JUST ANOTHER NAAIPLAAS

Someone retrieved the dead caracal and threw it out of
the Bedford, narrowly missing the sergeant who was
closing the wire gate in the darkness behind us.  He
stopped in his tracks.  The brakelights glinted an
aposematic red in his piggy little eyes.

"Julle gaan lekker kak," he said.  Then he turned and
latched  the gate.

The Bedford drove on another two or three hundred
yards.  As the engine choked to a stop with that familiar
diesel shudder we were  enveloped by as silence as
profound as the surrounding night.  We sat there
breathless, expectant, uncertain.

That's when the shouting started, the shouting that
still hasn't stopped.

We sank to our ankles in dust.  There was a light ahead
of us, a small building, the sound of rushing water.
In the shadows to our right  stood a ghostly assembly
of young men in pale overalls.

For the first and only time at Greefswald, the
Psychopaths looked at us in fear.  It took me a few
moment to realise that it was the blood.  

It took me another few moments to register
that I knew their faces.

Ward 11.