Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

  ‘The doctor is gone. Petrus is coming back soon,’ continued the child. ‘My name is Sifiso. My mama is dead. So is my friend, the big man.’ He held out his can of Fanta. ‘Do you want some?’

  Garrett shook his head. ‘No thanks, Sifiso.’ He pulled on his shirt and then extracted a pack from the pocket. Picked one. Lit. Sat down on the edge of the bed.

  Sifiso kept staring at him. It was disconcerting.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Asked the boy.

  ‘I got shot.’

  ‘Are you going to die?’

  Garrett smiled. ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Good.’

  Garrett glanced at his watch.

  ‘I can tell the time,’ said Sifiso.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No. I don’t have a watch. But if I did have a watch I think that I would be able to tell the time.’

  He went over to the chair. Sat down, swinging his legs.

  ‘I’m sorry about your mama,’ said Garrett. ‘And the big man.’

  Sifiso shrugged. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  Garrett lent over and laid his hand on Sifiso’s shoulder. An attempt to convey his feelings. His debt to the big man. His sorrow that this orphaned child’s only protector had died saving him. Sifiso’s bones felt like a bundle of twigs. Fragile. Vulnerable.

  The little boy smiled at him and then concentrated on sucking the last drops of Fanta pop out of the can.

  The door opened and Petrus walked in. He was carrying a large tote bag that he dumped on the floor. There was a metallic clink as he did so.

  ‘Feeling better?’

  Garrett shrugged. ‘Better than what?’

  Petrus laughed. ‘I’ve made a plan for Sifiso. He’s going to my father’s village. They’ll take care of him. We need to give him a lift to Ladysmith. It’s a few hours from here. Someone will pick him up there. We’ll meet them outside a convenience store called Christina’s. It’s on the main drag.’

  The three of them trooped out of the dwelling. They didn’t lock the door. Petrus carried the bag with him, bundled it onto the back seat of the cab next to Sifiso.

  They pulled off, stopping just outside the city to fill up with gas and to buy some cigarettes and food. Sifiso slept for most of the way, waking up every now and then to point at something next to the road and voice his opinion.

  ‘Look. Mountains. I’ve never been on a mountain,’ or ‘Cows. Many cows. Also sheep. See?’ Garrett or Petrus would grunt in return and then Sifiso, happy to get a response would go back to sleep for a while.

  When they arrived at the rendezvous point they were met by two Zulu men and a woman. Petrus had a brief chat and then Sifiso was transferred to their car. An old, mustard yellow Ford Cortina. As they drove off Sifiso waved at them through the back window until they were out of sight.

  Chapter 23

  Despite his casual attitude towards Manhattan Dengana, colonel Zuzani had been hard at work since he had left Dengana’s office. He had leaned firmly on a few of his local informers and had learnt that Petrus had last been seen leaving Alexandra in a white pick-up with another two people inside. A white man and a small child.

  He phoned major Goso who was in charge of highway patrols and asked him to put out an APB but not to arrest anyone. Simply tell Zuzani of their whereabouts.

  He didn’t have to wait long. The pick-up had been spotted on its way back to Johannesburg without the child on board.

  Zuzani picked up his desk phone and pushed the intercom button. Sergeant Fumba answered.

  ‘Sergeant. Organize a roadblock on the N3 highway. Put it on the stretch of road just past the Suikerbosrant River. We’ll stop them before they get to Heidelberg. Take the Casspir and twenty men. Try to take Petrus alive. Do what you want to the whitey. Move.’

  Fumba ran downstairs, talking on his cell as he did. Issuing orders. It would take around forty minutes to get to the area and twenty to round up the men. It would be close but they would make it.

  ***

  The sun was setting. Heat rose off the blacktop in shimmers, bending the light cast by the lowering sun. Mirages of red and scarlet djinns danced across the road. Patches of faux water appeared and disappeared in front of them as they drove. Illusions of moisture in a landscape of dust.

  Petrus wound his window down and blasted himself with fresh air.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘It’s over. Freedom is safe. The family is safe. We’re alive. Maybe you book into a hotel for a few days, let the stitches take. Then, time for you to go home.’

  Garrett grunted his agreement.

  ‘Don’t sound so happy,’ teased Petrus.

  ‘I’m happy,’ replied Garrett. ‘I was just thinking, every time that I see you I get shot. Maybe next time you come to Scotland. It’s safer there.’

  ‘Nowhere is safe with you,’ said Petrus.

  And then, out of the mirages, loomed a huge armored vehicle parked across the highway. It was painted in the yellow and blue livery of the South Africa police force. Standing next to it were at least twenty well-armed men in full combat gear.

  There was very little other traffic on the road and the few cars that were in front of the pick-up were waved around the armored vehicle without inspection. However, as Petrus approached the armed men all trained their rifles on the pick-up and a man, sporting captain’s pips, held up his hand, commanding them to halt.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ said Petrus. ‘This is trouble.’

  Without hesitation he rammed his foot flat on the gas and yanked the steering wheel hard right. The pick-up leapt forward and ramped off the side of the highway into the surrounding veld. Petrus kept his foot down and the pick-up jumped and bucked across the open scrubland.

  Behind them the men opened up but the bullets flew wide. Almost as if they weren’t trying to hit them. Petrus glanced in his rear view mirror. The Casspir armored vehicle had pulled off the road and was in hot pursuit. This didn’t bother Petrus much, as long as the terrain didn’t get too rough then he had the edge on speed. As long as they didn’t break down or come across any impassable obstacle.

  ‘Why are we running?’ Asked Garrett. ‘Maybe it was just a routine roadblock.’

  ‘No way,’ answered Petrus. ‘Firstly, there are almost no routine roadblocks any more. The cops would rather sit around doing fuck-all. And, secondly, they were looking for us. They didn’t even glance at the other cars but as soon as we showed up the captain got all excited. I’m telling you, we’re in shit with the cops somehow. This is not good.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘Well, we have shot up a few people.’

  ‘Granted, but they were as illegal as us. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Can’t think now. Gotta drive.’

  Petrus concentrated and kept going. After twenty minutes they came across a dirt road leading to nowhere. He pulled onto it and within another ten minutes they had lost the Casspir completely.

  Petrus slowed down to less breakneck speed.

  Garrett lit a couple of cigarettes. Passed one over. ‘They weren’t trying to kill us,’ he said.

  ‘You think?’

  ‘For sure. They had a 7.62 machinegun mounted on their vehicle. If they’d opened up with that…well, goodnight sweet prince.’

  ‘True. So how does that help us?’

  ‘Well, why would they want us alive?’

  Petrus thought for a while. ‘Shit. The Prophet. He’s behind this. Must be. He wants the weapons cache and figures that we’re the only way to it. There’s no way that he would take on my father and his impi so he’s gunning for us.’

  Garrett shook his head. ‘No. As I said before, doesn’t make sense. I mean, let’s look at this logically. A group of black policemen hunting us down on behalf of a group of white supremacists in order to capture us so that the supremacists can get hold of a shitload of weapons. No way.’

  They drove in silence for a while.

 
‘Where are we going?’ Asked Garrett.

  ‘Back to Alexandra,’ answered Petrus.

  ‘Not sure if we’ll be safe there,’ said Garrett. ‘Any chance of hanging out at your father’s place for a while until we sort this out?’

  Petrus shook his head. ‘As you may remember from the last time, I’m not my father’s favorite person. He’ll simply escort us to his borders and then we’re fucked. No, we go back to Alexandra. Hide out in the middle. Cops aren’t welcomed there. We’ll be safe. Maybe.’

  Maybe?’

  ‘Maybe,’ confirmed Petrus.

  ‘Great,’ sighed Garrett.

  Chapter 24

  Manhattan put the phone down. He couldn’t believe it. Somehow that idiot, sergeant Fumba, had managed to lose Petrus Dlamini and the white man. A squad car had seen the pick-up heading towards the Alexandra Township and Zuzani was rallying his forces for a second attempt at capturing the two fugitives.

  Dengana massaged his temples with both hands and sighed long and loud. Then he looked up at the man who was standing opposite his desk. Isaac Peterson stood at ease. A military posture. His gaze on some point above Manhattan’s head.

  ‘Isaac, I want you to contact Pete Vermulen. Tell him to bring four of his best men here.’ Dengana flicked a note page across his desk. On it an address of a building supply company in Krugersdorp. Yet another of the many businesses that he owned. ‘Take these as well,’ he threw a set of car keys. Isaac caught them. ‘Downstairs, right of the front door there’s a blue panel van. In the back are five CR-21 assault rifles, three thousand rounds of ammunition and fifteen extra magazines. I want you to give them to mister Vermulen. Tell him that they are on loan from his benefactor. Then tell him that Petrus Dlamini is hiding out in Alexandra. He needs to take him alive so that we can get the arms cache. Don’t tell him about colonel Zuzani. We can still do this. Go.’

  Isaac jogged off without question. The perfect messenger.

  ***

  Petrus pulled over to the side of the road on the outskirts of Alexandra and killed the lights.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We walk from here.’ He grabbed the tote bag from the back seat, leaving the keys in the ignition. The two of them set off, the Zulu in the lead. ‘They’ll be looking for the pick-up,’ he continued. ‘With the keys there it’ll be gone inside the hour.’

  They walked down Arkwright Avenue. Above them yellow sodium streetlights hissed and buzzed. Perhaps one in every three working. The air was thick with smoke, acrid and heavy. Rising from over ten thousand cooking fires. Not only coal or wood but anything that burnt. Tires, old rags, plastic containers. The sodium lights washed the smog with bile. The color of disease.

  Petrus took a right turn. Walking in between shacks. Weaving his way toward the top end of the township. There were no overhead lights here. Only the fires and the smoke. Shadows of people flickered around the fires. A strange mixture of two bedroom houses, falling to ruin and corrugated iron and cardboard shacks leaning up against them. Covering almost every available piece of ground save for a small cooking area outside each one.

  A long row of chemical toilets loomed out of the smog. All of them had overflowed and raw human waste had formed a gross, seething pool around them. The stench from them was eye-watering, bludgeoning the smell of the smoke and assailing the nostrils of anyone close.

  Petrus continued. Eventually they came to a large red brick building. A long four-story block, its ends invisible in the smoke. It looked like a prison block.

  ‘We’ll be safe here,’ said the Zulu.

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘It’s a hostel. Back in the days of apartheid the government built single-sex hostels for the migrant laborers. This one is controlled by the Zulus. Okay, take my lead, don’t talk unless I tell you to. These places are bad news.’

  ‘So why are we going in?’

  ‘Because they hate the cops. Right, before we go in.’

  Petrus lay the tote bag on the ground and unzipped it. He passed Garrett his machete and shoulder holster. Garrett took off his jacket, slipped the holster on and replaced his jacket. Petrus did the same with his assegai. Then he pulled out a CR-21 assault rifle and the Protecta shotgun. He handed the rifle, two extra magazines and five boxes of ammunition to Garrett.

  Garrett loaded the two extra magazines and tucked them into his belt. Then he distributed the rest of the ammo around his pockets, trying to even out the weight. Finally he checked his magazine was seated properly, racked a round into the chamber and drew a deep breath. Compartmentalizing his pain. Wrapping in a ball and burying it deep inside. Not merely ignoring it, actually causing its cessation. It was a great skill, but it took energy. And it could only be maintained for short periods of time.

  They stood up and walked towards the entrance, leaving the empty bag where it was. They walked into the front lobby of the building. Inside were a group of five young men. They wore cheap Chinese knock-off Adidas, fake Rolex watches, ropes of gold-plated jewelry. They were all visibly armed. Shoulder holsters worn ostentatiously on the outside of their jackets. Each firearm was different; the only similarity was the bling. Some were chromed, others gold plated. Beaver tails, carbon fiber grips, laser sites and compensators abounded. Pimp my pistol. They all wore Ray-Ban Aviators.

  They were involved in an animated conversation that drew to a swift close when Petrus and Garrett walked in, openly carrying an assault rifle and a semi-automatic shotgun.

  Petrus took control. ‘Hey,’ he pointed at one of the men. ‘You, we are here to see Fat Man. Go and tell him.’

  ‘Why? Who are you to tell me what to do?’ Said the young man, deciding to show a bit of bravado in front of his friends.

  Petrus smiled. A shark exposing its teeth to a clown fish. ‘I am Petrus Dlamini, son of chief Dlamini. Why, who are you?’

  The man held up his hands and shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter who I am, I am sorry. I’ll go and find Fat Man now. Please wait.’

  He scuttled off.

  ‘Nice to find such well mannered young men isn’t it?’ Asked Petrus of Garrett.

  ‘Very nice,’ agreed Garrett. ‘It warms the heart.’

  ‘Petrus nodded. ‘Perhaps I won’t kill him when he gets back. Perhaps.’ He winked at Garrett.

  ‘See how you feel,’ said Garrett. ‘No need to rush the decision.’

  The rest of the young men had huddled together in the corner of the lobby. The room was banter free, the lively conversation replaced with a fear-filled silence. Respect.

  After a short while the messenger came running into the room. ‘Please come with me, Fat Man will see you now.’

  They followed him along the badly lit corridor. The air was full of smoke and smelled strongly of marijuana and stale beer. They could hear mumbled conversations behind the doors that they passed. At the end of the corridor was another door. Two men stood in front of it. These were not the Hollywood-style bad boys from the lobby; these two men were the real deal. Lean faced, grizzled and wearing simple dark clothes. One carried a sawn-off pump action shotgun and the other an old AK47.

  The one with the AK held his hand up while the shotgun carrier covered them.

  ‘Wait. Leave you weapons out here.’

  ‘Your mother,’ countered Petrus.

  ‘No one sees Fat Man armed.’

  ‘I do.’

  The man shook his head.

  ‘Right,’ said Petrus. ‘We can do this two ways, one, go and ask Fat Man or, two, I’ll just go in, you’ll try to stop me and then Fat Man sends someone to look for some new bodyguards.’

  Garrett surreptitiously slipped the safety off the CR-21. But the sound was louder than he thought and both sets of bodyguard’s eyes swiveled nervously towards him.

  ‘Okay,’ said the bodyguard with the AK. ‘Wait and I’ll ask. Stand there.’

  He opened the door and stuck his head around. There was a hurried conversation, sotto voce. He pulled his head back, looking sheepish. ‘Sorry
, mister Dlamini, sir. I didn’t know that it was you. Please go in.’

  Petrus went in first followed by Garrett. The bodyguards stayed outside.

  The room wasn’t large. It had been converted from three studio apartments, all the walls taken down to provide one open plan area. The windows had been bricked up, leaving only small slits. Gun ports.

  A seventy-two inch plasma television graced the one wall and the lighting was provided from at least twenty lava-lamps in red and blue. The furniture all black leather and chrome. A bad 1960s sci-fi set.

  And seated on the one double sofa was the biggest man that Garrett had ever seen. Perhaps slightly over normal height but his breadth took up the entire sofa. Garrett estimated him to be North of 700 pounds. It was obvious why he was called Fat Man.

  He stood up off the sofa and walked towards Petrus, his arms out. They met and Fat Man gave Petrus a huge bear hug. He made the six foot two hundred pound warrior look like an emaciated child.

  Petrus introduced him. Fat man, this is Garrett. A good friend. Garrett, Fat Man.’

  Fat Man shook Garrett’s hand.

  ‘Hello, friend of Petrus,’ he said. His voice was light and high. Almost falsetto. A seven hundred pound Michael Jackson. ‘So, come. Sit down. Tell me what’s happening.’

  They arranged themselves on the leather sofas. Now that Garrett was closer he could see that the Fat Man’s sofa had been reinforced with two-inch rolled steel joists, welded together and then bolted to the original frame. Even so, the entire structure flexed and groaned when he sat down.

  ‘You guys hungry?’ He asked. ‘I’m getting some chow in, I’ll get extra.’

  Petrus nodded. ‘Thanks Fat Man.’

  Fat Man gestured to Garrett. ‘Friend of Petrus, call one of the doormen in, please.’

  Garrett went to the door, opened it and asked one of the guards to come in.

  ‘Ah, Chester. Send some boys to get take away. Kentucky fried chicken. Tell them, five family feast buckets, ten extra fries, ten tubs of coleslaw and ketchup.’ He turned to Petrus. ‘You like fried chicken?’