The Big Seven were those groups which between them controlled almost every area of life and dominated the Stock Exchange. The gold mining companies of course and various major industries — armaments, insurance, drink and tobacco together with the Government control boards that regulated everything from transport to citrus. Seven was a mystical number. The Big Seven represented the aggregate of national interests.

The profile which emerged of your average South African was a dedicated smoker who took to booze in a big way, kept himself armed to the teeth but was sensible enough to insure against the risk that either cigarettes or drink or terrorists might blow him away, and paid for this lifestyle with gold bullion. For the rest he did as the Regime told him, travelled as the Government directed him and died when and where the State demanded it. This handful of huge conglomerates owned everything and they also owned slices of each other and were all held, in turn, in the capacious lap of the Regime which allowed and even encouraged these cliques, cartels, monopolies to operate and indeed took a very close interest in them to the extent of inviting their directors to sit on various Government boards, boards of arms companies and the rural development agencies. Private business responded by asking Government ministers to take up seats on the boards of the gold mining companies, army officers were invited to join insurance companies, tobacco groups and breweries. Complicated interlocking deals were set up between the State and the great conglomerates, a famous instance of which was the Life Saving Bond which allowed families of soldiers to purchase a special insurance policy on the life of their loved one for a small monthly premium. ‘In the event of deprivation’, as the preamble to the policy put it, the next of kin received a ‘Life Saving Bond’ certificate which showed the value of all their contributions to date. The premiums which had accrued were then ‘sent forward’, which meant the sum was invested in ‘armaments and/or other industries vital to the war effort’, thereby giving all soldiers a second chance to serve by helping to ensure that the country’s weaponry was the best possible. The casualties joined what the field padres called the army invisible, or simply the Big Battalion, known familiarly as the BB. ‘Oh, he’s serving with the BB’ became a common way of skirting around a tragedy and won for those who spoke the words a new respect. The Regime encouraged positive thinking and inspectors ensured that the attractive blue and white Bond Certificates were prominently displayed in the home. Every month a draw took place and the family with the lucky bond number won for themselves a tour of the forward operational areas, plus a visit to the site of some celebrated victory (combat conditions permitting) and invariably returned strengthened and resolute. The newspapers and television followed these visits with great interest and press stories appeared and television reports showing pictures of Dick and Eugenia and their children, Marta and Kobus, proudly wearing combat helmets they’d been given, trundling through the veld in an armoured troop carrier. ‘My Day in the Operational Areas’ was an increasingly popular title in school examination papers.

‘The English,’ said Nokkles, ‘are bloody awful snobs. And racialists. They also have their kaffirs, you know. It’s just that you can’t tell them apart. Being English they all look alike. But they have them. Oh yes, they have them.’

He swallowed his brandy with relish, clicking his tongue. But no amount of drinking would irrigate that consuming desert within Ernie Nokkles.

A man in a dark green anorak and a big woman in a pixie cap, its straps pulled down hard over her ears and knotted cruelly beneath her chin, both of them buttoned everywhere, plumply encased, walked up to the little girl and removed her from the counter. ‘We’ve been calling you on the loudspeaker,’ the woman said between clenched teeth. And then bending over the little girl she administered several stinging slaps, saying at the same time and in rhythm to her blows: ‘Why didn’t you listen?’

‘And child beaters, too,’ Nokkles said. ‘What do you think?’

‘We think that you must be Trudy’s detective,’ Blanchaille said.

‘That,’ said Nokkles with a contemptuous downward twitch of the lips and a sideways flick of the head. so sudden Blanchaille thought for the moment he might have spat on the floor, ‘is a newspaper lie. I am not a policeman. In fact my function is quite vague. I fall within the remit of a number of officials — there’s Pieter Weerhaan, Dominee Lippetaal, as well as Mr Glip, and then of course there is Ernest Tweegat and Dr Enigiets. Actually I work for all these people, and of course for Miss Yssel. This for me was a fairly recent move. By training I’m a population movement man. I came from the PRP, the Population Resettlement Programme. I only got this Yssel job because someone went sick and I was shoved in. Believe it or not, I began working as a rookie years ago in Old Ma Dubbeltong’s Department, as it then was, of Entry and Egress; that was the original outfit, that was the egg which this new-fangled Department for Population Settlements came from. The PRP is really just old wine in new bottles. Anyway when I was there it was a damn sight tougher than anything today. God! My boss was old Harry Waterman, my hell what a tartar! Screaming Harry we called him. Well, say what you like, credit where credit’s due, he was largely instrumental, along with Ma, in formulating policy for what we now call population settlement. Screaming Harry was a blunt official, no fanciness about him. Nothing elegant. A straight guy, a removalist of the old school. Look, he’d say, you’ve got all these blackies wandering around the country or slipping into the towns or setting up camps wherever they feel like it and squatting here and there, and they’ve got to be moved. Right? They’ve got to be put down in some place of their own and made to stay there. Now you never beg or threaten when you’re running a removal. It doesn’t matter if you’re endorsing out — because that’s what we called it then, endorsing out — some old bastard who doesn’t have a pass, or an entire fucking tribe. First, you notify deadline for removal, then you get your paper-work right, you double check that the trucks are ordered up — and then you move them. As I say, old Harry Waterman was a plain removalist. None of these fancy titles for him, like Resettlement Officer or Relocation Adviser, as they like to call themselves now, these clever dicks from Varsity. No, everything was straight talking for Harry. As the trucks come out of the camp which you’re removing, Harry said, you put the bulldozers in and flatten the place. End of story. It’s quick, clean, efficient. You know something?’ Nokkles gazed earnestly at Blanchaille and Kipsel. ‘I don’t know if it’s not a lot kinder than the boards of enquiry and appeal and so on which dominate the resettlement field today. After all we all know in the end, after all the talking’s done, they’re going to have to get out. So why lead them on? The only talent you need to be a removalist, old Harry was fond of saying, is eyes in the back of your head. Front eyes watch the trucks moving out, those in the back watch the bulldozers moving in. A great guy, old Harry. Dead now. But he never understood the new scheme of things. I believe you have to move with the times. So when the call came, I was ready. Fate spoke. “Ernie Nokkles,” it said, “will you or will you not accept secondment to this new Department of Communications run by this hot lady said to be going places under the aegis of Minister Gus Kuiker?” And like a shot I answered back, “Damn sure!” But I am not, and never was, Trudy’s detective.’

‘What were you then?’ asked Kipsel.

‘Her aide, confidante and loyal member of her Department,’ said Nokkles proudly. ‘What I wanted was to help her and the Minister in their great task.’