“We’ll get the paperwork started,” I said.
“Details later, Freddy,” said the colonel. “Don’t be tedious now.”
“Of course not,” I said.
“You and Roelof should get together,” suggested Piet. “You have a lot in common.” Hendrik gave a homophobic guffaw. “What do you say, Rudi? You and Freddy put your heads together in the morning.”
Roelof looked up at me. His eyes were pale and withdrawn behind the circular lenses of his spectacles. His head made a nod that was like a nervous tic.
“In the morning,” he said, “of course, boss. In the morning.” He gave me the kind of look I imagined duellists exchanged after throwing down their gauntlets.
“And then we’ll take a look at your box of tricks,” said Piet. “What do you say we take a drive? You up for that? Just you and me, Billy.”
“A drive?” said Billy.
“To see the animals, and we’ll look at your samples.”
“Yes, of course,” said Billy. “I’d love to see the animals.”
Billy directed an anxious look at Colonel Colchester. He wouldn’t know which way to point the weapons we’d brought with us, let alone how to fire them. Colonel Colchester smiled, but I could see the same concern forming behind his grey eyes.
The lounge suite that connected Freddy Moss’s room to that of Colonel Colchester gave access to a stone-paved terrace from which I could see the Milky Way stretching over the wild African bush, and could hear the mysterious calls of the night animals as I allowed myself a final cigarette.
“I’m not drunk,” said Melissa. She appeared from the darkness at the far end of the terrace like a wraith in a white silk nightgown, her long hair tied up on top of her head so it looked like a small fountain.
“I didn’t say you were,” I said.
“Hendrik did,” she said. “But now he’s passed out and look who’s left standing.” She floated down the terrace towards me. “Do you have one for me?”
“I didn’t think you smoked.”
“I don’t,” she said and drifted to a stop beside the low-slung chair I was sitting in. The hand that wasn’t holding my cigarette was lying on the armrest, and I discovered that it was just a few millimetres below the hem of her nightgown when the skin of her upper thigh brushed against my fingers.
“This is my last, but we could bounce it,” I suggested.
“I’d enjoy that,” she said, and reached over to take the proffered cigarette. She inhaled delicately and her legs shifted position so she could better look me in the eye. She didn’t exhale, but the smoke drifted out when she laughed at me.
“You’re such a prude,” she said.
“Be a good girl and don’t do that, will you?” I asked.
“Am I distracting you?”
“I’m thinking of the drive back to the airfield tomorrow. With your fiancé.”
“He’s sleeping,” she said.
“Nevertheless,” I said, “I wouldn’t like to discover how bad tempered he might get if indigestion wakes him up.”
“‘Never-the-less’,” she sang in a mock imitation of my accent. “I’ve never known a man who says that. I don’t even like men who say that.”
“That’s probably for the best.”
“You’re not my type,” she said, “not at all. But I look at you and this happens to me. Do you want to feel?”
“I would really rather not. Why don’t you keep that cigarette? I’ll see if there’s another packet inside.”
When I came back onto the terrace Melissa had taken a chair and was sitting in it with the cigarette forgotten in her hand, gazing out over the bush. The moon was rising, and the trees were getting themselves fitted with silver outlines. Melissa’s face was damp, and her eyes were dripping moonlight onto her cheeks.
I lit another cigarette.
“It’s Hendrik,” said Melissa, as if answering a question I hadn’t asked. “He doesn’t treat me badly. I know he’s a monster sometimes, but he’s just a frightened little boy trying to prove himself to his father. A father who has ignored him all his life, has put him down and told him how stupid he is, how wrong he is. That’s why he turns into a monster. But it’s all bluff, it’s not who Hendrik really is. You know what Hendrik really wants?”
“I don’t,” I said, but it had been a rhetorical question.
“He wants his father to acknowledge him. He’s trying to prove himself worthy of being his son. Roelof likes to tease him that he isn’t even Oom Piet’s real son. Did you know his mother was a prostitute?”
“I didn’t know that.”
“They keep very quiet about it. Hendrik’s little secret. He lived with his mother until she died, then Piet took him in. Roelof says Oom Piet isn’t even sure Hendrik is his.”
“No wonder he wants to prove himself.”
“Sometimes I hate him, and sometimes I love him. But mostly I just pity him. He’s killed people, you know that?” Melissa turned to me, and she blinked the tears out of her pale blue eyes.
“I didn’t know that,” I said.
“He has a temper, and he loses control sometimes. But he’s just a frightened little boy, really.”
“Frightened little boys are sometimes the most dangerous.”
“He looks after me though, never touches me. I mean, not in that way. Well, not never. My friends hate him, and tell me to leave him, but how can I? He’s just a little boy. He wouldn’t understand.”
“You shouldn’t let that stop you from doing what is right for you,” I said.
Melissa laughed. “Are you telling me to leave Hendrik?” she said. “You making me a better offer?”
“If you knew me any better, you would know that I am the last person you should seek relationship advice from.”
“‘Seek relationship advice’,” mimicked Melissa, and she laughed again, then sucked on her cigarette. “I love the way you talk, Freddy,” she said. “Perhaps I am just a little tipsy.” She blew smoke at me. “My friends say it is because of the way Hendrik’s father treats him, and because of what happened to me that I stay with him.”
“Your friends sound like they’ve got it all worked out.”
“I was attacked,” said Melissa, watching me closely, “when I was fifteen. My friends say that is why I go for the bullies, and the men who treat me badly.” She laughed again, a peal of bells. “I was attacked and raped.” The smile that her laugh had brought to her lips dissolved away in the tears. “Hendrik looks after me. He gave me this.” She reached a hand down to the inside of her thigh where a thin strap of elasticated lace could be seen. “I don’t sleep with it,” she said, as if I had raised an objection. “I take it off in bed.”
She lifted a slim silver object and turned it about in her fingers like she was about to perform a magical trick. It was the size of a small comb. Melissa shook her hand and there was a metallic sliding sound followed by a light click. A four-inch metal blade protruded from the silver handle.
“Sharp as a razor,” said Melissa. “Hendrik says I should use it on the next man who tries to rape me.” She looked at the blade and gave a sad smile. “Cut his balls off. Or cut his throat.” She pressed on the flat edge of the blade, returned it to the sheath, then tucked the knife into the lace strap. “I am tipsy,” she declared. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this.”
“Perhaps because Hendrik has done something to frighten you?” I suggested. Melissa turned to me and her eyes filled up again and spilt more silver tears. “What was that man they accused of doing the church killings shouting about when he tried to set fire to the lodge?”
“Hendrik didn’t do it,” said Melissa. “That man was mad.”
“Do what?”
“Kill his brother.”
“Is that what he was shouting about? His brother?”
“He said Hendrik had shot his brother.”
“And Hendrik denied it?”
“Hendrik did nothing. Roelof handled it. He went out and spok
e with the man.”
“And what did Roelof say about it?”
“Nothing. A friend of mine was married that weekend. We were busy with the parties and all the guests. I didn’t see Roelof for days.” Melissa gave a shiver as if she’d just realised she was only wearing a single layer of fabric. “Roelof gives me the creeps,” she said, then laughed again and turned her body to face me. “Roelof thinks that you and your boss are criminals. Even the big black guy. Con men, that’s what he said. He thinks you’re planning some big con on Oom Piet and Hendrik.”
“Is that so?”
“Are you? I don’t mind if you are.”
“I wonder how he figured it out.”
Melissa laughed. “Perhaps that’s why I like you,” she said. “I always go for the rotten ones. And you’re not my type at all. Did I tell you that? There must be something rotten about you.”
“I’m rotten to the core,” I said.
“He thinks your boss was a soldier who went bad. And you too, but he cannot find out anything about you. That’s why he’s suspicious. Are you a soldier? I like soldiers.”
Melissa reached out a long-fingered hand, and walked it like a spider across my chest, and then down over my stomach.
“Come out and play soldier boy.”
“You are going to catch a cold,” I said, lifting the spider away as it clambered over my belt buckle. I returned it to her, but Melissa held onto my hand in retaliation.
“You’re such a boring man,” said Melissa, and she pouted.
“Better to be boring than bruised, that’s what my mother used to say.”
“Your mother didn’t know what she was talking about,” said Melissa, and she brought my captured hand up to her mouth and kissed it. Then she nibbled at a finger, and bit at it gently as if she was finding the right place to bite it off. “I’m the last door at the end of the terrace,” she said. “If you fall off the end, you’ve gone too far.”
She stood up and used my hand to straighten the night gown over all the curvy bits.
“I’ll be waiting for you,” she said. “Hendrik was snoring, so I moved into the other room. I’ve got it all to myself.” She used my hand to check the hem of her nightgown and to confirm that she wasn’t wearing anything beneath it, then turned and floated away down the terrace.
I allowed myself one more cigarette and wondered about the pilgrimage that Q’s brother was on. Or had Hendrik killed him? In which case, what had Roelof done to deal with the situation?
Sixteen
At oh seven hundred hours the next morning, Roelof was wearing a light suit with a freshly pressed shirt and a dark orange tie, which he had tucked into his shirt so it didn’t fall into his cornflakes. I too was sporting a freshly pressed shirt, courtesy of the night staff and Chandler’s foresight, and was dressed in the way Colonel Colchester liked his assistant to present himself to the world: linen suit, middle button fastened, tie with tie-pin, and sparkling Italian brogues. Beside Roelof sat the muscle-bound security man Kenneth, his jacket slung over the back of the chair so that his arms could breathe, the crisp white cotton of a new shirt taking the strain over the biceps. He had a proud Zulu face and kind eyes. I placed my heavy plate of bacon and eggs across from Roelof’s cornflakes, nodded a greeting to Kenneth and told them what a good morning I thought it was. Roelof agreed, but didn’t put much enthusiasm into it. Kenneth didn’t commit either way. Roelof wiped his lips with a napkin as a signal that he considered the foreplay complete.
“Mr Van Rensburg wants us to accompany them on the game drive,” said Roelof. “Apparently you have knowledge of the weapons that are being demonstrated.”
“Of course,” I said and helped myself to a mouthful of egg. I wasn’t sure how Chandler had managed that, but no doubt the idea of Fat-Boy trying to demonstrate the weapons to Piet van Rensburg had kept him awake all night.
“Kenneth needs to be in the loop on this,” said Roelof, arranging the knife on his side plate so it was pointing at my chest.
“We will need to inspect the crates,” said Kenneth in a deep baritone.
“Absolutely.”
“Kenneth does our security,” explained Roelof. I had assumed Kenneth played a non-speaking role in the theatre of the Van Rensburg empire, which I guessed was my prejudice revealing itself.
“Don’t take it personally,” said Kenneth. “We get many people trying to take advantage of us.”
“I can imagine.”
“All we want to do is protect our farm.”
It seemed to me there were a fair number of people who called this farm theirs, but I shuffled some egg about my plate and said, “I understand.”
Roelof placed a sheet of paper before me.
“We need that added to the list,” he said.
There was a single printed line on the page: M183 DCA
“You planning to blow something up?” I asked.
Roelof shrugged. “Mr Van Rensburg needs it added to the list.”
“A demolition charge assembly? That’s sixteen blocks of C-4: detonating clips, boosters, the full kit. Are you sure this is what Mr Van Rensburg is looking for?”
“I’m sure,” said Roelof.
The two of them watched me as if expecting something more.
“No problem,” I said, and turned my attention to my breakfast. It occurred to me that Kenneth had been asked to provide an assessment. He turned to Roelof and spoke in Zulu.
“He knows his weapons,” he said.
Roelof glanced at me anxiously, but I had my eyes down and was tackling another piece of bacon.
“Careful what you say,” said Roelof to him in Zulu, and then in English he said to me: “You speak any Zulu?”
I looked up and shook my head regretfully.
“You do?” I asked.
“I grew up on a farm,” said Roelof.
“I see.”
“Near here.”
“Oh, yes?” We sat in silence for a moment. “I would have thought in the Cape it would have been Xhosa,” I said. “And yet in the Village and on this farm, Zulu is the primary language, isn’t it?”
“Many farms in this area had Zulu workers. They were brought down here in the ’70s and ’80s. I grew up with their children.”
“It makes sense that you would speak the language of your friends.”
“I spoke Zulu as much as I spoke Afrikaans. English is my third language, I studied it at boarding school. You will have to forgive my errors.”
“There are no errors,” I pointed out.
“You should learn to speak Zulu,” said Kenneth. “If you live in our country, you should speak our language.”
“I should,” I admitted.
“Don’t bother with Xhosa or Sotho or the others. Zulu is the only one you need.”
“That’s a relief. It’s bewildering for a foreigner, knowing which of the eleven official languages to start with.”
Kenneth and Roelof looked at me. Their eyes both narrowed a little as they gauged the depth of my criticism of their country.
“You don’t understand us,” said Roelof. “I can see that. You don’t understand why Kenneth, a black man, is trusted by us. You think this war is simple, don’t you? Black and white.”
“I don’t think any war is simple,” I said.
“Here on the farm we understand each other,” said Roelof. “There is a balance, and we all know where we fit. We respect each other, don’t we Kenneth?”
“I have great respect for the Van Rensburg family,” agreed Kenneth gravely.
“Wonderful,” I said. I didn’t ask whether all members of the Van Rensburg family returned that respect, because we all knew the answer to that.
Piet van Rensburg and Billy Mabele rolled into the breakfast room looking like two peas in a pod. They were wearing almost identical linen suits, both equally crumpled, but Billy’s had a fresh coffee stain and Piet’s had a trail of cigar ash on the lapel.
“Take it outside,” said Piet. “Finish up on
the drive. Billy and I will take the lead, you lot bring up the rear.”
“And your son, sir?” asked Roelof, who was already on his feet and preparing to go.
“He’s picking a fight with that girl of his,” said Piet, and he scowled. “We’ll go without him.”
Roelof drove the open-topped jeep in the way he did everything else. With consummate control. His hands were steady on the wheel as he allowed the tyres to find their own path across the rough ground, the engine at the perfect pitch, the gear correct, the speed just right. Piet managed to get the jeep he and Billy were in stuck in some loose sand – Roelof engaged low range, touched bumpers and pushed them out with hardly a pause. Neither Piet nor Billy seemed to notice.
“You’ve done this before,” I said.
Roelof turned to me.
“Mr Moss,” he said. “I should tell you that in business, I am a wary person. Mr Van Rensburg has taught me to trust my gut instinct. On some rare occasions my instinct contradicts that of my boss, and when that happens I like to take things slowly. This is one of those occasions.”
“Absolutely right,” I said. “Slow is good. We’ll take this one small step at a time.”
Roelof nodded curtly and turned back to the road. Behind us, the slightly ominous presence of Kenneth made itself felt as he shifted the position of the shotgun he held on his lap. The farm might have none of the big cats on it, but Kenneth had warned that it was not safe. “The ecosystem is out of balance,” he explained, and I assumed that he was referring to the animal kingdom, although I did wonder whether he meant the chances of bumping into one of Hendrik’s White Africans, or even a rogue Economic Freedom Fighter from the Village.
Ahead of us Piet was now driving his jeep a little too fast across the bumpy terrain, and their two heavy bodies bounced comically in unison. Piet was pointing up at the sky. The clouds were still stuck on the escarpment, and the pale winter sun was unimpeded. Gentle thermals were rising from the heated ground, and floating high above us was the spiral of vultures I had seen the day before. Roelof glanced up and saw them too. Kenneth tapped me on the shoulder and pointed at them.
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