We’re on our own against the siege of crime
Chris Barron describes a night of terror in his Cape Town home and the flawed police response
FIRST they came with crowbars and knives one midday in June, and again at 10pm on a Saturday night in October.
With stunning speed and brutality, they smashed through the front security gate and door of our modest house in the southern suburbs of Cape Town. Presumably, they were not expecting anyone to be home because when confronted they fled to the getaway car and were gone.
Last Saturday, they raised their game.
They crossed the newly installed front garden beam and the alarm went off. They paid no attention. My 17-year-old son, Sebastian, was studying for his Grade 11 maths exam in a front room. He yelled that someone was trying to break down the door.
Leaving my wife and younger boy in the TV room at the back of the house, I sprinted down the passage and shouted at Sebastian to fetch my grandfather’s World War 2 vintage ceremonial sword.
I was three paces from the door when they kicked it in with such violence that bolts and locks and thick splinters of wood went flying past.
Instead of following the usual drill, cursing and turning tail, the front man — big, burly and pure aggression — levelled a pumpaction shotgun at me and screamed “F*** you”, which I took to mean “It’s payback time”.
There were three of them this time instead of the usual two. The second one had a handgun that he pointed at my head. I instinctively hit the floor and tried to squirm into a side room. At this point, Sebastian came charging down the passage in his pyjama bottoms and bare feet, wielding the sword and oblivious to my screams for him to go back. “I’m going to kill you,” he was screaming.
I knew there could be only one outcome. In that split second, as I got to my feet, I pictured it in bloody detail. I was absolutely convinced that he was a dead boy running. No words I can think of come close to describing what I felt as I waited for the inevitable shot.
It did not come. They turned and ran out the door to their car, where the getaway driver was gunning the engine. To my horror, Sebastian followed them and seemed to be closing in on the big man with the shotgun as he reached the gate. I kept screaming at him to stop because I knew what was going to happen. Before getting in the car, he was going to swing his shotgun around and blow Sebastian away.
He did not. A half-full plastic cooldrink bottle was thrown at him, and with a squeal of rubber on road they were gone.
In spite of the alarm and panic button being activated, there was no sign of the private security company. Apart from anything else that clients might fondly imagine they have a right to expect when they press panic buttons, the company has a guardroom on the corner whose occupant is supposed to emerge from time to time to monitor the road. The company phoned after the drama to ask if everything was all right and should they send someone round.
The police — one male, one female — took about an hour to arrive and were immediately aggressive when asked why they had taken so long. They did not introduce themselves, wore no identification and refused to provide any when asked. They would not
I knew there could be only one outcome. I was convinced he was a dead boy running
even tell us their names. There was no evident sympathy, understanding or concern for what we had just been through, and no sense of urgency. Just an attitude of belligerent scepticism when, sitting at the kitchen table, they took our statement.
“If these guys had had guns they would have shot you,” said the policeman, eliciting an outraged response from Sebastian, who must have been coming down from God knows what kind of adrenalin high. We handed round sweets and wondered why we had bothered to call the police at all. They showed no interest in fingerprints or how we were going to get through the night without a front gate, also destroyed, or door.
The police redeemed themselves the next day somewhat. A friendly policewoman in plain clothes arrived at 8am and heard our story. She said the men might have been a gang who had been arrested, and released, earlier this year. Their lawyer picked holes in the police investigation and got them off. She said we were obviously being targeted, perhaps because our low wall and absence of evident security measures made us the weakest link in the neighbourhood. And, yes, we could expect to be hit again.
During the day, another five police officers arrived. They included an extremely enthusiastic young female detective, the investigating officer. She was profusely apologetic about the behaviour of her colleagues the night before and furious that she had only just been informed about the case.
She sent someone to brush for fingerprints, but by that time locksmiths had left their own marks all over the place.
A mountain of paperwork has to be gone through, which would be bearable if one thought it was likely to come to anything. Alas, one does not. Despite truly professional, inspiring exceptions like the young detective and the regional commanding officer (“this would normally have ended very badly for you”), the overwhelming sense is of people going through the motions.
Some do so with good grace, some not. Few give the impression that they expect to put behind bars — or keep them there for any length of time — the people who are making life such a terrifying ordeal for so many.
So the only option is to fork out for higher walls, sharper spikes, heavier locks and more electric fencing than your neighbour.
And pray that your tormentors do not have ammunition.