Blood Safari

34

At ten past two I was back at Motlasedi. I carried a week’s supply into the kitchen in Pick ’n Pay shopping bags, lit the gas flame of the fridge and packed the Energade bottles inside. I fetched the broom, bucket, cloths and cleaning materials from the car and began in the kitchen. Then I did the sitting room, bathroom and bedroom. I sweated rivers.

When I was busy spraying four cans of insecticide throughout the house, one of the phones rang. Mine. It was Nadine Bekker.

‘Motlasedi means “place of the big fight”,’ she said when I answered. ‘Would you like to hear the story?’

‘Please.’

She read to me from some source or other, in English, in too much of a hurry and without respect for punctuation, so that I had to shut my eyes and concentrate on following her.

She said a local tribe, the mapulana, were attacked in 1864 by King Mswati of the Swazis. The maPulana retreated to Mariepskop and there, nearly two thousand metres above the Lowveld plains, they prepared for the battle that would follow. They rolled rocks close to the edge and guarded the single footpath up the mountain.

The Swazi warriors waited for the thick mist that sometimes formed on the slopes of the mountain on summer nights before they ascended the path. That night the mist was so thick that every warrior had to climb with a hand on the shoulder of the one in front of him.

At the top, the maPulana sat in dead silence. They waited till the last moment before they began to roll their rock missiles down the footpath. Their strategy was deadly. The Swazi losses were great and their attack deteriorated into chaos. Finally, the maPulana swept down the mountain, cutting down any resistance, and wiped out the Swazi force in the little river south of Mariepskop.

Nadine paused in her lecture here and said, ‘It must be just there where you are, they say a person can still see the bones of the Swazis if you know where to look and that’s why the river’s name is also Moüasedi, place of the big battle, and why the maPulana call the mountain Mogologolo, meaning ‘mountain of the wind’ because the Swazis only heard the wind of the falling rocks before they died. Are you settled in already? Are you happy? Phone if there is anything, I must run.’

There was no shower in the bathroom. I ran a cold bath and washed and finally felt clean.

I set the alarm in the cell phone for 16.30 and lay down on the bare mattress and slept restlessly for over an hour. Then I got up, washed my face in cold water, and took Emma’s cell phone and a bottle of Energade out of the fridge.

I went and sat on the veranda overlooking the stream. The hum of insects was a blanket of sound. Birds sang in the dense forest across the brown babbling water. A commando of vervet monkeys vaulted through the treetops like ghosts. A large grey ibis landed beside the water and began to poke its long beak purposefully into the short grass.

I ran through my plan one last time. Confirmed the time on my watch: 16.43.

I called Information to get three numbers. I wrote them on Emma’s paper with a pencil.

I phoned the first one at once – the Mogale rehabilitation centre.

A volunteer with a Scandinavian accent answered. I asked to speak to Donnie Branca. She said to hold on. I heard them calling him.

‘Please hold, he is coming.’

Then he said, ‘This is Donnie.’

‘It’s Lemmer, Donnie. I was there with Emma le Roux.’

‘Oh. I’m very sorry. We heard about the accident.’

‘It wasn’t an accident and you know it.’

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘Donnie, I think it’s time we dropped the bullshit. I want you to listen to what I’m going to say to you.’

‘I don’t like your …’

‘Shut up and listen, Donnie.’

He shut up. I had thought for a long time about what I wanted to say to him. It was all based on calculated guesswork, but the delivery was the key. I had to say it with aggression and self-confidence. I couldn’t afford to let him know that there were gaps in my knowledge.

‘I’m on a farm called Motlasedi, on the gravel road between Green Valley and Mariepskop. I’m giving you forty-eight hours to tell me where Cobie de Villiers is. If I don’t hear from you by that time, I am going to pass on everything I know to the newspapers and the Commissioner of Police in Limpopo.’

I gave him a while to let that sink in.

‘I know what you think, Donnie. You’re wondering what I know. Let me help you: I know everything. I know about your night-time escapades, I know about the firearms you are hiding from the police, I know what Frank Wolhuter found in Cobie’s house – and that it wasn’t on the bookshelf, Donnie.’

Then I took the big gamble, the one I had deliberated over the longest. ‘I also know that H. B. doesn’t stand for Honey Badger. Forty-eight hours, Donnie. Don’t contact me about anything else. You know what I want.’

I pressed the button with the red receiver icon to end the call and wiped the sweat from my brow.

I breathed out slowly.

The next call was to Carel the Rich. He must have seen her name on his screen, because he said, ‘I’ve been worrying about you, Emma.’

‘It’s Lemmer. The news is not good.’

‘Where is Emma?’ It was more of an order than a concerned enquiry.

‘She’s in hospital, Carel. There was an incident.’

‘An incident, what kind of incident? What’s she doing in hospital?’

‘Carel, if you’ll be quiet, I can finish.’

He wasn’t used to that tone. Astonishment kept him quiet just long enough.

‘We were attacked on Saturday by three armed men. Emma was wounded and sustained a head injury. She is in the intensive care unit at SouthMed Hospital in Nelspruit. Her doctor’s name is Eleanor Taljaard. Call her if you want the details of Emma’s condition.’

He couldn’t restrain himself any longer.

‘Saturday!’ he shouted at me. ‘Saturday? And you’re only calling now?’

‘Carel, calm down.’

‘That’s three days! How dare you only call me now? How bad is Emma?’

‘Carel, I want you to shut the fuck up and listen. I owe you nothing. I’m phoning you as a courtesy. I know who attacked us. I’m going to get them, every one. Not for you. For Emma. I am on a farm by the name of Moüasedi, on the gravel road between Green Valley and Mariepskop. It’s just a question of time before I get them.’

I hoped he would ask the right question. He didn’t disappoint me. ‘Who? Who was it?’

‘It’s a long story and I haven’t got the time right now. I’ll tell you everything when it’s over. It won’t be long. I’m going to blow the whole thing wide open.’

‘You were supposed to protect her, it was your job.’

‘Goodbye, Carel.’ I cut the connection.

He would phone back immediately, I knew. I checked my watch. Nineteen seconds and Emma’s phone rang. The screen said ‘Carel’. I killed the call. Waited again. This time it was twenty seconds. Killed it. Another nineteen and it rang again. My money was on three times, but Carel was a determined Rich Afrikaner. He tried six times before giving up. I could see him in his den, angry and indignant, with a cigar between his fingers. He would pace up and down and try to remember what I had said about the hospital and the doctor and then he would phone them.

It was time for me to make my third call. I keyed in the number.

‘Serious and Violent Crimes Unit, how may I help you?’

‘May I speak to Inspector Jack Phatudi, please?’

‘Hold on.’

She put me through to an extension that rang and rang. Eventually, she got back on the line.

‘You are holding for?’

‘Inspector Jack Phatudi.’

‘The inspector is not in. Is there a message?’

‘Yes, please. Tell him that Lemmer called.’

‘Who?’

‘Lemmer,’ I spelled out my surname for her.

‘OK. What is the message?’

I lied blatantly. ‘Please tell him that I know who gave the note to Edwin Dibakwane.’

‘Edwin Dibakwane?’

‘Yes.’

‘I will tell him. How can he contact you?’

‘He’s got my number.’

‘OK.’

To make doubly sure, I also phoned the SAPS offices in Hoedspruit to leave him the same message, but to my surprise they said, ‘Please hold for Inspector Phatudi,’ and then he answered with an unfriendly ‘Yes?’

‘Jack, it’s Lemmer.’

A few seconds of silence. ‘What do you want?’

‘I know who gave the letter to Edwin Dibakwane.’

‘Who?’

‘I can’t tell you now, Jack. First, I want you to apologise for yesterday. Your manners leave a lot to be desired. I hope your mother doesn’t know how you behave.’

He lost his temper instantly. ‘My mother?’

‘Yes, Jack, your mother. I am sure she taught you better manners than that. Are you going to say sorry?’

He answered me in sePedi. I couldn’t understand the words, but I gathered from the tone that it wasn’t an apology.

‘Then I’ll say goodbye, Jack,’ I said. I cut off the call and switched Emma’s cell phone off.

The broad stretch of thick bush between the farm entrance and the homestead was a problem. The good news was that I would be invisible inside. The bad news was that I couldn’t watch the potential access routes and the house at the same time.

I chose a hiding place just over ten metres away from the edge of the thicket, where I could see the gate and more than a kilometre of access road plus a large stretch of the boundary fence without being seen. There were no shops selling binoculars that were open in Nelspruit. I would have to make do.

I removed stones and branches so I could sit comfortably against a tree. I placed the Glock within easy reach. I opened the box of ten Twinkies, took the contents out of the plastic and arranged them on the upturned khaki bush hat I had bought at Pick ’n Pay. It was food that did not crunch or otherwise make a noise. I put the four bottles of Energade down beside the Twinkies and opened one. Not ice cold, but good enough.

I checked my watch. Just under an hour since I had contacted Donnie. Theoretically they could turn up any moment. I didn’t think they would. He would have to call the other masked wonders first. They would have to discuss weapons and strategy. Up till now they had been night owls on escapades. My best guess was that they’d show up around midnight. Maybe later. In the meantime, I would wait. Just in case.

I ate one Twinkie. Drank Energade.

I read on the box that more than five hundred million of these confections were sold annually. Since 1930 Twinkies had attained cult status. President Clinton put one in a time capsule. The American Association of Press Photographers had recently held an exhibition of photos with Twinkies as the subject. People even made wedding cakes out of Twinkies.

I put the carton down. I wondered why Clinton didn’t put a cigar in the time capsule. That would have pleased Carel the Rich.

The piece of open veld out there was suddenly in shade.

The sun had set behind Mariepskop. It was going to be a long night.