Duties in the danger zone
Once an enemy of the apartheid police, Andrew Brown has been a police reservist for almost 20 years, patrolling the ganglands of the Cape Flats, the townships of Masiphumelele and Nyanga, and the highwalled Southern Suburbs. “Good Cop, Bad Cop” is a perso
IWATCH the young man in the window. He watches me. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do if he moves. I see his hand come up behind the curtain and I tense. The barrel of my rifle inadvertently starts to rise. I glance down to check the safety status: one up and safety on. I watch his hand and still it seems to drift behind the dirty yellow cloth. I click the safety off without looking down.
The SWAT officer closest to me – a burly red-faced man – hears it and immediately follows my gaze.
“You, get away from the window. Jy! Jy!”
With one hand, the young man, shirtless, lifts a lit cigarette into view. He takes a long slow drag. With his other hand, he gives us a languid “f**k you” sign, flexing his scrawny chest.
“Watch the rooftops,” someone else shouts from further up the road. I scan them. The wind is throwing sand and grit in my eyes, and I can’t see if there’s any movement up there. Behind me a door closes. I spin around, feeling vulnerable. Two middle-aged women and a few children have come out to watch. I see that, on the other side of my van, a group of onlookers has formed. They are laughing and joking among themselves. They point at me, at the SWAT members.
The red-faced officer strides over to me. Clearly I am not doing my job. He gestures at the group. They give him the bird.
“Move back down the road!” he shouts.
The smiles fade and jaws tighten. One of the young women cocks her head back and looks at him down her nose, as if he’s just said something ridiculous.
“F*k jou,” she says. “I live here, not you. This is my road, not your road. Don’t come tell me what to do on my road. I don’t come to your house and tell you what to do. Né?”
It’s now a power struggle, of course. Gender, age, respect, policing, all these dynamics are playing out. But she is armed with a set of pink curlers and a dressing gown that doesn’t cover as much as it should, and he’s armed with a semi-automatic assault rifle, bulletproof vest and heavy black boots. There’s only ever going to be one winner.
“Sergeant, just keep an eye on them, okay?”
I nod seriously, as if this constitutes a victory over the masses. The woman nods too as he walks off. “Yes, off you go.” Then she flashes a winning smile at me, all flirtation and mirth. I try not to blush and return to watching the rooftops. I’m not convinced I’m made for this kind of thing.
Perhaps the sides are more clearly defined in a proper war.
Finally, the team emerges from doorways, sidling down alleys.
The intervention members are getting jumpy, but the mother won’t allow them to bring her son to the van. She stands in the way, clinging on to him, demanding that they explain where he is being taken. Then she grips the barrel of one of the officer’s rifles. She won’t let go. The officer panics, screaming at her to let go of his firearm. Rambo strides up and slams his elbow down on to her arm, wrenching her grip off the gun. She wails at the police, then swears, then wails some more.
“Sergeant, bring your van closer, man!”
I climb into the cab and note that the temperature gauge is in the red. The engine doesn’t seem to be idling evenly. There is a rough rumble, then a period of idling, then another rumble. This can’t be good, but I rev the van gently and ease around a collection of broken bottles. I climb out and open the back gate. The SWAT team comes, pushing the young man. His torso is covered with blue-green tattoos. Some merge into one another, others are clearer – perhaps newer: My bloed is net myne; Sterk boy. There’s something that looks like a skull, but it’s distorted and could be a pig’s head. Probably not.
He looks tired and resigned. But his mother is still fired up and filled with wrath. She clutches her injured arm, but continues screaming abuse. She’s after me now, as I seem to be the gatekeeper. I’m still holding the gate open for him. F*k jou. Los my seun. Jou poes! F*k jou!
I am becoming numb to her protests, until she reaches out and grabs me with her bony grip, trying to ring the skin off my forearms, twisting and pinching and pressing and clutching. The others shove the man inside and slam the gate after him. I push the locks through and bolt it securely. I hear him scuttle across the floor inside to the grated side window. The van shudders on its suspension as he moves about. His mother releases her grip on me and joins him at the grill. Hushed secrets are quickly transferred.
“Okay, can we go?” I ask this while surveying the growing crowd.
“No, not yet. They’re just searching the house for the gun.”
The mother hears this and is off in a flash. “F*k jou, los my huis. F*k jou!”
I stand around, guarding my captive, watching the rooftops with decreasing interest. I’m tired of this dirty street with its foul language and grimy windows. My eye falls on a small boy, standing close by, separated from everyone else. He is staring at my gun. I wink. It’s contrary to the briefing. Contrary to everything in the training manual about dangerous situations and how to behave. But I can’t help it. I have to find some contact in this desolation. And he rewards me with a grin from ear to ear. He runs back and grabs hold of his mother’s jersey and yanks on it. She shakes off his hand and looks at me. Suspicious. Like I just tried to lure her child away into a field. “Sorry for the trouble,” I say. “No, no worries,” she replies, laughing. “Thanks for the show. The TV was mos blerrie boring this evening.”
I laugh too. The mood shifts, among the group of women at least. Her companion asks: “Who are you looking for tonight, officer? Such a big team tonight, hey?”
I explain that we are looking for a suspect in a robbery in Mowbray. She nods. She doesn’t say anything, though.
“That’s a big gun, hey?” The young boy looks at me seriously. “Can I touch it?” “No,” I say. “Sorry.” He shrugs his shoulders as if he expected nothing else.
I turn back to find out what is taking so long and I see that a young woman is now up against the grill of the van, talking to the suspect.
“Sergeant, what are you doing, man? Tell her to f**k off away from the van!”
But red-face has already seen my idea of crowd control and marches over to her himself. He takes out his pepper spray and makes as if to spray her. The young woman is half laughing, half indignant.
“Jy kannie net spray wanneer ook al jy wil, inspector.”
“Ek is vol water, sissie. Ek spray sommer waar en wanneer ek wil.”
The words are flirtatious, but his face is angry, and she is looking back fiercely. They are combatants even in coquetry. There are no friends here.
And then, it’s over. So suddenly that I am caught by surprise. The remaining intervention members sprint out of the house, and with one loud whistle and a twirl of the hand over the head, they are back in the vehicles and the chase car is already around the corner. By the time I get back into the cab, the last car in the convoy is at the top of the road. “F**k. F**k. F**k.” I panic and stall the van. The temperature needle is now well into the red. And the engine is not happy to start up again. It splutters and dies. In my scared imagination, the battery feels like it is losing power, unable to turn the crankshaft over again. It takes momentarily, but dies again as I touch the accelerator. It feels as if I have been alone in the street with my broken vehicle for hours, though in truth it is less than a minute. The van tips slightly as the young man in the back shifts about. Maybe just changing his position, but it feels menacing. I try again and the engine comes to life, shuddering. I can smell smoke but I don’t look in the mirrors. I feel a surge of relief as the van moves forward now. For some reason I drive hunched over the steering wheel, as if this posture will somehow protect me from whatever missile is to come my way. I hear a bottle smash on the pavement close by. They are throwing empty bottles and stones at me as I pull away as fast as I can. I take the corner at the end of the road without braking. We swerve into the gutter on the other side, the van tipping and then crashing back onto its shock absorbers. I hear the suspect cry out from the cage, “F*k jou”.
In the distance I see the lights of the other vehicles and I gun for them. I’m still ducked over, waiting for the gunshots, but none come. The small houses and backyard shacks flash past. A dog comes out from behind a parked car and tries to chase me, barking at the spinning wheels. The van, overheated and smelling of rubber, rumbles past the apartheid-style tenement blocks, the groups of young men slouched under the glow of the alley lights.
We travel down the last stretch of road towards the exit on to Jakes Gerwel Drive, accompanied by whistles from both sides. Warning of our presence. Celebrating our retreat.
A last serenade from Bonteheuwel.
This is an extract from Good Cop, Bad Cop, confessions of a reluctant policeman by Andrew Brown, published by Zebra Press at a recommended retail price of R220.
I live here, not you. This is my road, not yours That’s a big gun, hey? Can I touch it?