On duty in the city’s danger zones

Reservist Andrew Brown takes the reader on patrol through rich and poor areas across the Peninsula

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 the chosen house, the struggling suspect handcuffed. I can’t see him in the gloom, but he looks young and malnourished. There’s a lot of vloeking and pushing going on around him. His mother seems to have accompanied him and is doing her best to make the officers’ lives difficult. “Los hom uit! F*k julle, los hom!” They try to shake her off but she is undeterred. The crowd has suddenly grown. I’m not sure where they all came from, but there are a lot of bodies on the street.

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. The officer panics, screaming at her to let go. Rambo strides up and slams his elbow down on to her arm, wrenching her grip off the gun. “Sergeant, bring your van closer, man!”

I climb out and open the back gate. The SWAT team comes, pushing the young man. His torso is covered with blue-green tattoos. He looks tired and resigned. But his mother is still fired up and filled with wrath. 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 wring the skin off my forearms, twisting and pinching. The others shove the man inside and slam the gate after him. 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. “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.

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. 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. 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. 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 on to 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.