The Ponzi Men

by David Chilcott

  Chapter 22

  At five forty-five, Bo roused himself from the arm chair he had been fitfully sleeping in and went through to the kitchen, where he helped himself to a glass of water. Once outside the bungalow he carefully locked the door. He turned to the plants near the bungalow, and urinated.

  Ready for the drive to the hideout, he first lifted the tailgate to inspect the prisoner. Dawn was breaking, and he saw the man had wriggled clear of the blanket, but was still trussed up and gagged. He had his eyes open, and gazed at Bo with contempt. Bo didn’t care. He reached down and put the blanket back over the prisoner. He looked at his watch. Just coming up to six o’clock. He checked that he had the bunch of keys for the hideout.

  He started the Range Rover, and slowly drove down to the camp gate. The gate stood open, a man walking back presumably the one who had opened it. Bo gave him a hand wave, and got one in return. He drove through the gate and speeded up. As simple as that, he thought.

  The traffic was light at that time in the morning, and he drove at a steady sixty for most of the way, once he was outside the park. He could hear sounds from the back of the car, banging and occasionally a groan. At least the guy was still alive.

  As he neared the turn off to the hideaway, he realized that he should phone Markham. He would have to stay to look after the guy, otherwise he would most certainly escape. And they needed food. Once off the main road, he pulled to a stop, and used the cell phone. It rang for a long time before Markham answered.

  “Who is it?” Markham mumbled.

  “Bo here. Look I’m just outside the hideaway with McBride in the back of the car. I took his car, since it was outside the bungalow. I won’t be able to leave him, or he’s bound to escape. Could you get up here with some food for us both?

  This man knows how to handle himself, and he’s bigger than me.”

  Markham grumbled a lot, but agreed he’d set off after he had breakfast. It was still only half past seven.

  Markham was unable to sleep anymore that morning, so reluctantly he showered and dressed and went down to the café. He chose a seat at the back of the room, and ordered a full breakfast.

  Two people walked in, a woman and with her, McBride. Markham felt the blood drain out of his face. If McBride was here, who had Bo kidnapped? The man was an idiot. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and dialed Bo’s number, there was a long wait, and then the operator said we are unable to connect you, please try later. That was awkward, maybe there was no mast in the vicinity of the mountainside estate. He should have thought about it.

  He pushed away his plate, his appetite gone. He must go down to the reception office and speak to his contact there. McBride must have a travelling companion he knew nothing about.

  He got up, went to pay, and hurried out of the café. As he passed McBride’s table, McBride smiled at him and said “Good Morning, Mr. Markham.” It was like some nightmare; perhaps he was about to wake up.

  The reception office was quiet at this time in the morning, and with relief, Markham saw his contact at the counter. He beckoned to him, and went to the far side away from the clerks’ desks where they might be overheard.

  Markham produced a twenty rand note and put it on the counter. “This is an urgent enquiry,” he spoke in a low voice, “has McBride got a companion with him in Bungalow seven?”

  The man moved across to a computer, tapped some keys and came back. He put his hand on the banknote that Markham had left on the counter.

  “Yes Sir, a Brigadier Miller, home address is in Maswatiland, care of the palace in Mawabane.”

  Markham went straight to the camp shop, bought a carrier bagful of food, and some bottles of water. He returned to the lodge and got into his rental car, the BMW 5 series that had replaced his own car that Bo had wrecked when they chased McBride. It seemed a long time ago, and he idly wondered whether the car had been repaired but that no-one had managed to get in touch with him.

  At first he had difficulty driving with his broken arm. Fortunately the car was an automatic, or it would have been impossible. In the event, he leaned left and operated the lever with his right hand to engage drive. If a policeman saw him driving, he might pull him over, but he had to risk it.

  He drove slowly even outside the park until he had accustomed himself to driving again. It had been some years since he had taken the wheel. Ever since the bad accident he had been involved in. After that he had employed Bo to do the driving. After this trip he would insist on Bo doing all the driving in future.

  He arrived at the turnoff to the estate on the hill side without mishap. But a lot of drivers had blown their horns furiously because he was driving too slowly. Fuck them he thought. He drove cautiously along the patchy tarmac road and eventually he reached the unpaved track. He slowed down even more, and averted his eyes from the drop on the left, keeping his eyes firmly on the track immediately in front of the car. He felt the back wheels lose traction, and lifted his foot off the accelerator, as he had been taught all those years ago. The car halted. Cautiously he pressed the accelerator and the car slewed out at the back, one rear wheel hanging over the edge of the road. He tried again, but the engine roared and the car didn’t move. He pulled on the handbrake, sat there for a few minutes, sweat trickling down his face. He would have to leave the car, walk up to the house. He was trembling with fear now, expecting the car to fall off the road if he moved. But it might do that anyway, falling through space to smash to pieces in the valley, bursting into flames as the petrol ignited. A nasty death that Markham could visualize only too well. He grasped the door handle, pushed the door ajar. Reaching carefully up, he unclipped his seatbelt. He threw himself from the car, landing on his side on the gravel track, clawing at the ground in panic.

  He lay there for ten minutes, fearing to move. Then he crawled towards the cliff face of the track against the mountainside. Only then did he rise to his feet, hands grasping at the rocks of the mountainside at his back. He opened his eyes which had been shut for some time, and looked out at the valley, from the blue grey horizon of the veld, and nearer, the trees and shrubs far below his feet. Waves of nausea swept over him and he vomited his breakfast on the track, weeping in distress. His eyes were shut again and he fumbled in his pocket for the cell phone.

  He opened his eyes concentrated on the phone, and dialed Bo’s number. The wait was long, and he thought he was again out of range. Suddenly the ring tone started, went on for a long time, then Bo spoke.

  Markham said: “Bo, I’m on the track, but the car skidded, it’s hanging off. Can you come down. I need help. Quick.”

  “Okay, I’m coming now.” The line clicked off.

  Markham slid down the wall until he was sitting, pretending he was sitting in the sun in his own garden. But his right hand was clawing at the gravel track. How long he sat there he didn’t know, but it seemed like forever. Time had lost all meaning for him. He nodded off, and was jerked awake by the sound of clattering stones. At first he thought the mountainside was giving way. Then he heard Bo’s voice.

  “That’s not too bad. We both got to push the car, get the wheel on the track, otherwise the wheel just spin, cos of the diff.”

  Markham didn’t know what the man was talking about, but it sounded reassuring. Bo opened the driver’s door, saw the engine was still running, twisted the steering wheel towards the right of the track.

  “Get behind and push like hell,” Bo instructed.

  “I can’t go near the edge. I get dizzy.”

  Bo got hold of him, pulled him to the car door, still ajar. “Get hold of the wheel and the door, and push there. I’ll push from the back. But put some effort into it.”

  With the two of them pushing, the car started moving. As soon as all four wheels were on the track, Bo bent down and pushed a large piece of rock under one of the wheels.

  “Hey man, push the door wide open, and stand right back to let me get in.” He sprinted from the back of the car, threw himself into the driving seat, pu
t his foot on the brake. “Now, if you don’t want to go to the other side of the car, get in the back and we’ll get along back to my prisoner.”

  Markham clambered into the back seat, relief flooding through his body.

  “That reminds me. You’ve got the wrong man. McBride’s still back at the camp. I’ve seen him.”