CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Never violate a woman, nor harm a child. Do not lie, cheat or steal. These things are for lesser men. Protect the weak against the evil strong. And never allow thoughts of gain to lead you into the pursuit of evil.” David Gemmell.
Field Training - Day Two
“Any November Whisky vehicle for an Five Alpha in Orange Grove come in for Control?” asked Lisa.
Unsurprisingly none of the six November Whisky units booked on duty responded to the call to attend a scene of Domestic Violence in Progress.
“Any November Whisky vehicle for an Five Alpha in Orange Grove please come in for Control.”
“She knows that we are on duty Mike, she knows that you are on duty Mike, even if we haven’t booked on air yet” said Stanislov.
“Yeah I know and her voice is already making me feel guilty. We talk about it often but she just doesn’t understand what it’s like getting in the middle of someone else’s domestic dispute and private lives. No civvies will ever understand.”
“And it’s not just us South African cops” said Stanislov, “who don’t like responding to Domestics. I was reading in the I.P.A’s (International Police Association) private forum online that cops all around the world hate responding to them.”
“Yah, now imagine that and put an African twist on top of it!” said Shaka.
“Any November Whisky vehicle for an Five Alpha, Orange Grove, come in for Control.”
“You might as well answer Mike. She knows you are listening and if you don’t you will have your own Domestic to deal with later” said Shaka.
Stanislov and Shaka laughed. Dlamini was about to start laughing but thought better of it when he saw his Sergeant looking back at him in the side mirror of November Whisky 50.
“She’ll nominate us on the next call anyway, watch” said Night.
A couple of minutes passed. Radio silence. Then: “November Whisky 50 come in for Control.”
“Ah well gents here we go, into the breach once more.” Sergeant Michael Night picked up the vehicle’s radio mike and keyed it. “SEND! for November Whisky Five Zero Control!”
“Thank you November Whisky Five Zero. Did you not hear me calling for any Norwood vehicle to respond to a complaint of Domestic Violence?”
“I did Control but we are a reaction vehicle – we respond to Alpha calls, only. We are not a complaints vehicle. Perhaps you should assign this call to a Charge Office vehicle.”
“This is an Alpha call Sergeant Night and your assistance is needed. And if you give me any more backchat over the radio I will make an official complaint of my own.”
Night was silent.
“She’s right you know” said Stanislov to Dlamini “We are duty bound as police officers to respond and to not question our radio Controller.”
“Sho! but she’s hard hey. I bet she’s built like an ox. But her voice sounds so nice hey” said Dlamini.
“Not like an ox at all. She’s very beautiful in fact and the best damn radio Controller in Johannesburg. We are lucky to have her on our channel and Mike knows it. I think he just likes testing her authority, you know, showing her he’s still the boss.”
Night cut in: “You know I can hear you two ladies skinnering (South African slang for gossiping) in the back there. Zulu my friend let’s point the Beast in the direction of Orange Grove. Okay Control give us the details and we will respond for you, this time.”
“Thank you November Whisky 50, how decent of you. I have a complaint on my screen for a Domestic Violence in Orange Grove at 36 Louis Botha Avenue in the apartment building of Good Hope, flat 26. Apparently a man is beating his pregnant wife with a sjambok (heavy leather whip). Please respond.”
“Roger that Control we are en route, ETA four mikes.”
“Thank you November Whisky 50.”
“Control, Yankee Nine permission with November Whisky 50.”
“Permission granted Yankee Nine. Go ahead.”
“Thanks Control. November Whisky 50 come for Yankee Nine.”
“Send Snyman!”
“Night, how are you my friend?”
“Good. How are you Sergeant? Hope Flying Squad is okay after you lost your boy last week.”
“Ja boet we are fine. We continue to fly. Let us know how that Domestic turns out and we will provide you with back up if needed. I have been posted to your area again. Lots of action here.”
“How many vehicles with you?”
“Just mine. But I am with my crew this time, Demon and Putter.”
“I want to talk to you so let’s meet up anyway.”
“Roger that. We will head towards the Five alpha.”
“Copied.”
“Thanks for permission Control.”
“That’s a pleasure Yankee Nine but before you go aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Ah… negative Control I don’t think so.”
“I heard you tell November Whisky 50 that you are working in the Norwood area today. So where is my Zero One then Sergeant?”
“I have already booked on with my Control, Control. On channel 23 – the Flying Squad channel.”
“Good. But I will need your Zero One if I am to give you Alpha calls and if I am to receive your Zero Eights (report back) on those calls. Please proceed Sergeant Snyman.”
“Haha, your woman doesn’t take shit hey Mike!” said Constable Shaka.
Flying Squad vehicle Yankee Nine duly proceeded to book on duty with the sharp channel 26 Controller and November Whisky 50 headed to the place of Domestic Violence.
Night and his crew well knew the Orange Grove residential apartment building on busy Louis Botha Avenue, called the Good Hope. They had responded to calls for assistance to the address many times before. Night always thought a more appropriate name would have been the “No Hope Motel” as the people who lived there seldom stayed there for longer than a few weeks or months at a time and the building was dominated by illegal immigrants from across Africa and mainly Zimbabwe.
November Whisky 50 arrived at 136 Louis Botha Avenue a few minutes later. Constable Shaka mounted the pavement with the large double cab police vehicle outside the big, ugly, grey building. The arrival of a marked police vehicle sent a number of the young men in and around the structure running.
“Why are they running?” inquired Student Constable Dlamini.
“They’re illegals and they think we are raiding. They’ll return once they realise we aren’t on a special” said Constable Shaka.
A “special” was a Special Operation conducted by the South African Police Force about once a month, that involved the deployment of a large police contingent, often bringing officers from other stations and jurisdictions to a specific area to combat a particular crime or make a large amount of arrests – usually B Category, misdemeanour detentions. The amount of illegal foreigners in the country meant that more and more often these Special Operations would include civilian officials from the Government’s Home Affairs Department to help process the high numbers of illegals arrested. Large prisoner trucks were brought in to transport the detainees, commonly referred to as “Gumbas”. On the last special operation in Norwood the South African Police Force had arrested over 300 illegal immigrants who would have to be repatriated to their home countries. The joke of it would be that nearly every single one of the unauthorised and arrested pilgrims would be back in Johannesburg within seven days. And the policemen making the futile arrests knew it. South Africa’s borders are incredibly porous and where there is a semblance of border Control corruption is rife.
The Black Bastards entered the “No Hope Motel” via a broken glass front door and security gate. A sleeping security guard lay on the floor under his desk. They were greeted by the familiar sounds of despair. People were being sick in their rooms. Prostitutes were loudly giving their clients pleasure and a woman could be heard crying out in pain. Constable Shaka woke the sleeping guard with a sharp kick to the ribs.
“Brother, where is flat 136?”
demanded Shaka.
The guard opened one eye, looked directly at the Constable, gave him the loud African click of the tongue displaying great displeasure and then rolled over and went back to sleep pulling his trench coat over his head to shield him from the annoying police officers. Bad move. The colossal Zulu was most displeased with this explicit display of disrespect. He leaned over the foul smelling excuse for a security guard and grabbed hold of both feet with just one of his mighty mitts. He raised him into the air and the guard began to swear in anger. As the male’s head reached an appropriate height Constable Shaka gave him an almighty clout – the sound of the slap reverberated around the old building. The occupants of the rooms became quiet. They were familiar with the sound of a South African policeman’s PK or PoesKlap (similar to a bitch slap but delivered for the specific purpose of gaining a person’s attention or dishing out some African street punishment.) Shaka’s PoesKlaps were legendary and he always knew the right amount of force to deliver to gain the desired reaction from the slappee. The guard stopped swearing, tears welled in his now wide open eyes, and immediately he became acquiescent, even offering to walk the officers to the door of flat 136. Constable Shaka carefully placed the guard back on his feet in one impressive manoeuvre – He held the man’s neck in place with his slapping hand and used his other to twist the man upright. The sleeping sentry then explained that they would have to walk up to the tenth floor where flat 136 was as the lifts were broken. Upon hearing the news of the great trek Constable Shaka volunteered to guard the entrance in case the suspect made a run for it. Constable Stanislov seconded the motion and stayed behind with his Zulu brother. Night and Dlamini followed the now placid watchman and made their way up the stairs.
Five long and perspiring minutes later and they reached the door to room 136. It was open. They entered to find that the already small apartment had been sectioned off into even smaller subdivisions by way of once white curtains that were now a stained yellow tied to pieces of string fixed to the roof. The room reeked of human sweat, faeces and urine. As Night moved in he was greeted by friendly enough faces and by people who he figured were just trying to stay alive and provide themselves with shelter. They kindly greeted the officers with wide smiles but all of the residents of room 136 pointed to the very back of the room. Gesturing in a way that could only mean, “you are needed there, be careful.”
Night reckoned that there were over 15 people living in the flat perhaps designed for a small family. After walking through four different room divisions Night and Dlamini found why they had been called to this address. A heavily pregnant woman in her early twenties sat on a high bed that rested on bricks. She wore only a light sleeping blouse and she was covered in specks of blood from head to toe. Although her injuries didn’t immediately look life threatening, Night was concerned for the unborn. She was crying quietly and had the look of a woman who truly had no hope, her head down and her hands lying loosely by her side. Night looked at the man sitting next to her. He was very dark, small and wiry. His body was covered in prison tattoos and he wore only a pair of red boxer shorts which helped Night instantaneously identify that he wasn’t carrying a weapon.
The man looked like a son of evil itself. He had curly patches of unwashed string hair on a mainly bald head and a thin moustache. His eyes were thin slits of hatred. His mouth slightly curled at either side. Night immediately knew there would be no negotiation with this entity and pulled out his handcuffs. Dlamini had a similar brain wave and produced his PR24 Tonfa from his duty belt. As Dlamini moved in the man stirred. He jumped off the bed and charged straight at the young Student Constable. Dlamini, caught by surprise, swung at the wife-beater but the small man ducked under the blow and was heading out of the room at pace.
“Shit that thing is fast!” said Dlamini. “What should we do boss?”
“You chase, I will arrange an ambulance, the boys will block him downstairs. Be careful Steven and use your Tonfa. If you lose it or he takes it from you use your Nine mill. That guy is dangerous. Go!”
The strong and confident Dlamini was off. He was quick and fit, Night couldn’t think of a better policeman to make chase. Though he knew the man would not be caught by Steven; he was too fast, too desperate, too used to running from the law and probably high on Mandrax, dagga and alcohol – a lethal mix.
“Don’t worry sweetheart. You are safe now. We will look after you and I will arrange for an ambulance.” Night placed his hand on the woman’s shoulder and reassuringly held her. She didn’t move or say a word. Other people from room 136 started to come through to the compartment and Night urged them to show her tenderness and look after the abused woman until the ambulance arrived.
“Control November Whisky 50, permission. Urgent.”
“Permission granted, go ahead.”
“November Whisky Delta Sierra, come in.”
“Send for me Mike!” said Daniel Shaka
“I have a Bravo Mike suspect probably heading your way. Dlamini is on foot and in pursuit. The suspect is naked except for a pair of red boxer shorts. He has prison tattoos and seems highly motivated to evade arrest.”
“Roger that. We’re ready!”
“Student Constable Dlamini come in for me.”
A few seconds passed and an out of breath Dlamini fumbled his radio on. “Ja boss I am behind this little fucker. We are heading down the stairs… He’s going for the exit. Tell the big tree to be ready to smash this shit as I don’t think I can catch it.” The sound of heavy running footsteps could be heard in the background of Dlamini’s radio transmission.
“Roger that Steven. Keep me posted gentlemen. Control, come in for me.”
“Send your message November Whisky 50.”
“Thank you Control. Five Alpha is positive. I have one injured Foxtrot and I need an ambulance asap. The woman is pregnant and the baby may be hurt. Please also get in touch with Monica from the Women’s Assistance Group (WAG) and ask her to call me. She has my number and I will explain everything.”
“Roger that November Whisky 50. Do you need anything else?”
“Negative Control. I will get the woman treated and then to a place of safety and then I will complete the necessary paper work and open the appropriate case docket. I will give you a full Zero Eight in a couple of hours Control.”
“Roger that November Whisky 50. Thank you.”
Constable Shaka had just finished speaking on the radio when he heard the footsteps of the running men coming down the ten flights of stairs. Stanislov took a seat next to the security guard who was standing by his desk like an automaton. Stanislov wondered if Shaka’s PK had left any permanent damage. He thought he would speak to the guard and gauge the level of brain damage.
“Watch this, my sleep deprived friend. In the years that I have worked with the great Zulu over here a suspect has never made it past him in a bid to escape arrest.” Stanislov folded his arms holding his assault rifle with his right hand across his chest and grinned in great delight for what he was about to witness.
To Stanislov’s surprise the security guard who had since introduced himself as Happy said something in perfect, crisp English.
“I have no doubt that no man has ever avoided capture by this huge police officer who stands before me. He truly is a magnificent sight and a great beast.”
Constable Shaka who had positioned his massive frame squarely in front of the building exit looked across at Stanislov in disbelief at what he had just heard. Stanislov was just as astounded by Happy’s perfectly delivered words and his mouth was left open while staring back at his partner.
The moment of amazement was crudely interrupted by the escaping suspect and the in pursuit Steven Dlamini. The red boxer-wearing little suspect sped past the security desk and the sitting Stanislov.
Shaka balanced himself, held out his huge right hand and boomed at Little Red Boxer shorts: “STOP!”
The little man, still running, smiled a disturbing smile, put his head down, and
shoulder charged the human blockade. The two men came together violently and, as one, were thrust through the glass front entrance of the Good Hope building. Almost instantly the Little Red Boxer shorts was on his feet again and running down Louis Botha Avenue in busy traffic. Dlamini came bursting through the shattered door and was once again behind the escaping suspect. Stanislov came through the entrance a few seconds later and was stunned at what he had just seen – a six foot six giant bowled over by a skinny little woman-beating low life who stood no taller than five foot five.
Shaka shakily got to his feet.
“That thing is possessed. No man can do that to me!”
Without thinking clearly the colossal policeman started to give chase on foot after Little Red Boxer shorts.
“Zulu, Beast! Let’s get in the Beast!” said Stanislov.
Without stopping Constable Shaka looped his run and jumped into November Whisky 50 parked on the pavement through the driver’s side, Constable Stanislov got in via the passenger door. As they did they noticed Yankee Nine drive past them after the suspect, lights and sirens blazing. Yankee Nine had heard the radio conversation about the escaping suspect and had seen Little Red Boxer shorts burst through the door using their large colleague as a human battering ram.
Yankee Nine made quick time in catching up to the suspect, first they passed the pursuing Dlamini and then came level with Little Red Boxer shorts. The driver, Sergeant Snyman, pulled the police vehicle equal with the galloping Little Red Boxer shorts and matched his speed. His crew, Constable Naidoo, known as “Demon” opened his window and raised his 12 gauge shotgun at the suspect. He took aim and let off one round at Little Red Boxer shorts’ legs. Nothing happened. Demon raised his pump action a little higher and let off two more rounds, this time into the man’s torso. The desired reaction occurred. The suspect stumbled and fell hard onto the pavement, tumbling to a stop. Dlamini quickly made up the ground and caught up to Little Red Boxer shorts who, astonishingly, was getting back on to his feet. The rubber rounds from Constable Naidoo’s shotgun would have put most men in hospital from the range they were delivered but Little Red Boxer shorts seemed only momentarily halted.
Student Constable Dlamini grabbed the suspect’s hands as he stumbled to his feet and ordered him to be still. The suspect raised his head and looked at Dlamini. A demonic gaze penetrated Dlamini’s soul and for the first time in Steven Dlamini’s life he was genuinely frightened. Luckily for the Student, Yankee Nine had stopped their vehicle and before Dlamini could shout out for help, which he desperately wanted to do but instinctively knew that he shouldn’t, his brother in blue, his very own Demon, arrived and landed a powerful blow to the suspect’s jaw, breaking it instantly, knocking Little Red Boxer shorts out cold.
Steven Dlamini’s gaze now went from the possessed criminal to his fellow police officer and quickly realised, perhaps, why Constable Naidoo had his nickname.
Constable Mark Naidoo was a strong Indian man, very dark skinned and had the typical policeman’s haircut, shaved to zero back and sides and very short on top. His head was thick, large and perfectly square and he seemed to have no neck. His head simply grew from his massive broad shoulders that were atop abnormally huge Latissimus Dorsi. His gargantuan arms hung from either side of his broad shoulders like pythons waiting to strike. Constable Naidoo wasn’t a particularly tall or short man, standing at five foot eight inches but was quite simply built like a brick shithouse on roids. And steroids he was most certainly taking. His tank like figure combined with his violent approach to policing in crime ridden South Africa had earned him the dark nickname. As well as the most cases of assault ever laid against a South African policeman in South African history.
“Thanks but I didn’t need your help! I had him under Control” lied Dlamini.
“Ja right China, you were shitting yourself boet!” replied Constable Naidoo “And if Zulu couldn’t stop this little fucker you sure couldn’t. Now handcuff him for me shark, he’s my arrest.” Constable Naidoo took out a pair of heavy metal handcuffs from his duty belt and threw them onto the motionless body of Little Red Boxer shorts and walked away.
November Whisky 50 arrived and Constables Shaka and Stanislov got out of the Beast and greeted their Flying Squad brothers. Constable Naidoo was grinning broadly at Constable Shaka.
“How much did you see?” demanded Constable Shaka.
“Everything” laughed Constable Naidoo.
“Ja well, I wasn’t expecting it. He caught me by surprise. And he’s on drugs and probably possessed by evil spirits” said a genuinely believing and somewhat embarrassed Constable Shaka.
“He went down when I got involved. Perhaps you’re just getting old, hey boss!” said Naidoo.
Night arranged for Monica from the Women’s Assistance Group to meet the battered wife at the Johannesburg Baragwanath hospital where the ambulance crew were going to take her. The paramedics report after initially examining the woman was positive. They didn’t believe she had suffered any serious or life threatening injuries to her or to her unborn child. It transpired that the reason the husband had started beating his wife was because she had refused to have intercourse with him while she was heavily pregnant.
When the woman was placed into the ambulance and she was about to be taken away she called for Sergeant Night to come close to her. As Sergeant Night leaned in to hear what he thought was going to be a weak whisper the woman spat in his face and swore at him loudly for arresting her husband. She even threw in a swift kick to Night’s left shin for good measure.
Yankee Nine had arrested Little Red Boxer shorts and were going to book him in at Norwood police station. Night didn’t get the opportunity to speak to Snyman. Demon had promised to “discipline” and “educate” the possessed little man once back in the Norwood holding cells – not for the crime he had committed but for running away from the police. An African policeman’s mind works like this: he will not judge or condemn a man for a sin he may have committed whether the policeman knows for a fact he did or not; no matter how gruesome or twisted the crime may have been, it is not a policeman’s job to judge or determine punishment, it’s purely his duty to bring the suspect to a court of law to face a Magistrate or Judge.
But if a suspect runs, resists arrest or fights then he will be punished. Jungle Justice is what it’s called and Sergeant Night had witnessed two men lose their lives to bouts of Jungle Justice dished out by members of the South African Police Force. He strongly disapproved of the practice and realised it only brought about more hatred for the police, more lawlessness and more violence.
Jungle Justice was an everyday reality on the streets of South Africa but for the most part the Black Bastards didn’t get involved in street punishments or kangaroo courts.