The village was a poster for abject poverty. It never ceased to amaze Garrett that, in a climate where even spit would grow; the locals didn’t seem capable of raising even the minimum of subsistence crops. The villagers, perhaps forty of them, were huddled in the clearing in the center. Around them twenty plus members of the rebel cut hands fighting group. On the right hand side of the clearing a large tree stump. Tied to it; two toddlers. Boys. Shirtless. Their wrists had been tightly tourniquet but blood and lymph still oozed from the fresh wounds. Their hands lay on the ground. Tiny. Pathetic. Like crushed insects. And next to them two villagers that had just been executed.
Garrett opened up first. Walking towards the rebels. Unhurried two shot taps. Aiming so as not to harm any villagers. The rest of the Warriors followed suite. And then Daisy. Short sharp bursts of fire. Each one less than a second long. Fifteen rounds. The cut hands did not even try to fight back. They simply dropped their weapons and knelt down. Still the Warriors had cut down twelve of them in that short time.
Garrett strode amongst them, his face white with fury. Brian ran forward and cut the toddlers free and, with the help of Jose, the medic, he bound their stumps and administered morphine. The mothers of the mutilated children came forward, sobbing quietly. Curtsying their respect as they laid claim to their offspring.
The Warriors lined the surviving rebels up. On their knees. Meanwhile the villagers dragged the rebel corpses to one side, stripping them of their clothing and weapons as they did so. Those that were close to death but hadn’t quite crossed over were hurried along as the villagers gave physical expression to their fear. Their inability to fight back. They gathered around the wounded and kicked them to death. Silently. Faces blank. The air full of the meaty sounds of bare feet striking flesh. Over and over and over.
The village headman approached Garrett. His eyes cast down in respect. He stood in front of the captain waiting for his acknowledgement.
Garrett nodded at him. ‘Yes, mister.’
‘Please, sir. The rest?’
Garrett raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘The rest what?’
‘Please, sir. I am asking that your soldiers please kill the rest of the cut hands.’
‘You want them dead?’
The headman walked over to the line of kneeling rebels and spat on them. ‘They are animals. Violators of children. Eaters of human flesh. This one here,’ he pointed at a young man with a red beret on his head. ‘This is their leader.’ He spat again. The leader looked at him with a smirk on his face. There was no fear. Only smoldering anger.
Garrett stood still for a while. Thinking. Finally he took a cigarette pack from his webbing. Extricated. Lit up.
‘It is time for this to stop,’ he turned to the headman. ‘Get some wood. Start a fire here.’
He walked over to the cut hands leader and dragged him to the tree stump. Lashed his hands together, looped the rope over the stump and pulled tight, securing the man’s hands to the chopping block. Then he waited while the villagers built a fire. The leader of the rebels started to sweat. The look of sardonic arrogance had been replaced with fear. But still only surface fear, not deep and visceral. The fear of someone who thinks that something may be going wrong but deep down does not really believe it. In this case the rebel could not believe that a white foreigner in charge of government troops would actually violate a prisoner of war. There were rules. He saw no dichotomy in his argument. The fact that he did not adhere to basic human rules and values was because he was superior. A people’s leader. Above the rules.
When the fire was going strongly Garrett called the headman to him again.
‘Do you have a steel spade or shovel.’
The headman shook his head. ‘We have a steel hoe.’
‘Get it.’
When the headman brought back the hoe Garrett placed the blade in the fire, leaving it until the steel grew cherry red. And then, without warning he spun, drew his machete and struck the cut hands leader’s right wrist. His severed hand lay on the flat surface of tree trunk, fingers curled as if making a final effort to grasp at something. A second strike detached the left hand sending it spinning to the ground. Then he leant over, picked up the hoe and cauterized the wounds with the red-hot steel.
But it was far from over. Garrett had decided that the cut hand commandos had reached the end. He would no longer allow them to exist. The beast inside him howled and gibbered as he pushed against the boundaries of humanity in his quest for retribution. And then it broke free.
Garrett kicked the rebel leader in his chest, knocking him onto his back. The machete rose and fell two more times. Then the sizzling steel again. Stemming the flow of blood from the rebel’s severed ankles. He screamed and thrashed around as the agony crashed over him in waves. Blood ran down his cheek where he had bitten through his lip as he convulsed. Garrett dragged the next rebel to the chopping block.
It took him over half an hour to do all eight rebels. They lay on the bare earth in front of him. Helpless, limbless freaks. Some unconscious, some wailing in agony and some mute. Faces gray with pain and shock.
The Warriors stood still. During the whole half an hour they had not moved, their discipline such that they did not intervene. But their humanity did not allow them to participate. Even though the rebels had done far worse and to many more.
Garrett beckoned to the headman who came forward on shaking limbs and then knelt before him. The old man could hardly bear to look at Garrett. For the man in front of him was no longer a man. His face, his arms, his uniform were drenched in blood. His eyes, green as the jungle, red rimmed with exhaustion and crackling with barely controlled insanity. He was Popobawa. The forest beast. And even though he had come to save them, the beast was known to be a fickle and could turn at any moment so he must be treated with the deepest respect.
And the beast leant over the headman and spoke to him in the tongue of the human.
‘These men that I have punished. They must live. You and your village will care for them. And when their wounds have healed you will drive them away to live in the forest like snakes, crawling on the earth so all will know them for the evil animals that they are. And people will come from all around and piss on them and spit on them and curse them. You will send forth people from the village to tell all what happened here. Tell them and make them understand. If any more children are harmed then I will come for them. Do you understand?’
And the headman nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes Popobawa, I understand…
…Garrett stared at the empty brandy bottle in his hand. They had understood. But now, here, in the real world, not some stinking jungle, once again someone had harmed the children. And Popobawa was going to pay him a visit.
***
Garrett woke up. Still on the sofa. Mouth gummy. A head that felt constricted by steel bands. The smell of brandy in his pores.
Opposite him sat Petrus. Smoking. A wry grin on his face.
‘Hey, you look like a rat that drowned in the beer pot.’
Garrett fumbled for his cigarettes. Tapped the pack. Empty. An imploring look at Petrus who offered from his pack. Garrett accepted. Lit. Deep inhalation.
‘How long you been here?’
‘Not long. Twenty minutes or so.’
Garrett pointed at the alarm pad by the door. ‘And that?’
Petrus laughed. ‘I don’t usually let things like that bother me. So, what’s up? Tell.’
And Garrett told Petrus everything, pausing only to slot one of the DVD’s into the player in the sitting room. After, Petrus sat silent. And then.
‘Okay. So when are we going to kill this fucker?’
Garrett smiled. A humorless deaths head grimace.
‘Soon, my friend. Soon.’
Chapter 18
Garrett knew the doctor’s name, he knew what he looked like and he knew where he worked. But now was the time for patience. Subtlety. This was not a man living on the fringes of society. On the edge of legality. No, this was
a respected doctor. A surgeon. And, unlike the other hits that Garrett had instituted, this would attract much more attention from the law. Garrett was going to use that fact to his advantage.
The first thing that he and Petrus did was to visit the hospital where the doctor worked. A middle sized private hospital. Very different from the National Health piles that Garrett was used to. Wall to wall carpeting, pastel colors and tasteful paintings as opposed to ragged vinyl, institutional phlegm-green and dirty handprints. He went to the reception area and asked if doctor Jakobs was in. One of the receptionists checked her computer.
‘I’m sorry, sir but mister Jakobs is in surgery at the moment. Actually he’ll be in theatre all day. Scheduled to finish this afternoon. Two thirty.’
Garrett cocked an eyebrow. ‘Mister?’
‘Yes, sir. Surgeons are misters. GP’s are doctors. Would you like to leave him a message?’
‘No thanks. I’ll try again later.’
Garrett walked back to the car where Petrus was waiting.
‘He’s here. If we come back at two and wait we can follow him, see where he lives.’
‘Okay, Isosha. Why don’t we get something to eat?’
‘Cool. Also, I need a hardware store.’
‘You drive, I’ll direct.’
Garrett turned right out of the hospital and then almost immediately left. They meandered through a myriad of walled townhouse complexes. Mostly Mediterranean style knockoffs in colors that architects refer to as Salmon or Savannah and normal people refer to as pink or yellow. Every now and then, in an effort to be different, someone had designed a neo-Georgian Bauhaus pastiche in blinding white. All angles and simple lines except for the front doors that were surrounded with elaborate porticos supported by decorative pilasters. A horrific blend of styles that made no sense apart from screaming out, look at me, I cost a fortune. Lifestyles of the rich and tasteless.
Small shopping centers consisting mainly of restaurants and bars, more townhouses and then a huge mall. Petrus directed Garrett into one of the massive parking areas. They locked the Jeep and hiked to the entrance.
Petrus went to buy some food and Garrett spent some time in the hardware store. They met back at the Jeep. The two of them sat in the car with the doors open and ate the food that Petrus had purchased. Samoosas, filled with spicy lamb mince. Half a dozen bottles of lurid orange pop to wash it down. Afterwards they lit up and Garrett put the contents of his hardware bag into his pockets. A pack of nylon cable ties and a tube of superglue.
They had a couple of hours to kill before they went back to the hospital and they spent them in repose. Sitting idly in the car, smoking. Talking, but not much. The radio on in the background. Talk radio. Was breast-feeding in public acceptable? Bored housewives, receptionists sneaking a quick call at work, social workers, the odd student and of course the obligatory talk radio nut squad. Professional antagonists that kept the show alive and kicking. Garrett listened with amusement, Petrus with ill concealed irritation.
Garrett started the Jeep and they drove back to the hospital, parking on the road outside where they had a good view of the exit. It wasn’t long before the doctor drove out, BMW M5, Raybans, hair slicked back exposing ears like wing nuts. He drove fast. Confidently. Garrett struggled to keep up. Fortunately he did not go far, pulling into one of the ubiquitous walled complexes. Armed guards at the gate. He showed his pass and drove in. Garrett waited outside.
‘Shit. What now.’
Petrus laughed. ‘No problem. How much cash you got on you?’
‘Lots. Thousands.’
‘Give me five hundred.’ Garrett shifted in his seat, unzipped the top of his money belt and stripped out some notes. Handed them to Petrus.
‘Cool. Now drive up.’
Garrett approached the gate. The guard held up a hand. Petrus hit the button and his window slid down. He beckoned. They spoke. Zulu. Voices low and urgent. Petrus turned towards Garrett.
‘Another two hundred.’
The soldier complied. Petrus and the guard shook hands.
Petrus wound his window up. ‘Drive through. Then go left. He’s at number twenty-six on the right hand side. He lives alone, no family. Uses a maid service so no one else at home.’
‘The guard was helpful.’
Petrus nodded. ‘Money well spent. There, pull in.’
Garrett turned the Jeep into the driveway at number twenty-six. Behind the BMW.
‘So’, continued Petrus. ‘What’s the plan?’
‘No plan. We go in. We explain things nicely to him. We leave. He never touches a child again for the rest of his life.’
‘Nice. Simple.’
The two men climbed out of the 4x4 and walked up to the door. The steel blade of the machete lay against Garrett’s back. Cold against the furnace of his anger. He rang the bell. After a short while the doctor came to the door.
‘Hello. Can I help?’ Expression concerned. A correct bedside manner. Lips almost smiling. Helpful.
Garrett punched him in the mouth snapping his two front teeth off at the roots and smashing him back into the house. Both he and Petrus hurried in, closing the door behind them. Garrett bent over the prostate doctor.
‘Right, listen. You make a noise, any noise and I will break your neck. Understand?’
The man nodded. Garrett pulled him up by his shirtfront and dragged him down the corridor. The house was a large double volume open plan affair. Sitting area, dining area, freestanding bar. White tiles on the floor. Pastel curtains.
Garrett pulled out one of the dining chairs and slammed him down onto it.
The doctor whimpered. ‘What do you want?’
Garrett ignored him, looking around for the phone. Found it. A table in the corner. Portable. He picked it up and put it on the dining room table. And then he stared at the doctor. The doctor that had raped the children. The doctor that had murdered the children. The doctor that had filmed himself doing it.
‘Please,’ the doctor begged. ‘I have credit cards. I’ll give you the pin numbers. You can draw money from the ATM.’
‘We’re not here for money.’
‘What then?’ Genuinely puzzled.
‘We are here because of the children.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Garrett pulled one of the DVDs from his pocket and placed it on the dining room table.
The murderer went white as the color drained from his face.
‘Oh Jesus. I…it wasn’t. I…they made me do it. Yes, they made me do it. Please, I’m as much a victim as the children.’
Garrett pulled the machete from his belt.
‘Oh God, please. I’m sick. You can’t, I’m sick. That’s why I did it. It’s a disease; I’ll go for therapy. Oh God. Please don’t kill me.’
Garrett shook his head. ‘We aren’t going to kill you.’
The doctor stared at him, a flicker of hope in his eyes. ‘Not?’
‘No, but we heed to talk.’
‘Yes, yes. Talk. Of course.’
‘How long does it take an ambulance to get here?’
The man stared at Garrett as if he were an alien. ‘What?’
‘It’s a simple question. If you phone your hospital for an ambulance, how long will it take to get here?’
He shook his head. Little drops of crimson detached from his pulped lips and scattered across the white tiles. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Guess.’
Twenty minutes. Maybe twenty five.’
Garrett looked at his watch. ‘Okay. So, who made you do it?’
‘Men. Bad men.’
‘Specifics, doctor. Specifics will keep you alive.’
‘There was an Englishman. Ex soldier of some sort. We did it at his place. In Hillbrow.’
‘And?’
‘A Nigerian. He always dressed in traditional clothes. A sort of kaftan thing.’
‘An agbada.’
‘Whatever. But we hardly spoke. Neither of them watched. The Brit wo
uld clear up afterwards. Keep prying eyes away. The Nigerian would take away the DVD. That’s all.’
‘Who paid you?’
‘No one. I did it for free.’
‘I need some names, Jakobs.’
‘I swear, I don’t know. The Nigerian lived in Hillbrow, I think. I think I heard him say that. Wait, his name was…not sure. A girl’s name. Val…Valerie?’
‘Doctor, you want to live, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well we need more than that.’
‘Please. I don’t know.’
‘What about others like you?’
The doctor shook his head. Garrett punched him again. Hard. His nose broke with an audible crack and blood spurted onto the pristine white tiles. He flipped over backwards onto the floor. Garrett dragged him up. Placed him back on the seat.
‘Talk to me.’
‘We contact each other over the net. Through unrelated websites. We use code. No one knows who the other person is. Not even what country they’re in.’
Garrett stared at the doctor for a while and then he pulled the cable ties from his pocket and threw them at him. He made no effort to catch them. They fell to the floor. ‘Pick them up.’
The doctor did so. Clumsily. Fear fumbling fingers.
‘Are you left or right handed?’
‘What?’
‘Fuck it. It doesn’t matter. Put one around each wrist. Pull them as tight as you can.’
Again the baffled look. ‘What?’
Garrett stepped forward and slapped him. Hard, knocking him onto the floor. ‘Get up and do it.’
The doctor crawled up onto the chair and tore the packet open. Black cable ties spilled out. He put one around each wrist. Pulled tight.
‘Tighter,’ commanded Garrett.
He pulled tighter. Puffing as did so. Blood dripping steadily from his ruined mouth, his pulped nose.
‘Please, I’ve told you all I know. You said that you wouldn’t kill me. Please.’
Garrett picked up the phone.
‘What’s the telephone number for the hospital?’
Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Page 16
