The Wall

17

The security guy was an idiot. Didn’t even take off his sunglasses. Bismarck assumed the other man was staring at his name tag. It was engraved with Bismarck van Vuuren. And then: The Pines, Caretaker. No blacks knew who Bismarck had been anyway.

“Well?” the guy asked.

“We almost had him.”

“There’s only one?”

“Mmhmm… Like a…” Bismarck fumbled for a word. “But he’s young. Twenty. And really fast. The fact he ran off is enough proof.”

The man in the sunglasses nodded. “What should we do?”

“We’re going to catch him.”

“Of course. Sooner or later. I’ll call for backup.”

“No need. Just wait at the gate. You can cut off his way out.”

Head-shaking. “Regulation. If anyone is on the run, I have to call for backup.”

“Hm!”

“Who is the other guy back there?” Sunglasses pointed at the next corner.

Bismarck looked back. “Ah… That’s Willie. A friend of mine. Helps out some.” He waved at Willie. Willie waved back.

“Does he also have one of those?” Sunglasses pointed at the taser.

“Just a club,” Bismarck said.

But he knew better. Willie normally had a knife and a small pistol on him. “We have to defend ourselves against them somehow,” he always said.

However, no one with Central Alert needed to know that his friend combined his free time with security patrols. Besides, they’d catch the black bastard before the backup got here.

“We’ll keep going,” Bismarck said.

“You know where to find me.” The guard pulled a handkerchief from his pants and rubbed it all over his bald head. He then picked up his phone again.

Bismarck signaled at Willie: You go along there, I’ll go here. They would meet up again at some point.

The young guy had simply vanished, but he wouldn’t get out. The backup from Central Alert would make sure of that, at least. And after Willie and he actually caught the black, he’d ask once again if he couldn’t hire his friend as his assistant. He needed help as it was. The times were getting worse.

“Bismarck!” a shout came from behind him.

A bakkie slowly pulled up. Rob van der Merwe was sitting by himself in the cab. As usual, his crew was sitting on the truck bed.

“Rob!” Bismarck greeted him back. The bakkie stopped beside him. “How long do you need?”

“An hour, maybe two. Are you coming on Saturday? The Boks game. In New Zealand.”

“Of course,” Bismarck said.

He watched the bakkie drive off. Five people were sitting on the back, four of them in overalls. One not. That was against the rules. He would have to say something to Rob, but it wasn’t like he didn’t know it already. Considering his experience.

Workers had to always be recognizable as workers. And it was always a good idea to follow the rules.