Open Writing

There are many places in South Africa where it is safe to leave windows open and doors unlocked, where burglar alarms, electric fences and high walls are not necessary.

Unfortunately, Johannesburg, where Leon and I live, is not one of those places. We take all precautions to prevent crime from affecting us. Our house is inside a walled and gated estate, with an electric fence atop the wall and remote controls for access at the gate. Within the estate, our property also has high walls. There are remote-controlled garage doors, and the garages lead directly into the house. The house is fitted with a burglar-alarm, which we always set before leaving home and before going to sleep at night. The alarm, if activated by a door being opened or movement inside a room, sends a radio signal to a security response firm, who immediately phone us and, if necessary, send an armed guard to investigate.

*

‘Beep-beep-beep, WEE-WAH-WEE-WAH-WEE-WAH…’ I sat bolt upright in bed, heart thumping, listening to the burglar alarm’s siren screaming in the dining-room. It was loud enough to wake the entire neighbourhood. Beside me, Leon stirred, sighed, yawned and got out of bed, went over to the key-pad and silenced the horrid noise. Ears ringing, hearts thumping, watching the red lights on the key-pad for signs of movement from one room to another by possible intruders, we waited four very long minutes for the security company to phone. When they did, I asked them to send a man to help us check through the house.

There had been no sounds of breaking glass or thumping of opening doors, and there was no further sign of movement lighting up the alarm panel. Another very long ten minutes passed before the security guard rang our doorbell, having gained access to our complex by using his company’s special code at the electric gate. Leon left the bedroom via the sliding door into the garden, and let the guard in; I watched the panel as the door lights lit up, first the bedroom, then the front door, and as the men went from room to room, checking that all was well. They eventually agreed that an insect must have crawled across a movement sensor, perhaps a moth or a spider. No trace of this criminal was found. The guard left, Leon returned to the bedroom, we locked up, reset the alarm, and snuggled down for another couple of hours’ sleep. It was 4.30 in the morning. A false alarm, thank goodness.

In this crime-ridden city, we’ve been particularly lucky. Leon and I have experienced no burglaries, no close brushes with violence. We have taken as many anti-crime precautions as we can live with, and relax and enjoy our otherwise wonderful life-style.

That false alarm and panicked awakening, however, reminded me of other false alarms in my life.

When the children were young, Roy, my husband of the time and I experienced a couple of burglaries in quick succession, just after we moved into a new home. After the second burglary we installed an alarm system.

Roy went away on business fairly often, and I was accustomed to setting the alarm at night and sleeping on my own. One night, I was deeply asleep when the alarm suddenly sprang to strident life. I lay in bed, panicking, as between the rise and fall of the alarm I heard footsteps coming down the tiled passage, past the children’s bedrooms. The bedroom door opened, and to my relief, in walked Roy. He switched off the alarm, answered the ringing phone and gave the all-clear code to the alarm company. It was midnight. I don’t remember what he was doing home a day and a half early without letting me know, all I remember is the panic of waking to the cacophony of the alarm.

A few years later, when the children were teenagers, Roy spent the evening drinking heavily, as he often did. The children and I retired to bed fairly early. My daughter, who Roy adopted when she was 18 months old,was flying to Durban to visit her biological father next day, leaving early in the morning for the airport. We all needed our sleep.

I was jerked awake, heart pounding, by the sound of shouts down the passage. As I leapt out of bed, Roy dragged my daughter into our room, shaking her, yelling, “It’s time for you to f…. off back to your other father, I don’t want you here any more, why don’t you and your mother f… off back to him!” and he threw her, shocked, onto the bed. That was when I slapped his face, the only time I’ve ever done anything like that. It felt like hitting a rock, jarring my whole arm. My feisty daughter leapt up, rushed past him to her room, put on gown and slippers, and tore out of the house, pushing the alarm’s panic-button as she went.

Roy went to the bed, lay down and within seconds was snoring in spite of the siren that shook the walls with its noise.

I reset the alarm and was about to search the night streets for my daughter when the security guard brought her home. We thanked him and the neighbours who had come to see what all the shouting and noise was about, then calmed ourselves down as much as possible with cups of cocoa. Diane and I finally went back to bed. I lay sleepless until it was time to get up and go to the airport, as I’m sure Diane did. Next day she escaped to a different type of stress with the father who had given her up for adoption. No crime here, other than domestic strife.

Those of us in South Africa who haven’t been directly touched by violent crime are few and far between, and extremely lucky.

Until next time…. ‘here comes Treble!’

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by Isabel Bradley