by Andy Maslen
He rounded the table and kissed Klara on the lips. Then he turned her round and slapped her backside.
‘How about a drink for the boss?’
She smiled at him, but Gabriel detected a tremor in the expression. A tightness around those un-madeup eyes. Interesting.
‘Of course, Julius. What would you like? Alec brought wine.’
‘Red?’
‘And white.’
‘Red, then. A big one. I feel like celebrating.’
After toasting his new benefactor, Witaarde placed his glass on the table.
‘The right person for what, Alec?’
Gabriel focused on Witaarde’s dilated pupils. Holding his gaze. What he said next had to be convincing.
‘The right person to join a global crusade for white rights and white freedom. For too long, the white race has been cowed into submission by supranational groups like the UN and the EU, communists at home and abroad, and the craven, Marxist-dominated mainstream media.’
Witaarde frowned, grooving deep creases into that high, square forehead. The exact same profile as Mount Fuji, Gabriel found himself thinking.
‘The BVR is a tiny outfit, Alec. Yes, we have big plans, but outside New Hope, what are we, really? A few hundred Boers with a dream of a Volksrepubliek van Suid-Afrika. Nothing more.’
Gabriel shook his head. He reached across the table and took Witaarde’s left hand in his right. Then, improvising, he repeated the gesture with Klara’s right hand in his left.
He looked at each of them in turn, holding Klara’s eyes for a fraction longer than her husband’s.
‘Dreams build nations, Julius,’ he said in a husky voice. ‘Your dream is our dream. We are the connective tissue between dozens – hundreds – of groups like the BVR. Some bigger, some smaller, but all with the same shining dream. Surely you see that?’
‘You know what I see? I see empty glasses. Klara!’
She released Gabriel’s hand and jumped to her feet.
‘I’m sorry, Julius.’
She poured more wine and opened a second bottle.
‘What’s for dinner?’ he asked her.
‘I made a pie. That bushbuck you shot yesterday.’
Witaarde turned away, apparently satisfied.
‘Come on, Alec, let’s leave the woman to her kitchen work. There’s something I want to show you.’
Witaarde rose to his feet and Gabriel followed him from the kitchen.
They left the house by a back door. While Gabriel had been inside, the moon had risen and cast a silvery glow over the land stretching away from New Hope.
Witaarde led him to a shed in one corner of his fenced-in yard. Retrieving a bunch of keys from his shorts pocket, he unlocked a sturdy steel padlock and swung the door wide. The smell that emanated from the pitch-black interior was unmistakeable. Gabriel Wolfe was in the presence of death once more.
47
Behind him, he heard a match scraping on a striker. The flare as Witaarde lit a hurricane lamp illuminated a ghastly scene.
The body of a black man sprawled on the earth floor. The legs and arms lay at unnatural angles, as if a sadistic child had twisted the limbs of an action figure.
What remained of the head was the lower jaw. Everything above the teeth, which gleamed in the lamp’s flickering light, was gone. The back wall was spattered with blood and brain tissue.
Realising that in his role as a bagman for the Committee for Policy Progress he had no need for a strong stomach, Gabriel allowed himself to wrinkle his nose and gag at the smell, which had solidified around him like a rotting blanket.
‘Ha! You money men are all the same,’ Witaarde crowed. ‘No stomach for anything except your expense account dinners. This,’ he jabbed a finger at the corpse, ‘is where real men get their hands dirty.’
‘Who is – was he?’ Gabriel asked, letting his voice falter.
‘The latest kaffir to think he could discover our plans and get away with it. ANC probably. Stupid bastards never give up.’ He laughed. ‘They keep sending their spies and we keep killing them. I tell you, Alec, they’re easier to catch than vlei rats!’
Still chuckling, Witaarde kicked the corpse, then turned away.
‘Come on, let’s go. I thought you might like to see that. Call it my own little gesture of solidarity.’
Over dinner, and more wine, Witaarde opened up about the BVR’s plans. His eyes were hooded, the lids drooping further with each fresh glass.
‘See, Alec, when we started out we knew straight away we’d need money. Your twenty-five K is a pretty gesture, but compared to what we’re making, it’s chicken feed.’
Klara rose from the table and began clearing away the plates.
‘From your winery?’ Gabriel asked.
Witaarde guffawed.
‘You hear that, Klara? This Englishman thinks we finance the BVR selling wine!’
She laughed. Gabriel observed the way her face twitched as she followed her husband’s lead. She looked nervous. What the hell was it?
‘Not wine, then.’
‘Nah, man. Not wine,’ he slurred. ‘How about ivory?’
‘Ivory?’
‘What, are you deaf? Ivory! You know, tusks! Elephants. Here, I’ll show you.’
Witaarde levered himself to his feet and stumbled from the kitchen. Two minutes later he was back, carrying a bolt-action rifle, which he placed on the table, the muzzle pointing at Gabriel’s midsection. Beside it, he thumped down a long-barrelled revolver, though he retained his hold on the grip.
He tapped the revolver’s muzzle against the wooden stock of the rifle.
‘Dakota Arms Model 76. Takes a .450 round.’ He pointed the revolver at Gabriel. ‘Know what this is?’
Gabriel knew the model, barrel length and calibre. He’d had one pointed at him before, by a Mozambican militia commander named Mama Chissano. He hadn’t enjoyed the experience then, either.
‘A revolver?’
‘Yah. A Smith & Wesson Model 629. Twenty-three centimetre barrel, takes six .44 Magnum rounds. You miss with the Dakota, this baby’s your last chance.’
‘For hunting elephants?’
‘For hunting elephants. Take out the tusks, move them on down the line, take a cut of the proceeds. Smooth as a baby’s bum.’
‘Here in South Africa?’
Witaarde shrugged.
‘Plenty of game parks.’
‘Further north?’
Witaarde’s eyes narrowed. He gulped some more wine.
‘Why’re you so interested? You want to do some hunting?’ It came out hunnin.
‘Maybe. You know, if you are involved in ivory, we could talk more about that. We’re always interested in new sources of finance.’
Witaarde laughed.
‘Expensive business, fighting for your rights, eh?’
‘You could say that.’
Suddenly, Witaarde snapped upright in his chair. His gaze cleared and those hooded blue eyes returned to full alertness. The change in his demeanour was unnerving.
He lifted the Model 629 and touched the foresight to the tip of his nose, frowning. Then he lowered it until Gabriel was forced to look straight down the barrel. Below it, he could see the flat-topped lead noses of the Magnum rounds in their chambers.
‘Why are you here, Alec? Really?’
‘I told you. To make contact. To invite you to join us in our—’
‘Struggle, yes, I heard that part. But look at it from my perspective. You turn up in Vientiane, sniffing around the market, and you ask to meet me. You splash dollars around like sweeties and then give me this bullshit about your cause. Why do I get the feeling you’re really just interested in making money? Does this Committee for Policy Progress of yours even exist?’
‘Yes! OK, look, I wasn’t completely straight with you, Julius. And for that, I apologise.’
‘Go on,’ Witaarde said, lowering the revolver a fraction.
‘That money I gave you? We’re really struggl
ing financially. It was a big chunk of our reserves, but we hoped, if we could show you we were serious, you’d cut us in on the ivory. We’re also looking at blood diamonds, drugs, people trafficking, whatever.’ He spread his hands wide. ‘That’s it. Now you know everything.’
Witaarde relaxed. He let the Smitty’s barrel thump onto the table. A grin stole over his features.
‘I don’t fucking believe this. The old colonial masters reduced to begging from me!’
‘Believe it or not, it’s true.’
‘The Committee’s real.’
‘Yes. If we can reach an agreement, I can introduce you to some very powerful people.’
‘Powerful poor people.’
‘It’s a cash-flow issue. They still have connections you could use. In the US, Russia, Israel.’
Witaarde stood.
‘I need to think about it. I’ll give you an answer in the morning. Stay here tonight. I had Klara prepare a guest room. We’ll talk over breakfast.’
The grass towered over Gabriel. He stretched out a hand to move one of the stems aside and winced as its saw-edge cut through his skin. Beside him Smudge, Stevo and the others were also bleeding from their hands and forearms.
Smudge grimaced.
‘This stuff’s sharper than my bayonet, boss,’ he said. ‘Look.’
He chopped the last foot from a stem with his bayonet and grabbed it as it fell to the ground. Blood leaked out from between his fingers as he clenched his fist around the green sword.
He stroked it across Gabriel’s wrist. The edge bit deep into muscle, sinew and bone, separating the hand as cleanly as a butcher jointing meat. There was no pain. Gabriel watched, fascinated, as his hand flopped to the ground and scuttled away into the undergrowth, leaving a slimy trail of blood.
A crash from the other side of the stand of grass shattered the silence.
Smudge looked up. Gabriel followed his gaze. Smudge screamed. A monstrous-tusked elephant blotted out the sun, rearing on its hind legs before plunging forwards and down. It smashed Smudge’s skull into pieces with a trunk like a great, grey club, before trampling his headless body into a red pulp on the forest floor.
Then it turned to Gabriel.
‘You’re next, kaffir,’ it said, in Witaarde’s voice.
Its blue eyes flashed, then it swung its massive head left and right, sending razor-edged tusks in a slashing arc through Gabriel’s belly. He screamed as he watched his intestines spill into the dirt and shot bolt-upright in bed, the borrowed pyjamas drenched in sweat.
Klara Witaarde was sitting on the edge of his bed. Her face was glistening in the moonlight: face cream. He could smell it, and remembered his mother in Hong Kong, coming into his room when he’d had a nightmare. The same perfume. What was it? Pond’s?
‘Alec, you were screaming. Are you all right?’ she asked, holding his hand in hers.
‘I’m fine. Sorry. Just a bad dream. Must be the heat.’
She moved towards him and laid the back of one cool hand on his forehead. Her nightgown was pale, edged with lace. The front was a deep V and, once again, he couldn’t help glancing at her cleavage.
‘You’re hot. And you’re soaked. Take that off,’ she said, pointing at his pyjama jacket.
‘But…’
She leaned closer.
‘Don’t worry,’ she whispered. ‘Julius is a heavy sleeper. A rhino could come through the house and he wouldn’t wake up.’
Gabriel unbuttoned the pyjama jacket and pulled it off. She took it from him and balled it, before tossing it towards the door.
‘How about the rest?’
Beneath the sheets he removed the soaking pyjama trousers and handed them to her.
‘I should change the sheets for you,’ she said.
‘Really, it’s fine.’
She bit her lip.
‘No. It’s not.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, God!’
She sniffed, and Gabriel watched as a tear emerged from the corner of her eye and crawled across her cheekbone, catching the moonlight like a diamond on her skin.
‘What, Klara, tell me.’
‘I don’t know if I can trust you. If I tell you and he finds out, he’ll kill me. He’ll kill us both.’
Gabriel sat straighter in bed, his role in bringing Witaarde to justice forgotten for the moment. Now there was another reason to hate the man.
‘I won’t let that happen.’
She sniffed again and wiped away the tear with a finger.
‘Julius, is,’ she hesitated, ‘a good man. Deep down, I mean. But his ideas, they’re so,’ her eyes searched the ceiling as if the words she were seeking might appear there, ‘unrealistic. I admit I don’t like the blacks, but you can’t turn back the clock. I just wanted to live in peace up here away from everything. But Julius, he wants a full-blown revolution.’
Her whispering took on a harsher note.
‘The fact is, Alec, I’m a prisoner here. We all are. The women, I mean.’
‘Prisoner, how?’
‘They treat us like slaves. We were told that we would have equal rights in Volksrepubliek van Suid-Afrika, but they want to send us back to the kitchen like the eighteenth century never ended. I went to university in Capetown before I married Julius. I was a finance analyst. Now I’m to be a cook and baby machine. Look,’ she said.
She pulled down the straps of her nightdress. She leaned forward and twisted so her left shoulder was facing him. It bore a tattoo – three heavy, gothic letters: BAW.
‘What does it mean?’ Gabriel asked.
‘Oh, Alec, that’s his mark,’ she choked out. ‘It stands for Behoort Aan Witaarde. Belongs to Witaarde.’
She let her hands fall to the counterpane and, as she did, the top of her nightdress slid down, revealing the tops of her breasts. She made no attempt to cover herself.
Gabriel saw an opportunity. To get to Witaarde, but also to right a smaller wrong. He decided there and then to take a chance. He’d get her away from Witaarde. Who knew, she might even be a source of intelligence they could use later to shut down the BVR.
‘Listen,’ he murmured. ‘What if I told you I wasn’t with some white pride group. What if I told you I was here on other business, but I could get you out? Would you come?’
She nodded frantically.
‘I would do anything. Just get me away from him.’ She looked down at her breasts as if seeing them for the first time. Then back at him. ‘He hits me. They all do. Hit their wives, I mean. Look.’
She pulled the front of her nightdress all the way down. Her right breast was marked by a livid purple bruise from just beside the nipple to her ribcage.
Gently, Gabriel lifted the nightdress and resettled it over her shoulders. She frowned.
‘Tell me about the ivory poaching,’ he said.
She shook her head.
‘I can’t. I don’t know anything about it. He just goes off on trips and comes back a couple of weeks later.’
She glanced at the bedroom door, then rose from the bed, crossed the room on silent feet and closed it before sitting back down beside him.
‘Alec, I want to leave with you. But I’m scared. Anyway, how will you get away? Brik drove you here, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, but I can steal a truck or something. I’m very resourceful.’
‘When?’
‘I need to talk to him about the ivory. But after that. The day after tomorrow?’
She nodded, glancing at the door as if Witaarde might burst through at any moment, brandishing the big revolver.
‘I can’t believe this is happening. You’re really going to take me with you?’
‘I said so, didn’t I? Maybe we can find a way to rescue the others, too.’
‘Oh, God, I hope so, Alec. I hope so.’ Then she bent towards him and kissed him, lightly, on the lips. ‘Thank you.’
Instead of pulling away, she leaned against him, stroking the bullet scar on his shoulder. Her other
hand snaked beneath the covers.
‘Klara, please, you don’t have to.’
‘I know I don’t have to,’ she whispered. ‘Supposing I want to?’
He felt himself hardening in her grasp. Took hold of her shoulders and pushed her, firmly but gently, away. He shook his head.
‘I have someone.’
Klara Witaarde stared into his eyes.
‘Then she’s a very lucky girl.’
She got up a second time and left, kicking the sweat-soaked pyjamas into the corner on her way past. At the door, she turned.
Gabriel released a breath he’d been holding. Was all that real? He couldn’t work her out. One minute a frightened enslaved woman, the next a minx, coming on to him while her husband slept down the hall.
Gabriel woke from a dreamless sleep. No murderous elephants the size of houses. No razor-blade grass stems dismembering him. He had a vague memory of a noise waking him. A nocturnal animal tapping on the window? He turned to find his watch.
And his head exploded in a blinding white flash of pain.
48
Instinctively, he raised his arms to protect himself. The next blow smashed down into his solar plexus, driving his wind from him and leaving him gasping, curled into a foetal position.
Above him, he saw two bulky shapes.
‘Here’s one to put your lights out, kaffir-lover,’ a voice in the darkness said.
The blow connected with his left temple. A high-pitched whine screamed inside his skull. He tasted metal and smelled burnt toast. The world turned orange, then turquoise, then white, yellow, a sickly green, grey…black.
He tried to lift his head. It wouldn’t move. He tried again and felt a tearing pain on the left side. A grenade exploded inside his head, filling him with a violent desire to vomit. He lay still, moaning softly to himself until the agony subsided.
He realised he was conscious again. He raised a finger to the side of his face. It felt crusty. He picked at the substance and felt a piece dislodge. He opened his eyes and brought his finger up where he could see it.
The substance on the end of his finger was congealed blood, the colour of molasses. He returned the finger to his skull and felt around, gingerly probing his scalp. He winced as his questing fingertip found a lump. It felt soft in the centre and a fresh wave of nausea engulfed him. He swallowed, hard, and took a few deep, steadying breaths.
