by Andrew Brown
Praise for Coldsleep Lullaby
‘Andrew Brown deftly weaves the unpunished crimes of the past into the troubled fabric of the present in a novel that is part expert police procedural, part elegy for a tainted Eden. A haunting read.’
– Margie Orford
‘A beautifully assured whodunit … The narrative segues between present-day and 17th-century Stellenbosch, until Brown bends the strands together like two electrical wires that flare up in revelation.’
– Michele Magwood, Sunday Times
‘A cracker of a thriller … engagingly written with a real sense of drama and narrative tension.’
– Jennifer Crocker, Cape Times
‘An excellent and gripping novel … This is not simply a murder mystery – it is an excellently presented chronicle of the complexities of the human experience.’
– Conrad Linström, Pretoria News
‘This is a book to curl up with and devour way past bedtime, the rhythm of the plot well weighted, and always moving at a steady clip … this is a confident and thrilling second novel from an exciting literary talent.
– Tom Gray, iafrica.com
‘A first-rate thriller.’
– Brian Joss, Community Newspapers, Cape Town
‘A finely crafted novel with an unstoppable plot.’
– Jenny Crwys-Williams, Top Billing
Praise for Inyenzi
‘One of the best novellas to come out of Africa in ages.’
– Financial Mail
‘An extraordinary, well-researched book … Inyenzi is a brave, bold, confident and compassionate work.’
– Cape Times
‘An intelligent, finely drawn evocation of a beautiful suffering country.’
– Leadership
‘This is a valuable book in that it brings down to earth the facts of the post-holocaust century.’
– Cape Argus
‘Andrew Brown is a graceful and eloquent narrator who crafts a delicate blend of devastating non-fiction and lucid story telling.’
– Marie Claire
‘The novel is relevant and it is hoped that it will inspire observers and the people of Rwanda to document a history of what should never have been.
– Sowetan
‘Read the book. It is a gripping, graphic and exciting story told by a gifted writer.’
– Southern Cross
‘You will keep turning the pages to the very last one, so powerful is the love story.’
– Cape Times
Praise for Street Blues
‘Street Blues … is a must-read … At times hilarious, at others shocking, this compassionate and beautifully crafted book will draw you in and give you a unique portrait of South Africa.’
– Margie Orford, Psychologies
‘Excellent … [Brown] knows how to tell a good story – in this case, several good stories – and he’s as good at humour as at pathos.’
– Barbara Ludman, Mail & Guardian
‘Street Blues [has] an urgency, an immediacy that proves totally convincing … Brown has a wicked way with words.’
– James Mitchell, Star
‘Fascinating … A riveting read.’
– Mango Juice
‘Some of the stories will make your hair stand up while others will make you chuckle … Street Blues is highly recommended and Brown paints a disturbing picture of the life that the men and women in blue have to endure.’
– Brian Joss, Southern Mail
‘Well written and filled with colourful, sometimes disturbing accounts of the people and cases [Brown] encountered.’
– Tymon Smith, Sunday Times
‘As an imaginative novelist … and a beautiful writer, [Brown] is able to create a portrait of police work that leaves you with the smell of blood in your nostrils and the feel of someone’s slushy garbage under your feet … His book takes you on a roller-coaster ride which will sicken, terrify and amuse.’
– Skyways
Praise for Refuge
‘A gripping tour de force, Refuge is as honest as it is dramatic. Here is the life of a refugee revealed, here is Cape Town exposed. Powerful, fast, beautifully written.’
– Mike Nicol
‘If you want to know what the hottest issue is right now in our writing, then read this book. If you want to remember that feeling of amazement at the triumph of literature over the blindness of the establishment, get hold of this novel.’
– Leon de Kock, Sunday Independent
‘Andrew Brown is probably one of the best of the new generation of South African writers … What is most pleasing about Brown is that he sacrifices neither a good plot nor social commentary. With writers like him, the South African crime novel is both coming of age and becoming a serious contender on the global literary stage.’
– Anthony Egan, Mail & Guardian
‘This novel astonishes with the power and beauty of the writing, combined with sheer readability and page-turning compulsion … A startling, yet quietly powerful book whose reach will be immense.’
– Arja Salafranca, Pretoria News
‘Refuge is everything that a reader could want from a book. It’s well written, thought provoking and compelling. This is a book that you really don’t want to miss.’
– Wordsworth Books
‘Andrew Brown is that rare breed of crime writer who can make you question society while still remaining riveted in the pages of his story … Refuge is fast, sometimes witty, sometimes tragic, and always very, very good.’
– Bianca Capazorio, Cape Argus
‘Andrew Brown once again delves into the underbelly of our society and reveals the not-so-pretty parts that we’d prefer to keep hidden … [A] fine, fast-paced and intriguing read.’
– Lydia Boeddinghaus, FairLady
‘A Cape Town lawyer, a Nigerian beauty and a Russian thug are the leading characters in a story that is fast moving, well written and sobering …
The plight of Nigerian refugees, the cultural values of a refugee group trying to retain social values of their homeland and their ruthless exploitation and maltreatment, form both an interesting background picture and a blemish on our own society.
Brown, himself a practicing lawyer, feeds the text with courthouse drama.’
– Dries Brunt, Citizen
‘One of the finest pieces of local writing that I have read in years, Refuge is brilliantly constructed and is compulsive reading. When criminal lawyer Richard meets a breathtakingly beautiful Nigerian masseuse, his life changes in ways he never thought possible. He is pulled into a dark, exotic underworld of deception and brutality. The book portrays the Nigerian/South African condition in a truly incisive way. A must-read.’
– True Love
‘With xenophobia a key part of the landscape, Refuge explores many issues thrust into the South African consciousness. As an expose of cruel and disdainful human nature, Refuge is an emotionally gut-wrenching and gripping fictional tale of crisis and betrayal, with story threads so intricately woven every character is affected; criminals, police, judges, the man in the street, are all caught in a web of deceit – the vicious cycle of abuse and exploitation is continued … Refuge grips from the first line.’
– Joanne Hichens, Cape Times
‘I loved this book and will read it again and again … It is a riveting read from one of South Africa’s most compelling authors.’
– Lindi Obose, Sowetan
‘Refuge is not only a first class thriller that sweeps you along from page 1, it is also a commentary on xenophobia, organised crime and the sameness of suburbia that seamlessly comes together in a gut-wrenching climax … Beg, borrow or steal it, but read it, you will not be disappointed.’
– Brian Joss, Tygert
alk
Praise for Solace
‘Eberard Februarie is the new cop on the Cape Town block, and he’s as tough, troubled and interesting as they come. Brown is brilliant as usual; Solace is sheer reading pleasure.’
– Deon Meyer
‘Andrew Brown brings a compelling perspective to the crime genre … This is as solidly enjoyable a crime thriller as it is a cautionary piece of futurist writing.’
– William Saunderson-Meyer, Business Day
‘This gritty novel is a good read and an intriguing look at religious intolerance.’
– Trish Beaver, Witness
‘The novel is intelligent in its exposition and keeps one guessing.’
– Jonathan Amid, Stellenbosch Literary Project
‘Andrew Brown has leapt into a literary bonfire with his latest novel, and emerged triumphant … Brown’s gift lies in taking disturbing topics and infusing them with delicious characters and sublime prose that leaps off the page.’
– Sue Grant-Marshall, Financial Mail
‘There are no one-dimensional characters in Solace: they’re so real that they’ll bleed if you prick them … It is a gripping thriller that will keep you reading into the small hours.’
– Brian Joss, Atlantic Sun
‘Solace has enough grit, wit and intelligent pacing to keep you guessing, right up to the very end.’
– Luso Mnthali, The Times
Published by Zebra Press
an imprint of Random House Struik (Pty) Ltd
Reg. No. 1966/003153/07
Wembley Square, First Floor, Solan Road, Gardens, Cape Town, 8001
PO Box 1144, Cape Town, 8000, South Africa
www.zebrapress.co.za
First published 2014
Publication © Zebra Press 2014
Text © Andrew Brown 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owners.
Cover design: Gretchen van der Byl
ISBN 978 1 77022 704 0 (print)
ISBN 978 1 77022 705 7 (ePub)
ISBN 978 1 77022 706 4 (PDF)
For Mo
Slaughter always comes first … You can put an apple in the mouth of the roast suckling-pig and serve it up on a Napoleon platter and everybody can wear bow ties or high heels and clap hands, but first the pig has to buckle before the butcher.
– Etienne van Heerden, 30 Nights in Amsterdam
The most recent information … indicates that the government of Sudan continues to pursue a deliberate strategy of waging war against the civilian population … The data shows a clear increase in … attacks in the weeks leading up to the planting and harvesting times.
– The Sudan Consortium: A briefing of the Summit of the African Union, May 2013
Here I am, pushing on with that thing people call life.
– Aisha Numba Justine-Waja, former refugee, in conversation with the author
South Sudan
Prologue
NORTHERN BAHR EL GHAZAL, SOUTH SUDAN
This is not the running solo of hand-slapped drums, the ox skins pulled tight, beaten with euphoric eyes. It is not the dust on friendly feet, ochre-red and rising thick like mist. There are no springing steps to mark this dance.
This is the beat that announces the demons as they leave their lairs, that heralds the dead from the baked earth. This is the pulse that lures them – bud-a-bud-a-bud-a-bah – gnashing into the world. The ground trembles with their arrival, the rhythm descending from the hills as a bow wave before them. Drunken hands on a wooden bar – bud-a-bud-a-bud-a-bah. Hail hammering flimsy tin roofs. The apocalypse reveals itself, with thudding hooves and snorting breath. Janjaweed. Devils on horseback.
A grandmother looks up from her washing under the haraz tree, hearing the cadence on the wind. The dense whorl of patterned scars on her forehead crinkles as she frowns. An elderly man grasps his gammy knee as he tries to get to his feet, but his stick is slippery in the heat and his grip fails him. His granddaughter giggles at the way he falls back with a sigh – aaahh – before muttering and trying again.
Alek starts to move even before they come into sight. She knows – by the way the air suddenly smells of metal, filling her breath with the taste of blood. Sweat beads her brow as she rises from the edge of the silted reservoir. She hears the distant snort of the horses. Looking up, she sees the flapping of the doves as they whistle up the ravine. Bud-a-bud-a-bud-a-bah. In her mind she sees the dust that trails behind them like smoke from a fiery engine, drifting across the wilderness in the hot breeze. She does not need to wait to witness the dead countenance of their eyes. They are ghosts to her, risen from their graves to claim back all who have dared to continue living. The Devil is upon them, drumming his bony fingers on tabletops. Bud-a-bud-a-bud-a-bah.
A bucket tips over at her side. The water spills and stains the dirt like oil. Or blood. To delay is to die. They have come for her father. But in his absence, she will serve their purpose well enough. She turns her back on the village. She heads past the luaak filled with longhorn cattle and out into the stark landscape, running. Her muscles strain at the thighs and her ankles quickly feel bruised as she struggles barefoot over the rocks. The red earth stains her skin like pollen. Behind her she hears the rumble of hooves getting louder, reverberating above the noise of the bleating two-tone goats and the lowing bull circling the cows in the luaak. The rocks are jarred and skewed, grinding against each other and the sensitive skin of her toes. She scrambles crab-like, hand over feet, down into the muddy wadi bed where the villagers grow their kudra and cassava.
Then she hears the cries of alarm, the shouts of impotent warning. But still she charges, further into the desolate ravine. Only when she hears the roar of death itself, the howling of the monster as it devours its first soul, does she throw herself to the ground. She crawls among the strewn boulders, eking out cover. She lies still and puts her hands over her ears, longing for silence. Her breast beats with a rhythm she cannot quell. Bud-a-bud-a-bud-a-bah. The sounds of horror cannot be quieted. How her own elective silence will come to tear at her heart.
A shadow is cast over the sun, dulling its light but intensifying the heat, like a lid closing on a cast-iron pot. A man is standing over her, his face silhouetted. All she can see is an eagle, carrying away the red sun in its clenched claws. A single eye, unblinking. The Eye of Horus. The eye that sees all, from which she cannot escape. To which she must surely return.
Al Babr is here.
Chapter 1
BRISTOL, SOUTH-WEST ENGLAND
It was difficult, looking back over his past, to pinpoint the moment when the weave of a life quietly lived had first started to unravel. It had not been a gradual fraying, that he knew, but rather an unstoppable loosening of the warp and weft that had bound his world together until his mid-forties. Perhaps it had been a bland life by the standards of others. But it had achieved its successes, its calculated ambitions largely attained. Perhaps this made the unravelling all the more astonishing: that its knit had been cautiously woven, seemingly tightly plaited.
He could not be sure what it was that first tugged at the loose end. ‘Things had not gone according to plan.’ It was a phrase his father used, said with resignation. ‘Not going to plan’ had covered the spectrum of human calamity, from the collapse of the build-it-yourself back-garden conservatory to the vicar’s shameful molestation of little Jeffrey Hope. But in his own case, the ‘thing’ was simply his entire life after forty, and the original ‘plan’ may have been as much to blame as anything else. Perhaps he had lacked ambition, or had meandered off into the academic brush. He could not be sure. But the binding had probably started to unwind in earnest on the day of his annual open lecture, shortly after he had secured his first coffee of the morning.
* * *
Associate Prof
essor Gabriel Cockburn was aware that, with the ends of his trousers neatly folded and held in place with plastic clothes pegs, he probably did not present the most virile of figures. But there were certain practicalities that riding a bicycle to work necessitated, manly or not.
His usual detour from the direct route to the Bristol University precinct to get his morning coffee took him from Clifton Village onto Queens Road, passing by the students’ union. The union had been described as the ugliest building in Britain. There was something fascist in its design, square blocks that were reminiscent of the Soviet tenements of Sofia or Belgrade, but it was at least undergoing a facelift, with some promise of improvement. The downhill was gentle for most of the way, curving past the music department’s Victoria Rooms, marked by Edward VII looking out rather camply over his empty fountain, flanked by a gaudy collection of fish, clams and naked women.
His journey this particular morning was disrupted by a group of ragged-haired students setting up for a protest outside the university administration block. He slowed and was eventually forced to stop when one of the motley crew waved a yellow pamphlet in front of him.
‘Stop the drone wars!’ the youngster shouted, though Gabriel was right in front of him and there was no one else around.
The front page of the pamphlet had a half-discernible picture of unhappy people sitting on a pile of rubble. Hand-written posters advised that the protestors were objecting to a conference planned with BAE Systems, Rolls Royce and Thales, and assisted by the university’s aviation and engineering department. Gabriel was tempted to tell the youth to get a job, but he restrained himself, recalling that his father had used that very line a few years before in response to a documentary on the mentally ill living under the bridges in Manchester. Instead he ignored the outstretched pamphlet and pushed his bike through the group.
He rested his bicycle unlocked against the back of a bus shelter on Clifton Triangle. Someone had spraypainted a cartoon figure on the perspex, a little girl holding a bomb-shaped balloon that tugged on its string. The words ‘Bristol Against Arms Trade’ were scrawled above it in dripping black paint. The city was increasingly vandalised by spray-painters, some seeking to emulate the famous Banksy; others simply covering the walls with lewd designs. To Gabriel it all seemed antisocial, but the council was too fearful of alienating the student body to clamp down on offenders. They had even set an entire area in the city centre aside for the miscreants to ‘express themselves’, as if it were a form of art or therapy. Local politicians treated vandalism like a quaint tourist attraction.
