I Have Life, page 8
She turned the page slowly.
And then I saw him.
Towards the bottom of the page, Frans stared out at me. I felt a jolt as my eyes met his staring out of the photograph. It was almost as if his picture was in colour or had a different background. But it was black and white and the same size as all the others. His hair was longer, but it was him. I sighed with relief.
‘That’s him,’ I said to Nadia. ‘There, near the bottom of the page.’
She did a little jig.
‘I knew it,’ she said excitedly.
I didn’t understand what she meant, but surmised that he had had a brush with the police before.
They left almost immediately, telling me they would be back later to take a statement.
Around 3 p.m. the district surgeon arrived. He needed to do a vaginal swab and a smear for the police forensic tests. It didn’t matter much to me at that stage. I didn’t find it uncomfortable because the overall pain was so bad I could barely feel what he was doing.
Later Tiaan stopped by again with a tiny cactus. He was on his way back to Kempton Park. He said he was reluctant to leave, but felt better about it now that I had pulled through and was surrounded by so many people who loved me.
He placed the little plant on the stainless steel cabinet next to me and squeezed my hand before saying goodbye.
‘You’re the bravest person I have ever met,’ was the message he. had written inside the card he left behind.
I knew I would see him again.
That night more visitors arrived. My boss, Ettienne, an insurance broker, came. He was very concerned and angry about what had happened. He had heard a news bulletin about the attack and the rape and was worried that the men would hear it and know that I had survived. He wanted to station himself at the hospital door and protect me should they decide to return and finish me off.
On the Monday morning another policeman strode into the room. He looked like the quintessential cop, thickset, with a broad Eastern Cape accent. He introduced himself as Melvin Humpel and said he would be heading the investigation. I didn’t quite know what to make of him at that stage, but I was reassured by his confident manner. He was also extremely polite and gentle.
‘We’ve got them and we’ve found your car. They’re in custody now for questioning. Don’t worry, they won’t get bail,’ he said.
Triumph and relief. Apparently both Frans and Theuns were already out on bail for two other rape charges. Now they were finally behind bars.
My mom arrived and told me that the press were hounding her. She had taken endless calls from reporters from all over the country who had wanted to interview her or me.
I wanted to talk, I had nothing to hide, but at that stage I was too tired and too sore to think of speaking to the press. I would deal with it all later. I needed to rest more than anything else.
I was kept in High Care for eight days. Between the visits, the sleeping, the nausea and the pain, I began to think about what had happened.
The first thing I needed to come to terms with was that Frans and Theuns had actually tried to kill me. I could not compute it. How? How could two human beings do this to another? And so callously. Why did they want to take my life? I could find no answer. At that time the rape was a secondary issue compared with the attack.
I was comforted so often by the tremendous goodness that surrounded me in High Care. The staff were exemplary and everyone went out of their way to do things for me, even though I tried to be as little trouble as possible. A physiotherapist visited me and taught me how to get rid of the phlegm that collected in my chest. My stomach was too sore and weak to cough.
Once while Kim was visiting, I began to choke. A nurse rushed over and it seemed as though she was lunging at my bloated stomach. I let out a penetrating scream. Even the blanket seemed like a heavy weight on the wound and I couldn’t imagine anyone touching me there.
The nurse was clearly irritated with me and said that I was emotional because I was receiving too many visitors. That one admonishment really threw me. I realised how fragile I was. I knew she was probably right, but I was stung by her remark. I wanted to sob, but I couldn’t. It would have been too painful.
There were lots of moments like that in High Care, when the pain in my body and the fact that I couldn’t do simple things like cough, laugh or sob, scared me and made me feel vulnerable.
Sometimes the nurses would tell me that I had cried out, mumbled in my sleep or had had a restless night. I didn’t realise they were watching me that closely, but it was comforting to know that they were.
There were still stories in the paper every day. One report claimed that Frans and Theuns had been threatened by a bystander when they appeared in the magistrate’s court. The journalist had described them as looking ‘dishevelled’. Frans was dressed entirely in black and had seemed ‘terrified’ when the member of the public shouted at them as they were led back to the cells. Actually many of those members of the public were my friends, my boss and former boyfriends.
I wondered what Frans and Theuns thought about it all.
The regular visitors kept my mind off things. That, and the excruciating, mind-blowing pain, even though my wounds seemed to be healing well at that stage.
I dreaded the early morning washes when the nurses had to turn me over in the bed. The pain was more than overwhelming. It was agonising. I tried to make the best of it. At least I could look at the flowers as they heaved me over and my head faced the window sill where they perched. I hung on long enough, knowing they’d soon be finished. The flowers always looked so wonderful.
Every day the nurses or Dr Angelov or Dr Comyn would check up on me. Dressings were changed, pipes were removed, new dressings were applied.
I was getting to know the doctors and the hospital staff so well now that they almost felt like new family.
Four days after the attack I sat up in bed and the new perspective was refreshing even if it meant more pain.
A few days before Christmas I got up out of bed for the first time. I had been flat on my back until then and it took ages before I actually managed to lift myself slowly up out of the bed. I felt faint as my feet touched the floor.
I looked down and was quite startled to see them. They didn’t look as though they belonged to me. They seemed smaller somehow.
The sensation of touching the floor was also strange. Nothing felt familiar to me. My body seemed not to be my own any more.
I had to prop myself up against the bed for a few minutes as the blood rushed to my abdomen. My neck ached even when I did not move it. Eventually I manoeuvred myself, like an old person, into a chair.
I clutched a towel to my abdomen for security more than anything else. The wound felt as though it might burst open at any time. The doctors had told me that it was quite a common feeling after one’s intestines had been ‘handled’. It was extremely uncomfortable sitting up, but I didn’t mind. I could see the world around me and not just stare up at the ceiling.
The next day I got up again and was determined to walk a few steps even if it was just to the door. I plodded across the ward like some ancient, tired person. I managed to peek around the door and look down the corridor, much to the surprise of some of my friends.
Eventually, I managed to shuffle down the corridor to the loo all by myself. I felt triumphant. It was the breakthrough I had been waiting for. Soon I would be moved to a general ward.
On Christmas Day, Kim and her two sons brought a small tree and decorated it with little shiny ornaments. They were all so excited and it warmed my heart.
Mom and Dad popped in and so did my boss Ettienne and his wife Hanlie. It was the first time Hanlie had come to see me. I think she had been too traumatised before that. She sat down on one of the chairs and the first thing she said was ‘But look at your knees, they’re all cut up and terrible.’ I hadn’t had the opportunity to examine my knees and it seemed funny that they would concern her when my other injuries were so much more severe. We chuckled together about it.
Although everyone who visited that day made me feel so loved and special, I felt lonely. Sad and lonely. As each one left to join their loved ones for Christmas dinner I too longed to be with my family.
My treat for the day was fish soup which I had for lunch and dinner. It was the first ‘solid’ I had been allowed to eat and after a few spoonfuls I felt full. Still, it was the best thing I had tasted in a long while. I had this craving for some custard and had mentioned it to someone. Soon everyone arrived with bowls or cartons of the stuff.
The next day I was moved from High Care to M3, a general ward. One step closer to the exit, I thought. By now I regularly took myself off to the toilet on my own. It was so liberating to be mobile, even if I did hobble along trailing a drip. I felt I was gaining back more control.
My room filled up with flowers and cards again. There were so many bouquets and baskets the nurses had to wheel in a multi-tiered trolley to accommodate them all. I couldn’t keep them all, so each time someone visited I asked them to take a bunch home to enjoy.
I had more time to think in the general ward. I had a private room and was left alone more often.
What was I going to do with this experience? How was I going to integrate it into the rest of my life – a life that until now had been so carefree, so uncomplicated and so happy.
There was one thing I did know. I would never let Frans and Theuns take more than they already had. They had no power over me and I would not allow them to destroy my positive mind, my love for life.
I had always believed that nothing happened to anyone who didn’t have the capacity to overcome it. We are never given more than we can bear. It was up to me now to have faith in my own power and believe that this would not set me back or change my life. Time would tell.
The first time I cried was while listening to a CD Ettienne had brought me. Before the attack Kim and I were out one night when we heard a song that had really touched us.
It was a beautiful soothing melody sung by a woman. The ever-inventive Ettienne had managed to find out what it was and track down the album.
It was a song by Phoebe Snow and the chorus went something like this: ‘If I can just get through the night, I’ll give it all up tomorrow.’
I lay in bed in the dark with the earphones on, listening to the words. They reached a place deep inside me, comforting me and opening me up. The tears just streamed down my face.
I remembered the intense feeling I had had the night of the attack. The feeling of refusing to give up and die because I knew I was capable of so much more, but had accepted mediocrity from myself so many times. The song reminded me that I now had the chance to live my life and do my best, always. I would never take my life for granted again.
I was recovering well. Dr Angelov said I might even be ready to go home in a couple of days’ time. Joy of joys, to get out from behind these walls and get back to my life.
My mom visited one afternoon and told me that a journalist from the Eastern Province Herald, Brett Adkins, had called to say he wanted to interview me. She said she had liked him because, of all the reporters, he had not been pushy and had always been polite.
I felt stronger and agreed to talk to him because I had grown tired of regurgitating the story over and over again. I asked my mom if she thought it would be of any benefit, if I could help anyone by telling the story. She assured me she thought I could and I trusted her opinion.
I had no thoughts at that stage about my privacy and it never crossed my mind that I had any reason to feel guilt or shame about what had happened, but I was advised by the police not to reveal my identity. I also had no idea just how big the story would become.
Mom and Mercia sat in on the interview. Brett seemed shocked when he first saw me. He was very polite, gentle and unobtrusive but I could see he was surprised at my appearance. I think he couldn’t believe how well I looked after such a savage attack.
I was healing well, and quickly, much to my delight.
Although I loved being in the private room it was lonelier than High Care where I had the constant attention of the nurses.
I did have the use of a cell phone someone had kindly lent me so I was able to call my friends, including Tiaan. But still I felt cut off.
I wanted desperately to go home now and every day when Dr Angelov came to check up on me, I would try to convince him that I was ready and well enough to leave. He kept saying, ‘Well, maybe tomorrow.’
Then there was a slight setback. The wound on my neck, now that the drains had been removed, had started to go septic. It was the one thing Dr Angelov had feared most of all.
I could not believe it. The wound was swollen, red and angry and bulged like an egg at one end. I told the sister about it and was surprised when she prodded at the protrusion with the ink tip of her ballpoint pen. I tried to get her to call Dr Angelov but she said it would not be necessary. I should have spoken up, but I didn’t. I wanted to be a model patient.
The next morning Dr Angelov arrived. He was furious that he had not been summoned earlier. He left the room and I could hear him shouting down the corridor. He had stitched the gash so beautifully and now all his work stood to be ruined. They inserted another drain and cleared up the fluid.
On the morning of December 31 he removed the drain and changed the dressing. The swelling had gone down. Then, with a large smile cracking his face, he told me that it was time to go home.
I actually couldn’t believe it. It was such an anticlimax. I suppose I expected I would hear music or a dramatic drumroll in the background.
At 11.35 a.m. a porter brought a wheelchair to the room. My mom had helped me pack up my belongings. I had noted that over 300 people had visited or sent messages and flowers. I carefully placed all their cards and letters in a folder. They were so dear to me and one of the first things I intended to do was place them all in a scrapbook.
As I was wheeled out of the room I did not say goodbye. I knew this would not be the last time I would see this hospital, these walls, these kind people in their uniforms.
I was so excited that I wanted to walk out of there on my own feet.
But everyone insisted I get into the chair. When we got to the threshold I asked the porter to stop. I stood up and walked into the warm sunlight.
Tomorrow the new year would begin.
11
MELVIN HUMPEL
The suspects
I WAS OFF duty on the long weekend of December 16, 1994. On the Monday morning, December 19, around 7 a.m., the phone rang. It was a colleague from the Port Elizabeth Murder and Robbery Squad. She said I had better get down there as there had been this savage attack and rape of a young woman at Noordhoek. They needed my help with the investigation.
Two other officers, Nadia Swanepoel and Jacques van Rensburg had arrested the suspects, Frans du Toit and Theuns Kruger, at 5 a.m. that morning. They found the victim’s car with the keys still in the ignition abandoned near the breweries in North End.
These guys were still asleep when Nadia and Jacques got to their flat, which was literally around the corner from where they had dumped the car. They took them both in. Apparently they hadn’t put up a struggle.
It was Nadia who had actually suspected that Frans might have been involved in Alison’s attack.
At that stage she had been investigating two other rape cases, one involving only Frans and the other both Frans and Theuns. I was with Nadia when we first caught Frans in February that year after he had abducted and raped and sexually assaulted a 20-year-old woman at gunpoint in Central.
He was released on bail on that occasion. The victim had only reported the rape a week later. There was no medical evidence. It was his word against hers. At that stage he had a stable job as a driver with a stationery supply company. He also had a fixed address so the court had to let him go.
On December 4, Frans and Theuns struck again. This time they accosted, raped and sexually assaulted a 21-year-old pregnant woman who was walking to a nearby café to buy cigarettes. The attack happened in the same suburb, but the suspects were arrested by the Flying Squad and taken to the Humewood police station.
They appeared in the magistrate’s court the next morning before the case had been assigned to a specific investigating officer and before anyone could make a connection to the previous rape.
The prosecutor could not have known about the other case and so both were let out on bail again. By the time Nadia had put two and two together it was too late, Frans and Theuns had already ambushed their third victim, Alison.
I had been called in ostensibly to head the investigation into Alison’s case. But, I was told, there were strings attached. It looked as though the men were connected with the other rapes so in the end I got all three dockets.
I had been with the police service for over 16 years and was one of their most experienced officers. In all my years I had never, ever before heard of such a savage, premeditated and callous attack. If they were guilty, I wanted these guys behind bars for the rest of their lives.
Nadia told me that Alison had made a very positive ID earlier that morning. She had picked Frans du Toit out from hundreds of other photographs in the police identity catalogue.
Both men were being kept in holding cells at the Darling Street headquarters of the Murder and Robbery Unit in North End and it was my job to interview them.
After our usual morning lecture I went down and introduced myself. I told them that I would be the investigating officer. They were still quite arrogant at that stage. They did not know that Alison was alive. They had only been told they were being arrested for rape when they were picked up.
I decided to haul Theuns out first. He was 19, the younger of the two and I had already had dealings with Du Toit before.
I escorted him to my office. He looked as though he didn’t give a damn. I sat him down and read him his rights. Then I told him that I was investigating two charges against him. One of rape and one of attempted murder.
