Recoil

2

It only took us about twenty minutes to reach Somerset West, but there’d been plenty of time to see why the area was called Cape Wineyards. The sun beat down on thousands of rows of vines that stretched all the way to the horizon. They must have been shifting a fair few cases. Every house was in perfect repair, every wall, fence and roof a pristine red or white. From where I was sitting I could almost smell the fresh paint, and there wasn’t an HIV poster in sight.

We took a left for Erinvale. It turned out to be a heavily protected country estate. Security scrutinized us at the entrance before the white range gates were opened and we were waved through.

The Merc glided over perfectly level Tarmac. Either side of the road were hundreds of acres of deep green grass, dotted with white sandy bunkers. Electric golf carts piloted by men in yellow polo shirts trundled out of the driveways of enormous mansions.

We took the direct route to the clubhouse, which could have doubled as a grand hotel. Sprinklers threw a fine mist across the fairway, and there were rainbows everywhere. Things were looking up. Maybe Lex was downing an orange juice after a quick eighteen holes.

I paid off the driver with rand I’d bought with my Swiss francs at Heathrow, and walked into the reception area, holdall in hand. Dark wood panelling lined the walls. A giant fan moved lazily above me, but it was only cosmetic. The air-conditioning took care of business. This place had only been built to look old.

The Indian greeter was dressed in a crisp white shirt that looked as if it had just come out of its wrapper. He gave my sweatshirt and jeans the once-over as he stepped forward.

‘I’m meeting Lex Kallembosch.’ I beamed, hoping he didn’t get close enough to smell me. ‘He said he’d be in the False Bay bar.’

‘Yes, sir.’ He held out his hand for my bag. ‘I’m afraid Sir requires a jacket and tie for the clubhouse.’ He eased me towards the cloakroom. ‘We have a small selection of jackets and ties, sir, but I’m afraid . . .’ He indicated my sweatshirt with barely concealed distaste.

‘No shirts?’

‘One moment, sir.’ He disappeared behind a curtain and returned with a white bundle in his hands. ‘The laundry basket . . . I’m sorry, but—’

‘Not a problem. Thanks.’ I made sure I chose one about three neck sizes too big so it didn’t strangle me when I did up the top button.

The greeter was as happy as he was going to get with my turnout. ‘If Sir would like to follow me . . .’ In my chunky-checked sports jacket, crumpled white shirt and red-striped kipper tie, I looked like the star of a seventies detective series.

He navigated me into the lounge. A dozen or so men were sitting either at the bar or at tables. The panelling gave the place the feeling of an old colonial club, where retired colonels hatched plots over a few G-and-Ts and a bowl of Bombay mix, or Mark Thatcher’s mates cooked up get-rich-quick schemes. Big picture windows overlooked the first tee. In the distance, the sun was winding down for the day, dipping towards the horizon.

A white guy in a dark suit detached himself from the bar and came towards me, hand outstretched. ‘Nick, right?’ His accent was as thick as his legs and forearms. These people must eat meat eight times a day.

‘Lex?’

We shook. His face was so tanned it had cracks, and his hair so sun-bleached he must have showered in Domestos for the last fifty years.

He led me back to the bar. ‘Listen, man, I don’t need to know how your flight was. Just tell me you have the money.’ He laughed loudly at what I hoped was a joke. His teeth sparkled. Maybe he cleaned them with Domestos too. ‘If that’s a yes, I’ll get you into the shit. Then, if you and this woman manage to meet up and stay alive, I’ll fly you back out again.’

Fuck the money. I’d find a way out of that in a minute. ‘When do we go?’

Maybe I’d suggest Silky paid him double when he got her back here, but I somehow doubted Lex spent too much time thinking long term.

‘Drink?’ He signalled the bartender. ‘I’m having a Cutty Sark.’

‘Water – I’m gagging here.’

A familiar voice boomed behind us: ‘And mine’s a pint of Castle.’

I nearly fell back on to the bar. Lex chuckled away to himself as he took control of another whisky. Sam held out a hand. I wasn’t sure if it was to shake or pull me upright. ‘You all right, Nick? Been a long time . . .’

We shook, but I didn’t have a clue what I was going to say or do after that. I’d spent too long replaying the film in my head of Annabel diving into the dirt and the little kid slipping out of my hands . . . ‘I kept meaning to, you know, drop you a postcard . . . If I knew, well, you know . . .’ Then I noticed he had a huge smile on his face: he seemed genuinely happy to see me.

He was more burned than tanned, but ageing well: his face was growing softer rather than harder.

‘What’s your secret, Sam? Oil of Olay?’

‘Not on your life, son. Holy water!’

I might have guessed. Perhaps that explained the smile. Sam was still in the forgiveness business.

Lex raised a hand the size of a baseball glove. ‘Hold on there, Padre. Before you launch into the sermon, I want to make sure Nick’s brought enough for the collection. Today, sinners, it’s going to a very worthy cause: the Lex Kallembosch Retirement Fund.’

Sam looked shocked. ‘You old devil. You charging him for a flight you’re making anyway? How much?’

Was this a set-up? Were they taking the piss?

‘Bargain basement, man. Ten large, US. Nick’s rescuing a poor little rich girl so he needs to spread his good fortune about a bit.’

It was Sam’s turn to laugh. I was glad he found it funny. I was wondering what other juicy little bits of intelligence Crazy Dave had passed along the bush telegraph – and starting to regret separating the manipulative shit from his wheelchair.

‘What’s ten grand to you?’ Sam asked. ‘Your tonic-water bill comes to more than that. Tell you what, you old miser, we’ll have eighteen holes when we get back, and when I win the slate’s clean, OK?’

‘But you’ll lose.’

‘I won’t.’ Sam turned back to me and took a swig of his beer. ‘Where you staying?’

‘Do I need anywhere? I was thinking we could leave today.’

He didn’t give me the answer I was hoping for. ‘We need to make tracks as well, but can’t until the morning. Lex has to wait for a delivery.’ He clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Stay at my place. It’s not far.’

Sam took a couple of parting swigs, and I picked up the tiny bottle of water I’d been given instead of the litre I’d been hoping for.

He clapped Lex on the shoulder too. ‘Eighteen holes, you old fraud. As soon as we get back.’