“You’re welcome to take a break. I’ve got things covered here,” I say.
“I’m fine,” he says, cracking the stiffness from his neck. “Mosepi told me what happened with Rochester Ramphele.”
I mumble an affirmative.
“Anyone else would have been traumatised,” he says.
“I’ve been traumatised for the past two decades. Not a lot gets under my skin anymore.”
“Not even someone getting killed in front of your eyes, by something unseen?” The disbelief—or unwillingness to believe—is clear in his voice.
I turn to face him. “You’ve seen the video then?”
“Mosepi had a difficult time explaining what was going on, so he sat us all down and played the video,” he explains “So, you’re not experiencing any of the common signs of witnessing a traumatic event?”
“I was six years old when I saw my first murder victim.” I close the file I’ve been working on. “My nanny had a bad case of food poisoning, and Mrs. Maura, my grandfather’s housekeeper, wasn’t available to look after me. Gramps was out of the country, too. This left me in the questioningly capable hands of my dearest Dad, Detective Snyders.
“Detective Mosepi wasn’t happy to have a kid on a call-out, I remember, but what else could they do? Leave a six-year old with no supervision through the night? I think not.
“Anyway, so they park the car amongst the other police cars, and told me: “Don’t move,” but of course I didn’t listen. Next thing I know, I’m staring at a dead guy with his guts spilling out of his body. Mosepi tried to cover my eyes, but I’d already seen the corpse, so…”
“What happened?” Rynhardt asks.
“I learned I become more inquisitive when I’m traumatised, which is quite helpful when I’m on a schedule and need to be more productive.” I explain. “So, now you know.”
“I’m not sure if I should be impressed or disturbed.”
Answering him with a shrug is all I can do, I flip the file in my lap open again.
“What’s the story of you planning something Detective Mosepi shouldn’t worry about?” Rynhardt asks.
“I can’t tell you about it. I’m sorry,” I say.
“All right.”
“Thank you, by the way.”
“For?”
“For not apologising about what happened last night.” I keep my tone light, even if it’s a serious subject in my view. “For not making things too awkward,” I say. “It’s refreshing.”
“I don’t think either of us have anything to apologise for. It’s not how I usually act, but—”
“But it happened and we can’t take it back,” I say. “I understand.”
“I still want to take you out, if you’d want to?”
I smile. “I’m just an ordinary person with an unusual job, you know?”
Rynhardt straightens, pulls one of the boxes closer, and smiles back. “I know.”
Chapter 32
POLICE REPORT
Case Number: 081226558
Date: 27 May 2009
Reporting Officer: Deputy Patrick Nglobo
Prepared By: Thabo Oliphant
Incident Type:
Aggravated Assault / Attempted Murder
Address of Occurrence:
101 Loganberry Street, Bonteheuwel, Western Cape, 7764
Witness(es):
None.
Evidence:
Fingerprints (taken from window sill)
Footprint (size 10 Nike Air, tracks found leading away from puddle of blood)
DNA (collected from underneath the victim’s fingernails)
Weapon/Objects Used:
Panga / Hunting Knife
Summary:
At approximately 23:00, on 27/05/2009, an unidentified male broke into the residence of one Celeste de Bruin, at Bonteheuwel, Western Cape (through the living room window, by breaking off the burglar bars). The victim, who awoke to the noise, was roughly assaulted by the perpetrator after he’d gained entrance into the house. She was subdued in her bedroom, before being tortured and mutilated with a panga and a hunting knife. The victim, Celeste de Bruin, according to her statement, was bound to the bed, and gagged by a masked assailant wearing a leather jacket.
The victim was repeatedly beaten by her assailant before she was threatened with the panga, and then physically assaulted with the hunting knife.
Medical reports indicate the knife was used to repeatedly stab and aggravate the victim’s wounds through prodding and the twisting of the blade.
After sustaining multiple wounds, the assailant went on to remove the victim’s tongue and breasts.
The victim’s body parts were not found on the premises or in the surrounding neighbourhood, making this a possible muti-related attack. Esmé Snyders, occult-crime specialist, was called in as a consultant on the case (Snyders International—Case File: #55-ES).
After the assault/attempted murder, the suspect escaped through the back door.
No witnesses have come forward in regards to the case.
Deputy Patrick Nglobo was the first officer at the scene, sent out to the residence after the victim dragged herself to the front door and screamed for neighbours’ help. He arrived at the scene around midnight, and immediately called emergency services to help the victim.
Celeste de Bruin was able to write a short statement while doctors stabilised her in the ER, but during her surgery however, she passed away.
A partial footprint was identified in a puddle of blood near the bed, and fingerprints were pulled from the living room windows and burglar bars.
All trace evidence was sent to the forensics lab for analysis.
Closer inspection of the shoeprint revealed a size 10 Nike Airs. DNA evidence has also been collected from underneath the victim’s fingernails and was sent for analysis at the forensic lab.
Victim, Celeste de Bruin, mentioned in her statement that the assailant wore a necklace of some kind, but she couldn’t make out the pendant through his shirt.
Notes:
Refer to Addendum B for Celeste de Bruin’s statement.
Refer to Addendum C for forensic results.
Chapter 33
In summer, the subtropical weather turns the Jacaranda City into an almost corporeal entity as nature changes from bland to an emerald green. On cloudless days the skies are the brightest azure and the sun shines warm on the rich red earth.
When the clouds roll in, the skies first changes into gossamer blue before swirls of silver breaches the pregnant white cover. The aggression builds at a slower pace, a fair notice for humans and animals alike to get inside, and then the clouds turn into a pewter-coloured blanket. Hues of violets can at times be seen when lightning streaks through the heavens, and the thunderous clap will echo across the sheltered, fertile valley, surrounded by the oblique hills of the Magaliesberg range.
Rainstorms, though sometimes violent, serves as a wondrous reprieve from the humidity.
The heavens, however, haven’t dropped a single bead of water onto Pretoria this year.
Humidity would be a fine change of pace after this dry, intense heat, but the weather forecasts don’t look promising.
What’s more, it’s still only spring.
If the temperature doesn’t normalise soon, we’re looking at an excruciating summer. We’re looking at a drought—possible famine, further destabilising of the economy. This will lead to more desperation which will lead to a rise in the crime statistics. More ritualistic atrocities will be committed, which means more innocent lives will be ruined.
As I lie in bed in a flimsy nightdress, the covers kicked to the floor, I ponder the probable future of the country, the people, myself. I’m worn-out but my worries keep me awake. The curtains hang in front of the open windows, unmoving, like they’ve been weighed down with lead. My hairline is damp with sweat, again. It doesn’t matter how many showers I take, I can’t cool off. The unbearable warmth lies heavy on my chest, making breathing harder than it
should be.
Hoping to relieve the pressure in my lungs, I turn on my side and stare into the darkness.
The bed still smells like Rynhardt.
I push my face deeper into the pillow, inhaling the masculine scent he left behind. Traces of musk intertwine with the subtle deodorant he wore. It smells nice; almost homey. Perhaps if I convince myself I’m not alone, I can fall asleep. It’s worth a try, even if it’s a longshot.
Ignoring the heat, I curl into the sheets, bundle the pillow beneath my face, and close my eyes to breathe the scent deeply into myself.
In, out. In, out. In, out.
I imagine a body pressed against mine, moulding to my form, a pulse beating with mine, a hand draped across my waist. Slowly, I begin to drift away on a cloud destined for my artificial reverie. I enter that place between sleep and awareness, that dangerous place where the smallest creak in a distant bedroom can send you into full panic. My breathing grows deeper as I sink further into the comforts of my sheets and float higher into my wildest dreams.
My fantasy is interrupted by the padded footsteps of something stalking through the house. Almost imperceptible clicks sound as though long nails are tapping against the tile with each step.
I twist in bed, grapple for my cell phone and dial my grandfather’s number.
“Do you know what time—” Gramps answers the phone after several rings.
I cut him off with a hurried whisper: “There is something in my house.”
As eccentric and excessively active as my grandfather can be at times, protective instinct overwrites his peculiarities. Whenever I truly need him, when my life is at risk, or if I’m scared enough to call him in the middle of the night, he’s as clear minded as any normal person.
“I’ll be right over,” he says, sounding more serious than I’ve heard him in a while. “Stay on the line.”
I can hear him rushing around, but I turn my attention to the approaching footsteps coming down the corridor.
“Hurry,” I whisper.
The clicking nails approach and I’m transported back to the nightmare I had weeks earlier. Green fog, demonic entities, clicking nails… What if that thing from my subconscious came to life?
“Are you there?” Gramps asks.
“Y-yes.” I reach to put on the lamp on the bedside table. The sudden glow is fake assurance. The unknown is scary, not the things you can see, right? I look at the open bedroom door, waiting for the owner of the clicking nails to come into view. “Pops, if something happens to me—”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you.” The background noises are now sounds of him driving. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
I’ve never believed him as much as I believe him right now.
But a lot can happen in five minutes, and those footsteps halt right outside my door.
It’s the fight or flight scenario every human being experiences at least once in their lifetime. Considering I’m in a pretty secure house, flight is out of the question. I will have to fight. Here’s the problem with my supposed solution: I have nothing to fight with except my bare hands, which might not be enough if I remember my nightmare.
I hear the footsteps and those unnerving clicking nails on the tiled floor, as it enters my bedroom, but there’s nothing. I can’t see whatever’s in here with me.
“Esmé?” I hear Gramps’ voice over the phone. “Are you there?”
“It’s in h-here with me. I can’t s-see it.” I explain.
Something heavy pounces onto my bed, and I shriek.
It is invisible.
All I see are the indentations across the sheets as weight shifts to one side, then to the other.
I throw sheets over the creature and see that it’s about the size of a large dog, judging from the silhouette under the covers.
I leap out of bed, run toward the door with my cell phone still clutched tightly in my hand, and I don’t look back.
My left leg is caught, anchored to the floor. With my momentum broken, I fall, crashing into the hard tiles before I can soften my landing with my hands. The cell phone clatters out of reach. All of this is accompanied by a banshee’s warning, which I realise is my own scream of disbelief and pain.
I twist around on my stomach and kick out with my right foot.
Flesh meets coarse hair covering solid muscle.
An inhuman growl answers my assault, warning me to “back off,” I guess.
I don’t.
I kick out again, harder, and my foot connects with whatever the fuck’s decided to intrude and do God knows only what to me. This time, I shift its weight enough to scramble away slowly. If I could only get to the bedroom door—
A sharp pain in my right leg makes me shout out in terror. I kick out with my left foot and move forward.
Sticky, thick blood leaks from the long scratches filling my bedroom with a metallic tang. I ball my hand into a fist, ready to throw my entire weight behind a—hopefully, knock-out punch.
Another growl warns me to “not even think about it.”
I don’t think about it; I just do it.
With a twist of my hips, I bring my fist from far behind me to meet the unseen creature where it keeps a firm grip on my leg. My fist impacts with the thing, and an audible crack follows.
An animalistic yelp cries out before the weight lifts from my leg, giving me an opportunity to escape.
I scramble backwards.
Nails click across the bedroom, as if the creature is pacing like a trapped predator, sizing up its next meal.
Not wanting to become an invisible creature’s takeout dinner, I lunge forward and grab the door’s edge, pulling it shut faster than I thought humanly possible. I slide backwards, to the other side of the corridor. Ignoring my bleeding leg, I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. I watch the bedroom door through the darkness as the creature—muscle and sinew and coarse invisibleness—throws itself forward in an attempt to escape.
I don’t know how long I sit there watching the door and listening to the chaos before the front door slams open and my grandfather runs to my rescue. It couldn’t have been long, even if it felt like a lifetime.
Crash! Thump!
“Is that the—”
“Ja,” I confirm, weary.
“What is it?” Gramps asks.
I shake my head, pulling my shoulders up.
“You’re bleeding,” he says, seeing my injuries.
“I’m fine. It’s just a few scratches.”
“Come on, I’m taking you home.” He stands up and helps me to my feet. “And you’re going to tell me everything.”
Too tired to argue, I allow him to lead me out of my house, knowing he’s taking me back to my childhood home. “Okay, Pops,” I say. “I’ll tell you everything.”
And I do.
I tell my grandfather everything about my screwed up life while he’s bandaging my leg. From Howlen and our stupid two-year on-and-off fling, to the uncreative paranormal activity following me around, what the message Him left behind at Abraham Amin’s dumping site meant, to Rynhardt and my one-night-stand. I end it by telling Gramps about the words Rochester Ramphele spoke, in Him’s voice.
If Christiaan Snyders is shocked at his only granddaughter’s sordid life story, he doesn’t show it.
By the end of my confession, I’m wiping away tears with the back of my hand.
“Are you disappointed in me?” I ask.
“You know what disappoints me?” he says, frowning. “Trying to communicate with the place of everlasting darkness. It’s disappointing and frustrating to talk some sense into their employees, let me tell you.”
“Do you mean Eskom, Pops?”
“Of course I mean Eskom.”
“Oh.”
“Get some rest.” He tucks me into my old bed the way he used to when I was a child.
I’m not sure if he fully understands the severity of the situation, because he sure isn’t acting like I expected him to. Still, it�
��s nice to share my burdens with him, instead of hiding everything away. “I mean it.”
“All right, Gramps. Love you.”
“Love you, too, sweetheart. Lekker slaap.”
If only, I think, but fall asleep before I can say anything of the sort.
~
Dread taints the very atmosphere of the block the following morning.
Invisible plumes of malice blot the heavens. Unseen tendrils of anarchy try to infect everything in its wake. A promise of death rolls off the house in waves of unbearable heat.
I’m paranoid, I know, but even from afar something seems wrong when I return the next day.
On the surface, my house looks like my house. The charcoal-coloured roof is intact; the sandstone walls are fine. My garden doesn’t hold any discernible abnormalities in need of immediate attention. It’s a regular middle-class house, situated on a panhandle property in a nice suburb in Pretoria-Moot. My neighbours keep to themselves, as all neighbours do these days, unless they can’t for some reason. Familiar faces pop up once in a while—the preteen boys who kick a rugby ball into my yard every so often, the nosy widow who peers over the wall whenever she feels the need, the teenage girl across the street who gawks at Howlen each time he’s around. As untimely as those faces seem, they show life beyond the walls we’ve built around our personal prisons.
Visually, nothing is amiss at my house, but I sense danger. Regardless of the subliminal warning bells, I walk up to the front door without hesitation.
It’s painfully obvious; my house is not a home.
A home, in my opinion, needs pets. Preferably a tail wagging, tongue lolling, happy-go-lucky beast of a dog accompanied by a yapping pavement-special with a tendency to bite ankles. A home needs warmth, something décor alone cannot provide when nights are filled with nothing but quiet. A home is a sanctuary, filled with love and joy and patience. A home is imperfectly perfect with cracked tiles, sloping walls, sofa stains, and stubborn creaks. A home is where memories are made.
Muti Nation Page 20
