A bored passport officer flicked through the proffered green passport, checked his entry visa and stamped it. He looked as if he were about to fall asleep. No questions were asked. Not even the standard, ‘business or pleasure’. The Zulu nodded his thanks and continued on to the luggage retrieval area.
He picked up his luggage at the carousel, a battered olive green military issue rucksack. The fasteners had been padlocked with cheap but heavy cast iron locks and the carry straps had been replaced at some stage with two, wide hand-tooled leather straps. Various rents and tears in the canvas had been roughly stitched with thick Dacron twine. Patches had been cobbled over a row of punctures that looked suspiciously like bullet holes. Frankensteinian surgery. A resurrection of something that should have been long dead.
The backpack was almost as scarred as its owner.
He walked unchecked through the customs area, following the ‘nothing-to-declare’ route and past the arrival gates into the main terminal, scanning the waiting crowd as he did so.
The man that he was looking for stood out easily. Slightly over six feet tall, long black hair that curled down to his shoulders. Three or four day’s growth of beard. Deep set eyes, as green as a lover’s grave. A long length brown leather Barbour coat. Military issue boots. Jeans. Broad shoulders tapering down to narrow hips.
Although the terminal was thronging with people, there was a small area of calm about the man with the green eyes. As if a force shield kept all at least two or three feet away from him. A shark surrounded by sardines.
The Zulu walked up to the man with the green eyes.
‘Garrett,’ he said.
‘Petrus,’ responded the man.
They both burst out laughing and hugged each other roughly, banging each other on the back.
Garrett led the way to the car park and the two of them chatted away like a pair of schoolboys after a summer break. When they reached the Land Rover, Petrus threw his old rucksack onto the back seat and then they pulled off, stopping at the exit to pay.
Garrett drove down Glasgow road heading for the M90, lights on and average speed down in the crowded traffic.
The heater blasted out hot air, fighting the frigid winter morning, warming the cab to an acceptable temperature. But when they hit the highway Petrus opened his window, allowing a tide of arctic air into the cab, dropping the temperature to below freezing in an instant.
‘Hey,’ complained Garrett.
Petrus took a deep breath. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I had to smell the land. I’ve been locked inside a tin can for a whole night and then straight into the car. I feel like I’ve been buried alive.’ He dragged more of the cold air into his lungs and then sighed. ‘That’s better,’ he said as he wound the window up and settled back into his seat again.
They drove on for another half an hour and then a gas station hove into view on the side of the freeway. Garrett glanced at his gas tank and decided to pull in and fill up.
The two of them went into the kiosk to pay and, at the same time Garrett purchased two black coffees. Petrus went to the self serve counter and ladled six spoons of sugar into his cup before he took a sip.
‘Gas is expensive here,’ he noted as he watched Garrett hand over a wad of notes.
‘More than double South Africa, but I suppose it’s all relative,’ said Garrett.
‘Relative to what?’
Garrett shrugged. ‘Actually I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘But isn’t that what everyone says?’
Petrus laughed and followed his friend back to the car. He glanced at his watch. ‘Nine o’clock and the sun is just coming up.’
‘Yep,’ agreed Garrett. ‘Enjoy it while you can. It goes down at half past three.’
‘Will it get any warmer?’
Garrett shook his head. ‘Colder, actually.’
Petrus sighed. ‘Oh well,’ he said. ‘At least no one is shooting at us.’
They both burst out laughing.
The trip took a little under four hours and, by the time they cruised into the main gates of the laird’s estate the sun was already low in the sky, squinting embarrassedly through the thick cloud cover.
Garrett turned off the sweeping driveway before he got to the main house and took a smaller narrow track for almost half a mile, eventually pulling up outside a thatched stone cottage.
‘My house,’ said Garrett.
Petrus grabbed his rucksack and followed Garrett into the cottage. It was a small, single room abode. A rudimentary kitchen area ran down the one wall, wood burning stove, a butler sink, running water a small refrigerator and a few cupboards.
On the opposite wall a large fireplace that had already been laid. Four small shuttered windows, a single bed, opposite was a new camp bed for Petrus.
Two old leather armchairs were situated on each side of a low teak coffee table. An outside bookcase on the one wall, packed with books as diverse as Shakespeare, beat author Jack Kerouac and the Garfield’s Fat Cat three pack by Jim Davis. Petrus found Shakespeare to be obtuse and Kerouac pretentious. He liked the cat.
The Zulu approved. It was a man’s dwelling, no fripperies or false finery. He threw his rucksack onto the camp bed and then started to undo the straps while Garrett put flame to the fire.
Petrus opened his pack and pulled out a few items. ‘Here,’ he said to Garrett. ‘I brought you some cigars at duty free. Cuban.’ He handed over a box of twenty five Esplendidos.
Garrett grinned. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘These are great.’
‘Also, I brought this,’ said Petrus. ‘You forgot it when you last left.’ He pulled out a large machete. It was sheathed in a shoulder holster that had been converted to accommodate the long blade. ‘I also brought my assegai,’ continued Petrus as he drew his lethal short spear from his pack. The eighteen inch blade and short handle just fitted in the rucksack, packed in from corner to corner.
‘Jesus,’ said Garrett. ‘How did you get this stuff through customs?’
Petrus shrugged. ‘No one asked if I was carrying a spear and a machete, so I didn’t tell them.’
‘Well you were lucky.’
‘Got anything to drink?’ Asked Petrus.
‘Loads, but I thought that we could go and meet the laird first.’
Petrus pulled a face. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Tonight we smoke cigars, sit by the fire, drink brandy and talk. Tomorrow we do the whole meet and greet thing.’
Garrett smiled and nodded. ‘Right. Tomorrow.’
And so they settled in beside the fire and talked deep into the night. Drinking cognac, smoking the Esplendidos and discussing past and future happenings. Communicating in half sentences and in jokes, as only close friends could. Teasing and insulting and complimenting in equal measures.
Eventually the fire burned low and they both crawled into their respective beds and found sleep.
Chapter 2
Garrett touched Petrus on the shoulder and the Zulu came instantly awake, his right hand reaching for his assegai.
‘It’s me,’ said Garrett. ‘Time to rise and shine.’ He thrust a mug of black coffee into Petrus’ hands.
The Zulu took a noisy sip. ‘What time is it?’
‘Seven o’clock.’
‘It’s still pitch black outside,’ observed Petrus.
‘Until almost ten o’clock,’ said Garrett.
‘What’s for breakfast?’
‘We’ll be eating with the laird,’ answered Garrett. ‘So I’m not sure what we’ll get but there will be lots.’
After Petrus had risen and performed the three S’s, shit, shower and shave, the two of them climbed into the Land Rover and drove to the main house. As they approached, the huge gray stone edifice loomed out of the slowly gathering light. A building as stolid and ugly as it was imposing. A massive brooding testament to Edwardian era wealth.
Garrett pulled up to the back of the house and they entered via a side entrance.
‘Servants entrance,’ quipped Petrus.
Ga
rrett shook his head. ‘No, the family use this entrance. The front door is simply too huge and it’s far away from all the rooms that they use to live in. Kitchen, drawing rooms and so on. The front of the house is all entrance hall and ballroom and formal dining area.’
Petrus followed Garrett through a maze of corridors and into a large dining area. A twenty seat table dominated the center of the room. High ceilings, large arched windows, deep pile maroon carpets and wood paneled walls. Along the one wall stood a heavy sideboard, on it an array of silver food cloches covered a variety of serving platters. Alongside them stood dewed glass jugs of freshly squeezed fruit juices as well as two tea pots and a Bunn flask of coffee.
Next to the buffet stood a man. A similar height to Garrett, gray messy collar length hair, an unlit pipe clenched between his teeth. He wore a kilt, white shirt and tweed jacket. Booted feet. Long faced with large ears and a prominent nose. He looked up at the two friends as they approached and his face lit up with a smile.
Garrett turned to Petrus and said. ‘Petrus, may I introduce The Much Honored, Brody Macaslan, Laird of Braegorm.’
Petrus bowed deeply. ‘I greet you, Inkosi,’ he said, using the traditional Zulu word for Lord or Chief.
‘Braegorm,’ continued Garrett, addressing the laird correctly by his territorial designation, as opposed to his name. ‘May I introduce to you, inkosana Dinangwe, known also as Petrus Sizwe Dlamini, eldest son of chief Dlamini of Drummond, the Valley of a Thousand Hills.’
The laird bowed back. ‘Splendid,’ he said as he shook Petrus’ hand, struggling momentarily as the Zulu shook in the African way, reversing his grip halfway through and then changing back. ‘Well now that’s over with,’ continued the laird. ‘Please call me Brody,’
The Zulu smiled. ‘Please call me Petrus,’ he countered.
‘Good,’ said Brody as he clapped his hands together. ‘Now, let’s eat. The rest of the guests tend to sleep in so we may as well start without them, heaven knows when the blighters will actually deign to turn up.’
Petrus needed no encouragement as he grabbed a plate and started to lift the silver cloches and help himself to a variety of breakfast foods. Then, one hand holding a plate piled high with sausage, devilled kidney, bacon, gammon, fried eggs and black pudding, and the other carrying a mug of black coffee, he set himself down at the table.
Garrett followed with a more modest plateful of kedgeree and black pudding and a mug of black coffee.
The laird fixed himself a bowl of oat porridge with heaps of sugar and a large dash of Laphroaig whisky as opposed to milk.
As they started to eat a women entered the room. Small and pale, blonde hair cropped short, eyes outlined in thick coal, pink lips shiny with transparent gloss. She wore brown moleskin trousers, a cream linen blouse and ankle boots.
All three men stood up.
‘My dear,’ greeted the laird.
She nodded and then looked at Petrus.
The laird gestured towards the Zulu. ‘This is Prince Petrus Dlamini,’ he said. ‘Petrus, this is my granddaughter, Alicia.’
‘I’ve heard of you,’ she said, her voice surprisingly low and breathy. Like a forty a day smoker.
‘Good things, I hope,’ grinned Petrus.
She shook her head. ‘No.’
Petrus raised and eyebrow but said nothing in return, instead he simply sat down and continued attacking his mountain of fried protein.
Alicia helped herself to a cup of tea. Milk no sugar. She sat down at the far end of the table and stared out of the window while the men finished their food, then she lit a cigarette.
‘Alicia, darling,’ said the laird. ‘Not at the breakfast table, please.’
Alicia stared at the laird for a while as she took another two puffs. And then she dropped the glowing butt into her tea. The laird winced as the water fizzed and a small swirl of smoke rose from the cup. Then he turned to Garrett.
‘My boy,’ he said. ‘There will be four of us for the shoot. Myself, Sir Rupert, Colonel Ruttington and Wilfred Willbourne. They’ve all got their own rifles so no problems there.’
Garrett nodded. ‘They do know that they will only be allowed to bag does, don’t they?’ Asked Garrett. ‘Shooting season for trophy bucks is finished.’
‘Told them,’ affirmed the laird. ‘The fellows simply want to get out in the open and take a few pot shots. Tell you what, let’s go to the gun room and select a couple of rifles for you and Petrus. We can discuss the shoot on the way.’
‘Garrett glanced at Petrus. ‘You coming?’ He asked.
‘I’ll take care of the prince,’ said Alicia. ‘Give him a tour of the old place, get him acclimatized.’
‘Splendid,’ exclaimed the laird as he left the room followed closely by Garrett.
Alicia lit another cigarette and stared at Petrus. The Zulu returned her gaze, calmly and without rancor and finally she dropped her eyes and stood up.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Follow me; I’ll give you the full guided tour.’
Petrus followed her as she left the dining room, casually flicking her ash onto the floor as she went.
‘That’s the breakfast or small dining room,’ she said as they exited. ‘The formal dining room is at the front of the house.’ They meandered down a vast corridor and she pointed out rooms as they walked past. ‘The top two floors are pretty much all bedrooms. I think about forty six or so. Library, drawing room, study, second kitchen.’
The list seemed endless and as Petrus walked about the mansion he noticed that, although some rooms were staggering in their display of opulence, others were literally falling apart with loose plaster on the walls and holes in the ceilings. An eclectic mix of prince and pauper.
‘We have over four thousand acres of land with a loch and twenty two miles of river frontage,’ continued Alicia as she lit another cigarette from the smoldering butt of her last one. ‘But I suppose that you’re used to all this sort of shit,’ she said. ‘What is your dad, some sort of African king?’
Petrus shook his head. ‘No. The king of the Zulus is King Goodwill Zwelithini kaBhekuzulu. My father is an Inkosi. A chief of the tribe.’
‘But you are a prince?’
‘Loosely speaking,’ agreed Petrus. ‘I am an inkosana. That translates to prince but it also means simply the eldest son of an Inkosi.’
‘So do you live in a palace?’
Petrus smiled. ‘My father has the second biggest house in the village. My mother, his first wife, has the biggest. My hut is no bigger than Garrett’s cottage. Smaller actually.’
‘But we have over sixty rooms here,’ stated Alicia. She sounded disappointed.
‘I can see that,’ admitted Petrus. ‘But you see, in Africa we have no need for such a multitude of rooms, many that simply sit and rot. We have not yet found a need for such rooms.’ Petrus was vaguely amused by the massive stately home but he managed to keep his grin to a minimum.
Alicia glowered at the Zulu.
‘I’m going back to my rooms,’ she said to Petrus. ‘I’m sure that you can show yourself out.’
Petrus nodded his goodbye as he watched her leave.
As she turned the corner at the end of the corridor she heard his deep chuckle reverberate through the hallway and she walked faster to escape the sound.
Chapter 3
Sir Rupert carried a Westley Richards .375 H&H rifle. He stood six feet five inches tall and probably weighed as much as a medium size fourteen year old boy. Garrett had met him before and found him to be a genuinely nice person, albeit a clichéd caricature of the quintessential English upper class twit. No chin, large nose and ears and bad teeth.
The colonel had a Banser .300 WSM, a good all purpose rifle that was well kept and well used. However, one look at the colonel’s eye glasses and it was obvious that shooting with him would most probably involve more luck than skill. Garrett had never seen such thick lenses before. They were the proverbial bottom-of-a-coke-bottle. And to compound his terrible sig
ht the colonel appeared to be almost totally deaf as well, causing him to bark his sentences at top volume whenever he spoke.
Wilfred Willbourne was the third guest and he sported a hand finished Holland & Holland 30-06 rifle with a Mauser action. A hunting rifle that most likely cost more than the average family home in the United Kingdom. He was a short man who stood tall, his flabby stomach bulging over his too-tight trousers and his chest filled his shirt as taut as a sausage-skin. Jaw aggressively thrust forward, slightly knock-kneed and a doughy face with bright red cheeks. He looked at both Garrett and Petrus with distain and, when introduced, deigned to shake Garrett’s proffered hand.
Petrus had declined a rifle, claiming that he couldn’t be bothered to carry a weapon on his holidays.
They had used the Land Rover to get past the loch and into the interior of the estate, amongst the foothills of the surrounding mountains. An area that literally teemed with both Roe and Red deer.
When they all climbed out of the car, the colonel beckoned to Garrett.
‘I say, chap, I wonder if your Askari could carry my rifle?’ He bellowed, pointing at Petrus. ‘Got a touch of arthritis in the shoulder and it’s playing up a bit.’
Garrett’s face immediately assumed a thunderous expression, but before he could say anything Petrus ran over, came to attention in front of the colonel and saluted.
‘Me be honored to carry your rifle, Bwana,’ he said with a wide grin. ‘Me take top care of it Bwana colonel sir.’
The colonel handed his rifle over and Petrus saluted again and slung the strap over his shoulder.
‘You’re not funny, you know,’ whispered Garrett to his friend.
‘Well I had to do something before you lashed out at the old bugger.’
‘He’s a racist prick,’ continued Garrett.
Petrus shook his head. ‘No he’s not. He’s just old and ignorant.’
Willbourne strode over to Petrus and held out his rifle. ‘There you go, chap,’ he said. ‘Might as well carry mine as well while you’re about it.’
Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Page 60
