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Die Duiwel het geen Horings nie


Die lug was kil. Antieke boomstompe verskyn as gewoed grafstene wat hul kwaad uit die dik mis trek. Die omringende eike, dik en stewig, reik duisend hekse kloue uit na die dun waterige sonsopkoms wat deur die mis om die lewe geveg het.
 
•1•
The air was chill. Ancient tree stumps appeared as raged tombstones leering their evil out of the thick mist. The surrounding oaks, thick and sturdy, reached out a thousand witch-like claws towards the thin watery sunrise that fought for life through the fog.
 

Die jagter het gewag. Stilte. Die bonsende ritme van sy hart wat hard in sy eie ore lui, dring nie verder as die dik kamoefleerbaadjie wat sy onsigbaarheid bygedra het nie. Kooi! Kooi! Kraaie deurboor die stilte met bek en klap vleuels.
 
•2•
The hunter waited. Silence. The thumping rhythm of his heart that rang loud in his own ears did not penetrate beyond the thick camouflage jacket that added to his invisibility. Caw! Caw! Crows pierced the silence with beak and flapping wings.
 

Die weefsel van stilte wat nou gebreek is, het die jagter wakker gemaak vir sy doel. Daar verskyn 'n takbok, wat die natuurlike trekking ophardloop om te lyk asof dit 'n aankondiger van meer is. In die kader van die uitkyk staar die jagter 'n vlugtige oomblik na die jagter en vertrek, sy gesnork en die geluide van vlugtende hoewe dra by tot die mis.
 
•3•
The fabric of silence now broken awoke the hunter to his objective. A deer appeared, having run up the natural draw to appear as if a herald of more to come. In cameo outline, it stared at the hunter for a fleeting moment then left, its snorting and sounds of fleeing hooves adding to the mist.
 

Sy duim, gereed op die veiligheid van sy geweer, begin jeuk, maar hy durf nie beweeg nie - nog 'n geluid. 'N Toevallige, amper hipnotiese geritsel van bosbodemblare het sy aandag getrek. Luider nou. Was dit een of twee? Twee. Beslis twee. Die sagte kliek het gesien hoe die veiligheid vrygestel is. Stadig bring hy sy geweer gereed.
 
•4•
His thumb, resting ready on the safety of his rifle, began to itch yet he dared not move—another sound. A casual, almost hypnotic rustling of forest floor leaves gained his attention. Louder now. Was it one or two? Two. Definitely two. A gentle click witnessed the safety being released. Slowly he brought his rifle up to the ready.
 

'n Kreekbedding kronkel langs die oopte tussen die bome, nie tien meter van waar hy homself weggesteek het nie. Die vloei, maar 'n druppel met klein poele wat die dagbreeklig weerkaats soos 'n goedkoop verlate kinderketting. Die gedagte het sy maag geknoop en gal vrygestel wat geveg het om bitter vrylating so skerp soos sy woede te vind.
 
•5•
A creek bed meandered next to the clearing between the trees, not ten feet from where he had concealed himself. Its flow but a trickle with small pools that reflected the dawn light like a cheap abandoned child's necklace. The thought knotted his stomach, releasing bile that fought to find bitter release as sharp as his anger.
 

Twee wasbere, onbewus van die jagter, het langs die kreekbedding geloop en gedoen wat wasbere doen, vreesloos, wetende dat hulle goed toegerus was om hulself te verdedig.
Die jagter glimlag 'n ironiese glimlag en ontspan. Stil herstel hy die veiligheidsvanger.
 
•6•
Two raccoons, oblivious to the hunter, loped along the creek bed doing what raccoons do, fearless, knowing that they were well equipped to defend themselves.
The hunter smiled an ironic smile and relaxed. Silently he reset the safety catch.
 

Weereens maak die kraaie hul griezelige oproepe, nou dringender, harder.
 
•7•
Again the crows made their eerie calls, more urgent now, louder.
 

Die tronk het gestink, die vloer het gestank en die growwe kombers het gestank. Die polse van die gevangene het rooi velde gehad waar die boeie geskeur het. Sy oë hou steeds die oorskot van die foto-flitse vas, dit lyk asof dit reg in sy brein inbrand, en nog steeds vertroebel hy sy gesig.
 
•1•
The jail stank, the floor stank, and the rough blanket stank. The prisoner's wrists bore red welts where the handcuffs had chaffed. His eyes still held the vestige of the photo flashes the seemed to burn right into his brain, still clouding his vision.
 

Die sel het nog steeds gestank, asook sy huidige omstandighede. Sy gedagtes het met 'n geringe mate stilgestaan by die plesier van enkele ure vroeër. Dit was sy plesier, hy alleen, die dogtertjie net 'n speelding om mee te speel, om sy luste te versadig. Hy speel dit weer soos 'n film in sy gedagtes, weer en weer, herleef die opwinding, ignoreer die verskrikte uitroepe van die menslike pop waarmee hy gespeel het, geniet en weggegooi het. Sy spyt was min; net die verlies van sy hondjie, die instrument van verleiding wat hy telkens gebruik het. Hy dink meer aan daardie hondjie as aan enige ander lewende wese as homself.
 
•2•
The cell still stank, as did his current circumstance. His mind dwelled with no small measure on the pleasures of just hours earlier. They were his pleasures, his alone, the little girl just a toy to play with, to satiate his lusts. He replayed it all like a movie in his mind, again and again, reliving the thrill, ignoring the terrified cries of the human doll he'd played with, enjoyed, and discarded. His regrets were few; just the loss of his puppy, the tool of enticement he'd used time and again. He thought more of that puppy than any living creature other than himself.
 

Sy tweede spyt was om vasgevang te word. Dit was net slegte geluk, het hy vir homself gesê. As die swart plastieksak 'n bietjie sterker was, sou dit dalk anders gewees het. As die polisieman nie by daardie goedkoop klein dorpie-hotel stilgehou het om homself te verlos nie, sou hy steeds vry wees. Sy laaste spyt was die verlies van sy kamera met sy digitale bewyse van sy mees onlangse plesier. Daar is vier van hulle almal in die bos begrawe, behalwe hierdie laaste een. Hy glimlag die herinnering aan die speurder wat geweldig opgegooi het toe hy die foto's tydens die ondervraging bekyk het. Die gevangene het gedink dit is pragtige prentjies en kon nie die grynslag wat hom gekneusde ribbes en 'n geskree het, voorkom nie.
 
•3•
His second regret was getting caught. It was just bad luck, he told himself. If the black plastic bag had been a little stronger, it might have been different. If the cop had not stopped at that cheap small-town hotel to relieve himself, he'd still be free. His last regret was the loss of his camera with its digital evidence of his most recent pleasures. There were four of them all buried in the woods except this last one. He smirked at the memory of the detective vomiting violently when he viewed the pictures during the interrogation. The prisoner thought they were fine pictures and could not prevent the leering grin that earned him bruised ribs and a yelling.
 

Ja, hy wou 'n prokureur hê. Het hulle gedink hy is dom? Hy het vir hulle 'n nommer gegee om te skakel.
 
•4•
Yes, he wanted a lawyer. Did they think he was stupid? He gave them a number to call.
 

Daar was geen opstelling nie. Die feit was dat die gevangene betrap is deur die liggaam te stort. Die kind is kru toegedraai en agter in 'n bakkie gegooi. Aan die muur van die klein onderhoudskamer was daar 'n spieël. Hy het uit TV-polisieprogramme geweet dat dit eenrigtingglas was. Hy voel die haat aan wat van die ander kant af deurbrand, maar hy gee net nie om nie. Hy was veilig. Hy het sy regte geken ondanks sy gekneusde ribbes.
 
•5•
There was no line-up. The fact was, the prisoner had been caught in the act of dumping the body. The child was crudely wrapped and thrown in the back of a pick-up. On the wall of the small interview room, there was a mirror. He knew from TV cop shows that it was one-way-glass. He sensed the hate that burned through from the other side, but he just didn't care. He was safe. He knew his rights despite his bruised ribs.
 

Die sel het gestank. Die kombers het gestink. Van êrens in die polisiekantoor in die klein dorpie het die angstige gehuil van 'n man in totale wanhoop die mure deurboor, maar nie die siel van die gevangene nie. Miskien was dit sy vader. Hy gee nie om nie. Ten spyte van alles, het die gevangene die vreedsame slaap van die verdoemdes geslaap, wetende dat sy advokaat om half-half skerp sou wees soos maande tevore ingelig.
 
•6•
The cell stank. The blanket stank. From somewhere in the small-town police station, the anguished wailing of a man in total despair pierced the walls but not the prisoner's soul. Perhaps it was its father. He didn't care. Despite it all, the prisoner slept the peaceful sleep of the damned, knowing that his lawyer would be there at five-thirty sharp as briefed months before.
 

.
 
•7•
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Tosca, die klein Tosca wat genoem is ter ere van sy oorlede skoonmoeder, was sy enigste kind. Sy lieflike dogter was sy enigste lewende band tussen man en vrou, wat nou weg is. Hy het sy pragtige swanger vrou verlei om ver weg te gaan van die gevare van die stad na die veiligheid van die platteland. Hulle hoop was om hul kind in 'n idilliese omgewing aan die rand van 'n klein dorpie op te voed. Die heuwelagtige wildebome het so vreedsaam gelyk. Die skool was klein en uitnodigend, die dorpsvriendelik. Hy het nie verder gedink as die vrede en skoonheid van die plek nie. Dit was vyf en veertig kosbare minute na die naaste hospitaal. Daar verloor hy sy lieflike vrou aan die geskenk van die bevalling.
 
•1•
Tosca, little Tosca named in honor of his late mother-in-law, was his only child. His sweet daughter was his only living connection between husband and his wife, now gone. He'd enticed his beautiful pregnant wife to move far away from the perils of the city to the safety of the countryside. Their hope was to bring up their child in an idyllic setting on the edge of a small town. The hilly game-filled woodlands seemed so peaceful. The school was small and inviting, the townsfolk friendly. He had not thought beyond the peace and beauty of the location. It was forty-five precious minutes to the nearest hospital. It was there that he lost his sweet wife to the gift of childbirth.
 

Nou lê Tosca, haar lyfie koud en gebroke, daar naby op 'n bediende se blad. Nou was haar pa alleen, heeltemal, alleen. Tosca was weg.
 
•2•
Now Tosca, her little body cold and broken, lay nearby on a mortician's slab. Now her father was alone, totally, totally alone. Tosca was gone.
 

Dit was 'n moeilike nag van geskikte slaap terwyl die geheue oor en oor gespeel het.
 
•3•
It had been a rough night of fitful sleep as the memory played over and over.
 

Ja, hy wou 'n prokureur hê. Het hulle gedink hy is dom? Hy het vir hulle 'n nommer gegee om te skakel.
 
•4•
Yes, he wanted a lawyer. Did they think he was stupid? He gave them a number to call.
 

Hy het deur die eenrigtingglas na die bastaard gestaar. Die gevangene was 'n skurwe man met sy kenstoppels in die gesig. Sy vet vingers het dunner hare in twee horingagtige spykers laat lig terwyl hy sy voorkop in wellustige gedagtes ondersteun, nie berou nie.
 
•5•
He'd stared at the bastard through the one-way glass. The prisoner was a pudgy man, his chin-stubble staining his face. His fat fingers had raised thinning hair into two horn-like spikes while supporting his forehead in lust-filled thought, not remorse.
 

Slegs 'n vader van een wat so kosbaar was, kon voel soos hierdie vader gevoel het. Die beeld het gebrand. Dit het sy woede aangesteek om haat te rangskik. Hy het geweet dat sy gevoelens verkeerd was. Sy diepgaande Christelike oortuigings het dit vir hom gesê. Dit skeur hom uitmekaar. Sy haat vir die moordenaar was sekerlik geregverdig. Hy het die stad verlaat om sulke dinge te vermy. As hy 'n drinker was, was hy nou dronk. Sy trane het droog geword om deur pure woede vervang te word. Hy het geweet daar is geen troos in die bottel nie. Hy kon dit net vind in die eensaamheid van die bos, geweer in die hand en 'n gebed in sy hart. Die kort rit na sy gunsteling plek is onderbreek deur die nuus om 06:30 wat uit die motorradio geblaas het. Vir 'n vlugtige oomblik spoel 'n somber glimlag oor sy gesig. Hy het geweet wat hy moes doen as die geluk aan sy kant sou wees. Hy sou beslis geregverdig wees.
 
•6•
Only a father of one so precious could feel the way this father did. The image burned. It inflamed his anger to rank hatred. He knew that his feelings were wrong. His deep-seated Christian beliefs told him so. It tore him apart. Surely his hatred for the killer was justified. He'd left the city to avoid such as this. Had he been a drinker, he'd be drunk by now. His tears had dried to be replaced by pure anger. He knew there was no solace in the bottle. He could only find that in the solitude of the woods, rifle in hand and a prayer in his heart. The short drive to his favorite spot was interrupted by the 6:30 news that blared from the car radio. For a fleeting moment, a grim smile washed across his face. He knew what he must do if luck was to be on his side. Surely he would be justified.
 

Om vyf-en-half skerp kom 'n goed geklede man die klein polisiekantoor binne. Hy het 'n monogram-aktetas saamgedra en aangedring op sy kliënt. Die diensbeampte het dit vreemd vir 'n prokureur gevind om so vroeg te besoek, maar hy was amper aan die einde van sy skof, so wat het dit saak gemaak?
 
•1•
At five-thirty sharp, a well-dressed man entered the small police station. He carried a monogrammed briefcase and demanded to see his client. The duty officer thought it strange for an attorney to visit so early, but he was nearly at the end of his shift, so what did it matter?
 

'Ek wil graag my kliënt sien.' Dit was 'n stelling, nie 'n vraag nie, met 'n beswaarlike Russiese aksent. Die dienspligtige het geen name nodig gehad om te vra wie die kliënt was nie. Daardie nag was daar net een gevangene. Gewoonlik was dit net die stad wat dronk was, of 'n boemelaar van die straat af wat opgetel is vir slenter, niemand wat gewoonlik selfs 'n prokureur sou skakel nie. Dit was anders, maar die offisier was moeg.
 
•2•
"I'd like to see my client." It was a statement, not a question, given with a hardly detectable Russian accent. The duty officer needed no names to ask who the client was. That night there was only one prisoner. Usually, it was just the town drunk, or a bum off the street picked up for vagrancy, not anyone who would typically even call a lawyer. This was different, but the officer was tired.
 

Die beampte het die pad gevoer met sleutels in die hand. Hy is beloon met 'n vinnige hou in sy agterkop.
 
•3•
The officer led the way with keys in hand. He was rewarded with a swift blow to the back of his head.
 

Die advokaat haal die sleutels by die beampte wie se vlak asemhaling sê dat hy sal oorleef - miskien. Die 'advokaat' het al vantevore vermoor. Om 'n tronkstraf te reël was 'n bietjie duurder; nog geen punt om 'n horingsnes te roer deur 'n polisieman dood te maak nie. Dit was 'n maklike twintig grand met die helfte van die maand vooraf betaal, 'net in geval', het die vetterige vet man gesê, ''n houer.' Het hy gesê.
 
•4•
The lawyer retrieved the keys from the officer whose shallow breathing said he'd survive – maybe. The "lawyer" had killed before. To arrange a jailbreak was a little more expensive; still no point in stirring a hornet's nest by killing a cop. It was an easy twenty grand with half paid in advance months ago, "Just in case," the greasy fat man had said, "A retainer." He'd said.
 

Onder die geluid van 'n lyk wat op die vloer tref, spring die gevangene, nog in sy straatklere, van die stinkende kombers op en grynsend van tevredenheid oor die versiendheid en wysheid van sy klein reëling. Met 'n gerammel van sleutels swaai die deur oop.
 
•5•
At the noise of a body hitting the floor, the prisoner, still in his street clothes, leaped up off the smelly blanket, grinning with satisfaction at the foresight and wisdom of his little arrangement. With a rattle of keys, the door swung open.
 

"Kom, wees vinnig." Verhoog deur spanning, was die aksent nou net 'n bietjie dikker toe die Rus die pad terug in die gang verby die liggaam van die offisier loop.
 
•6•
"Come on, be quick." Boosted by stress, the accent was now just a little thicker as the Russian led the way back down the passage past the officer's body.
 

Rustig en stil reik die gevangene uit en haal die offisier se wapen, lig dit op en skiet die Rus in die agterkop.
 
•7•
Calmly and quietly, the prisoner reached down and retrieved the officer's weapon, raised it, and shot the Russian in the back of the head.
 

'Daar is jou betaling, dwaas.'
 
•8•
"There's your payment, fool."
 

Hy kon vinnig hardloop vir 'n vet man, maar dit het hom laat hyg. Hy hardloop na die naaste motor. Dit was gesluit. Hy het nooit gedink dat hy 'n motor sou hoef te steel nie. Hy het sy tyd bestee aan aangenamer dinge - weer versprei die leer oor sy gesig. Dawn begin breek. Deur die vroeë oggendmis kon hy sien dat dit net 'n paar honderd meter na die bos was wat aan hierdie klein plattelandse dorpie grens. So hardloop hy.
 
•9•
He could run fast for a fat man, but it made him pant. He ran to the nearest car. It was locked. He'd never imagined he'd need to steal a car. He'd spent his time doing more pleasurable things—again the leer spread across his face. Dawn was beginning to break. Through the early morning mist, he could see it was only a couple of hundred yards to the woods that bordered this small country town. So he ran.
 

Omdat hy ongeskik en van die stad was, het hy die minste weerstand gevolg, in die hoop om diep in die bosse in te kom voor die tint en huil. 'n Hert wat deur die geraas gespook is, loop dieper die bos in. Die ontsnapte volg en hyg hy hard na die poging.
 
•10•
Being unfit and from the city, he took the path of least resistance, hoping to get deep into the woods before the hue and cry. A deer, spooked by the noise, ran deeper into the woods. The escapee followed, panting loudly at the effort.
 

Daar klink 'n verre sirene, dan nog een. Vinniger. Die ontsnapte sou nooit gevang word nie, daaroor was hy vasbeslote. Die wildspoor het hoër gelei. Hy het nou 'n kilometer, twee, gereis. Miskien is die mis wat die bome omhul, 'n goeie bedekking, dink hy.
 
•11•
A distant siren sounded, then another. Faster. The escapee would never be caught, of that he was determined. The game trail led higher. He'd now traveled a mile, two. Perhaps, the mist that shrouded the trees was good cover, he thought.
 

Hulle het sy horlosie weggeneem, maar hy reken hy was nou al twee uur aan die vlug. Die mis verdik, sy soppige dikte demp die geluid en demp die blare onder die voete. Slegs die skielike geluide van kraaie breek deur die vinnige stamp-stamp-stamp in sy bors. Sy asemhaling word 'n diep, desperate rasp.
 
•12•
They'd taken his watch away, but he reckoned he'd been on the run now for two hours. The mist thickened, its soupy thickness dampening the sound, dampening the leaves underfoot. Only the sudden sounds of crows broke through the quickening thump-thump-thump in his chest. His breathing became a deep, desperate rasp.
 

Weer roep die kraaie. Dit lyk asof hulle die oortreder se naam noem. 'n Geluid wat hy nie herken het nie, het hom laat vries en in paniek rondgekyk. 'n Kraai swiep laag deur die bome; sy begrafnis-swart vlerke vul die lug met voorgevoelens. Die geluid van lopende voete huur die lug. Was agtervolgers naby? Vinniger, hy moet vinniger hardloop; of was die geluid maar net sy hart? Klop, klop, klop.
 
•13•
Again the crows called out. They seemed to call the perpetrator's name. A sound he didn't recognize made him freeze and look around in panic. A crow swooped low through the trees; its undertaker-black wings filled the air with foreboding. The sound of running feet rent the air. Were pursuers close? Faster, he must run faster; or was the sound just his racing heart? Thump, thump, thump.
 

Die grond gelyk uit. Hy het opgehou snak na sy asem en leun teen 'n boom.
 
•14•
The ground leveled out. He stopped gasping for breath and leaned against a tree.
 

Oorkant die klein oopte staan die jagter ongesiens. Hy het die weë van die bos verstaan. Hy het verstaan dat die gejagde die weg neem van die minste weerstand. Alhoewel hy net drie of so myl van die stad af was, het hy hier in die seisoen baie diere doodgemaak. Moes hierdie dag anders wees?
 
•1•
Across the small clearing, the hunter stood unseen. He understood the ways of the woods. He understood that the hunted take the path of least resistance. Though only three or so miles from town, it was here that he'd killed many a deer in season. Was this day to be any different?
 

Sy gedagtes was as 't ware besmet deur die newels van sy eie rou en vertroebel deur die woede wat net 'n vader van 'n verkragte dooie kind kon voel. Wat die absolute werklikheid was, was die bevredigende gevoel van die koue staal-sneller wat jeuk om getrek te word. Hy het gehoop om te trek.
 
•2•
His mind, as it were, was infected by the mists of his own mourning and clouded by the rage that only a father of a raped dead child could feel. What was absolute reality was the satisfying feeling of the cold steel trigger that itched to be pulled. He hoped to pull.
 

Stilte. Dan geraas, rasperend en dringend.
 
•3•
Silence. Then noise, rasping and urgent.
 

Net soos die takbokke verskyn het, was daar nou 'n man aan die oorkant van die oopte, een wat hy vinnig herken het, puddig en hygend. Dit was nou die oomblik! Dit sou 'n maklike kans wees. Kop, bors of ingewande kon hy nie besluit nie. Vinnig of die vark laat ly?
 
•4•
Much as the deer had appeared, there was now across the clearing a man, one he quickly recognized, pudgy and panting hard. Now was the moment! It would be an easy shot. Head, chest, or gut, he could not decide. Quick or make the pig suffer?
 

Asof in smeekgebed die kindermoordenaar skielik op sy knieë sak, hande oor sy bors, kop gebuig. Met 'n onaardse geskree van angs val hy terug, sy oë staar soos die hel in, liggaam ruk, hulpeloos.
 
•5•
As if in pleading prayer, the child killer suddenly sank to his knees, hands over his chest, head bowed. With an unearthly scream of agony, he fell back, his eyes staring as into hell, body twitching, helpless.
 

Met 'n ongevuurde geweer gereed, steek die jagter die oopte oor en staar na die moordenaar van sy kind.
 
•6•
With an unfired rifle at the ready, the hunter crossed the clearing and stared at the killer of his child.
 

Die jagter voel niks vir die moordenaar nie, geen jammerte, geen vreugde of die wraakbevrediging nie, en draai weg. Dit lyk asof 'n wind sag en sag deur die bos weerklink en fluister: 'Die wraak is myne.' Die jagter, nou vreemd getroos, kyk nie terug nie. Hy het nie kraaie gesien nie, maar weer kraaie gehoor en hierdie keer gevra dat geregtigheid sal geskied soos hulle op die steeds lewende liggaam afgekom het.
 
•7•
Feeling nothing for the killer, no pity, no joy, nor the satisfaction of revenge, the hunter turned and walked away. A wind soft and gentle seemed to echo through the woods, whispering, "Vengeance is mine." The hunter, now strangely comforted, didn't glance back. He did not see but again heard crows, this time calling that justice would be served as they alighted on the still-living body.