on her lovely face. ‘Go back to bed, girls.’

      The excited girls reluctantly turned to leave, staring back, giggling, exchanging glances. Mahoney straightened up painfully, dishevelled. He looked at Lisa.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

      Lisa Rousseau smiled ruefully. ‘We’re in trouble, Luke. Tomorrow there’s going to be big trouble.’

      Luke closed his eyes and shook his head.

      ‘I am,’ he said. ‘Not you. There’s no reason for two of us to be in trouble.’

      ‘To talk?’ the headmaster repeated furiously.

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘To talk?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      The headmaster gave a growl. ‘At midnight you’re shinning up the drainpipe of the girls’ hostel to talk to the housemistress? That’s what you’re telling me?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      George Mahoney, sitting beside his son, sighed.

      ‘To talk about what, pray?’

      ‘About life, sir.’

      ‘About Life? With a capital L, of course? And what aspect of Life were you so desperately anxious to talk about at that hour?’ He waved a hand. ‘The birds and the bees, perhaps?’

      ‘No, sir. About my career, sir.’

      ‘Your career …’ The headmaster whispered it with the contempt it deserved. He turned and paced across his study. He turned back. ‘Do you know what happens to one’s career when one is expelled from a school? Do you know what a blemish – what a criminal record that is you’ll carry with you for life – with the capital L?!’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘And you are not daunted?’

      ‘Yes, I am daunted, sir.’

      Another growl. ‘And what made you think Miss Rousseau would be willing to talk to you at midnight about your career?’

      ‘Nothing, sir.’

      ‘Nothing?’ Steely eyes. ‘She didn’t … invite you perhaps?’

      ‘No, sir, she did not.’

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