The Keeper Read Online Free PDF Page A

‘He’s still at Riefaart’s. I think he’s too scared to go back to the quarters in case someone beats him up or the warders clap him in handcuffs.’
    ‘There’s logic in that,’ Hannes said non-committally.
    ‘I had a word with the sergeant.’ Len had been tentative. ‘I asked him if someone was going to lay a charge. He said the whole thing might be overlooked – usual prison fights and that sort of thing. Apparently they happen every day.’ He paused. ‘Except, of course, if the
kaffir
dies …’
    ‘Well I wouldn’t want old Misklip hauled away in chains.’
    ‘He bloody deserves it.’
    ‘And what do you deserve, Hendricks?’ Hannes said coolly. He turned back to his task.
    Later that day Hannes had gone down to speak to Misklip himself. He seemed shrunk against the corner of the room, his lower lip like a little jug spout, rather moist and tremulous, his old woollen cap crumpled on his head, the smell about him still so strong and boozy, Hannes had recoiled. ‘What have you been drinking, Misklip?’ he said.
    ‘Niks nie, kaptein.’
    ‘I think it’s methylated spirits, Misklip.’
    ‘
Nooit, kaptein
.’
    It was all that could come to the island legitimately and pass the embargo on drink. And yet, it smelled like brandy – that familiar old Friday-night stink, too close, too familiar to be forgotten. ‘
Brandewyn
, Misklip?’
    ‘
Nooit
,
kaptein
.’
    ‘I will have to write a report, Misklip,’ Hannes said. ‘You had better tell me the truth.’
    Misklip was silent.
    Hannes waited. Then he said, ‘Have you got a family, Misklip?’
    ‘
Nee, kaptein, net ’n stokou ma
.’ Just an ancient mother. ‘How can you get a family here?’ And he almost grinned, the little spout widening. He pinched it between thumb and forefinger.
    ‘Riefaart has a family on shore.’
    ‘He’s the headman,’ Misklip said, looking vacantly off into the far corner. Hannes caught his glance across the room.
    So piercing in its sorrow.
    Not the sorrow of the deed. Not even fear at what he’d done. Simply the burden of life – as if he couldn’t drag it around with him much longer.
    That truth and fact did not always converge, Hannes knew. His life, like Misklip’s, fed on ambiguity. And then there were the contradictions of this wretched little island with its rules and its divisions.
    –
Do not leave the light.
    –
Do not fall.
    –
Do not sail in August.
    –
Do not cross the line.
    –
Do not touch the shark hook.
    The ancient sailors in their caravels had called it Chaos Island with reason. And they had done it long before men came to build the light. In daring to colonise, had they put to flight some vengeful bird of prey? Some dark midnight petrel, some carrion-eating skua that had its lair among the rocks and had left its curse?
    Here were the penguins and the gannets, the rabbits and the lost, forlorn and vagrant pigeons, the sharks and seals.
    The guano workers and the keepers.
    Hannes was aware that Misklip was a victim of something quite beyond the solace of a drink.
    The drink bought his silence. For what or why, Hannes did not know. But it had happened suddenly. And the only change on the island in the last few weeks had been the arrival of Len Hendricks as relief when Cecil Beukes went on leave. He with his motoring magazines and his pin-up calendars and his pile of 78 records. He with his unpacked bag.
    A vagrant, too – always moving on.
    Hannes took Misklip back to his quarters with Riefaart’s orders to take the day to sleep it off. He left him at the door of his room, shabby as a burrow, only his musical instruments polished and set aside, each with its space on the top of three old tea chests. Hannes turned and took the track back to his side of the island, hearing his footfall on the shell-strewn path. He went through a side door into the empty living room. He stood at the window and looked out across the grey scree towards the bulk of the lighthouse. He glanced at the old