Blood Safari

30

Dick said that two years earlier, only a couple of months after he had started at Mohlolobe, there was a message for him at reception from a man by the name of Domingo Branca. The content was informal and friendly: would he like to meet other young people in the district? Come and have a drink on Saturday night at the Warthog Bush Pub, a local watering hole at the airfield beside the Guernsey gravel road.

There had been four of them. Donnie Branca and Cobie de Villiers from Mogale, David Baumberger of Molomahlapi Private Game Reserve and Boetie Strydom of the Makutswi Wildlife Ranch. Initially it was a light-hearted evening. They welcomed him to the Lowveld, enquired about his background, gossiped about their respective employers, swapped stories about the sexual opportunities tourists provided, the oddest places and circumstances where they had offered these services, and the scandalous state of rugby.

The typical conversation between young unmarried men.

Branca was the leader of the group; that was obvious from the beginning. Baumberger was the clown, Strydom the experienced one who had grown up in the area and De Villiers had said practically nothing.

Quite a few hours and beers later, Branca had steered the conversation in another direction. It was only a year later, when he heard the other stories, that Dick realised how skilfully it had been done. From gossip, sex and rugby to animal stories, conservation, concern over ongoing development, the multiplication of game farms, the competition, the poor management of the National and Provincial Parks, land claims, the growing threat to the ecosystem. It was done carefully, without radical statements, no direct accusations or politically incorrect remarks. Just a polite testing of the water: where did Dick stand with regard to all these questions?

Dick didn’t actually stand anywhere. He was just a lapsed surfer from Port Elizabeth who had found a career and a job that suited his chosen lifestyle like a glove. He was outdoors all day, he thought nature was ‘cool’ and he liked the way tourists hung on his every word when he shared the information he had picked up along the way.

‘I went back to the pub the next weekend, but they weren’t there. And later, I sort of clicked – it was, like, I flunked a test, you know. And they never invited me again.’

In the months after that he began to hear the rumours. Nothing concrete, a bit here and a fragment there, from diverse sources and places. First there were the anonymous warning letters to farmers, communities and businesses about the damage they were doing to the environment. Later, the letters became threatening. They were always signed with the initials H. B.

Then there were more than letters.

Photographs of black game wardens cooking a buck over a fire were delivered to the Kruger Park management. Things happened in the night. An entire community’s dogs were poisoned at Ga-Sekororo between the Lagalameetse Nature Reserve and the Makutsi Conservancy, mtimidating shots were fired at night on the tribal lands of a group that had a land claim against a famous game farm.

Nobody knew who was responsible. As always, there were theories and accusations, blame and denial. The letters H. B. were responsible for most of the speculation. Hendrik Bester, the banana farmer, was harassed so much that he considered selling his land and moving away. People fought over whether it was a Latin, Afrikaans, English, sePedi or Venda abbreviation.

The incidents began to escalate. Two suspected poachers were severely injured by leopard gin traps on the footpaths used by the people of Tlhavekisa near the Manyeleti Game Reserve. A sawmill burned down outside Graskop. It had been polluting a wetland. Two men from Dumfries were badly beaten up and tied to the impala that they had poached in the Sabi Sands Game Reserve. Dogs were shot dead in the veld. A man and a woman who specialised in the slaughter of animals for traditional medicinal purposes were assaulted. Like the impala thieves, they told of the terrifying silence and efficiency of the night-time attacks. Not a word was said to them. The attackers were masked. Two methods whereby people are identified in this part of the world, skin colour and dialect, were effectively neutralised. There were not enough incidents to create panic or hysteria. They were sporadic, spread over months, two provinces and thousands of square kilometres. The stories took time to loosen tongues and fire speculation. The only clue was the abbreviation.

H. B.

The most stubborn rumour held that it stood for honey badger, or honey badgers, since they were a group. Who had first promulgated that theory was unclear.

There were so many rumours about who was behind the H. B. front that Mogale and its people were lost in the hubbub. Sometimes they came under the spotlight. Maybe because they made no secret of their opposition to development, habitat damage and informal poaching. Maybe because they never spoke up to condemn the H. B. activities. Maybe because their tame honey badger was the most famous in the province. But since Cobie de Villers had been identified by eyewitnesses as the broad-daylight murderer of three vulture poisoners and a sangoma, the focus of suspicion was fully on Mogale. The death of Frank Wolhuter had launched a new series of rumours. That Frank had been the brains behind H. B. but had got cold feet and been murdered by his followers. That a reaction force from the black community had killed him. That a branch of the State Intelligence services had been responsible for his execution.

‘It’s crazy, bru’, the shit that’s flying around.’

‘Why has the shit not hit the newspapers?’

‘Some of the local rags had stuff, but nobody really knows what the fuck is going on.’

‘Why “honey badger”?’

‘Dunno, bru’. Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe because a honey badger is a very, very tough little dude, takes shit from nobody and nothing. Moves around sort of on its own, invisible, in the undergrowth, takes care of scary stuff like snakes. And it’s a total survivor. Awesome symbol, don’t you think?’

‘Awesome,’ I agreed. I wondered what he would say if I told him that the honey badger was Cobie de Villiers’ favourite animal. ‘But you said that night in the bush pub there were other people besides the Mogale lot.’

‘I think it’s a network, bru’. A society, like. But Mogale runs it. Not that I have proof. But that Cobie guy is a fuckin’ fruitcake.’

‘Oh?’

‘Dude never says a word, but you look into his eyes, like, and its, like, radical, man. Fruitcake.’

‘You don’t support their cause in the least?’

‘Fuck, no, bru’. I mean, look around you. We’re in the middle of a nature reserve right next to the biggest fuckin’ game park on the globe, thirty-five thousand square kays when the whole cross-border Limpopo Park thing is all wrapped, bigger than Holland, dude, a hundred and forty-seven mammal and five hundred and seven bird species. Does it look like we need shit like shooting people?’

‘I get your point. But the question is, why don’t they see it that way?’

‘No offence, bru’, but that’s the way you are.’

‘Me?’

‘No, the Afrikaners. Always one or two radicals who have to have their secret society. Do you know how many are out there? You guys have, like, a predisposition. Have you heard of these fucks calling themselves the Verbondsvolk. And the Dogters van Sion?’ His pronunciation was off.

‘No.’

‘It’s all over the place, bru’. They have this dead prophet dude who saw the future, they tore out all the chapters of Paul from the Bible and they believe they are the chosen chinas. Fuckin’ predisposition, that’s what you have.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Did you know there’s a Boere-Mafia in Nelspruit?’

‘No.’

‘They control everything, man. You can’t develop a single hectare if they don’t get their cut.’

‘I thought the ANC controlled the city council in Nelspruit.’

‘Bru’, it’s money that makes the world go round. It can buy anything.’

One thing didn’t make sense. ‘Dick, if the Afrikaners are behind all this, why would they use an English name?’

‘You’ve lost me, bru’.’

‘The H. B. is an abbreviation for an English term. Honey badger.’

He just shook his head in amazement. ‘Radical, man, totally radical.’

There was nothing I could say to top that.

I drove away thinking about the way people surprise you.

First Jeanette Louw. Former sergeant-major, tough as nails, never pulls punches, take-me-as-I-am, wouldn’t allow a euphemism or a sympathetic word over her lips. But when I asked for a car, I got an expensive Audi A4 – she could have got me a Nissan Aimera or a Toyota Corolla.

I asked for a firearm and she got me a black-market Glock with the numbers filed off. She tests it on the range and brings it in person. She could have sent it with B. J. and Barry. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you,’ she said when she saw me. But in the car park she orders me, in her usual despotic way, ‘Lemmer, tell me, how do you feel?’ With a concern in her eyes bordering on the maternal.

Jeanette. Who said, ‘She came in and said she wanted the best. Money no object. So I gave you the job.’

I still thought she was bullshitting me.

Then there was Dick. Senior Game Ranger. My first impression was of an arrogant, irritating little English-speaking fool. Then he races after me because he has a thing for Emma and shows his true colours: harmless and … naive seems to fit.

His attraction to Emma didn’t surprise me. He was her type and he must have an instinctive feel for that. His interest was obvious from the first time he saw her. I just hadn’t expected him to go to so much trouble. Even finding out whether Susan would be available to keep me busy while he made up to Emma. Were the opportunities for a pretty young blonde so limited in this corner of the Lowveld that she would be interested in Lemmer of Loxton?

And the wonderful irony. While Dick spelled out the possibility of Susan, all I could think of was the black mamba of jealousy that I nursed in my bosom. The urge to grab him by the collar of his green-and-khaki shirt and tell him to keep his ‘senior game ranger hands off Emma’.

People. They surprise you.

Like Donnie Branca standing on his little podium and speaking with so much knowledge and passion about the African vultures’ battle for survival. Now he might be an eco-terrorist lying in wait to beat up poachers in the dead of night, his hands and face covered to hide his identity. Could he be one of the attackers at the train? Is that why they wore balaclavas and gloves? To disguise their ethnicity?

Maybe.

But Branca was not one of them. I had studied him in detail. I knew his way of moving, his walk, his posture and his measurements. He was athletic, supple, fit. The balaclava men were both shorter, their movements less sure of foot. Not clumsy, but there was an aura of unfamiliarity in the veld; this was not their natural habitat.

Branca could have sent them. They could be part of the network Dick spoke of.

But why would Emma le Roux pose a threat to them? Why would the H. B. group send three masked wonders to the Cape because a small young woman made a phone call to Inspector Jack Phatudi? How would they even have known about the call? What would they have wanted to do to her? What for?

All the different possibilities were paralysing. The Cape Town attack and the train incident could be two different groups. Or the same group. Each option had its own set of questions and implications. Jack Phatudi was part of something, or not. Or perhaps part of something else. Cobie de Villiers was Jacobus le Roux. Or not. The Jeep had a Gauteng registration. Which might be false. Or not.

Nothing made sense. The road sign to Acornhoek prevented me from wrestling with the problem any longer.

I turned left at the railway station as Dick had indicated, and suddenly there were police vehicles everywhere and the dusty street was too narrow to make a U-turn.

There were five SAPS pick-ups parked and a horde of blue uniforms standing around in groups. The Audi stood out like a nun at a sex therapy workshop. They looked at me suspiciously. The pink concrete wall was a startling beacon. Jack Phatudi stood on the threshold of the humble brick house. He shouted, waved his arms and a uniform ran in front of me and held up a commanding hand. Stop.

I pulled off the road and got out. The heat was stifling, not a tree near by for shade. Phatudi approached with a measured tread, through the little gate in the concrete wall.

‘Martin,’ he said with great dislike.

‘Jack.’

‘What are you doing here?’ Very aggressive. ‘I was looking for you.’

‘For me?’

‘I wanted to ask you some questions.’

‘Who told you I was here?’

‘Your office,’ I lied. ‘What’s going on here?’

‘Edwin Dibakwane is dead.’

‘The gate guard?’

‘Yes, the gate guard.’

‘What happened?’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘How would I know, Jack? I’ve just come from Mohlolobe.’

‘What were you up to there?’

‘Our account wasn’t paid. What happened to Edwin?’

‘You know.’

‘I don’t’

‘Of course you know, Martin. He was the one who gave you the message.’ He came closer. ‘What happened? Wouldn’t he tell you where the letter came from?’ Phatudi came right up to me. There was terrible anger emanating from him. Or was it hate? ‘So you pulled his fingernails out, didn’t you? Because he wouldn’t tell? You tortured him and shot him and threw him away in the Green Valley plantation.’

The black constables closed in, a cordon of suspicion.

‘Someone pulled his nails out?’

‘Did you enjoy that, Martin?’

I had to stay calm. There was an army of police. ‘Shouldn’t you call the SouthMed Hospital first, Jack, and check my alibi?’

He raised his arms and I thought he was going to hit me. I was ready for him. But his movement was just a gesture of frustration. ‘For what? Trouble? You are just trouble. You and that woman. Ever since you came. Wolhuter dead, Le Roux in hospital. And now this. You have brought us this trouble.’

‘Us, Jack?’ Mustn’t get angry. I took a deep breath. ‘Tell me, why didn’t you tell Emma about the masked men who shoot dogs and tie dead impala to people? Why didn’t you mention the Honey Badgers the day before yesterday when I told you that the men who shot Emma were in balaclavas? Don’t tell me you didn’t make the connection, Jack. You had trouble long before we turned up.’

If I thought I would calm him down with that, I was mistaken. He puffed up like a toad, struggling to form his words in his rage. ‘That is nothing. Nothing. Edwin Dibakwane … he has got children. He … You … Who does that? Who does that to a man? All he did was hand over a letter.’

I didn’t have many options. I was aware of the antagonism of the policemen surrounding me. Phatudi’s argument that Emma and I were responsible for Edwin’s death was not completely groundless. I held my tongue.

He looked at me with complete revulsion. ‘You …’ he said again, and then bit off his words and shook his head. He flexed his great hands. He turned and walked back towards the little house, stopped and glared at me. Then he came back to me, pointed a finger at me, put his hands on his hips and looked down the road towards the station. He said something in a native language, two or three bitter sentences, and then he directed himself to me again. ‘Order,’ he said. ‘That is my job. To keep order. To fight the chaos. But this country …’

He focused on me again.

‘I told you. You don’t know what it’s like here. We have troubles. Big troubles. This place. It’s like the veld in drought. Ready to burn. We beat out the fires. We run from one fire to the next fire and we beat out the flames. Then you turn up here and want to set everything on fire. I’m telling you, Martin, if we don’t stop it, the fire will burn so big and fast and far that everything will be burnt up. Everything and everyone. Nobody will be able to stop it.’

Some of the policemen nodded their heads in agreement. I was almost ready to see his side of it. Then he got personal.

‘You must leave. You and that woman.’ He spat out the words. With hatred. I could not let myself react. ‘You brought your trouble here.’ His index finger was a gun pointing. ‘We don’t want it. Take it and leave.’

I heard the anger rising in my voice. ‘It’s your trouble that came to her. She didn’t want it. It came and fetched her.’

‘Fetched her? She saw a photo on TV.’

‘She phoned you about it and two days later three men in balaclavas broke down her front door to kill her. What was she supposed to do, Jack?’

He came a step closer. ‘She phoned me?’

‘The same evening that it was on the TV news she phoned you and asked whether the man you were looking for might be Jacobus le Roux. Remember?’

‘Lots of people phoned. Lots.’

‘But she is the only one that was attacked because she phoned…’

‘I don’t believe you.’ Arrogant. Taunting. He wanted me to lose my temper, lose control.

I pulled my new phone out of my pocket and offered it to him. ‘Call your colleagues in Cape Town, Jack. Ask them if there is a case file. Monday, twenty-fourth December. Attack at the house of Emma le Roux at ten o’clock in the morning. Call them.’

He ignored the cell phone.

‘Come on, Jack, take the damn phone and call them.’

Phatudi’s deep frown was back. ‘Why didn’t she tell me?’

‘She didn’t think it was necessary. She thought asking for help reasonably would be enough.’

‘She only asked about the photos.’

‘She also asked you about the vulture murders.’

‘That was sub judice.’

‘Sub judice? Why? To protect your arse?’

‘What?’ He stepped closer.

‘Careful, Jack, there are witnesses here. She sees the TV news. Twenty-second of December. She phones you. You say Cobie de Villiers can’t be Jacobus le Roux because everyone knows him and he’s been here all his life. That’s enough for her. She drops the whole idea, doesn’t mention it to anyone. On the twenty-fourth of December they break into her house, and she’s lucky to get away. That afternoon someone phones her and says something about “Jacobus”. The connection is bad; she can’t hear properly. She hires herself a bodyguard and comes here. You know what happens here.’

‘So?’

‘So the only connection with the attack on her is you, Jack. The call she made to you.’

‘Masepa.’

‘What?’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Bullshit?’

‘I can’t even remember her phoning, Martin.’ But he was on the defensive now.

‘Who was with you?’

‘Nobody.’

‘Were the calls taped?’

‘We are the police, not the Secret Service.’

‘Did you tell anyone about her phone call?’

‘I told you, I can’t remember her phoning. There were … I don’t know, fifty or sixty … Most of the calls are nonsense.’

‘Why didn’t you tell her about the Honey Badgers? The other day at Mogale?’

‘Why should I?’

‘Why not?’

‘What are you saying, Martin? You want me to take responsibility for something?’

‘Yes, Jack. I just don’t know what it is yet, but you are part of this fuck-up, and I am going to find out. And then I’ll come and get you.’

‘You? You’re jailbird trash. Don’t talk to me like that.’ He came right up to me and we stood like two bantam cocks, chest to chest. I wanted to hit him, I wanted to let all my frustration and rage boil over and I wanted to take it out on the man in front of me. I wanted to go to that other place where time stood still, the room of the red-grey mist. The door was wide open and beckoning.

Afterwards I would wonder what held me back. Was it the army of police? Hopefully, I wasn’t a moron. Was I tempered by the knowledge that jailbird trash learned: that you have to come out the other side, back to reality, where you paid dearly for your pleasures? And that I couldn’t afford to pay the price again? Or was it the shadow of a woman standing with her face in the rain and arms stretched up to the heavens?

I stepped back from the abyss – and from Phatudi. Small, deliberate, reluctant steps.

And I turned away.