Despite the Darkness , livre ebook

Troubador Publishing Ltd - Maughan Brown David

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92 pages

English

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It is 1985, South Africa is rapidly becoming ungovernable and a State of Emergency has been declared. Hope for a peaceful end to apartheid can still be found, but it has dwindled to a flickering candle flame in the encroaching darkness...A knock on the door at midnight; a student on the run from the Special Branch looking for a safe house and transport to theborder; a bomb exploding outside the Supreme Court and killing an old man - all come together to confront CameronBeaumont, a History lecturer under constant surveillance by the security police and subject to regular death threats, with acrisis. How should he respond - torn as he is between his desire to play his part in the struggle against the vicious oppressionof apartheid and his need to protect his wife, Jules, and the children he adores? And the death threats turn out to be justthe beginning.

Sujets

Afrique du Sud

Thriller

Psychological thriller

South Africa

Republic of South Africa

Informations

Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	18 juillet 2019
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781838599317
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Copyright © 2019 David Maughan Brown

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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For Susan

Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.

Desmond Tutu

Absence, the highest form of presence

James Joyce
Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Afterword
1985 Historical Context
Notes
Acknowledgements
Although the story told in Despite the Darkness is a fiction, and none of the characters is based on any real person, living or dead, the historical context of apartheid in South Africa in which the action is set was all too real. Reference is made in the novel to actual historical events and people, many of whom were murdered by agents of the South African State. For readers not familiar with the history, I have included a note at the end which provides a short account of the dark years of apartheid leading up to the State of Emergency in 1985 when the action takes place, as well as some very brief notes on the historical characters mentioned.
Although readers may identify the Pietermaritzburg campus of what was then the University of Natal as the setting for part of the action of this novel, it is important to stress that the novel is in no way intended to reflect negatively on that university’s very active opposition to apartheid during the 1980s.
My first acknowledgement must, then, be to the friends and colleagues in Pietermaritzburg and elsewhere in South Africa whose friendship, courage and shared commitment to a non-racial South Africa made those years endurable. Particular appreciation is due here to my wife, Susan, for her support, her stoicism in the face of surveillance and security police harassment similar to that experienced by Cameron and Jules in the novel, and her own courage and commitment to the struggle against apartheid, best exemplified by her involvement with the Black Sash.
Where the novel itself is concerned, acknowledgement and grateful thanks are due to Susan, Brenda Gourley, Rajani Naidoo, Brendan and Becky, and Jacqui Ackurst for their encouragement and for reading and commenting on early drafts. Thanks also to Christopher Merrett for his comments on the historical note. More general thanks for their support in the writing endeavour are due to Anthony, Kate, Sarah and Andreas.
Finally, damaging as it may be for his ‘street cred’, I need to record my warm appreciation to Professor Andy Smith for his encouragement and support in his capacity as the novel’s first reader. There can surely be no more rigorous a first reader for a novel than an empirical scientist inclined to skepticism towards the humanities in general and fiction in particular.
Chapter 1
The tap, tap, tapping rhythm on the glass was too regular. Surfacing reluctantly, Cameron realized it couldn’t, after all, be a bougainvillea branch blowing against the verandah window. It was too persistent, too urgent. The hot Berg wind was still blowing down from the Drakensberg, he could hear it buffeting the camphor tree, but there had to be someone at the back door.
No lights. Never turn a light on until you have made sure the curtains are tightly closed. The enclosed verandah at the back of the house had no curtains.
When was the last death threat? Three, maybe four, nights ago. No over-elaboration that time, just a pregnant pause during which Cameron could hear a snatch of Afrikaans dance music in the background, followed by: ‘You are going to die.’ He recognized the heavy accent and tobacco rasp from previous occasions. Almost always around 3am. The phone had been put down before he had time to finish reminding the caller that we are all going to die.
But not, if possible, just yet. The alarm clock showed that it wasn’t 3am now, only just after midnight, which relieved the tension slightly. The 3am phone calls had convinced Cameron that when he died he would do it at three in the morning. He slid out of bed, felt between the mattresses for his Sig Sauer, cocked it under his pillows to muffle the noise, slipped on his dressing-gown and held the automatic in his pocket. Safety catch off. The dirty tricks brigade would be much better with guns than he was, and he doubted that he would get much chance to use it, but just holding it made him feel less helpless. Jules appeared still to be asleep under the sheet on the other side of the bed.
The tapping was getting more urgent. Cameron, peeping through a chink in the bedroom curtains, could see the dark figure of a man through the verandah window, half obscured by one of the Ali Baba-pot bougainvilleas. The street light at the end of the drive extended just enough light for Cameron to make out that part of the reason for the figure being dark was that its owner was black.
Where the hell was the bloody dog, and what did it think it was doing? Hadn’t it worked out its contract? It got fed on the understanding that it would bark when strangers tapped on the back door in the middle of the night.
If the death threats were anything to go by it was white men with guns you had to worry about, but it wasn’t impossible that they could have sent a black man. An askari, perhaps – an ANC footsoldier captured and given graphic details about what could happen to his family while his finger nails were being pulled out or his teeth snapped off with a pair of pliers.
But if anyone had come to carry out the death threats he wouldn’t, surely, have risked being seen standing out there tapping on the door for what must be the better part of a couple of minutes by now.
Cameron, heart pounding, knew he would be visible as a target as soon as he stepped through the door onto the verandah. The sweat on his palm was making the automatic feel oily.
What if the tapper was just a student needing help of some kind? It was unlikely that any student, even a drunk one, would come looking for help with an essay on the Zulu kingdom at this time of night. As Cameron watched, stomach churning, the figure turned abruptly from the door, allowing Cameron to glimpse his profile against the streetlight. It was Mirambo.
Apart from his height, Mirambo’s features – high domed forehead and aquiline nose, in particular – made him instantly recognizable among the relatively few black students the university had been allowed to admit.
What on earth could Mirambo want at this time of night? Whatever it was meant trouble. Mirambo was too intelligent and articulate not to have drawn attention to himself as soon as he arrived on campus to start his research the year before. It wouldn’t have helped that he had recently been appointed Welfare Officer for the Students Representative Council.
Cameron crossed the verandah, unbolted the back door – in the process letting in a blast of oven-hot Berg wind – and called ‘Mirambo’ at the retreating back just loud enough, he hoped, to be heard. He wasn’t, so he had to call again – too loudly for comfort. Mirambo turned and Cameron beckoned him in through the backdoor and into the dining room, closing the door and navigating the familiar few feet across the room in the dark before switching on the light in the kitchen.
‘Shit man, Cameron, I thought you weren’t going to let me in. Your car is in the garage so I knew you were here.’
How did he know the car was in the garage? It couldn’t be seen from outside, unless he had pulled himself up to peer through the fanlight, which seemed unlikely. Had he been watching the house and seen them come in earlier? Had he been told they were back by whoever had been listening to Jules’s phone-call to her mother when they got in? Jules had heard the usual click and complained about never being able to have a private conversation. The Special Branch’s white Corolla hadn’t been parked round the corner in its usual spot when they came back, so that couldn’t be the source of the information.
‘How about some coffee?’ Cameron asked. As usual he felt guilty for allowing even the slightest doubt to creep in. One got that way – more so when one had children.
‘Yeah, that would be good if you don’t have anything stronger.’
Cameron ignored the hint and, taking his time, check